Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,66

Gerzina was nondescript. Average height, neither good-looking nor ugly, his colorings unremarkable. He was a few pounds overweight, which was unusual in a soldier.

A walking illusion. A man with a big don’t-notice-me spell on.

Maybe.

Gerzina’s body language shifted suddenly.

He didn’t like being noticed.

“Can you do Bechter’s job?”

“Sir?”

“I don’t believe I mumbled.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been doing it. All of it. I don’t know how he managed, at his age.”

“He had an assistant. You’re the man, now. Officially. At least till the new commander comes in.”

“No, sir. Begging your mercy, sir. I have to decline. And, no sir, it’s not because it’s too much work. It’s a cush job.” He patted his belly. “Enough to eat and warm in the winter. And not one heathen Praman in sight. But a time of change is on us. Sir. Those sworn to the Brotherhood have to leave you. Or the man who replaces you.”

“Oh?”

“There’s been word from Addam Hauf. The Master of the Commandery will send reinforcements to the Holy Lands. Men, material, and money. Which he’s having some success gathering since the Patriarch doesn’t have to use all his resources to stave off predatory Emperors.”

“I see.” And, though Hecht had not considered it before, he did.

Katrin’s peace had eased life dramatically for the Patriarchs. Bronte Doneto would see no need to consult Imperial ambitions at all.

“I’d better get everybody together and see who needs to be replaced. Help with that. Before you go.”

“Yes, sir. It won’t be right away. Sir.”

Alone again, Hecht sat down with Bechter’s chest.

He had worked up an expectation of something dramatic. Reality proved disappointing. Memorabilia, indeed. Bits of cord. Several stones. A small dagger rendered useless by means of having had an inch of its business end broken off. Several iron arrowheads of Lucidian design. Assuming Bechter followed Brotherhood custom, those had been removed from his own flesh. Then several scraps of paper, one crumbling, one in an unreadable hand, another a pass to be shown while traveling on Brotherhood business. A locket with a bit of brittle hair inside, uncharacteristic for a warrior-priest. Several small wooden boxes, beautifully made, all but one unlocked. One contained a perfectly preserved moth with a wingspan over four inches. Hecht had never seen its like. But he understood that it must have been beautiful when it was alive. And, in death, had been treasured by a man Hecht could not help but honor.

He opened two boxes that contained nothing, then one wherein lay a shredding little cotton sack containing several dozen copper coins from almost as many polities, forming a metal log of Redfearn Bechter’s journeys.

This was a life. Seventy years, plus.

Why had the man wanted him to have this?

As a message? A warning?

“Vanity of vanities. All is …”

There was still the box that was locked. The key was there in the mix with the copper coins, itself brass and as green as any of the money. Hidden in plain sight, perhaps without much concern.

The box contained a thin, bound book, its leather cover at once stained, worn, and grown brittle. Hecht opened it carefully.

The first page was done in artful calligraphy, in a language Hecht could not immediately identify. Till he suffered an epiphany: He was looking at Melhaic written down using the Brothen alphabet. Melhaic was the ancient language of the Holy Lands. He could read that clumsily. In its native characters Melhaic was inscribed across the page in a direction opposite that customary for most of the languages of the region.

He had just discovered that the book was a history recorded by Grade Drocker when Pella burst in, so startling him that he jumped.

“Dad? Pinkus Ghort is downstairs.”

“Pella. What’re you doing here?”

“I thought you’d be kind of down. Because of Sergeant Bechter. So I thought I’d see if I could do anything. I ran into Colonel Ghort in the street.”

How the devil had Ghort gotten here so fast? What was Bronte Doneto up to? The news about Bellicose was not yet general knowledge. The Interregnum had weeks to run.

“You’re right. I am in a bleak mood. Here’s how you can cheer me up. Get your butt on back home and get into school. Make something of yourself. So you don’t end up like Sergeant Bechter. Like I might end up any day.”

“Whew! It does have its claws in you.”

“It does. Bring Ghort. Tell Cederig I want some of the red wine I’ve been saving. Might as well get Pinkus started on it. Save the trouble of hauling it to Brothe