Ormienden was not as tame as most would claim.
That was probably true everywhere. In some places things of the night concealed themselves better.
Some sort of excitement broke out at the head of the column.
In moments Else found himself being disarmed by soldiers in unfamiliar livery.
The Instrumentalities of the Night had been active because some wizard had used them to help conceal the presence of the soldiers.
Resistance was pointless.
Only Bishop Serifs was dim enough to try to make demands, to boom orders at people who did not give a damn what he said.
The soldiers beat Serifs. And laid on with renewed enthusiasm every time the bishop opened his mouth. Nor did they help him once the beatings took their toll. A noncom told Serifs he would be killed if he did not keep up.
Else made sure his companions did nothing to trigger their captors. Their easiest way of dealing with prisoners would be to kill them.
Else said a silent prayer and placed himself in the hands of God. 'Ghort, you have any idea who these men are?'
'They're the Emperor's men. From his own guard. The Braunsknechts. Maybe from Viscesment.'
On political maps Ormienden lay within the New Brothen Empire, despite its constituent counties and principalities sometimes owing their first allegiance elsewhere. Viscesment sat on the border between Ormienden and the Connec, on the Ormienden side of the Dechear River. Although the folk of Viscesment spoke the Connecten dialect of Arnhander and everyone in the region considered the city Connecten.
Viscesment lay ninety miles northwest of the ambush site.
The Braunsknechts were not in a bloodthirsty mood. Their captain had orders to avoid making the incident more irksome to Brothe than the actual kidnapping of a Principatл of the Collegium would cause.
'But we're not headed toward Viscesment,' Else pointed out. 'Viscesment would be back that way.'
'Look at the bright side, Pipe,' Ghort said. 'We might get to meet the Emperor himself, if we keep on headed this way.'
Bo Biogna grumbled, 'Pipe, this guy is so contrary I bet he was born feetfirst.'
'How's that?' Else asked. He was still trying to make sense of what had happened. Why did God keep turning his path away from Brothe?
'Shit, Pipe. When things is goin' good Ghort don' do nothin' but bitch. And when we're standin' on our heads in liquid shit, he goes to hummin' an' singin' like he just got laid.'
Ghort said, “That's because I know all is right with the world, Bo. It's normal, everyday situation is, throw the dick to Pinkus Ghort. I'm used to that. I'm comfortable with that. I can deal with that. Slip me the pork pole and I strut around grinning.'
Misty rain continued. Else grew nervous for no discernable reason. The nervousness was a state, an intuition, not connected to his current situation. Which, while better than it could have been, did not seem promising. The Braunsknechts tolerated their prisoners, excepting Bronte Doneto. It was clear that Bronte Doneto was what this was all about.
Not keeping up with Doneto really might turn fatal.
But the mist itself was most troubling. Else still felt presences out there more numerous now than before the ambush.
Curious. The Braunsknechts were uncomfortable, too.
This was the kind of day when the things of the night stayed out and caused mischief.
The west was too tame. Its major shades, all bound into the features of the land now, slept a deep sleep.
In the Holy Lands, the Wells of Ihrian either generated or attracted all the Instrumentalities of the Night. In the Holy Lands you were inundated.
'Hey, Pipe! What the fuck's the matter with you?'
'Uh? Eh? Oh. Bo. Just lost in my thoughts. We're not in a good place, here.'
Ghort looked him askance. 'Just stay calm, don't give them no shit, and you'll be all right. They'll probably ask us to sign on with Hansel. Where've you been working, Pipe?'
Else sighed. He had forgotten to think western. Even in the Holy Lands the Arnhanders employed turncoats recruited from amongst their prisoners. And the Rh?n were even worse. The Rh?n recruited whole tribes to patrol their frontiers.
'The north country isn't nearly as friendly, Pinkus. They like to sacrifice you to their gods. They burn you or drown you or hang you, or whatever, depending on which god they're bribing.'
'Bribing?'
'Yes. Their whole way of praying, worshiping, and sacrificing is meant to distract their gods, so they'll leave the people alone.'
'Sounds primitive.'
'It is. But the Grand Marshes are more intimate with the Instrumentalities of the Night than these tame old lands down here.'
'Whistling past the graveyard, eh?”
Ghort was aware of the shades in the mist around them.
Else remained confused. This business made no sense. Yet.
Ghort told him, 'You'll catch on. In about a hundred years. It's all politics.'
Else was baffled by politics back home, where the players were fewer and their motives more transparent.
The Emperor's men were typical professional soldiers. They worked with calm, quiet efficiency, and no passion. Workaday work. If they had to kill somebody, they would, dispassionately, without regrets. Ghort was right. Given no stress, no provocation, no excuse, they would not behave badly.
The rain stopped in the afternoon. The sky rose.
The Imperials left the main road. They followed a winding track upward into harsh, precipitous, ice-capped limestone mountains. Those were like nothing Else had seen before. Vegetation was scrubby and the road seldom more than a wide animal track.
Ghort murmured, 'I know where we're at, Pipe. This is the Ownvidian Knot. They're taking a shortcut. Twenty miles of this and we'll come out in the Duchy of Plemenza.'
Else reviewed what he knew of northern Firaldia. Ghort could be right. But his estimate of distance sounded optimistic. Forty miles sounded more like it.
Bishop Serifs did not like heights. He balked when he saw what lay ahead. The Imperial troops pushed him, showing no respect.
Day had begun to fade. The bishop demanded, 'When are we going to stop?'
A soldier replied, 'We would've been there already if you didn't keep stalling and whining. But you do keep on. So we still have three miles to go.'
That set the bishop off. He stopped. He refused to move. The captain of the band told his men, 'Keep going. There's still enough light. I'll reason with the priest, then catch you up.'
'Not good,' Ghort whispered to Else. 'If you happen to be an asshole bishop.'
Else grunted.
'He's about to get spanked.'
Else noted that Principatл Doneto started to argue with the captain, fell silent at a look, then developed a smug little smile. Almost as if he saw a serendipitous answer to an old prayer.
The bishop's boy whore would not be separated from bis patron.
Sometime later, after a mile or so, Else heard a distant cry, short and sharp. It might have been the scream of an eagle. It might have been something else.
The captain did not have the bishop in tow when he caught up. Armand preceded him on foot, running, looking grim and frightened.
'How about that?' Pinkus Ghort mused. 'The brat weaseled out.'
