only saw him once. If it was really him. He had a foreign accent so thick you could hardly understand him.' The physical description suited every typical short fat thin tall dark brown white man you could run into on any Firaldian street.
'I've been here before,' Hecht said, recalling trying to get a useful description of the witch Starkden, who had been behind a scheme meant to facilitate the premature demise of Else Tage of the Sha-lug, then pretending to be the Episcopal Chaldarean crusader Sir Aelford daSkees. 'He wouldn't be a sorcerer in addition to his other transgressions, would he?'
Ghort leaned in. 'We got a name. I can give it to Bo. Right now we need to get back into executive mode.'
Hecht nodded. 'Enough, then. Good night, gentlemen. Brothers. We'll include you in our prayers.'
Pella wakened Hecht an hour before first light.
'Sir, them priests are stealing their horses and running away.'
'How do you know?'
'Vali saw them. She woke me up.'
'I see.' Before he finished getting his trousers on he heard horses crossing the rude pavements out front. 'They have the moon, don't they?'
'Yes, sir.'
'I'm a sir, now?'
'Yes, sir.'
Hecht was amused but had no time to explore the workings of Pella's mind.
He might as well have taken time. The men from Viscesment got away easily.
There seemed little reason to hurry. Without horses the journey to Brothe could not be hastened much.
Ghort said, 'Let's just be folks headed south looking for work. So stop looking prosperous.'
Ferris Renfrow materialized. Hecht wondered how close the man had followed events last night. He seemed satisfied to watch them go. Pinkus Ghort's paranoid side wakened. 'He might plan to have us snatched out in the country somewhere.'
'Would there be a point?'
'Hell, yeah. He'd ruin Sublime's hopes for decades. Where would that fool find two more men like us?'
'A telling point. But I doubt he rates us as highly as we rate ourselves. But to reassure you, I'll just go ask.'
'What? Are you out of your bean?'
Hecht approached the Imperial. 'The name Rudenes Schneidel mean anything? Especially in connection with Viscesment?'
Renfrow raised an eyebrow. 'It's turned up inside a few unpleasant rumors. Evidently a sorcerer. Of some attainment. But a complete blank otherwise. Why?'
'There was an assassination attempt in Brothe. You'll be hearing about it. Schneidel was behind the play. If that's something you can use.'
'Probably not. The folks at Viscesment have grown increasingly independent. Tell your friend I'm going to let him get away. This time.'
Hecht laughed. 'Is his act that obvious?'
'It is.'
'I'll pass the word. One more name I want to toss up. Dumaine.'
'Dumaine?'
'That's all I've got. I heard it in Sonsa. Overheard it. Someone who's part of a plot involving the Durandanti family.'
The only Dumaines I know are minor Arnhander nobility. The current Viscount Dumaine is an enemy of Anne of Menand. With the enmity mostly on her side. Dumaine is a minor marcher, unimportant in Arnhander affairs, except as a scapegoat when Anne's plans go bad. Although he spends all his time at home, fending off his cousins who are enfiefed to the King of Santerin. He evidently had the bad judgment to turn down an offer Anne made. Doing so publicly.'
Anne of Menand was the mistress of King Charlve of Arnhand, who was mentally incompetent. She wanted her son Regard to succeed. Charlve had no legitimate children. Her physical appetites were legendary. As was her malevolence toward those who crossed her.
'That wouldn't fit. I don't think. I must've heard wrong.'
'Ah. This doesn't look good.'
A rider was coming down the West Way astride a mount so blown it could barely keep moving. The beast would be ruined forever. Yet the rider's was not the will driving it. He was unconscious. He had tied himself into the saddle.
Ghort jogged out and intercepted the animal. It did not resist his guidance. It had no spirit left.
Hecht and Renfrow followed Ghort. Something bad had happened. Horse and rider alike were covered with dried blood, not all of it their own.
Ghort said, 'It's Ogier. Three-fourths dead.'
'They lied to us,' Hecht said.
'Priests? Tell lies? You must be joking. But, no. That's not it. Look at these wounds.'
Hecht and the Imperial walked round man and beast. The horse's nose practically dragged on the pavements. Hecht untied Ogier. Ghort and Renfrow lowered him to the ground. Hecht said, 'He might've run into a rabid bear. Or a hungry lion.'
'Lion? Excuse me, Pipe. There ain't been no fuckin' lions in these parts since Old Brothen Imperial times.'
Renfrow agreed. 'The ancients used them up in their blood games. Once in a while one would cross the Escarp Gibr al-Tar back then, maybe, but they were even hunted out on the far coast of the Mother Sea by the time of the Praman Conquest.'
'More than I needed to know.' Hecht's amulet was responding to the residual shadow clinging to the deserter and his steed. They had fallen foul of something powerful.
Gawkers from the Knight of Wands began to gather. Hecht and Renfrow kept them back while Ghort tried to question the deserter.
Ogier was not hurt as badly as all the blood made it seem. But he would need luck to survive. Claw wounds always festered.
One client of the Knight of Wands confessed to having some small skills as a healer. Once he was satisfied that no one would denounce him to the Church he went to work on the deserter.
The Episcopal Chaldarean Church suffered from a schizophrenic attitude toward powers derived from the Instrumentalities of the Night. It railed against congress with sorcerers and witches, yet some of its greatest dignitaries were among the most powerful mages known. Talented folks not on the inside frequently suffered persecution. Particularly where the Witchfinders of the Special Office roamed.
'Well?' Hecht asked when Ghort finally came away. 'Did he have a story?'
'Fraught with irony.'
'I'm surprised you even know two of those three words.'
'All right. Hang on. I'm going to do this all in one long blast. Then we need to get on down the road.'
'So, go.'
'Ogier and Aubero ran into robbers. Who robbed them. While the robbers were arguing over whether they should kill them it suddenly got icy cold. A mist closed in. The moonlight faded away. Men started screaming. Something with claws and rotten breath mauled him but got distracted before it finished him off. He passed out. He woke up at daybreak. Some of the horses were missing. The rest, along with his brother and all the robbers, were dead, some torn to pieces. He headed here because it was the only place he could think of. He kept passing out. He hid out whenever he felt that coming on. He remembers our three priests charging past. He tried to warn them but they didn't hear him. A while later screaming broke out back the way he had come. He kept moving. He found a saddled horse grazing in a field. He caught it and calmed it, mounted up and tied himself on in case he passed out again. Something in the woods roared and started crashing toward them. The horse panicked. It ran till it couldn't
