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

by Glen Cook

  The mainlander envoys did not appeal to Count Raymone. Connectens had become supporting characters in King Peter’s passion play.

  An excellent eventuation, too, Brother Candle believed. Peter might yet negate Sublime’s insanity. He might see the world around the Mother Sea introduced to an era of peace—should Sublime enjoy the great good fortune of being reunited with his creator.

  The Shippen adventure had helped Raymone Garete mature. He had ceased to be all rage and mindless action. The lesson Raymone had taken to heart was patience. Because in Shippen, once the invaders had become established, there was nothing to do but wait.

  TWENTY-TWO SHIPS, INCLUDING SEVERAL SMALL COASTERS FROM SHIPPEN, slipped into the Toe ports of Scarlene and Snucco. The former lay farthest west and was a fishing village without boats. The other was a small port accustomed to unloading agricultural products sent over from Shippen. There was a noteworthy absence of ships in that harbor, too. The collaborators who had come to Shippen insisted that had nothing to do with the recent unpleasantnesses suffered by the peoples of Chaldarean Firaldia. Only evil coincidence, that was all it was.

  There was no resistance. Those who wanted to fight had gone off to the hosting at al-Khazen, where they planned to crush the crusaders once they were sick and starving in the cold and snow.

  The Connecten and Direcians from Shippen encountered only those complications of conquest posed by distance and numbers. Towns surrendered as fast as the invaders could hike.

  King Peter was restrained only by the fact that he did not have troops sufficient to garrison all the territories willing to throw themselves at his feet. He considered enlisting Calzirans but had no money to pay them.

  Moving boldly, King Peter and Count Raymone overran two-thirds of what Patriarchal forces expected to occupy after al-Khazen’s fall. Peter’s army pushed east along the southern coast until his troops encountered Hansel’s coming westward.

  For Brother Candle it happened dizzyingly fast. By midwinter unconquered mainland Calzir had been reduced to a fifth of its original territory, mostly around al-Khazen. Enclaves existed at al-Healta and al-Stikla, as well. Warships from Dateon and Apareon blockaded both ports. Patriarchal troops were within sight of al-Khazen, on its northern side.

  Brother Candle found a place behind the captains and generals during a session about strategy for the endgame. He learned that Hansel was outraged by King Peter’s opportunism and dramatic, nearly bloodless success.

  Sublime was worse.

  Al-Khazen showed no inclination to surrender. The occasional prisoner taken suggested that the city’s commanders did not lack confidence in their ultimate triumph.

  Brother Candle observed, ministered to those of his own faith, and kept quiet. He nursed an abiding dread that the crusaders had been led artfully into an huge ambush. Someday, sooner than later, the Adversary’s most intimate and beloved minions would leap forth.

  Unexpectedly, never noticing the process, Brother Candle had been seduced into the sin of despair. He abjured it the moment he recognized it. It terrified him. But, for a long time, he could not conquer it. And there was no other Perfect there to guide him through the slough.

  He became so uncertain of himself and his faith that he began to contemplate ending all earthly pain.

  33. Sublime’s War in Calzir

  C

  ourtesy of the indefatigable Titus Consent and his Devedian associates, the city regiment enjoyed a comfortable camp behind a ridgeline within sight of al-Khazen. Even the least of the soldiers and animals enjoyed shelter from the weather. Local peasants and woodcutters, denied refuge inside al-Khazen because they represented useless stomachs, were eager to support their families by hauling firewood, helping the invaders build shelters, or doing whatever else they could. The fuel and timber were harvested from olive, citrus, walnut, and almond groves belonging to Calzirans who were inside the city, applauding themselves for having kept all the useless, hungry mouths outside.

  Wood, materials, and intelligence got paid for in food. The regiment’s supplies now came overland from Postastati, a ghost town of a fishing village on Firaldia’s west coast, just twenty miles from the ever-expanding Episcopal encampment. Calziran peasants did most of the hauling. Draconian punishments befell those who stole supplies.

  The regiment kept growing, fatter instead of stronger. Every Brothen functionary of standing, every member of the Collegium, seemed determined to be there when the last Firaldian Praman bastion yielded to the Will of God.

  Else chose a cottage on the fore slope of the ridge as his main observation point.

  The Pramans mounted a vigorous and aggressive defense, launching probes and sorties daily, always taking advantage of the worst weather. After a few minor disasters early on, Else’s captains realized that their upstart foreign colonel might have what it took to keep them alive.

  The Imperial forces suffered more setbacks. Hansel did not understand Sha-lug tactics.

  The Patriarchal force had Grade Drocker and his Brotherhood veterans. And Else Tage, who continued to suffer the moral pinch.

  Else, Pinkus Ghort, and Grade Drocker were in the lookout cottage considering al-Khazen. A light snow fell, hampering visibility. Locals promised the invaders that this was the worst winter in known history.

  Also under foot were a dozen bishops, Principatés, and important members of the Five Families. Grade Drocker had a calming effect on folk ordinarily inclined to be obstreperous. Sublime had declared him supreme commander of the Calziran Crusade, though nobody believed King Peter or the Emperor would take Drocker’s orders.

  Drocker observed, “It should be our turn today.”

  Else, who knew, agreed. “Their leadership is too predictable.”

  “Too predictable?”

  “From their point of view. Pinkus. The troop mix has been constant so far, hasn’t it? One cadre foreigner for fifteen Calzirans?”

  “That’s what I hear. I can’t get them to line up so I can . . .”

  “Stop!” Drocker gasped. He did not like Ghort’s folksy style. Ghort claimed that Drocker would die of apoplexy trying to figure out what was wrong if somebody made him laugh. “Pay attention.” Drocker pointed. His hand shook.

  Else did not expect Drocker to survive the campaign. He slipped a little every day. But an immense will drove the man onward.

  A wisp of signal smoke became visible thirty degrees to the right of a line of sight to al-Khazen. It was dark. A plan had worked out.

  Else learned the full story later. An unexpectedly large Calziran force had taken the bait. The Pramans chased fleeing Brothen horsemen into a trap where more than four hundred of their number fell in a fierce crossfire and subsequent assault from both flanks. Eighty prisoners were taken, too, none Sha-lug or Lucidian. The action was a disaster for the Pramans.

  Else repeated the tactic. The other side seemed unable to imagine their enemies using their own stratagems against them.

  PRINCIPATÉ DIVINO BRUGLIONI TOLD ELSE, “THE PATRIARCH WANTS AN ASsault on al-Khazen. He’s gotten behind repaying the money he borrowed to buy votes to get elected. He’s talking about finding officers who are more aggressive.”

  “Anyone point out that he’s not in charge?”

  “He wouldn’t listen. It verges on heresy to say so, but we erred when we compromised on Honario Benedocto.”

  The occasion was a gathering in the lookout cottage. Else and his staff spent their days there, now. Grade Drocker was a fixture. A continuously changing cast of Principatés wandered through. Discussion concerned the feasibility of building a stockade around the city, then constructing small forts capable of laying fires on the approaches to al-Khazen’s gates and sally ports.

  Grade Drocker eyed Principaté Bruglioni like he was a lunatic. Ghort suggested, “We ought to talk that over with my boss.” He indicated Bronte Doneto. Doneto stared at al-Khazen, dirty gray behind a fall of snow dust, like he wanted to smash it fast so he could get on home.

  Droc
ker, wheezing and gasping as ever, declared, “If the Patriarch wants those walls stormed he can drag his craven carcass down here and lead the charge.”

  Ghort said, “Of course. Time will deliver al-Khazen. The Patriarch needs money, let him borrow it again.”

  He stated the plain truth about al-Khazen. The invaders’ circle kept tightening. And the city’s storehouses did not contain the grain shown by the records. Corrupt officials had sold it over the years.

  Foraging parties had no success. Raiding parties failed to capture Chaldarean stores. In areas held by Episcopal troops, every Praman effort encountered disaster.

  Drocker agreed with Ghort. “Sublime needs money, let him borrow it from the Deves.” Then, “Doneto will hammer some sense into his head.”

  “And if he can’t?”

  “We ignore the ignoramus. We took no oath to commit suicide for Honario Benedocto.”

  Else suspected there was a personal component to Drocker’s relations with the Patriarch.

  Drocker spoke in spurts punctuated by gasps for breath, but lately the spoken chunks were longer and the interruptions shorter. “You’re being too clever with your ambushes, Hecht.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’ve done well, anticipating the enemy. But he’ll get the notion that he needs to try a more sinister tack.”

  “Sir?” Else spoke humbly. Drocker’s stumbling, halting communications lately recalled every teacher he had had. Drocker had decided to become his mentor.

  Drocker said, “You’ve fought them man to man and mind to mind and have had the advantage because of the Calziran Deves.” Those people would pay dearly if the Praman leadership found them out.

  Drocker said, “There are three major sorcerers in al-Khazen. Plus the Masters of Ghosts that accompany Dreangerean formations. They don’t want us to know they’re there. But they won’t suffer many more failures.”

  Else responded, “Another outstanding reason for not attacking. They can conjure all the Instrumentalities of the Night.”

  “They would start small.”

  Principaté Bruglioni asked, “Is that true, Drocker? About the sorcerers?”

  “It is.”

  “Why wasn’t the Collegium made aware?”

  Drocker was blunt. “We didn’t want you people babbling the news all over Firaldia.”

  Easy to see why Drocker was not beloved by the Episcopal hierarchy. He smoldered with contempt for the self-serving pettiness of Church politics. “You’ll be needed when the Unbeliever summons the Instrumentalities of the Night, however.” For Drocker there was only one worthy struggle, the war against the Night.

  “You need to know now,” Else told Doneto. “Because they’ll come after you first.”

  Drocker clarified his position. “There will be no attack. Waiting, not wasting, let’s us develop a pool of veterans for the future.”

  Drocker’s longer speeches left his audience impatient. But no one tried to hurry him. This was war ground, the Brotherhood’s home country. Few members of that Brotherhood were more terrible than Grade Drocker.

  Drocker confided, “They think I’m hard.” He laughed. That brought on a coughing fit so violent that Else summoned the Brotherhood physician, who got Drocker inhaling exudations of herbs crushed in a leather sack. Redfearn Bechter helped Drocker with the bag. When the sorcerer recovered, he told Else, “I’m an altar boy. Wait till they meet Asher Huggin, Parthen Lorica, Alin Hamlet, or Bugo Armiene. They scare me.”

  “Then I hope I never meet any of them.

  Drocker asked, “Does that worry you?”

  “Sure. It would worry anyone who isn’t one of you.”

  Drocker raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “If you’re an everyday sort who has to scratch for your next meal you find people who’re that absolute in their convictions really frightening.”

  Drocker seemed amused.

  Outside, snow fell lightly but steadily. The weather had settled into an unchanging pattern. Would it end with Calzir under a mile of ice, the way it was in the far north?

  Else shivered. Even a well-built structure like the lookout cottage could not keep the cold out. The chills, the drafts, all the talk about Praman sorcerers coagulated in Else’s mind. He left Drocker, found Ghort. “Pinkus, all the yammer has got me thinking. If those people over there send spooks to aggravate us, and we don’t get ready . . .”

  “I got ya, Pipe. What do we do to get ready?”

  “The stuff every family does when they live where the Night is always at the door. Plug up all the cracks.”

  “Plug up all the cracks,” was, in fact, an old saw from Duarnenia. Variants existed everywhere. Folk wisdom based on common sense. By plugging all the cracks you kept the cold out and you kept the things of the Night out in the cold.

  Plug up all the cracks. “Pipe, I’ve whispered that sweet nothing into every subaltern’s ear starting the first night we had to make camp.”

  “Then I don’t need to nag.”

  Plug up all the cracks. Else could not imagine anyone in a strange land not doing that automatically.

  TITUS CONSENT BROUGHT A PAIR OF LOCAL DEVES TO ELSE. HE WHISPERED, “These people have risked everything for us, Colonel. They can’t go back. But they still have family inside.”

  “I understand.” He wanted to shriek. He was trapped. These Deves wanted to betray his people to his enemies. And he had to protect and reward them. “Set up some kind of show trial. Script it so it looks like we’re lying about Calzir’s Devedians helping us. Condemn them to be hung, then grant clemency at the request of the Deves of Brothe.”

  “It’s uglier than a dead baby, but I can make it work.”

  “Have they been noticed yet?”

  “No. We’re keeping them out of sight. They won’t talk to anybody but you.”

  “Keep on doing that. Bring them in. Why me?”

  “They’re worried about spies. They’ve heard that there’s at least one highly placed Praman agent over here.”

  “No doubt true. Human nature being human nature.” Else Tage was careful not to remind any Deve that his loyalty might not lie with the enemies of al-Prama.

  Life was not going well for the besieged, the spies reported, though al-Khazen was not yet under a complete siege. The slaughter of dray animals had begun. Cavalry mounts remained untouched but there was little feed for them. The granaries were empty. Execution of the officials responsible eased the strain on stores only slightly.

  Inhabitants of al-Khazen who did not share the religious enthusiasms of the majority suffered the most. Else listened to the horror stories. He began to glance askance at Consent. “Be patient,” Consent urged. “As you’re always telling us.”

  “I do hope to hear something that makes my indulgence worthwhile.”

  The Calzirans were an elderly couple who had been employed in Mafti al-Araj el-Arak’s palace, now occupied by the foreign captains.

  “They managed the books,” Titus explained.

  “So they have a special place in your heart.”

  “They had a special opportunity to be close to important discussions.”

  The old folks from al-Khazen were no more patient than Else. They were exhausted. They wanted to lay their old bones down and sleep. Though they were worried about their children and grandchildren.

  Else tried not to torment himself wondering why the old Deves preferred the mercies of unknown Chaldareans to those of known Pramans.

  Their big news was that the sorcerers of al-Khazen would come out of hiding soon.

  Else could not shake a conviction that he had missed something once the interview ended. He snapped, “What did I just miss, Titus? You could’ve sent me a one-sentence note that would’ve covered all that.”

  Consent replied, “I wanted to put a human face on the Devedian tragedy. Obviously, I failed.”

  Else locked gazes with Gledius Stewpo. The dwarf shrugged. “The young only learn directly. But I do think those old people can h
elp.”

  “How?”

  “They worked in the palace. They know the important buildings.”

  “I see. You’re right. I’ve grown impatient.”

  “Easy to do, I’d think, having to stand hip to hip with Grade Drocker.”

  “You have no idea.” He and Consent spent an hour discussing logistical problems. The worst being that other Patriarchal forces thought they could become parasites on the city regiment.

  EARLY ENCOUNTERS WITH THINGS OF THE NIGHT WERE SUBTLE. THE SORcerers in al-Khazen were not eager to declare themselves.

  The city regiment handled the probes as men always had, with charms, spells, and by plugging all the cracks.

  The Emperor’s troops tightened the circle in the hills to the east and south. King Peter was less aggressive. His troops wanted to stay out of the weather.

  Else, Grade Drocker, several Principatés, and the commanders of contingents from several Episcopal States were studying the feasibility of infiltrating al-Khazen via a wastewater outlet discovered by Collegium sorcerers, employing the same sort of minor entities the Pramans used to scout their besiegers. Else asked, “Are we sure they don’t know this drainage system exists?”

  Bronte Doneto replied, “Not even your Deve captives knew about it. The engineering is Old Empire. Cassina was a major city of the Old Empire.”

  Pinkus Ghort interrupted. “Sorry, Pipe. Colonel. Principaté. Word just came. The foreign Pramans have started rounding up all the non-Pramans in the city.”

  Else exchanged glances with Doneto. “Does that mean they’ve figured out that the Deves are helping us?”

  Ghort volunteered, “Deves brought the news.”

  Else asked, “Have there been executions? Have . . . ? Sorry, Pinkus. I won’t learn anything with my mouth open, will I?”

  “You might. You’re special. But that’s all the news there is. Nobody knows what they’ll do with the prisoners. There’s been fighting.”

  Bronte Doneto observed, “Too bad we aren’t set to exploit that drainage system. We could hit them while they’re distracted.”