by Cook, Glen
Heris said, “You’ll come up with something. You’re so clever. Hell. Blame it on sorcery. Or divine intervention. It’d all be true.”
“And no one would believe me.”
“So much the better, eh? Lila! Time to go.”
“You go ahead. I’ll catch up. I want to look at the mountains.”
Heris shrugged. “Don’t be too long.” She turned sideways.
Lila waited half a minute to say, “Promise you’ll be careful.” She stepped close, hugged him, squeezed his right bicep and his left wrist as though disguising a check to make sure his amulet was still there. It was. And it still itched. “You’re the closest thing to a father I ever had.” Said like it was torture to get out.
Lila turned sideways, so close he felt the breeze when she vanished.
He took a deep breath, shivered some, decided to warm up by walking. He headed downhill. The road into the pass had to be close by.
He found the road. He perched on a boulder to wait. There was no traffic, which was not a good sign. Could it be because soldiers were coming?
* * *
Lila arrived in Brothe to find Heris and Cloven Februaren already heads together scheming to move her, Vali, and Muniero Delari into the hidden Chiaro Palace basement where the Construct lay hidden. Anna and Pella had been transitioned to the vicinity of the Castella already. They could cross a bridge and approach a gate, get inside, and prepare quarters where the girls could join them.
Mrs. Creedon, with Turking and Felske, had been sent to Principaté Delari’s apartment in the Chiaro Palace. There could be no safer place for them.
As Heris explained, the Ninth Unknown, laughing, turned sideways with the Eleventh, who entered the nothing squawking.
Vali joined Lila and Heris. All three rotated into the bright lights and bustle of the secret world of the Construct—though not where their arrival would be witnessed by the career priests and nuns perfecting what looked like a vast and intimately detailed relief map of the known world. Brothe was its pivot. It revealed ever less exact detail as the eye tracked toward its edge.
The environs of Brothe and central Firaldia were defined so minutely that an observer with a sharp eye and determined focus could discern minuscule dots moving along the roads and streets. A ghost of a haze drifted toward the sea west of the Firaldian peninsula.
A Patriarch and a Collegium centuries past had ordered the Construct developed as a means of seeing and understanding the expanding Chaldarean world. It had been, from its inception, an undertaking that beggared any cathedral project. It had been secret from the start and of such little popular interest that no one had bothered spying. In time it became lost even to Church insiders. The only recent Patriarch aware of the project—a definite anomaly—had been Hugo Mongoz, sitting the Patriarchal Throne as Boniface VII.
The project would continue. Cloven Februaren and Muniero Delari, the Ninth and Eleventh Unknowns, hoped to polish Heris into the Twelfth.
They wanted to keep the magic in the family.
Heris was not yet fully aware of their ambitions.
She growled and snapped and pulled her companions into a huddle away from the project staff. “There’s something wrong with Piper.”
The others awaited specifics. Nobody asked. She could not deliver her punch line. That irked her.
The whole damned family was that way.
Cloven Februaren yielded enough to observe, “He did develop some quirks after he died and we brought him back. But I thought he’d worked through those.”
“He learned how to hide them, you mean.”
A shrug. “Could be.”
“He even hid from himself. I think his transitions were rough because they reopened him to influences from the Night.”
“The answer is in the question.”
That confused Heris. “Excuse me?”
“Make him walk if transitions cause him distress.”
“It’s not that simple. I wish he’d made transitions before he died. We’d have something to compare.”
“Did he suffer much today?”
“Not this time. He might be getting used to it. Though I don’t actually believe that. There was something weird about him.”
Februaren asked, “What do you think, Lila?”
“I think he’s worried about us. And he has a hard time because his world keeps changing. Remember where he came from.”
“Is that it, Heris? Is he turning into a lost soul because everything he ever believed has turned to smoke?”
Heris hated to admit that that might be what she sensed. But she had her own moments on slippery footing and she never had believed in anything, truly. But that was not all of it. Not even the majority of it. “So let’s just keep an eye on him, look out for him, and get in the way if he starts heading in a bad direction.”
She would figure it out. Piper was her brother. Family. That was what family did.
Heris had not had a family before. Not one to which she belonged by blood and emotion.
* * *
Hecht was sound asleep on the ground when vedettes from the Righteous discovered him. It was two hours after noon. Those advance riders were some of the more superstitious of the Righteous. One stood nervous guard while the other galloped off to report.
Two hours passed before someone senior arrived. By then fifty soldiers had surrounded the snoring Commander.
Titus Consent and Clej Sedlakova arrived together, the chief of intelligence and master of the horse of the Righteous, respectively. Consent and the Commander had a friendship that went back to when Piper Hecht had been a hired sword working for the Bruglioni, one of the Five Families of Brothe. Even now Consent was just in his middle twenties, though gray flecked his dark hair already. He slid down off his bay, waited to see if Colonel Sedlakova needed assistance dismounting.
Clej Sedlakova, onetime associate of the Brotherhood of War—and still reporting back, probably—had only one arm. But he managed, even in a fight. He had no trouble dismounting. He had become accustomed to his situation.
Consent asked, “Who found him?”
The scouts responsible raised their hands.
“You didn’t try to waken him?”
“No, sir. Sir, if he wasn’t breathing we would of thought he was dead. He ain’t moved since we found him.”
Hecht lay curled on his right side, hands bunched in front of his mouth. “Sleeping like a baby,” Sedlakova observed. Sedlakova had a thin oval face and clover honey hair thinning all over. There was no fat on his lean frame. Excepting the absent arm he looked the perfect example of what he was: a career soldier. He was one of those men who remained clean and neat even in the roughest circumstances.
Titus Consent, on the other hand, remained permanently just over the line toward rumpled. He was lean, too. The Righteous were all lean. Even in garrison they lived an active, austere life.
All the fault of that man sleeping there in the cold.
Consent considered the gathered soldiers. Hecht had to be way out not to hear all their racket. He walked round his friend, saw no hint of anything remarkable—other than the man’s inexplicable presence.
Sedlakova said, “He isn’t dressed for this weather.”
“No. You’re right.” Hecht wore what he usually did in the field, nondescript clothing you could find on any workman. There were no layers. He had come from somewhere warm. “Good eye. I didn’t notice that.” Consent knelt, shook Hecht’s left shoulder.
It took more than a minute to get a response, and that was not the expected startle reaction. It was bleary-eyed confusion, then disbelief, then a baffled, “Where am I? How did I get here?”
“I was hoping you could tell us. We’re in the approaches to the Remayne Pass, just south of where they ambushed us before. How you got here is something you’ll have to explain.”
“I don’t know, Titus. I was in Brothe, at Principaté Delari’s townhouse. I had strange dreams about old-time gods. Not nightmares. Just dre
ams, like memories of things that never were. Then you shook me. And here I am, freezing.” He was sitting now, but looking like he would need help getting to his feet.
Titus Consent was not as skeptical as a good Chaldarean ought to be, nor even as skeptical as the Devedian he had been before his conversion. But he had spent a year in the Connec hunting and extinguishing revenant devils from antiquity. “We put them all down. Rook was the last one. You were there when we got him.”
“Different Old Ones, Titus. The northern ones.”
“Donner? Ordnan? Due? That crew?”
“I know the middle one. Remember that big explosion outside al-Khazen? That was him getting a taste of what we gave Rook, Hilt, Kint, and that lot later.”
“They have a bunch of different names, depending on where they were worshipped. Some even overlapped the bunch we cleaned up. The ancient Endonensins liked the northern war god. Their warriors hoped to be claimed by the Choosers of the Slain.”
“All right.”
“Due was the war god. He had more different names than anybody, including just plain War. Donner was Ordnan’s son. He was big and dumb and famous for a magic hammer that was so heavy nobody else could lift it. Thunder—which is what Donner meant—happened when Donner was playing with his hammer. Or, more likely, when he dropped it.”
“Red Hammer.”
“Uhm.”
The Righteous got their Commander upright and gave him a dead man’s coat. Everyone passing got as close as possible, to see if the rumors were true. Regimental field cooks brought food. The Commander ate heartily.
He seemed bemused. Or, better said, preoccupied.
Hecht’s staff eventually gathered round. They did not say much. Though good men and old friends, they were troubled. This latest mystery left them more uncomfortable than they had been since that assassin took the Commander down and dead—just before he got up and walked again.
His very title sheltered him from darker suspicions: Commander of the Righteous. Anointed captain of God’s Own Army, destined to cleanse the Holy Lands of an infidel infestation. The Commander of the Righteous would have no congress with devils, demons, or darkness. Would he?
Still, Hecht’s staff and captains worried.
* * *
The Righteous were short on mounts and drayage. The Commander ended up riding a mule. He refused to commandeer a mount. The mule’s name was Pig Iron. Hecht had known him and his human traveling companion, Just Plain Joe, from the beginning of his career in the west. Just Plain Joe liked animals better than people. Because of Joe that side of the Righteous functioned better than it did in most armed forces. Joe had had the same impact wherever Hecht commanded, all the way back. Just Plain Joe had no ambition greater than to ease life for his four-legged friends. By doing so he improved life for the two-leggers as well.
The officer corps of the Righteous stipulated Joe’s good work but disdained their Commander’s friendship toward, indulgence of, and adamant support for a dullard peasant.
It was simple. Just Plain Joe had set a sentimental hook. Hecht could explain, “There are only four of us left from the band that went to the Connec to punish Antieux for defying the Patriarch and Joe is the only one still with me. We have a bond.”
The other survivors were Pinkus Ghort and Bo Biogna. Ghort had become Captain-General of Patriarchal forces, a post little more than that of head policeman in Brothe, now. Biogna had gone missing. When last seen he had been an undercover agent for Ghort, or Bronte Doneto, or the Church. Or maybe all three. Biogna and Just Plain Joe were close. If Biogna was alive he would contact Joe eventually.
The Righteous moved on into the chill of the high Jagos. Their Commander spent most of his time brooding. He did not notice the cautious attitudes of his companions. He did recall that there were other survivors of that first murderous campaign against Antieux, but none who had been with him doing the grunt work. Bronte Doneto had been there. The deposed Patriarch still nurtured a fierce hatred for the Connec. Osa Stile had been there, as the plaything of the Brothen Episcopal bishop of Antieux, Serifs, and as a spy for the Empire.
Did any of that mean anything anymore? Other than emotionally?
Probably not.
Once the Righteous began the descent of the north slope of the Jagos, Hecht’s brooding shifted from the past to the future. There was no evidence that the new Empress would not want him to go on preparing for a crusade. And next spring was no longer far away.
Too, he had to prepare his people for the changes that would follow once the special assistance commenced.
The Old Ones, surely, would be smart enough to take on disguises. But how could they help giving themselves away?
Humility was not in their characters.
In which case they might not have to wait long to find out what Red Hammer had discovered already.
13. Tel Moussa: Two Devils Dancing
Black Rogert’s character did, indeed, prove to be a weapon that could be used against him, but not in the way Nassim Alizarin planned, and not nearly as soon as he hoped.
Every fault du Tancret had discovered and honed during his first tour as castellan of Gherig came back with him, exaggerated. He wallowed in his wicked reputation. His own people hated him. During a skirmish with Alizarin’s raiders a Navayan crusader named Matthias of Camargha tried to kill him from behind with a mace. At the critical instant their horses stumbled over a wounded infantryman. Both lost their seats.
Matthias surrendered to Alizarin rather than endure what awaited his return to Gherig. Du Tancret suffered a broken right shinbone.
Matthias was one hundred percent cooperative with his captors but would not change religion. Nassim drained him of what he knew about Gherig and Black Rogert, gave him a horse and passage money, and let him go.
Disaffection inside Gherig ran bitter and deep. The Brotherhood of War barely cooperated with the castellan. Servants who lived outside the fortress were no longer unwilling to talk to enemies of Rogert du Tancret.
* * *
Old Az returned from a five-day espionage mission. “General, the good news is that Black Rogert’s leg is mending poorly.”
“Good to know his luck sometimes runs shy of perfection. Unless he’s just ducking the risks of joining his patrols.”
“An excuse?” Du Tancret’s combat shyness had been bruited for years but Nassim did not credit it. The man had too much luck.
“Are the servants so angered that they’ll help us get inside?”
“That won’t happen. They’re more scared of Rogert than of God and the Adversary combined. They see the cost of inspiring his ire every day.”
“Uhm.” Nassim reflected briefly. Overall, today had been a good day in a good week. A new four-pounder had come through from Haeti, accompanied by twelve twenty-five-pound kegs of firepowder. That was not as good as the powder made by the Devedians in Rhûn but it would do. The best stuff could be hoarded against a day when reliability would be critical. “Good news, I suppose. Azer, could we trick someone into doing deadly work for us?”
“For example?”
“We know the servants who live outside are searched at Gherig’s gate, heading in either direction. But the incoming searches are perfunctory. Rogert is mainly worried about theft. It shouldn’t be hard to smuggle firepowder in, one ounce at a time, using people who don’t know what they’re doing. A charge could be built at a vulnerable point and sparked.”
The Mountain’s companions fell silent, stared. This was the man who had gone through moral convulsions after his attempt to assassinate Black Rogert, using firepowder. That time he had used a true volunteer.
Old soldier Bone asked, “Have you become that fixed on ending du Tancret’s black tale?”
It took Nassim a moment to comprehend the universal response. He felt mildly shamed. But only mildly. The people his plot put at risk would not be known to him.
“I see your point. No. I’m not obsessed. Yet. Still, let’s examine our chances of e
stablishing a cache of firepowder inside Gherig.”
Men shrugged. The notion inspired no real enthusiasm. Easier to breach the wall from outside.
“All right. Az, look into it. And keep trying to establish active agents inside. We need better intelligence. Rogert has a plan. Once he’s healthy … I don’t want to be surprised.”
* * *
Surprises came. A move by Rogert du Tancret was not one of them. His villainy was overshadowed by events.
Az reported, “A new company of Brotherhood fighters has moved into Gherig. The most dangerous sort, committed newcomers.”
“How many?” Nassim asked. “Will they make du Tancret too strong for us?”
“Thirty-four lances, the way they figure. Meaning about a hundred twenty fighting men, plus a few servants who could be armed if necessary. They’re all veterans of the Calziran Crusade or other campaigns. But they may not actually strengthen Black Rogert.”
“Uhm?”
“Word is, they’re here to keep him under control. The Brotherhood couldn’t keep him from returning to Gherig but they intend to control his bad behavior now that he’s back. His leg was the excuse they needed to send these men.”
“Interesting,” Alizarin mused. “His own kind want him leashed.”
“The captain of this new band is supposed to be humorless but capable. I couldn’t learn much about him except that he is here at the express will of the masters of the order, coming from the Castella Anjela dolla Picolena itself.”
“Uhm? Then some of his followers might be Special Office. Meaning he really is here to wrangle Black Rogert, not to deal with us pesky bandits.”
“If the Special Office is involved they must suspect du Tancret of trafficking with the Night.”
“There was a rumor about him having a pet sorcerer.” No one ever found any evidence to sustain it, though.
The world wanted to believe the worst of Rogert du Tancret.