Surrender to the will of the night iotn-3, page 12
part #3 of Instrumentalities of the Night Series
“So you said. Yes.” Hecht was not ready to take the Night at its word, or at face value. Slippery was a defining characteristic of the Instrumentalities of the Night, be they gods or woodland sprites.
“Trust you need not invest. Judge by results.”
“You want to help in the struggle, feel free. A window into the supernatural realm would be priceless. But I can’t manage it. The old man will have to do. He can get any really useful information to me quickly.”
“He could teach me that traveling trick.”
“He could. You never know. He’s always got another surprise up his sleeve. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
“We have an understanding?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not clear on what you want for you.”
“At its simplest, absolution. Asgrimmur Grimmsson, as Svavar, was a terrible man. Not as bad as his brother Shagot, but a waste of flesh. What Svavar became might be worse-though that was circumstance, not intent. The ascendant absorbed power from two major Instrumentalities-which left him the slave of the qualities that made Svavar so awful.”
“But you’re a changed man now.” Hecht could not suppress his skepticism.
“The power of the metal to burn out evil and self-delusion can’t be explained in any way that would make sense to you. For weeks I’ve looked for an explanatory metaphor. There must not be one. Just say silver ripping through me constituted a baptism of the soul and spirit.”
Soul and spirit? The remark bore a suspicious odor. Some heretics believed men had two souls, consciousness and spirit. Hecht did not know the details. He shied away from deviant thinking.
The ascendant guessed his thoughts. “There’s a saying to the effect that there are more things in heaven and earth than we know. That is true beyond mortal imagining. For every Instrumentality you know there are a dozen in the air, the water, and the earth below. You know nothing about them because they never interact with human beings. They’ve always been insignificant in the history of your world. And always will be if they’re left alone.”
Hecht was becoming impatient. What the ascendant really wanted was company.
“I’ll release you in a moment, Captain-General.”
Hecht could not move.
“Those like Kharoulke prey on benign Instrumentalities. That explains how the Windwalker gets stronger when the wells of power are dying.”
“Not a secret.”
“Of course. But the dark Instrumentalities have never been so efficient. Not even Kharoulke’s generation, before they were defeated and constrained. They’ve changed. They’ve become devourers.”
Hecht noted the use of “they.” “There are others? Besides the Windwalker?”
“Yes. They’re still blind and only beginning to waken. But mortals are looking for them, wanting to quicken them. Hoping to become them.”
“Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen.”
“First try. Go. Enjoy your war. Cleanse the Connec of revenant Night. But your success won’t stay that nation’s doom.”
Hecht could move. He did so instantly, despite having a thousand questions.
The ascendant was amused.
Cloven Februaren should be careful. This thing was no dim pirate.
Brothe was calm. Pinkus Ghort told the Captain-General, “I almost wish you could stay around, Pipe. It’s so quiet.”
“Enforce that yourself. You have the power and the men.”
“And could be out of a job. I’m not on the payroll to keep the peace. I’m here to make sure Brothe runs the way Bronte Doneto and the Five Families want it to run. In that order. They could hardly care less if the lower classes murder each other. And they’re behind the Colors.”
Those political parties, once just passionate partisans of various racing teams, had been quiescent since the collapse of the hippodrome. Which had been reconstructed sufficiently that a partial racing season was set for the coming summer. Street politics would come along with. Had begun already and were in abeyance only because the Patriarchal garrison was intolerant of disorder.
Hecht said, “I’ll enjoy it from afar. If it gets to be too much, come see me. The militias of the various Patriarchal States desperately need reorganization.”
“Thought you already did that.”
“I tried. Against a lot of inertia. A couple more tries, I’ll get them hammered into a tool that’s ready to use when I need it.”
Something flickered behind Ghort’s eyes. A shadow. A thought he did not care to share. “I’m glad I’m not at the tip of the spear no more. Here I’ve got some control over my life. I can squirrel away a little wealth.”
Hecht filed that for consideration. That would be Pinkus Ghort expressing shadow thoughts as plainly as he dared.
Hecht had a row with Pella. The boy did not want to stay behind. Hecht ended it. “I promised Anna. I keep my promises. If your studies don’t keep you out of trouble, Principat? Delari can find something for you to do.”
Madouc visited Hecht in his office in the Castella. “Captain-General.”
“Madouc.” Coolly. Displeasure carefully constrained.
“I want to withdraw my resignation. If you will permit.”
“What’s changed, Madouc? I’ll never be any different.”
“I understand. I was tired and frustrated. The trip to Fea, with all that bad weather, broke me. I’ve had time to get over it.”
Hecht had not replaced Madouc. It was not a pressing concern. “All right. Get caught up.”
“Thank you, Captain-General. I’ll try to be less prickly.”
Cloven Februaren told Hecht, “Addam Hauf told Madouc to come back. He got bumped up two stages inside the Brotherhood hierarchy and proclaimed chief observer of Piper Hecht. You’ll see some changes among your lifeguards. Several who aren’t Brotherhood will go. Others who are will be replaced by men less captivated by you personally.”
“Ah. So now I’ll be like the old-time emperors. Protected from everything except my protectors.”
“Seems to be the idea.”
“I shouldn’t have let him come back.”
“Better the devil you know.”
“Possibly.”
“Take care. I won’t be around much anymore. Other chores need my attention.”
Hecht said only, “I’ll miss you, then.”
“The Connec should present no special challenges. Just be alert. And let Madouc do his job. He’s good at it. When you let him be.”
“I get the message.”
The Captain-General undertook one last unpleasant chore before leaving Brothe. In company with his lifeguards he rode out to a small Bruglioni estate southeast of the Mother City.
Gervase Saluda had recovered some. He now occupied a wheeled chair. A blanket covered his lap. “To hide the fact that they took my left leg,” he said in response to Hecht’s glance. “Gangrene.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“You’re a barrel of surprises, Captain-General. I never expected you to come out here.”
“I’ve moved on but I do owe the Bruglioni. Without you I’d be just another sword looking for work.”
“I doubt that. The gods themselves watch over you.”
Not a particularly apposite remark from a Prince of the Church. But Hecht was not treating Saluda as a Principat?.
“I have been lucky. And the Bruglioni haven’t. What will you do now?”
“Recover. And try not to turn bitter.”
“For the family. You understand? You are the Bruglioni, today. I hear Paludan hasn’t died, but isn’t much alive anymore, either. He can’t manage anything. His surviving relatives aren’t going to do the Bruglioni any good. Which, I should think, puts you in a fix.”
There was pain in Saluda’s expression. He had not yet shaken his physical distress sufficiently to explore his future.
“You’re the Bruglioni Principat?” Hecht said. “But will that last if there isn’t a Bruglioni family behind you? The other families don’t love you.”
“I know. They think Paludan chose me because I was his lover. That’s not true. Or because I have some unnatural influence over him. Never because I was the best available.”
“You were the best. You’re still the best. But if Gervase Saluda doesn’t step back from the Collegium and take charge of the Bruglioni fortunes, the family is going to collapse.”
After a moment, Saluda said, “I should just roll this chair onto the Rustige Bridge and right off into the Teragi.”
“A simple solution but not the one I hope to see.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll help if I can. For what good that is, with me away in the Connec.”
“Oh. Good on you.” Saluda looked skeptical.
The Captain-General reached Viscesment at the head of troops numbering several hundred more than he had detached to keep order in Brothe and neighboring Firaldia. The new Patriarch had authorized the use of any force necessary to clear the Connec of revenants. And, in a secret directive, of agents of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy. Too many members of that harsh order had gone underground rather than disband, their defiance fertilized by Anne of Menand’s covert support.
Hecht carried letters from Bellicose authorizing Count Raymone Garete to act against any monk or priest who refused to conform to the will of the Patriarch. Though he could only catch the renegades and turn them over to the ecclesiastical courts. Where they were too likely to be judged by sympathizers.
Clej Sedlakova, Hagan Brokke, and other trusted staffers assembled at Viscesment, in the Palace of Kings. With the Anti-Patriarchy ended, the Palace stood empty. The Patriarchals took over, which reduced the strain of their presence in the city.
Nothing critical needed deciding. The staff had managed well in their commander’s absence. “Makes me worry,” Hecht told no one in particular. “You men are either so good you don’t need me, or the job is so easy any fool can do it.”
His staff were all shrugs and smiles.
A feast of sorts filled Hecht’s first evening back. In attendance were the magnates of Viscesment and nobles of regions nearby. Count Raymone Garete and his bride Socia, and the Count’s more noteworthy henchmen, also attended. Senior churchmen were well represented, as well. They divided into clearly identifiable factions.
Bellicose’s friends formed the larger party. The other, called Arnhanders by their opponents, recognized the current state of affairs only grudgingly. And openly hoped for the end of Bellicose’s reign.
The Arnhander party did, in fact, consist almost entirely of outsiders who had come into the Connec during the crusader era.
Though officially only a lieutenant, Titus Consent had contrived himself a seat at Hecht’s left hand. Hecht supposed the rest of the staff had schemed to make that happen. Titus was in charge of intelligence. He would have a lot to report. Especially about those personalities of interest in attendance.
Consent whispered, “I’m still huffing and puffing from the rush to get here.” He had been in the field.
“Well, you made it.” Hecht noted several churchmen watching the exchange keenly. “Don’t take it personal, but you look like hell.” Consent did appear to have aged a decade in just a few months.
“Stress. These assholes want me to be you when you’re not around. No! Listen! We just got Rook cornered. Finally. In the Sadew Valley.”
“Isn’t that where he first turned up, back when?”
“Yes. The place must be important to him.”
Hecht flashed a sinister smile at one of the more notorious clerical agitators. The man wanted to be defiant, dared not. The Captain-General of Patriarchal forces did not, unlike the temporal powers, have to defer to the ecclesiastical courts. Which had led to occasional instances of harsh, summary justice.
“How soon will it be over?” With Rook stricken from the roll of revenants there would be no more demand for a Patriarchal presence in the Connec. Except for Shade. He had heard nothing positive about Shade. Yet.
“A while. It’s a loose cordon. They’ll tighten it slowly. They don’t want to get in a hurry and let him get away again.”
Hecht wanted to ask about problems in the force. But practical matters had to wait. He had powerful people to entertain, seduce, overawe. 8. Faraway East, the Oldest City: A Slender String How old was Skutgularut? Only the Instrumentalities themselves might know. Old enough to have been there in the Time Before Time, if its people could be believed. Old enough to have been there before men learned to write. Across the ages Skutgularut, anchor of the northern silk road, had been attacked, besieged, even conquered countless times. Never totally, not even by Tsistimed the Golden. Skutgularut was a place of high honor, sacred, that even Tsistimed could reverence. It was a place where scholars gathered. Where sorcerers met to study and experiment. It was a city at whose heart lay a small but utterly reliable well of power. A well never known, in all history, to have waxed or waned. For which it was called the Faithful.
Once Skutgularut yielded to the seductions of the Hu’n-tai At, Tsistimed made it his western capital. With age he came to favor the city’s famous gardens. The city prospered, for it no longer experienced war. Bandits dared not trouble the great caravans traveling the silk road. Those who tried were hunted down, man, woman, and child.
The aged Tsistimed seldom left his beloved gardens. He gave warring over to his sons, grandson, and the sons of his grandson. But he could not resist the call of adventure when the Ghargarlicean Empire collapsed. He had to tour the famous cities that were now his own.
The grand warlord of the steppe did not look like a man over two hundred years old. Those who came to grovel before him saw a man in his prime. A man with many years still ahead.
Age had overtaken Tsistimed only on the inside.
He was just plain tired of it all.
The savages came out of nowhere. There was no more warning than a few rumors of strange things brewing to the north. Then the men and women with the bones and skulls in their hair were everywhere, killing and destroying. Amongst them walked a thing in near-human form, with too many fingers, no hair, and spotted skin. Later, some claimed it had eyes like a tiger. Others said it was ten feet tall. All agreed that it was terrible. Invincible. Immune to the bite of any lone piece of iron but not to the cumulative effect of ten thousand.
The thing eventually fell. Eventually perished. Eventually melted into a pool of puss inside the temple that housed the Faithful.
Survivors agreed that pollution of the well had not been the thing’s desire. It had hungered for a direct drink from the Faithful.
The savages turned more ferociously destructive after their tutelary went down. They left Tsistimed’s palace a smoldering waste. They wasted most of Skutgularut.
Only a handful lived to flee into the icelands to the north.
The Hu’n-tai At courier system was such that Tsistimed learned of the attack while the destruction of Skutgularut was still under way. He ended his progress through Ghargarlicea and turned north.
The eastern world huddled into itself. The Night trembled.
There was no fury like the fury of Tsistimed the Golden.
9. Realm of the Gods: The Ninth Unknown
Cloven Februaren now spent most of his time with the soultaken. The soultaken did not enjoy the isolation of Fea, though he understood its necessity. He was not accustomed to being confined.
The old man said, “I sympathize completely. I do. I get ferociously restless when I have to wait. Be patient just a while longer. We’ll move as soon as my other obligations are covered. So. Here. More maps. So we can narrow the search.”
“You don’t listen, old man. I’ve told you, I know where it is. I’ve been there. I spent a long time there, trying to shut it down.” But that the ascendant would not discuss except in the vaguest possible way. That must have been a time of great stress. Or there were secrets the ascendant did not wish to reveal.
The Ninth Unknown was inclined to suspect the latter.
“You know where it was a few years ago. The world has changed. What did the non-divines do after your vengeance raid? Did they leave? Did they close the way behind you?”
The Svavar of old peeped out occasionally. Notably when the soultaken thought the Ninth Unknown was deliberately inventing obstacles to getting on with what needed doing.
Februaren’s concern was genuine. He wanted to invest the least possible time accomplishing this mythic jailbreak.
“There’s nothing more I can learn from here,” Februaren told the soultaken. Failing to mention that he had visited the north on his own and had failed to find a trace of the higher realm-though he had found where the entrance had been before. A powerful resonance remained.
The god realm was still there, over on the other side.
“It’s finally time to go?”
“It’s time.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
Asgrimmur Grimmsson began to change.
Februaren barked, “Wait! There isn’t room in here.”
The soultaken had swollen, shredding his human apparel. The buds of numerous legs had begun to show.
He reversed the change. “Good thinking.” He swarmed downstairs, through the door, down the ladder, to the ground. When the old man caught up he was well on toward resuming his former monster shape. And looking notably healthy-though his hand remained unrestored.
Odd that a demigod would not be able to replace a lost appendage.
Februaren sighed repeatedly. Would the ascendant remain rational and amenable after the change? No way to know. Asgrimmur Grimmsson was unique in modern times.
The people of Fea did not stay around to watch the change.
Soon the only humanity remaining was the monster’s head. Which migrated down to its belly. A ghost of a face using a voice barely audible told Februaren, “Climb onto my back.”
Februaren gathered his belongings. The climb was difficult. Terribly frightening. Yet compliance left him with arrows in his quiver.
