Working God's Mischief (61 page)

Mohkam shrugged. “He wanted to check something. You didn't lose your weapons, did you? We can find food and clothes.”

They walked while talking. At the assembly point young Az asked, “How long should we wait for the Master of Ghosts, Uncle? We should be under cover before first light.”

Nassim said, “Patrols won't be a worry if we don't clump up. They don't bother individuals who aren't obviously smuggling food or weapons.”

Young Az remarked, “They are more restrained than they could be.”

“Restrained?” Nassim blurted, startled.

“It being a war and all. Of religions. Just saying. Despite the atrocities we hear about, the Righteous have been generous—if the defeated surrender when offered the chance.” Azim added, “Compared to the Hu'n-tai At, or Rogert du Tancret, or crusaders and Gisela Frakier who aren't with the Righteous.”

It took the Mountain a moment to grasp the implication.

Had Captain Tage survived after all? The Righteous were not systematically exterminating the Believers, unlike the Hu'n-tai At. The Righteous simply disarmed those who served the God Who Is God, with massive destruction and bloodshed occasionally but never to the limits of their capacity.

That deserved reflection, someday when he had leisure time, when the sun was high and no big, hungry things were snuffling about.

Old Az caught up. He did not explain himself, but did report, “We are going to walk a lot. That could be good. On foot and at our ages we won't look so dangerous.”

Nassim said, “I begin to entertain doubts about this.”

Young Az countered, “It was your idea.”

“Time has made me wise enough to admit that I can mess up.”

“And have you?”

Nassim grunted a provisional negative. He had grown passionate selling this mission to the Great Shake. Indala had had his doubts but once he made his decision he did not consult advisors or family other than Azim.

Nassim had shielded him from the totality of the scheme.

It would entail a certain level of what might be considered treason.

Treason? Easy for Nassim Alizarin, the professional turncoat. But what of Indala? What of the Great Shake's most favored nephew? Would they be branded forever?

Success or failure would tell.

Old Az asked, “How did Bone take having to stay behind?”

“It wasn't pleasant.” Nassim hoped the old warrior was secretly pleased. “He claimed he would rather die out here with his brothers than molder a dozen more years among strangers. I hope that was just for show.” The old man had been sure that he would see none of the band again.

Somebody feeling negative muttered, “And ain't there a grand good chance the old goat was right?”

The Mountain felt like his companions were with him mostly because he was doing something, however foredoomed, as opposed to doing nothing in Shamramdi while awaiting the inevitable end.

*   *   *

The reception from the Ansa was mixed. Some blamed Nassim for their troubles since his departure. Others understood that their tribulations were less than a sideshow to the grandees of Qasr al-Zed. Nassim should be honored for having argued his way back into the conflict with the monster of the Dead City. Without him the Ansa had no hope at all.

The Rascal was his weakest yet but he won every skirmish. He had negated the Ansa firepowder weaponry. They could now do him no serious harm. They could not get close enough.

And now the Dreangerean had begun taking outsider victims.

The crusaders had closed the traditional communications routes between the coast and the Lucidian heartland. Today's routes passed through the Neret Mountains. The road that debouched at al-Pinea was most heavily traveled.

Couriers did not always get through, though losses were never so heavy that the route might be abandoned. It had been dangerous in peacetime, the Ansa taking the blame. Usually, they were guilty.

The Rascal was harvesting messengers for raw material. Soon he would resume reanimating his grandfather of devils. He was very close to success.

Neither the Ansa who visited Shamramdi, nor any of the tribe's appeals, mentioned that the Rascal had made himself some helpers by using his ugliest necromancy to resurrect some of Andesqueluz's former residents.

They numbered fewer than a dozen. They were slow. They were vulnerable. They were not much good at carrying out orders but they did ease er-Rashal's life. The terror they caused exceeded that generated by the sorcerer himself.

The terrified Ansa were on the brink of panicky flight despite having nowhere to run.

The Ansa found the situation hard to discuss. It struck to the core of their cultural obsessions. When a few did try to explain, language problems and cultural quirks left the Sha-lug baffled.

Old Az thought about it a lot. Eventually, at the communal fire, he told Nassim, “The Rascal did learn something awful from those mummies he had us steal.”

Er-Rashal failed with many more mummy reanimations than he succeeded. Most of the mummies were too damaged. The successes had enslaved the imaginations of the Ansa, though. They would not fight back.

Young Az argued, “It's simple and obvious. You throw flammable liquid and light them up.”

“Light them up!” Mohkam barked, laughing.

The Master of Ghosts was more restrained but agreed. “That should work. You'd think they'd try it. They don't because that would amount to outrageous disrespect for their ancestors—who were sorcerers themselves in their time.”

Nassim hoped that, as in some old horror stories, er-Rashal would bumble his way into some trap set by the ancients. “Why would they worry about disrespect? They have no ancestors among the dead of Andesqueluz.”

True. The Ansa had not occupied the Idiam nearly long enough. They descended from a stiff-necked cult that had fled thither in Brothen imperial times. Nevertheless, they had adopted the older history.

Even the most cooperative Ansa refused to dishonor their presumptive ancestors by defending the living against them.

“We have cultural blind spots, too,” Nassim told young Az. “And we're just as unaware. Everybody. Let's don't have any bad talk about Ansa thinking. We want them blind to what we're doing.” He stared into the fire. “We'll act. We'll buy time. I have a new plan.”

The company moved in around him. He would not want to be overheard. He did not give them much, though, because no truly new idea had occurred. “We won't stand toe-to-toe with er-Rashal. That path can lead only to failure and despair.”

The new plan came as a flash of inspiration that was, in fact, not really all that sudden. He decided instantly not to share it till he had no choice.

He began with a diversion. His renegades clumsy-sneakily started building a crude firepower manufactory, claiming to have distilled saltpeter from the waters at al-Pinea. He told the Ansa that he had found a means whereby he could produce weak firepowder impossible to be set afire from a distance. Nassim counted on at least one Ansa having voided his conscience to keep er-Rashal posted.

The process had barely begun, with Ansa youngsters collecting scrub wood to burn into charcoal, when Old Az announced, “Something cold and empty is watching.”

“A revenant?”

“Almost certainly.”

“The Rascal is being careful.”

“We've stung him before.”

Nassim chuckled. “He shouldn't attack tonight but be ready anyway, in case he suffers a stroke of bold. Keep the youngsters near the fire. I want the revenants getting hungry.”

Events conformed to Nassim's scheme. Er-Rashal took the bait, dreading untouchable firepowder. His revenants moved in next night, intent on destroying renegade Sha-lug and feasting on tender young Ansa. They came in a swarm, anticipating no ready resistance, counting on Nassim to be considerate of Ansa culture and so delay his response too long.

Everyone felt the coldness and emptiness of the revenants waxing. Nassim did not share his intentions with the Ansa.

The revenants attacked. The Sha-lug doused them with oil and chucked them into the fire. The action lasted only seconds. The revenants burned vigorously. Er-Rashal got a dose of oil and fire himself while distracted by rage. Screaming, smoldering, he bounded off toward the Dead City, still remarkably spry.

Old Az opined, “He'll be out of sorts for a while.”

Young Az said, “Let's go after him. He'll never be weaker.”

Nassim said, “Tactically, we should. But we'd need to have friendly Ansa behind us.”

The others were dismembering revenant mummies, making sure no piece of any old sorcerer escaped the flames. The Ansa present, all youngsters, were appalled.

Young Az said, “I see. We should get out of here. They might decide to do something that we'll regret.”

Nassim told a son of the tribe's second chief, “We bought you time. It will take the sorcerer months to recover. Keep the living away and he won't recover at all. His evil survives only because of his ability to steal life. Let the elders hate us if they like but tell them not to waste the time we've won. It is a dark gift but the best I can manage. We Sha-lug must now go play another sad role.”

The Ansa did nothing till Nassim and his band were long gone.

*   *   *

“The place is uglier than ever,” Old Az said. Gherig was illuminated strangely by a rising sun piercing a massive dust storm to the east.

Young Az said, “The weird light definitely makes it look creepy.”

Gherig still wore a skirt of scaffolding. Gaps and cracks still marred its walls. It looked more grimly inhospitable than ever, though hospitality had never been its forte. Hostility, though … The boy added, “This would be a good time to attack, had we the numbers.” Ignoring his own past failure.

Mohkam muttered continuously, trying to keep his courage elevated, lacking all faith in a white banner's ability to shield those who had irked the crusaders so stubbornly for so long.

Nassim himself had no trouble trusting Madouc of Hoeles. However, the Master of the Commandery was not alone there. Resenting his reduced status, Rogert du Tancret might imagine a chance to aggrandize himself by aborting any agreement between the Brotherhood and the renegades from the east.

A needless concern. The Master quietly demonstrated his complete control over Gherig. Black Rogert's men had come over to him almost universally. Du Tancret had subsided to a whining nuisance raging against the unfairness.

Madouc of Hoeles listened closely while the old general stated his case. He asked perceptive questions. He had paid attention while serving the Captain-General. He grasped the threat shaping in the Idiam. He knew what er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen could do. He knew more about the Ansa and the Idiam than Nassim expected.

Nassim Alizarin hoped his own people would not hate him for, apparently, having turned his coat again.

Young Az was deeply unhappy, certainly, though he insisted that he understood.

One thing could not be denied: The Believers totally lacked the knowledge, the power, and the ability to cope if er-Rashal did awaken his devils. The Crusaders, Lord Arnmigal, and the Godslayer, however, had shown extreme skill in dealing with powerful and wicked resurrected demons.

 

40. East of Triamolin: Mischief-Makings

Brother Candle killed a louse, then killed another. Then another, still, viciously, before announcing, “I begin to understand how some men become murderous.” Lice, people, it was a matter of degree, and people were the deeper source of aggravation. Killing got the screaming frustration out, the maddening pressure inside reduced, and punctuated one source of frustration forever.

Kedle did not quite agree. She winced while shifting to reach for a peach. Exertions the night of the big ambush had inflamed her old injuries. Her leg hurt a lot. But she was Kedle Richeut, the Widow, bloodthirsty avenging spirit of the Vindicated. She could not make herself stay inactive long enough to manage a full recovery. She told everyone that she enjoyed the local warmth. Cold weather only made the leg hurt more. Brother Candle was amazed that anyone could find a bright side to being baked greaseless.

She asked, “Have we begun to experience regrets, Master?”

“‘We' set foot on that trail before
Darter
passed the breakwater at Terliaga.”

“So you've done your penance. They'll park your bony arse on the right hand of God, between Him and Aaron.” Deliberate sacrilege.

Brother Candle refused the bait. “Just let me mope and feel sorry for myself.”

One of the Arnhander youngsters came in to announce, “That General Ghort guy is here again, Lady.”

Kedle waved. The boy backed out. Kedle asked, “You heard? I'm a Lady, now.”

“He thinks his friend is a lady, too.”

That could have sparked a quarrel, Kedle's appreciation for Hope being what it was, but the Captain-General's arrival interrupted. Ghort checked them out while his eyes adjusted to the gloom. “Squabbling again?”

“Still,” the Perfect conceded.

Kedle grumbled, “There's nobody else to fight with. The Commander of the Righteous keeps not letting us do what we came here to do.”

“I may have some good news, then. May I sit?”

“If the news is what I want to hear you can sit on my lap.”

“I shall do my best to polish and spin it prettily, then.”

Brother Candle was shocked. Kedle was, too. She had blurted something thoughtlessly to a Captain-General hardly subtle or shy about his interest in the Widow as a woman.

The Perfect thought Kedle found the notion intriguing but confusing. She could not discuss it with him. The only woman she knew was Hope. Hope would, he thought, tell Kedle to grab the chance, being incapable of grasping the concept of monogamy herself. He thought he had a pretty good idea where Hope fit in the old pantheon, now.

The Captain-General said, “I went to Shartelle and spent some time with my old friend. We drank some, swapped some lies about the old days, caught up with friends from back when. Stuff guys do when they haven't seen each other for a while.” He sounded disappointed.