The Tyranny of the Night

8. Antieux, in the End of Connec

The Patriarchal legate to the Bishop of Antieux, Bronte Doneto, was a bishop without a see. Which was an indirect way of saying that he was a member of the Collegium. One of those quiet, frightening members little known to anyone outside. Bishop Serifs, although a creature of the Patriarch, did not know the man. Had he done so he would have been less sanguine while awaiting his next meeting with the emissary.

Bronte Doneto was a close ally of Sublime V because they were cousins. Doneto expected that they would go far together. They were young. They were strong. They dreamed big dreams. But the path to fulfillment of those dreams was strewn with obstacles like Bishop Serifs, men venal enough to be used but without drive enough to do anything useful on their own. They were content to secrete themselves in their grand palaces, playing with their concubines and catamites while stealing the wherewithal to keep themselves in style.

Doneto was a cynic. He expected the worst of everyone and bragged that they seldom disappointed him. But he was a true believer, too – in his conviction that the Church ought to be the be-all and end-all of the Chaldarean world. He was not as deeply engaged by Church dogma.

Doneto chose to accept Bishop Serifs' challenge. He would sample the mood of the people. What the rabble had to say would tell him what needed doing to cleanse the Connec of heresy.

BRONTE DONETO DID NOT SHIFT ROLES EASILY. HE WAS NOT A prince who could disguise himself as a pauper and pass. He was not an actor with any range. This trip into the Connec was the farthest afield he had traveled, ever. Only once before had he ventured outside the safety of the Episcopal States, in an unsuccessful attempt to convince the families of Aparion that they should donate ships to transport an army that Sublime's predecessor wanted to send to invade the Firaldian Praman kingdom of Calzir.

Calzir was a more suitable target for a crusade, Doneto believed. It was not powerful. It had no friends. It just had those great natural defenses, the Vaillarentiglia Mountains. Expunge Calzir and you would clear Firaldia of the last vestiges of the Praman in the heartland of the Old Brothen Empire. That would encourage Chaldareans everywhere.

But Bronte's cousin wanted to be a Patriarch whose name echoed down the ages. He wanted to be remembered as the Patriarch who triumphed over the Pramans and the rest of the Church's enemies while uniting all Chaldareans under the Patriarchal banner and recovering the Holy Lands.

Doneto did not believe that they would live that long. It was too huge a task.

Bronte Doneto thought it would be easy to pass as lower class. All you had to do was talk crudely and smell bad. Never mind that your clothing was foreign and too rich. Never mind that bodyguards followed you around. Never mind that disdain rolled off you like steam even when you kept your mouth shut.

The folk of Antieux did not recognize him as a Patriarchal legate, though. So he did get an earful of Connecten attitude toward Sublime and his shit-eating, thieving running dog, Bishop Serifs.

Vries Yunker was the legate's chief bodyguard. Doneto found nothing to recommend the man other than the fact that no blade had yet found the episcopal throat. Yunker could have been a mastiff as far as Doneto was concerned.

Yunker suggested, "We should return to our quarters, sir. We're tempting fate." This after Doneto's passage through a farmer's market, as safe a venture as could be arranged.

Yunker knew the people who frequented the places that Doneto wanted to visit. He was that kind of people himself. They understood that something was going on immediately.

Doneto refused to listen. He was having too much fun feeling superior.

Yunkers' pessimism was not unfounded. In fact, when trouble came it was far worse than Yunker anticipated. There was a sudden rush of bodies, right there in the twilight street, in front of a hundred witnesses. Pain exploded in his side.

All three bodyguards died. Bronte Doneto suffered numerous stab wounds before he dragged an earthenware ball out of a pocket. He smashed that against the nearest building.

The world vanished in a torrent of light. Voices screamed, "Sorcery!"

Bronte Doneto plunged into unconsciousness.

THE ATTENDING BROTHER SEEMED LESS THAN THRILLED WHEN Doneto opened his eyes. The look vanished instantly.

The legate gasped, "Do I need supreme unction?"

"Sir? Ah. No, sir. I'm a healing brother. Don't try to get up. You'll open your wounds."

Doneto recalled the sudden, brilliant pain of blades probing his flesh. He felt no pain now. But he did feel numerous bandages. He did feel the pull of stitches in a half-dozen places. "How bad am I hurt?"

"Only God's Grace saved you, sir. Or incredible luck. You were stabbed six times. Two of your wounds are so deep they must have been made by a sword. You lost a lot of blood."

When Bronte expressed no interest the healing brother volunteered, "Your companions weren't as lucky as you. All three perished."

Which they deserved for their failure. But Doneto did not vent his sentiments aloud. "Who was responsible? And why?"

The priest shrugged. "Robbers, I suppose."

Those were not robbers. Those were assassins. Those men were serious about their work. Those men were not novices. Bronte Doneto was supposed to be dead.

"You suppose? What did they have to say?"

The healing brother seemed baffled by the question.

"They were captured, weren't they?"

"No."

Of course not, Doneto thought. He insisted that the rest of his guards investigate. Obviously, the local authorities were incompetent.

It took his men almost no time to determine that no one would tell them anything. Mica Troendel told Doneto, "Nobody actually said so, Your Grace, but I got the distinct impression that your survival was a popular disappointment."

Doneto assumed that meant the assassins were locals able to intimidate the populace. Only later did he entertain the possibility that the populace might wish the assassins well without knowing who they were.

Lying there, unable to move, Doneto had a lot of time to reflect on the situation in the Connec as seen by ordinary folk. And he was not pleased. Not at all. But maybe the truth could be a useful tool, too.

"Maysalean heretics tried to murder me," Doneto told Serifs when the Bishop found time to get away from his indulgences.

Serifs disagreed. "No. They're pacifists. They wouldn't murder anybody."

"Not even a Patriarchal legate who's their sworn enemy?"

"Especially not a legate. They want no trouble with Brothe. They want Brothe to leave them alone. That's all the people of the Connec want. For Brothe to leave them alone."

"Put the accusation out there anyway."

"Nobody will believe it. The likely result is, they'll decide that you staged the whole thing so you'd have an excuse to make accusations." Serifs sounded mildly accusing himself. That suspicion had found a comfortable home in his mind.

Doneto realized he faced a no-win situation. His time amongst the unwashed had shown him how little they respected Brothe and the Church and how much suspicion they directed that way. Worse, the Connecten Episcopals were more critical than their heretical Maysalean cousins.

The fearful lesson of the night of the knives was that Connectens were convinced all social evil and moral depravity originated in Brothe and Krois, the Patriarchal Palace there.

"Then lay it at the feet of that syphilitic at Viscesment."

"As you wish. But the people won't believe that, either."

"What will they believe?" Doneto had to force himself to relax. He felt stitches tearing.

"Anything negative about the Patriarch and the Collegium, however absurd."

"So who tried to murder me? Really."

Bishop Serifs shrugged. "It might have been robbers." Then, as Doneto was about to explode, "Probably supporters of Immaculate who acted without approval from Viscesment. Or it might have been someone whose property we took."

"How would anyone from any faction know about me? This was supposed to be a secret mission. Even you don't know much about me."

Serifs shrugged again. "I told no one anything. So, once again, maybe they were robbers. Or, maybe, somebody in Brothe thought it might be convenient to kill you out here where it wouldn't cause much excitement."

Robbers? Bull. Robbers did not attack armed bands.

Murder as a political instrument was not common. Not this way, at least. When it did happen it involved poison or a skillfully placed dagger, usually after the fact of a coup or the unwinding of a skein of extreme duplicity. It did not happen in front of hundreds of witnesses. Unless … unless someone wanted to send a powerful message. As, for example, to Sublime himself.

Suddenly, Doneto trusted no one. Maybe Serifs himself was the villain. Or Duke Tormond. Tormond commanded soldiers. Those men might have been soldiers. But how would the Duke know? "I want to see my man Troendel." Mica Troendel was his senior surviving bodyguard. Doneto wanted to be ready to travel as soon as he could. And he wanted to feel safe until he was able.

He would deal with the problem of the Connec after he was safely away from it. Harshly.

This mission was a disaster. And he suspected that things would get no better.

Doneto wanted to flee Antieux but the healing brothers insisted that he needed a lot of recuperation. In the end, they let him travel as far as Bishop Serifs's manor in the vineyard-strewn hills overlooking the city. It should be easier for his remaining bodyguards to protect him there.

That move did exactly what the healing brothers warned it might. It opened his wounds. He began a battle with infection that lasted for months.