Surrender to the Will of the Night (23 page)

Hecht could think of nothing appropriate to say. “Personal things?” Members of the Brotherhood were not supposed to accumulate personal things.

“Memorabilia, perhaps? Bechter was in his seventies. We think.” Gerzina was Brotherhood. He was not dismayed by Bechter’s bit of worldliness. “We all pick up souvenirs to remind us of key moments. Don’t we, sir?”

“Yes. I suppose.” Hecht still carried one small white pebble, twice the size of a chickpea, that had been in the load of the falcon he had discharged in Esther’s Wood. It connected him to the most critical moment of his life. No one else would know what that pebble meant.

Gerzina set the chest on a bench the lifeguards used when they kept watch on some dubious visitor. “I have to get back to work, sir. I’m behind because of the emotional distraction.”

“What’s in the box?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“It doesn’t appear to be locked.”

“It isn’t my place to look.”

Hecht considered the man closely for the first time.

Physically, Vladech Gerzina was nondescript. Average height, neither good-looking nor ugly, his colorings unremarkable. He was a few pounds overweight, which was unusual in a soldier.

A walking illusion. A man with a big don’t-notice-me spell on.

Maybe.

Gerzina’s body language shifted suddenly.

He didn’t like being noticed.

“Can you do Bechter’s job?”

“Sir?”

“I don’t believe I mumbled.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been doing it. All of it. I don’t know how he managed, at his age.”

“He had an assistant. You’re the man, now. Officially. At least till the new commander comes in.”

“No, sir. Begging your mercy, sir. I have to decline. And, no sir, it’s not because it’s too much work. It’s a cush job.” He patted his belly. “Enough to eat and warm in the winter. And not one heathen Praman in sight. But a time of change is on us. Sir. Those sworn to the Brotherhood have to leave you. Or the man who replaces you.”

“Oh?”

“There’s been word from Addam Hauf. The Master of the Commandery will send reinforcements to the Holy Lands. Men, material, and money. Which he’s having some success gathering since the Patriarch doesn’t have to use all his resources to stave off predatory Emperors.”

“I see.” And, though Hecht had not considered it before, he did.

Katrin’s peace had eased life dramatically for the Patriarchs. Bronte Doneto would see no need to consult Imperial ambitions at all.

“I’d better get everybody together and see who needs to be replaced. Help with that. Before you go.”

“Yes, sir. It won’t be right away. Sir.”

Alone again, Hecht sat down with Bechter’s chest.

He had worked up an expectation of something dramatic. Reality proved disappointing. Memorabilia, indeed. Bits of cord. Several stones. A small dagger rendered useless by means of having had an inch of its business end broken off. Several iron arrowheads of Lucidian design. Assuming Bechter followed Brotherhood custom, those had been removed from his own flesh. Then several scraps of paper, one crumbling, one in an unreadable hand, another a pass to be shown while traveling on Brotherhood business. A locket with a bit of brittle hair inside, uncharacteristic for a warrior-priest. Several small wooden boxes, beautifully made, all but one unlocked. One contained a perfectly preserved moth with a wingspan over four inches. Hecht had never seen its like. But he understood that it must have been beautiful when it was alive. And, in death, had been treasured by a man Hecht could not help but honor.

He opened two boxes that contained nothing, then one wherein lay a shredding little cotton sack containing several dozen copper coins from almost as many polities, forming a metal log of Redfearn Bechter’s journeys.

This was a life. Seventy years, plus.

Why had the man wanted him to have this?

As a message? A warning?

“Vanity of vanities. All is …”

There was still the box that was locked. The key was there in the mix with the copper coins, itself brass and as green as any of the money. Hidden in plain sight, perhaps without much concern.

The box contained a thin, bound book, its leather cover at once stained, worn, and grown brittle. Hecht opened it carefully.

The first page was done in artful calligraphy, in a language Hecht could not immediately identify. Till he suffered an epiphany: He was looking at Melhaic written down using the Brothen alphabet. Melhaic was the ancient language of the Holy Lands. He could read that clumsily. In its native characters Melhaic was inscribed across the page in a direction opposite that customary for most of the languages of the region.

He had just discovered that the book was a history recorded by Grade Drocker when Pella burst in, so startling him that he jumped.

“Dad? Pinkus Ghort is downstairs.”

“Pella. What’re you doing here?”

“I thought you’d be kind of down. Because of Sergeant Bechter. So I thought I’d see if I could do anything. I ran into Colonel Ghort in the street.”

How the devil had Ghort gotten here so fast? What was Bronte Doneto up to? The news about Bellicose was not yet general knowledge. The Interregnum had weeks to run.

“You’re right. I am in a bleak mood. Here’s how you can cheer me up. Get your butt on back home and get into school. Make something of yourself. So you don’t end up like Sergeant Bechter. Like I might end up any day.”

“Whew! It does have its claws in you.”

“It does. Bring Ghort. Tell Cederig I want some of the red wine I’ve been saving. Might as well get Pinkus started on it. Save the trouble of hauling it to Brothe and back.” And a few cups might loosen Ghort’s tongue.

***

“Damn, man!” Ghort said as soon as he walked in. “You look like shit on a stick. You need to get more sleep.”

“Put the wine on the desk, Cederig. And stand by. Pinkus, I’ll be getting all the rest I can stand starting real soon.”

“You know what’s up.”

“Of course I do.”

“Consent’s still got eyes in Brothe.”

“That, too. More importantly, several Principatés aren’t happy about Doneto taking over. Some hoped I would overrule the election.”

“Care to name names?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not some old-time legionary commander who wants to control who gets to be the next Emperor.”

“Yeah. The boss figured you’d see it that way. I meant, what’s your opinion? About Doneto.”

“He’s the best man available. But I wish he wasn’t nuts about the Connec.”

“Yeah. I don’t know for sure but I got a notion your Count Raymone won’t get no joy out of him.”

“Raymone will have plans in place. Doneto should let the old grievances go. He’s supposed to be everybody’s Patriarch.”

“Told him that myself. I don’t think he was listening. Hey. Pipe. No hard feelings?” Ghort was well into his first bottle. He had begun to slur.

“No reason. You didn’t fire me. Actually, I might’ve quit if I hadn’t been fired. I’ve had about all of this that I can stand. I couldn’t work for a busybody like him. I want a boss who tells me what he wants, then gets out of the way and lets me do it.”

“That scares the busybodies. Makes them afraid they might get run over themselves.”

Hecht understood that. He had dealt with it most of his adult life. It was the reason he had been sent west. Gordimer was afraid of getting trampled. “The problem is, those men see the world in the mirror of themselves.”

“Huh?”

“They’re scared because they know what they’d do in my place. Which means that they start from a different notion of honor.”

“Gotcha. But, hey, Pipe, you can’t never claim you don’t pull a slick once in a while your own self. Damn, this grape juice is fine.”

“Me? A fast one?”

“I ain’t as dumb as I look. You knew the change was coming. You jumped in on them crusaders anyways.”

“I did. Yes.” Hecht grinned.

“Doneto ain’t gonna like that.”

“What’s he going to do? Fire me?”

“That’s rich. I don’t know. He can be a vindictive prick. Like what he figures on doing to Count Raymone and Antieux.”

“Which would be?”

“I don’t know, Pipe. Not yet. But I ain’t gonna be nowhere near that berg when it happens. I don’t want to be remembered for what I’m scared is gonna happen.”

“In that case, I regret being so effective against the revenants.”

“Thanks, buddy. That’s all I need. Them goddamned spook demons traipsin’ round behind me, kicking my ass every time I bend over.”

“It would keep you humble.”

“This stuff right here keeps me from gettin’ bigger than myself.” Ghort took a long draw of wine, stared at his feet for a dozen seconds. “An’ I keep wonderin’ how long it’ll be before he fires me.”

“Look at it this way. Who could possibly replace Pinkus Ghort?”

“A good question, Pipe. A fine question. But you gotta remember, Doneto has got some huge blind spots. That might be one of them.”

“When do you plan to take charge?”

“Officially? When the Interregnum is up. If you want to work it that way. Otherwise, anytime after my core staff gets here.”

“You going to fire my guys, too?”

“Have to. Most of them. What I was told. I figure they wouldn’t stay on, no how. The Brotherhood ones is all gonna report back to the Castella. That Addam Hauf is a ball of fire. The rest are loyal to you. According to Doneto. My first job will be to vet all the officers, to see which ones need to go and which ones are loyal to the Church or their pay.”

“Too bad. This was an effective force. It won’t be anymore.”

Ghort shrugged. “Way of the world, Pipe. Sad way of the world. I need a place to lie down. This shit was just too damned good.” He put the wine bottle aside. Empty.

***

The Captain-General did what he could to hamstring a new crusade against the Connec. Falcons disappeared. Firepowder, likewise. Titus Consent’s records, and those of the quartermasters, turned sloppy, incomplete, and confused. Hecht suffered considerable guilt. Which he handled by telling himself Pinkus Ghort would still get paid. He would just have to work harder to start making the Connec miserable.

Most of the soldiers did seem inclined to stick. Few were pleased but an income was an income. There were a dozen refugees willing to replace any veteran afflicted with excessive scruples. The staff, though, did have theirs. Hecht had trouble keeping them in place till the day of the changeover.

Hecht overheard one staffer tell Ghort that his departure was not personal. Another insisted he had no problem with the new Captain-General, just with the villain behind him. Hecht passed the word that they might want to feel a little less free to speak their minds.

Bronte Doneto was less popular with the soldiers than Hecht had expected. They recalled Doneto’s behavior during the Connecten Crusade.

Hecht’s last official act was the release of the Viscount Dumaine and other remaining Arnhander captives. Those who had not yet been ransomed would send the money themselves. Their honor demanded that they not renege.

The change of command was no drama. Hecht shook Ghort’s hand and went away, leaving the new commander frazzled and dismayed.

“What do we do now, Dad?” Pella wanted to know. He had begun to stick close. He was not welcome among Pinkus Ghort’s artillerists.

“Go home. Settle in with your mother. Loaf.” Those who would make the journey to Brothe were gathering. The company seemed curiously small. Hecht needed a moment to work out why.

There was no Madouc. Nor any of Pella’s constant companions. There were no bodyguards at all.

For all that he had resented Madouc every moment that he was underfoot, Hecht found himself feeling naked now. And constantly uneasy.

13. In the Frozen Steppe with the Talking Dead

The Chosen of the central steppe and northern waste assembled. They would crush the enemy of their god. Defiant Tsistimed had come far enough into the cold that the Windwalker himself could join in.

The Chosen, whipped on by a dozen fierce copies of Krepnight, the Elect, probed and retreated, probed and retreated, drawing Tsistimed and his sons deeper into the realm of winter. The Chosen neither knew nor cared what was happening among their enemies. They did as they were told.

The warlords of the Hu’n-tai At recognized the enemy strategy. They used it themselves. It was as old as men riding horses. They did not care. The Chosen would not retreat forever. When they turned they would be obliterated.

No army survived the Hu’n-tai At.

The ground chosen by the Windwalker was wild and stony, a vast sprawl of sharp-edged, tumbled basalt. Harsh mountains rose within a mile, to either hand. Ice rimed most of the stone. Ice and snow masked the brownish gray rock of the mountains. This was not a place where horsemen would enjoy an advantage. The Krepnights, the Elect, should prosper there.

Tsistimed dismounted his warriors and sent them to hunt. He accepted the disadvantages of the ground. This enemy did not know what he had chosen to fight. The Hu’n-tai At were not just the fiercest warriors alive, they boasted the most skilled and ruthless warrior-sorcerers as well.

The warlord of the Hu’n-tai At, in turn, did not understand that one of the oldest, cruelest, darkest Instrumentalities would stalk the battleground himself. These days the gods did not meddle personally.

Tsistimed learned too late.

The collective power of the Hu’n-tai At sorcerers bothered the Windwalker no more than a circling bat annoyed a traveler hurrying home at dusk.

The slaughter was epic. For the Hu’n-tai At it was like nothing they had ever known. They faced an enemy more stubborn and fearless than themselves, though of little skill and limited endurance. Most were on the edge of starvation.

Tsistimed gathered his sons and generals. The Windwalker was a pillar of darkness drifting about, squirting lightning. The warlord admitted, “We cannot destroy that thing.”

A leading sorcerer observed, “We can destroy those who serve it. Even those tiger-skinned monsters do fall. Eight have been overcome already.”