Glen Cook - Working God's Mischief

Nassim said nothing. Young Az did the same, preferring to remain unnoticed by Madouc. Then Nassim did ask, “You actually credit those theories?”

Could anyone be as successful as the Commander of the Righteous had, absent help from Heaven or Hell?

Hell always seemed most likely to the envious.

Human nature assumes that anyone successful must be a liar, cheat, and deadly backstabber.

Sometimes that was true. Gordimer the Lion, for example. In the case of the exiled Sha-lug Else Tage, the condemned man appeared to be an orphan beloved of the Night.

Stories of the sort were uncommon but existed. Witness Aaron of Chaldar or the Founding Family of al-Prama. Or, more recently, Tsistimed the Golden, a demigod ascendant not known to have sought the power deliberately. Not in er-Rashal’s willful way.

Nassim shuddered, awash with dread. He might actually know someone who would ascend to Instrumentality status.

“General? Are you unwell?”

“My apologies. A curse of age. I have reached a stage where staying anchored and focused is difficult.”

The Master of the Commandery, as he often did, put any questions aside. “Should we invite the Widow and Captain-General up to discuss combining our knowledge and strengths?”

“The Widow has a reputation for not working well with others.”

“There are ways to work around personalities. I want to confer and have something decided before the Queen gets here to complicate our lives.” He paused but, before Nassim could respond, told young Az, “You will join us, of course.” Saying so much while saying nothing specific.

So. Madouc knew who Azim was. Nassim would speak for the Sha-lug and old enemies who knew the Rascal best. Azim al-Adil ed-Din would be the eyes, ears, and mouth of the Great Shake of Lucidia and Qasr al-Zed.

Azim inclined his head, an equal deferring to a more qualified equal. “As you wish, Master.”

Nassim felt pride. The boy had handled that well. He might indeed be the future of Qasr el-Zed-if he could shed the emotional encumbrance of his early failures.

The boy would face fierce challenges. God Himself might not surmount the circumstances of the times, with the Righteous triumphant everywhere and the Hu’n-tai At stirring, despite all their suffering of late.

The situation could only get worse. There would be another wave of western adventurers next summer but no Believers to replace the Faithful already fallen.

The Adversary should be dancing in his black palace, all was going so well for the children of darkness.

Nassim said, “We can but do what we must, and quickly would be best.”

Brother Candle bestrode a ragged donkey, a mangy beast, if mange was what made the creature look so pathetic. It was the simplest and gentlest conveyance available yet the Perfect feared losing his concentration for even a moment. Did he, he would fall for sure, despite everything.

This was no venue for slapstick.

The overawing mass of Gherig reared above. He could not tilt his head back far enough to view its battlements. The awe extended beyond mass and scale to the widespread evidence of firepowder damage that had yet to be repaired.

He did not want to ride. Kedle had ignored his every protest to install him aboard this gargantuan hoofed rat. Hope had smirked and patted his cheek and applied a spell to help reduce his chances of falling. That did not stop him from tipping way too far, to one side or the other.

He could not have survived the climb to Gherig on foot. He was too feeble. But Kedle would not make the visit without him.

The child did very little without his attendance anymore.

She and the Captain-General led from out front, her only lifeguards the nervous boys from Arnhand. Pinkus Ghort flaunted his supposed confidence, too, having brought just one shifty-eyed little devil that the Perfect was sure he knew from somewhere. Ghort called him Bo. The runt insisted that Brother Candle must have him confused with someone else. Bo seemed to know his way around.

Kedle made Bo nervous. He stayed clear of her.

Hope, in a restrained guise but plenty recognizable as a woman of allure, led Brother Candle’s charger, playing with her role as a nun from some obscure Holy Lands order. But …

She was Hope. Dawn. She riveted the attention of every man they passed, leaving each troubled and confused and breathing hard.

Seven souls made up the deputation. Kedle thought fewer would be more in the eyes of Gherig’s masters. Hope and the Captain-General agreed. Brother Candle was inclined to trust Hope’s judgment. She had scouted ahead.

Pinkus Ghort’s agreement rested on his past association with Madouc of Hoeles. He knew nothing about Hope’s talents, nor did he fully fathom the Perfect’s lethal capacity, though he had caught a glimpse at Triamolin.

Brother Candle thought Ghort’s assessment of the Master of the Commandery could be excessively optimistic. And he believed that Hope thought too highly of the advantages owned by the Vindicated and their allies.

This Madouc of Hoeles, this Master of the Commandery, would be the lifeguard of the former Captain-General that Ghort remembered no longer. The runt Bo had argued as much during preparations for this visit. Unfortunately, Ghort had enjoyed some wine beforehand. Once he had a taste of the grape he became disinclined to hear statements of fact that disagreed with what he wanted to be true.

The Master of the Commandery and other hard men awaited them just outside Gherig’s innermost sub-fortress, nearly half a mile beyond and uphill of the barbican gate. They were surrounded by rubble. Scaffolding and engines used to hoist materials skirted the keep. Even here the damage remained intimidating.

Hope pointed out the Pramans, though they would have been no less obvious had they been standing on their heads-though they did seem to consider themselves disguised. Brother Candle rehearsed the names that Dawn had reported. Important men, but not Gisela Frakier.

Smirking and flirty, Hope stayed beside the donkey’s neck, holding the beast. She assisted in Brother Candle’s inelegant dismount. Briefly, he failed to recall that he was supposed to look inept. Those men were supposed to underestimate the Vindicated.

He was expected to carry the weight of the conversation.

Why? These people were supposed to be allies.

He doubted that anyone would be fooled.

Only … Those were Pramans. One of them belonged to Indala’s own family.

Hope helped him walk, alternately radiating an implication that she was a favored concubine or a favorite granddaughter. She distracted the receivers completely-excepting Madouc of Hoeles. Her efforts went right past the Master of the Commandery. Brother Candle whispered cautions he might have given a sulky fourteen-year-old.

“I know! I know! I can handle it!” she whispered back, too loudly for his comfort. “But I don’t have to like it!”

The Master made introductions as they moved into the keep, if such a monster could be so called. Entire castles in Arnhand and the Connec were smaller than this forlorn hope. Brother Candle offered introductions in turn. He did not introduce Hope after Madouc failed to introduce Azim al-Adil.

The Master of the Commandery went straight to a huge quiet room that Hope had not known existed. Rogert du Tancret waited there, in a chair rigged to support his bad leg. He was pleased by their surprise at his secret room. “This is new. Our enemies were way too familiar with our thinking before.” He glowered at the elder Praman. “Master Madouc and the Special Office were quick to see my point when I raised the matter.”

Brother Candle read that as du Tancret actually complaining.