Surrender to the Will of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “Really? He didn’t strike me as that kind. More a loyal soldier.”

  “He must have turned my offer down because he knew he was in a position to make the next Patriarch.”

  “I never thought of that. Though I don’t see why he’d be chasing revenant Instrumentalities through the End of Connec if he could be the man behind the Patriarch in Brothe.”

  “He’ll have a reason. That man is too slick.”

  “Just because he turned you down?”

  “Doesn’t make any sense, otherwise.”

  “Sure, it does. He gave his word. He’d have jumped at the chance if he hadn’t already promised his service to someone else.”

  Katrin eyed her oddly. Was she too intense? She did not think so. But she ought to back off anyway. This was not the first time she had shown unbecoming emotion when the Captain-General was the subject. People might wonder.

  She wondered herself. She was an adult, rational woman. Why the obsession? Why the secret letters? Having witnessed Katrin’s obsession with Jaime of Castauriga she feared she might succumb to a similar madness.

  A lady of the court interrupted, “Lord Maeterlinck begs your indulgence, Empress. Ferris Renfrow has arrived with important news. The Graf believes you should be made aware as soon as possible.”

  The interruption angered the Empress. People just would not stop butting in with things that could wait. For weeks, for all she could do anything about some of them. With the old men it was always the crisis of the moment. Were they determined to test her to her limits?

  Helspeth whispered, “It’s not Claudelette’s fault. Be gentle. She’s doing what she’s supposed to do.”

  Katrin muttered angrily.

  “Take it out on fon Maeterlinck. He’s the villain.”

  Easy to say when she was not the girl who had to growl at one of the old warhorses. Simpler to take it out on a woman who could do nothing but bow her head and take it.

  “All right, little sister. I’ll let you show me how.”

  Ouch! But Katrin did no such thing.

  “Claudelette. Inform the Graf fon Maeterlinck that I require him to assemble the Council Advisory and other appropriate individuals within the hour. No excuses.”

  The Empress grinned wickedly. “That, little sister, is how I deal with the Maeterlincks. Now he has to make himself unpopular with fifteen or twenty cranky old men. Most of whom won’t arrive on time. So they’ll look bad in front of their Empress. A few will actually blame fon Maeterlinck.”

  “Are you going to change?”

  “No. I’ll show up breathless and inappropriately dressed. I’m so devoted to the Empire. Which should make the Council that much more irked at Maeterlinck if this is just another routine report being exaggerated into a millennial threat to the Empire.”

  A parade of insignificant crises did arise. Helspeth suspected there was less malice behind them than Katrin wanted to believe. Men like the Graf fon Maeterlinck just wanted to be reassured that they were important to the Empire.

  ***

  Having acknowledged the Imperial dignity of the Empress and Princess Apparent — perfunctorily — a tattered and filthy Ferris Renfrow declared, “There wasn’t any need to convene the Council in emergency. My news may be dramatic but it doesn’t require an immediate response. It may require no response at all.”

  Katrin’s glare very nearly melted the Graf fon Maeterlinck.

  Maeterlinck had shaken the hornet’s nest before finding out what brought Ferris Renfrow here. And Renfrow had let him think the news would be earth-shaking so he would stick his fingers in the meat grinder.

  “Renfrow? We’re here. Let’s have it.”

  “Arnhander crusader forces raised by Anne of Menand and renegades from the banned Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy have invaded the Connec. The largest force, commanded by King Regard, is headed toward Khaurene, out west. A second army is working its way through the mountains toward Castreresone. The Archbishops of Salpeno and Pernoud are its commanders.

  “A third force will come down in the east, following the Dechear. It’s supposed to reduce Antieux, then follow the example set by the Captain-General during Sublime’s Connecten Crusade. This army consists of those who have angered Anne of Menand. They’ve been ordered to crusade or face severe disfavor. I expect Anne hopes Count Raymone Garete will eat most of them up.”

  Helspeth had begun breathing rapidly. She bit her lower lip.

  Katrin said, “It’s true. It’s not crucial. But now we’re here.” Scorn edged her words. “Those who bothered to respond.” She glowered. “So let’s discuss it. How is Brothe likely to respond? I’d expect wholesale excommunications. At the least. No Patriarch tolerates defiance from the temporal authorities. And what will the Captain-General do?”

  News delivered, Ferris Renfrow had eased aside. Helspeth thought he seemed particularly interested in her reactions. But she had been living close by a sister who turned ugly in an instant. She revealed nothing.

  Practically, the news meant little to her.

  Not so to the old men. Already there were whispers about this town or that, on the frontier, which really ought to be part of the Empire. Though the Empire had been nipping off bits of Arnhander territory for decades, whenever Arnhand became preoccupied elsewhere.

  Helspeth asked, “What will King Brill do?”

  Santerin was always at war with Arnhand. The kings of Santerin seldom disdained an opportunity to raid and capture towns should the generally feeble central Arnhander authority turn its back.

  Katrin welcomed the interjection. “Renfrow?”

  “I can’t say for sure. I haven’t heard from my sources. But King Brill should do what Santerin’s kings always have. Though Anne of Menand, being smarter than the last dozen Arnhander kings put together, might have made arrangements ahead of time.” Renfrow gave the Empress a sharp look. As though to suggest that crusades were not to be undertaken on a pious whim.

  “How would she do that?”

  “King Brill hungers for more titles and territories. She could relax Arnhand’s claims to some of the more fractious border counties till she feels strong enough to take them back.”

  Katrin stepped down from her high seat. She walked among the Councilors, and around them. Her father shone in her then. That made the old men uncomfortable. “Have we heard anything from Salpeno? Officially? Or has someone forgotten to inform the Empress?”

  Renfrow said, “Your Grace, if I might?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Strong as she is herself, Anne can’t conceive of a strong woman. She’ll need her nose bloodied before she considers the Empire worth her worry.”

  “Is that so? Lord Admiral. Grand Duke. You two are always spoiling for a fight. Arrange for demonstrations along the frontier.”

  Helspeth asked, “Should we undermine Anne’s effort in the Connec? She’ll be more of a threat if she gains the strength and wealth available there.”

  Katrin asked, “Renfrow? Any thoughts?”

  “No. Except to note that no good for the Empire will arise from any success Anne might enjoy. Also, we have to consider the fact that there’s another unhappy truth out there. The physical world is changing.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The winters are getting longer. Seas are getting shallower. The far north is going under the ice, fast. Permanent snows in the Jagos and other high ranges are several times more vast than just ten years ago. The wells of power, everywhere, keep getting weaker. Meanwhile, old evils, Instrumentalities from the Time Before Time, have begun to ooze back into the world.”

  “No big revelation there, Renfrow. Why bring it up?”

  “Because it’s going to get worse. While we stay focused on war and politics as usual. You’re looking to try another crusade into the Holy Lands …” The spymaster stopped before he said something risky.

  Johannes Blackboots had allowed Renfrow the freedom of a court jester. Johannes had found his forthright ob
servations useful.

  Katrin Ege was more traditional. She preferred to be told what she wanted to hear. But she had not lost all affection for the truth. She might not like what she heard but she could cope with it. So far.

  Helspeth did not expect that to last much longer.

  Katrin’s connection to bitter reality frayed by the hour.

  Ferris Renfrow bowed and began to retreat from the presence, one step at a time.

  Helspeth watched. He was not afraid. He just wanted to go away. He had delivered his information. He had tried to make a point. No one cared. Now there was work to be done elsewhere.

  Helspeth understood. And could not care herself. She could focus only on the fact that the Captain-General would soon be caught in a political pinch.

  11. Tel Moussa: A New God Talks

  Back to Father

  One bronze falcon lay hidden in the tower at Tel Moussa, its existence known only to Nassim Alizarin and two cronies. The Mountain had hired it made — the tube only — by a renowned Dainshau founder in Haeti, a city in Rhûnish territory. It was smaller than falcons elsewhere. This Dainshau cast the weapon believing it to be something intended for use in a Devedian temple.

  The Mountain had mounted the falcon on a goat cart. Everything Nassim knew about its use he had learned during the campaign against Rudenes Schneidel, by watching his Unbeliever allies. The firepowder — what precious little he possessed — had been purloined from Sha-lug stores in al-Qarn by sympathizers and smuggled north an ounce or two at a time.

  Alizarin had powder and shot enough for a dozen discharges. He did not try to accumulate more. He was sure his weapon would not survive that many firing cycles. Bronze was not the best metal for casting falcons. Brass was better, iron best. But only the Deves out west had mastered casting iron tubes that cooled without developing fatal flaws. Gossip out of al-Qarn said the stubbornness of the iron had been a greater irritant to er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen than all his failures in the west.

  Which adventures he had sold to Gordimer the Lion as preemptive machinations meant to cripple the west’s ability to launch fresh incursions into the Holy Lands. Or, as the Marshal so feared, against Dreanger itself.

  The Rascal was back in al-Qarn, momentarily rehabilitated. The Lion needed the sorcerer more than he abhorred the man.

  Each year left Gordimer more frightened of the future. The prophecy concerning his doom came nearer fruition every day.

  It might be a blessing to the Sha-lug, Dreanger, and the kaifate of al-Minphet, all, if someone were to slip the Marshal a taste of poison.

  Nassim Alizarin set little store by omens or prophecies. Nor had he been inclined to be God’s most faithful servant since his son’s murder.

  The Mountain stared at his half-eaten meal. Was there any point to going on? Looking back, it seemed his very soul had been invested in Hagid.

  El-Azer er-Selim interrupted, “Riders on the Shamramdi road. Coming our way.”

  “Meaning we’re about to be blessed with demands from our lords.”

  Az bowed slightly, said no more. Garrison duty at Tel Moussa was not difficult. Its one great demand was patience. But the Mountain treated every message from the Lucidian capital as an imposition. Though he never failed to do as he was asked, nor did he not do it well.

  ***

  “Young Az!” Alizarin said, pleased to see Azim al-Adil again. “Old Az didn’t tell me it was you.”

  The Master of Ghosts said, “Old Az doesn’t see that well anymore.”

  The boy said, “My pleasure, I assure you.” He launched into flowery flattery, a sure sign he had been taught well at his granduncle’s court.

  The Mountain said, “I’m getting old, boy. I may not last through all this. Have your companions been seen to?”

  “They won’t want much. We’ll head back as soon as you and I finish talking.”

  “My lord! You mustn’t subject yourself …”

  “I must. We all must. Something dramatic is happening with the Hu’n-tai At. Some unknown force attacked Skutgularut. Left it in ruins. Tsistimed is calling in all his sons and grandsons and their armies. There’ll be a huge event of some sort.”

  “Maybe the old man will beat his brains out against whoever did it. What does it mean to us?”

  “To you, very little. To Indala al-Sul Halaladin it means tribes on the periphery of the kaifate will feel more comfortable about defying the central authority. Few of their chieftains can think ahead far enough to understand that they’ll need protection again next summer.”

  “I see.” Governance was difficult when communications seldom exceeded the speed of a galloping horse. “Again, what part am I to play?”

  “My illustrious relative begs your assistance in an entirely different matter. The beast du Tancret has offended al-Prama again. Deliberately.”

  “The lepers?”

  “You heard?”

  “The caravan master came here. He begged me to punish Rogert. I showed him our weakness and told him to make his case at court. I see that he did.”

  “He did. Indala’s anger was boundless. Among the women in the caravan were two of his brother Ibid’s granddaughters, Needa and Nia, returning from a visit to the antiquities of Dreanger. No. They weren’t defiled. Not even Rogert du Tancret would dare that with any but slaves and pleasure women. But the girls were among those ‘guests’ he forced to dine in Gherig, then served using lepers.”

  “I sense a particular interest on your part, young Az.”

  “One of the girls, Needa, could be my betrothed.” In answer to the general’s lifted eyebrow, “The relationship is remote. Indala and Ibid had different mothers.”

  The old man nodded. The children would be sufficiently distant to marry.

  “What do you require of me?”

  “The beast dared that insult only because my illustrious relative was preoccupied with Tsistimed. But now the Hu’n-tai At have turned their faces. Indala would like to seize the moment to punish du Tancret. Permanently.”

  “Again, what do you require of me?”

  “That you insert a spy into Gherig. Some of your followers have visited the west. They should be able to play Gisela Frakier well enough to fool the Arnhanders.”

  “Sad hope,” the Mountain said. “I’ve tried. Twice. Both men were caught. And thrown from the wall. A gesture of contempt. As though they were trash, not worth torture or ransom. One man, abd Ador, survived. You can talk to him. He’s had nothing but time to think about what went wrong.”

  “The paralyzed man in the wheeled chair downstairs?”

  “Him.”

  “Why do you keep him?”

  “He hasn’t asked to die. He isn’t ready for Paradise.”

  The youth’s eyes narrowed. A preference for pain and incapacity over Paradise suggested a feeble level of faith.

  The boy was brilliant. Well educated. But he needed seasoning in the world outside palace walls.

  “It’s his choice, youngster. We’re Sha-lug, not some rabble turned out of a prison that won’t wait for the wounded to die to bury them.”

  The boy inclined his head slightly, conceding the point.

  Alizarin said, “There may be a way to get inside Gherig that hasn’t occurred to us. I’ll find it. Betimes, your illustrious relative might try to lure Rogert out and destroy him.”

  “Such plans are being considered, General. But the Arnhanders aren’t fools. Gherig sits on the frontier of the Holy Lands, surrounded by princes and principalities, tribes and chieftains, towns and townsmen, any of whom is likely to betray any of the others, or us, for a fistful of copper. And never suffer a pang of conscience.”

  “The alternative would be to isolate the fortress.”

  “Harder on the Faithful than the Unbeliever. Gherig can withstand a prolonged, determined siege.”

  “I understand. I don’t mean a siege. Instead, just deploy raiders. Cut Gherig off. Attack anyone going in or coming out. Lay on the occasional small sorcery to
worsen the misery of servants, soldiers, and merchants who are inside and have to watch the rest of the world go on.”

  “I see. Shield the world from Rogert du Tancret by caging him. With people who will come to realize that the only way to change their fortunes is by stepping over his corpse.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Not particularly satisfying. But it might appeal to my uncle’s sense of humor.”

  A soldier, Hawfik, interrupted, “Pardon me, General. Riders are approaching. They’re from Dreanger. The Master of Ghosts says it’s time to be wary.”

  “Az? But …” But old Az was no longer in the chamber, lurking at the edge of awareness. “This could be trouble, young Az. We’ve been expecting the Rascal to try to silence us, now he’s back in favor.”

  Alizarin had been awaiting a counterstroke since the fall of Rudenes Schneidel. It had taken time because the Rascal had had to worm his way back into the Lion’s good graces.

  The boy waited quietly. Alizarin suggested, “Stay here. Make yourself known quickly if we fail to defend ourselves. Er-Rashal won’t want to offend Indala.”

  “Er-Rashal offends my uncle by existing. I won’t hide from his lackeys.”

  Quick, the general thought. The boy recognizing that the Rascal would not waste his own time on an upstart rebel.

  Al-Adil asked, “How does your Master of Ghosts recognize trouble from so far off?”

  “Az is a very minor sorcerer. But quite good within his abilities.” Enough said. Indala’s loathing for sorcery was well known, and shared by his associates. “He knows.”

  Alizarin went to the small balcony overhanging the tower gate. The tower itself was just a few feet wider than the gate itself on that face. It formed a widening wedge behind, climbing Tel Moussa. There was a six-foot dry moat in front of the gate with a bridge that could be taken up and dragged inside. Alizarin had yet to see that done. Behind the gate, the way rose steeply. Any attacker who broke through still had to attack uphill.

  The general found that Az had wasted no time waiting for orders. The men had been turned out. They were at posts away from the gate. Which stood open.