"Nobody would notice. You're just another tradesman. One who uses a sword instead of a trowel or a hammer."

This half-ghostly Polo was nursing a grudge against his employers.

What Else had learned about the Bruglioni while serving the Arniena had not impressed him. But he had not drawn as bleak a picture as Polo and the Bruglioni headquarters suggested.

Was Polo some sort of provocateur?

This was no life a man ought to live, every waking moment spent wrestling paranoia about the motives of everyone around you. Yet paranoia was bedrock beneath this mission. He could not survive without it.

Later, Else said, “Tell me something, Polo. You said Paludan Bruglioni isn't a sorcerer. Is anyone else? I feel the darkness. Like there's an aspect of the Instrumentalities close to us."

"Others have said the same, sir. Possibly because the Bruglioni are so devoutly determined to have nothing to do with dark powers. They try to ignore their existence. Divino Bruglioni had to leave home when he chose the path that led him to become a member of the Collegium. They say they refuse to surrender to the Will of the Night."

The world could be confusing when the only truth available was the certainty that people would lie to you.

"Time to see the man," Polo announced.

Else narrowed his focus. He became Piper Hecht, wanderer from the farthest marches of the Chaldarean world, an experienced soldier eager to find service in one of the great houses of Brothe.

ELSE MADE A STRONG EFFORT TO SOUND HONEST. “THIS WASN'T my idea. Don Inigo convinced me. He says he owes you, that you've suffered cruel reverses, and he wants to help. Also, he said that I have a better chance of getting ahead with the Bruglioni than with the Arniena." Rogoz Sayag had advised him to appeal to the natural Bruglioni arrogance.

Paludan Bruglioni muttered, "That makes sense."

Paludan Bruglioni was a handsome, darkly complexioned man with a heavy black mustache. He had begun to lose his hair. He was heavy without being fat. His eyes seemed lifeless, though that could be due to the emotional beating he had taken lately. His head was egg-shaped, with the thin end down. His ears lay close. His overall appearance suggested a man in his middle fifties.

Paludan Bruglioni was a decade younger. The lamplight did not betray the floridity caused by prolonged, excessive drinking, or the scars left by the pustules from a disease picked up in Brothe's sporting houses. He had a reputation for vanity and, supposedly, wore a mask when he went out.

By lamplight he was a handsome, wealthy gentleman who was slightly tipsy. He might be in a bad mood for no immediately obvious reason.

"You're saying you want to step into my nephew Saldi's boots as a favor to Inigo Arniena?"

"The Don was good to me. He took me in when my prospects seemed bleak and he couldn't afford to pay what I'm worth. By sending me here he feels he's doing favors for you and me both."

Paludan scowled. Was there any chance that the man was as shallow and dull as he appeared?

Bruglioni glanced at the two men there with him, neither of whom had been introduced. One, though, had to be an uncle or older first cousin. He looked like an older Paludan. The other was pale, had graying ginger hair and a pallid, lantern-jawed death's-head face more ravaged than Paludan's.

Neither man spoke.

Else assumed the death's-head to be Gervase Saluda, Paludan's lifelong friend and reputed right hand.

Else said, "I would've been happy where I was. Don Inigo is the sort of master men in my line dream about. But I had higher ambitions when I left Tusnet. In Duarnenia the future is fixed. Sooner or later, you'll die in the Grand Marshes. Slowly and in great pain if the Sheard get hold of you. The pagans proclaim the tyranny of the night in the daytime. They celebrate their surrender to the will of the night."

Paludan smiled. Death's-head consulted something in front of him. "You were with Grade Drocker and the Brotherhood during the Church's adventure in the Connec last year?"

"Yes. I was on my way to Brothe when I encountered a Brotherhood band recruiting mercenaries near Ralli."

"Where they quarry the marble."

"Yes. A Brotherhood captain named Veld Arnvolker was in charge. I'd accumulated some traveling companions on the road, mostly boys and runaways. They thought they wanted to be soldiers. It would be all romance and adventure. The Brotherhood offered good training, good pay, and what looked like a chance to show them the truth without them having to get killed finding it out. So when the kids wanted to sign on, I went-along."

"And it was all too good to be true."

"Yes. Because fate jumped in right away."

"It'll do that. Especially if things start going good.”

"We got sent to the Connec. Idiot orders from the Patriarch and a brain-dead local bishop got my kids all killed. Only a few of us got out alive. Mostly Brotherhood guys, of course. You'd figure, wouldn't you? And the bigwigs, naturally.

"That's how life works."

"It does. But it's not right. Anyway, there I was, on my own again. For a whole damned month before I even heard that Grade Drocker, who was supposed to be in charge. You know, I never saw that asshole once. Him and his Brotherhood buddies ran downriver, grabbed a ship and escaped by sea. Leaving the rest of us to look out for ourselves."

The skull-faced man said, "Several survivors of the Connecten adventure were involved the night we lost Gildeo, Acato, Saldi, and me others. Did you know that?"

"No. I don't know much about that. Just rumors. I never knew for sure which Brothers made it back. I don't want anything to do with those people. One exposure was enough."

"Why wouldn't you be interested in the incident? If you wanted to work here?"

"I didn't want to. Not then. And it didn't affect the Arniena until Don Inigo saw the Bruglioni in tough circumstances and decided to show his regard for them."

Paludan asked, "You admit you're a mercenary? That what you're interested in is personal advancement?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I? The way I'll get ahead is to be dedicated and loyal and do the best job I can. Don Inigo had my complete devotion. The Bruglioni will get it if you hire me. If Don Inigo had released me I might have left Brothe. Vondera Koterba is recruiting in Alameddine. He's offering particularly good terms. But Don Inigo asked me to come here. So here I am. I'll serve you till you release me or send me elsewhere."

What Else said encapsulated the supposed philosophy of the mercenary brotherhood in Firaldia. But it was just talk. Mercenaries and employers alike acknowledged the ideals only when it was convenient.

It was not a time when large, permanent bands, captained by famous professionals, contracted as units. The last notorious company ended with the destruction of Adolf Black's regiment in the Black Mountain Massacre.

"Why should we trust you?"

"You shouldn't. I'm no different than any other prospective employee. You have to ask yourself, how can I hurt you?" According to Pinkus Ghort and others who had soldiered in Firaldia, Else understood that he had to conduct this interview on the paranoid edge. Firaldians who hired people to fight for them were often naive. Many fighters for hire were naive, too. And no one trusted anyone.

Fortunes, loyalties, allegiances, all shifted quickly in modern Firaldia. Treachery was a fact of life. For some, it was a way of life.

Insofar as Else Tage could see, the Firaldian Peninsula was where insanity went to retire. Nothing there made sense except at the most shallow level.

Paludan Bruglioni said, "Gervase?"

"Inigo Arniena and Salny Sayag recommend him so highly, you'd almost have to suspect them of wanting to get rid of him."