Surrender to the Will of the Night (69 page)

Hecht did not believe that. Bronte Doneto was much too crafty. “How about we concentrate on the moment?”

He was nervous. The darkness seemed unnaturally deep. The lanterns did not push it back to a comfortable distance. The killing field stank of spilled bowels and coagulated blood and flesh already corrupting. He kept tripping over dead people. The nasty water got inside his boots. He was hungry and his head had begun to hurt. Though the altitude was high and the air was chilling the sounds of insect wings seemed like the hum of primitive death gods at their after-the-fighting chores, like those old devils he had finished off in the Connec.

His amulet declared the night free of all but the most trivial Instrumentalities.

He was nervous about the possibility of imminent treachery. Titus had a bum right arm. The Ninth Unknown was older than the ground underfoot. Terens Ernest was an unknown quantity. Rivademar Vircondelet considered himself a lover, not a scrapper.

Consent, Vircondelet, and Ernest were along because they felt mistrusted and left out. So. This time they had a chance to be there when the hammer came down.

He did not introduce Cloven Februaren.

Other than Titus, who was burdened with the truce flag, everyone carried a lantern. Hecht, Ernest, and Vircondelet also carried spears and a standard array of sharpened iron. The spears proved useful in dealing with the treacherous footing.

The Ninth Unknown had armed himself with a foolish grin.

These five were not likely to give an account of themselves that would echo down the ages.

Once past the end of the meadow they spied torches and small fires behind the knee of the mountain. About twenty men awaited them, two hundred yards off, in that weak light.

More small fires at intervals marked the road to the plain. There was movement on the road.

Hecht muttered, “I should have made them come to me.”

Cloven Februaren said, “You’re much too paranoid, Piper.” And, “Learn to believe in yourself.”

***

Hecht knew many of the men awaiting him. Most were not friends of Bronte Doneto. They included representatives of four of the Five Families of Brothe, including Paludan Bruglioni of the powerful Bruglioni family. Paludan had been at death’s door when Hecht last saw him. Principaté Gervase Saluda, Paludan’s lifelong friend, was there, too. Both remained seated in the wooden frames that had been used to carry them up the mountain. The Arniena agent was Rogoz Sayag, with whom Hecht had worked while employed by that family and later, during the Calziran Crusade.

The Cologni and Madesetti were represented by strangers. Only the Benedocto, Bronte Doneto’s tribe, had no obvious agent on hand.

Someone would report back. Espionage and treachery were heart and soul of Brothen city politics. And Brothen city politics shaped the larger policies of the Church.

Overall, these people made an unlikely alliance. Some had been backstabbing each other for generations.

Which pointed up the depth and breadth of the developing crisis of confidence in the current Patriarch.

How had Doneto managed so swift a decline?

Hecht wondered more about how Paludan and Gervase, both badly crippled, had managed to be on scene so soon.

A man Hecht did not know stepped forward. “I’m Acton Bucce of Bricea,” he said. “Acting captain of what survived your sorcery.” Acton Bucce was a sad and angry man controlling his emotions tightly.

Bucce asked, “Would it be acceptable to add fuel to the bonfires? I’d like more light and warmth. So many ghosts will make this a cold, dark night.”

Hecht glanced at Februaren. The old man nodded. “Go ahead. I met some of those ghosts coming down here.”

The fires grew fast. Everyone on the Patriarchal side seemed cold and haunted. Hecht touched his amulet lightly. Still it offered no warnings other than the usual nascent itch.

The swollen bonfires bruised Hecht’s night vision but flung light far enough to reveal corpses laid side by side, touching, their feet at the edge of the road.

“You wanted to talk, Acton Bucce?”

“Twelve hours ago I commanded a regiment called the Free Will Swords. Short-term mercenaries from Brothe’s poorest quarters. Twenty-two hundred men, mostly experienced. Thirty-day enlistments, fifteen paid ahead. Now I have thirteen hundred men barely in shape to take care of themselves. We have so many dead we can’t take them back with us. We’ll bury them in marked graves, where there’s enough man left to identify, so their people can come get them if they want.”

Bucce paused as though inviting comment. Hecht said nothing.

Bucce continued, “All told, the Patriarch sent about seventeen thousand men. At sunup I was eighth in the chain of succession. Now I’m the senior officer surviving. These civilians are urging me to indulge my inclination to save the men who’re still alive. We’re working on that but still have bodies to recover. We’ve collected more than four thousand already. And the wounded outnumber the dead. Sepsis will claim a lot of those because the healers can’t get to them all.”

He paused. Hecht asked, “How many were conscripts?”

“Sir?”

“Every man in your army chose to be here. Each one was a mercenary bent on murdering me and mine.”

“That’s true. Though it could be argued that poverty conscripted them.”

“It could. But they did choose to try to kill me. By my calculation, trusting your numbers, my men need to put in one more hard day to quash this Patriarchal fantasy forever.”

“The Patriarchal fantasy is moribund already. Tomorrow I’ll bury my dead. I’ll release each regiment once it cares for its own. Unless you force a fight. Then fight I will.”

“I had no desire to fight in the first place.”

Bucce’s lips tightened. His opinion might not agree. “I’m determined that no more lives be wasted till Serenity relieves me. I’ll not have them on my conscience.”

Lips never moving, whispering so softly that only Hecht heard, Februaren said, “The man is sincere. What he isn’t telling you is, most of his men have deserted.”

Hecht hid his surprise. “Captain, what was the ultimate purpose for this meeting? And why are all these people here?”

“They came with the army. To observe, I’m told. I think they hoped for a disaster as ugly as what we got. Our Patriarch is no longer loved by his own class.”

“I understand the politics, more or less. But you haven’t said why you wanted to meet.”

“I have. I want the killing to stop. And, then, these people insisted.”

Hecht glanced at Titus Consent. Might Consent know something about Bucce?

Bucce said, “The way I understand it, these people want you to be able to drive toward Brothe unhindered, for a showdown with Serenity.”

“I presume you’ve all changed your minds about your votes, last election.”

No one responded. They stared at something in the darkness behind him. Had Prosek manhandled a few falcons down to strengthen the Imperial argument?

He glanced at Cloven Februaren. The old man was not concerned. “Tell me more.”

“That’s it. From me. Talk to them.” Bucce was frightened. He stared past Hecht, too. “I won’t interfere as long as you let us manage our dead and wounded and go.”

He was repeating himself. For whoever was back there.

Voice tired, strained, feeble, Paludan Bruglioni said, “He speaks for Serenity’s hirelings. We’ll talk once you’re done with him.”

Hecht eyed Bruglioni, then Gervase Saluda, as though Saluda might explain how Paludan could have survived.

Paludan did not notice. He was fixed on the presence behind Hecht.

A ghost whispered in Hecht’s ear, “The Empress is back there.”

“I thought so. Your Grace failed to heed the advice of her Commander of the Righteous.” Not looking back.

“It was advice, only, Commander. I have more confidence in you than you have in yourself.”

This was no time for an argument. “Thank you for your faith, Majesty. Have you heard enough to understand?”

Katrin stepped up beside him, to his left. He glimpsed an abashed Ephrian behind her. “These people have decided they backed the wrong racing team. They hope to save themselves and maybe snatch some of the spoils by changing Colors.”

Even after years in Firaldia Hecht did not fully grasp the concept of Colors, which tied together fan support for famous racing teams at the hippodrome, local politics, and, more broadly, made a statement about one’s position on the long power struggle between the Brothen Episcopal Patriarchs and the Grail Emperors.

Katrin’s statement was bare-boned truth.

But they could still crush the Righteous. And in grand style because they could grab the Grail Empress herself.

The Ninth Unknown whispered, “You rate yourself too small. You changed the world today. Again. But you recognize it no better than you did in Esther’s Wood.”

Hecht neither understood nor believed. But it was worth some thought.

“Acton Bucce of Bricea, of the Free Will Swords, I am here. Her Most August Imperial Majesty. What do you have to say?”

“I thought I was clear, Your Majesty.”

“You said you won’t bother me if the Commander of the Righteous lets you go. Which has its appeal. On the other hand, exterminating you all so we don’t have to deal with you again later also has its charm. Too, we wouldn’t have people like these here if somebody wasn’t fishing for special consideration.”

Paludan Bruglioni admitted it. “You’re right. We came here in anticipation of your success. We hope to negotiate the safety of our houses.”

Cloven Februaren muttered, “Bullshit. But he does mean it when he says it.”

Saluda took over. “We all pledge to provide no aid or comfort to Serenity. Nor will we impede the Righteous in any way.”

The Empress laughed, a peal with a donkey’s bray edge on it. “It won’t be that easy. It won’t be that cheap. There’ll be no lurking on the middle road till you can jump in on the winning side. Choose. And let the world know. Your lives, your fortunes, your honor. I want them declared, dedicated, committed.”

Februaren murmured, “Somebody is a little overconfident.”

“Just a bit,” Hecht agreed.

But Katrin had not overplayed her hand. Nobody stomped away.

The spokesmen for the Five Families agreed to negotiate articles of association after the Patriarchals dealt with their dead and wounded and headed home.

Titus said, “I’m not sure about this, boss. Feels like we’re letting them off too easy.”

“After what we did to them?”

“The Empress said it. We might have to deal with them again.”

***

Next day Righteous scouts pushed down toward the plain, advancing as the Patriarchals buried their dead. Reinforcements arrived, two hundred men come over from Glimpsz. More were en route. An army was assembling in Alamedinne. Imperial garrisons were demonstrating in every north Firaldian city that owed allegiance to the Empire. The same was not happening in the Patriarchal States.

News of the slaughter in the Shades spread fast and grew with the telling. People who should have known better took the wildest stories as gospel.

The whisperers of Krois murmured canards against the Empress and her Commander of the Righteous: They had surrendered to the Will of the Night. There would have been no disaster had not all darkness answered the conjuring of the witch queen and her mercenary familiar.

Journeymen rumor-tinkers of an opposing view charged Serenity with consorting with the Night and with being the man behind the monster that kept returning to the catacombs, however often the good Principatés put it down. Those accusations found the popular mind more welcoming. Almost as far back as the collapse of the hippodrome there had been gossip connecting Bronte Doneto with events in the underground world.

Such was the news Cloven Februaren brought back from his Brothen visits, where his espionage was less subtle and clever than Heris’s had been.

He enjoyed sabotage too much.

***

Clej Sedlakova surfaced after three days. Only eighteen men accompanied him, most all injured. They had been ambushed by an enemy who had known they were coming. Sedlakova and these men were the last survivors of a long running fight.

***

The Righteous buried their dead. They examined their firepowder weapons for defects. They brought up ammunition and supplies, and welcomed further reinforcements.

The Commander of the Righteous twice eluded halfhearted advances by the Empress. Her self-control seemed to be slipping again.

Hecht was not alone in noticing.

Rivademar Vircondelet stuck his head into the tented space Hecht had taken in the Patriarchal camp. Vircondelet had begun to assume some of Titus Consent’s duties as Consent became more intimate with field command. “Captain Ephrian is begging to see you, boss. Can you spare a minute?”

“Send him in, then.”

Ephrian came bearing bad news.

“Sit, Captain, and tell me the problem.”

“The Empress. Of course. I can’t take much more. She won’t cooperate. She will do what she wants, when she wants.”

“Kind of goes with the job.”

“I understand that. I remember how Johannes could get. But he was never like her. No matter what happens, it’s never her fault. … That goes with the territory, too, some. Right?”

“Most of the time.”

“Here’s the problem. She’s into one of her downward spirals. It might be the worst since the Prince was stillborn. We’ve tried the usual gimmicks. I’ve worn my butt out taking her riding. That works better than anything. She loves a good gallop. Not this time, though. I’m scared she’ll do something to damage or embarrass herself.”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know. She won’t listen to me when she isn’t out of her head. She does listen to you, sometimes.”

“Really? I must have missed that.”

“I did say sometimes.”

“An odd duck, our Empress.”

“She’s more like a frightened girl. She lets childish emotions drive her. These black moods … They keep getting worse. She could cause problems we’ll never get over. Something bigger than invading a friendly empire or declaring war on the Church.”