Book 1 - The Tyranny of the Night by Glen Cook Read Free Book Online Page B

Amhander ancestors. The Lion himself claimed descent from the Holy Family. Which
Else thought must be a loyalty test. If you could swallow that obvious untruth,
and never dispute it, you could survive in Gordimer's world.
    But you never knew who might report to him. It might be someone with a grudge.
    Everyone in direct contact with Gordimer spied for him, one way or another. He
expected answers when he asked questions. He was feared universally. And
respected by many because the culture honored strongmen. Only a strongman kept
the dogs of war and civil unrest at heel.
    Dreanger was rich. For millennia it exported grains and cotton and imported
gold, silver, and luxuries. Its neighbors were less wealthy but the peace
provided by the Kaif's suzerainty was treasure enough for most War profited only
the few.
    Else rose from stone worn by the tread of a hundred million sandals. He strode
into the cool shade behind the structure's immense, square outer pillars. In
passing, he noted that artisans were still removing or rewriting inscriptions
that had come down from those fabulous ages predating Gordimer's ascension to
power.
    Posterity would know the tiniest details of Gordimer's life—those he did not
keep secret—until the next ego-driven strongman decided to rewrite history. In
which case Gordimer the Lion would be remembered only in the annals of his
enemies.
    "Captain Tage?"
    Else paused. His eyes had not completed the transition from intense noon
sunlight to interior gloom. "Yes."
    "Will you follow me?" «
    The speaker wore simple clothing of a style recollecting that of the pagan
priests of antiquity, a white cotton jacket with skirts that hung to the knee.
This was the uniform of Gordimer's court wizards and augurs. This youngster
would be a novice, not yet officially apprenticed. He would be a pure-blooded
indigene, descended from the priestly caste of pagan times. Some of whom, if
rumors could be credited, still followed the old ways in secret.
    Though Else was supposed to report to Gordimer the moment he arrived, he could
not refuse this summons. Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen, called Rashal the Rascal by
some, was as dangerous as Gordimer the Lion. Possibly more so. Er-Rashal's
connections with the Instrumentalities of the Night made him powerful in his own
right.
    Er-Rashal was the nearest thing to an actual friend that Gordimer had in this
world.

    THE COURT SORCERER MET ELSE IN A ROOM NOT FAR FROM Gordimer's private audience.
If Else were asked to pick the wizard out of a hundred strangers he would have
chosen er-Rashal because the man fit the description of the wicked sorcerer in
every old story and fairy tale told in this end of the world. He was a tall,
dark man with heavy lips, a hooked nose, and a shaven skull. His eyes were dark
and cold. His body was big and powerful. He looked two decades younger than his
fifty years.
    Er-Rashal chose to look like that specifically because everyone, noble and
common, was raised on those stories. He wanted to be feared.
    "Lord Rashal," Else said. "The Lion insisted that I see him as soon as
I get
here."
    "He's aware of your arrival." The wizard's voice boomed. "You know him. It will
be an hour before he gets around to you. I've told the guards you'll be here
with me if they don't find you outside the audience door."
    Else did not like this. It reeked of intrigue. This was the side of al-Qarn that
he did not love.
    He became nervous whenever he came in from the field. Al-Qarn was a political
jungle. He was not cut out for its intrigues.
    He was a soldier. He did not care who did what to whom in the capital. He had
to take care of the men who followed him.
    All of which made him a popular field commander. Officers beloved of their
troops do not flourish in a dictatorship. Gordimer himself was once a popular
commander who came to power by eliminating an elderly, no-longer-effective
predecessor.
    Else nodded his understanding, waited for the