shifty.
"I'm not involved in anything. But do note that smuggling and
trading are a matter of viewpoint."
"No doubt every smuggler ever born makes that argument. And princes
send them to the galleys anyway."
"You're probably right. You always are. So what? They're handy
people to know. What the hell is this?" A couple of black crow
Brotherhood types were headed their way, on horseback, in a hurry. They
slowed to an easier pace when they saw that Hecht and Ghort had not yet
shoved off.
"Seems like everybody knows where to find me, these days."
"You told Bechter?"
"I did."
Hecht did not recognize either rider. A handsome man with
salt-and-pepper hair and beard dismounted. "Captain-General?"
"Me."
"I bring messages." He presented a large leather courier's wallet.
It bore no seal. "And our wishes for your success. Prayers will be
offered."
"Thank you. Do keep us in your prayers." A formula he was just now
learning to use automatically.
"And the Brotherhood in yours." The man bowed his head slightly, in
the manner of those who grew up inside the Grail Empire.
"And so shall it be." Hecht returned the nod. He took the
Brotherhood deadly serious. They were scarce in Firaldia but wielded
power beyond their numbers.
There were few checks on the Brotherhood. They accepted none. They
did not hesitate to enforce their prejudices.
"How and where to deliver that is all in here." The Brother handed
Hecht another smaller case, then returned to his mount.
Hecht considered the anonymous courier's wallet. He began rubbing
his left wrist.
Ghort muttered, "There's a Special Office thug if I ever saw one. He
don't even try to cover the smell."
"You're right."
"So's the other one."
The Special Office was a sub-cult inside the warrior order made up
of sorcerers sworn to destroy the Instrumentalities of the Night.
Using the Instrumentalities as their principal tool.
"So what did he bring you, Pipe?"
"Let's wait till we're moving."
"Gotcha." Ghort stared after the two riders in black. "I think I
know who the other one was."
"Uhm?"
"Parthen Lorica. The Witchfinder."
Hecht started. Parthen Lorica? Not possible. Parthen Lorica was
dead. "I don't think so. Unless there's more than one Parthen Lorica.
Him and Bugo Armiene died in our hospital camp at al-Khazen. Special
Office guys came in and snatched the bodies."
"I missed all that. I heard, but not the names. But them two was
definitely Special Office. And that one was definitely a Witchfinder.
So. Hey. Time to go." A smuggler—or coastal trader—beckoned them. Two
others began casting off.
Hecht hoisted his bag to his shoulder. "I wonder what they really
wanted."
"To give you a courier packet. Unless they were looking for
witches." In the context of the Special Office a witch would be anybody
who consorted with the Instrumentalities of the Night absent the
blessing of the Church.
That troubled Hecht. It was vague. The Special Office could make
anyone fit. Even the most devout Episcopal Chaldareans bought small
charms and invocations against the malice of the Night.
"What you got?" Ghort asked as
Lumberer
cleared the mouth of
the Teragi, after creeping past dredges valiantly trying to keep the
channel navigable. The craft rode the evening ebb tide. Lights in
Remale-on-Teragi shone to their left. Hecht was, at last, allowing
himself to examine the contents of the anonymous courier wallet by the
light of a storm lantern. A crewman stood by lest the landlubbers did
something stupid and set the ship on fire.
Fire was the fiercest terror of sailors.
"What've we got, Pipe?"
"Other than this letter telling me to take the big packet to
somebody named Montes Alina, who'll be using the name Beomond, and how
to find the guy, there's nothing here."
"Turning us into mail carriers, eh?"
"Possibly." Paranoia suggested the possibility that the packet would
finger him for another assassin.
The Special Office owed him some pain. But they should not know
that. He hoped they did not know
"I'm not involved in anything. But do note that smuggling and
trading are a matter of viewpoint."
"No doubt every smuggler ever born makes that argument. And princes
send them to the galleys anyway."
"You're probably right. You always are. So what? They're handy
people to know. What the hell is this?" A couple of black crow
Brotherhood types were headed their way, on horseback, in a hurry. They
slowed to an easier pace when they saw that Hecht and Ghort had not yet
shoved off.
"Seems like everybody knows where to find me, these days."
"You told Bechter?"
"I did."
Hecht did not recognize either rider. A handsome man with
salt-and-pepper hair and beard dismounted. "Captain-General?"
"Me."
"I bring messages." He presented a large leather courier's wallet.
It bore no seal. "And our wishes for your success. Prayers will be
offered."
"Thank you. Do keep us in your prayers." A formula he was just now
learning to use automatically.
"And the Brotherhood in yours." The man bowed his head slightly, in
the manner of those who grew up inside the Grail Empire.
"And so shall it be." Hecht returned the nod. He took the
Brotherhood deadly serious. They were scarce in Firaldia but wielded
power beyond their numbers.
There were few checks on the Brotherhood. They accepted none. They
did not hesitate to enforce their prejudices.
"How and where to deliver that is all in here." The Brother handed
Hecht another smaller case, then returned to his mount.
Hecht considered the anonymous courier's wallet. He began rubbing
his left wrist.
Ghort muttered, "There's a Special Office thug if I ever saw one. He
don't even try to cover the smell."
"You're right."
"So's the other one."
The Special Office was a sub-cult inside the warrior order made up
of sorcerers sworn to destroy the Instrumentalities of the Night.
Using the Instrumentalities as their principal tool.
"So what did he bring you, Pipe?"
"Let's wait till we're moving."
"Gotcha." Ghort stared after the two riders in black. "I think I
know who the other one was."
"Uhm?"
"Parthen Lorica. The Witchfinder."
Hecht started. Parthen Lorica? Not possible. Parthen Lorica was
dead. "I don't think so. Unless there's more than one Parthen Lorica.
Him and Bugo Armiene died in our hospital camp at al-Khazen. Special
Office guys came in and snatched the bodies."
"I missed all that. I heard, but not the names. But them two was
definitely Special Office. And that one was definitely a Witchfinder.
So. Hey. Time to go." A smuggler—or coastal trader—beckoned them. Two
others began casting off.
Hecht hoisted his bag to his shoulder. "I wonder what they really
wanted."
"To give you a courier packet. Unless they were looking for
witches." In the context of the Special Office a witch would be anybody
who consorted with the Instrumentalities of the Night absent the
blessing of the Church.
That troubled Hecht. It was vague. The Special Office could make
anyone fit. Even the most devout Episcopal Chaldareans bought small
charms and invocations against the malice of the Night.
"What you got?" Ghort asked as
Lumberer
cleared the mouth of
the Teragi, after creeping past dredges valiantly trying to keep the
channel navigable. The craft rode the evening ebb tide. Lights in
Remale-on-Teragi shone to their left. Hecht was, at last, allowing
himself to examine the contents of the anonymous courier wallet by the
light of a storm lantern. A crewman stood by lest the landlubbers did
something stupid and set the ship on fire.
Fire was the fiercest terror of sailors.
"What've we got, Pipe?"
"Other than this letter telling me to take the big packet to
somebody named Montes Alina, who'll be using the name Beomond, and how
to find the guy, there's nothing here."
"Turning us into mail carriers, eh?"
"Possibly." Paranoia suggested the possibility that the packet would
finger him for another assassin.
The Special Office owed him some pain. But they should not know
that. He hoped they did not know
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