by Glen Cook
Hecht said, "He didn't want them to find him in here."
Ghort asked, "You dug out anything that you haven't told me yet?"
"They pray a lot. That one told the redhead serving girl that he's a priest. From Ormienden. He didn't say from where." Sublime's backers in parts of Ormienden were savage fanatics. Immaculate's were less determined but more numerous.
"Your basic godshouter is a shifty weasel, whatever his spiritual poison. But that guy and his pals look a little more so than usual."
Hecht thought so himself. But he had found no way to learn more about them.
"Here comes another one." Another supposed priest. "There's one more, right?"
The newcomer seemed nervous. The deserters paid no attention.
Ghort related what he imagined was happening. "My boys want their money. They're anxious to get on down the road. The paymaster is saying, relax. Don't attract attention. Anyway, it wouldn't be smart to get back out there on the road. There's some bad Night things prowling around north of here."
Which was true. A blood-drained corpse had been found only miles away just that morning.
"My boys don't care. They've worked themselves into a lather, worrying about how awful their lives will get if Iron Bottom Ghort ever gets hold of them."
"I'd be nervous myself."
"You'd have reason… Uh-oh."
"What?"
'The prayer brothers just sold them some snake oil. The money is hidden outside. The stable, probably. Some kind of crap like that. They're going to let the priests take them outside." The deserters and their interlocutors rose.
"Can they be that stupid?"
"They signed on to set you up."
"There is that." That seemed more like overweening optimism, though. "Let's don't let them get too far ahead."
Ghort muttered, "Shit. Timing. Here's your Imperial pal."
Ferris Renfrow drifted into his habitual shadow. What had passed between him and Lyse Tanner? Why was he still hanging around? Did he have regular connections at the Knight of Wands?
"They are going out back. The stable or the outhouses."
"Or the woods behind, if they're up to any real wickedness." He thought Renfrow showed a flicker of interest in the four men. Then glanced from them to him.
Of course. Renfrow would want to penetrate his business if he could.
"No help for it," Ghort muttered. "Let's go. I wish it was busier tonight."
The deserters were not complete fools. Both made sure of hidden weapons when their paymasters were not looking. Hecht saw Renfrow become more alert.
"You're right. Nothing for it."
The path to the outhouses led through the kitchen area, dark, smoky, and filthy enough to silence hunger for days. A greasy, heavily furred fat man was loafing, dispiritedly chatting up a bored serving girl who had no interest in a game of slap and tickle. She was not more than three years older than Vali. The cook demanded, "What's this damned parade to the jakes? Ain't nobody drunk enough to need a piss between them. You." He pointed a sausage finger at Hecht. "You ain't had a drink since you been here. That's unnatural."
Ghort countered, "It ain't the beer, brother. It's the rotten food all in a gassy hurry to get out the shit chute."
The cook considered taking umbrage. It was not worth the energy. He would save himself for the serving girl.
Hecht said, "She's probably his daughter."
"Even so, can't say as I blame him for trying. She's got an interesting look."
Pella materialized outside the back door. He whispered, They headed for the stables, Your Honors. With two other men. Ones that was staying here already."
"Where's Vali?"
"Watching them."
"Show us where they are. Then you and Vali get back inside. Go to bed. You'll need the rest. We'll be on the road again tomorrow."
"This what you been waiting for?"
"Yes. Get moving."
Pella led off like he could see in the dark. Hecht and Ghort eased along behind, Hecht wondering what had become of the third priest.
The stables were quiet. The stable boys were asleep and he animals snoozing. Even the rats seemed to have taken the night off. An utter lack of response from his amulet told Hecht that no supernatural threat was afoot. Meaning none had an interest in what was happening here.
Their quarry proved not to have gone to the stable itself but into the attached feed shed. A lantern burned there. Light leaked through unsealed walls. Ghort used touch and gesture to tell Pella to collect Vali and head back inside. To Hecht, he breathed, "Keep alert. There's another one around somewhere."
Hecht nodded. He eased up to peek through an uncaulked crack between horizontal logs.
The missing man was inside. He helped his friends move sacks of oats. The would-be assassins were more wary than the men paying off.
Interesting, Hecht thought. The holy men seemed inclined to play it straight. The deserters must have convinced them that everything had gone well.
Ghort breathed, "I don't buy it. Those two aren't even the ones that were sent down there."
Hecht squeezed Ghort's arm. They could talk later.
The three counted out silver to the two. There was a brief argument about whether or not the wages of dead conspirators ought to be paid. The deserters argued that the dead men had left families behind.
The paymasters offered half the agreed sum. Or nothing.
The deserters took what they could get. Hecht got the sense that their concern about the families of relatives now fatherless and husbandless was genuine. The plot may have been an extended family enterprise.
There was little talk, though the deserters did offer an account of the attack that failed to match what Hecht recalled.
Why were the paymasters so amenable?
Well, the deserters were no real threat since they could not know anything about these three.
The deserters pocketed their money and took off for the stable. They roused the stable boys and ordered their mounts readied. One boy protested. "Them nags is plumb worn out. Yer killin' them. And yer don't want ter go ridin' round in the night, nohow. On account a they's banes on the road up north. An' thank 'e, Yer Honors!" The boy stopped having opinions. Hecht guessed that he had received a nice tip.
Hecht peeked through the feed-shed wall. All three priests were seated on sacks. After a joint prayer, one produced a kuf pipe. As he packed it, he asked, "Coyne is ready?"
"I sent word. He'll handle it."
Hecht became aware of Pella's continued presence. Irked, he said nothing. He did not want the boy to argue and give them away. He pulled Ghort closer, breathed, "What do you think?"
"We need to move now. Never gonna get a better chance. They're cornered."
But there were three of them, complete unknowns.
Ghort went first. He wanted to see their shock. When Hecht followed the three had just begun to rise in a loud of kuf smoke, confused. Ghort said, "Just a social visit, guys. We smelled the pipe. Hoped you'd share."
Pella slid in behind Hecht, armed with a piece of kindling he considered a worthy truncheon.
Ghort continued. "My name is Pinkus Ghort. My friend is Piper Hecht. The short guy is a famous literary character. You know who we are, now. We'll talk while we're passing the pipe."
The trio did recognize at least one of the names.
Pella looked at them, back and forth. He did not know those names but was pleased to hear what might be real ones.
Ghort warned, "Don't be that way. You aren't killers. We're professionals. You pull a knife, you get hurt."
One man did not listen.
Ghort moved so fast he startled Hecht as much as the man he disarmed. "So, what we're going to do here is, we're going to share a pipe and talk about assassinations."
Ghort collected the fallen knife. "Pipe? Want to throw anything in here?"
"You're doing fine. But let's not dawdle."
Ghort flipped the knife. It stuck in the throat o
f the man farthest from him. "You," he told the next farthest. "Take care of him. He'll live if you pay attention. Unless you all want to be stubborn. Then none of you will. And you'll ruin a lot of good oats before you stink enough for them to dig you out."
"Sit," Hecht told the man Ghort had disarmed. "Talk to us. Who are you?"
After a brief consultation with his courage, the man said, "We're priests. Lay brothers, actually."
"Priests don't murder people."
"They do it all the time, Pipe. They just dress it up in mumbo jumbo. Do go on. This could get fascinating. Our own Church is trying to stab us in the back."
"Not the Church. Not your Church. Not the Usurper."
"She-it! Viscesment! Immaculate?"
Hecht found that hard to swallow. It was a given that the Anti-Patriarch was weak and ineffectual, little more than a joke. The consensus was that Immaculate II would drink himself to death and the dual Patriarchy would fade into history with him. Immaculate's line, though it had sound legal footing, would end.
"That will take some explaining," Hecht said.
"Are you really the Captain-General?"
"Yes. Why?"
"The Advisory concluded that you are the most dangerous weapon the Usurper has in his arsenal. If you're removed Sublime will never pull together forces able to impose his will outside his own territories. Especially once the Emperor dies."
The Empire was expected to weaken and become chaotic when Lothar died. His sister Katrin would succeed. And she would have to deal with scores of Electors and lesser nobility who would chafe under the rule of a woman.
"Explains the incompetence of the whole thing," Ghort muttered. "The Anti-Patriarch. Who'd of thought he even had a hair, let alone a complete set of balls?"
"Supposing anyone is telling the truth," Hecht observed. "I can think of several men who have the nerve, supposing there's any real point to killing me." There must be. Attempts had been made regularly.
He watched the other two pray over the wounded man. He pushed Pella back out into the darkness. "Take care of Vali. You don't want these men to know you're with us, anyway. They're not nice people."
The fight had gone out of the three, though. Ghort asked, "What now, Pipe? I didn't expect no priests from Viscesment."
"Nor did I." Where to? Race the news from the Connec to Brothe with no hope of beating it?
"We didn't give this enough thought before we hared off on an adventure."
A young man's game," Ghort philosophized. "A game for men who don't got nothing to lose."
"Yes. Gentlemen. Priests. This is an important question. The fools you just paid. What did you send them into?"
"They're going to run into robbers. If they don't fight, all that will happen is, they'll lose the money."
"It isn't supposed to turn lethal?"
The priest acted offended. "We don't murder people… All right. Yes. There's no need to harm them. They'll disappear into Grolsach's population. They don't know anything, really. But we can't afford to let them keep the money. It'd ruin Immaculate's treasury."
Meaning the conspirators were never meant to be paid. "Why?"
"Because we have almost no income anymore. The Usurper's…"
"I mean, why kill me?"
"I told you. You're the only…"
"Not true." There was no sense whatsoever in that claim. He was not that important. He was not irreplaceable. Ghort could do what he did.
Ghort said, "He believes it, Pipe. Somebody sold him."
Hecht growled. "Stupid."
"Can't fix stupid. Hey, Pipe! You know you've made it big when people you don't even know think they got to kill you."
"Jealous?"
"Not quite. Brother, I don't need nobody wanting to cut my throat. Unless maybe a jealous husband. Sometime next century."
"You say that only because your faith is weak," one of the priests said.
"Weak ain't the word, godshouter. I been around damn near forty years. I ain't yet run into an Instrumentality what's out to improve my life."
Hecht interrupted. "No religious debates. It's the middle of the night. I'm tired. I'm crabby. This is what's going to happen. You're going back to Viscesment. With a message. Anyone tries this again, I take it personal. The men I'll send won't be incompetents like Sublime's. There won't be any warning ahead of time from the Empire's spies." Osa Stile's espionage had thwarted an attempt on Immaculate II by Sublime's agents.
Ghort eased past the wounded man. He moved a few sacks of oats, came up with a leather money bag that was almost empty. "This is sad. It looks like they did give it all to Aubero and Ogier."
Hecht said, "We'll take their horses, then. You don't mind walking in order to stay alive."
One priest responded with a sullen nod.
Ghort offered battlefield medical advice for the care of the injured man. "Keep the wound clean. He'll be fine if it don't get infected. Find a healing witch. Have her make a poultice."
"Let's call it a night, Pinkus."
"What? You don't want to find out who handed these guys the job in the first place? You guys didn't make this up yourselves, did you? Neither did your hero, Immaculate. You set up for something like this, you do a lot of spying and recruiting and training and rehearsing. You guys are just paymasters. Maybe with different sets of instructions, depending on what happened in Brothe. Right?"
Both uninjured men grew more frightened.
"You see?" Ghort said. "You need to ask the right questions. Who sent you guys?"
A short course of vigorous, nonphysical interrogation produced a name. Rudenes Schneidel.
Rudenes Schneidel had managed everything. Planning. Personnel. Scouting the target. Paying bribes. Recruiting the paymasters, who were otherwise unemployed lay brothers. Offered easy money, in hard times, they had no problem signing on.
Ghort asked, "Rudenes Schneidel? That somebody from back home with a big-ass grudge, Pipe? You ruin his sister?"
"Never heard of him before."
"Sounds like it comes from those parts, though."
It does. I admit it. Any of you deal with Schneidel directly?"
The spokesman shook his head. Feeling bad for talking too much. "He used an interlocutor."
"Can you describe him?"
Of course not. Not well. The spokesman volunteered, "I asked the go-between about Schneidel. He said he only saw him once. If it was really him. He had a foreign accent so thick you could hardly understand him." The physical description suited every typical short fat thin tall dark brown white man you could run into on any Firaldian street.
"I've been here before," Hecht said, recalling trying to get a useful description of the witch Starkden, who had been behind a scheme meant to facilitate the premature demise of Else Tage of the Sha-lug, then pretending to be the Episcopal Chaldarean crusader Sir Aelford daSkees. "He wouldn't be a sorcerer in addition to his other transgressions, would he?"
Ghort leaned in. "We got a name. I can give it to Bo. Right now we need to get back into executive mode."
Hecht nodded. "Enough, then. Good night, gentlemen. Brothers. We'll include you in our prayers."
Pella wakened Hecht an hour before first light.
"Sir, them priests are stealing their horses and running away."
"How do you know?"
"Vali saw them. She woke me up."
"I see." Before he finished getting his trousers on he heard horses crossing the rude pavements out front. "They have the moon, don't they?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'm a sir, now?"
"Yes, sir."
Hecht was amused but had no time to explore the workings of Pella's mind.
He might as well have taken time. The men from Viscesment got away easily.
There seemed little reason to hurry. Without horses the journey to Brothe could not be hastened much.
Ghort said, "Let's just be folks headed south looking for work. So stop looking prosperous."
Ferris Renfrow materi
alized. Hecht wondered how close the man had followed events last night. He seemed satisfied to watch them go. Pinkus Ghort's paranoid side wakened. "He might plan to have us snatched out in the country somewhere."
"Would there be a point?"
"Hell, yeah. He'd ruin Sublime's hopes for decades. Where would that fool find two more men like us?"
"A telling point. But I doubt he rates us as highly as we rate ourselves. But to reassure you, I'll just go ask."
"What? Are you out of your bean?"
Hecht approached the Imperial. "The name Rudenes Schneidel mean anything? Especially in connection with Viscesment?"
Renfrow raised an eyebrow. "It's turned up inside a few unpleasant rumors. Evidently a sorcerer. Of some attainment. But a complete blank otherwise. Why?"
"There was an assassination attempt in Brothe. You'll be hearing about it. Schneidel was behind the play. If that's something you can use."
"Probably not. The folks at Viscesment have grown increasingly independent. Tell your friend I'm going to let him get away. This time."
Hecht laughed. "Is his act that obvious?"
"It is."
"I'll pass the word. One more name I want to toss up. Dumaine."
"Dumaine?"
"That's all I've got. I heard it in Sonsa. Overheard it. Someone who's part of a plot involving the Durandanti family."
The only Dumaines I know are minor Arnhander nobility. The current Viscount Dumaine is an enemy of Anne of Menand. With the enmity mostly on her side. Dumaine is a minor marcher, unimportant in Arnhander affairs, except as a scapegoat when Anne's plans go bad. Although he spends all his time at home, fending off his cousins who are enfiefed to the King of Santerin. He evidently had the bad judgment to turn down an offer Anne made. Doing so publicly."
Anne of Menand was the mistress of King Charlve of Arnhand, who was mentally incompetent. She wanted her son Regard to succeed. Charlve had no legitimate children. Her physical appetites were legendary. As was her malevolence toward those who crossed her.
"That wouldn't fit. I don't think. I must've heard wrong."
"Ah. This doesn't look good."
A rider was coming down the West Way astride a mount so blown it could barely keep moving. The beast would be ruined forever. Yet the rider's was not the will driving it. He was unconscious. He had tied himself into the saddle.