Surrender to the Will of the Night

by Glen Cook

  The old man did not respond. He should, he knew. Something about multiple wrongs not adding up to a right. But what Amberchelle said was true. Nothing short of the will of the Chaldarean God Himself would keep His Church from designing and conspiring in one of the great evils of history. The more people talked about a Connecten Crusade, the more carrion eaters would begin to circle.

  Brother Candle dragged it up from his deepest heart but did say, “You could be right, Bernardin. Maybe we should make sure the rape of the Connec is something so bad that it’s never forgotten.”

  “Come on, Master. People are starting to wonder if you’re our prisoner or our pal.”

  ***

  “So it’s true,” Amberchelle said. “You did make off with Duke Tormond’s baubles.”

  Brother Candle was infatuated with his first decent meal in weeks, but did respond. “I made off with nothing. Tormond forced them on me. He gave me no chance to refuse.”

  “That’s such a crock, I think I’ll believe you. I never knew Old Indecisive. I figure that’s exactly the kind of thing he’d pull if he ever did make up his mind. I wish I could read his letters.”

  “I wish you could, too. I’d give it all to you and let you worry about getting it to Count Raymone.”

  Amberchelle indulged in what he called his evil laughter. “No way, old-timer. He’s up near Viscesment, working out how to bloody the new Captain-General’s nose when Serenity turns him loose.”

  The Perfect shook his head. Nothing would be gained by beating his head against that particular wall. He had argued for peace a hundred times. Peace had been rejected just as often.

  Amberchelle asked, “You think they know what you have? The people back in Khaurene?”

  “Of course they do. Why else have they been hunting me?”

  “There’s your winning personality. And your message.”

  Brother Candle started to reply, stopped short.

  Bernardin Amberchelle, the seriously violent thug, sounded much too thoughtful and subtle.

  The mindless thug grinned. “Messengers are on their way to Raymone. Three, just to make sure word gets through. Sometimes odd things happen. Especially at night.”

  Brother Candle had experienced little of that during his travels but had heard fearful stories from the country people. Though the last Captain-General had rid the Connec of major revenants he had done little to quell the malice of lesser Instrumentalities. Those crowding in from the north excited those already resident in the shadowy out-of-the-ways. All of the Instrumentalities seemed inclined to take it out on the nearest unwary mortal.

  It should not be so. Simple precautions, of the sort undertaken by anyone with half a brain, were enough to leave a wise user nearly unaware of what haunted the darkness around him. That had been worked out two thousand years ago.

  Brother Candle said, “Let me pass the tokens and instruments on, now. Their weight is crushing.”

  “Oh, no. Bear up, Brother. I’m a wicked man. You don’t want to put that much temptation in my way.” Wearing a wistful sort of look.

  “I see.” Bernardin might win Count Raymone’s title, rescission of excommunication, and pardon of his sins and crimes in exchange for the treasures in Brother Candle’s keeping. “A man should recognize his limits.”

  “I’ll send you on to Raymone.”

  “No. No. I’m almost as old as the limestone under the Connec. I’ve been on the road forever. This old dog needs to curl up on the hearth and nap. For months.”

  “As you will.”

  “Where is Socia?”

  “Out there. With Raymone most of the time. Off on her own when she thinks he isn’t aggressive enough.”

  “Frightening.”

  “More than you can imagine, Master. More than you can imagine.”

  “Explain.”

  “She’s started hearing voices. Telling her how to defend the Connec. Telling her how to deal with our enemies. Raymone tried to stifle her. He failed. She’s started recruiting her own Companions. Each time she massacres some invaders more young men rush to join her. It doesn’t hurt that she’s such a handsome woman.”

  “Raymone can’t control her.” An observation. He was not surprised. He had had charge of Socia Rault before their marriage. The child was willful and ferocious. A Seeker whose sole adherence to doctrine was to equality of the sexes.

  “He never could. The challenge was what attracted him in the first place.”

  Brother Candle agreed.

  Count Raymone saw himself mirrored in his wife. … O wicked dread!

  “You don’t think they might get into a competition? Trying to show each other who’s more bloodthirsty?”

  Amberchelle’s face darkened. “Brother, there’s some of that already. There was news last week about her taking the castle at Suralert Ford. Among the captives were a distant cousin of Anne of Menand and a viscount who was popular in Salpeno. There was a bishop, several priests, and a dozen members of the Society. She beheaded the knights and nobles, no exceptions. She burned the churchmen. She applied the torches personally. But the common soldiers she disarmed and paroled.”

  Brother Candle closed his eyes and shook his head. “Socia, Socia. Bernardin, I knew she had the taint, but not that bad.”

  “Brother, she promised them safe-conduct to win their surrender. Then went back on it. She said God doesn’t expect us to keep faith with agents of the Adversary.”

  True enough. Church people claimed that all the time. “Didn’t the Society execute ‘heretics’ when they captured that same castle?”

  “They did. Two Seeker students. Two. Who were confused about what to do if they were captured. The garrison surrendered without a fight.”

  Brother Candle learned that Socia had, improbably, taken the Suralert stronghold with thirty-six men. Only three suffered injuries. The defenders had numbered eighty-four. They had had supplies enough for two months. Socia executed twenty-two prisoners. A twenty-third, Bishop Morcant Farfog, decided to change sides. …

  “Farfog? Morcant Farfog? The Farfog who was with Haiden Backe when he attacked Caron ande Lette? Who took command of the mercenaries after Backe was killed? The Morcant Farfog who had several wicked titles under several wicked Patriarchs and the Arnhander Crown?”

  “Uh … Yes. Interesting turn, eh? He turned coat and made speeches denouncing the wickedness of the Society. His other option was the stake.”

  “Ah. Yes. St. Morcant the Martyr. I knew him well. And good for him. But, just one problem, Bernardin. Morcant Farfog was an Archbishop. And he was murdered in Castreresone way back when the Captain-General occupied the city.”

  “Uh-oh, then. I must’ve got it wrong. Or Socia did. Hey! Maybe it was that other famous Arnhander asshole Bishop, Austen Rinpoché.”

  “The hunchback? Didn’t he get killed somewhere along the way, too?”

  “No. He was the one, I’m pretty sure. My mistake. I can’t tell one Arnhander Church dick from another. It had to be Rinpoché, the special idiot. Anne’s favorite idiot. She kept trusting him with missions. He kept screwing them up. I heard she’s started nagging Serenity about making new seats in the Collegium so she can pay off her clerical lapdogs.”

  “The Patriarch can’t expand the Collegium. Only the Principatés can do that. And that won’t happen. The Firaldians have too thin a majority. One that won’t hold up if Serenity comes at cross-purposes with the Empire.”

  “Then let’s hope our new shepherd of souls offends the Empress.”

  “Let us hope.” A chill had shaken Brother Candle. He was no student of Church history but did recall that more than one Patriarch had tried to reshape the communal attitude of the Collegium by eliminating Principatés of insufficiently sympathetic attitude in order to replace them with men whose views were more compatible.

  ***

  Because Bernardin Amberchelle wanted the world to think the Perfect was a prisoner Brother Candle became, in practice, a loosely confined prisoner. He had fre
edom of movement inside Antieux’s citadel but was not allowed out.

  Three times Bernardin reported taking prisoners who admitted having been sent to recover the treasures the Perfect had carried away from Khaurene. That hunt had grown vigorous, now.

  Socia Rault turned up one morning as Brother Candle was breaking his fast. Nine days had passed since Bernardin found him. She had cleaned up but it remained obvious that she was not long off the road. She held a finger to her lips, tapped her ear, swept her hand round to indicate the plentiful shadows.

  Brother Candle was not sensitive to the Night but had felt the chills and creepiness supposedly associated with the presence of lurking Instrumentalities. Did he care what they overheard? Those interested in him ought to know everything worthwhile already.

  Socia produced a doeskin sack a good foot deep. She shoved a hand inside, winced, then flung a scatter of something all round. It rattled like pea gravel against the walls of the cell. Socia licked bloody spots on her fingers.

  Whatevers from the handful rolled back toward Brother Candle. They did look like bits of dark gravel. Then they opened like sow bugs uncurling, took a moment to get oriented, considering him and Socia first. Then they headed for the shadows, fast.

  “Not rolly-polies,” he said. Sow bugs had no speed at all.

  “No. I’m not sure what they are. I bought them from a pagan witch out in the hills. Don’t mention them to Raymone. They work better than any charm.” She counted on her fingers as she talked, dropped the doeskin sack at a hundred beats. The creatures began to crawl back inside it. “We can talk, now. They ate everything spying on you.”

  Brother Candle did not understand, had no idea. “You’ll have to explain someday. Though I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “It isn’t just the Old Gods wanting to come back. Little things are stirring, too. They didn’t interest the Captain-General. He was after big revenants.” Then, “Is it true? Duke Tormond adopted Raymone? He sent Raymone everything he needs to become the next Duke?”

  “It’s true. All wrapped up in a legal package so neat that the only way to break it is to voluntarily, publicly, choose eternal damnation.”

  “Meaning a lot of people are going to be unhappy.”

  “A lot of people are thoroughly unhappy already, child. Ask Bernardin. He’s already run into squads of agents sent to get me before I turned the baubles over. Expect a flood of immigrants now that my whereabouts are known.”

  “Bernardin and I will enjoy the hunt.”

  The old man shuddered. Socia was almost a daughter. He loved her like his own. But the more he heard about Socia today the more troubled he became.

  She was possessed of a soul both dark and cruel. Her husband’s enemies had cause for dread.

  ***

  Winter was cruel in the Connec. Even the old folks admitted that its like had not been seen before. There were ices floes in the Dechear. At Viscesment citizen crews worked for weeks to keep the ice from damaging that city’s precious bridges.

  The cold forced an end to all campaigning. Even Count Raymone Garete’s hardiest fighters abandoned the field once they started losing fingers and toes.

  The Arnhanders harassing the Khaurenesaine suffered the worst, though winter was less harsh in the west. They had failed to show the season adequate respect when they wasted the countryside. Depriving the enemy meant depriving oneself. Food, fuel, and fodder had to be dragged in from far away. Other than in the few overcrowded castles shelter was hard to come by. Huddling for warmth elsewhere could turn fatal. Well-fed and well-clothed Navayans or Khaurenese almost always attacked when smoke gave a gathering away. They tried to recapture the castles whenever it looked like they could manage cheaply.

  Despite all, King Regard kept a force in the field. He stayed in the End of Connec himself. Which occasioned humor on both sides.

  There would be an invader army on hand when spring came. The Arnhanders believed the campaign would go their way once the weather turned. Then Khaurene would pay the butcher’s bill.

  ***

  Count Raymone came home at last, compelled by the cold outside and the heat within. He and Socia were shameless in demonstrating their affection.

  ***

  Brother Candle was one of a dozen guests at a small feast. Something private was being celebrated. No one said what. Brother Candle suspected that Socia was pregnant. He was not sure why he was present. The other guests were all intimates of Count Raymone.

  The merry mood was unjustified, in the old man’s view.

  This was no world to bequeath a child.

  Something he said inspired Socia to poke him in the ribs and declare, “You’re the perfect pessimist. The world is going to hell in a chamber pot. You ought to be dancing a jig. Every gloomy day we get more evidence that Seekers have it right. The world is the Adversary’s playground. You get validated anew before every sundown.”

  “That may be, child. But I don’t exult in the torment of my fellows.”

  Bernardin Amberchelle laughed like that was the joke of the decade.

  “These are apocalyptic times,” Count Raymone said. “And the most learned Perfect is here to witness and to guide us through.”

  Sarcasm? Hard to tell. Brother Candle could not help saying, “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  Socia responded, “That’s because you’re a sour old badger who only expects the worst.”

  “And the worst is about to rain down like a ton of gull droppings, isn’t it?”

  Count Raymone said, “This once your pessimism may be justified.”

  “Just this once, though, of course. Right?”

  “Of course.” The entire gathering showed amusement, though the Perfect could tell that only Bernardin, Socia, and the Count knew the secret.

  “Maybe you ought to give me the really bad news.”

  Amberchelle shifted his bulk. “You look a lot better than when I saved you from the Bishop.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely.”

  Count Raymone combed his fingers through his thinning hair. “This is the plan, Brother. I want you to get yourself arrested by the people who want to take you back to Khaurene.”

  The old man was speechless. What?

  “That’s less risky than you think. Those people know you’re important to the Duke. And they know you have my protection, which means a lot more. They know it’ll go hard if they aren’t gentlemen.”

  Brother Candle frowned. That would not be the whole tale. Raymone Garete’s enmity was not a dread as potent as the Count might wish. Enemies did not worry about exciting his wrath every day. “And what have I done to earn this further trial? At my time? The victims of God’s insecurities in the scriptures of the Devedians and Chaldareans weren’t forced to face such tribulations.”

  “I know. It’s terrible of me putting this on a man your age. But no other messenger, no other witness, can relay what needs relaying as effectively. Nor can anyone else disappear into the sea of the people like you. Once you reach Khaurene you’ll vanish. Then do the talking I want you to do.”

  Brother Candle did feel much better than he had when Bernardin found him. He had gained several pounds. He no longer dragged. He was, occasionally, bearing witness to the locals and auditing their evening meetings.

  The local strain of the Heresy resembled that prevalent in Sheavenalle. There was more pressure to conform and less acceptance of debate. It was, like Antieux’s Count, militant. Still, unlike the Church, the Seekers of Antieux did not feel compelled to crush dissent completely.

  Count Raymone’s scheme revolved around a challenge to the arguments of a Firaldian Perfect known for his intolerance and inability to step out from behind his ego. Bernardin Amberchelle thought that this Brother Ermelio would deal with intellectual competition by whispering to those who wanted to carry Brother Candle away.

  “That involves a lot of ifs,” Count Raymone admitted. “But Brother Ermelio is an idiot. We’ve used him before.”

&nb
sp; Bernardin added, “The surest way to provoke him is to question his Perfect status. His behavior makes me think his Perfection was self-endowed.”

  Count Raymone said, “I think he’s an agent of the Society. But he’s so useful I can’t bring myself to have his throat cut.”

  Bernardin contrived to have Brother Candle cross paths with Brother Ermelio. One evening’s meeting, though Brother Candle held his tongue, left the Perfect despairing of the collective wisdom and intelligence of Antieux’s Seeker community. Which was large and militant and dumb as a bundle of broom handles. And left him further despairing of the Seekers of Firaldia.

  He did have to grant that those there were scarcer than their Connecten cousins and were constrained to be less open. They faced a more determined persecution.

  Following the meeting, as he headed back to the citadel, shadowed by Bernardin’s guardian angels, it occurred to him that Brother Ermelio might be a confidence artist. He seemed more a carnival barker than a religious witness. Then it occurred to him that Count Raymone was a confidence artist, too.

  And then, so suddenly it startled him, he felt stupider than all the local Seekers put together.

  Socia was the only one he could find. She had waited up. She asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Brother Ermelio isn’t Brother Ermelio. He isn’t Society, either. He works for the Captain-General. Probably the new one. We saw him when we were in captivity at Castreresone. He’s disguised himself but he hasn’t changed his voice. It wasn’t till I was almost back here that I remembered where I’d heard it. His name is something like Bogna, or Bologna. I’m sure he knew me right away.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Completely.”

  “If he’s gotten that far inside the Seekers that means we really don’t have any secrets.”

  “I’d guess not. I’ll bet he’s been using Raymone and Bernardin by letting them think they’re manipulating the petty personality he showed them.”

  “We have to do something. No telling how much hurt he’s arranged already. Does he know you recognized him?”