Working God's Mischief (33 page)

The Mountain said, “See that he gets his special meal. Then have everyone here get ready to exploit the confusion.” Pain shot through his flesh, more irksome than anything. “I miss having Black Rogert in charge.”

“He was wicked and lucky but he wasn't that competent, was he?”

*   *   *

The Brotherhood of War fighters pushed up close to the tower gate, daring the Mountain's falconeers to waste powder and shot. Alizarin undertook experiments to determine whether the crusaders were getting supernatural help.

Az thought they might be, at some trivial level, but did not know it. “The Special Office operators haven't noticed, but they're here to winkle out the Night's friends in Rogert's gang and to handle us if we unleash any foul eastern sorcery.”

Nassim said, “Let them come. Fire the lightest falcon first. If you hit someone, touch off the big one. Then scream and yell about idiots wasting firepowder when we're almost out.”

Done.

Next morning saw the final test, when infidels sneaking toward Tel Moussa ran into three falcons that had been slipped out and positioned during the night.

Gherig suffered a dozen casualties. Elated, the Mountain sent his horsemen to harass the foreigners the rest of that day.

He now knew his enemies understood his language and knew they were not using the Night to scout. And he knew they did not expect him to risk his precious falcons.

He had grown fond of those. He meant to use them any chance he had.

*   *   *

Az's efforts as a spymaster came to fruition that night.

Nassim had fallen asleep watching the stars. Thunder in the west wakened him. He was confused for a moment, able to think only of his cold-sensitive joints. Two more rumbles sounded. Tel Moussa shivered.

There were no clouds in the direction of the White Sea—except where Gherig stood.

Alizarin got his aching knees beneath him, stood up just in time to see a flash backlight Gherig's battlements.

“Oh.” This was what he had asked for. He had not expected the explosions at night. Maybe more damage would be done at night. Most of the garrison would be in their quarters. Casualties might be brutal.

A rumble reached Tel Moussa. The earth trembled slightly.

Then came another explosion. The fifth. Amazing! How much firepowder had Az gotten in there?

He got the chance to ask as a sleepy, boggled Master of Ghosts joined him. Several fires burned in the crusader fortress.

Az said, “I don't know. Between six hundred and a thousand pounds.”

“You're kidding. I was hoping for twenty-five, critically placed.”

“It was all in Abu's hands. I don't know his methods.”

“Abu? You're kidding.”

“Suitable, eh?”

The sound and shock of the fifth explosion arrived.

Abu meant servant. Or slave. And Nassim suspected the agent's full name would be Servant of God. “That much powder, properly placed and packed…”

A sixth explosion dwarfed the others. Flames flew up a hundred feet, illuminating roiling smoke that climbed a thousand more. Flaming wreckage arced a half mile into the desert.

The sound arrived. The long, fierce roll staggered Nassim. He had troubled breathing for a moment.

The shock wave came right behind. It shook Tel Moussa to its foundations. Nassim felt rather than heard the creaks and groans of stones moving on stones. Over there, in Gherig, little explosions popped off in the aftermath of the big one.

The footing shifted slightly beneath the Mountain. “What the hell was that? No way you got that much powder into Gherig.”

Bug-eyed, Az shook his head. “That went better than in my wildest fantasy.”

There was a seventh explosion, out in the barbican of Gherig. It seemed puny.

Nasty fires burned over there, now. The Brotherhood of War was suffering tonight.

Nassim wanted to wave his arms and shout God's praises. This should be a time of jubilation.

Unfortunately, the squeak, creak, and groan in the masonry had not subsided after the last shock.

“Az, we may have a problem.”

“General, you may be right.”

“Get everybody out, carrying whatever they can. Just in case.” He could not imagine the fortress collapsing but did not want to lose anyone if it did. “Horses and tack, first priority. Then falcons and powder. Then whatever else you can save. Move it.”

There was every chance he would be embarrassed when the sun came up on a tower still standing. But his people would be alive to sneer.

The Mountain was at the assembly point beside the Shamramdi road when Tel Moussa surrendered to the blandishments of gravity.

Nassim was pleased that neither man nor animal had been caught in the collapse. Nor had any falcon, keg of firepowder, or favored possession of any man.

Only Nassim's pride and too much food and water failed to survive.

There were no flames over Gherig, now, but smoke continued to roll up.

It took Nassim a long time to collect his men and get them moving. They had been numbed by the collapse of Tel Moussa. Now they just wanted to mill around and waste time speculating.

They did not know that there had been a disaster at Gherig, too.

*   *   *

Az said, “General, I have a bad feeling.” He was staring at Gherig. False dawn was gathering behind him. Smoke obscured much of the western sky. “And it's headed our way.”

“What?” Then, “That would be crazy. With all the rescue and salvage work they need to do? No.” He had considered a mass raid to hurt the crusaders one more time before he ran for Shamramdi.

“Crazy or not, General, they're coming.”

Nassim felt it in the earth, now. Many horses were coming.

There would be no time to get away.

The Mountain slapped together a hasty plan, got his men into place barely in time.

The falcons he lined up across the road, in plain sight, with mounted men behind them. The falcons roared when the crusaders were close enough. Archers flung missiles in from both flanks, as did the horsemen from in front. Then Nassim led the latter in a charge. That struck but did not persist. Nassim drew back. His reloaded falcons spoke again. One, overcharged, exploded. Nassim then tried to repeat his charge but had no success. The enemy was too close in. The contest devolved into a melee.

The matter did not go well for the Mountain. The superior armor and training of the crusaders told. And all Nassim's men ever wanted from the start was to get away to somewhere safe.

Nassim thought he would choke on the irony. Once the bodies were counted he would have dealt the foreigners their worst loss since the Battle of the Well of Days, but they would have won and he had lost Tel Moussa. And he was unable, even, to save himself to fight another day. For a number of crusaders got behind him and stole his chance to fly to Shamramdi.

His little knot of survivors, with two falcons, took the only remaining option.

They fled into the Idiam.

 

23. Antieux: The Widows

Socia shuffled in to join Bernardin and Brother Candle for the isolated breakfast that had become a morning custom. They would consider the demands of the coming day. Come evening they would share supper and assess the day just past.

Brother Candle liked the arrangement. It allowed him to temper the natural ferocity and impulsiveness of the others.

Escamerole bustled around, making sure there was tea and wine and breakfast ale. Socia slumped into her customary seat. The old man asked, “Out again last night?” He wished he could separate her from that crystal.

“No. Lumiere has the colic. I stayed up with him.”

“And you have the assizes today.”

She frowned his way.

“Only two cases,” Bernardin said. “One is Bishop LaVelle with the usual complaints.”

Socia forced a weary smile. “Thank the Good God for that.”

Brother Candle asked, “You didn't go out? In any shape?”

“Master.” Socia jerked her head at Escamerole, delivering a basket of rolls so fresh they steamed.

Bernardin said, “I'm interested in the answer myself.”

The old man and Countess harkened to Bernardin's tone. Socia said, “No. What's happened?”

“The overnight watch reports include multiple sightings of a giant eagle.”

“It wasn't me. I promise. I wish it was. I haven't seen Kedle in ages. I don't even know where she is anymore.”

“Deep in Arnhand, making a screaming nuisance of herself. So what could that have been last night?”

Socia and the old man shrugged. Brother Candle was troubled. “More attention from the Night.”

“No doubt,” Amberchelle said. “Why? I'll find out what I can while you entertain the Bishop.” Then he snorted and reddened. “Sorry. Unintentional.” With apology wasted. Neither companion recognized the lower-class slang for male masturbation.

*   *   *

At the evening meal, Bernardin said, “I talked to everybody who saw the eagle. They did see it. Most didn't know each other. They didn't discuss it. Their descriptions were pretty much all the same and they all said that this bird was bigger than the one sometimes seen around the citadel. Several witnesses said its right wing tip was deformed.”

Brother Candle said, “I saw a mule today with a deformed right fore hoof. I've never seen a crippled horse or mule before.”

“An omen?” Socia asked.

Bernardin, smiling weakly, said, “No. A shape-changing Instrumentality with a deformed right hand.”

Brother Candle said, “That's a wild leap.”

“I wasn't serious. But … it could be. We've been up to our ears in strange stuff lately.”

“Scary,” Socia said. “But he's right.”

“I don't want him to be right. I'm supposed to have achieved Perfection. I can't believe in…”

Bernardin said, “You know the saying, Master. All things are true inside the Night.”

While Socia said, “They're minions of the Adversary.”

“Indeed. Are we become minions of minions?” He rolled back his left sleeve. The deadly tattoo had gained color. “It won't pay off but I'll see Radeus Pickleu again.”

“You never know,” Bernardin said. “You wouldn't want to miss something because you didn't think you'd find it. I'll put out word to keep an eye out for critters with a deformed right front whatever.”

Socia shivered. “It's cold.”

“It's winter,” Brother Candle reminded her.

“I'm going to bed early. I'll have Guillemette build me a nice fire, then I'll get under the eiderdown and toast. And I'll drown Lumiere if he keeps me up again.”

*   *   *

Socia did slide under her covers early and fell asleep instantly. She wakened around midnight, used the chamber pot, then could not get back to sleep. She could not stop worrying about Kedle.

The world had begun to call Kedle “The Widow.” She and Socia were, collectively, “Death's Brides,” or “The Deathwives,” depending on the region.

Socia worried because Kedle was unacquainted with failure. Each success lured her on toward something bigger and bloodier. Her luck could not last.

Socia climbed out of bed, went to her window. It was cloudy out but not so much so that she did not catch glimpses of a brilliant moon.

Concealed in a chest close by was a packet of lightweight clothing kept for those nights when she could not resist the need to see Kedle. She could carry it easily in her other form.

She had to have something to wear on the far end. Kedle's killers were troubled enough by the unexplained appearances of their Countess. Her roaming around naked would be too much.

Socia took the packet out and set it by, ready, before ordering herself not to make the flight. It would take six hours to reach Kedle's last known location, then she would have to work out where the Widow was now. That might be another hundred miles. It would be tomorrow afternoon before she could catch up.

No. Not practical. This Deathwife had to stay home and do work that needed doing here.

To soar where the clouds lay in fluffed and silvery drifts below her would be wonderful, though.

That Instrumentality had given her a unique and marvelous gift. Had any other human being ever been so blessed?

She did not think so. Not outside the legendary beings of antiquity.

She suspected that flight was not a wonder to creatures of the Night.

Socia stripped to the raw, positioned her crystal. That she would not take. She would be right back. She opened the window, swinging its two panes outward, sideways. Winter wasted not one instant before tasting her bare skin.

Shivering, Socia changed, then launched herself. Her feathers held the heat generated by her exertions.

She flapped lazily, let the wind carry her to one side. She banked right, looked for an updraft. How marvelous! How liberating! She could forget a thousand cares as the things of the earth dwindled below. How she wished she could show this to Brother Candle. But he was down there in the darkness, trapped in flesh that could never be anything but an old man tangled in a restless, sweating dream of a delicious devil.

The moon jabbed rays through a gap in scooting clouds, sweeping Antieux with patches of racing light that rippled across the rooftops and the gullies of alleys and streets …

Socia's heart leapt into her throat.

She was a thousand feet up. Between her and the rooftops below a vast eagle was rising.

The moonlight swept onward. In the instant the eagle's eyes would be adjusting Socia tipped over into a strike dive.

She closed most of the separation before the eagle discovered her. It thrashed out of her way, evading attack. But a strike was never her intent. She continued her plunge. The eagle lost track.

Socia changed into a naked young woman as fast as she could. She dressed, clumsily, shaking badly.

She watched the eagle from the darkness behind her window as it searched for her.