“Yes. I’m going to bed.”
Else lay back on his rough mattress, a canvas bag filled with wheat and oat husks. He pondered Polo’s response. It did not seem appropriate, assuming the news was a surprise.
***
PALUDAN AND GERVASE SALUDAN DID NOT KNOW WHAT THEY wanted Else to do. They had felt a need to do something. Hiring him had presented itself. But there was no way he could replace all the hired swords who had deserted.
Else asked to have his duties defined. He was told to protect the house. Without being given specifics. All by his lonesome. He prowled the citadel, putting on a show. The place was in poor repair and dirty. The staff were slothful and sloppy. Polo remained close by, most of the time. Else had him pinch paper from the Bruglioni business office. They created a chart of who was responsible for what. Of who was in charge where. Else was an energetic administrator, though he disliked that side of soldiering. He let himself go, now.
The Bruglioni citadel was vast. And poorly designed for its fortress function. Though what could be seen from beyond the perimeter wall was forbidding. Where the gargoyles and whatnot had not fallen off. There were other buildings inside the wall. Stables and tool sheds and so forth. The main structure included one hundred and twenty rooms on four floors. Few, off the ground floor, were of much size or magnificence. The current Bruglioni were not into ostentatious display. The family could no longer afford it.
The family proceeded entirely on past momentum under Paludan. He was not stupid. He lacked drive. He was content to let life slide by. Unless his anger broke through. Then he might do something unwise. Like trying to stage a kidnapping and rescue.
Following two days of review, from which he took time off only to drill the younger Bruglioni in the use of arms, Else summoned the senior household staff to a meeting in the kitchen. Nine deigned to appear, along with a few gawkers.
One of the nine was the chief of the four men who guarded the two gates used to get into and out of the citadel. Else told him, “Mr. Caniglia, you and your men are not to allow Mr. Copria, Mr. Grazia, or Mr. Verga to enter the citadel tomorrow.” Only a handful of staff lived on the premises. Paludan did not want to feed and house and pay them, too. “They no longer work here. The rest of you, think about who should take over. Let me know tomorrow. Mr. Natta? You want to volunteer to test the jobs market yourself? No? Mr. Montale. I understand that you find new staff when they’re needed.”
“Uh... Yes, sir. For the household. Not for the people on the business side. Not for anything to do with weapons or body guarding.”
“New staff will be needed soon. We’re about to shed our nonproducers. How many here now are your relatives? Do any of them actually do anything?”
Montale hemmed and hawed and talked around the edges. Else interrupted. “They won’t lose their jobs. If they do them. Would
any of you argue that this place isn’t a slum? We’re going to change that. We have enough people. We start today. Anyone who’s been getting a free ride and doesn’t want to give it up can take the option pioneered by Mr. Copria, Mr. Grazia, and Mr. Verga. Name a devil. Here’s Mr. Grazia.”
Grazia was a short, fat man with fat lips and a natural tonsure. The little hair that he did retain was red, lightly touched with gray. Humorists wondered whether his hair would all disappear before the remnants grayed.
Grazia puffed, “Sorry I’m late. There was a crisis.” Some eavesdropper had brought warning. “Better late than never.” The foreigner expected to separate Grazia from his job anyway, in time. “We’ll look at your books when we’re done here. We haven’t been getting the most out of our budget.”
Grazia turned a pasty gray.
“Mr. Negrone. Mr. Pagani. General cleaning and upkeep seem to fall within your purview. Brainstorm me some ideas on how to get this place cleaned up, fixed up, and painted, employing a tribe used to taking paid naps and putting in ten-hour shifts playing cards. Madam Ristoti?”
The cook’s kitchen was the one bright spot Else had found. She said, “Call me Carina. I have some ideas.”
“Excellent, Madam Ristoti. One and all. We’re going to be more formal with one another. That will put our work on a businesslike footing. Now. Madam. Your ideas, please.”
In the area of managing the backstairs Madam Ristoti possessed a field marshal’s mind.
Else gave her three minutes. “Excellent. You’re in charge of everything. You can manage that and the kitchen both? Mr. Negrone? You want to take issue?”
Else gave Negrone equal time. Then, “In other words, you have no suggestions. You just object to Madam Risoti’s proposals because she’s a woman.”
“That’s putting it baldly...”
“There won’t be any beating around the bush anymore. Mr. Grazia, I assume you know what everyone gets paid. How much will Mr. Negrone not be taking home if he finds himself unemployed?” Negrone mumbled something before Grazia could respond. Else said, “There isn’t going to be any debate. If you think there’s a better way to do things, tell me. Convince me. If people won’t cooperate, tell me. I’ll break arms and kick butts. Or instruct Mr. Caniglia not to let them in. So. Let’s start. Go figure out how to make this ruin fit for human habitation. Not you, Mr. Grazia. You stay here with me.”
Mr. Grazia was not happy.
Later, Else said, “Mr. Grazia, I’m pretty sure you’ve heard all about Father Obilade.”
“Yes.”
“You’re aware that Paludan Bruglioni tends to overreact when he gets angry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Find a way to put the money back. In the meantime, you’ll be my number-one guy around here. Because I have your stones in a vice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hope the others will be as reasonable. Go to work, Mr. Grazia.” Else headed for the kitchens. Polo was then, listening to the Ristoti woman.
Caniglia and another man intercepted him. Their expressions were so dark he feared they planned something stupid. But Caniglia said, “A runner left a message for you with Diano.”
The other man extended a folded letter. Else said, “I see the seal fell off.” Caniglia grunted. Else asked, “Why so grim?”
“Some people you told us not to let back in got nasty when I told them. They said they’d be even nastier if I tried to keep them from coming in tomorrow.”
“I’ll deal with that.”
That did not improve Caniglia’s mood. That was not the answer he wanted.
***
“WHO’S THE LETTER FROM?” POLO ASKED. ELSE SAT WITH HIS back against the wall in the common space of their quarters.
“A woman I knew a long time ago. Anna Mozilla. A widow who moved to Brothe a few months ago. She heard I was here. She wants me to know she’s here, too. I guess that means she isn’t mad at me anymore.”
Polo chuckled. “Is this a good story?”
“Not really. She’s a widow, but too young to give up the more intimate practices of marriage. At least, she was. And must still be.”
“Her turning up mean trouble?”
“I doubt it. Just the opposite, I hope.”
***
“OPEN UP,” ELSE TOLD CANIGLIA. “LET’S SEE WHO’S ON TIME for work.”
Caniglia opened the servants’ postern, which had not been closed and locked for years. Not even after Father Obilade’s treason. Paludan was almost willfully blind to anything that he did not want to be true.
Caniglia and young Diano put on a show, allowing the staff in one at a time. Each got a quick visual once-over to see what they were carrying. Which told Else that they had turned a blind eye to that in the past. And, probably, more so when the staff were leaving.
Else wished he understood accounting better. Mr. Grazia’s books almost certainly contained more amazing and damning evidence than he could ferret out himself.
What would Paludan’s attitude be? He seemed the sort who disdained literacy and ciphering. Though that attitude was less prevalent than Else had expe
cted, based on past encounters with Arnhanders in the Holy Lands. Over there, if you needed some-thing read, written, or calculated, you grabbed a passing Deve.
Where did Gervase Saluda fit? Might he be getting kickbacks? That happened in every palace and large household in Else’s end of the world.
“Who is this?” Else asked. A handsome young man carrying a load of tools staggered through the gateway.
Caniglia replied, “Marco Demetrius. A carpenter. Related to the cook. He always turns up when there’s carpentry to be done. He’s good. And a good worker.”
“So Madam Ristoti sent for him.” The chief cook seldom left the citadel, though she was not officially a resident.
Copria and Verga tried to get in, one right after the other. Else said, “Mr. Verga, you appear to have forgotten that you don’t work here anymore. Don’t embarrass yourself. You and Mr. Copria should apologize to the people behind you for holding them up, then leave.”
Verga snarled, “Get out of the way. You don’t have the authority.”
Else hit Verga with a flurry of rib-cracking jabs. Verga fell to his knees, desperately fighting for enough air to remain conscious.
Else told him, “You no longer work here.”
Copria was less blustery. He helped Verga get up. They left.
Else hoped that would be lesson enough. He told Caniglia, “I want to know who shows up late. Starting tomorrow, the gate will close ten minutes after starting time. Tardies won’t be allowed in and they won’t get paid.”
***
ANNA MOZILLA HAD ACQUIRED A SMALL HOME RATHER LIKE the one she had enjoyed in Sonsa. Else climbed the front steps. He used the clapper. Anna responded almost immediately. She looked exactly as she had in Sonsa.
“You were followed.”
“Yes. Not competently, either.”
“You let them keep track?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I explained you as a former mistress. Your letter had been read before it got to me.”
She moved up against him, familiarly, as she drew him into her house. “That’s why I made the letter general. I thought that would be the best way to explain me.”
Though the door was shut and there were now no witnesses, Anna Mozilla did not back off. Nor did Else push her away. It felt good, being close to a woman. Even one who had a decade on him. And who was not his wife.
Anna Mozilla said, “We were completely businesslike before. Completely professional. I teased myself about that afterward. Then they asked me to move down here. It took you so long to get here. That left me too much time to think.”
Else did not reply. He knew what he should do but just could not push.
“It wouldn’t be a sin, Frain.” Else had called himself Frain Dorao in Sonsa. “I’m an unbeliever.” So. She understood that much. That was an interpretation of Law as stated in The Written. There was no adultery when the woman was not Praman.
Else did not back away. Neither did he take charge, though she had shown him the open gate. He left the initiative entirely in her hands.
Those hands proved capable, if tentative at first.
***
ELSE TOOK HIS SUPPER IN THE KITCHEN SO HE COULD CONVERSE with Madam Ristoti. “Has there been much obstructionism?”
“Less than I expected. You got them scared. That business at the back gate told them you’re serious.”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re deadly serious.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to keep working. I came to Brothe to be near the center of the excitement. I need a job to stay.”
“My people have been in service to the great families all the way back to Imperial times. According to family legend. One pearl of wisdom plucked out of all that history is that every house mirrors the interior of its master.”
“Meaning this place is falling apart and the staff is slovenly because that’s how Paludan Bruglioni is?”
“Yes. Paludan doesn’t like the house the way it is. But it’s’ too much trouble to do battle with the night.”
“Uh?”
“Oh. I didn’t mean that in the supernatural sense. Only spiritually. Like, the night will always be there, no matter how hard you fight it. So why bother? Why suffer all that frustration?”
“I see. Is there anything I can show Paludan and Gervase when they finally decide they have to know what all the racket is about?”
“There will be.”
“How do you think this will play with Saluda?”
“What are you asking?”
“Does Saluda have a personal interest in things staying the way they are? Has he been collecting kickbacks? I haven’t found any evidence but that’s what it feels like.”
That notion surprised the cook. “I don’t think so. Not that he wouldn’t. If he thought of it.”
“But he might have an interest?”
“Maybe. But he’s also more of a Bruglioni than most of the family who ran off to the country. Who don’t want to come back.” Else had heard the same from Polo. “So it goes. That can be dealt with. Keep on, here. And find me a couple of troublemakers to fire. To remind the others that they can be replaced.”
Else found Polo with Mr. Grazia. Polo reported, “There’s been some creative accounting here. Paludan Bruglioni is spending thirty thousand ducats a year for half that in results, mostly as payouts to people who don’t exist for work that doesn’t get done and to vendors for goods that never arrive.”
“I see. Mr. Grazia! Did you think nobody would ever notice?”
Grazia shrugged. Like so many caught in his situation, he had no idea why he had not considered possible consequences. Else asked, “Polo, did you ever get my paper?”
“No. I keep trying the places in Naftali Square. They keep having nothing to sell. I haven’t had time to go to the Devedian quarter.”
“I’ll handle it myself, then. Keep putting Mr. Grazia through his paces.” Else patted Grazia’s shoulder. “An epic of the imagination, sir. A true epic.”
“You won’t tell Paludan?”
“Not as long as you’re helping me whip this place into shape. You slack off, though, or you dip your beak again, then you can probably count on getting together with Father Obilade.”
***
ELSE TRIED TO SLIP AWAY USING THE SERVANTS’ GATE. THAT did not work. He picked up a tail anyway.
He worried who and why for a few minutes, decided that it didn’t matter. There were only two of them and they were inept. He shed them near Anna Mozilla’s house. Thoughts of Anna distracted him momentarily. But he could reward himself later. He headed for the Devedian quarter.
Brothe’s Devedian elders admitted that twenty thousand Deves lived in the city. Rumor suggested there were several times that. If true, then more Deves lived in the seat of the inimical Episcopal faith than in the Holy Lands themselves. But in Suriet the towns could not grow large, except on the coast of the Mother Sea. The coast where western invaders established their crusader principalities and kingdoms.
There were many times more Devedians in their Diaspora than remained resident in the mad country that had given them birth.
Else tried and failed to imagine what it must be like to live in those madlands, in amongst the Wells of Ihrian, where the magic boiled out of the earth incessantly, warping everything around it, birthing malignant new spirits, feeding the Instrumentalities of the Night, and incidentally, unleashing the only power capable of holding the ice at bay.
Even today many Devedian native sons were perfectly willing to leave Suriet and let it become a nesting place of Chaldarean conquerors and Praman liberators alike. Or maybe the reverse.
Let them bash one another’s heads amidst the floods from the magical springs. One day He Whose Name Is Legion would cleanse the earth of all but His Chosen.
Aaron, Eis, Kelam, and the other prophets who laid the foundations of Arianism, which evolved into Cha
ldareanism, departed the Holy Lands themselves as soon as their preaching and witnessing gifted them with donations sufficient to let them travel without having to sleep under bridges. They scattered across the Brothen Empire, carrying their message to those whose lives consisted primarily of despair.
The preaching, the witnessing, the performing of miracles — most of that had taken place far from the Wells of Irhian, in provinces now part of Lucidia or the Eastern Empire.
As he moved southward Else began to sense a potent electric tension. Something significant had happened. Something bigger was expected to happen. Its threatened scale troubled everyone.
Else could not get an answer when he asked why. There was an immense prejudice against foreigners with blond hair. His Devedian contact could explain. There was no threat of rain, but the Deves and Dainshaus scurried about in a jerky hurry, as though trying to get the day’s business done before bad weather arrived.
Else entered a tiny papermaker’s shop. A sign on the artist’s own product proclaimed it the source of the best papers in Brothe. A stereotypical little old Deve, bent, leaning on a cane, his features camouflaged by thickets of wiry gray hair, came from the back in response to the bell that jingled when Else opened the front door. Chemical smells accompanied the shopkeeper.
“How may I be of...?” the little man asked as he forced his head to turn upward. He did not complete his question.
“I’m here to buy paper, not collect heads. I want an inexpensive, working grade. Twenty sheets. Then I want a better grade, suitable for permanent records and letters expected to survive travel over extended distances. Again, twenty standard sheets. Finally, I want some of that erasable parchment or vellum that students use.”
The old man found his tongue. “That’s an animal product, not paper, though normally we keep some around. You need a special ink, a treatment sponge, a sanding stone, an ink remover, and Halmas clay. Plus calligraphy brushes.”
“I’m in the market for those things, too.”
“We don’t carry any of that.”