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

by Glen Cook

  It was the first legacy of the thousands responsible for creating the mad hodgepodge of states constituting today’s Firaldia.

  Else watched the boats and barges go up and down, enjoying the subtle changes in the view as the sun limped westward and the light altered, growing more golden.

  “Piper Hecht?”

  Else started, spun toward the unexpected voice, noting that the other sightseers had disappeared.

  “Sainted Eis,” somebody growled. “This asshole is jumpy.”

  Else faced four armed men, one of whom he recognized. “Sergeant Bechter? You scared the shit out of me, sneaking up like that. So. You were lucky. You got out with Drocker?”

  “I’m a survivor. Evidently, you are, too.”

  “I got out with Principate Doneto. Frying pan to the fire kind of thing. We got snapped up by Hansel’s men in Ormienden, somewhere up there. They kept us locked up in Plemenza until Sublime decided to ransom his cousin. What’s up?”

  “Reports came in about a blond foreigner watching the Castella. They sent us to check it out.”

  “I was just enjoying the view. I mean, look at that. What’s going on? Why the paranoia?”

  “How long have you been here? In Brothe, not on the rock.”

  “Ten, twelve days. It kind of runs together. Today was my first chance to get out on my own. I was just relaxing and watching the barges go by and feeling homesick. What’s up?”

  “Did you hear about the Brothers getting murdered a while back?”

  Else lifted himself back up onto the block of stone. “Join me in my parlor, here. Swap lies with me about all the fun we had putting down the heretics in the Connec.”

  Bechter got the idea. He came and sat. “You do know what’s going on, don’t you?”

  “Not really. Local politics are too twisted. I don’t see much that makes sense.”

  “Here’s one for old time’s sake, Hecht. Let’s don’t bullshit each other.”

  “Ouch! This doesn’t sound good at all.”

  “Oh, it’s gooder for you than it would’ve been if you were the guy we were hoping you’d be.”

  Else glanced back. “Do they have to hover? Can’t we talk, just you and me?”

  After consideration, Bechter said, “I’ll take a chance on you, Hecht.”

  ELSE GOT PALUDAN BRUGLIONI AND GERVASE SALUDA TO SEE HIM WHEN HE returned to the Bruglioni citadel. “I think I’ve managed a coup. I hope you weren’t so set on a war that you’ll be angry with me.”

  “Talk to me,” Paludan said. He was in a foul mood, his supposed natural state.

  “I ran into somebody I knew from the Connecten campaign. He belongs to the Brotherhood of War. We talked. I made him understand what the Bruglioni think happened the night Rodrigo Cologni was kidnapped.”

  Paludan seemed puzzled, Gervase, amazed. “Go on, miracle worker.” Was he sarcastic or serious?

  “Here’s the thing.” Else explained what he had done in boring detail, without mentioning Pinkus Ghort. “Bechter is a good man, despite his affiliation. He’s trustworthy. I told him the truth as seen from here. He told me theirs. Turns out the big question troubling his bunch is how to lay hands on some mysterious blond foreigners. They thought the Bruglioni might be hiding the outlanders. I set Becker straight. He believed me because he knew me from the Connec.”

  Both Paludan and Gervase scowled.

  Else told them, “You’ll recall that I suggested giving up the men you’d hired.”

  Gervase snarled, “The point, Hecht.”

  “The Brotherhood just wants those two men. If you could tell them more about those two, there’d be peace between the Brotherhood and the Bruglioni.”

  “And the Lord God Himself shall step down from Heaven and kiss each of us upon the lips—before he rolls us over and gives us a good old buttfucking,” Gervase said.

  “No doubt. But not today. Look. It’s a way out.”

  “Awful convenient, though. Your first walk through the city, you run into an old pal from the wars.”

  “You religious, Gervase?”

  “As religious as I need to be to get by.”

  “I thought so. Pretty much my attitude, too. But I’ve found that you can’t go wrong by assuming that life is tainted by the Will of the Night.”

  “You saying supernatural forces are at work?”

  “Always. But, in this case, yes, especially. Otherwise, why can’t the Brotherhood find those men? Bechter said they get sighting reports all the time but when they check them out there’s no further trace. Where I come from we’d think that means they’re protected by the Instrumentalities of the Night. The Collegium itself might not be able to ferret them out.”

  “But the Collegium doesn’t care. Not right now. Are you suggesting that we try to reach an accommodation with the Brotherhood?”

  Else thought he had made that clear. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  ELSE FELT GOOD. IT HAD BEEN A PRODUCTIVE DAY. HE HAD MADE HIMSELF useful, though Paludan was not yet ready to see that.

  In an ideal world he would get everyone thinking he was doing great things. Which would get him established. But an outbreak of peace amongst Brothe’s factions would not serve the needs of Dreanger.

  Else’s quarters consisted of one large room subdivided into three by hanging quilts. He slept in a space no grander than a monk’s cell. Polo slept in an even smaller area beyond their common area. That constituted half the total space. The dividers were old and ragged and did little to provide any privacy. They did keep heat from a little charcoal burner confined to the center room.

  Else stepped in from the passageway. “Polo? You here?”

  Someone groaned behind Polo’s quilts. “Yes, sir. What time is it? What do you need?”

  “Were you away from here while I was out?”

  “I went out to get charcoal, candles, an ink stone, pens, inks, and such. As you instructed. I couldn’t find any paper. The papermaker in Naftali Square is out of stock.” Polo slipped his head through an overlap between quilts.

  “You don’t need to get up. I asked because somebody’s gone through my things. I don’t think anything is missing.”

  After a noise like a mouse’s squeak, Polo joked, “They wasted their time, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. I’m going to bed.”

  Else lay back on his rough mattress, a canvas bag filled with wheat and oat husks. He pondered Polo’s response.

  It did not seem appropriate, assuming the news was a surprise.

  PALUDAN AND GERVASE SALUDAN DID NOT KNOW WHAT THEY WANTED ELSE to do. They had felt a need to do something. Hiring him had presented itself. But there was no way he could replace all the hired swords who had deserted.

  Else asked to have his duties defined. He was told to protect the house. Without being given specifics. All by his lonesome.

  He prowled the citadel, putting on a show. The place was in poor repair and dirty. The staff were slothful and sloppy.

  Polo remained close by, most of the time. Else had him pinch paper from the Bruglioni business office. They created a chart of who was responsible for what. Of who was in charge where. Else was an energetic administrator, though he disliked that side of soldiering. He let himself go, now.

  The Bruglioni citadel was vast. And poorly designed for its fortress function. Though what could be seen from beyond the perimeter wall was forbidding. Where the gargoyles and whatnot had not fallen off. There were other buildings inside the wall. Stables and tool sheds and so forth. The main structure included one hundred and twenty rooms on four floors. Few, off the ground floor, were of much size or magnificence. The current Bruglioni were not into ostentatious display. The family could no longer afford it.

  The family proceeded entirely on past momentum under Paludan. He was not stupid. He lacked drive. He was content to let life slide by. Unless his anger broke through. Then he might do something unwise. Like trying to stage a kidnapping and rescue.

  Following two days of
review, from which he took time off only to drill the younger Bruglioni in the use of arms, Else summoned the senior household staff to a meeting in the kitchen. Nine deigned to appear, along with a few gawkers.

  One of the nine was the chief of the four men who guarded the two gates used to get into and out of the citadel. Else told him, “Mr. Caniglia, you and your men are not to allow Mr. Copria, Mr. Grazia, or Mr. Verga to enter the citadel tomorrow.” Only a handful of staff lived on the premises. Paludan did not want to feed and house and pay them, too. “They no longer work here. The rest of you, think about who should take over. Let me know tomorrow. Mr. Natta? You want to volunteer to test the jobs market yourself? No? Mr. Montale. I understand that you find new staff when they’re needed.”

  “Uh . . . Yes, sir. For the household. Not for the people on the business side. Not for anything to do with weapons or body guarding.”

  “New staff will be needed soon. We’re about to shed our nonproducers. How many here now are your relatives? Do any of them actually do anything?”

  Montale hemmed and hawed and talked around the edges. Else interrupted. “They won’t lose their jobs. If they do them. Would any of you argue that this place isn’t a slum? We’re going to change that. We have enough people. We start today. Anyone who’s been getting a free ride and doesn’t want to give it up can take the option pioneered by Mr. Copria, Mr. Grazia, and Mr. Verga. Name a devil. Here’s Mr. Grazia.”

  Grazia was a short, fat man with fat lips and a natural tonsure. The little hair that he did retain was red, lightly touched with gray. Humorists wondered whether his hair would all disappear before the remnants grayed.

  Grazia puffed, “Sorry I’m late. There was a crisis.”

  Some eavesdropper had brought warning.

  “Better late than never.” The foreigner expected to separate Grazia from his job anyway, in time. “We’ll look at your books when we’re done here. We haven’t been getting the most out of our budget.”

  Grazia turned a pasty gray.

  “Mr. Negrone. Mr. Pagani. General cleaning and upkeep seem to fall within your purview. Brainstorm me some ideas on how to get this place cleaned up, fixed up, and painted, employing a tribe used to taking paid naps and putting in ten-hour shifts playing cards. Madam Ristoti?”

  The cook’s kitchen was the one bright spot Else had found. She said, “Call me Carina. I have some ideas.”

  “Excellent, Madam Ristoti. One and all. We’re going to be more formal with one another. That will put our work on a businesslike footing. Now. Madam. Your ideas, please.”

  In the area of managing the backstairs Madam Ristoti possessed a field marshal’s mind.

  Else gave her three minutes. “Excellent. You’re in charge of everything. You can manage that and the kitchen both? Mr. Negrone? You want to take issue?”

  Else gave Negrone equal time. Then, “In other words, you have no suggestions. You just object to Madam Ristoti’s proposals because she’s a woman.”

  “That’s putting it baldly . . .”

  “There won’t be any beating around the bush anymore. Mr. Grazia, I assume you know what everyone gets paid. How much will Mr. Negrone not be taking home if he finds himself unemployed?”

  Negrone mumbled something before Grazia could respond.

  Else said, “There isn’t going to be any debate. If you think there’s a better way to do things, tell me. Convince me. If people won’t cooperate, tell me. I’ll break arms and kick butts. Or instruct Mr. Caniglia not to let them in. So. Let’s start. Go figure out how to make this ruin fit for human habitation. Not you, Mr. Grazia. You stay here with me.”

  Mr. Grazia was not happy.

  Later, Else said, “Mr. Grazia, I’m pretty sure you’ve heard all about Father Obilade.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re aware that Paludan Bruglioni tends to overreact when he gets angry?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Find a way to put the money back. In the meantime, you’ll be my number-one guy around here. Because I have your stones in a vice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hope the others will be as reasonable. Go to work, Mr. Grazia.” Else headed for the kitchens. Polo was there, listening to the Ristoti woman.

  Caniglia and another man intercepted him. Their expressions were so dark he feared they planned something stupid. But Caniglia said, “A runner left a message for you with Diano.”

  The other man extended a folded letter. Else said, “I see the seal fell off.”

  Caniglia grunted.

  Else asked, “Why so grim?”

  “Some people you told us not to let back in got nasty when I told them. They said they’d be even nastier if I tried to keep them from coming in tomorrow.”

  “I’ll deal with that.”

  That did not improve Caniglia’s mood. That was not the answer he wanted.

  “WHO’S THE LETTER FROM?” POLO ASKED. ELSE SAT WITH HIS BACK against the wall in the common space of their quarters.

  “A woman I knew a long time ago. Anna Mozilla. A widow who moved to Brothe a few months ago. She heard I was here. She wants me to know she’s here, too. I guess that means she isn’t mad at me anymore.”

  Polo chuckled. “Is this a good story?”

  “Not really. She’s a widow, but too young to give up the more intimate practices of marriage. At least, she was. And must still be.”

  “Her turning up mean trouble?”

  “I doubt it. Just the opposite, I hope.”

  “OPEN UP,” ELSE TOLD CANIGLIA. “LET’S SEE WHO’S ON TIME FOR WORK.”

  Caniglia opened the servants’ postern, which had not been closed and locked for years. Not even after Father Obilade’s treason. Paludan was almost willfully blind to anything that he did not want to be true.

  Caniglia and young Diano put on a show, allowing the staff in one at a time. Each got a quick visual once-over to see what they were carrying. Which told Else that they had turned a blind eye to that in the past. And, probably, more so when the staff were leaving.

  Else wished he understood accounting better. Mr. Grazia’s books almost certainly contained more amazing and damning evidence than he could ferret out himself.

  What would Paludan’s attitude be? He seemed the sort who disdained literacy and ciphering. Though that attitude was less prevalent than Else had expected, based on past encounters with Arnhanders in the Holy Lands. Over there, if you needed something read, written, or calculated, you grabbed a passing Deve.

  Where did Gervase Saluda fit? Might he be getting kickbacks? That happened in every palace and large household in Else’s end of the world.

  “Who is this?” Else asked. A handsome young man carrying a load of tools staggered through the gateway.

  Caniglia replied, “Marco Demetrius. A carpenter. Related to the cook. He always turns up when there’s carpentry to be done. He’s good. And a good worker.”

  “So Madam Ristoti sent for him.” The chief cook seldom left the citadel, though she was not officially a resident.

  Copria and Verga tried to get in, one right after the other. Else said, “Mr. Verga, you appear to have forgotten that you don’t work here anymore. Don’t embarrass yourself. You and Mr. Copria should apologize to the people behind you for holding them up, then leave.”

  Verga snarled, “Get out of the way. You don’t have the authority.”

  Else hit Verga with a flurry of rib-cracking jabs. Verga fell to his knees, desperately fighting for enough air to remain conscious.

  Else told him, “You no longer work here.”

  Copria was less blustery. He helped Verga get up. They left.

  Else hoped that would be lesson enough. He told Caniglia, “I want to know who shows up late. Starting tomorrow, the gate will close ten minutes after starting time. Tardies won’t be allowed in and they won’t get paid.”

  ANNA MOZILLA HAD ACQUIRED A SMALL HOME RATHER LIKE THE ONE SHE had enjoyed in Sonsa. Else climbed the front steps. He used the cl
apper. Anna responded almost immediately. She looked exactly as she had in Sonsa.

  “You were followed.”

  “Yes. Not competently, either.”

  “You let them keep track?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I explained you as a former mistress. Your letter had been read before it got to me.”

  She moved up against him, familiarly, as she drew him into her house. “That’s why I made the letter general. I thought that would be the best way to explain me.”

  Though the door was shut and there were now no witnesses, Anna Mozilla did not back off. Nor did Else push her away. It felt good, being close to a woman. Even one who had a decade on him. And who was not his wife.

  Anna Mozilla said, “We were completely businesslike before. Completely professional. I teased myself about that afterward. Then they asked me to move down here. It took you so long to get here. That left me too much time to think.”

  Else did not reply. He knew what he should do but just could not push.

  “It wouldn’t be a sin, Frain.” Else had called himself Frain Dorao in Sonsa. “I’m an unbeliever.”

  So. She understood that much.

  That was an interpretation of Law as stated in The Written. There was no adultery when the woman was not Praman.

  Else did not back away. Neither did he take charge, though she had shown him the open gate. He left the initiative entirely in her hands.

  Those hands proved capable, if tentative at first.

  ELSE TOOK HIS SUPPER IN THE KITCHEN SO HE COULD CONVERSE WITH Madam Ristoti. “Has there been much obstructionism?”

  “Less than I expected. You got them scared. That business at the back gate told them you’re serious.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re deadly serious.”

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to keep working. I came to Brothe to be near the center of the excitement. I need a job to stay.”