The Tyranny of the Night

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 coldbloodedness 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 Principatй 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 Principatйs 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 Principatй 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 warn 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 out 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 turn 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."

Rodrigo's drinking buddies did not seem interested in getting on out of the Madhur Plaza. They stopped at Basbanes's Fountain and stalled around until Rodrigo's bodyguards insisted that Rodrigo get moving.

Shagot muttered, "I think I'll just go pound on that old priest till his balls fall off."

Svavar touched his arm. "There's some excitement starting."

The Bruglioni crew surrendered to the romance of their own stupidity. They rushed the party in the plaza.

As Shagot intuited, the drunken new friends were not drunk at all. But their level of alertness had dropped because no attack had come when expected at the fountain. On the other hand, Rodrigo's guards were sharply alert because of the pretend drunks' obvious stalls.

When the Bruglioni thugs rushed out, the Cologni bodyguards shoved knives into the backs of the pretend drunks.

The rush arrived. Blades flashed. Several men went down, one a Cologni bodyguard.

Then came a surprise second rush consisting of another half-dozen men who swooped in from the far side of the square. A great clangor ensued.

Both Gildeo and Acato Bruglioni thought well of themselves as duelists. They had reputations to support their confidence.

Their confidence was misplaced.

"These guys are fucking professionals," Shagot said. The new bunch were very good, though not good enough to avoid injuries of their own.

The speed and fury of the mess left the Bruglioni thugs and Rodrigo's bodyguards no chance to flee.

Shagot nodded to himself as the winners collected their prize – Rodrigo Cologni – and then their wounded. Those included the backstabbed companion drunks, who were still alive but unlikely to remain that way if they did not get to some skilled care soon. "Four of them are hurt bad. Two more have lesser wounds. As soon as they're out of sight, start tracking them. We need to find out who they are and where they're headed."

Svavar nodded unhappily. He was not feeling particularly bloodthirsty now. Which was, probably, why Grim was giving him this job while he stayed here.

Svavar knew Grim would have no trouble finding him later. Grim always knew where he was.

THE BRUGLIONI WERE TRYING TO PULL THEMSELVES together, to limp back to the family fortress, when Shagot strolled up. At this point, no-one had yet been killed. But none of the Bruglioni or Cologni were in shape to fight on, either. Shagot cut a couple of throats, just to get everybody focused. One of those belonged to Acato Bruglioni, who had not been badly hurt before. His skill as a duelist did him no good whatsoever.

Shagot told the rest, "I want to know what this was all about." He asked pointed questions, with a sword's tip encouraging quick responses. He killed Saldi Serena when that young man tried to run.

Shagot learned that the setup had been what he guessed. He and Svavar were supposed to take the frame for murdering a man expected to support the Patriarch in the Collegium.

"And who stopped you?"

"That's what doesn't make no sense," Gildeo Bruglioni confessed. "Those were the Patriarch's wolves. The Brotherhood of War. They wouldn't have no reason to kidnap Rodrigo Cologni. He's on their side. But those were the orders they had."

"Really?" Shagot set his undermind to work on that, and the fact that the Brotherhood attackers had been entirely familiar with what was supposed to be happening. "This is what you're going to do. Assuming you want to survive. Finish off those Cologni. Then start hiking. Fast as you can."

Reluctantly, Gildeo Bruglioni turned on Rodrigo's wounded bodyguards, none of whom were able to resist.

Gildeo finished, turned, discovered that Shagot had slain the rest of the Bruglioni crew. His mouth opened but nothing came out.

Shagot killed Gildeo with a single stroke that took the man's head right off. Then Shagot jogged off after his brother. How long would it be before people moved in to loot the dead? Shagot wondered if he ought not to have done so himself.

How big a stink would come from tonight's evils? A huge one, surely, once the evidence was examined.

Shagot grinned. This was fun.

Rodrigo Cologni's captors were headed toward the Teragi River and the Castella dollas Pontellas, which made sense if they were Brotherhood of War.

Shagot stopped trying to overtake his brother. He ranged out in front of his quarry instead.

Those men moved slowly, avoiding notice.

Shagot knew little about the Brotherhood of War. They were some kind of fighting priests, which sounded like a bad joke, considering the Chaldarean priests of his experience.

He ambushed the party from the side, after letting their point man pass the unnaturally impenetrable shadow in which he crouched. A shadow he did not recognize as unusual, only as handy.

Much happened around Shagot that he failed to notice.

He attacked with an ancient bronze sword in one hand and the demon's head in the other. He thought he was jumping in amongst priests like Sylvie Obilade. It seemed he could see in the dark tonight, a talent of considerable utility.

He had no trouble dropping the first four surprised and previously injured kidnappers he encountered. Then the point man returned and Shagot learned the truth about the fighting priests of the Brotherhood of War.

Shagot's opponent was like none he had faced since those far days when he and Erief practiced against one another. Only the fact that the darkness was no handicap gave Shagot any edge.

He kept dancing away, seizing fleeting chances to strike at the others. He had a chop at Rodrigo Cologni's hamstring when he noticed the old man trying to slip away.

Then Shagot found himself with his back to a wall. The best of three attackers was directly in front of him. Another unwounded man came at him from his right while an injured but capable fighter occupied him on his left, trying to get past the scowling demon's head. All three were wary, cautious, professionals. Shagot would have been calling for the Choosers of the Slain had he not seen his brother behind his attackers.

It was not easy, even so. Shagot suffered several wounds, including one that would have been permanently crippling had he not been touched by the gods.

Svavar fared worse. The Old Ones had placed less of a blessing on him. He suffered slash wounds to both arms and stab wounds to his stomach and chest. They were serious but needed not be fatal if handled quickly.

Shagot performed some hasty first aid, collected the dead – making sure everyone but his brother belonged to that select category – in a heap out of sight of passersby, then settled next to Svavar, shoulder to shoulder, so that his own Great Sky Fortress blessing would rub off.

Shagot the Bastard might be a festering mold on human dung but he did love his little brother.

Shagot soon felt sleep trying to take control. He could not let that happen. He had hours of must-do ahead of him, still.

"Little brother. Can you get up and stumble home now?"

Svavar grunted. He could do that. For Shagot's sake. Thanks to Shagot. But he could not do much more, if Shagot wanted something else.

"Good. So do that, then."

Svavar murmured, "We moved our stuff to the backup place."

"That's right! I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open and my brain working. Go there and lay low. I'll wrap this shit up.”

"Grim…"

"Go on. Can you carry something? Can you take this totem stuff for me?"

"What're you going to do?"

"I'm going to go have a friendly chat with that asshole priest. And make sure we get paid. Take this stuff and get moving." Shagot hugged his brother before the younger man trudged away, carrying a thirty-pound load and a hundredweight of pain, picking his way through an unfamiliar city in the dark, his destination a flat he had visited only once before.

THE BRONZE SWORD WAS THE ONLY ITEM OF POWER THAT Shagot retained. It still cut dead flesh like slicing softened butter. He completed his first task in three minutes. Then he set about systematically relieving the dead of any coins they had been carrying when misfortune overtook them.

The Brothers were not rich men but amongst them they did carry as broad a variety of coin as could be imagined. Shagot failed to recognize the origins of most.

No matter. Merchants would know them. And would weigh them, too. They trusted no one. And trusted those with big names and big reputations least of all.

Plundering done, Shagot slung his sack of heads over one shoulder, then retraced his route to the Madhur Plaza.

The sack was actually a shirt taken off the largest of the dead Brothers.

Shagot's wounds ached terribly. He worried about Asgrimmur, hoped the gods had sense enough to protect his brother. His mission was doomed without Asgrimmur's help.

He returned to the Madhur Plaza. The massacre in the square had been discovered. The bodies had been plundered. Now the righteous folk, with torches and lanterns, were out tut-tutting and recalling the good old days when there was order in Brothe and things like this just did not happen where the right sort of people had to look at it.

Such was human nature.

Shagot headed for the Bruglioni citadel. He might be able to get there before the bad news arrived.

THE APPOINTED TRADESMAN'S GATE WAS AJAR AND Unguarded. Shagot moved through the Bruglioni back court to Father Obilade's quarters. The priest's door opened instantly. Sylvie Obilade and another man waited behind it. An unfamiliar voice demanded, “What the hell took you so…?” The speaker realized Shagot was alone. And that Shagot was Shagot. He gawked. Father Obilade gawked. The first man dropped a hand to the hilt of a dueling sword but did not draw. Shagot offered him a warning shake of the head.

“You owe me some money, old man.” Shagot produced the head of Rodrigo Cologni.

“Sweet Aaron! Blessed Kelam!” Father Obilade made signs meant to ward off the evil eye and the Instrumentalities of the Night. “Did you have to…?”

“You wouldn't just take my word, would you? You're Brothen. Easy there fellow.” The other man, pale as death now, had begun to ease away. “Stand still. I'm not happy tonight.”

Shagot dumped his sack.

Both witnesses swore. They looked at one another in horror. The man with the sword gasped, “That's Strauther Arnot! And Junger Trilling! They're two of the top men from Castella. What have you done? You killed eight of them?” There were eight heads in addition to Rodrigo Cologni.

“My brother helped.”

“Eight of them. Brotherhood veterans. Just the two of you. What have I conjured?”

Shagot thought this might be Paludan Bruglioni. He said, “We had to kill them. They were taking off with the target.”

“What have you done?” the priest whimpered, to himself rather than Shagot.

Shagot sneered. “You've been asking yourselves a question ever since you realized it was me. You may not like the answer. Let's get comfortable and wait. You. Give me that pigsticker. You don't want to do something stupid and get yourself killed. You the Boss Bruglioni? Not gonna say? It don't matter. Let's you and this smelly old woman go sit by that fig tree. Where I can keep an eye on you.”

Shagot drew the ancient sword. It seemed to radiate darkness. With that in hand, Shagot felt renewed. He would not fall asleep while the sword was drawn. He would feel no pain. With that blade in hand he felt as though he could slice through time itself.

The man who might be Paludan Bruglioni considered the old sword with contempt. But Father Obilade's eyes went wide. He whimpered, then commenced a swiftly cadenced, stammering appeal to his god for shelter from the malice of the Instrumentalities of the Night.

It took longer than Shagot expected for news from the Madhur Plaza to arrive. It was almost dawn. Evil, seductive sleep was doing its best to overwhelm the old sword's magic.

Sleep's insidious appeal ended when a small, lean, slightly shaggy man burst in, gasping, "There you are, Paludan! Terrible news! Terrible news! Acato, Gildeo, Faluda, Pygnus, the others … they're all gone! Lost! In the Madhur Plaza! Murdered! Along with all of Rodrigo Cologni's bodyguards."

The messenger was so excited that he continued to throw up words until, while straining for breath, he noticed Shagot and the heads. "Shit!"

"Indeed," Shagot said. He felt like a god. They were almost trivial, these southerners. "Slide over there with the others."

The newcomer considered the heads. "Oh, Blessed Kelam and the Fathers of the Church! That's Strauther Arnot! Secretary of the Special Office. What's going on, Paludan?"

Shagot surmised that this must be the deadly clever Gervase Saluda, Paludan Bruglioni's good friend from his youth, from a time when Paludan had slipped away at night to run with a gang of orphans and runaways. That legend was, likely, pure artifice. But Gervase's reputation might be deserved.

Shagot suggested, "Keep your hands where I can see them. Unless you think that set of heads is one short and yours would complete it."

"He's soultaken," Father Obilade whined. "Don't defy him. He can't be defeated. That old sword… It was forged back when the tyranny of the night ruled the world complete."

"Thank you," Shagot told him. "What the crone says is true. And this is true, too. The men you sent to murder my brother and me failed. They murdered Rodrigo Cologni's bodyguards instead. These eight showed up while they were at it. They killed everybody but Cologni. They took him away with them. My brother and I pursued them. We had a contract with the Bruglioni. They refused to cooperate. So we took their heads, thinking we might earn a bonus by fulfilling the Bruglioni revenge for you." Shagot used a toe to propel a head toward Paludan Bruglioni. It rolled over on its nose and changed course toward Gervase Saluda.

"What have you done?" Paludan's plea was feeble and rhetorical.

"What demon rules your soul?" Father Obilade asked. "What ancient horror have you hauled into the modern age, into the heartland of the Episcopal faith?"

Shagot said, "You owe me two hundred gold ducats. Plus a bonus for avenging your dead."

Paludan Bruglioni surrendered to the will of the night "Obilade. Get the money the man wants. Don't get into any mischief along the way. You understand me?"

The priest bowed. "Yes, sir."

Shagot understood, too. "Excellent. And hurry. Because if that money doesn't get here fast, with no treachery, people will die."

Once Father Obilade was gone, Shagot kicked another head and said, "These Brotherhood people knew exactly what was supposed to happen in the Madhur Plaza. How could that be?"

"What have you done?" Paludan whined again.

I have shaken Brothe's foundation stones, Shagot thought.

Never in all his life had he had so much impact upon others. Not even at the height of the sturlanger raids on the coasts of the Isle of Eights had so many people who had no idea who he was suffered so much because of his actions.

"I'm just trying to make a living," Shagot replied. "I don't think that requires me to be sacrificed to some local half-wit's ambition."

Father Obilade returned. He brought more than three hundred ducats in gold coins bearing the likenesses of dead Patriarchs. Shagot checked a few to make sure they were real. "Good. Good. I hope you gentlemen don't resent the lesson in fair play." He crooked a finger at the old priest. "Closer, Father. Closer."

When the old man was close enough, Shagot leaned in to whisper, "These guys know what really happened, Padre. You'd better hike up your skirt and run." In a voice that carried, he continued, "Thanks, everyone. Try not to be such a bunch of weasels, eh?"

Shagot got out of there before sleep could hammer him down.

Touched by the favor of the night, he managed to rejoin his brother before he collapsed.

Once sleep came, though, it would not withdraw until Svavar neared a state of panic. Could his brother possibly survive?