Glen Cook - Working God's Mischief

Lord Arnmigal opined, “I hope Joe enjoyed himself. He comes nearer being a true good man than anyone I know. He deserves more joy of life.”

“I would argue that we all do. God won’t give it to us.”

“He got back quick. Did he find out something important?”

“In a nutshell. Nobody out there is making a big deal, maybe because they haven’t seen the implications. I think our demonic allies have and are hoping we won’t.” Titus raised a hand, forestalling Hecht’s impatience. “The Dreangerean villain, er-Rashal, has created a spell that makes firepowder explode at a distance or at least fizzle and clog the falcon.”

Lord Arnmigal gulped some air and chewed.

“The spell reaches beyond the reliable killing range of most falcons. Falconeers who can fire don’t have much hope of actually hitting anything.”

“And the Shining Ones know.”

“They do. And want to keep it quiet.”

“So they think they see a way to be safe from the mortal instruments of a would-be Godslayer.”

“If they can get hold of er-Rashal’s secret.”

“They don’t have it?”

“They do not. Only the Dreangerean has the spell, and that only inside his head. Spying on him won’t do any good.”

“Unless they catch him in the process.”

“Maybe. But they have to be careful not to show their interest. Also, the sorcerer has put up some formidable supernatural barriers. I doubt they can get close enough to watch him work.” Consent went on with other news from the frontier, adding some speculation. “Madouc hasn’t seen all the possibilities but he’s definitely worried about Asher. The Special Office types at Gherig are pressuring him. Too, Joe says some Pramans have joined Madouc. Indala’s men, supposedly there to help handle er-Rashal.”

Hecht grunted. That was puzzling. Indala helping Madouc with the Rascal? With the Special Office, Black Rogert, the Shining Ones, and who knew what all else there to see?

Er-Rashal had somebody really worried. Something major must be about to break.

The old Norns came to mind, silently spinning, lamplight painting their silhouettes on the paper screen that was the wall between them and the universe, a boundary neither man nor god dared violate.

He spurned the image. Illusion! Wicked imagination! Only the God Who Is God could write one’s destiny …

He suppressed a burst of hysterical laughter.

“Boss?”

“We have a world of people playing their own games, me included. Suppose I just jumped in like a bear into a gaggle of puppies?”

Titus considered. “That might be too risky.”

“Good. Then that’s what we’ll do. Nobody will expect it.”

“Boss…”

What else to do now? Vantrad was in hand. Iresh abd al-Kadiri had been chased off. The Enterprise had achieved most of its goals against almost feeble resistance. All of the Holy Lands cities had submitted to the Grail Empress. The natives were not happy. If they behaved, however, changes at the royal level would mean little to farmers, herders, shopkeepers, and artisans. They would face the same old challenges and complain the same old complaints. They would lie to the tax collectors with fabulous imagination. They would bully neighbors who failed to demonstrate an adequately enlightened attitude toward the divine. Life would go on much as it always had.

The Commander of the Righteous, however, would have to make new choices soon. Once Shamramdi fell the Enterprise would have to find an expanded mission or begin to come apart. King Stain might get no chance to assemble his reinforcing wave.

Dreanger would be recovered for the Chaldarean faith. Lucidia, too, with the capture of Shamramdi. But that would set the Enterprise face-to-face with the sons of Tsistimed the Golden and the Hu’n-tai At.

There was the du Tancret option, of course. The dearly held dream of the most fanatic Chaldareans would be to capture and destroy Jezdad and the holiest holies of al-Prama.

“Boss? You still in there?”

“Eh? What?”

“Are you serious? What you suggested? Us heading out to Gherig?”

“Sure. To deal with er-Rashal. It doesn’t take a lot of thought to see that he’s the biggest threat at the moment. Once he goes down we can impose whatever realignment we want in this region.”

He had no desire to obliterate al-Prama. The Faith had been a part of him. Never had he entertained the notion of that religion’s annihilation. He would have been outraged had the suggestion been offered.

“Boss?”

“Yes?” Irritated now. Titus ought to be off to get things started.

“What does it mean when the Shining Ones say, ‘He lost his shadow somewhere’?”

That startled Lord Arnmigal. He knew that must have meaning but could recall none. “I’m not sure. It sounds portentous, though. Why?”

“Wife and Hourli say it about you. It bothers me.”

Hecht had overheard the phrase himself recently without paying heed or realizing that he was its object. “‘Lost his way,’ wouldn’t quite fit, would it? I’ll ask Hourli. She’ll turn up fast once she hears that we’re headed east.”

An air-clearing session with Hourli might be especially useful before the cloudy side developed deeper shadows. Once the Adversary began threading lies into things …

Nassim Alizarin stood alongside the crusader Madouc of Hoeles. He could not have imagined that possibility two months earlier. They shared the parapet of a Gherig watchtower. Several others, equally ill at ease, were observing traffic below Gherig with them. Nassim felt ensnared in a surreal fantasy. The Master of the Commandery had accepted his story and offer of alliance. Madouc of Hoeles was seriously practical and pragmatic in spite of his religious convictions. Madouc grasped the magnitude of the threat developing in the Idiam. He had seen other resurrections. He had been warned by his own Special Office: this could be the ugliest resurrection yet. He would employ any tool or weapon to abort the menace. Nassim’s renegades might be a godsend.

No one knew the devil er-Rashal better. No one hated him more.

Rogert du Tancret, on crutches, radiated ill-concealed spite. Nassim Alizarin had been a curse on his existence. Nassim Alizarin had come within a toad’s whisker of annihilating Gherig, and Rogert du Tancret with it. Nassim Alizarin had made it necessary for him to go round on these sticks. Black Rogert was biding his time. He would have his revenge.

Black Rogert might be black but he never considered achieving his revenge by allying with the Dreangerean evil.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed, wide little bully laid looks on Madouc that were no more friendly. Madouc could expect his own day of reckoning.

Rogert du Tancret had chosen to play against character, biding his time though he was not known for his patience or subtlety. Cunning had him smile exactly when the converted and motivated ought to show enthusiasm.

Nassim and Madouc were observing a wild swirl and swarm of newcomers sent out by the Commander of the Righteous as they put up a canvas and trash-wood city surrounded by a ditch and a freestone wall. Villagers disgruntled by the loss of pasture had been complaining since the first new crusader appeared. Nassim wished he could help. Those people had supported him well.

They would not resist. The newcomers had slaughtered scores of Believers who had tried to raid their camp near Triamolin. Their woman commander was an abomination made flesh. She devoured Praman souls.

Since that massacre the Widow’s story had become widespread, growing madly in the retelling. Publicly, Madouc of Hoeles credited every wicked accusation. He hinted that more and darker remained to be seen.