Book 4 - Soldiers Live by Glen Cook Read Free Book Online

than usual, as though she wanted to spark every young
man’s fantasy. Although the preening crow on the tall chair
back behind her was a distraction once she settled.
    “May I ask why?” Mogaba asked. His voice was calm,
untroubled. Life in the Palace at Taglios consisted of a
disorganized stumble from crisis to crisis. He no longer became
emotionally involved. Soulcatcher would turn on him someday. He had
made his peace with that already. He would face it calmly when it
came. He deserved no better.
    “There is a huge Deceiver festival being celebrated in the
Grove of Doom. Right now. Tonight.” This voice was cool,
calm, rational. Masculine. You got used to the changes after a
while. Mogaba seldom noticed anymore. Aridatha Singh, only recently
promoted, still found the unpredictable chorus disconcerting. Singh
was a sound officer and good soldier. Mogaba hoped he lasted long
enough to become accustomed to the Protector’s quirks.
Aridatha deserved better than he was likely to get.
    “That’s definitely not good news,” Mogaba
agreed. “Seems I recall you wanting to harvest the timber
there while obliterating every last trace of the holy place. Selvas
Gupta talked you out of it. Said it would set a bad
precedent.” Gupta had had secret encouragement from the Great
General, who had not cared to waste manpower and time clearing a
forest. But Mogaba loathed Selvas Gupta and his smugly holy
attitude of superiority.
    Gupta was the current Purohita, or official court chaplain and
religious adviser. Purohita was a post that had been forced upon
the Radisha Drah twenty years earlier by the priesthoods at a time
when the princess had been too weak to defy them. Soulcatcher had
not yet abolished it. But she had little patience with the men who
occupied it.
    Selvas Gupta had been Purohita for a year, which incumbency
exceeded that of all his predecessors since the establishment of
the Protectorate.
    Mogaba was confident that slimy little snake Gupta would not
last out the week.
    Soulcatcher gave him a look which offered the impression that
she was peering deep inside him, sorting his secrets and motives.
Having paused just long enough to suggest that she was not being
fooled, she said, “Get me a new Purohita. Kill the old one if
he argues about it.” She had an ancient custom of being
unpleasant toward priests who disappointed her. Which ran in the
family. Her sister had slain hundreds in a single massacre a
generation earlier. The exemplary demonstrations of both sisters,
however, never seemed sufficient to convince the survivors that
they ought to abandon their scheming. They were stubborn. It seemed
likely that Taglios would come up short of priests before it ran
short of conspiracies.
    The crow hopped down onto Soulcatcher’s shoulder. She
lifted gloved fingers to offer it some tidbit.
    “Did you have a response in mind? Something involving my
colleagues?” Mogaba nodded toward the Singhs in turn. He
suffered little jealousy of either man and did respect each for his
abilities. Time and persistent adversity had ground the rough edges
off of his once potent sense of self-appreciation.
    “These gentlemen were here already, regarding another
matter, when the news from the Grove arrived.” She offered
the crow another morsel.
    Mogaba’s eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction. He was not to
be made privy to that matter?
    But he was. Soulcatcher used a cackling crone’s voice.
“The Greys found several slogans painted on walls
today.” The crow cawed. Elsewhere, other crows began
squabbling.
    “Not uncommon,” Mogaba replied. “Every idiot
with a brush, a pot of paint and enough education to string five
characters together seems to be compelled to say something if he
discovers a blank piece of wall.”
    “These were slogans from the past.” This was the
voice the Protector used when she was focused entirely on business.
It was a male voice. A voice like Mogaba imagined his own to be.
“Three said