by Glen Cook
"How much will staying here hurt me?"
The gnome named a figure that Else found reasonable.
The gnome explained, "Our charter from the Brotherhood of War obliges us to house and feed crusaders at at-cost rates."
"Oh. Of course I'll stay here." Else had nighted over in sailors' hostels before. He would do so again if he had to. But he was willing to forgo the pleasure.
The gnome retreated into the shadows. His employers did not seem inclined to invest much in lighting. He returned with a great man-brute trailing behind. "Goydar will show you where to bunk."
Else gave the boy his pay, then followed the huge man, who carried everything. The big fellow never said a word. He carried a little extra soft weight, like a eunuch. Might he be a fugitive from some eastern court with tongue and testicles removed?
Else had a room to himself, though it was only four feet wide and not tall enough for him to stand up. He stowed his gear under the narrow cot
Seldom in his life had he enjoyed this much personal luxury. As a boy and single man he had been crowded into a barracks or tent. As a married man he shared a one-room hovel with a woman and two children, both daughters. It was part of being Sha-lug. You were never alone.
Alone actually made him uncomfortable.
He was going to be alone a lot from now on.
He searched the room for spy holes, then decided to skip his religious obeisances anyway. Who knew what sorcery might be at work in this foreign place? Every shadow might conceal some wicked spirit of the night.
He began rehearsing his recollections of Chaldarean religious rituals. He was bound to get something wrong. He hoped the excuse of having spent years overseas, in the company of rough, impious men, would get him by when he moved farther west. He did think that westerners were more casual than Pramans.
His first trial came at dinner, which he took in a communal hall resembling a military mess but with food placed on the tables. It was not a meal taken on a set schedule. Sonsan workers came and went as they liked, as did guests. Quite a few men awaited transport eastward or west. At Else's table was a Direcian veteran, Enio Scolora, headed home after two decades spent fighting the Unbeliever. He wanted to share every incident with fellow warrior daSkees. Scolora would sail aboard Vivia Infanti, too. Else dreaded the moment when he would have to talk about some personality they should both know. However, it did not take long to discover that keeping his own mouth shut while grunting occasionally would keep Scolora chattering indefinitely.
The real danger proved to be the meal itself. The main course was a massive roast. The diners all agreed that it was a huge treat. Mutton and more mutton garnished with mutton was the customary fare. Which would have been perfectly acceptable to Else.
Enio Scolora carved himself a chunk big enough to choke a tiger. "Ha! Confusion to our enemies. What kind of menace can they be if they can't stuff themselves with a good roast piggie once in a while?"
Another old soldier said, "This is where we separate out the Joskers and the Deves, all right." He snickered. Which blew snot onto me table. He wiped that away, smearing it on his leg.
Else knew what he meant by Deves. Devedians belonged to an old minority religion that had arisen in the Holy Lands before the modern contenders. Devedian dietary law resembled that of al-Prama. The Devedian prophets had schismed away from the ancestral Dainshaukin creed three centuries before the Chaldarean Founders — all of whom had considered themselves devout Deves — first discovered their voice. Deves were less numerous than Chaldareans and al-Pramans but remained influential.
"Not to mention the Dainshaus who started everything,"
Else said. "Joskers? I must've been living in a hole like some anchorite. I don't know that one."
"That's what we called the Kaif's men. It sounds a little like the Peqaad for 'Freaks from Qasr.'"
Arnhanders tended to drop the al-Zed when they talked about the eastern Kaifate. Which they called by the name of its older core kingdom, Lucidia, most of the time.
Else took a piece of pork. There was no choice. And he had a dispensation from the Kaif of al-Minphet personally, set forth because it had been clear from the beginning that he would have to break religious laws if he was going to pass as one of the enemy.
"This isn't bad." Eyes turned his way. "After the gruel and crud you get served in Triamolin." The real Aelford daSkees had served that minor coastal city-state before being summoned home.
"Good old maggoty hardtack straight out of the barrel, with meat so foul a vulture wouldn't touch it," Scolora said. "It's the romantic soldier's life for me."
The exigencies of life in the field were universal. Else said, "You have to keep your livestock on the hoof until you need it"
"You guys never did that. I never saw such a piss-poor excuse for a bunch of soldiers as you guys when you came in before the Battle of the Well of Days."
Else pretended to look around for eavesdroppers. "You didn't hear this from me. Prince Aderble is an idiot. Literally. He doesn't care about anything but his own vices. The priests use him as a figurehead while they line their purses. Your real reaction should be amazement that we got there in time for the fight. He was retailing nothing that was not common knowledge. Triamolin's company had been devoured by Indala al-Sul Ha-laladin. The rest of the crusader force had not fared much better. Which led to the inevitable question.
"How did you survive the Well of Days?"
"I was clever enough to be laid up recovering from a poisoned arrow I took in a skirmish with bandits from Dreanger." He had a scar he could show if necessary.
"There is a God."
"You wouldn't think much of Him if you ever took one of those arrows. They stings a bit."
"Where you from?" Scolora asked. "Originally."
"LaTriobe. In Tramaine. I know. You never heard of it. I've been in the Holy Lands since I was fifteen. Why?"
"You've got a funny accent."
"I talk Peqaad or Melhaic most of the time."
The old soldier made a sudden warning gesture. The table fell silent. The rest of the hall had done so already.
Two members of the Brotherhood of War had entered the mess. One was a grizzled, scarred fellow in his fifties. The other was under thirty. Both were lean, hard men, very clean and well-groomed. They looked enough alike to be family, though the Brothers took vows of chastity when they took orders.
The older man said, "Continue your conversation." He took a seat at Else's table. The younger man did the same.
Both wore Brotherhood black with a red hourglass and crossed white swords embroidered over their hearts, on their overshirts. The same symbol was repeated on their backs, much larger.
"Are you traveling?" Else asked. No one else seemed inclined to speak, let alone make introductions.
Most crusaders did not like the Brothers. They were fanatics, much too humorless, grim, and in a hurry to get to Heaven. Good to have on your side when you were in deep shit and needed somebody to save your ass, though.
Trenchers arrived for the newcomers. The older man said, "We're bound for Dateon. Sometime tonight." His stare was piercing. It reminded Else of Gordimer at his most intense. "You were talking about your adventures in the Holy Lands."
"I didn't have many. My father sent my uncle and me to Triamolin because his uncle told him that young men could make their names and fortunes there. He didn't understand the reality."
The younger Brother grunted, swallowed a chunk of pork he had not yet chewed. "The Carpets are a waste of flesh as warriors or nobles."
The elder said, "Except for Ansel, who founded the Triamolin state."
"A pity the Patriarch back then didn't check the Carpet offspring out before he put a crown on the old man's head."
The elder Brother let that slide. He addressed Else. "So you finally had enough, eh? You could become part of something with real meaning, here. The Brotherhood of War always has room for men who want to do the Lord's work."
Else did not
observe that, to his recollection, the Chaldarean god was a pacifist. "That isn't it. I've been called home. I'm the last daSkees. The rest died when the Duke of Harmonachy invaded Tramaine. His Grolsacher mercenaries killed anybody who got in their way when they were running away from Themes."
"You said an uncle went east with you?"
"Reafer. Yes. Dysentery got him."
"It's a harsh world. Disease claims more good men than the efforts of any enemy."
That was true on the other side, too, where the medical and surgical arts were more advanced and ideas about prevention and containment of disease were more practical. Else grunted agreement. He continued to down bites of pork mechanically.
The younger brother observed, "You aren't afraid of us. The rest of these are."
"No. Should I be? Are you demons wearing the skins of men?"
"They all think we're sorcerers."
This was news to Else. He knew of the Brotherhood of War only as a band of ferocious warriors. "And? Have you turned on your own kind?"
Gentle gasps told him that a few of his companions did harbor some such suspicion.
"There are weeds in the gardens of the Lord. We face an age of renewed crusade. The steel must be tempered. We face formidable enemies in Indala al-Sul Halaladin and Gordimer the Lion. The battalions of the Lord will have no place in them for doubters or the faint of heart."
Some things were the same on both sides, Else reflected. "How about the worn out and exhausted who don't have anything left to give to kings and warlords who care more about their own glory and fortunes than they do about reclaiming the Wells of Ihrian?
"God and the Patriarch willing, that won't be a problem, next crusade."
"Enough," the old brother said. "He hasn't seen the Holy Lands yet," he told Else.
Apparently, the younger man had said something he should not have. Would extraordinary measures be taken to arm a new crusade with competent, motivated, true-believer commanders? That was not good. Arnhanders were formidable fighters. Only the pettiness and incompetence of their captains assured the failure of their efforts.
Else stared at the ceiling in the dark. The pork churned in his guts. Somewhere nearby someone used a woman with great vigor, with her enthusiastic participation. He paid little attention.
He had collected important intelligence already. The next crusade might be better organized and led. And the new Brothen Patriarch expected to pick and choose his commanders.
Else's thoughts drifted to the company he had taken to Andesqueluz. They should be home, now. He hoped they had been well rewarded.
He drifted on to the puzzle of the slain bogon.
Who conjured it? No friend, certainly. Someone who did not want the mummies to reach er-Rashal? That made sense. Assuming those brittle old sticks could be put to major sorcerous use.
In theory, the mysterious enemy could be any sorcerer aware of what er-Rashal was planning. Which, certainly, was nothing urgent. Or he would not be cruising the Mother Sea just to check on one spy's progress.
That deserved reflection, too.
There was a soft tap at his door. He did not respond. That would be another house whore offering her services. Or maybe a boy, since he had refused two women already.
Nahlik sat drinking wine across from Else. Else confined himself to coffee. It would take him a while to wean himself from dietary law.
Nahlik had succeed a long time ago.
Two more men shared their table in a sailors' dive known as the Rusted Lantern. Mallin had come in with Nahlik. The other man was a stranger. He had been there when Else arrived, unconscious in a pool of his own vomit. Customers took what seats they could, though that settled them in the company of strangers.
Mallin said, "We'd better talk before they throw this one out so they can fill the seat with a paying customer."
Else grunted. "Nahlik, you were on the mark when you said don't take anything embarrassing ashore. Somebody went through my stuff last night. While I was at supper."
"Probably just looking for something to steal," Mallin said. "But you'd a' heard about it if you had anything that didn't fit."
Nahlik said, "You were followed here. By that scrawny, stringy-haired character bellying up over there. He's too busy getting himself on the outside of a few quarts of wine to keep a close watch on you."
Else quickly related what he had heard last night and what that might mean in terms of the character of the new Patriarch.
Mallin opined, "He's just coming in overconfident. They all are at first. Then they find out how powerless they really are."
"This one has a different feel, even from here."
Nahlik said, "We don't know you anymore."
A big, sturdily built brute was talking to the stringy-haired character. Neither looked at Else but he knew they were talking about him.
Turning so it looked like he was talking to Mallin, Nahlik asked, "You know what ship you're taking?"
"Vivia Infanti."
"We'll get your stuff aboard. Mallin, take hold of the drunk. We'll walk him out like he's our friend."
They barely got the drunk off his stool before a boy materialized, armed with a filthy rag and a bowl of dirty water. He made a dispirited effort to clean up the vomit.
"Do a good job I'll give you a copper for your own," Else whispered.
The boy discovered reserves of enthusiasm. Else slipped him a coin. "I need more coffee. No! I don't want your sister, your mother, or you. I just want more coffee."
A newcomer started to settle opposite Else. The big man who had been talking to the skinny one pushed him aside. "Go away," he said. He took the stool himself.
Else studied his coffee and waited for another cup to arrive. He felt the big man staring at him.
He appeared to be alone. His behavior had attracted no attention despite its rude and provocative nature.
Else said, "That was inexcusably rude."
It was clear the big man meant to become violent. Else trumped him.
The man started to speak but gasped in surprise instead.
"Don't pick a fight with a man who has one hand under the table. If you take a breath I don't like I'll ruin your knee. If you move at all I'll ruin your kneecap. Nod if you understand."
The man nodded. He showed no fear, just pain and confusion. He was not accustomed to being on the downhill end of the pain/terror equation.
Else's fresh coffee arrived. He paid using one hand. Then he told his new friend, "You were going to explain what you're doing. And why. You were going to do that because you don't want to live the rest of your life with only one good leg."
The big man was careful not to move.
"Speak to me," Else said. He pushed the long dagger's razor-sharp tip a quarter inch deeper into the space beneath the man's right kneecap. Nothing. "There'll be no help. Your longhaired friend left." Still nothing. "If you have the brains God gave a toad …" The Sha-lug had a saying, You can't fix stupid, said of crusader captains who fell for a trick more than once. This looked like it might be a major case of stupid. "You're bothering me for a reason. I want to know what it is." He probed a little deeper with the dagger.
Else saw the moment when the shock cleared enough for realization to strike home. The moment when understanding arrived.
The big man ground his teeth. "There is nothing I can tell you." He spoke mechanically. "I was told to find Carpio. He would point you out. I would kill you in a brawl that Carpio would swear you started."
"But Carpio took off right after he talked to vou. Where do you suppose he went? Who told you to kill the man he marked?"
"Starkden. The order came from Starkden."
"Is that a man's name?"
"Starkden is a woman. They say."
Volunteered information. A good sign. A watershed in this relationship. "Be that as it may, Starkden sent you. Why?"
"Because she wanted you dead, I guess."
"Why?"
Shrug.
“Tell
me about this woman. Including where I can find her."
The big man knew nothing. He'd never met Starkden. He'd heard that she was an older woman, in her forties or even her fifties. If you did what she said she paid well. She supposedly had no political or religious axes to grind. Not that he cared about that stuff himself.
Else questioned the man for another ten minutes and learned nothing more. "All right, Ben." The big fellow's name was Benatar Piola. "I want you to sit right there till your knee stops hurting. If you put any strain on it right away it'll fold up, you'll wreck the joint, and they'll probably have to cut off your leg." You could not fix stupid but you could use it.
Else called for wine for Ben, paid and left.
Once back at the factor house he told his story to anyone who would listen. He thought a legitimate traveler would do that. And he hoped somebody would have an idea about what really had happened. He got nothing for his trouble but insincere sympathy. He should have had sense enough not to frequent waterfront dives. Nobody seemed willing to guess who Starkden might be.
The morning he was supposed to board Vivia Infanti for Sonsa he received a summons through a house messenger. He followed nervously. Something must have gone wrong. Then he was sure it had when he found himself in a room with four older members of the Brotherhood of War.
"You're Sir Aelford daSkees, homeward bound after service in the Holy Lands?" one asked.
"I am."
"I'm Parthen Lorica. From the Special Office. We're interested in your encounter in the sailors' tavern."
"Why?'
"Excuse me?"
"I complained myself gray around here and the only thing anybody cared about was whether I owed anybody any money. Somebody's out to kill daSkees? Better not let him have anything on credit."
"Sound business practice."
Else grimaced but kept his mouth shut.
"Someone passed the story on to us. And here we are. Interested."
Else responded with a grudging, "All right."
“Tell us what happened. Try not to leave anything out. Any little detail might help. This might give us a chance to do something we've wanted for a long time."