'Yes.'
'What do you want?'
'Any information you can acquire that will give the Don a chance to do the Bruglioni a bigger hurt in the public eye,'
'Bigger?'
'Bigger than backstabbing them in a vote in the Collegium. Best would be to discover something that would make the mob want to tear them apart.'
'What a city. Of course. Since my Principatй tells me that you don't expect to reveal yourselves any time soon. Because until Rodrigo Cologni is replaced the Arniena vote isn't crucial.'
'The Patriarch will have to move quickly, just to forestall the idea that he might have been behind the murder.'
'I thought the murderer was supposed to be a huge blond foreigner. If he wasn't a Bruglioni.'
'Either way, somebody killed a whole troop of Brotherhood veterans to get to Rodrigo Cologni. That's a hard sell, Hecht. God Himself wouldn't be interested enough to work that hard.'
Else shrugged. 'It seems nothing is unlikely here.'
'It's just bigger and more complex than what you're used to. I was lost when I first got here. But it's just people being people, only with a lot more enthusiasm. Well, that's settled. Let's get you ready to go.'
Else was amused. Here he was, entering the Great Rearing ugly limestone Bruglioni stronghold through the front gate. Rogoz left him there. 'You want me to wait, Hecht?'
'Be a waste of your time, wouldn't it? I can find my way home.'
“Take care, then. Some of these Bruglioni are creepy people.' Sayag did not mind the Bruglioni sentry overhearing.
'You get used to creepy people.'
Rogoz sneered and went away.
Else followed the sentry into the Bruglioni citadel. That man turned him over to a nervous, skinny, short, shaggy little man who told him, 'My name is Polo. I'm supposed to assist you as long as you're here. You shouldn't ever forget that I work for Paludan Bruglioni. You'll see him in a minute.'
Else considered his surroundings. Seedy described it in one quick, all-encapsulating word. No effort was being made to keep the place up. It felt creepy, as though the last fugitive tendrils of the night had not been harried out of this one corner of Brothe.
'Is the Don a sorcerer?'
Polo squeaked in surprise.
'He's not?'
'No. If you mean Paludan. But that isn't it. Nobody calls him the Don. Much as he'd love that'
'Really? Why not?'
Polo looked around for something lurking in the shadows. 'You aren't Brothen, are you?'
'Not even Firaldian. Why?'
'Don is a title of respect. Given only to those who earn it. From here,' smacking his chest over his heart. “To the one who leads. By those who follow. Do you understand that?'
'Yes.' A similar tradition existed among the tribesmen of Peqaa and other remote regions of the Realm of Truth. Polo meant that the Bruglioni household did not consider Paludan Bruglioni a man who deserved to be called Don. 'I do. Do I need to make a special effort with my appearance?'
'Nobody would notice. You're just another tradesman. One who uses a sword instead of a trowel or a hammer.'
This half-ghostly Polo was nursing a grudge against his employers.
What Else had learned about the Bruglioni while serving the Arniena had not impressed him. But he had not drawn as bleak a picture as Polo and the Bruglioni headquarters suggested.
Was Polo some sort of provocateur?
This was no life a man ought to live, every waking moment spent wrestling paranoia about the motives of everyone around you. Yet paranoia was bedrock beneath this mission. He could not survive without it.
Later, Else said, “Tell me something, Polo. You said Paludan Bruglioni isn't a sorcerer. Is anyone else? I feel the darkness. Like there's an aspect of the Instrumentalities close to us.'
'Others have said the same, sir. Possibly because the Bruglioni are so devoutly determined to have nothing to do with dark powers. They try to ignore their existence. Divino Bruglioni had to leave home when he chose the path that led him to become a member of the Collegium. They say they refuse to surrender to the Will of the Night.'
The world could be confusing when the only truth available was the certainty that people would lie to you.
'Time to see the man,' Polo announced.
Else narrowed his focus. He became Piper Hecht, wanderer from the farthest marches of the Chaldarean world, an experienced soldier eager to find service in one of the great houses of Brothe.
Else made a strong effort to sound honest. “This wasn't my idea. Don Inigo convinced me. He says he owes you, that you've suffered cruel reverses, and he wants to help. Also, he said that I have a better chance of getting ahead with the Bruglioni than with the Arniena.' Rogoz Sayag had advised him to appeal to the natural Bruglioni arrogance.
Paludan Bruglioni muttered, 'That makes sense.'
Paludan Bruglioni was a handsome, darkly complexioned man with a heavy black mustache. He had begun to lose his hair. He was heavy without being fat. His eyes seemed lifeless, though that could be due to the emotional beating he had taken lately. His head was egg-shaped, with the thin end down. His ears lay close. His overall appearance suggested a man in his middle fifties.
Paludan Bruglioni was a decade younger. The lamplight did not betray the floridity caused by prolonged, excessive drinking, or the scars left by the pustules from a disease picked up in Brothe's sporting houses. He had a reputation for vanity and, supposedly, wore a mask when he went out.
By lamplight he was a handsome, wealthy gentleman who was slightly tipsy. He might be in a bad mood for no immediately obvious reason.
'You're saying you want to step into my nephew Saldi's boots as a favor to Inigo Arniena?'
'The Don was good to me. He took me in when my prospects seemed bleak and he couldn't afford to pay what I'm worth. By sending me here he feels he's doing favors for you and me both.'
Paludan scowled. Was there any chance that the man was as shallow and dull as he appeared?
Bruglioni glanced at the two men there with him, neither of whom had been introduced. One, though, had to be an uncle or older first cousin. He looked like an older Paludan. The other was pale, had graying ginger hair and a pallid, lantern-jawed death's-head face more ravaged than Paludan's.
Neither man spoke.
Else assumed the death's-head to be Gervase Saluda, Paludan's lifelong friend and reputed right hand.
Else said, 'I would've been happy where I was. Don Inigo is the sort of master men in my line dream about. But I had higher ambitions when I left Tusnet. In Duarnenia the future is fixed. Sooner or later, you'll die in the Grand Marshes. Slowly and in great pain if the Sheard get hold of you. The pagans proclaim the tyranny of the night in the daytime. They celebrate their surrender to the will of the night.'
Paludan smiled. Death's-head consulted something in front of him. 'You were with Grade Drocker and the Brotherhood during the Church's adventure in the Connec last year?'
'Yes. I was on my way to Brothe when I encountered a Brotherhood band recruiting mercenaries near Ralli.'
'Where they quarry the marble.'
'Yes. A Brotherhood captain named Veld Arnvolker was in charge. I'd accumulated some traveling companions on the road, mostly boys and runaways. They thought they wanted to be soldiers. It would be all romance and adventure. The Brotherhood offered good training, good pay, and what looked like a chance to show them the truth without them having to get killed finding it out. So when the kids wanted to sign on, I went-
