Surrender to the Will of the Night

by Glen Cook

  “I see. We’ll see. Keep after that. In your copious free time.”

  “Yeah. I told the quartermasters to round me up a set of brooms so I can sweep up when I don’t have anything else to do.”

  “Believe it or not, Titus, I know how you feel. I’m thinking I might enjoy being unemployed.”

  “For the first few minutes, maybe.”

  “Yes.”

  ***

  The consuls of Viscesment had told the approaching crusaders that the city would not resist their passage. Pass through, cross the bridges, head off into the Connec, no bad behavior along the way. The crusaders had agreed despite knowing they could not control their Grolsacher hangers-on. Nor even the more fanatic members of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy, who damned Viscesment for tolerating the Maysalean Heresy.

  The consuls did insist that the common soldiers, Grolsachers, and camp followers surrender their weapons to the armorers and quartermasters during the passage through the city.

  The pliable Arnhander nobles acquiesced. The Society churchmen gave the consuls promissory scowls.

  The Captain-General lost patience. He sent a message telling the consuls to get on with it.

  In the end, the crusaders were granted use of one broad, paved street leading to the Purelice Bridge. The Grave Street. The Purelice Bridge was the broadest and longest of the three Viscesment boasted.

  The crusaders found the cross streets all blocked with carts, wagons, and furniture, the barricades backed by local militia. The distrust shown by the locals accentuated an ages-old southern attitude toward the cousin in the north.

  The Purelice Bridge, named for the Emperor who ordered it built, humpbacked over the middle of the Dechear to make it easier for traffic to pass under without having to unstep masts. Today, few riverboats or ships depended on sail power.

  The bridge was straight. The west end could not be seen from the east end because of the hump. The bridge’s west end had been barricaded. Eighteen falcons loaded with pebbles backed those barricades. Buhle Smolens and Kait Rhuk were in charge. They had several companies of archers and spearmen in support.

  The rest of the Patriarchal firepowder weaponry was scattered along the Arnhander route of march, hidden, sited by Drago Prosek. The point was to stun the crusaders into surrendering. If they failed to be convinced by the cruel logic of their situation.

  Should the falcons be discharged they would generate noise and smoke enough to summon the rest of the Patriarchal force to cut off retreat to the east.

  From the bell tower of Sant Wakin’s Church — the Anti-Patriarchs’ own — the Captain-General could observe both ends of the Purelice Bridge and most of Grave Street. Nowadays, nobody knew why the street was called that. Some locals would not use the name for superstitious reasons. The street filled. First came determined Society types who suffered catcalls and occasional thrown stones as they excoriated the locals for being sinful. Then came the gaily caparisoned nobles who commanded the army, followed by their lances, foot, and train.

  “What a lot of clutter,” Hecht said. “We aren’t that bad on the march, are we, Titus?”

  “Not so much. But if you let the men bring their families …”

  That touched a nerve. That was one way Piper Hecht differed from other captains. He did not allow a lot of noncombatants to form a tail that impaired his mobility.

  Despite his efforts, though, the force inevitably developed a drag whenever it remained in place more than a few days.

  The leading priests reached the height of the hump in the bridge. And came face-to-face with dread reality.

  Hecht said, “I wish I was out there. I should’ve gone out there.”

  “Better you’re here where you can control everything but Smolens and Rhuk.”

  “Looks like the priests are yelling for their bishops and archbishops.” His breath came faster. He trusted Colonel Smolens. Yet … Bishops were clever. One might convince Smolens that …

  “Smolens will stay the course,” Consent said, reading his unease. “Kait Rhuk wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “I worry about Kait, too. He enjoys his work too much.”

  “You’re never happy about anything, are you?”

  “Not so much. Not at moments like this. Oh, damn!”

  The falcons had discharged into the churchmen and Society brothers. Smoke rolled up and drifted eastward, concealing the western end of the bridge. By the time the rumble reached him Hecht knew part of the plan had gone south. Flashes shone inside the smoke. Kait Rhuk’s falconeers continued to fire.

  Below, a wave of consternation ran back along Grave Street. That turned to fright. Fright turned to panic at the speed of rumor.

  “Hold off, Prosek,” Hecht muttered. “Hold off. Let’s don’t kill anybody we don’t have to.”

  Consent gave him an odd look, then whispered to a messenger. The messenger dashed off to give that word to Drago Prosek.

  The rattle in the distance slackened, then stopped. Smoke continued to conceal the far end of the bridge. Hecht could see only mass confusion as mounted nobles and knights tried to push back east into a street already filled. While below the bell tower calmer crusaders continued to push west.

  The panic faded after the falcons fell silent. Attempts to break through the street barricades declined. The militia showed remarkable restraint.

  Hecht began to breathe easier. “All right. We killed a bunch of Society priests. That isn’t so bad. They weren’t going to survive anyway.” If Count Raymone had a say.

  Firing resumed at the bridge. One salvo. “Fourteen weapons,” Hecht said. “That means several are out of service. Unless …”

  Titus Consent observed, “You do need to take time off.”

  “Where’s Pella?” Continuing to worry. Realizing that he had not seen the boy for two days. Feeling sudden guilt because he had not been giving Pella much of his time.

  He did not know how. He had not had a father of his own.

  “Tagging around after Kait Rhuk. He’s infatuated with the stinks and bangs.”

  “And Rhuk doesn’t mind having him underfoot? With all his lifeguards?”

  “Knowing Rhuk, Pella is getting his tail worked off. His lifeguards, too.”

  “Speak of the Adversary.”

  Madouc had invited himself into the belfry. He had not been seen much lately. “A messenger from the consuls, sir. They want to know if they can begin accepting surrenders.”

  “Remind them that the Arnhanders are ours. Otherwise, yes. Let’s move on. I want to get home as much as any of you.” After Madouc ducked out, Hecht asked, “Does it seem like he’s changed?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How? Why?”

  “He’s not doing his job for you, now. He’s doing it because the Brotherhood wants him to.”

  Hecht grunted. Kait Rhuk was raising hell on the west bank again. Why? He wasn’t being attacked. Why waste valuable firepowder when a handful of fanatic churchmen could be brought down by archers and crossbowmen?

  “I messed up with Madouc, didn’t I?”

  “Yes. But that was bound to happen, you two being who you are. And it isn’t a dead loss. He still respects you. Make sure to show your respect for him.”

  “What the hell is Rhuk up to?”

  “A demonstration, I’m sure. That’s just one falcon, now. Talking slow.”

  “Ah. Right. I got it. He’s probably letting Pella play. Using Society brothers for targets.” He saw dust from far beyond the bridgehead. That should be Count Raymone.

  ***

  The main hall of the Palace of Kings was filled. The magnates of Viscesment, the Captain-General’s own champions, Bernardin Amberchelle and Count Raymone’s lady, Socia, and the greats who rode with them, and the leaders of the defeated crusaders, all were gathered. Some in despair, most in high spirits. No invader churchmen were present. The few survivors had been claimed by Bernardin Amberchelle. The Captain-General had given them ov
er, bishops and all. The Connectens could ransom them. Or not.

  Titus Consent brought Madouc to the high table. Seating him to the Captain-General’s left. “His report is ready.”

  “Ah. Good,” in a soft voice. “Madouc?”

  “Seventeen dead priests, sir. And more than a hundred wounded. Including two bishops, one of whom won’t survive. A stone opened his gut.”

  “It could have been worse, all the firing Rhuk did.”

  “Showing off.” Disapproving. “Just two Arnhander knights were wounded. Back up the column, there were minor injuries among the foot, taken trying to escape. And one man dead. From a fall. He landed on his head.”

  “That’s good. The consuls will get a lot of labor out of the prisoners. So. The treasure? And the Grolsachers?”

  “The treasure is secure. It’s not as big as you hoped. The bishops expected plunder would cover their expenses starting around fifty days into the taken into pay period. And the news isn’t good for the people of Grolsach. Again.”

  “Is there anyone left up there?”

  “There’ll be less competition for resources now.”

  Hard but true. Count Raymone and his band had gone north to cross the Dechear and get into position to intercept the fleeing Grolsachers. Raymone meant to stop those people coming to the Connec — if he had to exterminate their entire nation.

  His attitude toward Arnhand was no less fierce.

  “Madouc, have you made any plans?”

  “Sir?” Sounding honestly puzzled.

  “We’re near the end of our run. Bellicose’s health is fragile …”

  “Bellicose is dead. Sir. That may not be common knowledge but it isn’t a secret anymore.”

  Hecht reflected briefly, scanning the crowd. Typically, knights from both sides were catching up with relatives on the other. The Arnhanders were relieved about not having to feed Anne of Menand’s ambitions.

  “All right. My question stands. And becomes more pertinent.”

  “I’m a Brother of a holy order. I’ll do what my superiors tell me.”

  “As will we all, of course. I hope they reward you well. Though I always felt fenced in, you did an amazing job.”

  “Thank you, sir.” With no great warmth.

  He had lost Madouc for sure. He had wasted the honor of seating the man so close.

  Madouc yielded just the slightest. “I’m hoping for a command in the Holy Lands. Addam Hauf sounded positive when I spoke to him. When we were in Brothe.”

  “Perhaps we’ll meet again overseas.”

  “Sir?”

  “Not really. I’m done crusading. I’m thinking about buying a rural tract somewhere and retiring. Spend my last days with Anna, making wine for Colonel Ghort.”

  Madouc did not react to the mention of Pinkus Ghort. He had no feelings on the matter. Or lacked knowledge.

  Hecht said, “When we’re done here I want a private word with the Viscount Dumaine.”

  “Yes sir.”

  For the remainder of the evening Hecht mostly observed. Keeping an eye on Pella, in particular.

  Anna had gotten a few social skills to stick.

  ***

  Madouc remained in the quiet room while the Captain-General saw the Viscount. It was the largest quiet room in the Palace of Kings but not so big that the chief bodyguard had to strain to eavesdrop. Madouc was less inclined to avoid the Captain-General lately.

  “How can I help you?” the Viscount asked. Politely, conscious of being a prisoner but unwilling to stifle his pride of class completely.

  “Sit. Share coffee with me. And tell me about Vali Dumaine.”

  The Viscount did the first two, not concealing his delight at being offered the rare and precious drink. But he thought some before doing the third. “Vali Dumaine is my sister. She’s Countess of Bleus. Why do you ask?”

  “To find out. What you just said is a variation on what I’ve already heard. I thought she was your wife. I didn’t understand why your wife would be Countess of Bleus while you were Viscount of … what is it?”

  “Klose. You can throw a rock across it. Once I’ve been ransomed it’ll belong to someone else. I’ll have to go live with my sister. Or join the Brotherhood. You haven’t told me why you’re asking.”

  “I haven’t.” The Captain-General let that lie there. “Do you have any connection with Sonsa?”

  “I? None. My father traveled on a Sonsan ship when he went on crusade. Him and his three brothers. He was the one who came home. The one who inherited even though he was the third son.”

  “The Holy Lands are a harsh mistress. They devour all who come there. Are you involved with the Special Office? The Witchfinders in particular?”

  “No. We don’t see that kind back home. There used to be a Brotherhood chapter house outside Salpeno. You’d see a few of them in the city. But they pulled out before Charlve the Dim died. Cherault, one of Anne’s clever villains, had a scheme for confiscating their assets. They found out. They left with all their wealth. Cherault contracted a wasting disease. It causes him a lot of pain. He’ll be a long time dying.”

  “Are the two connected?”

  Madouc was very attentive. And contemplative.

  “Unfortunately, the world doesn’t work that mechanically. Bad people don’t get what they’ve got coming. And good people die young.”

  “And all we can do is trust that it’s part of God’s plan. Yes. You have children? On either side of the blanket?”

  The Viscount glowered. “I insist on knowing what this is about.”

  “Sit. Viscount. You don’t insist on anything. I’m a lowlife hiresword with no noble blood and no honor, even if I do command the Patriarch’s armies and embarrass his enemies regularly. How can you count on a man like that not to drop you off a bridge, or have you strangled and burned to deny your hope of resurrection? Or any of the other wicked things a man like me might do?”

  “You’d lose your ransom.”

  “Hardly a problem. The Count of Antieux will buy all the Arnhander prisoners I’m willing to wholesale. He wants to send their pickled heads to your sweet King Anne. Or he could sell them into slavery across the Mother Sea. He talks about that when he’s feeling particularly vengeful.”

  Viscount Dumaine had turned pale. But he did not disgrace himself.

  “He’s a mad dog, Count Raymone. If you Arnhanders insist on plundering the Connec, Raymone will make you pay in barrels of blood. But I don’t want to talk about that. I’m interested in a girl child named Vali Dumaine. About thirteen. Possibly younger. Found as a captive in a Sonsan brothel. She claimed she was being used as leverage to force her father to do something. Everyone who can answer to the truth or falsehood of the claim is dead. I look into it when I get the chance. This was a chance. You and your sister are the only Dumaines I’ve ever identified.”

  “I can’t solve your mystery. Sorry.”

  Hecht wished the Ninth Unknown was making a nuisance of himself, still. He could help with this. The Viscount was being truthful, in the main, but something not quite right was happening, too.

  Might be interesting to have him stripped, to see if he didn’t have some little hidden tattoo.

  Hecht asked, “You haven’t gone on crusade? Never been to the Holy Lands yourself?”

  Dumaine eyed him several seconds before making a decision. “I went with my father.” That would be a matter of record, hard to hide. “I was a child. Eight when we left. Twelve when we came home. I pray God never again requires my presence in the east. Hell can’t be worse than the Holy Lands in summer. Or winter. Or any season in between.”

  Hecht nodded. Some westerners felt that way. Others liked the Holy Lands well enough to stay. There were generations of crusaders, now, who had been born in the east and who offended their western cousins by having adopted local clothing and customs.

  “I felt the same about Firaldia when I first came down. The summers were too hot and they never seemed to end. And snow was a rare treat i
nstead of the natural state of the world.”

  “I hear that’s changing.”

  “It is. Definitely. People in the Chiaro Palace have been tracking the changes. They’re dramatic. With worse to come.”

  Once Dumaine left, Hecht brought in Titus Consent. “There’s something not right about that man. Keep an eye on him. Have him be the last we let go home. Have you seen Bechter?”

  Sergeant Bechter had been scarce of late.

  “He’s still sick. They say he tries to get up and come in every day. Most mornings his body won’t cooperate. He’s old.”

  “I miss having him underfoot.”

  “If he could, he’d be there.”

  “Is he getting good care?”

  “He should be shipped back to the Castella. Let him live out his last years with his brothers.”

  “He asked? You haven’t sent him?”

  “I’ve asked him. He wants to stay here. Says this is where he belongs, now.”

  “The old coot is too stubborn for his own good.”

  “Lot of that going on around the heart of this army.”

  Hecht refused the bait. “You checked up on Pella?”

  “He’s having the time of his life. He’s decided that firepowder artillery will be his career. Rhuk says he has interesting ideas.”

  “That’ll change. I just want to know that he’s all right. Don’t want to fuss in his life like I’m his mother.”

  “He’s fine, Piper. But, really, he could use a little more interference in his life. He’s too raw for the independence you give him.”

  Anna would agree. “All right. Create a training program for falconeers. Put him in. Keep him close and busy.” That should sound good to the boy. And needed only last till Bronte Doneto fully assumed the Patriarchal throne.

  Hecht asked, “What future do you see for your boys, Titus?”

  “These days, maybe the priesthood.”

  “Security.”

  “Yeah. Only, I’m afraid the opportunity won’t be there when they’re old enough. The monasteries are full of freeloaders now.”

  Titus might be pulling his leg. It was hard to tell. “There’re always careers in military staff work.”

  “But how many? Assuming I’d let my sons get into this insanity?”