Working God's Mischief (34 page)

She squealed when Guillemette asked, “Are you all right, Countess?”

“Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in. What are you doing here?”

“I came to build up the fire. I do that every night. I've never found you awake before.” Nor with the window open, her curious glance said.

“I had a bad dream. Then I couldn't get back to sleep.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Once Guillemette finished building the fire, she shut and latched the window. “Good night, ma'am.”

*   *   *

“She would have caught me if she'd walked in five minutes earlier,” Socia said.

Brother Candle nodded. “A cautionary event, then.”

“For sure. It was looking for me, Master.”

“You thought fast and did what you had to do. Another cautionary event.”

Socia scowled. “Always lessons. Always learning.”

“And when you don't pay attention you end up suffering through the same lessons again.”

“Stuff all that. I want to know what the hell was chasing me.”

Brother Candle said, “I'll visit Radeus Pickleu again.”

“As soon as you finish stuffing your face.”

Brother Candle told Bernardin, “You would think that, after all my years educating her, I would have drummed
some
manners into the girl.”

Socia chose her response from the vocabulary of a day laborer, and added, “I'm as civilized as the world lets me be.”

“Or, we could say, the world is as civilized as you let it be.”

Socia stared, glared, growled, “There's no winning with you, is there?”

“There won't be breaking even if you observe normalcy's rules.”

*   *   *

Bernardin had a soldier trail Brother Candle. The protection proved unnecessary. The Perfect found Pickleu's home by asking. The physician welcomed him as an honored guest. “Come in, Master. Come in.”

“I hope I'm not intruding…”

“Not today. No patients. Somebody might break an arm later. We all thank you deeply for speaking to the Champion. It's been peaceful since. How may we honor you?”

Brother Candle vaguely recalled having heard Bernardin called Champion at some point. “I've got another mysterious Instrumentality to identify. I hope to have better luck with this one.”

“Yet here you are at last resort. I hope I'm more use this time.”

“Yes. Well. So. Last time here I was not entirely forthcoming. As you no doubt realized.”

“My feelings suffered no permanent damage. It must be hard to trust the discretion of a man who never stops talking.”

“Indeed. I'll be more honest this time.”

“Something has happened.”

“Yes indeed. Something entirely unexpected. The Countess may be in danger from this Instrumentality.”

Pickleu frowned, pursed his lips, made a little sweeping, bouncing hand gesture. “And this is a different one?”

“For certain.”

“All right. You have my word. Short of torture no one will hear any of this from me. But let me make sure the wife and the boy don't hear something they should not.”

Pickleu gone, Brother Candle considered the small room. It was perfectly comfortable and reflected Pickleu's personality. It was busy and cluttered.

Pickleu returned with two pieces of Firaldian glassware, probably blown in Clearenza, simple cylinders in glass of mixed colors. “Rhaita was just making lemon water. She'll do her marketing while we talk. The boy is out working somewhere. So say on.”

Brother Candle provided a more detailed report on the visit from the girl, to which a dreamy-eyed Pickleu said, “I wish she would come see me. So. She blessed you with deadly tattoos. And put strange fish into Amberchelle's flesh.”

“Yes.”

“What do they do?”

“We have no idea.”

“And the Countess? It stands to reason the demon's gift to her stands behind this visit.”

“In a way.” Brother Candle explained the power of the crystal and Socia's use of it.

“Ah,” Pickleu said. “I do believe I'd like that even more than seeing my little friend learn to stand up all over again.”

Brother Candle had not withheld the fact that his own little friend retained its renewed vigor—when he thought about the demon girl.

“A marvelous gift,” Pickleu said. “The crystal.”

“You said before that you might have heard of something like it.”

“I was wrong. I don't know of anything that bestows the ability to change shape. The Countess hasn't shown much imagination using it, has she? She's treating it like a toy.”

Brother Candle nodded.

“I understand that she is an impulsive sort. That she still has little feel for the weight of station that came with her marriage.”

“She is trying.”

“So. What has you so excited? A new Instrumentality in the mix?”

Brother Candle related the facts as they had been given to him.

“She was chased by an eagle several times her own size.”

“With a deformed wing.” The Perfect was sure that was important.

“Right wing tip. Yes. Uhm. Not many Instrumentalities are known for their deformities. Some pantheons have a smith figure with a bad leg. Said to harken to a time when a tribe's smith was so important its people broke his leg, then let it knit badly, so he couldn't run away. The Devedian experience makes me suspect that those smiths were outsider slaves. Otherwise, most gods and goddesses resemble your visitor. Young and ferociously beautiful. Or middle-aged and endlessly randy.”

Brother Candle sighed. He sipped lemon water. Pickleu's spouse had garnished that with a touch of honey.

Pickleu said, “The northern pantheon has several handicapped gods. A Beyish, Bayish, Boyish, something like that, was blind because of a cruel practical joke. Zaw, or Zer, the god of war, was missing a hand that got bitten off by a monster. Which he killed with the mystic spear, Heartsplitter, using his off hand. And the top god only had one eye. Sacrifice was big with the Shining Ones. He traded the eye for…”

“Which hand?”

Pickleu shrugged. “I don't know. Right hand sounds logical, doesn't it?”

“It does. Is that the extent of it, then?”

“My expertise is entirely relative. As you should know by now.”

“And you know no better source?”

“Certainly. But I don't think you can tap it.”

“That would be?”

“The Collegium. In Brothe. Several Principatés are as conversant with the old religions as they are with their own.”

“I see. So, once again I return to the Countess no wiser.”

“Here's a thought. Have her fly to Brothe and take the shape of a member of the Collegium. She could ask those who have access to the right information.”

*   *   *

“Take someone's else's shape?” Socia asked. “He actually suggested that?”

“He did. And he was dead serious.”

“Can I do that?”

“I don't know. I never thought of it.”

“Nor did I,” Bernardin said. “I expect on account of the old stories. Shape-shifters turn into animals. Especially wolves. Not into other people. An evil sorcerer who wants to disguise himself as somebody else always uses a glamour.”

“A glamour would be easier for your garden-variety sorcerer. He'd only need to make somebody think he sees who he wants them to see. In real life you would need to mimic mannerisms and speech patterns.”

“I get it,” Socia said. “And, suddenly, I realize that we haven't put any serious thought into what we've been given. Or to what she thought we should do with it.”

Brother Candle chuckled darkly. “So the next stage in my life is, I become a sixty-nine-year-old professional assassin.”

Bernardin cocked his head. “Something is going on. I'll be back as soon as I find out.”

Socia and the Perfect exchanged looks. The old man said, “I didn't hear anything.”

“Nor did I.”

Neither mentioned it but both had noticed. Bernardin was growing brighter and more alert, quicker, and sharper in his senses. And Brother Candle felt younger. Not a day over sixty-one.

*   *   *

Bernardin returned accompanied by an exhausted, filthy soldier no more than sixteen years old. “And here she is herself, lad. Tell her what you told me.”

The boy tried to make his obeisance. Brother Candle feared he would collapse and be unable to get back up. Socia said, “Never mind all that foolishness. Talk to me, Aaron d'Fitac.”

The boy glowed. His Countess knew him. “I ride with the Widow. We were in a big fight. The biggest yet, near the ruins of old Vetercus. We were up against Anne of Menand's best.”

Brother Candle's spirit sank. The way the boy approached his story hinted that Kedle had found the end of her string.

“And?” Socia croaked.

“We killed most of them. The Widow told us to take no prisoners because it might be the fight that broke them. We took none amongst the nobles and knights.”

Bernardin settled the boy in his chair, then, as his story unfolded, had Escamerole bring food and drink.

The boy attacked food and drink alike, but between mouthfuls he named Arnhanders known to have fallen. The list sounded like a roll call of Arnhand's peerage.

“No prisoners,” the boy said again. And, “The Widow's ambush was ingenious. They didn't suspect anything till we started killing them. They were all piled up at the ford. They were following a game trail, trying to get behind us so they could cut us off from the Connec. But the Widow knew their plan. She always knows what they'll try to do. So she had us there waiting, hiding. We discharged four falcons into their horses. They probably lost three hundred men just in the stampede. Meantime, every man who could bend a bow or span an arbalest laid missiles into the confusion. Even the proudest knights. There isn't a man amongst the Vindicated who will do aught but what the Widow orders.”

Brother Candle asked, “How large was this Arnhander force?” It would have grown in the boy's mind, he was sure, but he knew it would have been sizable if it had included that many important men.

“You will think me a liar but at least a thousand by actual count.”

Bernardin said, “The Commander of the Righteous slaughtered a vastly superior force at the Shades without the advantages the boy mentions, using falcons.”

Socia asked, “How many were you? How many falcons did you have? And where did you get them?”

“There were three hundred eighty-six of us. We had four falcons taken from the castle at Artridge.”

Brother Candle said, “I'm lost. Where is Artridge? When did Kedle capture it?”

Socia shrugged. “I don't know. I'm not allowed to go see her anymore.”

Bernardin said, “There is more. The critical more.”

Brother Candle realized that this was the point where the boy would pass on the dread word that he had ridden so long and hard to deliver.

Socia said, “Aaron, you came to tell us what else?”

“We killed more than a thousand. By honest, actual count. We lost only thirty-seven of our own.”

“Aaron!”

“They captured the Widow, Countess!” The boy burst into tears. “There was snow on the ground. All the blood and trampling around turned the earth to mud. She led the attack on the last Arnhanders. There weren't a hundred who hadn't fallen or fled. Her horse slipped in the mud. She didn't jump free. The horse fell on her. It crushed her leg. The man leading the Arnhanders then was Stephan of Bley, a really big man. He grabbed the Widow and threw her across the neck of his horse, then galloped off. He outran us. He's holed up in the castle at Arngrere with survivors from the battle. He's threatening to have his revenge on her.”

Bernardin grumbled, “The Society must be salivating over the opportunity to put her on trial.”

Brother Candle nodded. That would make a great show.

Aaron went on. “He has been warned that if he harms her, not just he will pay a cruel price but all those of his blood will as well.”

Brother Candle could not speak. He had been expecting this forever. He had schooled himself to bear it. But the shock was still fierce, as it was when a long-suffering parent finally surrendered to the Will of the Night.

Socia said, “Bernardin, start putting together an expedition…”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“That would be pointless. This drama will play out long before we can influence it. It may have done so already. Aaron d'Fitac, how long did it take you to get here?”

“Six days, and some. I came as fast as I could.”

“You see, Countess? A week already. How long to assemble a force, arm and victual it, and get it to Arngrere? How long for the witch of Menand to put together a force to welcome us? Kedle's whole campaign has depended on her not being where she was expected.”

After her initial emotional response subsided, Socia saw the truth in what Bernardin said. Still, “But I can't sit here and do nothing.”

“Not only can you, you must. For the sake of Antieux and the Connec.”

“What?”

That was an odd thing to say. Brother Candle heard it but was too focused on Kedle's predicament to concern himself.

The old man felt a fierce, shooting pain in his right temple. For a moment he feared this was the end. That his allotted time had run out. That the Good God had chosen to spin his ever-lapsing Perfect round the Wheel of Life again. He gasped out, “Socia, this is exactly where I've been warning you that we were headed.”

“Yes. Enjoy your vindication. Aaron, is there anything more? Can you break my heart one more time? No? Then go somewhere. Sleep. For a week if that's what you need. Escamerole. Come out of there. Have you been spying?”

“No, Countess.” Face red, Kedle's cousin slipped into the room. “And it please you, I just wanted word of my kin.” She was shaking. She did not like being the center of attention.