Glen Cook - Working God's Mischief

“Wait! One thing. Who will you marry if I don’t survive?”

Raymone Garete was no genius where women were concerned but he did slip this snare. “No one, heart of my heart. I will go on only to rear my son, in your memory.”

Even that was only marginally acceptable. He should have tried for reassuring.

“What a bullshitter. Go on. Get the midwives.”

* * *

When Brother Candle met the infant Lumiere he was surrounded by women, some unfamiliar. Those he did know included Kedle Richeut, Mistress Alecsinac, and the ladies of Count Raymone’s diminutive court. Those he did not know included a wet nurse and Raymone’s fiercely disapproving mother. Sister Claire had spent her last twelve years cloistered. She had come to see her first grandson at Count Raymone’s insistence.

Raymone’s mother said nothing in his hearing but she was unhappy about the presence of heretics and witches. Nor did she approve of her son’s choice of wife. The border brat was little better than a peasant.

Brother Candle was gracious toward the cross old nun but somewhat boggled. Not once had Raymone ever mentioned his mother. It was obvious he had little love for the woman. So why was she here?

Count Raymone Garete operated by a complex code of his own device. He could not articulate it fully even to himself.

The Perfect would learn later, from Bernardin, that the Count believed his mother had been involved in the death of his father when Raymone was a small boy. There might have been cuckoldry involved. A Connecten romantic love may have gone wrong. Or religion might have been involved. Bernardin would not explore the matter.

Socia was sitting up. Two women were trying to make her more presentable. A touch of vanity not evident before?

“Master. I’m delighted. Come here. Shove those crows out of the way.”

Brother Candle did no shoving. He moved carefully. It was clear which women were Seekers and which were Chaldarean. It was harder to tell which of those honored Brothe and which clung to the lost Viscesment Patriarchy. The Episcopals were offended by his presence. He was a man, and a heretic.

Socia inspired further indignation by patting her bed. “Sit. Look at him. What do you think?”

He said what he thought. “He ought to be in the arms of his mother, suckling his mother’s milk.”

Silence conquered the room. Every woman stared, amazed. Nor was Socia best pleased.

“You’re his mother, Socia. Be his mother. Don’t put vanity between you. Or whatever it is that moves you. Sister Claire. You didn’t nurse Raymone, did you?” Point hammered home, Brother Candle said, “He’s a beautiful boy, Socia. Perfect in every way. Properly raised, he should be a worthy heir to Count Raymone.”

Irked, Socia nodded. She had heard Brother Candle’s opinions about why so many noble sons turned wicked or were just plain incompetent.

It was hard to deny that the greatest, most successful, and best loved lords often gave way to bad sons.

Socia said, “Riann. Hand me the child, please.” She took him from the wet nurse. “He’ll be called Lumiere, Master.”

“Excellent. May the Good God grant that he lives up to his name.”

Count Raymone’s mother ground her teeth and muttered but did not expose herself to censure. She must have been warned.

Brother Candle sighed. This religious contention was mad. When outsiders let it alone the Connec ran as smoothly and painlessly as it had in the shelter of the Old Empire.

Socia said, “You will, of course, be his godfather.”

“Is that wise? I don’t have many years left.”

“Wise? I don’t know. It’s what I want. It’s right. Do you want to hold him?” The baby was asleep, nuzzling her chest.

“I’d end up dropping him on his head. Or something.”

“You would not and you know it. You manage fine with Kedle’s imps.”

“If I fumble one of her devils I won’t have a fire-breathing count jumping on me before the brat stops bouncing. Speaking of fire-breathers, where is he?”

“I don’t know. I saw him after the delivery. He said he was taking a patrol out. Something is happening on the Dechear, up near Viscesment. Maybe Anne and Serenity aren’t being as quiet as they should.”

Brother Candle scowled. On the day his son was born? Bernardin could have handled that.

Count Raymone had to learn to delegate.

Socia became animated. She forgot Lumiere when she got into politics, which this would be if Anne or the Patriarch were involved.

The old man took one of Socia’s hands. He held on while he considered the other women.

He saw little to encourage him about Lumiere’s upbringing.

The boy would follow his father’s path, getting close to no women but his wet nurse and nanny. He would be taught to belittle them or hold them in quiet contempt. That attitude would, in time, come to include everyone not of his own class.

A failing that Count Raymone had, miraculously, avoided.

“Socia, you know me. The eternal pessimist. Don’t take too much to heart my gloomy assessment of Lumiere’s future.”

He had made a decision. For the infant’s sake he would not return to Sant Peyre de Mileage.

Maybe he could get the boy’s feet on the ground before the Good God called.

“Eternal pessimist? You might be a little too positive about your bleak seasons, old man. We could surprise you. So. Get it into your head right now. You stay till you see Lumiere grow into a man.”

“It may take that long to rediscover the Perfection I’ve lost since I met you.”

“Always with the clever words. Always with the jokes. Come on. Take him. I insist.”

There was an edge to Socia’s voice the Perfect found troubling.

He took the infant. One blue eye opened momentarily, unfocused, but Brother Candle imagined himself being cataloged in the mind behind.

Babies did seem like supernatural beings at the beginning.

The Old Gods all took human form. Even Asgrimmur could not say if that was compelled by the presence of humans or if it was just convenient. Some had trouble keeping the shape. They all shimmered occasionally. Which might explain why, in their prime, they had been called the Shining Ones.

“There’s no power!” one beauty complained. “The magic is gone.”

Most of the revenants had gone out into their world. A few had stayed to watch the mortals. Piper Hecht remained dreadfully uncomfortable, for reasons of offended faith and of concern for his family-though Asgrimmur continued to assure him that there would be no trouble.

“They know they’ve just moved into a bigger prison. They know they’re dead if this world stays closed. They need magic to survive here. There is none. They know bad behavior means no way out. This world will dwindle till, in time, it becomes smaller than a pinprick.”

“All part of the Aelen Kofer design, eh? Those sneaky bastards.”

“This one is the gods’ fault. It’s their design. The Aelen Kofer just built the furniture.”

Hecht backed away from the discussion. However confusing, all things were true inside the Night.

The woman called Sheaf came in. She was eating what looked like an overgrown, deformed crabapple. “Eavijne’s first crop. They’re not good but there are enough to go around. Get one.” She ambled around, looking over shoulders, curious.

Hecht was curious himself. How had she become fluent in modern Firaldian? Those must be potent apples.

The Bastard, Cloven Februaren, and Heris finished readying their first dump of Instrumentality soul eggs. More than a hundred pounds lay in the glass hopper, set to go.

The ascendant was not much use just now. The suggestion that the All-Father’s fall might have been engineered had hit him hard. Had he been manipulated himself? How had he, newly ascended and quite insane, been able to create a pocket world into which he had herded twelve gods?