Working God's Mischief (40 page)

“I'll think about that, General. Meantime, ask what you will for your monster hunt.”

“I need food, not just for my men but for the Ansa. The tribal peoples have made common cause against the sorcerer. He has done them considerable evil, poisoning wells and savaging already meager flocks and herds. He wants the Idiam to be his. Peoples who have dwelt there since the time before time he means to drive out.”

“Those are people who bring the wrath of others down upon themselves.”

“He invaded their country, not they his. And he showed up behaving badly. That was my fault. I ambushed him. I killed his men and animals. I wounded him. The Ansa say he still has some paralysis on his left side.”

“He's vulnerable, then.”

“He is. I will exploit it.”

“Food, then, will be provided. What else? More men?”

“I have the men. Unless you want to loan me those obstructionists. No. Not more men. Just a lot of what men need. Horses. Camels. Sheep. Cattle. Goats. Flour for the men and grain for the beasts. Water. Tack and equipment. A physician. Weapons for the Ansa. Ammunition for everyone. Firepowder. Lots and lots of firepowder. Only firepowder weapons can end the saga of the Rascal.” And, appropriately, round full circle, for er-Rashal had been first to make those weapons work reliably enough to take into the field.

“Firepowder is more dear than silver these days, General. Half of what existed east of the White Sea went up that night at Gherig.”

“God had a good laugh then.”

Indeed.

Madouc of Hoeles had begun smuggling firepowder there the moment he reached Gherig. He had seen its capabilities at Arn Bedu. He had planned a similar surprise for Tel Moussa, unaware that his opponent had understood the lesson of Arn Bedu as well.

One of Abu's mines had ignited Madouc's poorly designed powder magazine. The shock wave shook Tel Moussa off its foundations.

A cosmic jest, the Unbeliever triumphing in that long contest by virtue of having suffered an incalculable disaster.

Indala said, “You will be given what you need, I promise. Water, though, will be problematic. And firepowder will be more so.”

“I have a suggestion about the water. Assign us to the outpost at al-Pinea.”

“I don't know that place.”

“West of here, and somewhat to the south, in the foothills, is a small spring called al-Pinea. It was once an Antast Chaldarean monastery, built on the ruins of a fort from Imperial times. That guarded the eastern end of a road through the Idiam. Al-Pinea derives from a Rhûnish name.”

“You embarrass me, Nassim Alizarin. I didn't know this place existed.”

“You have larger issues to attend. The garrison, never more than twelve strong, is always old men meeting their annual obligations by going there to pretend to be fierce warriors. It's an easy post. The mountain road isn't much used.”

Indala considered his folded hands, frowning.

“Shake, that spring would be priceless to the Ansa. And al-Pinea is a fine place to deliver my supplies. A slow caravan can get there from here in two or three days.”

“How long will the hunt take?”

“The rest of my life.”

“It's that sort of mission now, then? And the coming war?”

“I'm not likely to be much use there. I've failed at every task I've been given since Hagid died. But I'm determined not to fail at this. In Hagid's memory.”

Indala grunted. Nassim was not sure what that meant.

A minute of silence passed. Then the Great Shake said, “It will be as you suggest. I ask again, though: can you finish before the crusaders arrive?”

“I can try. A promise will be of no value. The Rascal will have his own say.”

Indala did not disagree.

“In any event, what can Nassim Alizarin do to stem that flood?
If
it does materialize?”

Many of the Faithful doubted that the Unbeliever could organize sufficiently.

“You underestimate yourself, General. Be that as it may, however, it is time to part. This old corpse has reached its limit. Go. Al-Pinea is yours, along with whatever you need to crush the sorcerer. Before the coming of the Unbeliever, please.”

Nassim expressed his gratitude and got out.

*   *   *

The Mountain did not see young Az again before he departed Shamramdi. The Great Shake pulled the boy out of circulation.

*   *   *

Nassim left Shamramdi a tired old man, but hopeful. He had fared better than expected with Indala, though the Great Shake had wakened no new inspiration, nor had he sparked any spiritual renewal.

Which thought left Nassim slightly embarrassed. Indala was a warrior, not a religious thinker.

The men who rode with the Mountain supposed his interview had gone badly. They gave him room to be alone with his despair.

 

26. Arnhand: Harsh Encounters

The Widow and three hundred fifty men who worshipped her emerged unexpectedly from a forest in the northern Roessen. The Widow rode in a litter. Counts vied for the honor of bearing her.

Dawn was breaking. The Vindicated attacked immediately. The surprise was complete. Those Vindicated who recalled the massacre of Antieux, not so many years ago, meant to murder every man, woman, child, animal, and blade of grass that constituted Mestlé. Anne of Menand had sown the whirlwind. Harvest time had come.

The Widow was outnumbered three to one. Those odds did not daunt her. She rolled across Anne's estate like a flood. She left dead everywhere, few of them Vindicated.

The Widow told her champions, “Today the world changes. Arnhand without Anne to whip it on will be just another impotent Chaldarean kingdom wracked by internal squabbling.”

Lady Hope, unseen, assured success. In little more than an hour the Vindicated killed four hundred and captured as many more. A dozen structures were fired. Vindicated not in direct contact with Anne's people began systematically destroying everything. Mestlé would become a desert.

Lady Hope roamed the outskirts, making sure no one important escaped.

The Queen Mother tried treating with the Vindicated. The deposed Patriarch made an effort of his own. Neither had any luck.

Lady Hope discovered soldiers approaching from the east. She leapt to an unfortunate conclusion. They were not Vindicated so they must be friends of the besieged. Hastily collected troops rushed to meet them, intending only to scare the newcomers off while the Widow finished Anne and Serenity, now cowering in a stone watchtower from ancient times.

The newcomers did not scare. The Vindicated assailed them, and encountered something outside their experience—massed falcon fire laid down by professionals. Chastened, the survivors fell back to lick their wounds. The newcomers improved their position systematically, using their firepowder weapons to perfect advantage.

The Vindicated were using their own three falcons to hammer the watchtower, where Anne and Serenity now believed that rescue was at hand.

Hope erred by assailing the newcomers herself before determining who they were. She got a quick, sharp awakening. These men had dealt with revenant gods before.

In deep pain, stunned, she fled. Out of range, she consulted her intellect at last.

Those men yonder could not be Anne's friends. They had to be the Righteous. No other force could have bloodied the Vindicated with such composure.

Still hurting, Hope found the Widow. Kedle was in a frustrated rage because her leg left her able to do nothing but observe. “What is it, Hope? You look awful.”

“I have made a huge mistake yonder. Those men haven't come to rescue Anne. They are Prince Anselin and a lifeguard from the Righteous. I may have started a war with people who weren't our enemies.”

Kedle's pain made it hard to focus. “Not our enemies?”

“They weren't before, though they would not have been allies, either. Now, I don't know. It could turn ugly.”

Kedle pushed her pain down into the place she had created for it, with Hope's help. It would not go away indefinitely, but it might stay there long enough to let her deal with this rationally. “Go back. Stop the fighting. Find their commander. Make our situation clear. They may be after Anne themselves.”

The Instrumentality said, “I understand.”

“Don't let them hurt you any more.”

“Thee can count on that. I am permitted to make peace, am I not?”

Kedle nodded. “Go. Be craven if you have to. Promise them anything but get them out of the action.”

Lady Hope did not appreciate that attitude. Still, “I will do what is needful. I must caution thee. Thee must do nothing to give further offense. The Righteous enjoy the protection of my aunts.”

Pain helped Kedle restrain her excitement. “The Commander of the Righteous used to be Captain-General. His army razed the Connec.”

“And he was there, watching, at the time of the Massacre. But now he is neither. I warn thee, even a malicious glance his way will bring my aunts down upon thee. Be content.”

Kedle heard fear. “Hope?”

“They are here, Kedle. There may be others watching, too. The Bastard, almost certainly. For the next few hours thee and I must be extremely circumspect. Go root thine enemies out of their hide. I will placate the Righteous.”

Kedle suspected that her obsessions had led her into something bigger than her private war. Today was not just another black pearl on the strand of incidents defining her rush toward self-destruction.

Not since leaving Antieux had she thought beyond her next chance to vent her rage. She had thought little about her children, her parents, or that maddening old Perfect who had infested her life since she was a toddler. Recollections surfaced. Being invited, at just thirteen, to speak to a gathering of Maysaleans. Her wedding. The birth of Raulet, that had taken so long and had been so painful, yet had seemed so wondrous once they laid the baby at her breast. Loosing the shaft that had killed the King of Arnhand. Putting aside the grim fury that made her the Widow, in deepest secret, to lie in the embrace of her demonic consort …

Should the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy ever catch her she would be one prisoner whose guilt they could not exaggerate.

A runner's arrival scattered her dark reverie.

“Ma'am, the Whore of Menand wants to parlay.”

“Again?” There was a great deal of silence. No falcons bellowed. Trumpets had nothing to say. Nor were there cries or screams from the dying, man or animal.

Amazing.

How long could this last?

“Show me the way.” Though there was no point. That woman would never recognize the truth of her situation.

*   *   *

Lady Hope lacked no confidence. She was what she was. In this instance, though, with the old women of the Shining Ones watching, she had few options. She had no room for fun. Nor did she want to make trouble for Kedle. She needed Kedle's angry Connectens.

She could not adequately credit the changes in the world. What the Shining Ones wanted to be true no longer signified. Only what middle-world mortals believed was relevant now.

The Vindicated and Righteous stopped fighting. Bruised, stunned, the Vindicated withdrew to defensive positions. The Righteous maintained contact without combat, trying to get a better understanding of the situation.

Good. Their anger did not control them.

Lady Hope became young Aldi, with the sensuality constrained, a pretty girl lost and distressed but bearing up bravely. She strode toward the Righteous, who had moved into a field disposition resembling no military formation of the Instrumentality's experience. The danger was as sharp as it had been those first few minutes out of captivity in the Great Sky Fortress. Death was a single misstep away.

She did her best to appear unthreatening.

She still hurt, when she let that impinge on her consciousness.

A man came to meet her, cautiously. Light falcons with long barrels backed him, positioned to fire past him.

They knew what she was. They were ready.

Men yelled at someone to get back to his place in the line. A boy charged forward. Aldi reached out so she could eavesdrop.

The boy told the man, “She knows me. We can talk.”

“Yeah? You being the Commander's kid, I'm not even going to ask you how.”

Aldi did recall the boy from the Great Sky Fortress. She would play to him, but carefully.

Man and boy halted where falcon fire would remain a serious argument. Aldi focused on what was going on behind her.

Anne of Menand's request for a parlay had failed. The Widow would accept nothing less than unconditional surrender.

The boy said, “Hello, Aldi. You look pale this morning. Why did you attack us?”

The man seemed content to let the boy talk. Ah, yes. Hagen Brokke. One of Piper Hecht's less famous captains.

“I made a grotesque mistake, Pella. I apologize profoundly. Serenity, Henri of Mariscot, Anne of Menand, and their dearest henchmen are trapped in that watchtower back there. When I heard that soldiers were coming I assumed it was a rescue attempt. I should have made sure beforehand. I hope thy casualties were few.”

Brokke said, “The damage was all yours.”

“We have been punished for our stupidity, then. Can we put it behind us?”

Brokke said, “We can. But we need to understand what we each would like to accomplish.”

“Thy mission would be?”

“To bring Arnhand's new King safely to his throne. We hoped he could deal with his mother today.”

Aldi said, “We will capture Anne of Menand and Serenity. We will end their boundless malice toward the Connec.”

Pella asked, “What will you do once you have them?”

“That choice belongs to the Widow and the Countess of Antieux. I do not expect either will be overwhelmed by any urge toward mercy.”

Then Serenity and Anne could expect execution. They might be caged and dragged from city to town to castle across the Connecten hinterland first. Those who had survived their evils could curse them, throw filth, make clear how much they looked forward to watching them burn.