like the answer. Let's get comfortable and wait. You. Give me that pigsticker. You don't want to do something stupid and get yourself killed. You the Boss Bruglioni? Not gonna say? It don't matter. Let's you and this smelly old woman go sit by that fig tree. Where I can keep an eye on you.”
Shagot drew the ancient sword. It seemed to radiate darkness. With that in hand, Shagot felt renewed. He would not fall asleep while the sword was drawn. He would feel no pain. With that blade in hand he felt as though he could slice through time itself.
The man who might be Paludan Bruglioni considered the old sword with contempt. But Father Obilade's eyes went wide. He whimpered, then commenced a swiftly cadenced, stammering appeal to his god for shelter from the malice of the Instrumentalities of the Night.
It took longer than Shagot expected for news from the Madhur Plaza to arrive. It was almost dawn. Evil, seductive sleep was doing its best to overwhelm the old sword's magic.
Sleep's insidious appeal ended when a small, lean, slightly shaggy man burst in, gasping, 'There you are, Paludan! Terrible news! Terrible news! Acato, Gildeo, Faluda, Pygnus, the others … they're all gone! Lost! In the Madhur Plaza! Murdered! Along with all of Rodrigo Cologni's bodyguards.'
The messenger was so excited that he continued to throw up words until, while straining for breath, he noticed Shagot and the heads. 'Shit!'
'Indeed,' Shagot said. He felt like a god. They were almost trivial, these southerners. 'Slide over there with the others.'
The newcomer considered the heads. 'Oh, Blessed Kelam and the Fathers of the Church! That's Strauther Arnot! Secretary of the Special Office. What's going on, Paludan?'
Shagot surmised that this must be the deadly clever Gervase Saluda, Paludan Bruglioni's good friend from his youth, from a time when Paludan had slipped away at night to run with a gang of orphans and runaways. That legend was, likely, pure artifice. But Gervase's reputation might be deserved.
Shagot suggested, 'Keep your hands where I can see them. Unless you think that set of heads is one short and yours would complete it.'
'He's soultaken,' Father Obilade whined. 'Don't defy him. He can't be defeated. That old sword… It was forged back when the tyranny of the night ruled the world complete.'
'Thank you,' Shagot told him. 'What the crone says is true. And this is true, too. The men you sent to murder my brother and me failed. They murdered Rodrigo Cologni's bodyguards instead. These eight showed up while they were at it. They killed everybody but Cologni. They took him away with them. My brother and I pursued them. We had a contract with the Bruglioni. They refused to cooperate. So we took their heads, thinking we might earn a bonus by fulfilling the Bruglioni revenge for you.' Shagot used a toe to propel a head toward Paludan Bruglioni. It rolled over on its nose and changed course toward Gervase Saluda.
'What have you done?' Paludan's plea was feeble and rhetorical.
'What demon rules your soul?' Father Obilade asked. 'What ancient horror have you hauled into the modern age, into the heartland of the Episcopal faith?'
Shagot said, 'You owe me two hundred gold ducats. Plus a bonus for avenging your dead.'
Paludan Bruglioni surrendered to the will of the night 'Obilade. Get the money the man wants. Don't get into any mischief along the way. You understand me?'
The priest bowed. 'Yes, sir.'
Shagot understood, too. 'Excellent. And hurry. Because if that money doesn't get here fast, with no treachery, people will die.'
Once Father Obilade was gone, Shagot kicked another head and said, 'These Brotherhood people knew exactly what was supposed to happen in the Madhur Plaza. How could that be?'
'What have you done?' Paludan whined again.
I have shaken Brothe's foundation stones, Shagot thought.
Never in all his life had he had so much impact upon others. Not even at the height of the sturlanger raids on the coasts of the Isle of Eights had so many people who had no idea who he was suffered so much because of his actions.
'I'm just trying to make a living,' Shagot replied. 'I don't think that requires me to be sacrificed to some local half-wit's ambition.'
Father Obilade returned. He brought more than three hundred ducats in gold coins bearing the likenesses of dead Patriarchs. Shagot checked a few to make sure they were real. 'Good. Good. I hope you gentlemen don't resent the lesson in fair play.' He crooked a finger at the old priest. 'Closer, Father. Closer.'
When the old man was close enough, Shagot leaned in to whisper, 'These guys know what really happened, Padre. You'd better hike up your skirt and run.' In a voice that carried, he continued, 'Thanks, everyone. Try not to be such a bunch of weasels, eh?'
Shagot got out of there before sleep could hammer him down.
Touched by the favor of the night, he managed to rejoin his brother before he collapsed.
Once sleep came, though, it would not withdraw until Svavar neared a state of panic. Could his brother possibly survive?
20. Khaurene, in the End of Connec
Winter in the Connec was a season of worry. For those who tried to come to grips with what Arnhanders called the Black Mountain Massacre. Because the invaders insisted that that disaster was in no way their fault.
Well-meaning pilgrims had entered the Connec to help harried Episcopal coreligionists protect themselves from the predations of heretics who roasted babies and sacrificed virgins. Unless that went the other way around.
'That about sum up your position?' Count Raymone Garete flung at the obnoxious, insulting deformed hunchback of an envoy from Salpeno, Father Austen Rinpochй. 'You couldn't invent something more ridiculous? You could've accused us of having sexual congress with goats. Fool. Our intransigent apostasy and heresy is why there's an active Episcopal church on every other corner in Khaurene. It's why there are more real cathedrals in the End of Connec than there are in all of your piss-drinking Pail of Arnhand. We built those cathedrals, of course, so we'd have somewhere to snuggle with our goats.'
Duke Tormond tried to restrain the young noble. But Count Raymone was beyond restraint. Following his triumph over Baron Algres, Raymone's voice would be loud in the councils of the Connec. 'You're speechless? A priest? Talk to me, priest. Name one Episcopal in the End of Connec who has suffered at the hands of the Seekers After Light'
Gleefully, Father Rinpoche retorted, 'Bishop Serifs of Antieux.'
Silence.
More silence.
Someone said, 'Sweet Aaron on a jackass, the fool is serious.'
Count Raymone sneered, 'The priest isn't a fool. He's a league beyond. He's a complete idiot.'
Even the Great Vacillator, Duke Tormond, stared at Father Rinpochй like he thought the man was a half-wit reveling in his debility. 'Are you serious, Father? That man was a thief. He abused his office. He was indifferent to the rights of others. He was a perjurer, a pederast, and a sodomite. There's no end to the catalog of his crimes. Absent the protection of Sublime he would've been hung years ago. I did feel some sympathy for your mission until now. But we all know rats who deserve higher honors than Bishop Serifs.'
Count Raymone snapped, 'Serifs was such a waste that Principatй Bronte Doneto — the Patriarch's own cousin — had him thrown off a cliff after they failed to rob and morder the people of Antieux.'
Father Rinpochй clung to his position.
Duke Tormond stood. He clasped his hands but let his arms hang. 'I'm a good Episcopal, Father. I attend church every day. I never miss confession. I sent a letter to the Holy Father asking what more can possibly be expected. He hasn't replied. Meantime, we're here and, yet again, we're being subjected to unfounded and trumped-up charges by men whose interest in God's work is secondary to their hopes of plundering the Connec.
