by Glen Cook
The same happened at other minor ports. Brother Candle was only marginally in the know. The plan seemed to be to deny Shippen’s resources to mainland Calzir. Which should not stand up long if Shippen’s produce was not available.
King Peter and Count Raymone meant to subdue an island more vast than half the kingdoms in the Chaldarean world. With Connecten and Navayan forces combined numbering fewer than four thousand men. The Platadurans would not fight ashore.
Brother Candle’s military experience consisted of having been present at the Black Mountain Massacre. He did not understand that Shippen need not be conquered in its entirety in order to keep its resources from reaching the mainland.
Local resistance ended quickly.
Historically, Shippen never sustained a fight once an invader gained a solid foothold. The working population did not care who was in charge. The arrogations of the ruling classes had no abiding impact on everyday life. As long as the mines produced copper and silver and the fields and orchards yielded surpluses of grain and fruit. The weather was usually favorable and there had been no natural disaster since a series of volcanic eruptions in pre-Brothen antiquity.
The great disasters in Shippen’s past were the handiwork of Man, sometimes a war but more often a demonstration of excess by some sorcerer self-deluded into thinking that he could master the Instrumentalities of the Night.
Only the most brilliant minds could convince themselves that they were capable of exempting themselves from the Tyranny of the Night.
BROTHER CANDLE AND TARO’S CONNECTENS NEXT WENT ASHORE AT Caltium Cidanta. The town stank of decaying fish entrails. Clouds of shrieking gulls swirled overhead. Caltium Cidanta had no modern significance. In antiquity it was important, though. It was from Caltium Cidanta that the Colpheroen general Eru Itutmu left the Brothen Empire to go defend his homeland, Dreanger—after he and thousands who believed him to be a god spent a generation plaguing the adolescent empire. Eru Itutmu killed a quarter million Brothens but suffered defeat, both in Brothe and at home. Those early Brothens were stubborn. They fought Eru Ututmu for decades, and conquered every ally Dreanger found anywhere around the Mother Sea.
Far memories of Eru Itutmu were all Caltium Cidanta had to recommend it.
Bishop LeCroes grumbled, “This place is like every other damned town on the island. There aren’t any boats. There aren’t any men younger than sixty or boys older than twelve. And the women come in three types: homely, homelier, and homeliest.”
Brother Candle chuckled. “I’m just a simpleminded heretic, Bries, but I picked up the notion somewhere that we’re supposed to treat the local females the way we’d want our stout Connecten wives treated. Not to mention that celibacy is part of your job.”
“You’re a major pain in the fundament, Candle. A total fun-killer.”
“I do what I can.”
The real point was, there were no women of breeding age, however liberal your outlook.
LeCroes grumbled, “Anything female that might tempt a sinner, including ewes and nannies and sows, is hiding in the mountains.”
Occupation of Caltium Cidanta and its environs was anticlimactic. The sole casualty was a Terliagan slinger who broke a finger while showing off to some local boys. Those villagers still in place betrayed no overt resentment. They did demonstrate a healthy wariness.
Brother Candle sensed a high level of resignation.
“It’s part of the culture,” the Plataduran chaplain assured him. He had come ashore because he was familiar with the Shippen dialect. “Shippen has been invaded a lot. The people know they’ll get through it.”
“Yet they’ll go out pirating.” The fact that they would had nothing to do with how they responded to occupation. The piratical inclination existed because of the island’s history.
Most invasions had begun with pirate types who came to plunder and found little worth carrying away. But they did find Shippen to be a good place to hide from their enemies.
The Plataduran chaplain indicated a hazy indigo line of teeth. “If the boys get an urge to misbehave they’ll have to jog all the way over there. They’ll lose the mood by the time they get there.”
THE OCCUPATION OF SHIPPEN PROCEEDED WITHOUT FANFARE OR MUCH conflict. Nobles of standing had gone over to the mainland to resist the Unbeliever’s attack there. They added to and shared in the privation and misery enjoyed by those who served in the armies of God.
On Shippen, natives and occupiers lived comfortably and harmoniously. The Connectens helped bring in the harvest. The women returned from the hills, a few at a time, bringing their livestock. The Connectens were not impressed. The joke went that Calziran women explained why Calziran men had picked a fight with Chaldarean Firaldia.
Brother Candle pitched in. And talked about his own beliefs. Local Pramans found him amusing. Native Chaldareans, a third of the population, thought the Maysalean Heresy might be on to something.
Brothe, the Episcopal Church, and the Patriarchy were not beloved of Shippen’s Chaldareans.
Brother Candle wished Bishop LeCroes considerable distress. The Bishop was out of his element, a chaplain without a flock. The Connectens off Taro were all Maysaleans, Terliagans, and Episcopal Chaldareans who favored Sublime V over Immaculate II.
“I’m not trying to cause you misery, Bries.”
“I know. I dug my own grave when I decided I’d rather sail with a friend. If I had any sense I’d lay down in it and stop whining.”
“Buy a donkey and catch up with Count Raymone.” It was evening in Caltium Cidanta. Brother Candle was sampling the local vintage, which was surprisingly good. His expedition was turning out to be a vacation from life.
On Shippen the fact that there was a war on, that men were dying as great religions strove to resolve their relative merits in trial by combat, no longer seemed due much interest.
There was a dearth of determined true believers on both sides, on that island. No one demonstrated any special interest in making sure his God would be the sole survivor of the contest.
BROTHER CANDLE ENJOYED HIS TIME ON SHIPPEN THOROUGHLY, LOAFING and debating nonsense with anyone who felt like bothering. Elsewhere, though, if overly dramatic dispatches could be credited, cataclysms were being brewed.
No one on Brother Candle’s side of the Strait of Rhype much cared to find out what those might be.
30. Alameddine and Calzir
A
ll things move slower and take longer. In most cases they also cost more. The Grail Emperor hoped to push through the Vaillarentiglia Mountains in time to distress the Calziran harvest. Only a few of Vondera Koterba’s companies made it. A handful of Imperial scouts went with them. They were feeble but had little difficulty fending off the few ragged, undisciplined Calzirans they encountered. They encountered none of the dreaded Praman sorceries they had heard about since childhood.
Calzir’s political landscape was as chaotic as elsewhere in Firaldia. Several minor warlords offered to change sides if they could retain their holdings. That availed them nothing. Sublime did not want Unbeliever allies.
The Lucidians and Dreangereans dealt harshly with Calzirans they suspected of unstable loyalties.
Forces like Else’s Brothen City Regiment, swollen to more than four thousand men, with attendant animals and hangers-on, were much delayed. Practicalities and political infighting hamstrung progress.
Else and his staff performed miracles of organization and training. Their efforts received universal kudos. Even Ferris Renfrow offered the occasional grudging nod during brief respites from spying on Calzir.
No matter how well prepared the City Regiment became, it never marched. The orders to do so never came because of squabbling on high.
Similar petty behavior hampered volunteer formations throughout the Patriarchal States.
The Five Families all wanted more than a fair share of what might be gained in Calzir. On a lesser scale, the Patriarch, the Collegium, the Brotherhood of War, and every city raising for
ces, were equally driven by greed. There was so much confidence in a Chaldarean victory that none of the players concerned themselves about the cost of impeding progress.
“MY PATIENCE IS EXHAUSTED,” ELSE SAID. “WE HAVE TO GET AWAY FROM these insane, overgrown children.”
“And here we go,” Pinkus Ghort told him. The occasion was a small, private staff meeting more than a month past the target date Hansel had set for first operations. “We send the ready companies south now. One a day. Titus has the transit stuff set. It’s going to fall apart if we don’t use it.”
“Interesting.” Moving single companies was something Else could do without getting approval from a dozen interfering Brothes. “How long before the bigwigs start squawking?”
“That’ll depend on who’s paying attention. Renfrow ought to catch on first. But he spends most of his time in Calzir. Spying. The Deves down there have been producing some great intelligence. But they’re getting nervous. We’re taking too damned long. The Lucidians and Dreangereans have gotten real active, lately. The Deves are scared they’ll figure out what’s going on and deal harshly with the infidel community.”
Else asked, “Titus, what do you think about that?”
“He’s right. Calzir’s Devedians are scared. Devedians everywhere are scared. It’s part of being a Deve.”
“I’m in no position to reassure anyone.”
“You don’t concern them much, sir.”
The Devedian community had given him no cause for disappointment. Though their efficiency at pulling things together stirred old, deep suspicions. Was there any truth in those old tales of secret Devedian brotherhoods out to control the world surreptitiously?
Gledius Stewpo always mocked that notion. He could spark off scores of plausible arguments against it, but there were times when one had to wonder. As, say, when one found Deves armed with firepowder weapons capable of bringing down the most powerful sorcerer.
“Don’t be silly,” Stewpo told Else. “If we had a quarter of the power those stories claim we’d never suffer the kind of crap that happened in Sonsa.”
“Uhm?” Else grunted.
“Whenever you bump noses with the notion that Deves are the secret masters, ask yourself why all the Deves you know live the way they do when everybody else lives the way they do.”
Else confessed, “I don’t care about the religious business. I don’t care who believes what as long as the job gets done.”
Stewpo grinned. He lacked a front tooth, on top. A bit more hair, Else thought, and the dwarf would bear a striking resemblance to a creature out of a tale where runt folk spun straw into gold.
Stewpo’s whole race hailed from a land where fairy tales reigned, though.
“No secret overlords,” Stewpo promised. “If every Devedian agreed that that was the best idea since the Creator declared us His Chosen People, it would fall apart as soon as you pulled four Devedians together to make it happen. You think pettiness, vanity, and envy are exclusive to your world? Try being part of the Devedian underclass. Where every carat of status is jealously nurtured—and becomes a target for anybody who thinks he can profit if you lose.”
Else nodded. He could pretend to believe anything. “Titus. The companies have to move south. Now. Advise your correspondents. Gledius. I know you don’t speak for Brothe’s Deves. But you’re the big bull Deve who’s here right now. Is there going to be a Devedian company or not?” For weeks the Deves had muttered about adding a company of their own to the city regiment. But their leaders never seemed quite sure what they wanted. Nor was Else sure that the Patriarch and his henchmen would permit it. Though it was common knowledge that King Peter’s combined Navayan and Connecten force including not only Chaldarean heretics but Devedians and Pramans, with the latter more numerous than right-thinking pro-Brothen Episcopals.
“There will be a small force of specialists. Men with the technical skills to help you solve your special problems.”
Else supposed that meant clerks and accountants whose most important function would be to serve as the conscience of the regiment.
THE SUMMONS WAS SO LONG COMING THAT ELSE HOPED HE WAS BEING overlooked. A dozen companies had gone south, headed for an encampment near the border town Pateni Persus. One of those companies was Bruglioni. Two hundred strong, it included a dozen actual members of the family. The Arniena force, commanded by Rogoz Sayag, was as large. The well-armed Devedian contingent, gone early to blaze the way, numbered more than three hundred. Quite a lot of specialists.
Eight Principatés sat behind a long table. Else recognized them all. One represented each of the Five Families. Principaté Doneto undoubtedly stood in for his cousin. A senile octogenarian did nothing but make strange noises and drool while a thirtyish bishop read his mind and spoke for him. Finally, there was Principaté Barendt from Smoogen in the New Brothen Empire. Hansel’s man.
The Madesetti Principaté was blunt. “What do you think you’re doing, General Hecht?”
Else stifled impulse. After all, he had just been promoted. In one man’s mind. “Could you be specific, Your Grace? I was hired to train and command a regiment that the City would place at the Holy Father’s disposal. I’ve done that. The Holy Father has often said that he wants Calzir’s punishment begun. First, it was before the harvest. Now it’s before winter. But we’re still here, far from Alameddine and the Vaillarentiglia Mountains, while the Five Families squabble over loot that’s still in Calziran hands.”
To Else’s astonishment Grade Drocker made a surprise appearance while he spoke. Drocker interjected, “Presenting this sort with the accomplished fact is the only way things get done, Hecht. Listen up, Your Graces. I have a message.” Drocker sounded far stronger than he had in more than a year.
Else considered the Brotherhood sorcerer warily. He had not known that Drocker was in town. The Brotherhood kept its secrets well.
Drocker continued, “I came back to find out why the delays continue. It isn’t a journey I fancied. I have little stamina anymore. It’s past time to begin, gentlemen. The Connecten and Direcian forces have established themselves on Shippen. Hunger flirts with mainland Calzir already. The strategy originally approved by the Holy Father is working perfectly. He has expressed frustration, though, because the next step continues to be delayed. The key group of soldiers remain tied up here.”
Drocker glowered. He dared. The Collegium dreaded him. Everyone feared the Brotherhood of War. Most especially, they feared the displeasure of the Special Office. Not even the Patriarch himself could compel the Brotherhood of War.
“Colonel Hecht, I commend your initiative.” There went the promotion. And here came several new enemies. “His Holiness has bid me take control of the City Regiment, heeding advice from none but its appointed commander.” Drocker’s battered features dared defiance as he surveyed the Principatés.
The Special Office would turn on the Collegium someday. The extinction of sorcery was the fountainhead mission of the Special Office.
Drocker said, “The Patriarch has decided that all forces raised for the Calziran Crusade will move to Alameddine now. He told me to deal with obstructionism however I see fit.”
Someone tried to raise the point that the city regiment was not a Patriarchal force. Contradicting its specific charter.
Grade Drocker said nothing. His ruined face, intense and cold, was sufficient to close debate. That was real power. More power than Else would have guessed that Drocker possessed.
ELSE REACHED THE PATENI PERSUS ENCAMPMENT ON A DAY REPORTED TO BE unnaturally cold for Alameddine. Snowflakes flashed amongst the drops of misty rain. Snow and ice had begun to accumulate on the peaks of the Vaillarentiglia Mountains for the first time in centuries. Else did not care. He was miserable enough right where he was. He had ridden all day under conditions that had worsened by the minute.
Perhaps what they said about winter in Calzir was no exaggeration.
Else was not eager for a campaign in this, which could only get uglier. B
ut Hansel, Sublime, and Drocker all were eager to follow up on King Peter’s successes on Shippen. The weather did not trouble them.
The last few hundred of the city regiment accompanied Else. If Pinkus Ghort had done his job, those in camp already would be ready to move on south.
“They finally ran your ass out of Brothe, eh?” Ghort asked when Else arrived, though he saved the familiarity till they were in private. He had set up the regimental headquarters inside a deserted church.
“Drocker came to town. He made them turn me loose. They’re mad as hornets, too. But they’re mad at Drocker.”
“And that won’t do them no fucking good, right?”
“Not even a little. What kind of shape are we in?”
“You won’t be unhappy with the troops. Some of the officers, though . . . My heart wouldn’t break if some kind of plague came along that only kills incompetents.”
“Take it up with God. Because you won’t get help from any earthly power. I tried three times, with three different gangs of power brokers. I might as well have been speaking Lindrehr from back home. They don’t comprehend merit or competence. . . . Come on. I’m serious. What shape are we in? We’re going to move real soon, now.”
“They told you any more about what they want us to do?”
“Everything. I mean, we have to do everything. Like overrun everything west of al-Khazen. While keeping the folks in al-Khazen fixed until the rest of the country has been mopped up. Do we have a movement plan?”
“Thanks to the Deves. They’re bringing in some great info. You got something on them?”
“I promised them we’d treat them right. And their Calziran cousins, too. That shouldn’t be hard. Should it?”
Ghort shifted uneasily. “I don’t know.”
Ghort’s orderly poked his head into the room. “Captain, there’re some Deves out here who say they have to see you and the colonel right now.”