Working God's Mischief

42. Gherig: Congruence, Conjunction, and Union

Nassim Alizarin stood alongside the crusader Madouc of Hoeles. He could not have imagined that possibility two months earlier. They shared the parapet of a Gherig watchtower. Several others, equally ill at ease, were observing traffic below Gherig with them. Nassim felt ensnared in a surreal fantasy. The Master of the Commandery had accepted his story and offer of alliance. Madouc of Hoeles was seriously practical and pragmatic in spite of his religious convictions. Madouc grasped the magnitude of the threat developing in the Idiam. He had seen other resurrections. He had been warned by his own Special Office: this could be the ugliest resurrection yet. He would employ any tool or weapon to abort the menace. Nassim’s renegades might be a godsend.

No one knew the devil er-Rashal better. No one hated him more.

Rogert du Tancret, on crutches, radiated ill-concealed spite. Nassim Alizarin had been a curse on his existence. Nassim Alizarin had come within a toad’s whisker of annihilating Gherig, and Rogert du Tancret with it. Nassim Alizarin had made it necessary for him to go round on these sticks. Black Rogert was biding his time. He would have his revenge.

Black Rogert might be black but he never considered achieving his revenge by allying with the Dreangerean evil.

The dark-haired, dark-eyed, wide little bully laid looks on Madouc that were no more friendly. Madouc could expect his own day of reckoning.

Rogert du Tancret had chosen to play against character, biding his time though he was not known for his patience or subtlety. Cunning had him smile exactly when the converted and motivated ought to show enthusiasm.

Nassim and Madouc were observing a wild swirl and swarm of newcomers sent out by the Commander of the Righteous as they put up a canvas and trash-wood city surrounded by a ditch and a freestone wall. Villagers disgruntled by the loss of pasture had been complaining since the first new crusader appeared. Nassim wished he could help. Those people had supported him well.

They would not resist. The newcomers had slaughtered scores of Believers who had tried to raid their camp near Triamolin. Their woman commander was an abomination made flesh. She devoured Praman souls.

Since that massacre the Widow’s story had become widespread, growing madly in the retelling. Publicly, Madouc of Hoeles credited every wicked accusation. He hinted that more and darker remained to be seen.

Madouc had the Special Office mumbling in his ear.

He observed, “Those people seem professional but you can tell the Brothens from the Connectens by each group’s casual style.”

Nassim did not see that. He saw Arnhander mobs caught up in efficient chaos. Setting a semipermanent camp was not something new to them. He saw very little real wasted motion. “Ah. And now they’ve started building a conduit to bring water from the spring.”

Young Az eased up beside Nassim, on the side away from Madouc. Nassim had been careful to conceal the youth’s identity. Possession of Indala’s favorite grandnephew might be a temptation too potent for bleak, brooding Black Rogert.

The Master of the Commandery knew Azim was no Sha-lug. Age alone did not give that away. What made one Sha-lug was difficult to verbalize but plain to the veteran eye.

Nassim turned toward Azim slightly. The boy had gone out among the Believers with Old Az, tasting their unhappiness, trying to show the elders why the Mountain would ally himself with the oppressor.

Only Ansa, foreigners, and strangers had suffered because of the Dreangerean. That did not make him an instrument of the Adversary. Such people were barely human.

“It didn’t go well,” Nassim guessed. “Too tough a sell.”

“True, but there will be no bad behavior. They will remain toads in their holes. They are terrified of the Widow, who is more real and far nearer than any fabulous Dreangerean.”

“Indeed. They might be less rattled if the Adversary himself turned up dancing.” The Adversary seldom took the form of a fighting woman.

One of Black Rogert’s few remaining loyalists eased up to his lord and whispered. Du Tancret blanched. He gasped. He slammed both hands to his chest. His eyes rolled up. He shook like he was going into a seizure.

Everyone gaped.

Du Tancret suppressed the shakes, visibly reclaiming control. He engaged in obvious internal debate momentarily. Then, “My lords. My lord of Hoeles. A courier from Vantrad brings word that the Grail Empress and Commander of the Righteous have compelled Beresmond and Clothilde to abdicate in favor of Helspeth Ege.”

His audience boggled, to a man. Impossible! The Master of the Commandery declared, “The Commander of the Righteous would not arrogate a crown!”

Du Tancret bobbed his head. “I did not mean to suggest that. You’re right. He didn’t seize the throne himself. He made the Grail Empress Vantrad’s Queen.” Muttering, he added, “Surely he’ll be rewarded royally.”

Madouc faced Nassim, one eyebrow raised. What would the Praman side think?

Nassim could do nothing but shrug.

He was not supposed to know the Commander of the Righteous. Nor did he, anymore. His recollections of Else Tage amounted to little more than nostalgia. He knew nothing about the man behind the layers of identity and character he had acquired since being sent out to die in exile.

A Madouc henchman made the obvious concrete. “This could mark a sea change for the Crusader States.”

Yes. It could.

This could be the first temblor of a vast cultural shift. The Grail Empire was not Arnhand. Arnhand was not going under the ice. Parts of the Grail Empire were. The displaced had to go somewhere.

All the Crusader States, large or small, were ruled by families rooted in the nobilities of Arnhand or the Connec. Knights and pilgrims hailed from every Brothen Episcopal principality but mostly Arnhanders and Connectens stayed to colonize the land of their God’s birth. Several generations later, now, the eastern branches of the families were almost as foreign as the peoples they ruled.

Vantrad the kingdom was now a fragment of the Grail Empire, where traditions were alien and the ruling class was actively hostile toward the Brothen Episcopal Patriarchy despite a deep connection to the Brothen Episcopal faith. Paradoxically, the Patriarchy might gain influence, now. Its lip-service-only Crusader States supporters, heavily dependent on moral, financial, and manpower support from Arnhand and the Connec, might be overthrown for a more honest regime.

The founders of the Crusader States had been as much land-going pirates as warriors of a holy cause. Today’s Black Rogert was, simply, an extreme exemplar.

The exemplar added, “The Queen evaded capture. She is headed here with such people as she was able to save.”

Nassim took that to mean that Clothilde’s companions were people who had been able to keep up.

His estimate of Clothilde had formed based on her popular reputation.

Garnering little response from the Brotherhood, Black Rogert reminded everyone, “Whatever the military situation imposes on me, Gherig still belongs to the du Tancrets.”

Not strictly true and easily rendered moot but neither the Master of the Commandery nor his companions cared to debate. Madouc simply nodded. “Of course.”

Could he be thinking that Clothilde might be better wrangled here than elsewhere? Wherever she was she would spin wild, irrational plots and contrive insane conspiracies.

Black Rogert was at a loss. He had been stripped of place and power. Now his last anchor was dragging.

Nassim entertained himself with an idea so wicked it was fit to have sprung from the mind of a villain like Clothilde or Black Rogert.

He could suggest that they flee to Shamramdi.

Indala would welcome them. Of course he would. It would be no sin, promising protection to draw them into his power. The God Who Is God had no problem with the Faithful deceiving Unbelievers. And Indala owed Black Rogert so much.

Du Tancret would never amble into that. His nose for danger should be itching already, simply because the Mountain had had the thought.

Du Tancret, frowning, did turn Nassim’s way, as though he had caught a whiff of malice.

Madouc of Hoeles stared into infinity briefly, then told du Tancret, “Begin preparations to receive the Queen. Right now Gherig boasts no suitable quarters.”

Black Rogert started, at first amazed that Madouc would receive Clothilde, then realizing that Madouc had stated a bald truth. Reconstruction was focused on Gherig’s defenses. Even Madouc and du Tancret lived as rough as their soldiers and workmen.

News of Nassim’s latest defection should have reached Indala by now. Hopefully, the Great Shake was clever enough to reason his way to the truth.

Nassim thought that Indala did have the intelligence, in both senses, to understand. Young Az swore that Indala knew his grandnephew would never defect in fact, but only in appearance, for tactical reasons.

Madouc of Hoeles said, “That man is out of the way. We can speak freely, now.” Du Tancret was gone.

“Yes?”

White flashed, Madouc smiling behind his artfully sculpted beard. “You are a cautious man, General.”

“More a man so nervous that, you should note, he has successfully shied off deadly shadows for ages, in a chancy trade.”

“I do keep that in mind. Also, the fact that you’re so clever they should have called you the Fennec instead of the Mountain.”

Nassim flashed his own smile. Another tooth had gone missing. He thought the desert fox was more elusive than crafty but would accept the compliment. “That may be, but I have managed about as long a run of luck as a man can carry. Whatever the outcome this time, this will be my last skirmish with the Night.”

“We will triumph,” Madouc predicted. “God stands with us.” He gauged the proximity of his Special Office brethren. “As do you, the Widow of Khaurene, the Captain-General of the Brothen Church, and, possibly, Indala al-Sul Halaladin. And ever lurking in the shadows ready to pounce in a wolf-strike, the Righteous with all the hooligan Instrumentalities the Commander of the Righteous has recruited.”

Nassim said nothing. Young Az did the same, preferring to remain unnoticed by Madouc. Then Nassim did ask, “You actually credit those theories?”

Could anyone be as successful as the Commander of the Righteous had, absent help from Heaven or Hell?

Hell always seemed most likely to the envious.

Human nature assumes that anyone successful must be a liar, cheat, and deadly backstabber.

Sometimes that was true. Gordimer the Lion, for example. In the case of the exiled Sha-lug Else Tage, the condemned man appeared to be an orphan beloved of the Night.

Stories of the sort were uncommon but existed. Witness Aaron of Chaldar or the Founding Family of al-Prama. Or, more recently, Tsistimed the Golden, a demigod ascendant not known to have sought the power deliberately. Not in er-Rashal’s willful way.

Nassim shuddered, awash with dread. He might actually know someone who would ascend to Instrumentality status.

“General? Are you unwell?”

“My apologies. A curse of age. I have reached a stage where staying anchored and focused is difficult.”

The Master of the Commandery, as he often did, put any questions aside. “Should we invite the Widow and Captain-General up to discuss combining our knowledge and strengths?”

“The Widow has a reputation for not working well with others.”

“There are ways to work around personalities. I want to confer and have something decided before the Queen gets here to complicate our lives.” He paused but, before Nassim could respond, told young Az, “You will join us, of course.” Saying so much while saying nothing specific.

So. Madouc knew who Azim was. Nassim would speak for the Sha-lug and old enemies who knew the Rascal best. Azim al-Adil ed-Din would be the eyes, ears, and mouth of the Great Shake of Lucidia and Qasr al-Zed.

Azim inclined his head, an equal deferring to a more qualified equal. “As you wish, Master.”

Nassim felt pride. The boy had handled that well. He might indeed be the future of Qasr el-Zed-if he could shed the emotional encumbrance of his early failures.

The boy would face fierce challenges. God Himself might not surmount the circumstances of the times, with the Righteous triumphant everywhere and the Hu’n-tai At stirring, despite all their suffering of late.

The situation could only get worse. There would be another wave of western adventurers next summer but no Believers to replace the Faithful already fallen.

The Adversary should be dancing in his black palace, all was going so well for the children of darkness.

Nassim said, “We can but do what we must, and quickly would be best.”