Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,220

her species. But it was true. Time differences between the middle world and the Realm of the Gods had left Heris visibly more mature.

She needed fresh clothing, too.

“Thank you, Double Great. You’re looking well yourself.”

“I look like death warmed over. My life is hell on a broomstick. Never a moment’s respite. I expect you turning up is a sign that it’s all going to get worse.”

“The Aelen Kofer brought the falcons. They’ve completed the other arrangements I wanted. We’re waiting on you and the Bastard.”

The old man looked to Principaté Delari, who had stood by without comment. Delari shrugged.

Februaren said, “I insist on a decent meal, a good night’s sleep, then another decent meal. Muno. How are our guests?”

“Quiet room.”

“Yeah. All right.” Heris had not heard the story. “After supper. I’m famished. Is Mrs. Creedon still capable?”

“Perfectly. Her kitchen was damaged, not her. The real misery is having to do without Turking and Felske.”

That part of the story, Februaren saw, was no mystery to the girl. And nothing there needed hiding from eavesdroppers.

The visit in the quiet room was brief. Delari gave Heris the details of the raid. “They must have watched me for a long time. Sadly, I am a creature of habit. Mrs. Creedon isn’t. Her being out at the same time was sheer happenstance but lucky for her.”

Heris said, “You mentioned guests. Which is why we’re in here, isn’t it?”

The Ninth Unknown explained, “I rescued three prisoners from the Dometia woman’s cellar. I left two more who died not long enough ago to be skeletons. They hadn’t been robbed. They were Brotherhood of War. Muno thinks they were Witchfinders that Bronte Doneto considered dangerous witnesses. Maybe the last two men, besides Doneto, who knew what he was up to in the catacombs, back when. It’s an easy guess why he had the catamite, Armand, and Pella locked …”

“Pella? Our Pella?”

“The very one. He finally got out and had himself an adventure. He should be more pliable, now. If he has the sense God gave a toad. It’s pure luck he isn’t still down there.” Februaren mused, “I wonder … You think it might’ve been a better lesson if I’d left him there for somebody to find after the bodies are discovered? Might’ve made a huge political splash, too.”

Heris said, “They’ll find the dead Witchfinders, won’t they?”

Principaté Delari said, “I despair of the boy’s capacity to learn. He is recovering, though. The others aren’t doing as well. They might have been down there too long.”

Heris demanded, “The Patriarch meant to get at Piper and Grandfather through Pella and Armand?”

“Mostly your brother, I think,” Delari said. “Armand was another agent of Dreanger who came over before Piper did. They knew each other. Armand might have said something he shouldn’t and Doneto was saving him for the right time.”

Februaren said, “Pella says he wasn’t tortured. He can’t speak for the others. He was only there a few days, while Serenity was busy looking for ways to save his own ass.”

Heris sat quietly, digesting information. Minutes passed. Finally, “Are we going to let Serenity know that we don’t approve of his behavior?”

Even Februaren was startled. “Dear girl! You don’t think Donna Carmella was enough?”

“Oh. Yeah. I suppose. Was she really that important to him? Hell. Never mind. We’ll take a closer look once we’re done in the Realm of the Gods. I need time in a good bed and a good breakfast afterward, myself.”

* * *

Bronte Doneto, on becoming Patriarch, had not moved his personal household into Krois. No Patriarch did. The Patriarchal apartment in that great fortress was part of the mystery of the position. As all Patriarchs did, Doneto left his home in the care of trusted relatives, protected by powerful sorceries.

In the wee hours a cloaked figure materialized in the hallway outside the room Principaté Bronte Doneto had used as his personal work space and den, where he kept his most treasured possessions, including an extensive collection of rare wines and spirits. The office was guarded by an equally extensive collection of deadly spells. Anything living entering that room would die instantly. Fallen insects marked the kill line.

The cloaked figure carried a small barrel. Contents and all, that weighed thirty-five pounds. A foot of smoldering slow match protruded from one end. The figure set it down on its side, used a foot to roll it through the deadly doorway. The barrel wobbled and shifted directions but came to rest against the leg of an ornate chair.

The cloaked figure