Working God's Mischief (26 page)

Hecht grunted. He looked at Pella. The boy said, “I didn't say anything, Dad. I just gave them the hard-eye.”

“Really?”

“It's psychology. I'm just a kid. If I'm not worried…”

“Maybe. Clej. Find a way across the river. Pella. Go back up there. Tell them I'm challenging Stain himself.”

“Boss?”

“Dad?”

“Don't argue. Do it.” Stain would be too cautious to accept. He would not test himself against a complete unknown.

*   *   *

Hecht's confidence was misplaced. Pella brought word that Stain would meet the Commander of the Righteous tomorrow afternoon.

“I fooled myself,” Hecht confessed. But he felt no anxiety.

Not so the others. They wanted him to weasel out. “That's what he's counting on.” Hecht did believe that. “He called my bluff. Now I'll call his. Rivademar, you can be a half-ass diplomat when you want. Make the arrangements. Avoid any mention of a truce.”

This would be a good time for the Shining Ones to contribute. Something. Anything. Where the hell were they?

Pella protested, “Dad, you don't have any armor, or anything.”

Hecht shrugged. “The die is cast. Vircondelet. Go.”

“Yes sir, Boss.” Grinning through the dark brush that had sprouted on his face during the march.

Pella asked, “What are you up to, Dad?”

“Events should make a face-off unnecessary.” He wondered at his own confidence.

*   *   *

Clej Sedlakova, unwittingly guided by friendly spirits whose invisibility had Lord Arnmigal muttering, located an unguarded bridge. Hecht sent his cavalry and four falcons across and downstream, to face Cholate from the north bank of the Vilde. A stone bridge spanned the river. The last ten feet, however, consisted of a heavy drawbridge. The citizenry had tried to raise that. It had become stuck partway up. Sedlakova installed his falcons at the head of the bridge and raised earthworks to protect against a cross-river sortie.

His falcons did not speak. He believed they would be more intimidating, waiting quietly.

*   *   *

Sedlakova sent his commander a message in the heart of the night. The courier crossed the river by means of a taut rope running from bank to bank. Soon afterward forty men used the rope to cross in the opposite direction. Titus Consent led them. Lord Arnmigal tagged along, just to observe. Weapons, clothing, and gear crossed in captured boats. The noise seemed loud enough to disturb the dead but Cholate sounded no alarm.

Hecht stood by while Titus crouched with Sedlakova, considering Cholate's river gate. “When did this happen?”

The gate was open. The drawbridge was down. A man who had stolen across reported that neither portcullis had dropped.

“That's the creepy part. I'm not sure. Schacter scouted it as soon as we noticed it. He got out as soon as he saw that it was all open.”

“Think it's an ambush?”

“I'm thinking it's something else altogether.” Sedlakova glanced back. “How could that stuff all happen without making any noise?”

“No noise? Sounds unlikely.”

“Not unlikely, impossible. It makes me nervous.” He looked back again but referenced no other recent unlikely events.

The Righteous operated in a fog of unlikely events.

Hecht observed, “It would be a sin to ignore that invitation.”

“But if it's an ambush…”

“I'll trigger it myself. Titus?”

“Ready.” Consent's voice squeaked. Those nearby chuckled. Forcing his voice deeper, Consent said, “Make sure your gear won't rattle, then let's go.”

A rind of moon sometimes peeked through gaps between scurrying clouds. Its light seemed unable to reach the bridge, though it glistened off the river. Hecht moved ahead, sliding through the shadows. Those who followed maintained a silence no commander could fault.

Hecht's confidence grew. He understood after he stepped into the darkness of the passage through the wall.

Three Shining Ones awaited him, invisible till he came within a few feet. Their semblances were not rigorously human tonight. He recognized Hourlr and Sheaf, barely. All three faded. Hecht covered Consent's mouth, in case. No one else saw the Instrumentalities.

“Go on,” Hecht whispered. “I'll watch.”

Titus sent men to find the gate guards. They were in a sleep so deep they seemed frozen in time. Consent had them restrained, then moved on.

The story was the same everywhere.

Soon all the men were inside and headed toward the citadel. Sedlakova grumbled, “I hope nobody kypes the falcons.”

Hecht assured him, “They're safe.”

Consent demanded, “Everyone keeping their matches out of sight?”

Most of the men carried handheld falcons. For no reason obvious to Lord Arnmigal soldiers operating in the dark were more confident when armed with those.

A soldier impressed with how well things were going murmured, “The gods are with us tonight.”

Consent sent a team to see if a gate could be opened for the main force. The rest he led to the citadel, where that gateway was open, too. And the garrison, to a man—all three—were snoring.

The place contained neither King Stain, any of his court, nor Anselin of Menand. Nor was there any sign of the knights, nobles, and men-at-arms who made up Hovacol's army.

“Colonel Sedlakova!” the Commander of the Righteous growled. “Come here! Tell me how Stain made a whole army disappear.”

“I want to, Boss. But I can't. It'd be a handy trick to have. Maybe he has unseen friends, too.”

It was too dark for Sedlakova to enjoy his commander's scowl.

“Titus, have you sent warning to the camp? Stain may be considering a surprise of his own.”

“I did send word when I saw that there were too few people around.”

“Would you care to exercise your imagination? Where is Stain?”

“We didn't push hard because he did what we wanted by backing up instead of fighting. My guess is, he went in the gate we could see and right on out the one we couldn't, up the river and into the woods. He hasn't let any fires be lighted so he hasn't attracted attention that way. I'm surprised he hasn't launched a night attack. I would have.”

And would have charged straight into the talons of the Choosers. But Hecht could not admit that. Why had his supernatural associates not passed on the facts about the actual state of affairs? Though when they could have done so without attracting attention made for an intriguing question.

He had a sudden notion that he should have anticipated Stain.

He shook his head as though trying to rid it of cobwebs. “Gentlemen. Ideas. What is Stain trying to get us to do? He's not stupid. He's enjoyed a lot of military success the past few years.”

Sedlakova shrugged. “I'm out of my depth, Boss.”

“Titus?”

“Could he want to put us on the inside so he can close us up and starve us?”

Sedlakova liked that. “That would reduce the advantage of the falcons. They're too clumsy to handle a shifting axis of attack. And, being on the outside, he'd have his whole kingdom to provide men and supplies.”

“That must be it.” Though it did not feel entirely right. “So let's disappoint the man.”

The Righteous drove the remaining population out into the gathering dawn, allowing them to take nothing but their clothing. Let King Stain carry the burden of so many women, children, and old people. Let him look homeward to see Cholate's able-bodied men demolishing churches, walls, and public works. Let him watch the resulting debris be used to render the Vilde unnavigable.

Meantime, Hagen Brokke would create more tangles and pitfalls around the Righteous camp.

Lord Arnmigal kept most of his men there. He preferred to face any attack there, though he remained unsure of the advantage. He had found a flaw in Consent's analysis of Stain's intent. Stain did not have men enough to properly invest Cholate. The Righteous could escape using the bridge to the north bank of the Vilde.

*   *   *

Hecht was napping. He did that when there were no critical demands on his time. Pella interrupted. “Wake up, Dad. You need to get up.”

“Huh?” He had been deep into a strange dream where he roamed an unfamiliar cold waste with a band of blood brothers, hunting. Their quarry might have been a man. Might once have been a friend. Might have been the father of one of the blood brothers. The hunt might have taken place in the wild country Piper Hecht called his homeland. A lot of might-have-beens wisped away like breath scattering on a winter wind.

“It's almost noon. That Stain guy says he's ready to fight.”

Hecht could not help being confused. “I thought he went away.”

“He came back. He says he's chosen lances.”

Hecht shook his head. “Lances?”

Pella explained. Lord Arnmigal had issued the challenge. The challenged got to choose the weapons. After that the outcome was in the hands of God. “He probably picked lances because everybody knows you don't fight on horseback.”

“Not lately.” He consulted his nerves. He had none. He should have had, but he was dead calm. “I want to see Mr. Sedlakova.”

“Dad? You're not gonna…”

“Of course I am.”

“But!…”

“Get Sedlakova, boy! Now!”

*   *   *

It took Clej a while to collect everything but Hecht did go to the contest equipped the way he wanted. He rode a small, agile horse instead of a charger. Nor did he carry the heavy lance westerners preferred. His choice was ten feet long, thin, light, like the lances used by the Sha-lug. He bore a small round shield on his left forearm. His helmet was light, too. For armor he wore a borrowed scale shirt over his own link mail.

The mind inside the head inside the light helmet, still glacially calm, wondered if his muscles would remember the moves they would have to make.

He sensed uncertainty at the far end of the field. Those people had not expected him to show up looking confident. There was uncertainty at his own end, as well. None of his people thought him even a rudimentary cavalryman.

He considered Pella and Titus. Titus held another two lances. If Hecht broke three he would be in trouble. Stain, yonder, had a more generous supply.

Pella was pale and shaking. He could see no good coming from this.

Time stopped.

Hourli and Hourlr stepped out of nothing. The goddess extended a hand. Her brother did the same. His held a short black spear. Hourli said, “Trade.”

It did not occur to Hecht to do anything else. He knew that spear. He surrendered his lance.

The spear was heavy. It dragged his arm down. It changed as he forced it back up. It became a light cavalry lance.

The Shining Ones vanished.

Time resumed.

Hecht endured the pre-fight ceremonies, though he saw no point to them. Hagen Brokke sidled close. “Boss, get him early. He'll start out just trying to knock you off your horse. If he sees that you're going to be stubborn he might decide to kill you. He's had a bad temper the past few years.”

Hecht grunted. That agreed with what the Shining Ones reported.

Still, the Enterprise would come this way next spring. Stain ought not to provoke its backers.

The Enterprise would come. There would be a Commander of the Righteous and a mission to liberate the Holy Lands. Crusade fever had begun to course through the Episcopal Chaldarean world.

Piper Hecht had to stop woolgathering. King Stain had taken his position. He and his mount alike were richly caparisoned. His charger was immense. A feather plume wobbled in the breeze above his helm. “A noble vision,” Hecht said. “A shame to ruin all that finery.”

Men from both forces lined the edges of the field. Officers tried and failed to keep them out of the barley nearby. A priest in the odd raiment of the Eastern Rite stepped to the middle of the field. He carried a pole with a white pennon attached. He swung that down as though to punish the earth, sprinted off dragging the pole.

Horns sounded, Hecht supposed for the benefit of the blind. He consulted his courage. He remained unafraid, relaxed and confident, and that made no rational sense. His opponent was famed as a tiltyard bully and scrapper.

He urged his mount forward.

In these passages knights crossed their lances behind the necks of their mounts and tried to unseat one another as they passed left side to left side. Thus, their lances did not cross and become entangled. Hecht had witnessed a few tournaments. He had not understood the formalities. Tilts were, at their base, practice for war. In war the rule was, you strove to be the man still standing when the fighting came to an end.

Stain was a traditionalist. He couched his lance under his right arm and crossed it behind his mount's neck. His form was exquisite.

Hecht grasped his lance two-thirds of the way back, shaft tight against his forearm, the whole raised to shoulder height, arm cocked back to thrust, lance head slightly low. When Stain drew close he swerved to pass right hand to right hand. He drove his lance's head at Stain's face.

In the Vibrant Spring School a lancer learned to use the tip of his weapon to snatch rings off moving targets. Else Tage had been a magnificent student. Piper Hecht was fifteen years out of practice. Heartsplitter did not find the gap in King Stain's visor.

Hecht did push the man backward in his saddle. He did remember to whip his lance round so the sharp edge of its head scored the flank of Stain's mount. Not done to perfection, but done.

He trotted on, unaware of the uproar from the sidelines.

His mount seemed to approve of the proceedings so far.

He turned, let the beast catch her breath. Yonder, Stain was complaining. Hecht waited. He remained comfortable and confident but doubted that he had yet made his point.

Stain readied himself for another pass. His gelding was not as engaged as he. It favored its right rear leg. Blood stained its white caparison.