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

by Glen Cook

  No cheers were heard. Anonymous declarations of disbelief were.

  “Isabeth and I spent four hours in converse with the Patriarch.” Tormond paused. “I mean, with the pretender to the mantle of the Patriarchs of the Church founded by Saints Eis, Domino, and Arctue. We discussed the Connec’s obligation to the Church and the Church’s duty to the Connecten people. And the news, my friends, is good.”

  The Duke wanted to say more but the wine caught up and rendered him inarticulate.

  Despite Tormond’s incapacity, the facts of the conference took shape and substance. That shape was unappealing. That substance produced an unpleasant odor.

  There were witnesses, the nameless, colorless clerks who are always there to write things down.

  SIXTY MEN AND A WOMAN LISTENED AS A SLOBBERING, ALMOST INCOHERent Tormond defended the agreement he had made with Sublime, once he spent time having nothing to drink.

  The Connec would recognize the Brothen Patriarch. Priests and bishops who refused would be handed over to the new Bishop of Antieux. The bishop would be elevated to the Collegium within five years, guaranteed. His successor, the next Connecten Principaté, would be chosen by the ruling Duke at the time.

  Bishop LeCroes flew into a rage. “You’ve betrayed your own faith, now? For a promise of peace from that feckless Benedocto jackal? You gain nothing, My Lord! Nothing! He can do nothing if you defy him. He’s impotent. He’ll turn on you as soon as he can. No Connecten Principaté will ever sit in the Collegium.”

  Tormond let the Bishop rage until his venom was spent. “Second. We must eradicate all heretical cults and beliefs.”

  The most anticipated of Patriarchal demands, that sparked the most ferocious response. Even pro-Brothen Episcopals were outraged by what seemed an arrogant and inexcusable meddling in matters of no concern to anyone but Connectens.

  Brother Candle stood glumly silent, betrayed by a friend.

  Tormond’s speech became less slurred. That did not make his words any more welcome. “The Connec must provide twenty-eight-hundred armed men to help punish Calzir for the afflictions it visited on the Epsicopal world.”

  Someone shouted, “You mean on the Benedocto family, don’t you?”

  Bishop LeCroes said, “In other words, Nephew, you gave the false Patriarch everything we resisted when he invaded our homeland. Then you threw in the lives of our young men as a bonus, so Sublime can work his wickedness on someone else. A true diplomatic triumph, Nephew. There will be jubilation from one end of the Connec to the other. There will be dancing in the streets when the news reaches Khaurene.”

  The Duke was not so far gone in his cups that he failed to understand. Those dancers might be carrying torches and pitchforks and a notion to shape history by their own hands, by making it necessary to find a new Duke.

  Tears flooded Tormond’s eyes. Till that moment he had been sure that he had scored a diplomatic coup. Why such bitter anger from his friends and advisers?

  “Let me offer a suggestion, Nephew,” Bishop LeCroes snarled. “Stay in Brothe until the soldiers you gave away come home. Otherwise, our people might end up doing you personal harm in their wild enthusiasm for the peace that you’ve won.”

  Even the drunken Duke heard the soft speculations. How would Raymone Garete react when he heard? Any way he wanted. He would have the support of most Connectens.

  Duke Tormond was befuddled. Brother Candle wondered how he could remain so consistently and stubbornly disconnected. Had they done something to his mind inside Krois?

  Duke Tormond stumbled away from what he had expected to become a huge celebration. His disappointment, his confusion, were obvious.

  His sister put aside her natural shyness, stepped forward to clarify the range of agreements reached. Those were of broad scope and implication and included Navaya, the rest of Direcia, Calzir, and the Empire in addition to the Connec, Firaldia, the Patriachal States, and the Church. Sublime had imposed no hard deadlines except in the matter of the armed men, who were supposed to be available in time for an autumn campaign against Calzir.

  Isabeth said her husband would guarantee the independence of the Connec. He would send ships and siege specialists to help with the war.

  Brother Candle did not fail to note that a punitive expedition had metamorphosed into a war. A war that would become a crusade, probably. Supported by a king who had no part in putting the thing together.

  Isabeth was a sharper negotiator than her brother. In return for King Peter’s help in reducing Calzir, Sublime would convey the island of Shippen to Navaya. Along with the smaller islands nearby. Shippen was large enough to have been an independent kingdom at times. It was more vast than Peter’s current Direcian territories, though much poorer.

  Isabeth also reported Sublime’s arrangements with the Grail Empire.

  Mainland Calzir, with its coastal islands, would be conveyed to the Empire and Alameddine. Various towns and castles would go to individuals who helped in the reconquest but they would be subject to the Emperor and the King of Alameddine.

  Sublime was generous with territories not yet reclaimed.

  Peter would do well in a successful war. And Sublime’s Firaldian foes would be weakened. While Johannes became stronger.

  Brother Candle began to suspect that there was a deeper plan behind Tormond’s apparent fecklessness.

  If Shippen passed into Navayan control, Platadura would gain immense influence eastward on the Mother Sea, at the expense of Sonsa, Dateon, and Aparion. Of Sonsa in particular. Most of Sonsa’s trade passed through the narrow, treacherous Strait of Rhype, which separated Shippen from mainland Calzir.

  Brother Candle worked his way close to Isabeth. “I smell a mystery. Where does Johannes figure? What’s changed? How can the Grail Emperor suddenly be friends with the Patriarch? They’re natural enemies, like cats and dogs.”

  No one else was much interested, now. Isabeth whispered, “This won’t remain secret long. So I suppose I can tell you. Johannes only has one son. Lothar is twelve, sickly, and won’t outlive his father. Johannes wants the Grail succession kept in the Ege family. Sublime, as Patriarch, has pledged that the Church will guarantee the Imperial succession through all of Johannes’s children.”

  Interesting. “Even through the daughters?”

  “Absolutely. Katrin, then Helspeth, before anyone else can be considered. The price? Johannes has to help conquer Calzir. You’ve already heard of the division of spoils.”

  There would be more to it than that, Brother Candle believed. Sublime would not give his dearest enemy anything that cheaply. Nor would Hansel be subverted that easily.

  Later, Michael Carhart wanted to know, “Will any of that really happen? Tormond can tell Sublime anything. What happens if he does try to suppress the Maysaleans, the Devedians, the Dainshaukin, the Pramans of the Terliagan Littoral, or the free-thinking Episcopals of the Connec?”

  Seldom spoken Tember Sihrt observed, “He’ll find himself in a cold and lonely place.”

  “Literally,” Bishop LeCroes said. “A lot of people will turn their backs if he tries. He needs a lot of cooperation to hold things together.”

  Michael Carhart observed, “None of you, and no one else since Honario Benedocto’s election, has pointed out how few of the world’s problems would be problems if Honario Benedocto wasn’t Patriarch.”

  Brother Candle asked, “Are you saying that somebody should do something about that?”

  “Oh, no. No! I was stating a fact. Sublime’s election has caused a horrible amount of misery and death. And he’s just gotten started.”

  “The man has a point,” Brother Purify observed. “Now we’re going to blacken our souls further by not keeping the Connec out of this war with Calzir. I know some Pramans. Plenty still live around Terliaga and along the coast there. They’re mostly good people. Like most Connectens. Like these Calzirans Sublime wants to butcher.”

  “Don’t mention the Terliagans,” Michael Carhart said. “If Sublime finds o
ut that Volsard didn’t wipe them out in his war with Meridian, he’ll put them on the suppression list with the rest of us. Right up top, probably.”

  Brother Candle said, “We may be worrying too much. Remember who our Duke is. I’m thinking he’ll never get around to doing much. Except to put Count Raymone in charge of the expedition to Calzir so he and his hotheads won’t make things worse at home. If Calzir is as obstinate as it’s always been, Sublime won’t have time to worry about the Connec.”

  Bishop LeCroes complained, “Sublime is young, though. He could be around for another thirty or forty years.”

  Tember Sihrt sneered. “In that case, you’d better get in touch with your god. Beg him to nullify that last Patriarchal election.”

  His attempt at humor fell flat.

  THE CONNECTEN EMBASSY TARRIED IN BROTHE NINE MORE DAYS. FOR eight of them Tormond and Isabeth tried to gain another audience with Sublime, to reexamine those questions causing a furor. Sublime put them off until it became obvious that there would be no further discussion.

  The Duke angrily ordered the embassy home following an announcement from Krois that Emperor Johannes would visit Brothe. Some thought that meant Hansel would bend the knee to Sublime in return for a Patriarchal decree that the Imperial succession be fixed in the Ege line. Much was made of the possibilities. Sublime seemed determined to force the future to fit to his personal vision. He had no time for whining bumpkins who refused to understand their role in his grand Episcopal reawakening. He did not fear the antagonism of the Instrumentalities of the Night.

  BROTHER CANDLE LOOKED BACK AS THEY CROSSED THE TERAGI, KNOWING he would see nothing like Brothe again. Memories were all he would take with him.

  So little gain. So little accomplished. They would go home and try to live as though nothing had changed.

  War with the Church had been averted. For the moment.

  * * *

  SQUABBLING AMONGST THE CONNECTENS NEVER CEASED. BROTHER CANdle was tempted to make his way home alone, just to escape the bickering. Yet he did not. As long as his presence was acceptable amongst traditional Chaldareans there was a chance he could speak for peace and reason. He did have some influence but he could not change decisions already made.

  The weather was little better than it had been during the eastward journey. Unless the Duke decided to take the day off. Then the weather was fine.

  Tormond wasted little time. In the Connec a disgruntled Raymone Garete was assembling the force promised to Sublime. There were fears the hotheaded Count might use the troops to push the Connec in a direction of his own choice.

  That fear was not unfounded. Raymone’s friends did hope that he would rebel. They tried to delay the embassy’s return.

  Duke Tormond would not be manipulated. Those who tried to stall he left behind. They always caught up.

  Tormond employed dozens of couriers to maintain contact with Sir Eardale Dunn and Count Raymone. Dunn reported no problems in Khaurene. But his news was always stale.

  Count Raymone moved from Antieux to Castreresone. That city was more centrally located. His messages all showed proper deference and submission. They lacked the accusation and recrimination so common elsewhere. Raymone seemed wholly engaged with the practical difficulties of assembling twenty-eight-hundred armed men in a province unfamiliar with war.

  The nationalist sentiment stirred by the Black Mountain Massacre had evaporated in disappointment and despair once Duke Tormond chose to visit the Mother City.

  The people of the Connec had complete confidence in their Duke. He would let the false Patriarch bully him into surrendering their rights and properties. Time proved them clairvoyant. Yet they would not turn on Tormond.

  Would they?

  Brother Candle feared that answer might depend on choices made by men more animated by pride and ego than national interest.

  26. Brothe, the Soultaken

  S

  hagot slept for six days. Svavar slept for the first four of those himself. He was so weak when he wakened that he barely had strength enough to crawl into the kitchen of the home where they had gone to ground.

  Pure disaster had befallen them when they tried to get the man the gods wanted destroyed. Two powerful sorcerers had gotten in the way. Not one, but two. The dispute that ensued should have been lethal. In fact, until Shagot awakened silent and almost insane from thirst and hunger, Svavar suspected that the encounter had, in fact, been fatal.

  Svavar dripped water into Shagot’s mouth with a rag. He fed his brother by spending hours pushing tiny wads of waterlogged bread past Shagot’s cracked lips.

  Svavar was not in good shape. He had suffered more wounds and brutalities than Shagot. But he had come back faster than his brother, this time.

  In moments when he thought beyond immediate survival, Svavar wondered what became of those two sorcerers. He and Grim had not had the power to destroy them. The Old Ones had not been that generous.

  Something was out of kilter. Something did not ring right. And had not since the band broke up. This mission should not be this hard.

  Svavar had memory problems, too. Reliability problems. Meaning he could conjure up several different but equally convincing memories of what happened after he and Grim had burst into the house that Grim said the Old Ones insisted was the Godslayer’s hideout. That resulted in an unexpected battle with sorcerers and Calziran pirates. A ghost, a shadow, a something strolled through that savagery, crafting its outcome. It was in every version of the memory, but Svavar could not compel it to become concrete.

  Svavar worried. And was afraid. The Old Ones might not be the only Instrumentalities involved. The Night was no monolith. Other powers might have a different interest in the Godslayer. Though he believed those two wizards were only defending themselves. The Godslayer was incidental.

  Had the Godslayer survived? A lot of people had not.

  Grim would explain when he awakened. If he awakened.

  Shagot was a man on the brink of life’s cliff, hanging on with two mangled fingers and a broken thumb.

  Svavar’s suspected that he and Shagot owed that enigmatic shade their lives. How had they found a place to hide while they were unconscious?

  Asgrimmur worried about being discovered before he recovered enough to fight back. These southerners were weak but not stupid. They knew something dark was afoot in Brothe. They were looking for a pair of blond strangers even before this latest dust up.

  The hunt would be more serious, now.

  Svavar did not know that Brothe remained preoccupied with the pirates. Sublime was not a forgiving man. He had threatened to excommunicate anyone who facilitated the escape of even one crippled old man or terrified teenage boy. The Patriarch, from the safety of Krois, was fierce and vengeful, much like his god in ancient times, before the Holy Founders redefined Him for a new age. So the pirates fought on.

  Svavar would have found Sublime’s attitude familiar. It was the sort common among the Gray Walker and his kin.

  WHEN SHAGOT FINALLY CAME AROUND SVAVAR SAW NO SANITY IN HIS EYES. He was not sure what he did see. The mind of a mad god, perhaps. If that was not an oxymoron.

  Awareness gradually entered the mind behind Shagot’s eyes. Svavar saw the rage fade, noted the exact instant when Grimur Grimmsson returned. Though Grim did not come across as sane himself once he emerged.

  “Don’t talk,” Svavar croaked. He had hardly trouble talking himself. “I don’t know how long it’s been. A long time. I’ve been awake, off and on, for two days.” In parched snatches he related the little he did know.

  Shagot understood the seriousness of his own condition. He did not pursue his usual mad recovery effort. He accepted water and bread mush the best he could, then went back to sleep. Never saying a word.

  Shagot slept for two more days.

  Svavar slept a lot, too. He felt much better when Grim next awakened, though his strength was still less than half normal. His wounds still hurt badly. His joints ached. As did his soul.
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  This time Shagot did talk, a few words at a time. “It’s been eight days, plus. The city has changed. We have to leave. They’ll start looking for us soon. Seriously. House to house. Using the power of the Collegium. We can’t take them on. So we’ll go away and strike again after they forget us.”

  “The Godslayer survived?”

  “Of course. You doubted that he would?”

  “I was pretty sure he had.”

  “Want a real kick in the ass? We saved the asshole’s life by attacking when we did. The way it came together, the Gray One suspects the Trickster’s meddling. But I don’t think the Trickster has that kind of reach.”

  “Something weird did happen, Grim. There was another power there, a shade, maybe. Something besides us and them sorcerers. Bigger than us and them put together. I think it would’ve kept us from killing the Godslayer if we’d tried. It saved us from getting dead, too, though. It even protected the sorcerers from us. No matter how hard I try, though, I can’t figure out who or what it was.”

  “Which is why the Gray One thinks his nephew must be involved, if not directly, then through somebody he conned into doing his dirty work.”

  “The All-Father doesn’t know what’s going on?”

  “Some things are hidden from the gods themselves. Particularly when other gods are involved.”

  “What?”

  “The presence you sensed must have been somebody who came through from the Great Sky Fortress during the fight. I think somebody seized the power of the blood just when some of the Chosen were going to come help us finish the Godslayer.”

  Svavar did not understand. “We were supposed to be done with it?”

  “Yes. We were that close. But somebody, probably from the Great Sky Fortress, sabotaged us. Somebody kept me from conjuring the Heroes.”

  That clarified nothing for Svavar. He did not think the presence of the unknown was something new. He thought they had picked it up as long ago as at that old battlefield in Arnhand. But Shagot’s speculation did offer a glimmer of the divine plan as Shagot understood it.