Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,105

who can’t look past the moment far enough to see that he could start a war with the Empire.”

Heris said the fool’s name was Fearoé Durgandini. She thought that was funny. Durgandini meant “woman of bad smells” in one of the languages she spoke. This Durgandini was the illegitimate son of a Doneto cousin. He was determined to make his mark handling Serenity’s unpleasant chores. Heris suspected that Durgandini operated under deniable orders.

Titus Consent observed, “It doesn’t matter in the end. We’ll go where we have to go. Whoever gets in the way will get trampled.”

There were no more human intercessions. The road was busy now that no monster lurked in the high Jagos. And the season was late. Travelers were trying to get through before weather got in the way. The Night took no more than a normally malicious interest. After a few small punishments it pretended indifference.

* * *

“Bayard va Still-Patter offered the use of his house, gave me letters to prove it, and I don’t intend to be shy about taking advantage,” Hecht declared as he neared Alten Weinberg. To va Still-Patter retainers sent by the Ambassador’s father to discourage the hiresword interloper from taking advantage of the son’s generosity. “I won’t let my men steal whatever they overlooked last time.”

He faked a light, playful mood. He did not look forward to the incessant politics plaguing every center of power. He was exhausted. Though the threats had been minimal the mountains left him wanting nothing more than to disappear and recuperate.

The pass had been colder than ever for the time of year. And, though the Night itself had shown little interest, someone had sent numerous noxious minor Instrumentalities to make him miserable, presumably in hopes he would turn back.

Heris had been no help.

He had not yet had time to pull off his boots, once inside Bayard va Still-Patter’s, when the invitations and petitions started. He told Rivademar Vircondelet, “You’ve been here a week. You’re rested up and familiar with the local situation. This crap is on you. Anybody wants an audience, tell them to go through the Empress. I work for her. If it’s the Empress, though, say I’m too sick.” Hecht did not strictly lie about being sick.

“Won’t be the Empress, boss. She’s out in the sticks doing what they call a progress. Which sounds like just showing herself off so people know she really exists. At their expense, of course. I hear Johannes started it so he could save on what it cost to run the court. Anyway, we’ll actually have a few weeks where the load stays kind of light.”

“That’s good. That’s real good. It’ll give me a chance to recover.”

He did not like being sick. He could not recall the last time he was really sick.

Titus told him exactly, when he arose, recovered but weak, three days later. Titus had consulted his personal journals. But it did not matter, other than to illuminate the fact that people pushed old seasons of pain out of mind.

“What’s on the schedule?” Hecht asked.

“It’s really piled up while you were loafing, boss. Everyone wants a piece, now that you’re here. Both of them.”

“What?”

“Almost everybody who is anybody is out making progress with the Empress. The elder va Still-Patter is not here to aggravate us only because his gout is so bad he can’t get out of bed.”

“Again, then. That’s real good. I want you all to learn everything about this city while you have the chance. Now. Let’s put me to bed.”

18. Cape Tondur: Andoray

A supernatural wind blew south southwest along the coast of Andoray. Little of the power from beneath the sea made it inshore, where scores of ravenous Instrumentalities prowled the brink of the forever ice, eager for any taste of power, dodging or preying on one another.

For all but the greatest a moment of inattention meant certain destruction.

The most terrible doom was the vast white toad squatting atop a promontory of ice that thrust miles out into the sea. That ice creaked forward a yard or two every day. And lifted vertically several feet. Or more, if the Windwalker caught a lucky gust of power. Or if some desperately hungry lesser Instrumentality strayed within range of the Windwalker’s lightning tongue.

There were human worshippers attendant upon the Windwalker, initially. Cold and starvation took most. Their frozen remains lay scattered around the great toad. Most resembled the Seatt peoples of the northernmost north of ancient times.

Not all the Windwalker’s Chosen elected to perish beside their god.