Working God's Mischief (22 page)

That had begun to develop here at Tel Moussa several times. It never fully ripened because Indala did not leave his Lucidians in place long enough. Tel Moussa was a sorting house. Here the best men got blooded and the worst men got dead before they became liabilities in a larger arena.

“I can't order you to go,” Alizarin said. “I have used you too hard.”

“Stop. Don't pluck my guilt strings.”

Nassim stifled his protest. “No need to rush. And no need to take risks.”

Bone did not respond. There was nothing to say. This was the life he had chosen. Out of it, someday, would come the death that was implicit in his choice.

“Don't put yourself in harm's way if the family is still a touchy matter. Same thing with anything else of interest to us.”

“The Great Shake's men could object to us sneaking around like we're part of a conspiracy.”

“If they press, tell them the truth.”

“And that would be? For these purposes?”

“The truth is, though I won't become Marshall if I'm beholden to Indala, I do want to encourage the Sha-lug to join Indala's new Great Campaign to oust foreigners from the Holy Lands.”

Bone slipped into a sour, sarcastic mood. “Would that include Dreangereans, Lucidians, or tribal groups out of Peqaa?”

The Mountain snorted, mildly amused.

 

17. The Connec: Gifts

Brother Candle, Socia, and Bernardin Amberchelle gathered each evening to share what they learned about their remarkable visitor, always a great deal of nothing. No one had seen her, no one knew anything about her. Even Mistress Alecsinac, after studying the Perfect's tattoos, Bernardin's scars, and Socia's massive crystal, which she now carried in a sheath like a dagger, could tell them nothing. Nor could she explain the forgotten necklace. She saw nothing special about it.

Mistress Alecsinac was younger than Brother Candle but still of considerable age. And she was frightened. “These are great potencies, Lady. No known Instrumentality answers your description. No Instrumentality takes such an avatar. Our significant Old Ones—the ones that started to come back—were all destroyed by the Captain-General. This will be something different. This will be something the Connec has never seen.”

Bernardin Amberchelle unleashed one of his occasional intellectual surprises. “Any chance she could be a new goddess?”

Mistress Alecsinac considered. “New to the Connec, certainly. But you said she spoke an old version of the language. She may belong to an elder generation of Instrumentalities.”

Brother Candle had spent as little time as he could with the witch during Socia's pregnancy. Even Seekers After Light had no room in their faith for such people—except when her special knowledge might ease a birth or help the sick. Despite her bizarre connections, though, Mistress Alecsinac was reasonable, rational, and articulate where Brother Candle would prefer a raving madwoman.

The Perfect said, “We know a lot of old, dark entities were awakened by Rudenes Schneidel. The Captain-General dealt with those and Schneidel but maybe Schneidel wasn't the only sorcerer stirring up revenants. The world was infested before the Old Empire culled them.”

Mistress Alecsinac asked, “Do any of you have any idea what she did to you?”

Brother Candle did not confess that he felt more alive than he had thought possible earlier, or than was seemly for a man of his years. The old woman cared only about tattoos and scars. “No,” he said. “And I'm starting to scare children.”

Socia said, “That's what crazy old men do.”

“Socia?” the Perfect said. “Is there something you don't want to reveal?”

*   *   *

Socia fell in love with her demonic crystal. She abused its power immediately and often. Denizens of the citadel began muttering about ghosts and demons. The Perfect heard of monster hounds seen from the corner of the eye, of great cats gone in a blink, of unfamiliar men and women stalking corridors by night and refusing to answer challenges. There was also talk of a huge bird, possibly an eagle, seen leaving a window up near the Countess's chambers. Her people were worried about her safety.

The Perfect asked, “What don't you want to share?”

Socia confessed, “I've been changing shape. A lot. More to do practical jokes than anything useful.”

“Useful?”

“I can go anywhere I want if I take the right shape.”

“Ah. I see.” Now that he knew he could worry about the trouble into which she could get. He imagined a dozen ways with no effort at all.

“I'll bet. The demon said use the crystal sparingly. Probably to avoid attracting attention but, maybe, too, because it has limits. Maybe you only get twenty changes, then it dies.”

“We don't know that.”

“My point exactly. We don't know anything about any of the gifts she gave us. We have to figure them out for ourselves. She was, by any reckoning, a devil. And it's a given that things of the Night aren't always what they seem. Gifts especially.”

Socia could say nothing to change that. “I just got overwhelmed. But I did find out some useful stuff, Bernardin. I flew out to see Kedle. I did some scouting for her. That woman … Five minutes after I showed up she was already coming up with wicked things we could do to our enemies.”

Brother Candle had no trouble believing that. Kedle was quick, opportunistic, and brutal. Socia's tone suggested that they had done something wicked already. “Wondrous as the practical applications may be, we really should know more before we assume what could be deadly risks.”

Reluctantly, Socia conceded his point, but then began telling Bernardin about a conspiracy she had unearthed while prowling.

“Ah. I did think that the Raisen brothers were tainted but they never gave me an excuse for bringing them in. Now I have one.”

“What will Kedle do if I stop going to see her?”

“Without you.”

“But…”

“She managed before. You probably gave her enough so she can work her wickedness for weeks.”

“But…”

“You just want to be off having adventures instead of governing. But you aren't Raymone Garete. You can't get away with leaving it to others. You have the assizes coming up.”

“There's always assizes coming up. But you're right. I just want to get away.” She sighed, resigned. “There is one thing, though. That demon might be following Kedle around.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Kedle says strange stuff happens whenever it looks like there might be a fight.”

“Like what?”

Socia shrugged. “Just weird things. Illusions. Apparitions. And things always going easier than they should.”

Bernardin said, “I'm getting some creepy feelings here, Master. What have we stumbled into?”

Brother Candle had his own creepy feelings. “That's what we need to find out.”

“How?”

The Perfect had no idea.

*   *   *

There was a small Devedian community in Antieux, along with a minuscule Dainshau presence. Having learned nothing useful from fellow Seekers, Chaldareans, or pagans, Brother Candle took his inquiries to their holy men. He did so of an evening, after having found out who to consult and having arranged an appointment. He went without concern for his own safety. With Bernardin Amberchelle in charge, it was said, a toothsome virgin could stroll through town naked without fear.

Bernardin did take a draconian approach to law enforcement. His heavy hand inspired protests from no one but Bishop LaVelle.

Most Deves and Dainshaukin now lived outside the wall, in a growing suburb on the west bank of the Job. Commerce developed fast when the wolves of war ignored the region for even a few months.

Having landed there from a small coaster, once, Brother Candle thought he knew the waterfront. But he lost his way twice, which left him worried that he would be late. The darkness seemed more like a comfortable old cloak than a potential source of danger.

Trouble did not find him in the narrow ways where he became lost. It pounced when he was just yards from his destination, a small Devedian temple. He was to meet a part-time priest named Radeus Pickleu. Pickleu was known more as a surgeon than as a priest. He had traveled and had a reputation as a student of comparative religion and religious history. Brother Candle had met Radeus Pickleu before. Pickleu had been a surgeon in the Connecten expeditionary force that participated in the Calziran Crusade. The Perfect had been a chaplain. Pickleu had had a knack for communicating with the pagans of Shippen.

A man stepped into the Perfect's path. He may have been waiting, or may have been tracking an obviously old Maysalean. In the weak light from the temple's open doorway the Perfect saw that Bernardin's oppressions had been inadequate outside the wall. This thug was almost stereotypically Society. He wore a cassock with the hood up and had a black cloth tied across his face.

“Good night, heretic. Well met.”

“Indeed?” Brother Candle was shaken. “I doubt that.” The man had spoken with malicious sarcasm.

“It is a good night for us. We know you. You'll give us leverage on the Rault bitch. She'll call off her hounds to save you.”

Brother Candle knew the opposite would be true. Socia would slaughter Brothen Episcopals, man, woman, and child, till she got her own back. Probably on the steps of the cathedral, where many good folk had died the first time the Church tried to scourge Antieux. “You're making a mistake you won't have long to regret.” Brother Candle noted that “we” meant a party of four, two behind him and one a dozen yards to his right, younger and reluctant to become involved.

The old man spoke considering the resources Socia now commanded. He saw no active role for himself in what was about to happen. His part had to be avoidance of offering excuses for bad behavior till Socia could bring the hammer down.

The men behind the Perfect seized his arms. The one on his right leaned in to whisper something cruel. Brother Candle never heard specific words.

The old man felt a cold surge of motion up his back and neck, to his cheek. He rocked. Whispering Man screamed, reeled away clawing his face.

Brother Candle's left arm shuddered and surged, sideways and back. The man there shrieked. He began flailing his right hand as though trying to shake off a handful of coals.

The old man heard a hiss beside his right ear, sensed weight and motion there. Likewise at the end of his left arm. And now his right reached for the man who had blocked his path. The Perfect saw the snake strike at the thug's right hand, which had begun rising, gripping a club.

Another shriek.

All three thugs went down, shaking, then going into convulsions. The fourth remained rooted, eyes huge, indecisive. Brother Candle shouted, “Run, boy! While you have the chance.”

People poured from the temple, shops, and houses.

The boy ran. Brother Candle hoped fear would sear away any inclination to continue his night-crawling career.

The screaming faded into gasps of strangulation.

Brother Candle felt the weights of the snakes fade. His mind seethed with guilt and insane speculation.

The first neighbor arrived. He saw nothing to set the Perfect apart, except for the old man's trembling. The snakes were tattoos again, though Brother Candle imagined their cold muscles flexing under his skin.

Every passing moment left him more appalled.

One nagging, irrelevant thought insisted on slicing through the chaos. One tattoo had not wakened at all.

Radeus Pickleu arrived, deeply concerned, and put the question the gallery wanted answered. “What happened?”

“The Night … Those men meant to attack me. Something struck them down.”

The evident ringleader, twice bitten, arched his back, suffered one final vicious convulsion, and died. The others continued to shake, foam at the mouth, and make noises that sounded like faltering speech in an alien tongue.

Pickleu stared a moment. “You'd better come inside. Did they hurt you?”

“They never touched me.”

“Any idea why they came at you?”

“The one who died called me a heretic and said they meant to use me to make the Countess do what they wanted.”

“Oh. Society scum. They breed like mosquitoes. I should've realized when I saw them.”

Hands urged the Perfect toward the open temple door. He tried looking back, could not see the fallen men. They were surrounded by neighbors now, including several in the queer black garb of Dainshaus. He did not see a healer.

A half-dozen men lifted a body, headed down the dirt street toward the river. Brother Candle thought he saw the man struggle feebly.

Pushing hands forced him inside the temple.

Pickleu said, “Sit. Relax. Talk about why you're here. What's that on your face? I didn't think you were the tattoo kind. That isn't some secret Maysalean symbol, is it?”

“No.” Brother Candle had forgotten how this dark, trim little surgeon could chatter. Conversations tended to be lopsided. “But tattoos are one reason I wanted to see you.”

“Your message said you had questions about old religions.”

“Questions about a particular Instrumentality that I haven't been able to identify.” He raised a hand to forestall Pickleu's rattling and prattling. “I'd rather not perform for a crowd.” There were twenty people within earshot, some not Devedian.

“I take your point. Everybody. All of you. Clear out. The Perfect came for a private conversation.”

The gallery cleared off. “Thanks. Let me explain before you ask questions. That should save time.”

“It's true, more gets done when Pickleu isn't talking.”

Brother Candle gave an edited version of the visit from the blond Instrumentality. He included his tattoos and Bernardin's fish but said nothing about the tattoos coming to life. He mentioned Socia's crystal but not what she did with it. “And she dropped this.” He produced the necklace. Or rosary. “Which may have been accidental or deliberate.”