The Tyranny of the Night: Book One of the Instrumentalities of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “What did Drocker say?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. He did hint that he’d be looking some other way if we decided to go into the Imperial rescue business.”

  “Oh? Meaning?”

  “Meaning the guy has a private agenda. And he thinks we can help him get where he wants to go.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I intend to take advantage. Now, what have you got?”

  Ghort laid out a detailed plan for a raid into al-Khazen itself, through the storm water drain found by the Principatés.

  “You put this together in three hours?”

  “Hell, no. I been working on this since they found that drain. Just in case.”

  “Interesting. I see a lot of Deves on your manpower table. Especially in your reserve.”

  “Yeah. Who do you think will fight the hardest when we get there?”

  “We?”

  Ghort grinned. “You ain’t gonna stay behind, are you?”

  “Too many people are getting to know me too well.” Else reviewed Ghort’s plan. It was sound. It included two strong reserve companies meant to extricate the main force if it got into trouble. “Only thing missing is the name of the Principaté who’ll be going with us.”

  “Bronte Doneto. But you knew that.”

  “I guessed. Besides him being your main guy, he’s one of only about three of them spry enough to make the trip. Will he go?”

  “Even if Grade Drocker vetoes it.”

  “He’s got an angle of his own, then.”

  “They all have, all the time.”

  “Only one question left, then. Who do we leave in charge here?”

  “I’m thinking the Deve kid. Titus Consent.”

  “Nobody will stand for that. Not for long. Not even his own people.”

  “Exactly. And he won’t be underfoot out there with us.”

  “How soon can we start?”

  “Less than an hour.”

  “I’ll go see if Polo wants to go on an adventure.”

  POLO’S HUNGER FOR ADVENTURE HAD BEEN SLAKED. HE WAS WILLING TO stay in camp and keep an eye on Titus Consent. Else chuckled as he eased down an icy rock face into a gully that would let the raiders approach al-Khazen unseen by watchers on the wall. Ghort had scouted well. Snow in the gully made for slow going, though.

  Ghort walked point. Twenty-six men followed, including Else and Bronte Doneto. Doneto was uncomfortable surrounded by so many Devedian fighters. The reserve force fell behind, slowed by elderly but feisty members of the Collegium. Divino Bruglioni was among them, riding in a sedan chair.

  Ghort led the band up out of the gully and ordered a halt. “We need the sun to move a little so we’ll have better shadows.”

  “Why?” Doneto asked.

  “We need to cross this ridge and slide down the other side. We’ll be visible from the wall. Until we have the cover of those shadows. Or we could wait till dark. When the enemy would have his nighttime eyes.”

  “I see. Good work, Captain.”

  Good work indeed, Else thought. Ghort showed unexpected flashes of competence. Given his head in an elite crew he might amount to something. “Pinkus, you could make yourself the next Adolf Black.”

  “I could cut my own throat here and save the world the trouble, too.”

  Sensitive. “How long?” Else hoped to get inside the city before the crown prince’s captors.

  What then? Become Sublime’s leading field officer? That would be good. He could do so much. . . . But the risks were rising. Those Brothers from Runch . . . He had to stop looking like Sir Aelford daSkees—without arousing curiosity here.

  “Now,” Ghort said. “One man at a time. Stay in the shadows, against the rocks, and go slow till you can’t see the wall anymore.”

  “What about pickets?” Else asked.

  “Patrols haven’t run into any lately. The top guys over there are afraid they’ll keep on going once they get outside the gates.”

  Calziran soldiers still succeeded in deserting frequently.

  The band assembled at the foot of the slope. Ghort was the last man down. While they gathered, Else asked Principaté Doneto what the Brotherhood company was doing. And how the Emperor was responding to the news. Ferris Renfrow, too.

  Doneto told him, “You clearly don’t know how things work. I can’t just snap my fingers and have some know-all devil tell me whatever I want to know. I wish it did work that way. A man who could find out anything could rule the world.”

  “You don’t know anything, then?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Just nothing useful.”

  “I suppose not.” Else watched Ghort get the troops moving again.

  The next point of risk lay a hundred yards from the base of the wall. Ghort said, “If they’re alert we will have to wait till dark.”

  Bronte Doneto said, “There isn’t anyone there.”

  “Your Grace?”

  “Look. There’s nobody on the wall. No. I don’t know why. Maybe because it’s so damned cold. Maybe because they don’t think it’s worth the bother. Maybe because they’ve all gone to see something else.”

  “You sure?” Ghort demanded.

  “At this range? Look. Your eyes are better than mine.”

  “Not exactly a sure thing, then. Oh, well. Follow me.”

  The band pushed through brush and clutter into the mouth of the storm drain, enjoying cold, wet feet and plenty of stink. The arched drain was four feet high and five wide. It had been roomier. The floor was deep in muck and detritus washed down from above.

  Else crept forward, wondering when the trap would snap. Although that drainage outlet had been hidden by ages of overgrowth, and although most fortresses and cities that were captured were first penetrated by some similar means, Else did not want to believe that Sha-lug could be so sloppy.

  There were partial collapses that, however, had not impeded drainage much. The slope was steep enough to wash most detritus past the choke points. Nevertheless, many hours went into conquering the drain.

  Else stayed close to Bronte Doneto, out of Ghort’s way. Pinkus seemed to know what to do and did it well. Else asked, “How are we doing, Your Grace?” He croaked his words. The fetor was overwhelming.

  “They don’t seem to be aware of us yet. But there’s a lot of excitement. It’s getting dark. I should have a better idea what’s going on, soon.”

  Else went forward to help move fallen stonework. He told Ghort, “I hope I’m in half as good a shape as him when I’m a thousand.”

  “How old are you, Pipe?”

  Else Tage was not sure. He did know that Piper Hecht would have no doubts. “Thirty-three. And six days. Unless my mother was a liar.”

  “You just worry about making it to thirty-three and seven, not no thousand. You shitting me? You had a birthday the other day and you never told anybody?”

  “It’s not important.” And in Dreanger, amongst Sha-lug, it was not. There, you celebrated the anniversary of your ascension into the full rights and responsibilities of a warrior slave of the Kaif of al-Minphet.

  “Shit, Pipe. I don’t believe you’re real. Hey! Look at this.”

  “This” was a larger, taller space where half a dozen lesser drains collected. Only one was big enough to let a man through.

  Ghort said, “You’re a skinny little rat, Zalno. Take a candle and slither up that drain.” Then he observed, “This isn’t looking so good, now. Unless we find how workmen used to get in and out.”

  Bronte Doneto announced, “There’s a celebration starting up there. The Pramans think that having Lothar will turn everything around.”

  “Where are they holding him?” Else asked. He knew al-Khazen as well as a man could from maps.

  “He isn’t here yet. They’re in a running fight with the Brotherhood. Have been all day.”

  Ghort said, “That puts us in better shape than I hoped. They’ll all be focused on that kid and how to use him to confound the work of th
e Lord.”

  Even Doneto seemed taken aback by Ghort’s sudden passion.

  He grinned. “Got you going, eh? But am I wrong? Principaté, what we need is a way out of here. When you guys found this, back when, you said there was one.”

  Zalno came sliding out of the large drain. His candle had gone out. He had a gray cast to him. He did not like being in tight places in the dark. He rasped, “That goes on for maybe a hundred feet, uphill, curves left, goes past these big cistern things. There’s ladders in those. It goes on to the downhill end of a dead-end street that looks like it runs through the middle of everything.”

  Ghort asked, “Can we get out that way?”

  Zalno glanced around. “I could. Some of you would have to be greased up, though. All the water from this one long street is supposed to run down to this drain thing that’s about ten inches high by three feet wide.”

  “Say no more,” Ghort said. “I’ve got you. Can we get into the cisterns?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. We’re on our way.”

  Fifteen minutes later Else peered out the cracked doorway of what his memorized maps labeled Waterhouse Four. By twilight al-Khazen appeared to be an abandoned ruin. Nothing bigger than a rat moved or made a sound.

  “Move! Sir,” someone said behind him.

  There was not much room. People were supposed to come get water and go.

  Else slipped outside, followed Ghort. “You know where we are, Pinkus? This is almost too good to be true.”

  The party moved into a cramped structure that, until recently, had housed Devedian jewelers, letter writers, and moneylenders.

  “Pinkus, you’ve done an incredible job.”

  “But you’re gonna take it away from me now, eh?”

  “In part, yes.”

  “You’re the boss, Pipe.”

  “What were you going to do next?”

  “Me?” Ghort grinned. “You want the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “I figured whoever was tagging along, you or somebody from the Collegium, would take it away from me before this.”

  “Eis’s balls, Pinkus, you’re the sorriest, most cynical bastard on the face of the earth.”

  “Does that make me wrong?”

  “No. Principaté. What’s the story now? Does it look like we can steal Lothar back and make the Grail Emperor love us?”

  “Yes. And no. And yes. And no.”

  Ghort said, “Women love a man who’s confident and knows right where he stands.”

  Doneto gave Ghort a look that suggested the Principaté was considering rendering him down for fat.

  “I take it back if I’m wrong.”

  Doneto told Else, “We’re perfectly positioned. When they bring their captives in they have to pass by here to reach the palace and the citadel. We can jump them, grab Lothar, and run like hell. I’d leave booby traps to slow them down while we escaped back to our covering force.”

  “That sounds just plain totally alluring,” Ghort said.

  Else scowled. He was in that cleft between Else Tage and Piper Hecht. “Can you tell what the Brotherhood has managed to do?”

  “No. Sit down and be quiet.”

  Time passed. Else napped. A hand shook him. He found Ghort and Doneto looming over him.

  Doneto murmured, “The Pramans have shaken the Brotherhood. They kept hold of their prisoners. They’ll arrive soon. There’s less celebration, now. They got hurt, badly. As you might expect, seeing they had to break through a band handpicked by Grade Drocker.”

  Pinkus Ghort asked, “How many people do we need to rescue?”

  Doneto ignored him.

  Else asked, “How many of them were there?” He recalled seeing about twenty pass the wine-pressing house.

  Still, Doneto said nothing. Else prodded. “Is it a secret, Your Grace?”

  “I don’t know,” Doneto snapped. “There should be seven prisoners. Most all wounded.”

  That made sense. The Braunsknechts would not give up without a fight. “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Else said. “What else? We’re going to be in a fight in a while. What you hold back might get us all killed.”

  Scowling, dejected at having to share any knowledge with anyone, Doneto replied, “There were nineteen men with Lothar. Two were his servants. Two were priests. Two were Brotherhood of War. Ten were Braunsknechts. The rest were more mysterious. Though we saw them in Plemenza.”

  “Ferris Renfrow. Of course. The Emperor’s head spy. He was under foot a lot when we were getting ready for this squabble.”

  “Yes. I don’t think he’s one of the captives.”

  The Sha-lug who captured Lothar, Else believed, deserved the greatest honor.

  Else asked, “Do you know anything that might be useful now?” His tone informed the whole band that he was straining to remain patient. “Reminding you, what you don’t say could get you dead with the rest of us.”

  Doneto said, “They’re sending out more of their best men to cover the raiders. For their trouble they’re getting Lothar, a priest who made no effort to avoid capture, two half-dead brothers from the cult of war, and several Braunsknechts in equally bad shape, still alive only because those in charge want to interrogate them.”

  Doneto intoned, “Tell me about that building there. Two up and across the street. It feels empty.”

  “It should be,” Else said. “It was the Dainshau temple and exchange. They abandoned it after the Unbelievers arrived.”

  “Do you know every building in the city, Hecht?”

  “Only the ones that the refugees said were important.”

  “Suppose some of us occupy that building and the rest stay here. The ones over there hit first. Then those of us here snatch Lothar once the Pramans start to react there. They’ll be feeling safe and relaxed. We can hit and get.”

  Else was not pleased. But he was no Grade Drocker. He could not tell a Principaté to shut up and get out of the way. “Pinkus, you’d better warn the reserves to be ready.”

  “That’s their job, Pipe. They’re on it now.”

  Else asked Doneto, “Can you tell, is that building really empty? There have been a lot of cold, snowy nights since the Dainshaukin fled.”

  “Go check,” Doneto suggested. “If nobody cuts your throat, it’s safe.”

  Else did exactly that. But alone. He could pass himself off as a Dreangerean for as long as it took to become invisible again.

  The Dainshau structure had not remained empty. Soldiers had moved in but were not at home now. But, as Else was about to summon reinforcements, the Pramans with the Imperial prisoners appeared.

  Else muttered, “Pinkus, I hope you have smarts enough to manage.”

  Of course he did. A better question might be, would Doneto refrain from interfering?

  The Pramans were not alert. And why should they be, deep inside their own stronghold, when they were now confident of their ultimate victory? They were hurrying, in no formation, cracking the dark jokes men make after they have stuck a thumb in Death’s eye and gotten away. The first dozen wore Lucidian helmets and rags that had started out as the uniform clothing of Indala al-Sul Halaladin’s home cavalry. Next came the prisoners, in the care of Mafti al-Araj el-Arak’s lifeguards. Eight or nine Sha-lug brought up the rear.

  Something dark and noisome rose from the cobblestones in front of the Lucidians. The stench made Else want to retch. Then Ghort struck from the downhill side. The Lucidians and Calzirans panicked. The Sha-lug were less affected. Even so, Else was embarrassed by their feeble resistance.

  Ghort reclaimed the prisoners with little effort.

  Many of the fleeing Pramans ran into the building whence Else was watching.

  A second stinking shadow hoisted itself up in the gap between the Pramans and Ghort’s raiders.

  Else had no opportunity to get away. He dove into a shadowy corner, burrowed into a pile of junk and equipment needing repair, pulled some rags up to cover his face, and fought to contr
ol his breathing.

  It had been a long time since he had heard his own language spoken. It took several minutes to get back into it.

  There were twenty angry men within fifteen feet. Some cursed. Some threw things. Some wanted to counterattack right now, never mind that they had no idea what they faced. Never mind that they were so exhausted that they could barely stand.

  A hand passed through Else’s limited field of vision. It grabbed a broken saddle from near his hidden feet, flipped it onto its side. A man sat down. He panted, having trouble breathing. He slumped in defeat and a despair beneath which lay anger like molten stone. The man believed he had been misused, wasted, possibly even betrayed.

  The twenty were a mixture of Lucidians, Calzirans, and Sha-lug. They went out again after a few minutes. The man seated on the saddle did not join them. Those who spoke to him received only grunts in response.

  This was the man in charge, Else realized. And he was hurt. He did try to follow the others but did not have the strength.

  Else slapped a hand across the wounded man’s mouth as he came out of hiding. He would do no harm if he could help it. Then he gasped. “Bone?”

  The wounded man looked at Else like he had met his own ghost.

  Else turned. “Bone? That is you, isn’t it?”

  “Captain Tage? But you’re dead. For more than a year.”

  “Hunh. I hadn’t heard. When did this happen?”

  “They said you were killed by an infidel sorcerer the day you landed in Firaldia.”

  “They did? Interesting.” Inasmuch as he had been sending reports until the city regiment left Brothe. “Who would that ‘they’ be?”

  “Er-Rashal, Captain. He told everybody. The Marshall was seriously disappointed, mostly because he didn’t get more use out of you. He wasn’t sorry you were dead.”

  Else’s deepest, most secret suspicions seemed confirmed. “Is that our company out there?”

  “What’s left. And some Lucidians and natives we’ve been working with. Captain, I’m pretty sure we’re here to get wiped out. We get all the worst jobs. We keep losing men. We left Az out there somewhere this time.”

  “I don’t want anyone to know I survived. Not yet. The third sorcerer. The mystery man. That would be er-Rashal himself. Right?”