Surrender to the Will of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “She has the Commander of the Righteous to make that happen. What can I do? I won’t conspire against her.”

  “Discuss it with her uncles when they pass through here, headed for the war. Invoke me as the source of your concern. They’ll listen. They’ll have to buy in before anything can be done.”

  “Damnit! What’s going on over there?” Helspeth pointed. She had sensed movement in a corner to her left. And something like a worm of black smoke had begun to emerge from a crack near the base of the wall in front of her.

  Renfrow swore. “I assumed the room would stay good because I was gone only a little while. Lesson, Princess. Never assume.”

  Renfrow released his surviving flying worms. They had recovered nicely. They attacked and devoured the worm of smoke. Renfrow repeated himself, shaken. “Never assume.” Because, suddenly, there was another man in the room. A man all in brown.

  Helspeth thought she had seen him before. In the background, around Piper Hecht. He offered a slight bow, an amused smile, and told Ferris Renfrow, “Time to go to work, Brother Lester. You’re out here having fun while everybody else is getting old waiting at the Great Sky Fortress.”

  Renfrow seemed both at a loss for words and cowed. Which stunned Helspeth. This man must be something fierce if he intimidated Ferris Renfrow.

  The man extended a hand. “Let me do the honors, Brother Temagat. Your method is too slow.”

  Renfrow allowed him to take hold.

  “Count downward from ten,” the invader ordered. He looked Helspeth in the eye. “Piper sends hugs and kisses.” Then he turned edgewise somehow with Renfrow and they disappeared.

  Renfrow had not recovered his flying night crawlers. Helspeth left them to rule the quiet room. She got out. Noting exactly who was nearby and might have been trying to spy.

  Hugs and kisses? She shuddered. It felt delicious. And she felt silly as a thirteen-year-old peasant girl being admired for the way she had begun to fill out.

  41. From Brothe to the Great Sky Fortress

  Cloven Februaren’s busy life got busier. Leaving Piper Hecht, he turned sideways into a Delari town house in the process of being invaded by a mob. Muniero was not home. Mrs. Creedon was absent as well. Felske was sprawled on the main hall floor, bleeding. Her husband was being beaten nearby.

  The invaders had begun to spread out to see what they could steal.

  The Ninth Unknown flickered into being only for the instant it took to assess the situation. Then he flickered around the town house with a dagger only slightly wider than a knitting needle. He was fast. He hit from behind. The results were not pretty but cleanup would not be onerous. Nobody did much bleeding.

  The man in brown gave those who tried to leave first priority, picking off ringleaders and those tormenting Turking when there were no would-be escapees. Lastly, he worked on isolated looters.

  He was determined to make a statement not to be forgotten.

  He worked at murder quickly and efficiently, but with less success than he had hoped. So many transitions left him disoriented. Then some raiders did manage to get away.

  The Ninth Unknown kept at it the best he could, till he calmed down enough to recall that he had left Lila with Piper. If she translated into the town house …

  The last invader fled. Februaren turned to the fallen. He discovered that Felske was not dead, just badly mauled and unconscious, her honor uncompromised. Turking had suffered more physical damage.

  Februaren’s healing skills were slight but he did what he could. And worried about Muniero and Mrs. Creedon.

  Snicker. Maybe they eloped.

  Principaté Delari returned shortly before sunrise. He did not ask what had happened. The obvious declared itself. He went into a cold rage so fierce that it made the Ninth Unknown uncomfortable. “Take it easy, Muno.”

  “I’m under control. Angry enough to chew granite, but under control.” He glared around. “We need to get going with the cleanup and repairs. How are those two?”

  “They’ll live. And recover nicely if you get a healer in soon. Any idea what became of Mrs. Creedon?”

  “No. Sometimes she goes to help with her mother, who’s dying. I’ll get the healer in a minute. What about Lila?”

  “She didn’t come back here. I assume she went straight to Anna.”

  “Make sure. Did you inspect the quiet room?”

  “No. Been keeping these two breathing. And chasing off people who want souvenirs.”

  ***

  Bronte Doneto’s habit was to keep his private life private and well separated from his public life. He had neither wife nor children, but like most high churchmen, he had a mistress, the little-known Carmella Dometia. He kept Donna Carmella in a comfortable house close by his own city home. Carmella’s husband’s career kept him overseas, in Hypraxium of the Eastern Empire, where, till recently, he had overseen Benedocto commercial interests. Fortune smiled upon Gondolfo Dometia when the Interregnum ended and Serenity assumed office. Gondolfo became Patriarchal ambassador to the Golden Gate. Which he would remain as long as Bronte Doneto sat the Patriarchal throne.

  Serenity’s fortune did not shine as brightly upon his beloved.

  Donna Carmella seldom saw her lover. Not that she minded. She had a limited appetite for men. Doneto was not blind to that but loved her nonetheless. She was, perhaps, the only soul outside himself that he did love.

  Donna Carmella maintained a staff of four. Much of the time a small guest suite housed a woman who shared her peculiar tastes, though seldom the same woman for long. Carmella Dometia’s infatuations did not last. Her passions were blistering but brief.

  Donna Carmella wakened in the heart of a night when she had set extra wards because of unrest in the city. Her connection with the Patriarch might be unknown to the mob but it was no secret in Collegium circles, where Serenity’s enemies were found.

  The extra wards did no good. Death came calling.

  He wakened her himself.

  She was more startled than frightened. Her visitor was old and shabby and frail. He smelled like he had not bathed in weeks.

  “Who? … What?”

  “Your good friend made a lethal mistake, sad, beautiful lady. He tried to have murder done. Failure doesn’t absolve him. I shan’t be as cruel as his emissaries.”

  A lightning thrust drove a slim blade in under a generous breast.

  ***

  The old man drifted from room to room. He left no one alive. The message had to be as loud as the blare of a brass trumpet beside the ear.

  He left six human corpses, two dead dogs, two dead parrots, and a dead cat. Then he conjured forth rats and mice to make clear the full extent of his displeasure.

  He was in the kitchen, dealing with the last rat, when he sensed life sparks down below.

  Had someone hidden in the cellar?

  No. Some unanticipated victims of Bronte Doneto were imprisoned down there. People with special significance to the man who had taken the miter. People whose fate he wanted kept hidden from everyone but himself and his wicked woman.

  The assassin knew regret. Regret that he had slain the woman who had the answers before he discovered the need to ask her questions.

  ***

  The Ninth Unknown turned into being inside the main dining room of the Delari town house. “Muno! Come see what I found!” A full day’s labor had not cleared all the wreckage.

  Delari shuffled out of the kitchen, followed by Mrs. Creedon. The cook moved slower than did the Principaté. She was deathly pale. She was in deep emotional shock. The horror would not let her go.

  Delari said, “I was right. She went to help with her mother.” The elder woman was known to be engaged in a long, slow, painful process of dying.

  “But look what I found, Muno.”

  Delari moved closer, squinting at Februaren’s emaciated, filthy, feeble companion. “Armand? Is that you?”

  “It is, Muno. Get that healer back. I’ve got more to bring.” He turned sideway
s, leaving Delari to deal with the catamite.

  “Mrs. Creedon. If you would. Brother Lomas is with Turking and Felske. Bring him here, please.”

  He studied Armand. He saw no signs of torture but the boy had not been properly fed. He had suffered illnesses as a result. He was sick right now. Doneto must have caught him the day Hugo Mongoz died. Which explained why he had not been seen for so long.

  Cloven Februaren turned into being with another liberated guest of Donna Carmella. “I don’t know this one, Muno. I’m sure he’ll have interesting stories to tell. Unless he’s completely mad.”

  Mrs. Creedon arrived with Brother Lomas. The healing brother was appalled by the condition of the liberated men. “This is unconscionable. Who could have worked this horror?”

  Februaren said, “The same man who attacked this house. But you won’t say a word. Understand? Heal broken bodies, and hearts if you can, but forget politics. Muno, there’s one more. You’ll be amazed.”

  The man in brown left that room before he turned sideways. He reversed the process when he returned. “Last one. Not in as bad shape as the others.”

  “Pella?”

  ***

  Days passed before the deaths at the Dometia establishment were discovered. The comings and goings of carrion birds through glassless upper-story windows, and the buzzing of death flies, finally attracted attention.

  The news reached Serenity quickly.

  Distraught over damage done his own wonderful city residence, the Patriarch was in a fragile state. This news crushed him. He did nothing for three days. Then he swore an oath: He would take his revenge on an epic scale, though he was not sure who his target ought to be.

  The culprit would not have been shy about having his identity revealed. But Heris turned up before the ugliness at Donna Carmella’s home was discovered. The old man awaited that discovery as necessary before he took Serenity deeper into a hell on earth.

  Ostarega the Malicious was set to demonstrate a good deal more malice.

  ***

  It was evening. Februaren had spent a long day scouting. He would have Lila relay the information to Piper.

  He spent time daily tracking Pinkus Ghort and other players up north. Ghort had suffered savage partisan attacks leaving the Connec, then had fought his way through Viscesment, where the locals tried to hold the bridges. They learned that Pinkus Ghort knew how to get the best out of his few falcons. He left Viscesment burning, its streets littered with corpses.

  Ghort passed through Ormienden and Dromedan and the coastal hills, collecting Patriarchal garrisons, then ran into Imperial troops near Alicea. Skirmishing ensued. The Imperials backed off but only until they received reinforcements.

  The Grand Duke Hilandle, following plans laid down by Johannes Blackboots, had marched westward across northern Firaldia after leaving the Remayne Pass. He planned to approach Brothe along the West Way. He joined local Imperials harassing the Captain-General and forced him to turn and fight.

  The engagement was sporadic. Each side used its few falcons freely. The Imperials deployed some unexpected sorcery when Ferris Renfrow joined them.

  On the other side, supposedly plodding Pinkus Ghort demonstrated a flair for cavalry maneuver. His light horse neutralized the Imperial knights by nipping their flanks and threatening the Imperial train.

  The engagement remained mainly one of maneuver. Casualties were light. Each commander was amazed by the competence of the other. Preconceptions had to be overcome.

  Overall, Captain-General Pinkus Ghort won the honors. He extricated his force. He left the Grand Duke unwilling to launch a pell-mell pursuit.

  Such was the situation when the Ninth Unknown returned to the Delari town house in quest of a decent meal and a good night’s sleep and found Heris waiting.

  ***

  “Heris. Girl. You’re looking older.” He wanted to bite his tongue. To chew the gold right off it. You did not say that even to a woman much less a slave to vanity than the rest of her species. But it was true. Time differences between the middle world and the Realm of the Gods had left Heris visibly more mature.

  She needed fresh clothing, too.

  “Thank you, Double Great. You’re looking well yourself.”

  “I look like death warmed over. My life is hell on a broomstick. Never a moment’s respite. I expect you turning up is a sign that it’s all going to get worse.”

  “The Aelen Kofer brought the falcons. They’ve completed the other arrangements I wanted. We’re waiting on you and the Bastard.”

  The old man looked to Principaté Delari, who had stood by without comment. Delari shrugged.

  Februaren said, “I insist on a decent meal, a good night’s sleep, then another decent meal. Muno. How are our guests?”

  “Quiet room.”

  “Yeah. All right.” Heris had not heard the story. “After supper. I’m famished. Is Mrs. Creedon still capable?”

  “Perfectly. Her kitchen was damaged, not her. The real misery is having to do without Turking and Felske.”

  That part of the story, Februaren saw, was no mystery to the girl. And nothing there needed hiding from eavesdroppers.

  The visit in the quiet room was brief. Delari gave Heris the details of the raid. “They must have watched me for a long time. Sadly, I am a creature of habit. Mrs. Creedon isn’t. Her being out at the same time was sheer happenstance but lucky for her.”

  Heris said, “You mentioned guests. Which is why we’re in here, isn’t it?”

  The Ninth Unknown explained, “I rescued three prisoners from the Dometia woman’s cellar. I left two more who died not long enough ago to be skeletons. They hadn’t been robbed. They were Brotherhood of War. Muno thinks they were Witchfinders that Bronte Doneto considered dangerous witnesses. Maybe the last two men, besides Doneto, who knew what he was up to in the catacombs, back when. It’s an easy guess why he had the catamite, Armand, and Pella locked …”

  “Pella? Our Pella?”

  “The very one. He finally got out and had himself an adventure. He should be more pliable, now. If he has the sense God gave a toad. It’s pure luck he isn’t still down there.” Februaren mused, “I wonder … You think it might’ve been a better lesson if I’d left him there for somebody to find after the bodies are discovered? Might’ve made a huge political splash, too.”

  Heris said, “They’ll find the dead Witchfinders, won’t they?”

  Principaté Delari said, “I despair of the boy’s capacity to learn. He is recovering, though. The others aren’t doing as well. They might have been down there too long.”

  Heris demanded, “The Patriarch meant to get at Piper and Grandfather through Pella and Armand?”

  “Mostly your brother, I think,” Delari said. “Armand was another agent of Dreanger who came over before Piper did. They knew each other. Armand might have said something he shouldn’t and Doneto was saving him for the right time.”

  Februaren said, “Pella says he wasn’t tortured. He can’t speak for the others. He was only there a few days, while Serenity was busy looking for ways to save his own ass.”

  Heris sat quietly, digesting information. Minutes passed. Finally, “Are we going to let Serenity know that we don’t approve of his behavior?”

  Even Februaren was startled. “Dear girl! You don’t think Donna Carmella was enough?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I suppose. Was she really that important to him? Hell. Never mind. We’ll take a closer look once we’re done in the Realm of the Gods. I need time in a good bed and a good breakfast afterward, myself.”

  ***

  Bronte Doneto, on becoming Patriarch, had not moved his personal household into Krois. No Patriarch did. The Patriarchal apartment in that great fortress was part of the mystery of the position. As all Patriarchs did, Doneto left his home in the care of trusted relatives, protected by powerful sorceries.

  In the wee hours a cloaked figure materialized in the hallway outside the room Principaté Bronte Doneto had used as his persona
l work space and den, where he kept his most treasured possessions, including an extensive collection of rare wines and spirits. The office was guarded by an equally extensive collection of deadly spells. Anything living entering that room would die instantly. Fallen insects marked the kill line.

  The cloaked figure carried a small barrel. Contents and all, that weighed thirty-five pounds. A foot of smoldering slow match protruded from one end. The figure set it down on its side, used a foot to roll it through the deadly doorway. The barrel wobbled and shifted directions but came to rest against the leg of an ornate chair.

  The cloaked figure vanished.

  ***

  The faintest forerunner of dawn’s light had begun to taint the overcast. An explosion ripped a hole through the south wall of the third floor of the Doneto town house. Fragments of gray stone flew a hundred yards. In the stillness following the explosion the structure creaked and groaned. Then the rest of the north face yielded to the seduction of gravity.

  Fires burned inside.

  The neighborhood panicked. Volunteers poured out. Fire was the bane of all old cities.

  This fire failed in its struggle to live and grow.

  ***

  Heris and the Ninth Unknown twisted into existence quayside in the Realm of the Gods, she seconds after he, though he had left the Delari town house twenty minutes ahead. He said, “I think I know why you look haggard this morning, girl.”

  “I’m not used to a plush bed anymore.”

  “Oh. Somebody got into the Patriarchal magazine at Krois last night. A keg of firepowder went missing. One of only six that Krois possessed.”

  “Intriguing. Why would somebody do that?”

  “Got me. But later an explosion took the whole north wall off Bronte Doneto’s town house.”

  “Amazing. And it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving fellow. Here’s the welcome crew.”

  Korban Iron Eyes and Asgrimmur Grimmsson were headed their way.

  A dozen more dwarves were visible, all hard at work.

  Cloven Februaren said, “Iron Eyes. I thought we were going to get your people out of here before we opened the way.”