by Glen Cook
“My people have been in service to the great families all the way back to Imperial times. According to family legend. One pearl of wisdom plucked out of all that history is that every house mirrors the interior of its master.”
“Meaning this place is falling apart and the staff is slovenly because that’s how Paludan Bruglioni is?”
“Yes. Paludan doesn’t like the house the way it is. But it’s too much trouble to do battle with the night.”
“Uh?”
“Oh. I didn’t mean that in the supernatural sense. Only spiritually. Like, the night will always be there, no matter how hard you fight it. So why bother? Why suffer all that frustration?”
“I see. Is there anything I can show Paludan and Gervase when they finally decide they have to know what all the racket is about?”
“There will be.”
“How do you think this will play with Saluda?”
“What are you asking?”
“Does Saluda have a personal interest in things staying the way they are? Has he been collecting kickbacks? I haven’t found any evidence but that’s what it feels like.”
That notion surprised the cook. “I don’t think so. Not that he wouldn’t. If he thought of it.”
“But he might have an interest?”
“Maybe. But he’s also more of a Bruglioni than most of the family who ran off to the country. Who don’t want to come back.”
Else had heard the same from Polo.
“So it goes. That can be dealt with. Keep on, here. And find me a couple of troublemakers to fire. To remind the others that they can be replaced.”
Else found Polo with Mr. Grazia. Polo reported, “There’s been some creative accounting here. Paludan Bruglioni is spending thirty thousand ducats a year for half that in results, mostly as payouts to people who don’t exist for work that doesn’t get done and to vendors for goods that never arrive.”
“I see. Mr. Grazia! Did you think nobody would ever notice?”
Grazia shrugged. Like so many caught in his situation, he had no idea why he had not considered possible consequences.
Else asked, “Polo, did you ever get my paper?”
“No. I keep trying the places in Naftali Square. They keep having nothing to sell. I haven’t had time to go to the Devedian quarter.”
“I’ll handle it myself, then. Keep putting Mr. Grazia through his paces.” Else patted Grazia’s shoulder. “An epic of the imagination, sir. A true epic.”
“You won’t tell Paludan?”
“Not as long as you’re helping me whip this place into shape. You slack off, though, or you dip your beak again, then you can probably count on getting together with Father Obilade.”
ELSE TRIED TO SLIP AWAY USING THE SERVANTS’ GATE. THAT DID NOT WORK. He picked up a tail anyway.
He worried who and why for a few minutes, decided that it didn’t matter. There were only two of them and they were inept. He shed them near Anna Mozilla’s house. Thoughts of Anna distracted him momentarily. But he could reward himself later. He headed for the Devedian quarter.
Brothe’s Devedian elders admitted that twenty thousand Deves lived in the city. Rumor suggested there were several times that. If true, then more Deves lived in the seat of the inimical Episcopal faith than in the Holy Lands themselves. But in Suriet the towns could not grow large, except on the coast of the Mother Sea. The coast where western invaders established their crusader principalities and kingdoms.
There were many times more Devedians in their Diaspora than remained resident in the mad country that had given them birth.
Else tried and failed to imagine what it must be like to live in those madlands, in amongst the Wells of Ihrian, where the magic boiled out of the earth incessantly, warping everything around it, birthing malignant new spirits, feeding the Instrumentalities of the Night, and incidentally, unleashing the only power capable of holding the ice at bay.
Even today many Devedian native sons were perfectly willing to leave Suriet and let it become a nesting place of Chaldarean conquerors and Praman liberators alike. Or maybe the reverse.
Let them bash one another’s heads amidst the floods from the magical springs. One day He Whose Name Is Legion would cleanse the earth of all but His Chosen.
Aaron, Eis, Kelam, and the other prophets who laid the foundations of Arianism, which evolved into Chaldareanism, departed the Holy Lands themselves as soon as their preaching and witnessing gifted them with donations sufficient to let them travel without having to sleep under bridges. They scattered across the Brothen Empire, carrying their message to those whose lives consisted primarily of despair.
The preaching, the witnessing, the performing of miracles—most of that had taken place far from the Wells of Ihrian, in provinces now part of Lucidia or the Eastern Empire.
As he moved southward Else began to sense a potent electric tension. Something significant had happened. Something bigger was expected to happen. Its threatened scale troubled everyone.
Else could not get an answer when he asked why. There was an immense prejudice against foreigners with blond hair.
His Devedian contact could explain.
There was no threat of rain, but the Deves and Dainshaus scurried about in a jerky hurry, as though trying to get the day’s business done before bad weather arrived.
Else entered a tiny papermaker’s shop. A sign on the artist’s own product proclaimed it the source of the best papers in Brothe. A stereotypical little old Deve, bent, leaning on a cane, his features camouflaged by thickets of wiry gray hair, came from the back in response to the bell that jingled when Else opened the front door. Chemical smells accompanied the shopkeeper.
“How may I be of . . . ?” the little man asked as he forced his head to turn upward. He did not complete his question.
“I’m here to buy paper, not collect heads. I want an inexpensive, working grade. Twenty sheets. Then I want a better grade, suitable for permanent records and letters expected to survive travel over extended distances. Again, twenty standard sheets. Finally, I want some of that erasable parchment or vellum that students use.”
The old man found his tongue. “That’s an animal product, not paper, though normally we keep some around. You need a special ink, a treatment sponge, a sanding stone, an ink remover, and Halmas clay. Plus calligraphy brushes.”
“I’m in the market for those things, too.”
“We don’t carry any of that.”
“And that isn’t a problem. There seems to be a paper shortage in Brothe. I’m prepared to go from shop to shop until I find everything.”
“You can pay for all that?”
“Of course. You have a problem with me? You’re averse to making a sale?”
“Not at all, sir. This constitutes an excellent sale. My biggest in weeks. It’s just that we don’t often see men like yourself here in the quarter. Twenty sheets packer grade, twenty choice?”
“Packer?”
The old man shrugged. “Nobody knows why it’s called that. Not anymore. It’s your working grade. Your most affordable paper.”
“I see.”
“And how much of the reusable?”
“Six folded to standard-size double exercise sheets. One for me and one for each of my students.”
“Students? Uh . . . Never mind. None of my business. I have three of those in stock. I know where to find the rest. And the supplies to go with.”
“Good.”
“I’ll send my grandsons to bring it all here. That’ll save you running from shop to shop.”
Else scowled.
“Oh. No, sir. I won’t add another layer of markup.” The bent little man leaned closer to confide, “They’ll pay a commission. Because they know I could send the boys to someone else. It’s about the extension of goodwill and favor.”
“Go ahead, then,” Else said. “I’ve walked enough for today. And I still have to go back home.”
The old man shouted in a locally warped exile Melhaic dialect,
well spiced with Firaldian derivatives.
Else spoke some Suriet Melhaic and enough of its cousin Peqaad to get by with those tribesmen. He understood half of what he heard. The old man gave orders to collect Else’s merchandise, then directed that someone named Pinan Talab be told that a blond stranger was in Luca Farada’s paper shop. While the old man jabbered a parade of boys from the rear of the shop snapped quick bows at Else, then headed out the front door. Each brought a burst of chemical smell, a sulfurous cast that Else had associated with papermakers since childhood. The odor stirred memories of the time before time, before his purchase by the Sha-lug. Though those memories were seldom more than a nostalgic mood.
The old man offered plenty of distracting chatter, speaking Firaldian to Else when not instructing his descendents, sometimes changing languages in midsentence. In a puckish moment, Else asked, “Why would Pinan Talab be interested in what kind of paper a Chaldarean buys?”
For an instant it seemed the superannuated papermaker would expire from horror. Then he just stared at Else in silence, disturbed and frightened.
“My paper? Shouldn’t you get that ready while you wait to hear from Talab?”
“These are strange times, sir. For example, much of Brothe is obsessing about foreigners with blond hair. It doesn’t affect us here, but it’s still a concern—if you’re the man who caused the excitement.”
Else donned a stupid, baffled expression. “I work for the Bruglioni. Uh. You’re all lathered about those guys who were supposed to work for us but really worked for the priest who was planted on us by the Brotherhood of War? Pretty funny, huh? Those guys, after the priest turned them loose, went and killed like eight or ten of the bunch that the priest was spying for.”
The old man was not amused. His grandsons began to return. As they surrendered their merchandise they hustled on to the rear of the shop. Each passage loosed another puff of chemical-laden air.
Else remained prepared for treachery—though he could not imagine why these people would bother. But nothing happened. The grandsons came back. The merchandise piled up. Soon everything Else had asked for was ready. “Excellent. I’ll recommend you to anyone looking for paper.”
“That’s kind of you, sir. Tell them to stock up now. Once the fighting starts the soldiers will take all we produce.”
“The fighting? What fighting?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Obviously, not. I’m bottled up inside the Bruglioni citadel most of the time. When I do come out people won’t talk to me because I have blond hair. What’s happened?”
“The pirates. They launched a massive raid yesterday. Against Starplire. They massacred the priests and nuns and scholars and looted everything they could carry off. They even murdered most of the townspeople. A squadron of Imperial cavalry that was headed for Alamaddine overran the stragglers. That saved a few people the pirates hadn’t yet found.” The old man’s face darkened as he sketched the disaster.
Starplire, Else thought. Just inland from the coast, south of the mouth of the Teragi. Not fortified. A population in the thousands, mostly monks, nuns, and sacred scholars. Main industries, monasticism and religious education. Starplire boasted Episcopal Chadareanism’s principal university. And a tiny Devedian colony, practicing the arts that seemed to come so easily to that race.
“I see.”
“They say the Patriarch will convene the Collegium and preach a crusade against Calzir.”
“About time, if you ask me.” Else accepted his change. The old man put his purchases into a sack that, in a previous incarnation, might have contained rice. “Did you have family there?”
“We’re all family.”
Else wrestled with mixed emotions as he left. An Episcopal crusade against Calzir would serve Dreanger better than a crusade against the heretics of the Connec. It should occupy Sublime far longer while not profiting him a ducat. Calzir might hold out long enough for nature to catch up with Sublime. Or the crusade might bankrupt him.
But Calzirans were Praman.
And not very bright Pramans. What insanity moved them to do something as stupid as butcher the entire population of Starplire?
Sinister forces were at work.
“Captain.”
The soft voice came from a shadow in a foot-wide crack between buildings. Else would not have responded had it not been familiar. A hairy little shape hid in the crack. “Gledius Stewpo? What’re you doing here?”
“This is no place to talk. Follow me.” Stewpo popped out and hurried along the street, comical in his effort not to appear furtive. What could be more noteworthy than a sneaking dwarf?
Else followed, awash with thoughts and questions. First, war. Now, Gledius Stewpo.
“YOU PEOPLE HAVE AN UNNATURAL PASSION FOR HOLES IN THE GROUND,” Else told Stewpo.
“That’s why they talk about a Deve underground.”
“Ha! And ha!”
“You’re treated like vermin, you adopt vermin’s strategies for surviving.” Stewpo had led Else down into a warren underneath the Devedian quarter. Which he suggested had been there since early Imperial times. The Deves of those days used to rescue brethren enslaved in the Holy Lands and hide them in the labyrinth. “It isn’t just a Devedian thing, though, Captain. Everybody in Brothe has secret cellars and hidden worlds below. The primitive Chaldareans, the Arianists, had a network of tunnels and secret rooms and chapels all over under the city. We know they’re still there because they keep caving in.”
Four Devedians met them in a hidden place much like the hidden place in Sonsa. Even the odor of the earth was similar. Else recognized two men. Like Gledius Stewpo, they hailed from Sonsa. The others, when introduced, were Pinan Talab and Else’s principal contact in Brothe, one Shire Spereo.
Spereo observed, “You’ve been a hellish long time getting here.”
“Such are the mercies of my supposed profession. I got locked up for half a year.”
Stewpo said, “Your masters must’ve been cranky about that.”
“They’ll feel better when they learn about this war I hear is coming.”
“Which will keep the Patriarch preoccupied.”
“Are they behind it? What’s really going on?”
The Deves exchanged puzzled looks. “What do you mean?” Stewpo asked.
“Somebody has to be putting the Calzirans up to this. They can’t possibly be so stupid that they think the Patriarch will tolerate a wholesale plundering of Church property and the Episcopal States.”
“Actually, I think they are that stupid. They know the mercantile republics are mad at the Patriarch and won’t help him. And the first raiders went home in ships nearly foundering with infidel treasure. Gold fever is sweeping Calzir. Anybody with a boat big enough to haul booty is rounding up friends and old weapons to go get rich. Starplire may leave them bold enough to hit a really large, rich target.”
Else reflected, “Too much success could make them forget to concentrate on Sublime and the Benodocto. If they bite Hansel or one of the mercantile republics . . .”
“They’ll suffer,” Talab said. “We understand that. But they don’t. Calzir is hip-deep in stupidity these days. Not to suggest that bright is common anywhere, nor ever was welcome in Calzir. That realm’s biggest problem is a lack of any real central control.”
Stewpo said, “This situation has repeated itself every sixty to eighty years since the Praman conquest. Eventually an allied Chaldarean fleet will scour the Calziran coast. Piracy will stop—until the last old man who remembers how things went dies off.”
Another Deve said, “They always think they have God on their side. They always think Firaldians are too soft to put up a fight.”
Stewpo observed, “Perhaps if they were a more literate society?”
“Stewpo, I haven’t heard why you’re here in Brothe.”
“Sure, you have. Just not from me. Things went to shit in Sonsa. The Brotherhood sent another gang of thugs from Castella dollas Pontellas t
o avenge that wizard.”
“This will amuse you. That wizard led the company I joined. He has almost no powers left.”
“Good,” Stewpo snarled. “Someday . . .” He pulled himself together. “The Dainshaukin and Devedian communities decided to abandon Sonsa. After half the Devedian population died.”
Else did not suffer a twinge.
Stewpo said, “Al-Qarn isn’t happy with you.”
“Anyone there who thinks he can do better is welcome to take over.”
“They have no concept of the realities here. But that isn’t the point. Part of your job would be to make them understand. I’ve been reminded, recently, that you haven’t reported yet. They know you’re alive only through secondary sources.”
“I was told to report when I had something to report. I haven’t, yet.” Ignoring Stewpo’s point about the educational aspect of his mission.
“People in power want to know what’s going on. They have decisions to make. They need information. They squeal like wounded swine when they don’t have it. I’m not interested in making their lives easier, though.”
“I understand,” Else said. “The enemy of your enemy is your ally.”
“But never a friend. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly. Before we worry about the shape of our end of the world we need to rid it of the threat of the west.”
Gledius Stewpo said, “You might be too bright for your kind of work.”
“No doubt. And here you are, a hound baying at the behest of a false god. Yet you show no shame.”
“I hope these aren’t the end times where we have to find out which one of us is the deluded devil-worshiper.”
Else replied, “None of that matters. Not now. If Sublime preaches a crusade against Calzir . . .”
“The Collegium will approve a punitive expedition against the pirate ports because of Starplire, but that’s all. Which is too bad. If Sublime bogged down in Calzir he’d be too busy to do any mischief in the Holy Lands.”
“As long as I’m here, why don’t I do a report that you can pass along?” Else did not mention that he had reported before. “If I can dictate it. It’s a long story.”