A naked youth approached, “I’m Gleu, sir.” Gleu had a strong accent “I’ll help with your clothing.”
“This is my first visit, Gleu. How does it work?”
“There aren’t many rules, sir. You go to the hot baths — or to the cold, if that’s your preference — and choose the girls you want to bathe you. Or the boys, if that’s your preference. You don’t touch. Unless you’re invited. If you do you’ll be fined. Second time, they’ll fine you again and bar you for two weeks. After the third time you’ll be banned forever. Your behavior can even bring you under the lash. So says the Holy Father.”
“So there was a time when other rules existed.”
“Yes, sir.” Service in the baths was a form of social welfare for orphans and abandoned children. Attractive children, of course. They received food and shelter. Their service needed be no more demeaning than they desired. Clearly, though, if their standards were relaxed their tips would be larger.
“Them that save carefully can be well off when they leave.” Those who did not earn good tips or take care often graduated to service in the lowest class of brothel. “You will want girls, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
Gleu took Else to a room where several score girls, from seven to eighteen, of varied race, waited to help the princes of the Church and their associates bathe and relax. Else hesitated.
Gleu whispered, “Would you rather have boys help you?”
“No.”
“Then pick two. Which two doesn’t matter.”
Else indulged. He indicated two older girls, neither a type he recognized. One was a tall, muscular blonde with large, sharply pointed breasts and eyes of ice a thousand years old. The second, also tall, was a flawless mahogany. She had breasts that reminded him of gourds. The blonde’s hair was long but braided. The second girl’s curly black hair was barely an inch in length. She seemed pleased to have been chosen. Each girl took an arm and led him to the heated main pool. They sat him down and let him do nothing but absorb the warmth. “Don’t talk. Close your eyes. Relax.”
The girls snuggled up, one to each side.
He let the warmth in, as they said. And as it filled up, his mind emptied of cares. A girl rested her head on each of his shoulders. He drowsed. In time, they led him from the main bath to a cleansing pool. They used soaps and scrubs on every inch of him. The cold blonde did not seem particularly interested in winning a large tip.
The dark girl chuckled. She pointed out his physical response. “More impressive than what these sad old men usually show us.” Thereafter, she paid it no special notice.
The erection had not yet subsided when the girls decided he was ready to leave the pool.
Almost immediately he found himself face-to-face with an unclad Osa Stile. Osa said, “Oh, my my,” and continued shepherding a bony old man toward a cleansing pool. The dark girl laughed throatily. “You’ve made a conquest.”
Else did not respond. Why was Osa Stile here? How bad he become a bath attendant? Did Johannes Blackboots have a Principaté on his payroll?
Of course he did. Several, probably. The girls took him into a small, fragrant room. They toweled him dry. The blonde told him, “Lie down on the couch. Face down.” She had an accent that was slight but definite. Firaldian was not her native tongue. The dark girl, though, might have been born in Brothe.
Else lay down on the leather couch. The girls began in massage him and rub him with oils. His worries drifted away once more. He was almost too loose to roll over when told to do so.
The girls chuckled over the continued proud glory of his manhood.
After more massaging and oiling, the girls slithered onto the couch beside him. Well oiled, their smooth skin moving on his felt better than the massage had. They slowed down gradually and snuggled up.
He dozed off.
***
PINKUS GHORT WAS WAITING IN ELSE’S QUARTERS WHEN HE returned. “Sorry I’m late.”
“It’s good to be one of the wheels, eh?”
“What?”
“I’ve heard about those baths.”
“Doubtless exaggerations that turned a lot worse once they had an opportunity to slither around inside your head.”
“Sure.” Ghort charged that one word with a hundredweight of cynical disbelief. “What did you need?”
“Need?”
“You sent for me, brother. I didn’t just drop in.”
“Oh. Yes. Sure. I need an adjutant. For the city regiment. You want the job?”
After a stunned silence, Ghort erupted. “Shit, yeah! Aaron’s fuzzy balls, Pipe! Why’d you even ask? Hey! Wait a minute. What’s the fucking catch?”
“The catch is, you have to leave Principaté Doneto so you can take on more work than you’ve ever done in your whole damned life.”
“Shit I knew it. Work. Do I get to hang out in the baths?”
“No.”
“Worse and worse. Now you’re going to ask me to work for free, too, for the experience.”
“I’m going to feed you. What more could you want?”
“Give me a minute, Pipe. I’ll think of something. Hell. Here’s an idea. How about a whole fucking bunch more money than I’m getting from Principaté Doneto? Where, I might point out, I’m not having to do much of anything that even vaguely resembles work? For damned good pay.”
“Darn. I figured on keeping your salary for myself.”
“So bring me up to date. What’re we doing? What do we still have to do?”
“Everything. I’m just getting started. Hacking my way through the politics. The people underwriting the city regiment behave like they’re five years old. You’re only the second man I’ve hired myself. They’re making me take on dozens of complete idiots without ever consulting me. These Brothens don’t understand what you’re talking about if you mention merit or competence. A rock can be a general if it knows the right people. So I’m trying to sneak a few men that are predictable and competent under pressure.”
“I was second choice, huh? Who did you need more than me?”
“A nineteen-year-old miracle-working Deve accountant who knows how to get the most out of the money I’m given. He also finds thieves who try to rake off some of it for themselves.”
“He good?”
“So good he can screw you out of half your pay while you think you’re getting rich.”
“Uh-oh.”
“I have a meeting coming up. I want you there.”
“Going to get my feet wet right away?”
“No. I want the Castella crowd and the tenants of this lunatic asylum to get used to you being around.”
“Where do I bunk?”
“Right where you’re bunking now. It’s not that long a walk. Let Principaté Doneto go right on thinking you’re loyal to him. And since you might be, we’ll let him go on picking up your room and board.”
“Eis’s hairy ass, you’re cheap.”
“That’s how I plan to build myself an efficient little army.”
“By squeezing every ducat?”
“Until the Patriarch on it squeaks.”
***
ELSE REGRETTED BRINGING PINKUS GHORT TEN MINUTES AFTER entering the planning room in the Castella. Ghort took one look at the great, inverted map of Calzir and its environs and blurted, “Shit, Pipe! Look at that. We got them assholes by the nuts.”
Silence fell. Twenty pairs of eyes concentrated on Pinkus Ghort. One pair belonged to Ferris Renfrow.
The snake had its head out of the egg. Else could see no way to cover up what ought to have been obvious to anyone not trapped inside centuries of traditional strategy, anyway.
“Uhm?” Did Ghort see it?
“Did that fleet of King Peter’s sail yet? Did the troops from the Connec start marching yet?” Ghort saw it. “I don’t think so. Why?” He had to ask.
“Yes,” Ferris Renfrow said, over Else’s left shoulder. “Clue us in, Captain Ghort.”
Members of the Collegium and a
couple of Hansel’s top planners all clumped together, drawn by Ghort’s enthusiasm.
“It looks like your plan is just to punch through the mountains and go after the castles and cities. Same as if you were going after any other Firaldian principality. Same as the last four or five times somebody tried.”
An imperial staffer pointed out, “Cities and pasties are where the wealth and nobility are.”
“Sure. But not the food, dear heart. Not the food! Tell him, Pipe.” The son of a dog. “I think I see. Mainland Calzir is heavily dependent on bread. But wheat doesn’t grow well there. It does flourish over here, on Shippen. Shippers fecundity was one reason the ancient Brothens occupied the island.”
“Exactly!” Ghort enthused. “Wheat and silver mines.”
“Explain more clearly, please,” one of the Imperials said. “Eighty percent of the people live on the mainland. They raise wine grapes, olives, and sheep. Most of the grain is grown on the island. Across the Strait of Rhype. Now, we have a sizable Direcian fleet up here, going to head this way. It can cut off help from the western Pramans. The fleet could pick up the Connecten contingent as it follows the coast. Those troops could land on Shippen. They could stop any grain from getting to the mainland. Which means no bread on the mainland. Where they have lots of extra soldiers, sailors, and animals from Lucidia and Dreanger to feed.”
Ghort preened, smug with good reason. “How long can these assholes over here eat grapes and olives and goats? For a while, yeah. But they’re used to bread and fish. They don’t have no fishing boats left. So eventually they’re gonna be eating roots and grass and river mud and, maybe, each other’s babies. How long before they don’t got strength enough left to fight? Not too long. If we show up down there in time to take their fields away or keep them from putting in any spring crops.”
That caused a buzz.
What seemed as obvious as a naked woman in the street at high noon when first Else looked at that map, and which was just as obvious to Pinkus Ghort, was not at all obvious to men heavily vested in a strategy calculated to deliver them personal mastery of some castle or town, following the same strategies that had failed the Chaldarean liberators repeatedly since the Praman Conquest.
Ferris Renfrow asked, “You didn’t see this, Captain Hecht?” With slight weight on the patronymic.
“Did you? No? I did sense that something was there. But I’m from a place that’s landlocked. We don’t think ships. Did anyone here see what Captain Ghort just pointed out?” Softly, Else told Renfrow, “Pinkus wasn’t blinded by what he hoped to steal.”
“Enjoy it while you can.
The cat was out of the bag. The pig had escaped from its poke. There would be no stuffing them back. “Excellent thinking, Captain Hecht. Captain Ghort,’ Bronte Doneto said. “Inspired and inspirational.” Ferris Renfrow eyed Else with abiding suspicion. There had to be a catch, to Renfrow’s way of thinking. There was a catch. Of course. This time Calzir would not survive. The intervention of Dreanger and Lucidia sealed Calzir’s fate. Even Sublime’s enemies did not want those vigorous kaifates to establish a bridgehead on the Firaldian peninsula.
Calzir could not be saved. But Else could try to salvage its people. Calzir’s Pramans might survive a quick victory, after little fighting.
It had worked that way in the Connec when Volsard overran the Praman towns. That was how it was happening in Direcia right now. Peter of Navaya never persecuted those who did not resist him, whatever their religion. He was a firm ally of Platadura, which, while remaining Praman, supported him in most of his adventures. Which had caused the inflexible Sublime to bark at Peter more than once.
Peter of Navaya was no more impressed by Sublime’s displeasure than was the Grail Emperor. The Patriarch needed Peter far more than Peter needed the Patriarch.
Sublime had definite ideas about how Pramans, Devedians, Dainshaus, and other Unbelievers should be used in order to make more room for God’s own chosen Episcopal Chaldareans. Sublime’s Church was not a Church Evangelical, it was a Church Militant.
King Peter was mostly indifferent to the Patriarch’s grand schemes.
The key point, Else thought, was that he might be able to steal the bloody option away from Sublime. But only by being the most steadfast and cunning opponent that the Realm of Peace ever faced.
28. Alameddine, Weary Soultaken
It took ages to slide down the back half of the Firaldian peninsula, into Hoyal, the easternmost cantonment of Alameddine. Shagot could not stay awake. He was dull and uncommunicative. Life grew harsher. Because they moved too slowly to get away from the scene of any major crime, Svavar did not indulge in activities that might attract attention.
The money the brothers carried became a liability. Low-grade, unemployed mercenaries did not carry double-ducat and five-ducat gold pieces. Men of that despicable level ought never to see such coins.
Prolonged hunger forced Svavar to betray himself. The venue was a crossroad town named Testoli, famous for nothing in the entire history of the world. Testoli lay a dozen miles north of the Hoyal canton, which was mostly wilderness preserved for hunting by the Grail Emperors and Alameddine’s royals.
A dumb response to hunger turned into a stroke of good fortune. The eyes that noted gold in the hands of scum who ought to be strangers to silver belonged to the brigand Rollo Registi, infamous for a league around. Rollo was stupid and unsuccessful in his chosen profession. His band barely managed to survive — by, secretly, herding sheep in the hills over in Hoyal canton. They poached the Emperor’s pastures instead of his game.
Rollo hurried off to collect his henchmen. There were just two of them, in bad health, and not the sort who had friends likely to become upset if something happened to them.
This served Svavar and Shagot well when Rollo and friends attacked them. The Grimmssons took enough copper and small silver off the corpses to complete their journey without attracting further attention.
Svavar did not tell Shagot about the warrior woman who backed them up during the encounter. A kraken of fear now held Svavar in its all-smothering embrace. He, who had been raised by truly terrible parents to deny and defy fear, whatever its source or form.
Any respectable Andorayan of Svavar’s time faced fear with bludgeon in hand. That was so deeply engrained, and so intimately known, that Svavar understood his unmanning could have no mortal cause.
He might not be the brightest light in the firmament nor the fastest frog in the race but he was intimate with the beliefs of his people. He knew the common myths well. Which left him certain that he knew his guardian angel. But his imagination was not wild enough to discern her motives.
She would be Arlensul, first daughter of the Gray Walker. Chooser of the Slain, banished from the Great Sky Fortress for having dared to love the mortal, Gedanke. Now a sworn enemy of the Walker and her kin. A cruel, traitorous worm slithering amongst the Instrumentalities of the Night, starved for revenge.
Svavar still told Shagot nothing. Possibly he believed Grim too much a tool of those who trod iron-shod upon the back of the northern world. Or, maybe, those who had done so in the once upon a times.
Today the Old Ones were considered gone. Fairy tales. Increasingly ill-recalled myth. Andoray, nominally, was a Chaldarean realm now. It acknowledged a Chaldarean ruler.
Still, there were old folks back in the mountains there who were convinced that the advance of the wall of ice was due entirely to that adoption of the southern God. Those fools. Those fools!
A more disappointing horror for the Grimmssons was that the kings of Freisland had succeeded in annexing Andoray. Erief’s efforts had meant nothing in the long run.
Svavar harbored a sour suspicion that history always reduced the works of man to naught, a suspicion that nothing mattered beyond four or five generations.
Grim did not care. Grim was sullen, silent, focused exclusively on his mission when he was awake.
Just guessing, Svavar suspected that Grim’s devotion to sleep
was necessitated by his connection to the Great Sky Fortress. It was difficult for the Old Ones to maintain contact from far away.
***
IN TIME SVAVAR HOOKED UP WITH A MERCENARY BAND CAPTAINED by a thug named Ockska Rashaki, a renegade Calziran with illusions that allying himself with Vondera Koterba would let him repay a catalog of personal grievances beyond the Vaillarentiglia Mountains. Rakshaki’s band numbered fewer than sixty men, thieves and murderers all. They were the sort who gave all soldiers, and mercenaries in particular, a terrible name.
Svavar felt right at home, except for the language problem. Shagot did, too, when he woke up long enough to see what was going on. Between them the brothers kicked a half-dozen asses and Shagot killed a huge, stupid beast named Renwal who terrorized the rest of the band on Rashaki’s behalf.
Rashaki was not pleased by the loss of his enforcer, but he was a realist. He invested no emotion in his followers.
Ockska Rashaki loved no one but Ockska Rashaki. Ockska Rashaki was interested only in what Ockska Rashaki hoped to accomplish.
Svavar and Shagot settled down to await the arrival of the man they were supposed to kill. He would come, Shagot insisted. And Shagot would know when he did.
It was not to be an onerous wait. Ockska Rashaki did not demand much of his followers. And Vondera Koterba did not demand much of Rashaki’s band. They had a smugglers’ pass to watch. Koterba made sure they were fed so that they did not start raiding the Alameddine countryside.
Shagot was content to eat, sleep most of the time, and take the occasional shit. He, like his masters, was content to wait
Svavar endured. He had suffered the world long enough to know that every misery eventually ends.
These days, almost every day, Svavar saw Arlensul, unnoticed by anyone else, lurking around this camp of men with dead souls.
He and she were joined in an unspoken conspiracy.
29. Connectens at Sea. and Ashore
It was a cloudless day near summer’s end. Gulls swooped and cursed. Harbor water stank. Brother Candle watched Connecten fighters board a dozen big Plataduran ships, the most that could be accommodated at Sheavenalle’s docks. Navayan and Plataduran vessels stood out in the harbor, among coasters and fishermen evicted so the expeditionary fleet could load. Some of those had arrived already engorged with Navayan engineers, sappers, artillerists, and siege specialists.