The Tyranny of the Night: Book One of the Instrumentalities of the Night

by Glen Cook

  The midday call to prayer came before Else entered. He abased himself, going through the motions. In al-Qarn everyone did. Even visiting infidels. There were spies everywhere. Transgressions were punished swiftly and brutally.

  Gordimer the Lion had no respect for his Kaif, the captain of the religious ship, and held the man hostage, but he was a fanatic devotee of the Written. Despite the circumstances of his birth.

  The record of his purchase survived. The slavers claimed Gordimer was a Cledian from the Promptean coast. But his name, his coloring, and his build suggested Arnhander ancestors. The Lion himself claimed descent from the Holy Family. Which Else thought must be a loyalty test. If you could swallow that obvious untruth, and never dispute it, you could survive in Gordimer’s world.

  But you never knew who might report to him. It might be someone with a grudge.

  Everyone in direct contact with Gordimer spied for him, one way or another. He expected answers when he asked questions. He was feared universally. And respected by many because the culture honored strongmen. Only a strongman kept the dogs of war and civil unrest at heel.

  Dreanger was rich. For millennia it exported grains and cotton and imported gold, silver, and luxuries. Its neighbors were less wealthy but the peace provided by the Kaif’s suzerainty was treasure enough for most. War profited only the few.

  Else rose from stone worn by the tread of a hundred million sandals. He strode into the cool shade behind the structure’s immense, square outer pillars. In passing, he noted that artisans were still removing or rewriting inscriptions that had come down from those fabulous ages predating Gordimer’s ascension to power.

  Posterity would know the tiniest details of Gordimer’s life—those he did not keep secret—until the next ego-driven strongman decided to rewrite history. In which case Gordimer the Lion would be remembered only in the annals of his enemies.

  “Captain Tage?”

  Else paused. His eyes had not completed the transition from intense noon sunlight to interior gloom. “Yes.”

  “Will you follow me?”

  The speaker wore simple clothing of a style recollecting that of the pagan priests of antiquity, a white cotton jacket with skirts that hung to the knee. This was the uniform of Gordimer’s court wizards and augurs. This youngster would be a novice, not yet officially apprenticed. He would be a pure-blooded indigene, descended from the priestly caste of pagan times. Some of whom, if rumors could be credited, still followed the old ways in secret.

  Though Else was supposed to report to Gordimer the moment he arrived, he could not refuse this summons. Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen, called Rashal the Rascal by some, was as dangerous as Gordimer the Lion. Possibly more so. Er-Rashal’s connections with the Instrumentalities of the Night made him powerful in his own right.

  Er-Rashal was the nearest thing to an actual friend that Gordimer had in this world.

  THE COURT SORCERER MET ELSE IN A ROOM NOT FAR FROM GORDIMER’S private audience. If Else were asked to pick the wizard out of a hundred strangers he would have chosen er-Rashal because the man fit the description of the wicked sorcerer in every old story and fairy tale told in this end of the world. He was a tall, dark man with heavy lips, a hooked nose, and a shaven skull. His eyes were dark and cold. His body was big and powerful. He looked two decades younger than his fifty years.

  Er-Rashal chose to look like that specifically because everyone, noble and common, was raised on those stories. He wanted to be feared.

  “Lord Rashal,” Else said. “The Lion insisted that I see him as soon as I get here.”

  “He’s aware of your arrival.” The wizard’s voice boomed. “You know him. It will be an hour before he gets around to you. I’ve told the guards you’ll be here with me if they don’t find you outside the audience door.”

  Else did not like this. It reeked of intrigue. This was the side of al-Qarn that he did not love.

  He became nervous whenever he came in from the field. Al-Qarn was a political jungle. He was not cut out for its intrigues. He was a soldier. He did not care who did what to whom in the capital. He had to take care of the men who followed him.

  All of which made him a popular field commander. Officers beloved of their troops do not flourish in a dictatorship. Gordimer himself was once a popular commander who came to power by eliminating an elderly, no-longer-effective predecessor.

  Else nodded his understanding, waited for the wizard to get to the point.

  Er-Rashal said, “You did well with the mummies. I didn’t think you’d manage it. Gordimer had more faith. I owe him twenty silver drachmas. Which you shouldn’t take to mean that I didn’t pray that you’d be successful.”

  Else nodded again. “Good thing you weren’t determined not to lose your money. One miracle survival a mission is all I can manage.”

  “That’s what I want to ask you about. What I’ve heard so far baffles me.”

  Else shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell, really. We were threatened by something that Az called a bogon. I did the only thing I could think of. Everything came out right.”

  “Nevertheless . . . Your Master of Ghosts might have failed to notice something.”

  Else told the story in detail. He was able to recall a lot because he knew he would be questioned repeatedly. Gordimer, in particular, would be interested in inimical supernatural manifestations around Sha-lug in the field. Especially north of al-Qarn.

  Er-Rashal asked, “Why did you load your falcon with coins?”

  “I can’t figure that out. I guess because I heard somewhere that night things don’t like silver. I do remember thinking that it wouldn’t really work.”

  “Yet you never showed a doubt to your men.”

  So er-Rashal had talked to Hagid. “A good leader doesn’t betray his doubts and doesn’t become confused or flustered. He has to do something, even if it’s wrong. When I had the falcon loaded with coins and gravel I was sure it was pointless. But it kept the men calm and occupied. That was the whole point, at the time.”

  “You were lucky. Silver is a potent poison to some night things, but only a few. Plain iron bothers more. You might consider taking along a sack of iron pellets if you’re on a mission where you think you might have that kind of trouble.”

  “Now I’m wondering if there wasn’t iron gravel in the stuff we put in the cannon.”

  “How did the falcon itself perform?”

  “Better than I expected. You finally found the right alloy, or the right cooling process, or something. We couldn’t find one flaw in the weapon afterward, although we overcharged it.”

  The sorcerer indulged in a little preening. He had produced a portable cannon that worked under combat conditions. No one had done that before.

  “That’s good news. I’ll make more, now. I wish there was a practical way to cast an iron tube.”

  Else observed, “Logically, iron would be better than brass.”

  “Absolutely. And iron is almost immune to the tyranny of the night. We’re hunting ways to get around the difficulties. It’s all trial and error, though.”

  “The firepowder needs improvement. It draws moisture. The damper it gets the less power it has and the more noxious smoke it makes.” Else exulted secretly. He had diverted the thoughts of the smartest, most dangerous man in the Kaifate. “If it ignites at all.”

  If you got er-Rashal onto one of his obsessions and grunted in the right places you were home free.

  Else talked about firepowder weapons until the summons from Gordimer came.

  ELSE WAS NOT AFRAID OF GORDIMER THE MAN. GORDIMER, THE GRAND marshal of the Sha-lug, was another matter. Gordimer knew that. And was not pleased. Gordimer preferred to be feared by everyone. Personally.

  Else did not fear the man because he was pushing fifty. Else himself was a hardened warrior in the prime of life.

  When Else entered the presence with er-Rashal he accorded the warlord every ounce of respect he was due. He would continue to do so, regardless. While the ma
rshal deserved that respect.

  Gordimer the Lion was a tall, strong warrior risen so high he no longer worked to maintain the marvelous attributes that had helped him become famous when he was young. Else noted hints of fat and a sleepy droop of eye that suggested excessive personal indulgence. Further, he noted the flash of a female shape in gauze two steps slow in departing as he and the wizard arrived. Almost certainly on purpose, as a reminder of Gordimer’s power.

  “Cut the crap,” Gordimer told Else while Else was amidst an elaborate ceremonial greeting. “You put him up to this, Rashal? Captain Tage, there’s nobody watching and I’m not the Kaif. Let’s just talk, soldier to soldier.”

  Gordimer still had the vast mane of blond hair that had given him his nickname. His nature was suitably ferocious both toward his own enemies and those of God.

  Else told his tale simply. “Things just went too smoothly for too long. Something like the bogon was bound to happen.”

  “Rashal. You invited yourself here. Explain that to me.”

  “A bogon is a shadow entity of great power, almost never seen anymore. It would equate with a count or baron or even a kaif in the mundane world. But harder to kill.” Er-Rashal betrayed a tiny sneer. The Kaif of al-Minphet, through his proxy, Gordimer, had been trying to eliminate his irksomely deviationist rivals in Qasr al-Zed and al-Halambra for years. The main result was a missive from Indala al-Sul Halaladin indicating that he would not be pleased if anything happened to his Kaif.

  Gordimer accepted the message at face value. The marshal respected Indala al-Sul Halaladin because of his signal successes in the Holy Lands.

  Never having met, the men had been allies in wars against the outlanders. Wars that achieved little because whenever the northern Kaifate became involved in the Holy Lands it developed immediate border problems elsewhere. Inevitably, Rhûn would invade Lucidia’s northernmost provinces in an effort to recover lost territory. In the east, the Ghargarlicean Empire would start probing the borders there. The Ghargarliceans were very aggressive under their current emperor. Though now they had their own distractions from the Hu’n-tai At.

  The Hu’n-tai At were pressing Lucidia from the northeast, too. They were like the Wrath of the One God being vented against everyone.

  Some Lucidian clerics believed that resisting the Hu’n-tai At meant defying the Will of God. Those clerics argued that Tsistimed the Golden, warlord of the Hu’n-tai At, was the Scourge of God prophesied in the Written, a pagan fury who would punish the Realm of Peace for all the indulgences and sins and lapses of the Faithful.

  But there were fundamentalist mullahs who believed that living in fixed houses, dwelling in urban areas, living under any but the harshest conditions, constituted a surrender to the seductions of the Adversary.

  Gordimer and his Kaif had not abandoned hope of seeing the end of the Kaif of Qasr al-Zed. That Kaif’s champion would soon be too busy to hare off on any mission of vengeance.

  Fundamentalist priests were more a nuisance in the Lucidian Kaifate than in the Dreangerean. The Lion was the sort who made certain no one became too critical.

  Gordimer listened attentively while er-Rashal analyzed Else’s journey into the Idiam, to Andesqueluz, and his return with six mummies.

  Er-Rashal praised Else’s quick thinking and unswerving determination. Praise from the sorcerer was rare.

  The marshal interrupted. “All right. He’s a paragon. Nobody else could have pulled it off. But that’s why I sent him. He doesn’t need to stand around listening to a clutch of broad-ass bureaucrats tell him he’s wonderful. He needs to know why I wanted him. So he can get to work planning.”

  Else said, “I did hope to spend some time with my family.”

  Gordimer scowled. He had no family. Family weighed you down. Family other than the Sha-lug was a weakness. Case in point. Else was distracted. But family were useful as hostages.

  Er-Rashal observed, “It wouldn’t be good to leap into the flames again, right away, after dancing in the fire as long as the captain has.”

  Gordimer waved a hand. “It’ll be a long mission, anyway. A short delay won’t matter.”

  The Lion relied on er-Rashal’s advice but did not always like it. Else thought it might be wise to send his family out of town before he left al-Qarn again.

  The horrors he could imagine had happened before, to others.

  Gordimer the Lion was a genius on the battlefield but petty and vindictive as a ruler. And extremely selfish. And unable to recall the main reason he had removed his predecessor.

  You could not keep pissing people off. They would do something about it eventually.

  “My curiosity continues to grow,” Else said, as a reminder that he had not yet been told why he had been summoned.

  Gordimer said, “I’m sending you to Firaldia, to the Brothen Principalities, to find out what Sublime is up to. Our spies aren’t making sense anymore.”

  Er-Rashal said, “They say Sublime is preaching new crusades. To reverse Indala al-Sul’s successes. To drive the Faithful away from the Wells of Ihrian and out of the Holy Lands. To conquer Calzir. The same silly things Patriarchs always preach, but this one may mean it. Though a crusade doesn’t make sense. Sublime is on the brink of war with the Grail Emperor. And still has problems with the Viscesment pretenders. In addition to which, he’s preoccupied with something known as the Maysalean Heresy, which is strong in an Arnhander province called the Connec. If our spies suggest that the man has no acquaintance with reality. We don’t believe anyone of his stature could be that disconnected.”

  The marshal added, “The only people capable of undertaking a new crusade are the same ones who backboned previous Chaldarean expeditions. The Arnhanders. But they’re at war with Santerin. And they’d have to provide any soldiers needed to put down the heretics and anti-Brothen forces in the Connec.”

  Er-Rashal continued, “Nevertheless, this Patriarch seems convinced that he need only say that something is God’s Will and it’ll happen.”

  “Sounds like people should question the Patriarch’s sanity.”

  Er-Rashal agreed. “But those people believe Honario Benedocto became something transcendent when he was elected Patriarch. In an election renown for bribery, blackmail, and at least one murder.”

  Gordimer growled, “Sublime worships a false god. He worships idols. Naturally, he’s mad. But how deep does his madness run? Will crazy talk lead to crazy deeds? We need to know.”

  That made sense. Gordimer had to guard and preserve his portion of the Realm of Peace. But that could not be the whole story.

  Er-Rashal said, “I want to know more about the Collegium. Besides what they’re up to politically.”

  Then Gordimer said, “If Sublime is as crazy as it sounds, there ought to be factions in the Collegium willing to replace him.”

  “I don’t know much . . .” Else cut himself short. No point offering even an appearance of contradiction. “Can I pass in Brothen society?”

  Er-Rashal said, “In Brothe, in the Brothen Principalities, in Firaldia as a whole, yes. Easily. Brothe is as cosmopolitan as Hypraxium. I went there, once, years ago. Without knowing the language. I got by. You won’t have trouble as long as you don’t claim you’re anything but what you are, a professional soldier. Be an unemployed mercenary from somewhere far away. If you don’t tell anyone where you’re from, you’ll never have to deal with someone who wants to talk about the good old days back home. Say you don’t want to talk about the past because there’s a price on your head. Let the story involve the virtue of a woman whose husband you crippled when he caught you with his woman. That’s the kind of crime westerners find amusing.”

  Gordimer said, “Rashal is as excited as a kid about finding out what the Collegium is up to in the catacombs under the Chiaro Palace. Me, I want to know if anybody can be turned against Sublime. And I want to know Sublime’s plans. I want to know who his most likely successors are and what their attitudes are toward Dreanger, the Holy Lands, the Arn
hander states, and the Realm of Peace. And I want to know everything I can find out about a man named Ferris Renfrow.”

  That caught Else from the blind side. “Ferris Renfrow? Who is Ferris Renfrow?”

  “Exactly.”

  Er-Rashal had pity. “Ferris Renfrow is a very odd bird. He’s visited al-Qarn twice. He represents himself as an agent of the Grail Emperor Johannes. He’s slipperier than a freshwater eel. He wanted information without giving anything back.”

  Gordimer added, “He wouldn’t be pinned down but it sounded like he wanted to forge a secret alliance against the Patriarch.”

  Er-Rashal said, “The Grail Emperors and Patriarchs have quarreled for more than a century over whether the religious hierarchy takes precedence over the secular. Also, there’s a question of whether the Patriarch and his bishops have a right to the Episcopal Principalities. Under secular law, no feudal subject can leave his fief to the Church, or anyone else but his sons, without consent of his liege. In most cases the liege-ultimate is the Grail Emperor. Further, in the feudal estate, the Episcopal Principalities all have obligations to the Emperor and the Kings of Favorate, Stiluri, Alameddine, and—God laughed—even Calzir.”

  Else observed, “We do things more sensibly here.”

  The sorcerer missed Else’s sarcasm. “In theory. Until the Imperial Electors elevated Johannes Blackboots the contest seldom amounted to anything. But now the principals are Johannes and Sublime. And Sublime is willing to use the full power of his office to improve the fortunes of his family, his city, and his Church. There’s a real chance of war.”

  “Which we would like to encourage,” Gordimer said. “Without getting pulled in. Better the Unbelievers butcher each other than attack us or the Holy Lands.”

  “I see,” Else replied, careful to sound neutral.

  Gordimer asked, “So, can I count on you?”

  “Can I take some of my men?”

  “Not this time. This time you go alone. A merchantman will take you to Runch on the Isle of Staklirhod. At Runch you can buy passage to Sonsa. Your documents will identify you as a minor Arnhander knight. You’ve been called home to deal with family matters in LaTriobe, in Tramaine. This is because of the confusion following Santerin’s obliteration of the Duke of Harmonachy’s army at Themes last summer.”