Working God's Mischief (16 page)

Nassim watched his followers examine the dead, men and animals alike, looking for plunder or intelligence. They came up with nothing but the obvious. Horse meat would be on the menu till the carcasses went bad.

The dead had not been living well. Maybe starvation had made er-Rashal incautious.

Nassim climbed to the parapet to watch al-Iriki's hunt.

The chase soon split. One fugitive, leading two injured horses and a camel, fled toward Gherig, making no effort to go unnoticed. The pursuit overtook him quickly. The hunters, however, had to flee an Arnhander patrol. They returned with only one piece of good news. Nobody had gotten hurt.

The others were less fortunate. They caught er-Rashal.

Smoke and silent lightning marred the wasteland northeast of Tel Moussa. Then, after ten quiet minutes, it happened again, farther away.

Four men survived. They brought the fallen in aboard mounts gone half mad. Gamel al-Iriki still lived, but barely. His left side had been charred till bits of burnt bone were visible. His face, though, remained unmarred. He ground out, “When the General speaks the fool fails to listen. That Rascal may not be the most dangerous man in the world but he was dangerous enough to kill Gamel al-Iriki. But al-Iriki will have his revenge. Al-Iriki killed his horse and his camel and hit him with poisoned darts.”

That said, the overly bold officer closed his eyes.

Nassim said, “We'll need to follow up.”

“Bone is on it,” Old Az said. “Poisoned arrows and javelins won't be enough.”

“No. They won't. But he is on foot now, wounded, in country he doesn't know. It could be as simple as waiting for him at the waterholes.”

Al-Azer er-Selim loosed a long sigh. “I'll go. I'll be more careful than al-Iriki was.”

“Do be. I can't manage without you.”

Bone and the rest of that old company sneered at that claim as they rode out seeking revenge for all that had been done to them.

*   *   *

On even the least demanding days some work details could not be let to slide. Most critical, the cisterns had to be kept topped up, and cleaned frequently so the water did not become foul. Mounts had to be tended, manure removed, and fodder stocks maintained. Goats and sheep had to be grazed and protected and kept ready to fly to safety should Gherig become aggressive.

And, least desirable of all, graves had to be kept prepared. Hacking those out of the hardpan earth was a semi-punitive detail. The day the Rascal came Tel Moussa filled all its ready graves but one.

Fallen horses did save many a goat and lamb from an early encounter with the butcher.

 

14. Antieux: Instrumentality

Brother Candle was not accustomed to petitioning the Good God for much but strength to stand firm in his faith. He found himself doing that with painful frequency, and as often tried to intercede for Kedle Richeut.

The Connec east of Castreresone was afire, figuratively. Two minor Arnhander forces, of fewer than a hundred men each, were hanging on in hopes that Anne of Menand would send help. Kedle had driven both behind walls. Each day there was a story about another savage ambush that claimed Society brothers or Arnhander soldiers.

And Socia smoldered with jealousy. Brother Candle strained to keep her focused on being a mother and master of Antieux.

Bernardin Amberchelle encountered few challenges to Socia's rule. The military class loved her. The people were accepting.

It was a time of incipient prosperity. Military success made that possible.

*   *   *

Socia trapped the Perfect over a late evening meal, in a side chamber off the kitchen where each often ate in private. She had had a trying day. “Master, do I have the power to create law by fiat?”

The old man's spoon paused an inch from his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“I want whining made punishable by flogging. And stupidity made a capital offense. The things these people want me to decide! They're idiots! It's ridiculous! They all act like spoiled four-year-olds.”

Brother Candle said, “They throw tantrums?”

“Why can't they use a brain? Why can't they take some responsibility for themselves?”

The Perfect kept his own counsel.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Oh. Oh, no you don't! You aren't turning this around on me!”

Again the Perfect said nothing.

“It's different!”

His smile said, of course it was. When Socia Rault whined, that was important. She was not some shopkeeper or artisan who just wanted a little respect.

“God damn it! All right. You win. I might have to bare my back to the cat, too. But, even so…”

“You will find, as you mature, that most people are weak. And lazy. Weak, lazy people whine and complain. Otherwise, they would have to take a risk to make things right. And the wrongs they suffer often don't need righting because they exist only inside their minds.”

Now Socia began to sulk.

“It takes special strength to do the right thing and a good eye to recognize it.”

“Life lessons. With you it's always life lessons.”

“That is my calling, girl. I am supposed to be a teacher.”

“Yeah? Well, you take it too damned serious. Listen. You weren't there for the petty assizes.” She regaled Brother Candle with tales of trivial petitions.

He replied, “I see why Raymone was always off risking his neck. Why, though, do such matters get past the neighborhood magistrates? Ask. Strongly. Because those problems ought to be handled by parish priests and justices of the peace.”

“Easy to see why priests dodge issues. They'd put themselves on record. That could haunt them down the road, if the Church ever has its way with Antieux. The justices probably don't want to offend their neighbors so they pass everything on to me.”

Brother Candle nodded. This whine did merit attention. He might drop a word to Bernardin. To be successful Socia needed her government to perform at every level.

Yes. In this Bernardin's special talents might be especially useful.

Speaking of that particular devil …

“Master. Look! There's something wrong with Bernardin.”

*   *   *

The side chamber Brother Candle shared with Socia was not large. They had been alone till Bernardin appeared, though Kedle's cousin Guillemette had been in and out, bringing drink and clearing dirty platters. In the scandal-ridden Connec, with its traditions of romantic love and casual infidelity, even prigs did not lose sleep over a sixty-eight-year-old Maysalean Perfect being alone with their Countess.

Bernardin did appear to be in a trance.

He was not alone. A woman followed him. Or, on closer examination, a girl fifteen or sixteen but so stunning her youth was not instantly obvious.

She was tall. She was slim. Her eyes were big and blue. Her mouth was wide and her lips puffier than most. In one hand she carried a metal bucket. In another she held a five-foot staff with a one-foot T-top. In a third hand she carried a quartzlike crystal a foot long and two inches thick. A dark green shadow stirred inside. And in her other hand she carried another bucket, this one made of wood.

Brother Candle hardly noticed the extra hands. He could not rip his gaze away from that captivating face, surrounded by that cloud of wild blond curls, long enough to examine the semiprecious stone rosary she wore. She had a small spot just above her lip, on the right side. It was the most fascinating dot in the universe.

Though he could not check he suspected that Socia was equally enthralled.

Bernardin gobbled out noises to the effect of, “
She
has brought gifts.”

Brother Candle grunted.

Then, slowly, he reddened, betrayed by a response that had not troubled him in decades.

He had an erection.

The girl smiled, showing impossibly perfect teeth. She knew.

Neither the Perfect nor the Countess challenged her presence. The demon—she had to be a devil, if not the Lord of Darkness Himself—settled her burdens on the supper table.

Brother Candle finally tore his attention away.

It shifted to the metal bucket, looming as large as a farm pond. Four whale-shaped fish a foot long swam lazily there. All four rolled over, revealing pus-yellow bellies, round mouths that seemed to be laughing, and bulging, side-mounted eyes. The demon grabbed Bernardin's shirt, pulled him close. He panted like he had just run a mile.

She removed his shirt. Bernardin shuddered as though she gave off epic static sparks. She took a fish from the pail and pressed it against his chest, then grabbed another and another till all four had attached themselves. They sank slowly into Amberchelle's flesh.

“Thou wilt know their time. Don thy shirt.” There were no signs of the fish beyond savage purple scars.

Numbly, slowly, Bernardin dressed.

The girl turned on Brother Candle. She was a devil for sure. Succubus came to mind. Never in his wildest younger years had he imagined such intense temptation.

He remained rock hard.

“Take up the staff.”

He did as he was told. The staff looked like planed laths painted white, actually rather goofy. The top of the T was at eye level. The demon girl thrust a hand into the wooden bucket, came out with a pair of snakes too large to have fit while another serpent lifted its head a foot above the lip of the bucket. The girl draped the first two on the staff.

Brother Candle blurted, “You're making me look like Asclapulus. Or Trismagitarus.” He mispronounced both names but did not know that. At least one of those classical Instrumentalities had something to do with snakes.

“Undress thyself.”

He did not want to do that. He could not find the strength to disobey. In a minute he had become a bony, withered old thing shivering while his manhood determinedly proclaimed itself. Bad enough, that, but, worse, Socia's gaze had become fixed upon it. He was a freak, like a man who had lost his ears and nose.

The devil girl took a snake from the T and laid it along the length of the outside of his left arm. It felt cold but neither damp nor slimy. Then he felt nothing at all.

Socia blurted, “Oh, my God!”

The snake melted into his skin. Unlike Bernardin, he suffered no scarring. The serpent became a ferocious, multicolored tattoo with its grimly fanged business end on the back of his left hand.

Before he got over the wonder the girl laid another snake along his right arm. Then she drew a third from the wooden bucket. She eyed his embarrassment, developed a mischievous look.

“No!” he croaked.

A shrug. A diabolic grin. A step round behind and a snake tattoo took up residence on his back, its angry head visible on the right side of his neck.

A fourth serpent ended up on his chest, coiled to strike.

“Dress thyself.” After a last amused glance at his aching manhood.

The girl turned to Socia. “Thou mayest be what thou wilt.” She took up the crystal. Brother Candle struggled with his clothing. When the girl turned away his brain began to work again, slowly. Why did she use an antiquated, formal form of speech? That seemed more peculiar than any accent might have.

“Think thee of the shape thee wouldst fain take, clearing all else from thy mind and cleaving only to the form of thy desire.” The girl swept the crystal down in front of herself, from head to toes. She transformed into a leopardess no less alluring than the girl she had been before. The leopardess crouched in a pile of fallen clothing. It considered Bernardin and Brother Candle, for a moment purred like a lap cat. Then it did something with the crystal and changed back into the girl, now wearing nothing to get in the way of male appreciation.

Brother Candle groaned. “No.” At his age.

She was more toothsome than wickedest imagination could conjure. The ache worsened.

He wanted to whimper because she was dressing. At his age. And him being who he was.

Bernardin gurgled and fainted. Brother Candle abandoned all desire to be one of the Good Men. He worshipped the devil with his eyes.

The girl whispered to Socia, telling her how to use the crystal. Brother Candle caught a key point. You could become human again whenever you wanted but if you did it in public you would do it in all your naked glory. Whereupon the devil made Socia humiliate herself.

Bernardin's luck was in. He remained unconscious. He would never bear witness.

Seeing the woman he considered a daughter unclad opened Brother Candle's interior eye to a facet of self that he never suspected was there.

Unclad, Socia was deeply reminiscent of Margete, in the early years of their marriage. Not that the man he had been, Charde ande Clairs, had had many opportunities for so plain a view.

The demon made Socia practice till she had the knack. Till Brother Candle was confident they would all end up on the stake. The Church would be making nothing up when it rendered accusations, now.

“Most excellent. Thou hast mastered it, milady. 'Twill be thy gift. Be not profligate in the way thou useth it.” The girl tugged at her apparel, made it hang more comfortably. Then, “'Tis time. Be thou good soldiers in the struggle that cometh, all.” She collected the buckets and T staff, headed for the door.

“Wait. Who? What?” He could not get a real question out.

Temptation turned, gave Brother Candle a wink. And he, unable to believe that it was possible to become any harder, felt agony as his erection strove to burst through his trousers.

The demon giggled like a silly girl, came back, kissed him lightly with those wondrous lips.

He exploded.

*   *   *

“I have to go change.”

“Sit. We have to figure out what just happened,” Socia said.

“But I need to…”

“Sit down! Bernardin. Can you think yet?”

“Yes. Barely. What the hell was that?”

“You brought her here. Who was she? Where did she come from?”

Bernardin shrugged his massive shoulders. “I have no recollection.”