Glen Cook - Working God's Mischief

Brother Candle said, “My lord Master is correct, Hope.” She flashed him a look that caused serpents to stir.

It was evening. The sun had settled to the horizon, behind the rearguard. The light got mixed weirdly in as-yet unsettled dust from an earlier windstorm, then painted Gherig an unflattering orange. Ugly when Lord Arnmigal had seen it as Else Tage, the fortress shone uglier still in that light. Lord Arnmigal scowled. Despite having suffered vast damage, still being repaired, Gherig looked even more formidable than it had back then.

Titus Consent rode on Lord Arnmigal’s right. Bold as death, Empress Helspeth rode to his left, with an ease and style that recalled her elder sister. Wife played a more mature, reserved, and dignified Helspeth than did Hourli but her Empress lacked the sly, warm good humor of Eavijne’s. Lord Arnmigal sometimes tried to pick his players to suit the moment.

The differences were fine but Titus had noticed. He had wondered aloud why the Empress had become so mercurial.

He remained uninformed of Helspeth’s condition. God willing, gods willing, he would never know.

Lord Arnmigal did not normally ride with the van. He did so now because he wanted to see Gherig while there was yet light enough and, further, wanted to escape the constant complaining of Queen Clothilde, whose battered company his scouts had taken captive that morning.

Only a few people remained with Clothilde. Most had deserted because she was so unpleasant. The few sterner folk had been depleted further while fighting off Gisela Frakier in the pay of a crusader noble with a grudge.

Lord Arnmigal cared nothing about that. That was past. Clothilde was inside his shadow, now. Future foul behavior would be punished.

Never had he encountered anyone with a greater sense of entitlement than Clothilde. She would fit well with the most self-absorbed pre-Revelation devil-gods. He asked Wife: “Is there a formula for dealing with her sort?”

Clothilde refused to recognize that she was at the mercy of her captors.

The Helspeth avatar smiled as though at a private joke. “Are you hinting that something be done? Murder works.”

“Now you’ve planted an ugly idea.”

“Ah. You’re too much of a gentleman.”

“Not an accusation often directed my way.”

She nodded. “Perhaps not by the true Empress. But she is mad, in her special way. I suppose something should be done just to rivet the Queen’s attention.”

“She’s no queen, now. Don’t let it be anything fatal, really.”

“Still the surest cure.”

“There would be repercussions.”

“Then fix the possibility in her mind. You don’t want her to become even more unbearable.”

Something did happen. Something actually rather small.

Clothilde lost her voice during a fuming rant at a hapless servant. The more she strove to rage and roar the more constricted her throat became, to the point where she could no longer breathe.

She collapsed. She never got another word out but kept right on trying. Three collapses were required to make her understand. She would smother herself if she insisted on being herself. She could end the attacks whenever she was ready.

So Clothilde did begin to hold her tongue-and swiftly became terrified. Insidious reality gnawed furiously at the roots of her universe.

It dawned at last. No one cared. She was at the mercy of this gang who had taken her everything. Many clearly would not be loath to make sure she became no threat in the future. The Commander of the Righteous had but to nod.

Clothilde was servility personified by the time the Righteous reached Gherig, but she did not deceive Lord Arnmigal’s strange women. They recognized every malevolent impulse as it spawned. The Commander of the Righteous restrained the malice of the Shining Ones but allowed them to make it crystal that Clothilde would own no power or significance other than that of a prisoner.

Empress Helspeth told her directly, “Discard any hope you have because your cousin awaits you. His situation mimics your own, though he tells himself that it is otherwise. He will be a hostage to your behavior. You will be a hostage to his. The Brotherhood of War could win great favor with Indala by delivering Rogert du Tancret.”

Indala’s attitude toward Black Rogert was secret from no one but Rogert himself. Du Tancret was willfully blind and cared nothing for the opinions of others.

Wife told Lord Arnmigal, “The woman has grasped the enormity of her situation at last.”

“And still you have a caveat?”

“A wolf never stops being a wolf. A wolf will remain a wolf even when it should become a lapdog in order to survive.”

“Meaning she won’t be able to control herself?”

“She will not. She is what she is. Point out any of her sort who ever changed their nature.”

He knew of no one, of course. “Then smart money wouldn’t bet on changes for the meeker.”

Wife chuckled. “Oh, naturally not. However, if you put your ducats down it wouldn’t be the first long shot you ever bet. But this one wouldn’t come up a winner. I still say smart money ought to consider a surprise viper bite or fatal accident.”

Easily arranged with allies such as her.

“Maybe someday. But not yet.”

The question she did not ask hung in the air.

“That’s too much going the easy way. That’s the kind of thing that gives us men like Gordimer and er-Rashal.”

Wife stared with eyes gone entirely blank.

“All right.” He confessed, “You are correct. I have made some easy choices myself.” The transition might be an inalterable consequence of changes that came with the advance up the ladder of command. “Whatever, that isn’t our problem now. The Rascal is our problem. He is our only problem. The coming few days could shape the Holy Lands forevermore. They might shape the fate of the Shining Ones, too. Do we know what’s going on at Gherig?”

“They have no secrets. Aldi is there. The Master of the Commandery has gathered the Captain-General, the Widow, and a few renegade Lucidians more interested in smashing the sorcerer than in fighting westerners.”

“Who would they be? Pramans seldom look beyond today’s sunset. They’ve heard from birth that whatever happens will unfold the way God wills it.”

“There is an old Sha-lug general named Nassim Alizarin. Accompanying him are several longtime comrades and a grandnephew of Indala, one Azim al-Adil. He is young enough to have noticed Aldi.”

“That just means he’s still alive. Right?” Having suffered Aldi’s effect himself. “Do you all thrive on tempting mortals?”

“Yes. Yes we do. A goddess needs her fun. You know those names?”

“Nassim, I do. Our paths cross occasionally.” Though it would be effort wasted trying to hide from the Night, he offered nothing more.

Could this become another thread of complication?

Wife asked, “Rather than obsess, suppose we just see what unfolds?”

He sensed an implied suggestion that the direst threats could be resolved in a heartbeat. Or in the stopping of one.

He bobbed his head once, sharply.

It was a rare moment.

“Pinkus. You’ve found a local source for spoiled grape squeezings.” Then, “Bo. I heard you signed on with Hell’s Legion.”

“They threw me out, Boss. Too dirty for them. I’m just another rat in the shadows nowadays. Did Joe come with?” Biogna exchanged hand clasps with Titus Consent. They were never close but had known one another for years. Each held a grudging respect for the other.

Hourli, in Grail Empress guise, observed without expression, as did Ghort’s companions. Lord Arnmigal recognized Aldi despite physical changes and Holy Lands apparel. She winked, then wilted under a glower from Hourli.