Surrender to the Will of the Night

by Glen Cook

  A message from Count Raymone arrived during the officers’ meeting. It reported rumors of an Arnhander army headed for Viscesment, to capture the bridges there before invading the Connec. The Count had friends and agents in Salpeno. And Anne of Menand had enemies willing to betray Arnhand if that would burn the whore.

  “Gentlemen, it’s clear. Anne of Menand has defied the Patriarch. She’s sending troops into the Connec to cleanse it of the Maysalean Heresy. Her real motive is probably the same old grab for property and power. There seem to be three armies. One is coming our way. It numbers between two thousand and twenty-eight hundred, the leadership mostly people Anne of Menand would like to be shut of. It should accumulate Grolsachers along the way. The Patriarch wants us to stop these people. We have the numbers and the skills. And these won’t be men eager to die for Anne of Menand. So we have to delay our holidays. In the meantime, we need to secure Viscesment and its bridges.”

  He expected grumbling.

  There was a lot of grumbling. The officers reminded the men that while commanded by the Captain-General they had never missed their pay. How many soldiers could say that?

  In many armies the leaders considered the opportunity to steal money meant for the men to be one of the perquisites of command.

  Titus Consent, possibly the most disgruntled Patriarchal of all, said, “There may be irony at work, here.”

  “Yes?” Hecht asked.

  “It’s well known that since Regard took the throne Anne and her Church cronies have taxed Arnhand blind. She must have sent some of that with her crusaders.”

  Consent launched a long-winded explanation of his reasoning. Hecht listened with half an ear, already worrying how best to carry out his orders while minimizing the suffering of his troops. “What was that?”

  “I said if they bring as big a war chest as they’ll need to finance a long campaign, we could take enough to keep the troops together.”

  What next? was on the minds of thousands.

  “Maybe, Titus. Maybe. One thing at a time.”

  The Patriarchal army reached Viscesment with days to spare. The Arnhander crusaders did not want to be in the field. They moved just fast enough to soften the screeches of the Society monks. The force had been raised according to the laws of the feudal levy. Their forty days were rolling away. They might never have to fight if they dithered long enough.

  Consent was right about the war chest. The bishops who considered themselves to be in charge intended to keep the army together by taking its men into pay. Once they had completed their feudal obligations, they could not imagine the nobles and knights not being willing, even eager to continue. They would be, after all, doing God’s work.

  Titus Consent sent agents to meet them. Those assessed the oncoming troops, took names, estimated individual wealth. Disgruntlement vanished in the face of confidence and the expectation of ransoms.

  The grumbling changed character. Now the men groused about not getting a chance at the bigger Arnhander columns out west, where richer prizes could be taken. Even King Regard, in the field again because that was the only way to escape his terrible mother.

  The Captain-General was less sanguine. What was he missing? Why would Anne send a force so small — even counting on it being reinforced by essentially useless Grolsachers — against his own veteran force?

  Count Raymone Garete and Socia offered an answer that fifth evening, two before the crusaders were expected to slouch into view. Hecht was entertaining them at a small, private supper.

  “You’re ignoring faith, Captain-General. You’re overlooking the fact that Anne is so sure her cause is righteous, she can’t imagine that the Church would do anything to stop her. Corrupt as her life may be otherwise, she truly believes she’s doing the work of God in this. She knows, beyond any doubt, that you’ll step aside after a token gesture to maintain the pretense of honor. I have friends inside Arnhand’s councils. The people most devoted to this crusade absolutely believe that your soldiers will defect before they risk their souls fighting God’s Will. They’re also convinced that you won’t resist a chance to finish what you started last year.”

  Hecht asked, “Titus. Do you know any of our men who actually think like that?”

  “A few may. Possibly. I haven’t run into them. I know some who say they’ve let Society spies think they feel that way. Hoping they’ll keep coming to the harvest.”

  Always there were complications. Problems guessing the true loyalties of various men. Hecht believed he could count on most of his people. But adding religion to any equation altered its balance unpredictably.

  Men would do bizarre things when they thought their immortal souls were at stake.

  “Let’s not disabuse them of their illusions. Once Count Raymone leaves us, and has gotten a good head start, start a rumor that I plan to arrest him. Count, I’ve come up with a fairly complicated scheme that could help us succeed at slight cost.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “As may be these walls. The Anti-Patriarchs had several fine quiet rooms. I suggest we use the nearest after supper.”

  ***

  Arnhander scouts informed their commanders that the Captain-General’s troops were headed back to Firaldia. A few remained in Viscesment, getting ready to go chase Count Raymone Garete as soon as an accommodation with the crusaders had been reached. If they could not capture the wicked Count they would, at least, cut him off from Antieux.

  “We’ll find out how much those people are slaves to their own wishful thinking,” Hecht said. “Titus. Has it been going smoothly?”

  Consent was one of few staffers who hadn’t been sent to set up what was coming.

  “Like clockwork.”

  “I worry when things go too well.”

  “And you worry when they don’t. You just plain worry.”

  “Oh. Yes. I guess I do. And something that’s worrying me now is, I don’t see any Deves around anymore. Have we lost them?”

  “Yes. I get very little out of the Devedian community anymore. When I do I’m not sure it’s any good.”

  “Why?”

  “They feel badly used in the matter of Krulik and Sneigon.”

  “They feel badly used? They do?”

  “No point yelling at me. They think they have the right to do whatever they want with their product as long as they fill your needs first. The constraints imposed after the explosions, and after they were found out, they consider unreasonable. Outright oppressive, even.”

  Though inclined, Hecht did not say that he was fully capable of showing those people some real oppression.

  “Where are they building their secret foundries?”

  “Sir? Piper?”

  “I’m not stupid, Titus. Nor are you naive enough to think they’ve accepted the rules we set down. They see a chance to get rich fixing the rest of us up to kill each other more effectively. It’ll take more than one rebuke for them to get my message.”

  Consent’s eyes narrowed. His face hardened. “Was Krulik and Sneigon destroyed on purpose?”

  “No. But I might’ve if I’d known what we found out after we got into their records. I wouldn’t lose any sleep, either. The way they were operating, they would’ve sold the powder Rudenes Schneidel’s thugs used to attack Anna’s house. They don’t care how their product is used as long as it’s paid for.”

  “I do understand. … What, Berdak?”

  “A gentleman wants to see the Captain-General. He says it’s life-and-death critical. He has plenipotentiary credentials from the Imperial court.”

  Ferris Renfrow. Or, if not Renfrow, Algres Drear. Which could have dramatically different implications.

  “Send him in. Stay, Titus. Unless he asks you to go.”

  A moment later, “Ah. Renfrow. Not a gentleman after all. How long did it take you to get past all the people who don’t want me to find out what’s going on in the world?”

  “Not so long. I have a golden tongue. People listen when I tell them it’s
important.”

  “So, then, tell me.”

  Renfrow glanced at Consent.

  “He’ll know in a minute, anyway.”

  “A quiet room, at least? So the whole world doesn’t know in a minute? Some people need to be kept in the dark.”

  “Titus? We have a small room right back there.” To Renfrow, “They’re all over the Palace. The Anti-Patriarchs were justifiably paranoid.”

  Titus Consent did not know Ferris Renfrow, other than by reputation. Clearly, he wondered how Hecht knew the man.

  Hecht shut the door of a tight little room that had been used to hide female visitors more than to protect conversations.

  “Crowded,” Renfrow observed.

  “The sooner you tell it the sooner we’re back out where we can breathe.”

  “Bellicose is dead. Your old friend Bronte Doneto has arranged to succeed him. That will be decided on the second ballot. A bull forged in the name of the Collegium is on its way. It will direct you to forget Bellicose’s orders. You’re to place your forces at the disposal of the Arnhander crusaders. This isn’t a legal order now. It will become legal once the Interregnum is complete and Doneto takes full control. Tomlin Ergoten will take over from you the day the Interregnum officially ends.”

  “Who is Tomlin Ergoten? A Brotherhood import? I thought I knew everyone of standing in Firaldia.”

  “Tomlin Ergoten is a false name meant to protect Pinkus Ghort. Some people are afraid you won’t cooperate if you know Ghort is going to replace you.”

  “Some people being Bronte Doneto?”

  “Exactly. The man has a hard-on for you.”

  “Hang on,” Titus Consent said. “An Interregnum. It lasts twenty-six days. When did Bellicose die?”

  “About four hours ago.” Renfrow’s expression dared Consent to pursue that.

  Titus knew a waste of time and energy when he met it head-on. Renfrow would not explain. He nodded, left it to his commander to ask questions.

  Hecht remained impassive. With an effort.

  Where was Cloven Februaren when he could be particularly useful?

  There had been no sign of that old man for ages.

  “Tomlin Ergoten. Strange name.”

  “Sounds like a disease,” Renfrow said.

  “Wonder where they came up with that?” But curiosity was pointless. “How long till the orders get here?”

  “You have something in mind?”

  “Just a gesture. To leave Bellicose’s stamp on the world.” The latest Patriarch could not have taken a more controversial reign name. He had wanted the world to know he was one militant bastard about the true mission of the Church.

  Renfrow said, “Give me an idea. Maybe I can contribute.”

  “I can crush the Arnhanders headed this way. Capture most of them. Ransom them. So my men go into unemployment with some prospects.”

  “It could be made difficult for couriers to get through. But your men don’t have to be unemployed. Take them with you.”

  “With me? Where?”

  “Don’t be coy, Captain-General. The Empress wants you to lead a crusade to liberate the Holy Lands. A most ironic turn of the wheel. Take the job. The barons will scream but there’s a lot of Ferocious Little Hans in Katrin. She’ll get what she wants. Once you take the job, you can bring your own people in to help.”

  Piper Hecht had no desire to lead another crusade.

  “I’d say you don’t have much choice. You’ll get no work in the Patriarchal States. Bronte Doneto must be nursing a huge grudge.”

  “He knows he can’t count on me to be his tool instead of the Church’s.”

  “Sure. That sounds good.”

  Titus made a growling noise. He was not best pleased by the Imperial.

  Hecht asked, “You speaking for the Empress?”

  “She hasn’t heard the news.”

  “Let’s see where she stands once she has.” Hecht signed Consent to silence.

  Renfrow bowed slightly, with just a hint of mockery. “Fine, then. As general information, you could probably get on with Anne of Menand. If her captains show their usual overpowering incompetence.”

  After another slight bow, Renfrow departed.

  “What was that, Piper?” Consent asked.

  “Huhm?”

  “The man said a lot that he wasn’t saying. If you see what I mean.”

  “He was. My problem is, I’m too literal to understand most of it.”

  Consent was not convinced. He did not pursue the matter. He knew his way around his boss. He did ask, “Are we on the brink of becoming Imperials?”

  “Possibly. We have an army to care for.”

  “The army is in no grave danger. Only those of us that Bronte Doneto knows he can’t tuck in his pocket.”

  Consent had a point. Several key staffers were Brotherhood of War. If Bronte Doneto had an arrangement with the Brotherhood — which seemed likely — Pinkus would inherit a ready-made staff.

  Consent continued, “We ought to consider the implications.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Doneto was all set to jump when Bellicose went down.”

  “It does seem like. But he can’t take full power till the mandated mourning time is over.”

  “Sure. But I’m thinking, if he had his election rigged, maybe he rigged some other stuff, too. How about a deal with Anne of Menand? As much as any Patriarch, he’ll need money. The greedy ones all want to plunder the Connec.”

  “And Doneto does have an old grudge. I’ll send a warning to Count Raymone.”

  “Good. Meantime, let’s get ready for the crusaders. Maybe they’ve been dawdling because they’re waiting for this news.”

  Hecht did doubt that. The Arnhanders were slow because they did not want to come at all. They were giving forty days a chance to pass without them having to bleed for the Whore of Menand.

  ***

  “Nothing else we can do to get ready,” Colonel Smolens told his Captain-General. “I don’t know if it’ll work. There are bound to be locals who sympathize with the Arnhanders.”

  “If Titus did his job — and hasn’t he always? — they’ll hear so much conflicting stuff from so many sources that they won’t believe anything. Especially not that we might fight with the few people we have left here.”

  Those responsible for baiting the trap rode out to meet the captains of the crusader force.

  “Titus, if you don’t have anything pressing? I want to talk falcon manufacture.”

  That earned looks from several staffers as they returned to their duties. But they shrugged. It was typical of the Captain-General. He would turn to unrelated matters at the most difficult moments.

  ***

  “You want time off?” Hecht asked Titus Consent. Titus looked exhausted. Threads of gray had begun to appear at his temples. He was losing the hair at his crown.

  “I do. Of course. But to business. I’ve got what you wanted to know about iron production.”

  “Let’s be quick. We’ll be at war in an hour.” He did not recall asking Titus anything about iron.

  “Iron is now the metal of choice in falcon production. It stands up better to heavier charges. But it’s hard to work. Only Krulik and Sneigon have figured out how to cast and cool it reliably.”

  “Meaning anyone they want to share the wealth with will find out.”

  Titus frowned. Though a convert, he still resented stereotyped observations about the Devedian people. “Possibly. But listen. It will take a major operation to manufacture iron falcons in any number.”

  Hecht seated himself, cleared his mind. “Go ahead.”

  “The first thing is, wherever they locate, it will have to be forested. With old hardwoods. It’s astounding how much oak it takes to make smelting quality charcoal. Then it takes almost two hundred cubic yards of charcoal to smelt out twenty-five pounds of what they call malleable iron. The light iron falcons weigh almost a hundred pounds. Immense amounts of charcoal are consumed all throug
h the process. Which is also labor-intensive. I couldn’t get exact figures but the Krulik and Sneigon records suggest hundreds, maybe even thousands, of man hours are needed to make one iron weapon.

  “As a labor example, making a simple iron sword, of basic utility and ordinary hardness, using malleable iron already smelted, takes about two thousand pounds of charcoal and up to two hundred hours of smithing.”

  It never occurred to Hecht to be curious about what it took to create the tools of his profession. “Krulik and Sneigon make swords, too, don’t they?”

  “They produce a complete range of weaponry. Most of us carry something of theirs. I’m fearing the explosion in Brothe may have been a blessing for them. Their productivity has always been constrained because of their location. They had to bring the iron and charcoal to the manufactory. There are no decent forests anywhere near the Mother City.”

  “I see. They’ll be able to offer better prices, now.” He and Titus shared a chuckle. “Or to improve their profit margin.”

  “Yes.” And, as though thinking out loud, Consent said, “Charcoal is also an ingredient in firepowder.”

  “Yes?”

  “Just occurred to me. I’ve been thinking in terms of regions that have a lot of hardwood near iron deposits. There are a lot of those. But if you add a need to be near sources of chemicals to make firepowder, the possibilities shrink.”

  “Artecipea. It’s the main source of natural saltpeter. There are iron deposits, copper deposits, some low-grade sulfur pits. We saw forests.”

  “We saw softwood evergreens. But there are hardwoods at lower altitudes, in the east part of the island. And it isn’t that far over to the south coast of the Mother Sea. And right there, in what used to be the Imperial province of Pharegonia, are mines that have been producing first-quality sulfur for two thousand years.”

  “So you think they’ll relocate to Artecipea.”

  “I would. Because Artecipea has one more resource, maybe more important than all the rest.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s outside the Patriarchal States. In territory now beholden to King Peter of Navaya. No Patriarch or Patriarch’s Captain-General can tell anyone how to run his business there.”