Gadjeu Tifft hailed from Croizat, a tiny state on the Creveldian coast across the narrow Vieran Sea, east of Firaldia. The details of his story were protean. Men did stupid, impulsive things when they were young. Tifft did not seem bright enough to be an agent of the Rhûn, though Croizat and all of Creveldia belonged to the Eastern Empire. No matter. The shores of the Mother Sea crawled with displaced men who, often in some way that they did not comprehend, found themselves far from anyone or anything they knew. They survived by signing on with some warlord.
The Bronte Donetos were always there.
Doneto was in good health now and eager to get home. He pushed as hard as Pig Iron allowed. And Pig Iron was in a mood to put Plemenza behind him.
Pinkus Ghort started grumbling before the first day was halfway done. “Good thing we spent so much time staying in shape, eh? That’s paying dividends now.” Else was one of few prisoners who had made an effort to stay fit. Ghort was not.
Even the Principaté had to walk. Possibly, Hansel thought, that might inspire him to rein in his natural arrogance. Only a brace of ancient donkeys had been given the privilege of becoming Pig Iron’s associates in the transport department. Doneto wanted to plot against the future. He told Else, “As soon as we get to Brothe, before anybody even sees you, I’m going to set you up with Draco Arniena. He’ll take you on because, although he opposes Sublime publicly, in secret he’s our ally.” Doneto bubbled with eagerness to plunge into Brother’s ferocious political dialogue.
19. Andorayans in Brothe
Shagot and Svavar survived by theft and violence while they learned enough Firaldian to get by. Then they worked their way up the ranks of strong-arm men. They started as bouncers in one of Brothe’s more riotous waterfront dives, then became wholesale butchers on behalf of an association of shopkeepers grown weary of paying protection to gangs who did not protect them from other gangs demanding protection money.
They had a miraculous knack for surviving. Their cold-bloodedness intimidated the most hardened Brothen criminals. It took just months to convince a superstitious underworld that they could not be touched but would happily obliterate anyone who even thought about getting in their way.
Shagot learned that producing the monster head while using weapons from the old battlefield in the White Hills left him and Svavar invulnerable. He did not understand why. He did not care. It was sufficient that he was doing the work of the gods.
The brothers had no trouble being coldly murderous because they were so far out of their own time that they did not see people of the present as entirely human.
This was like butchering chickens. When Shagot could stay awake. Shagot slept up to sixteen hours a day.
Their work came to the attention of Father Syvlie Obilade, who had a special place in the household of the Bruglioni family. The Bruglioni were one of the Five Families of Brothe. They were long-time enemies of the Benedocto. Father Obilade told the brothers they would enjoy an easier, more profitable life if they put their talents on retainer to the Bruglioni.
Shagot had nothing but contempt for Father Obilade. “They’re all oil and slime, these Chaldarean priests,” he told Svavar. “I’d love to see them delivered to the mercies of the Old Ones. Especially these shit-for-brains Brothen priests. All they’re interested in is getting hold of power. Their screams would be sweet music.”
Svavar did not reply. He seldom spoke anymore. He did what Shagot required of him, however bloody, insane, or cruel, while abiding his release from his obligations to his gods.
The biggest handicap endured by the brothers was Shagot’s sleep compulsion. That worsened almost daily.
***
SYLVIE OBILADE WAS NOT A BLOOD MEMBER OF THE Bruglioni. He was a boyhood friend of Soneral Bruglioni, who would be the Bruglioni chieftain today if he had not somehow managed to swallow a fatal dose of poison during the maneuvering prior to the election of Honario Benedocto. The priest’s apparent loyalty now lay with Soneral’s brother, Paludan.
Paludan Bruglioni overflowed with rage and hatred. Paludan Bruglioni’s whole being revolved around those. All Brothe believed Father Obilade did nothing to soften Paludan’s dark obsessions. Indeed, perhaps, he nurtured Paludan’s abhorrence of those who favored the Benedocto Patriarchy.
Sylvie Obilade tried to be a good priest. But he had wrestled with his own faith for years.
Shagot and Svavar entered Father Obilade’s small, dank room. The stench of mold and mildew beset them. Discarded clothing lay in the corners, damp and decaying, gifts never worn.
The priest never changed his filthy, tattered smock, His personal odors were powerful, too. “Thank you for coming.” His voice was raspy, damaged permanently by the mold in the air.
Shagot exchanged glances with his brother. This ragged old skeleton was one of the more powerful men in Brothe. Which was why Shagot had listened when the priest recruited him.
The view is always better from a high place. From a high enough vantage Shagot thought he could see all the way to the man he was supposed to find.
Father Obilade teetered on the brink of his fiftieth year but a lifetime of self-abuse had him looking seventy. He ate only unleavened bread and drank nothing but water. On holy days he rewarded himself by fasting.
Shagot considered him a madman. He rumbled, “You said your boss would pay well. So we came.” Svavar asked, “Have you found out anything about the man we’re seeking?” The priest was puzzled momentarily. Then, “Oh. The mystery man from the orient. No. Not yet. No one knows anything. But Brothe is big and the search is of no urgency to anyone but you. And the hunt has only just begun.”
Shagot grunted, tormented by the alien urgency coiled within him. He forced it down. “You have work for us or not?” The smelly old man twitched. He had moral qualms about what he had been told to engineer. The Grimmssons did not yet realize that they had been retained only because the Bruglioni family could deny them. And because they could be used up in some scheme down the road, where deniability would be particularly appetizing.
Father Obilade had spent a lifetime deluding himself. But he was not stupid. He knew Paludan Bruglioni did not intend to exploit these foreigners for the glory of God. But it might be possible that what served the Bruglioni could benefit God as well. This was the mission Sylvie Obilade set himself daily, to weave his day into the grand tapestry of God’s master plan.
It is an easy intellectual step to the conviction that whatever you do must be part of God’s plan. Justification for villainy knows no intellectual constraint.
Shagot said, “It reeks in here, old man. Why don’t you clean this shit out?” And, before Father Obilade could respond, “What do you want? You woke me up. So get to the point.”
“The Patriarch plans to rectify his weakness in the Collegium by creating new Principaté positions disguised as the presentation of honors to stalwart defenders of the faith.”
Shagot snorted. He did not understand Episcopal politics.
“Sublime will nominate three men of three apparently diverse viewpoints one enemy of Sublime, one ally, and one disinterested outlander unlikely to assume his seat. These seats won’t be permanent.” Most Principatés served only in their own names, for life. But the Five Families colluded to make sure each clan held at least one seat at all times. You had to be a Principaté to be elected Patriarch. “They’ll pass away when these individuals go to their heavenly rewards.”
Again, Shagot snorted. “Why should I care about that shit?”
“Rodrigo Cologni has made a secret agreement with Sublime. After his confirmation he’ll change sides and vote with Sublime’s party in return for castles and estates he can distribute to his children.”
The purportedly celibate fathers of the Church could be fathers in the literal sense. They failed to admit the hypocrisy.
“Once these nominations go through and Bronte Doneto returns, Sublime will have a three-vote advantage in the Collegium. But Sublime’s plans aren’t in the best interest
of God’s Church. Therefore...”
Shagot suspected that the Chadarean god was old enough to look out for himself. “You want somebody killed.”
“Crudely put, but, yes. Though it isn’t as simple as that. There’ll be a clamor if Rodrigo Cologni is murdered. That can’t be connected with the Bruglioni.”
Shagot was not brilliant but he was a cunning villain. Things fell into place instantly.
He and Svavar would kill this Rodrigo Cologni and, somehow, before they could be arrested and questioned, brave Bruglioni household fighters who arrived too late would kill them while supposedly trying to save Cologni. Or some variant on such a scheme.
“How much time do we have to get ready?”
“It needs to happen within the next twenty days. Before Bronte Doneto returns.”
“I’ll sleep on it. I’ll see what the physical situation is. Do you have somebody inside the Cologni household?’’ Shagot thought it likely that the Five Families all had spies inside the others’ houses.
Father Obilade was exasperated. These outlanders were too clever, by half. But he had to use the tools at hand. “Why is that of concern?” the priest asked. “Because we need to know the target’s movements. His plans. We can’t just march into the Cologni compound to get him.”
“Access won’t be a problem. Rodrigo Cologni is a whore-master. He’s determined to enjoy as many women as he can before it’s too late to futter another. He goes looking for new whores at least three nights a week.”
“Good. Good. That’ll make it easier.” Rodrigo did not sound bright. Far safer to have women brought to him. “How big a mob follows him around?”
“There haven’t been any family wars for a generation. The Five Families want to avoid the excesses of the past. So Rodrigo only needs to worry about robbers. He’ll have four bodyguards. And maybe a few friends. None of those have to die. But the Cologni bodyguards may be a challenge.”
“Uh. Like I said. Let me sleep on it. Let me look it over. Find out whatever you can about Rodrigo Cologni. Be ready to say yes when I name our price.”
Once they left the crazy priest, Svavar observed, “They plan to use us up.”
“They mean to try. But they don’t understand our luck. Let’s have a little fun with them.” Clever evil was Shagot’s sole remaining pleasure.
The Walker himself strode through Shagot’s dreams that night.
***
FATHER OBILADE, OF COURSE, WANTED SHAGOT TO WAIT TILL after the job to get paid. Shagot laughed. That after Svavar spent dozens of hours studying Rodrigo Cologni and the Cologni compound. Which, like the homes of all of the Five Families, was a fortress. Literally.
Shagot replied, “I’m inclined to go along, old man. I mean, why would a priest try to cheat me? But my brother Asgrimmur, he says he didn’t just fall off the turnip cart. He’s naturally suspicious. Especially of anybody who chooses to live in these southern cities, where honor and the value of a man’s word are considered trivial. Well, he’s my brother. I’ve got to keep him happy. So what we’re gonna do is, we’re gonna take a third for each of us right now, then we’ll pick up the rest afterward.” Father Obilade had not yet recovered from hearing Shagot’s price for Rodrigo Cologni’s life, six hundred gold Patriarchal ducats. Nor did he like the demand for two-thirds payment up front. He could not make that deal, anyway. Paludan Bruglioni had not put that much specie at his disposal.
Paludan had a powerful desire to turn loose as little money as possible because he might not get it back. Paludan had a reputation for squeezing a ducat till the Patriarch thereon squealed like a eunuch undergoing his signature procedure. Father Obilade confessed, “I can’t go with that. I wasn’t given the power. Your fee is... I suppose excessive isn’t the right word. You pay the most when you buy the best. Meet me here same time, night after tomorrow night. I’ll want Caniglia that you’re coming.”
“We’ll be here,” Shagot promised cheerfully. “I’m looking forward to taking your money.” And he was. He had found a Deve who would invest it at an excellent rate of return. He had no idea what he would do with his wealth, but that did not concern him. He was enjoying life as much as he ever had.
He did not sit around. He sent Svavar out to dog Rodrigo.
Father Obilade wanted the attack to take place in the Madhur Plaza, as near Basbanes’s Fountain as could be managed. In response to questions about why, the priest shrugged and said the location had personal meaning for Paludan.
Shagot examined the plaza personally, and had Svavar do so repeatedly, by day and by night. The site seemed ideal for what the priest wanted done. There were numerous excellent lurking places where heroic rescuers could wait to charge cut and, to their eternal sorrow, be just moments too late to save Rodrigo Cologni.
Rodrigo Cologni was an assassination begging to happen. He was predictable in the extreme. He left the Cologni compound at the same time every time. And he followed the same route to the same whorehouses.
***
FATHER OBILADE YIELDED TO SHAGOT’S FINANCIAL DEMANDS. He turned over four hundred of the six hundred ducats two days before Rodrigo’s scheduled early elevation to Heaven. Shagot told the priest, “We’ll follow your script if we can, but we’ll change shit around if anything comes up.” The old priest scowled. “Just get it done.”
***
SVAVAR AND SHAGOT MOVED INTO THE MADHUR PLAZA hours ahead of time. They brought all their trophies and fetishes. Even Svavar felt optimistic. “Going to be some real surprised assholes, Grim. Going to be some real surprised assholes.”
Shagot chuckled. “Yeah. Going to be some good laughs on Father Obilade and Paludan fucking Bruglioni and his butt boy, Gervase. So. Let’s fade into the fucking background and let the drama begin.”
They did not stand out. Brothe drew countless pilgrims from everywhere. Basbanes’s Fountain was a sight the foreigners all wanted to see. It had a history almost as long as that of the Old Empire itself.
Rodrigo Cologni passed through the plaza, outward bound, escorted only by his bodyguards. Shagot and Svavar felt even more confident.
A city watchman reminded them, “No sleeping in the plaza, gents.”
“Not to worry,” Shagot replied in credible Firaldian. “We’ve got a place to stay. We work for Paludan Bruglioni.” He grinned and chuckled. The sergeant would remember that later.
Svavar laughed softly, too. He was having a good time. For the first time since they had come out of the Great Sky Fortress, he was happy to be alive, partly because he thought they were putting one over on the gods themselves.
“Hey,” Shagot said, “we need to get out of sight. The Bruglioni gang should rum up pretty soon.”
They slipped into the deep shadows between two buildings. Svavar asked, “You think the Bruglioni guys will do the job if we just sit on our hands?”
Treachery was in the works. Shagot’s dreams had confirmed that. But he had dreamed much more. Some of which he had not yet unraveled. What Svavar suggested fit.
“Excellent thinking, little brother. I don’t know what they’d do. How about we give them the opportunity? We can always tag Rodrigo somewhere else, later.”
The wait seemed both long and short. One of those things relative to the moment. Svavar had trouble controlling the giggles. That was when time fled its swiftest. Time dragged when he grew somber and thought about everything that could go wrong.
“Quiet,” Svavar whispered. “Here’s the boss’s boys.”
Six Firaldians stole past, visible briefly in the light of a rising sliver of moon. They went into hiding scarcely a dozen yards from where Shagot and Svavar had holed up.
“Did you recognize any of them?” Shagot asked in a whisper that could not be heard five feet away.
“This isn’t going to be a happy night for the Bruglioni. I saw Gildeo and Acato Bruglioni for sure. One of the others looked like Saldi Serena.” That put both sons and a nephew of Paludan Bruglioni among the condemned.
In the middle
of the plaza the complex menagerie of Basbanes’s Fountain kept spitting and peeing and pouring. The falling waters generated a soporific noise that Shagot found hard to fight.
The moon moved on to where its light would no longer betray someone who snaked out of the thin gap where Shagot and Svavar waited. Shagot murmured, “Hang on. I’m going to see if I can hear anything.” Carrying the head from the Haunted Hills. Shagot stole toward where his would-be assassins waited. Soon he lay on his stomach inches from the mouth of the gap where the Bruglioni boys had gone to ground.
A heated argument was underway. Somebody wanted to know why the idiot foreigners had not shown. Someone told that one to shut the fuck up. It was not time, yet. Fifteen minutes from now, then they could start worrying.
One of the lesser Bruglioni insisted, “I could go a long way, for a long time, on four hundred ducats.”
“Your whores would pick your bones within a week.” Shagot could be as patient as stone when he knew there was a point. He remained frozen, listening, as minutes, then tens of minutes slipped by. He listened as the Bruglioni gang grew ever more uneasy.
Their cat’s-paws were supposed to have arrived by now. They had not shown. Had Paludan flung four hundred ducats into a great big black sack of nothing?
Soon it was way past time for Shagot and Svavar to be out there hanging around the fountain, a pair of drunken foreigners who looked threatening to no one but themselves. Most of the foreigners infesting the city were too stupid to tie their own bootlaces.
Shagot crept backward. It would not be long before Rodrigo appeared. Already, it seemed, the Cologni was at the nether edge of the range of his behavior. He was late.
Drunken singing approached.
Rodrigo. And his bodyguards. And some drunks that the Cologni had accumulated during the evening.
This was something that Svavar had not seen before. It was out of character. “I definitely don’t think we should do it now, Grim. I don’t like the look of this.”