by Glen Cook
Brothe’s leading defenders had expected the pirates to come ashore on the south bank, at the downstream end of the Memorium, then attack eastward to isolate Krois and the Castella dollas Pontellas while seizing the bridges over the Teragi to keep help from coming from the north. The pirates could then turn to systematic plunder.
By beaching on the north bank and storming the Blendine Bridge the pirates avoided having to fight through 80 percent of the Memorium, where they would have been treated cruelly in ambushes and cross fires designed to exploit their lack of experience and discipline.
Pinkus Ghort observed, “This isn’t no mob gone crazy, Pipe. People on the other side knows what’s going on. We’re about to get slapped around like a couple teenaged whores.”
“There’s order and planning, anyway. The pirates may just be here for the plunder but I’m thinking somebody is more ambitious.”
Redfearn Bechter generally kept his own counsel. He preferred to do God’s work quietly. If you asked the Sergeant, he would tell you God was like a tailor. A gentle entity who preferred to carry on the business of the world with minimal fuss. Bechter observed, “We’re screwed if we don’t decide right now that this is bigger than just some Praman fishermen trying to steal anything that isn’t nailed down. There’s an evil genius at work.”
Else sighed. “What do you think, Pinkus? Stand tough south and up here, but let them do what they want in between?”
Saluda protested, “That would push them into the heavily populated part of the city.”
“Which is where they want to go. Right? So, if we let them, without making them kill us first, we stay alive to fight. Where they aren’t. Right?”
Ghort snorted. “Their boats! Shit! Eis and Aaron! You’re a fucking evil genius yourself, Pipe.”
“Only if they’re stupid enough to leave them on the north bank. They do, we only have to fight them on the bridges when they try to get back.”
“Heh-heh!” Ghort said. “Let’s get the word spread. You know what’ll happen, don’t you, Pipe? The Brotherhood will harvest the glory.”
“That’s probably best. They can stand fast against a mob of panicky pirates. Gervase, if you want to make a contribution, how about you run over to Hanbros’s Arch, find Godel Joyce, and tell him not to put up a real fight because we want the bad guys headed toward the ruins of the Senate. Don’t tell him anything else. Pinkus. Go see Moglia. Tell him to keep them from turning downriver. That’s all he’s got to do. It shouldn’t be hard. Meanwhile, I’ll slide over to the Castella. Bechter?”
“Right behind you, sir. How long before the pirates catch on?”
“Long enough to make it too late, I hope.” Else was not optimistic, though. So many boats. Far more boats than anyone had imagined the Calzirans would bring.
Paludan Bruglioni and those few bold servants willing to help a Bruglioni followed Else to the Castella dollas Pontellas.
GRADE DROCKER HIMSELF LED A COMPANY ACROSS THE RUSTIGE BRIDGE, above Krois, then attacked the beached and moored Calziran boats and ships. Drocker exploited his vestigial powers to confuse and panic the guards protecting the fleet—mostly boats so small they could have carried no more than five men. The guards were the Calziran sick and injured and elderly.
During a lull Else stared across the Teragi. He saw no sign of anything happening there. Closer, the Brotherhood began barricading the Blendine Bridge to fix the returning pirates for archers on the Castella battlements.
Sergeant Bechter observed, “They’ll be here soon.”
“They should be. Yes.”
Drocker had not brought enough men to fortify the bridge and overwhelm the boat guards, both. Not quickly enough. Sheer numbers of boats and raiders slowed the attack. Drocker seemed unable to do anything useful once resistance stiffened. Scarcely a hundred of the smaller, beached vessels had been fired or holed when Drocker approached Else.
“We’re already having trouble . . . holding the bridge. I have to go . . . help. Keep after it here. Concentrate on the . . . biggest boats. That will bother them . . . more. They’ll do . . . stupid things. Oh. And keep an eye out . . . for a woman.”
“Sir? A woman?”
“Somewhere in this mess . . . there’s a woman sometimes known . . . as Starkden. A witch. She’s here . . . with the fleet . . . amongst the boats. Otherwise, my power . . . would be adequate. Catch her. Take her alive. She has much . . . to answer for to . . . the Brotherhood of War.”
“Sir, this isn’t a situation I’ve faced before. How do I catch a witch if she doesn’t want to be caught?”
“She will be badly stunned . . . now. I hit her hard. But that won’t . . . last. Don’t waste time. And don’t forget to . . . drag her along if we can’t hold . . . the bridge.” Drocker had less trouble talking these days. His health had improved over the last year.
“Yes, sir.”
“Catch her and . . . we’ll win this easily, Hecht. Once they know . . . we control the source of their . . . good fortune. And know that . . . the Collegium will be waking up . . . any minute.”
“Yes, sir.” Else wondered why the Collegium was not involved already. Had the Calziran sorcerers managed to neutralize them somehow?
Drocker hurried off toward the Blendine Bridge. Else finally relaxed. Although Drocker was unaware that Else was responsible for crippling him, Else never felt comfortable around the man.
Bechter observed, “That ain’t a man with much personality, but he’s loaded up on willpower.”
“Oh, he’s got plenty of personality. All snake.”
“Hey. That’s the Special Office. They recruit people worse than the ones they hunt. So they only sign reptiles.”
“Let’s find this witch. Anybody know what we’re looking for?”
Bechter said, “Amazingly enough, everybody in the Brotherhood does.” He described a swarthy woman in her fifties who could have been Paludan Bruglioni’s sister or mother—or any fortune-teller on the streets of Brothe.
Else said as much.
“Which explains why she comes and goes as she pleases all around the Mother Sea.”
“Who does she work for?” Else was puzzled. He had not heard of Starkden before the events in Runch. She seemed to have a fabulous reputation on this side of the water.
“Interesting question, Captain. She appears to be an independent contractor. Look, we’re in the middle of a fight. You want to have a conversation, drop back there with the masked man and his sidekick.” Bechter meant Paludan and Gervase, who was back from his mission. They were not inclined to become directly involved in the rough work. “I’ve got unbelievers to punish.”
“And a witch to find.” A Praman witch, apparently.
The resistance offered by the boat guards declined as the strongest succumbed. The most easily panicked launched their boats or ran away. Calzirans across the river shrieked at those on the north bank to bring the damned boats over.
Else’s wrist began to ache. His amulet had lain dormant for so long that he had forgotten it. Almost.
He dealt with a weak attack by a Calziran trio who appeared to consist of three generations of the same family, all injured in previous fighting. He dispatched them without emotion.
“Good on you,” Bechter said. “Now you’re getting to work.”
“Let’s just slash the rigging. I don’t think we’ll get much chance to start any more fires.”
The pirates initiated a spirited effort to clear the Blendine Bridge. Lesser forces rushed the bridges above Krois and the Castella, too.
“We have smoke down there,” Bechter said. “Not a good omen in a city.”
Else eyed the smoke. Anna Mozilla’s house lay in that direction, though farther away.
Else said, “There’s a crowd on the towpath by that dhow flying the red pennon.” They had damaged the majority of the beached craft now. “Would that mean they think there’s something to protect on board?”
“I’d bet. Oh, for a company of Aparionese crossbowme
n about now. We could rip that crowd apart without getting close.”
The ship with the red pennon was one of a hundred larger craft that had not been hauled out of the water. Those were tied up downstream from the majority, side by side, in places forming ranks of as many as eight vessels. The shoreward ships were tied up to the flood wall where it ran along the river’s edge, making the bank a set of sheer stone faces stepping back from the water at intervals, providing a narrow towpath and landing, whatever the water level. The south bank was built up similarly starting at the foot of the Blendine Bridge and running upriver. The decision to build that way must have had something to do with the curve of the stream.
Else told Bechter, “We can’t break through that mob. There’re too many of them. You distract them. I’ll go around. Gervase. You and Paludan stick with the sergeant.” The Bruglioni group had not scurried away, but they did make a point of hanging way back.
“Around, Hecht? How?”
Bechter was talking to the air.
Else dodged between fishing craft. That put him out of sight. He shed mail and clothing, slipped down into the fetid brown river. The water was colder than he expected.
Swimming while carrying weapons was not easy. But you learned how in the Sha-lug schools. A soldier had to be able to take the fight anywhere.
He went under, swam with the current, surfaced behind the outermost ship in the first moored rank, then worked his way toward his target, a dingy coastal trader. One of the biggest Calziran ships, it was small compared to war galleys Else had seen crossing over from Dreanger.
He rested against the dhow’s hull briefly, listened, heard only the creak of timbers and groan of strained rope.
Boarding proved difficult. Even amidships, where the vessel had the lowest freeboard, the rail was too high to reach. There were no ready handholds, either.
Else pushed his knife into the caulk and tar between strakes, above his head. He drove it deeper with palm blows, then relaxed, focused, surged. In a violent, one-handed pull-up he launched himself high enough to get his other hand over the gunwale. He let his sword fall, grabbed hold, and continued onward.
He rolled over the rail, recovered his weapons, looked for opposition. No one came at him. Redfearn Bechter had everyone’s attention ashore.
Else dashed aft, severed the after mooring lines, then scampered forward. The dhow’s stern began to swing out into the current.
As Else cut a forward mooring line, he realized that he had not thought this out. He would not be able to steer the ship as it turned end for end, descending the Teragi.
His amulet began to irritate him. It had not while he was in the water.
Pirates started yelling. Some began clambering across the ships moored inshore.
One more line to cut.
A Calziran with more courage than brains flung himself across the widening gap between the dhow and its nearest neighbor. He landed on loose rope, fell, broke something. Else heard bone snap. The pirate barked in pain.
Three more heroes followed the first. One leapt and landed successfully. The next came down on the rail and, miraculously, balanced there, arms flailing, for as long as it took the third to fall short and snag his leg as he tried to avoid getting wet.
Sergeant Bechter scattered the distracted pirates on shore. Then he and his men scattered themselves.
The barricade on the Blendine Bridge was leaking desperate pirates.
Else severed that final mooring line, then removed his unwanted shipmates. They were fishermen. They should be able to swim.
The dhow finished its turn end for end. It smashed violently into the flank of a moored ship. Timbers groaned and snapped. Bits of rigging tumbled down. Else hustled around making sure his dhow did not become entangled with the other.
The cycle repeated itself, less violently. Else was no sailor. How was he going to steer this thing? A ship had to have steerage way on in order to be steered. Meaning it had to be moving in relation to the water, not just moving.
There was a more immediate problem, though. The sorceress. Starkden. Who had to know who he was. Because she had tried to kill him in Runch. Which made no sense if she was a true Praman fighter.
The ship was not big enough to have decks and cabins and whatnot, except back aft where there was a platform on which the steersman could ply his trade. There was nothing to cover, anyway. The pirates had brought a lot of empty space they hoped to fill with booty.
There was a sort of hovel under the steersman’s platform. Else found the woman hidden there, delirious. He dragged her into the light. She was a stranger. Nevertheless, he thought she seemed familiar.
She was short, stout, unwrinkled, dark, dressed nothing like her pirates. And bald. Her clothing consisted of brightly dyed cotton like clothing favored by fortune-tellers.
Why the shaved head? That had to mean something. He could not recall anyone in the soothsayer racket shaving, then wearing a wig to hide it. For wear a wig she did. Else found it while looking for something to use as a gag and bonds.
It seemed like a good idea to get a sorceress thoroughly restrained while she was too groggy to disagree.
A gaggle of pirates chased the ship along the riverbank. And several boats that had fled earlier had discovered courage enough to join the chase.
Not good. He was alone, cold, and saddled with a dangerous prisoner, with enemies chasing him. Suppose he lured a few in, let them board, disarmed them, and made them work ship?
Daring, yes, but overly optimistic.
His wrist throbbed. The amulet was not responding to Starkden as it had Grade Drocker when the sorcerer tried to kill him. The pain was tolerable. The amulet was responding to presence rather than level of threat. It raised scarcely a tickle around Drocker, nowadays.
The pursuit on shore ended when the pirate rabble collided with a band of militia armed with crossbows they had had little practice rearming. Incompetence battled incompetence. Those able to project their incompetence at longer range seized the advantage by default.
The pursuit on the river never closed in tight. Every Calziran wanted someone else to make the first move.
The ship stopped spinning, drifted broadside to the current, bow indicating the south shore. Else recalled the little cargo and passenger boats he had seen on canals in Sonsa, propelled by one man who waggled a long oar back and forth behind the boat. Maybe the dhow’s big, ugly steering oar could be used the same way. After some experimentation he got the bow pointed downstream—within a point or two. The current pushed the dhow toward the north bank.
It ran into a log boom, an accumulation of driftwood piled up against the upstream face of the ruins of some riverside structure harkening back to imperial times.
Else scrounged up an anchor stone, twenty pounds of rock with a hole through where a line could be bent, and was. He heaved the stone onto the driftwood mountain, hauled the line taut, tied it off, grabbed his dusky prize.
Starkden was heavier than she looked, even stripped of jewelry and anything that might harbor some magical tool. Else strained under her weight as he battled treacherous footing. This had better be worth the trouble. He wanted to learn something before he killed her.
He had no choice, there. She knew too much.
22. The Connec, Duke Tormond’s Venture
H
aving recognized that Duke Tormond would not change his mind, the Connecten factions began doing what they could to influence the course of his mission to Brothe.
Yes. Tormond IV, Duke of Khaurene, lord of the Connec, the Great Vacillator, had decided to appeal to the Patriarch in person. So there could be no misunderstanding. So there would be no more random armies wandering into the End of Connec to get themselves massacred.
The popular consensus was that Tormond was willfully naive. A face-to-face with the Patriarch would clarify nothing. Sublime wanted to loot the richest province in the Chaldarean world so he could finance a crusade to recover the Holy Lands.
Broth
er Candle joined the Duke’s train. Also included were Michael Carhart, Bishop LeCroes, Tember Remak’s son, Tember Sihrt, and others the Brothen Patriarch was unlikely to welcome. Most tried to travel incognito, a waste of time. The Patriarch’s spies knew who was who.
The instrumentalities of the Church could be as insidiously omnipresent as those of the Night. And were more likely to make someone’s life miserable. The wickedness of the Night was cruel but seldom personal.
Sir Eardale Dunn declined the opportunity to visit Brothe, not because he opposed the mission—which he did—but because someone trustworthy and capable had to stay behind. Because of Count Raymone Garete. Sir Eardale suspected Count Raymone of intent to commit mischief.
Tormond brought his sister. Isabeth would represent her husband. King Peter was a vigorous supporter of Connecten independence. He found having a buffer between Navaya and the rapacity of Arnhand comforting. And Peter had leverage. His wars of reconquest were important to Sublime. Sublime thought they reflected gloriously on his stewardship.
Peter’s skilled professional soldiers were useful in keeping Sublime safe, too. The twenty-four men of the Patriarchal Guard were all Navayan veterans who had received their posts as rewards for service to the Faith.
Then, too, there were powerful Direcian Principates in the Collegium. Sublime depended on their support. His political fortunes would sink fast if he offended Peter.
BROTHER CANDLE BEGAN TO WONDER. WERE THE INSTRUMENTALITIES OF the Night determined to keep Tormond away from Brothe? The weather remained stubbornly awful. Bitterly cold rain fell for hours every day. Even the old Brothen military roads became difficult.
And then there were sicknesses.
Nothing fatal, of course. Just bouts of dysentery interspersed with flu and bad colds. “The Coughers’ Crusade,” Michael Carhart dubbed the mission. Brother Candle discharged a nostril load of snot and agreed.