Glen Cook: Working God's Mischief

That dance had been on for weeks. Indala would not be drawn. He meant to temporize till Gordimer’s forces melted away, an eventuality, Nassim suspected, that might hamstring Indala first. His followers were farther from home.

Whoever else abandoned him, Gordimer would retain the finely honed professional Sha-lug.

Nassim never stopped wrestling his conscience. He feared that he was in the wrong, now. Worse, he suspected that Indala wanted to make him a puppet Marshall.

Why could not the kaifates join forces against the infidel without savaging one another first?

* * *

“What is it, Mohkam?” Nassim did not turn to see who had joined him. The night was afire with stars.

“You saw the rider arrive, General?”

“I did.”

“He brought news from our friends in Vantrad. Black Rogert is moving.”

“Finally. What do we have to look forward to?”

“His party numbers more than four hundred.”

“All armed men?”

“Twenty-four knights, mostly Brotherhood of War. Their squires, their serjents, their servants, and so forth. The rest are mercenary foot recruited from pilgrims who came to see Unbeliever holy sites. There are some wives and children, too,” said Mohkam.

“Where would Rogert find money to hire mercenaries? They’d want their pay up front because he’s cheated hired swords and Gisela Frakier before. The Brotherhood of War wouldn’t finance him. They’re probably along to keep him in check, not to help him.”

Gisela Frakier were Praman tribesmen allied with the Arnhander invaders, usually because their traditional tribal enemies were not.

“The money flows from the same spring as the nomination to return to Gherig. Queen Clothilde.”

Clothilde, queen of Vantrad, related to Black Rogert and, possibly, his lover, was a woman as foul as he.

King Beresmond of Vantrad was fourteen years younger than Clothilde, who held him in complete contempt. He suffered from several afflictions, not the least of which was his spouse. He was not a strong personality.

Beresmond was nominal sovereign of the Crusader States. Very nominal, of late. Several counts and princes had taken advantage of his weakness even as du Tancret played the viper in his nest.

Nassim considered the boy king’s great weaknesses his niceness and trusting nature.

Any man less nice and trusting would have had some throats cut.

“Why did I ask? Who else would give him money? Dare I hope that she is coming with him?”

“Her moral decline hasn’t reached that depth. But don’t be surprised to hear that the Queen will make a progress through the Crusader States, with a stop at Gherig.”

“Do we know Rogert’s itinerary?”

“No,” Mohkam admitted. “But the road will define the way.”

Before Nassim stopped trade countless caravans had moved between Lucidia and Dreanger, some so huge they required a thousand guards. Every year thousands of pilgrims took to the roads, and not just the Faithful. The Holy Lands had been Chaldarean, Devedian, and Dainshaukin before the Praman Conquest.

When last he was lord of Gherig, Rogert du Tancret had shown no reluctance to attack the caravans. He had slain thousands, including diplomats and fellow Chaldareans. He took their goods and treasure and saved only those who could be ransomed or would fetch a good price on the slave block.

On one occasion he had captured and mistreated females from Indala’s own household.

Rogert bragged about having masterminded an expedition into the Peqaa wastes to profane the holiest holies associated with the Founding Family. He brayed that he would do so again and next time would expunge everything having to do with the origins of the Faith.

Rogert du Tancret was, to most Pramans, the Adversary incarnate.

Nassim asked, “Again, anything useful concerning his itinerary?”

“As I said. He has to follow the roads, from water to water.”

* * *

Few secrets survived long in the Holy Lands. Whatever anyone did, it would be seen and talked about by people who had nothing invested. Most natives saw not only the crusaders but the Faithful as invaders, adventurers, and oppressors. They helped when compelled, or paid, but opted out of the struggles otherwise.

News of Black Rogert’s return spread faster than the plague. Du Tancret was an object of universal loathing.

No one passed the word when small bands of Lucidians slipped through the wilderness, leading heavily laden camels. Not to the crusaders or Brotherhood of War.

* * *

Rogert du Tancret believed himself safe in the shade of the protective umbrella of the Crusader States. His party constituted a small army. He had riders out front and trailing. That was necessary even in peacetime. But his flankers were not out as far as they ought to have been.

Du Tancret had a remarkable sense for personal danger. He had been accused of having one foot inside the Night, on its darkest side.

He had been uneasy for hours.

Two hundred screaming Lucidians swarmed from amongst tumbled boulders, following arrows and long lances. Once the lances broke, sabers came out. But these attackers were not interested in a stand-up fight. They wanted to do all the damage they could, quickly, especially among the knights. Then they would flee.

Their pursuers chased them into a defile where they turned and fought but fell back under pressure from du Tancret’s followers.

Then Nassim Alizarin’s falcons ripped swaths through the invaders.

Black Rogert reined his people in. His enemies would try to lead him into further traps. He would not fall for that again. He abandoned his dead and some of his wounded and resumed travel.

* * *

Nassim asked, “Did anyone even get close?”

Several men claimed to have seen their arrows strike Black Rogert’s shield. None had gotten near enough to ply lance or saber. Mohkam said, “And it wasn’t like anybody made an effort to protect him.”

Al-Azer er-Selim grumbled, “They love him no more than we do. He is truly beloved of the Night.”

Nassim asked al-Azer, his Master of Ghosts, “What did you try?”

“I concentrated on his horse. It didn’t respond.”

Old Bone snarled, “He’s the Adversary’s little brother.”

Not a new proposal. Du Tancret obviously enjoyed unnatural luck.

Mohkam said, “The men report killing seventeen and wounding thirty. After factoring for exaggeration. The truth could be more optimistic.”

Nassim growled, “Not as good as I’d hoped.”

“They didn’t panic.”

“And I was expecting that.” Had the Crusaders taken to their heels there would have been a grand slaughter.

Nassim said, “Send a patrol back. Tell them to look for a casualty in good enough shape to be questioned.”

Al-Azer observed, “Let’s count ourselves lucky that Black Rogert doesn’t waste time burying his dead.”

“Which will win him more enemies.”

Nassim paced the crusaders, right or left, wherever he could raise the most dust. He launched nuisance attacks. He resisted calls to poison the wells along the way. He did not want the enmity of locals who depended on those same sources of water.

The crusaders reached Gherig having suffered fewer losses than the Mountain had hoped to gift them.

* * *

Nassim returned to Tel Moussa. There had been news from Dreanger. A huge battle had been shaping up in the desert west of the Shirne, near a village called Patel.

That news was a week old. Nothing further had been heard.

Helspeth Ege, Empress Apparent of the New Brothen Empire, placed herself in front of a full-length mirror. She wore nothing but smallclothes. “Hilda. Am I homely?” She knew she was not plump enough but, otherwise, could not judge what she saw before her.