by Glen Cook
Hecht frowned.
“You still don’t realize what you’ve done, do you?”
Hecht felt, too frequently, that he had no idea. He raised an eyebrow in invitation.
“There hasn’t been anything like the Patriarchal force since the Old Empire. Not in the west. In the Eastern Empire they have professional soldiers, enlisted and officers alike. Here, since the fall, there’s been no need. We mainly fight our neighbors, on the smallest scale. And a fear of standing forces, plus contempt for mercenaries, is the standard. The warrior class is especially hard on men who fight for pay. Except when they go into pay after their forty days themselves. But they’d argue that that’s a different animal.”
Why did Titus want to remind him of the obvious? Oh. Because he really was changing the shape of thought about professional soldiery.
Titus went on, “All of which is about to be undone.”
“Indeed?”
“Pinkus Ghort isn’t Piper Hecht.”
“Piper Hecht won’t be out of work.”
“So you’ll sign on with the Grail Empress.”
“I don’t see any alternative.” Whenever he considered retirement, as he threatened so often, a disappointed Helspeth Ege wormed into his thoughts and, like a song getting stuck, would not go away. “For a while. But don’t count on me actually invading the Holy Lands.”
“How would Noë and the boys fit in Alten Weinberg?”
“I don’t know. It’s cosmopolitan. People from all over the Empire live there. I didn’t see much prejudice. But it’s bound to exist.” And in some minds Titus would always be a Deve, whatever religion he pursued. “I hear so much about the Holy Lands from pilgrims and returned crusaders, I know I don’t want to go there.”
Titus gave him an odd look but kept his thoughts to himself. He was fully invested in Piper Hecht’s imaginary past. If Piper Hecht fell, Titus Consent would follow.
Madouc stuck his head into the room. “Can I interrupt, Captain-General?”
“Of course. What is it?”
“It’s Bechter, sir. The healing brothers say he’s slipping. They don’t understand why. He should be recovering. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Yes. Is it …? Do they think it could go fatal?”
“Very likely. And it might not be long.”
“Titus, I have to go.” He felt the sorrow rising. Another way the west had infected his soul. He had become a servant to his emotions.
Consent asked, “Can I tag along? Bechter has been a force in my life, too. Almost a father since I converted.”
Hecht was surprised. He had not noticed. But it could be. He did not pay close enough attention to the lives of those around him.
Madouc waited outside. He explained, “Now would be when a villain might think we were relaxing.”
Hecht took the point. “Of course. Lead on.”
The Patriarchals had complete control of the Palace of Kings. A hospital had been established there. It served the troops principally, but aided poor locals where it could, in the name of Bellicose. That paid dividends. Titus Consent kept in touch with the nuns and healing brothers, who were not shy about passing on useful information.
Redfearn Bechter was the sole tenant of a room featuring pallets for four. A healing priest sat with the old soldier, no longer trying to battle Bechter’s illness.
The room stank.
The Captain-General met the priest’s eye. Who shook his head sadly.
Bechter heard them enter. He cracked one eyelid, recognized the visitors. He struggled to lift himself.
The healing priest pushed him back.
Hecht knelt beside the old man. Took his hot, dry, fragile hand. Could think of nothing to say. He could remember only a sutra from The Written about finding love for one’s enemies. Redfearn Bechter was that most cruel of foes, a soldier of the Brotherhood of War. And the Sha-lug Else Tage, having transmogrified into the Patriarchal champion Piper Hecht, had grown to care for the man.
Bechter said nothing, either.
Hecht considered some banter about shirking, about hurrying up and getting back to work, but Bechter knew. The end was at hand. So the Captain-General said, “I have one last task for you, Sergeant. I want you to deliver a message when you stand before the Divine. Ask Him to show me His Design. Ask Him to still the turmoil in my heart by granting me a clear vision of His Will.”
Bechter did not speak. He could not. But he managed a slight inclination of his head. He had heard and would comply.
Hecht ignored his other duties till the end came. And that was not long delayed. The healing priest reported, “He was running on sheer willpower. He was determined not to pass over without making his farewells to those he loved.”
That idea startled Hecht. Redfearn Bechter had been the consummate Brotherhood warrior. He should have loved nothing but his own secret creed.
***
News of Bechter’s passing, and the circumstances thereof, swept through the army.
One uncalculated gesture won the Captain-General an even fiercer loyalty. None of the soldiers had ever heard of a high officer entrusting a trooper to carry a message to God Himself.
Hecht said little when he heard, other than to express bewilderment to Titus Consent.
Bechter’s latest assistant, Vladech Gerzina, onetime bodyguard, turned up asking for a minute of the Captain-General’s time. Hecht had no cause to refuse.
Gerzina carried a teakwood chest two feet long, fourteen inches wide, and nine inches deep, with an arching, hinged top. The old wood was almost black. The corners and edges of the chest were protected by fittings of brass. “Sergeant Bechter asked me to bring you his personal things, sir.”
Hecht could think of nothing appropriate to say. “Personal things?” Members of the Brotherhood were not supposed to accumulate personal things.
“Memorabilia, perhaps? Bechter was in his seventies. We think.” Gerzina was Brotherhood. He was not dismayed by Bechter’s bit of worldliness. “We all pick up souvenirs to remind us of key moments. Don’t we, sir?”
“Yes. I suppose.” Hecht still carried one small white pebble, twice the size of a chickpea, that had been in the load of the falcon he had discharged in Esther’s Wood. It connected him to the most critical moment of his life. No one else would know what that pebble meant.
Gerzina set the chest on a bench the lifeguards used when they kept watch on some dubious visitor. “I have to get back to work, sir. I’m behind because of the emotional distraction.”
“What’s in the box?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“It doesn’t appear to be locked.”
“It isn’t my place to look.”
Hecht considered the man closely for the first time.
Physically, Vladech Gerzina was nondescript. Average height, neither good-looking nor ugly, his colorings unremarkable. He was a few pounds overweight, which was unusual in a soldier.
A walking illusion. A man with a big don’t-notice-me spell on.
Maybe.
Gerzina’s body language shifted suddenly.
He didn’t like being noticed.
“Can you do Bechter’s job?”
“Sir?”
“I don’t believe I mumbled.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve been doing it. All of it. I don’t know how he managed, at his age.”
“He had an assistant. You’re the man, now. Officially. At least till the new commander comes in.”
“No, sir. Begging your mercy, sir. I have to decline. And, no sir, it’s not because it’s too much work. It’s a cush job.” He patted his belly. “Enough to eat and warm in the winter. And not one heathen Praman in sight. But a time of change is on us. Sir. Those sworn to the Brotherhood have to leave you. Or the man who replaces you.”
“Oh?”
“There’s been word from Addam Hauf. The Master of the Commandery will send reinforcements to the Holy Lands. Men, material, and money. Which he’s having some success gath
ering since the Patriarch doesn’t have to use all his resources to stave off predatory Emperors.”
“I see.” And, though Hecht had not considered it before, he did.
Katrin’s peace had eased life dramatically for the Patriarchs. Bronte Doneto would see no need to consult Imperial ambitions at all.
“I’d better get everybody together and see who needs to be replaced. Help with that. Before you go.”
“Yes, sir. It won’t be right away. Sir.”
Alone again, Hecht sat down with Bechter’s chest.
He had worked up an expectation of something dramatic. Reality proved disappointing. Memorabilia, indeed. Bits of cord. Several stones. A small dagger rendered useless by means of having had an inch of its business end broken off. Several iron arrowheads of Lucidian design. Assuming Bechter followed Brotherhood custom, those had been removed from his own flesh. Then several scraps of paper, one crumbling, one in an unreadable hand, another a pass to be shown while traveling on Brotherhood business. A locket with a bit of brittle hair inside, uncharacteristic for a warrior-priest. Several small wooden boxes, beautifully made, all but one unlocked. One contained a perfectly preserved moth with a wingspan over four inches. Hecht had never seen its like. But he understood that it must have been beautiful when it was alive. And, in death, had been treasured by a man Hecht could not help but honor.
He opened two boxes that contained nothing, then one wherein lay a shredding little cotton sack containing several dozen copper coins from almost as many polities, forming a metal log of Redfearn Bechter’s journeys.
This was a life. Seventy years, plus.
Why had the man wanted him to have this?
As a message? A warning?
“Vanity of vanities. All is …”
There was still the box that was locked. The key was there in the mix with the copper coins, itself brass and as green as any of the money. Hidden in plain sight, perhaps without much concern.
The box contained a thin, bound book, its leather cover at once stained, worn, and grown brittle. Hecht opened it carefully.
The first page was done in artful calligraphy, in a language Hecht could not immediately identify. Till he suffered an epiphany: He was looking at Melhaic written down using the Brothen alphabet. Melhaic was the ancient language of the Holy Lands. He could read that clumsily. In its native characters Melhaic was inscribed across the page in a direction opposite that customary for most of the languages of the region.
He had just discovered that the book was a history recorded by Grade Drocker when Pella burst in, so startling him that he jumped.
“Dad? Pinkus Ghort is downstairs.”
“Pella. What’re you doing here?”
“I thought you’d be kind of down. Because of Sergeant Bechter. So I thought I’d see if I could do anything. I ran into Colonel Ghort in the street.”
How the devil had Ghort gotten here so fast? What was Bronte Doneto up to? The news about Bellicose was not yet general knowledge. The Interregnum had weeks to run.
“You’re right. I am in a bleak mood. Here’s how you can cheer me up. Get your butt on back home and get into school. Make something of yourself. So you don’t end up like Sergeant Bechter. Like I might end up any day.”
“Whew! It does have its claws in you.”
“It does. Bring Ghort. Tell Cederig I want some of the red wine I’ve been saving. Might as well get Pinkus started on it. Save the trouble of hauling it to Brothe and back.” And a few cups might loosen Ghort’s tongue.
***
“Damn, man!” Ghort said as soon as he walked in. “You look like shit on a stick. You need to get more sleep.”
“Put the wine on the desk, Cederig. And stand by. Pinkus, I’ll be getting all the rest I can stand starting real soon.”
“You know what’s up.”
“Of course I do.”
“Consent’s still got eyes in Brothe.”
“That, too. More importantly, several Principatés aren’t happy about Doneto taking over. Some hoped I would overrule the election.”
“Care to name names?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you think?”
“I’m not some old-time legionary commander who wants to control who gets to be the next Emperor.”
“Yeah. The boss figured you’d see it that way. I meant, what’s your opinion? About Doneto.”
“He’s the best man available. But I wish he wasn’t nuts about the Connec.”
“Yeah. I don’t know for sure but I got a notion your Count Raymone won’t get no joy out of him.”
“Raymone will have plans in place. Doneto should let the old grievances go. He’s supposed to be everybody’s Patriarch.”
“Told him that myself. I don’t think he was listening. Hey. Pipe. No hard feelings?” Ghort was well into his first bottle. He had begun to slur.
“No reason. You didn’t fire me. Actually, I might’ve quit if I hadn’t been fired. I’ve had about all of this that I can stand. I couldn’t work for a busybody like him. I want a boss who tells me what he wants, then gets out of the way and lets me do it.”
“That scares the busybodies. Makes them afraid they might get run over themselves.”
Hecht understood that. He had dealt with it most of his adult life. It was the reason he had been sent west. Gordimer was afraid of getting trampled. “The problem is, those men see the world in the mirror of themselves.”
“Huh?”
“They’re scared because they know what they’d do in my place. Which means that they start from a different notion of honor.”
“Gotcha. But, hey, Pipe, you can’t never claim you don’t pull a slick once in a while your own self. Damn, this grape juice is fine.”
“Me? A fast one?”
“I ain’t as dumb as I look. You knew the change was coming. You jumped in on them crusaders anyways.”
“I did. Yes.” Hecht grinned.
“Doneto ain’t gonna like that.”
“What’s he going to do? Fire me?”
“That’s rich. I don’t know. He can be a vindictive prick. Like what he figures on doing to Count Raymone and Antieux.”
“Which would be?”
“I don’t know, Pipe. Not yet. But I ain’t gonna be nowhere near that berg when it happens. I don’t want to be remembered for what I’m scared is gonna happen.”
“In that case, I regret being so effective against the revenants.”
“Thanks, buddy. That’s all I need. Them goddamned spook demons traipsin’ round behind me, kicking my ass every time I bend over.”
“It would keep you humble.”
“This stuff right here keeps me from gettin’ bigger than myself.” Ghort took a long draw of wine, stared at his feet for a dozen seconds. “An’ I keep wonderin’ how long it’ll be before he fires me.”
“Look at it this way. Who could possibly replace Pinkus Ghort?”
“A good question, Pipe. A fine question. But you gotta remember, Doneto has got some huge blind spots. That might be one of them.”
“When do you plan to take charge?”
“Officially? When the Interregnum is up. If you want to work it that way. Otherwise, anytime after my core staff gets here.”
“You going to fire my guys, too?”
“Have to. Most of them. What I was told. I figure they wouldn’t stay on, no how. The Brotherhood ones is all gonna report back to the Castella. That Addam Hauf is a ball of fire. The rest are loyal to you. According to Doneto. My first job will be to vet all the officers, to see which ones need to go and which ones are loyal to the Church or their pay.”
“Too bad. This was an effective force. It won’t be anymore.”
Ghort shrugged. “Way of the world, Pipe. Sad way of the world. I need a place to lie down. This shit was just too damned good.” He put the wine bottle aside. Empty.
***
The Captain-General did what he could to hamstring a new crusade against the C
onnec. Falcons disappeared. Firepowder, likewise. Titus Consent’s records, and those of the quartermasters, turned sloppy, incomplete, and confused. Hecht suffered considerable guilt. Which he handled by telling himself Pinkus Ghort would still get paid. He would just have to work harder to start making the Connec miserable.
Most of the soldiers did seem inclined to stick. Few were pleased but an income was an income. There were a dozen refugees willing to replace any veteran afflicted with excessive scruples. The staff, though, did have theirs. Hecht had trouble keeping them in place till the day of the changeover.
Hecht overheard one staffer tell Ghort that his departure was not personal. Another insisted he had no problem with the new Captain-General, just with the villain behind him. Hecht passed the word that they might want to feel a little less free to speak their minds.
Bronte Doneto was less popular with the soldiers than Hecht had expected. They recalled Doneto’s behavior during the Connecten Crusade.
Hecht’s last official act was the release of the Viscount Dumaine and other remaining Arnhander captives. Those who had not yet been ransomed would send the money themselves. Their honor demanded that they not renege.
The change of command was no drama. Hecht shook Ghort’s hand and went away, leaving the new commander frazzled and dismayed.
“What do we do now, Dad?” Pella wanted to know. He had begun to stick close. He was not welcome among Pinkus Ghort’s artillerists.
“Go home. Settle in with your mother. Loaf.” Those who would make the journey to Brothe were gathering. The company seemed curiously small. Hecht needed a moment to work out why.
There was no Madouc. Nor any of Pella’s constant companions. There were no bodyguards at all.
For all that he had resented Madouc every moment that he was underfoot, Hecht found himself feeling naked now. And constantly uneasy.
13. In the Frozen Steppe with the Talking Dead
The Chosen of the central steppe and northern waste assembled. They would crush the enemy of their god. Defiant Tsistimed had come far enough into the cold that the Windwalker himself could join in.
The Chosen, whipped on by a dozen fierce copies of Krepnight, the Elect, probed and retreated, probed and retreated, drawing Tsistimed and his sons deeper into the realm of winter. The Chosen neither knew nor cared what was happening among their enemies. They did as they were told.
