Glen Cook - Surrender to the will of the night

Titus asked, “What will Serenity do when he hears about this?”

“He’ll spew Writs of Anathema. Of Excommunication. Bulls of all sorts, blustering. Blaming everyone but himself. He’s turning into his cousin.”

The Ninth Unknown would not remain silent. “And no one will take him seriously anymore because he’s showing such a great talent for looking as goofy as Sublime. He’s not that blind and dishonest but we’ve had some straight-arrow Patriarchs for contrast. He looks like a throwback. What’s happened here could finish him with the Brothen mob.”

Hecht did not believe that. Bronte Doneto was much too crafty. “How about we concentrate on the moment?”

He was nervous. The darkness seemed unnaturally deep. The lanterns did not push it back to a comfortable distance. The killing field stank of spilled bowels and coagulated blood and flesh already corrupting. He kept tripping over dead people. The nasty water got inside his boots. He was hungry and his head had begun to hurt. Though the altitude was high and the air was chilling the sounds of insect wings seemed like the hum of primitive death gods at their after-the-fighting chores, like those old devils he had finished off in the Connec.

His amulet declared the night free of all but the most trivial Instrumentalities.

He was nervous about the possibility of imminent treachery. Titus had a bum right arm. The Ninth Unknown was older than the ground underfoot. Terens Ernest was an unknown quantity. Rivademar Vircondelet considered himself a lover, not a scrapper.

Consent, Vircondelet, and Ernest were along because they felt mistrusted and left out. So. This time they had a chance to be there when the hammer came down.

He did not introduce Cloven Februaren.

Other than Titus, who was burdened with the truce flag, everyone carried a lantern. Hecht, Ernest, and Vircondelet also carried spears and a standard array of sharpened iron. The spears proved useful in dealing with the treacherous footing.

The Ninth Unknown had armed himself with a foolish grin.

These five were not likely to give an account of themselves that would echo down the ages.

Once past the end of the meadow they spied torches and small fires behind the knee of the mountain. About twenty men awaited them, two hundred yards off, in that weak light.

More small fires at intervals marked the road to the plain. There was movement on the road.

Hecht muttered, “I should have made them come to me.”

Cloven Februaren said, “You’re much too paranoid, Piper.” And, “Learn to believe in yourself.”

Hecht knew many of the men awaiting him. Most were not friends of Bronte Doneto. They included representatives of four of the Five Families of Brothe, including Paludan Bruglioni of the powerful Bruglioni family. Paludan had been at death’s door when Hecht last saw him. Principat? Gervase Saluda, Paludan’s lifelong friend, was there, too. Both remained seated in the wooden frames that had been used to carry them up the mountain. The Arniena agent was Rogoz Sayag, with whom Hecht had worked while employed by that family and later, during the Calziran Crusade.

The Cologni and Madesetti were represented by strangers. Only the Benedocto, Bronte Doneto’s tribe, had no obvious agent on hand.

Someone would report back. Espionage and treachery were heart and soul of Brothen city politics. And Brothen city politics shaped the larger policies of the Church.

Overall, these people made an unlikely alliance. Some had been backstabbing each other for generations.

Which pointed up the depth and breadth of the developing crisis of confidence in the current Patriarch.

How had Doneto managed so swift a decline?

Hecht wondered more about how Paludan and Gervase, both badly crippled, had managed to be on scene so soon.

A man Hecht did not know stepped forward. “I’m Acton Bucce of Bricea,” he said. “Acting captain of what survived your sorcery.” Acton Bucce was a sad and angry man controlling his emotions tightly.

Bucce asked, “Would it be acceptable to add fuel to the bonfires? I’d like more light and warmth. So many ghosts will make this a cold, dark night.”

Hecht glanced at Februaren. The old man nodded. “Go ahead. I met some of those ghosts coming down here.”

The fires grew fast. Everyone on the Patriarchal side seemed cold and haunted. Hecht touched his amulet lightly. Still it offered no warnings other than the usual nascent itch.

The swollen bonfires bruised Hecht’s night vision but flung light far enough to reveal corpses laid side by side, touching, their feet at the edge of the road.

“You wanted to talk, Acton Bucce?”

“Twelve hours ago I commanded a regiment called the Free Will Swords. Short-term mercenaries from Brothe’s poorest quarters. Twenty-two hundred men, mostly experienced. Thirty-day enlistments, fifteen paid ahead. Now I have thirteen hundred men barely in shape to take care of themselves. We have so many dead we can’t take them back with us. We’ll bury them in marked graves, where there’s enough man left to identify, so their people can come get them if they want.”

Bucce paused as though inviting comment. Hecht said nothing.

Bucce continued, “All told, the Patriarch sent about seventeen thousand men. At sunup I was eighth in the chain of succession. Now I’m the senior officer surviving. These civilians are urging me to indulge my inclination to save the men who’re still alive. We’re working on that but still have bodies to recover. We’ve collected more than four thousand already. And the wounded outnumber the dead. Sepsis will claim a lot of those because the healers can’t get to them all.”

He paused. Hecht asked, “How many were conscripts?”

“Sir?”

“Every man in your army chose to be here. Each one was a mercenary bent on murdering me and mine.”

“That’s true. Though it could be argued that poverty conscripted them.”

“It could. But they did choose to try to kill me. By my calculation, trusting your numbers, my men need to put in one more hard day to quash this Patriarchal fantasy forever.”

“The Patriarchal fantasy is moribund already. Tomorrow I’ll bury my dead. I’ll release each regiment once it cares for its own. Unless you force a fight. Then fight I will.”

“I had no desire to fight in the first place.”

Bucce’s lips tightened. His opinion might not agree. “I’m determined that no more lives be wasted till Serenity relieves me. I’ll not have them on my conscience.”

Lips never moving, whispering so softly that only Hecht heard, Februaren said, “The man is sincere. What he isn’t telling you is, most of his men have deserted.”

Hecht hid his surprise. “Captain, what was the ultimate purpose for this meeting? And why are all these people here?”

“They came with the army. To observe, I’m told. I think they hoped for a disaster as ugly as what we got. Our Patriarch is no longer loved by his own class.”

“I understand the politics, more or less. But you haven’t said why you wanted to meet.”

“I have. I want the killing to stop. And, then, these people insisted.”

Hecht glanced at Titus Consent. Might Consent know something about Bucce?

Bucce said, “The way I understand it, these people want you to be able to drive toward Brothe unhindered, for a showdown with Serenity.”

“I presume you’ve all changed your minds about your votes, last election.”

No one responded. They stared at something in the darkness behind him. Had Prosek manhandled a few falcons down to strengthen the Imperial argument?

He glanced at Cloven Februaren. The old man was not concerned. “Tell me more.”

“That’s it. From me. Talk to them.” Bucce was frightened. He stared past Hecht, too. “I won’t interfere as long as you let us manage our dead and wounded and go.”