Glen Cook - Surrender to the will of the night

“I suppose.”

Hecht had paid little attention to Gordimer, Dreanger, and the east these past few years. Could the Lion have sunk so far?

A summons came from the Penital, over the Ambassador’s signature. Terens Ernest and ten men in long mail shirts walked Hecht over. He did not see how they could prevent a repeat of what had happened last spring.

His wound still bothered him.

As they walked, Ernest said, “Sir, I’m your height and weight. I’ve been practicing walking your way, with that kind of shovel handle up the spine and ax handle across the shoulders posture. We should put me in your clothes when we’re outside, now. With things slowed down the bad guys will have time to plan all kinds of mischief.”

“Terens, I don’t know if I should kiss you or tell you you’re the stupidest man I ever met. You’re right. Extra precautions need to be taken. In fact, we all ought to wear our mail shirts and helmets whenever we go out.”

“Yeah.” Sarcastically. The Commander of the Righteous was the only man there not wearing a helmet.

Hecht said, “I’ll adjust my habits.”

The Ambassador greeted Hecht warmly. “Very pleased to see you again, Commander.”

“Tell you the truth, till ten days ago I wouldn’t have considered it possible. Your father has been doing amazing things.”

“Hasn’t he? And not that long ago we thought he was headed for the bone pile.”

“You may get to see the new man before long. So. To what do I owe the honor of the summons?”

“She wants to see you. She isn’t happy. You don’t consult her. You haven’t kept her informed since the Battle of the Shades.”

Hecht did not protest. That was true. Were Consent, Vircondelet, Sedlakova to operate that way he would knock some heads together. But…

That admission did not leave him less resentful of the identical attitude in his employer.

The Ambassador escorted him to a huge quiet room where the Empress waited-after a delay meant to remind him of who was master and who was servant.

He had yet to get it into his head that the Empress was always there, looking over his shoulder. She was not remote the way the Patriarchs had been when he was Captain-General.

The rich smell of coffee hit him when the door opened. His mouth watered. The odor seemed a good omen.

On the other hand… He saw no servants, no lifeguards, no ladies-in-waiting as he headed toward the source of the smell. Alone.

Bayard va Still-Patter had not come in with him.

Katrin Ege, at the mercy of kuf or alcohol, was also a slave to her insecurities and appetites. She wore nothing. Her frame was more gaunt than when last he had seen her unclothed. There were bruises all over her. Had someone been beating her?

“What the hell?”

“Commander, you know your duty.” She slurred her words. She must have been drinking. And he smelled kuf behind the marvelous stench of the coffee. So maybe she had done both to get into her present state. Meaning she must have been at it for a while.

Katrin got down on hands and knees, rested her right cheek on her folded hands.

“Your Grace…” He wanted to refuse, but after a year he knew her, knew himself, and knew where he and she wanted to go too well to try. “You don’t look like you’ve been eating right. And you have bruises. Has somebody…”

“Forget that. I put the bruises there. Punishing my flesh for its wicked hungers. But my flesh defeated me. Come here. Fuck me.”

Hecht was appalled. Repelled. Disgusted. And yet aroused. There was nothing appetizing about this woman, presenting like a cat in heat. Yet…

No doubt she felt the same things he did, but betrayed by the evil within, she could not help being receptive.

“Your choices are the same as they were before, Commander.”

He told himself he had to have this job. He had to be Commander of the Righteous when the next crusade smashed into the Holy Lands.

It was nothing like being with Anna Mozilla, yet, in its crooked way, it was more exciting. An Empress!

He was master of a king, metaphorically, for those few minutes when he made the most powerful monarch in the west cry and beg.

Suffocating in self-loathing, Hecht did not want to return to the Castella. He did not want to face his family. He did not want to see Anna till he found some way to expiate his sin. Or some clever rationalization.

Katrin’s bruises crossed his mind. Her torment must be worse than his. What had she gone through before she surrendered to her lust?

“Sir?” Terens Ernest needed instructions.

“That was not a pleasant interview, Mr. Ernest. Let’s take a walk along the river and have a gander at the wonders of the Mother City.” This was Ernest’s first visit: hardly a pilgrim’s journey.

“Might that be risky?”

“Possibly. Stay on my left. Last time somebody tried to kill me here he was down there in the monuments. He used a longbow.”

Ernest had heard about it, not from his principal. He knew the story behind each assassination attempt, including some that had not been brought to Hecht’s attention.

Ernest asked, “What happened? Can you talk about it? Did you see the Empress? Her bodyguards say she’s gone completely nuts.”

“I did see her. There was a lot of ranting. She isn’t pleased with how I’ve treated our host city. I’m too gentle for her taste.” He stopped, stared back at Krois on its stone-clad island amid the Sacred Flood. Bronte Doneto was out there, scarcely a quarter mile away, completely nuts himself. And completely invulnerable.

Pinkus Ghort should arrive sometime tomorrow, despite the Grand Duke’s best efforts.

The worm kept twisting and turning.

Hecht noted signs of substantial explosions over there. Lila’s work?

The girl was going to get herself in trouble if she was not careful.

He enjoyed a smirk at his own foolishness.

Shouting broke out back that way, followed by the rattle of horseshoes on stone.

Brothe, round there, was all stone, including the faces of the channel of the Teragi. A conceit of the Old Brothens. Even the Sacred Flood had been under their control.

Hecht and his lifeguards faced the excitement. Several riders headed their way, pursued by men on foot. The horseman out front went into a gallop. Insanity on this kind of surface.

That lead rider was no man. That was Katrin Ege in her loose-fitting armor, headed for her Commander of the Righteous at the best speed her mount could make.

Hecht’s heart sank. This could mean ruin… What the hell? Had she lost it completely?

Ernest grabbed Hecht and dragged him toward potential safety among the monuments.

Too late. Far too late. Shrieking words that never made sense to anyone, Katrin was upon them. Her mount narrowly avoided Hecht and Ernest. Both dove away. Both ended up sprawled on the pavements, with bleeding palms.

Captain Ephrian whipped past, face a mask of despair. He meant to snatch Katrin’s reins as she tried to turn to charge in the opposite direction.

The footing was not appropriate for a horse wearing iron shoes.

Ephrian collided with Katrin. The horseman behind Ephrian collided with them both.

Combined momentums pushed Katrin and Ephrian over the brink of the embankment. Screaming, man, woman, and horses all went scrabbling, spinning, and tumbling down the stone facing, into the river.

Hecht was seconds behind. Just the length of time it took to shed a mail shirt and weapons. Terens Ernest was seconds behind him.

Hecht did not think about his actions till later, though the cool water was an encouragement to reflection. He saw Ephrian floundering, a poor swimmer but safely separated from his mount. Hecht went after Katrin, who had gone under while still trying to separate herself from her animal. He got her loose. Her horse drifted on downriver, shrieking at first but soon getting it together and striking out toward the lower northern bank.