by Glen Cook
Brother Candle was instantly confident that he would never find a more sensible theory.
“Where do I find a priest? Or an expert?”
“You don’t. Those gods are gone.”
“That’s what we thought about Rook and Hilt. So? Somebody who knows more would be a big help.”
He got more history. More obscure mythology. Nothing really useful. The religion was dead. Only confused parables lingered. He thanked Pickleu for his efforts, educational and medical, but could not conceal his disappointment.
“There’s nothing more I can contribute, Master. And I know of no one who can tell you more. But we do hope you will do us a favor in return for our efforts.”
“Of course.”
“We need a policing presence out here. Just a couple of men, after dark, to make it understood that the Countess knows we exist. Amberchelle has imposed rigorous control inside the wall and out in the countryside but he hasn’t done much for us here. The villains move in to be safe. The one who died is an example. We’ll count his passing a blessing. But there are more like him.”
“I’ll let the Countess know.” Though that would cost him moral anguish. Bernardin would be thrilled to come onto a rich new shoal of villains. “I guess I’ll have to catch my Instrumentality and ask her if I want to know what’s going on.”
“It’s worth a try. My son Merak will walk you back. The kid who ran away may have friends.”
* * *
“I visited a Deve scholar who studies lost religions,” Brother Candle told Socia and Bernardin, over breakfast. “He wasn’t much help. He did ask me to tell you that the suburb on the riverbank is infested with Society types. They’re involved in criminal activities in order to raise funds.”
“The end justifying the means.”
“Essentially.”
Socia said, “Deal with that, Bernardin.”
“I will. A lapse on my part, there. I never thought the area needed special attention.”
“The Society is like dysentery. Or mold. Or rats. It will get in anywhere where we’re not trying to keep it out. Not even the Patriarchs can control it anymore.”
Brother Candle pushed back from his austere breakfast. “Not to make your mood any more bleak, Socia, but it’s time to hear the assizes.”
Bernardin added, “Bishop LaVelle will be an early petitioner.”
“Isn’t he always?” Socia pulled a sour face. “But I do admit that he has guts. When every other Brothen priest is on the run our bishop hangs in there, doing his best.”
Bernardin grumbled, “And doing it honestly.”
Socia said, “Come along, Brother Serpent. I can maybe use a snake man to look out for me today.”
The Perfect did not appreciate the humor. He could not make peace with the fact that three men were dead because of what the Instrumentality had inflicted upon him.
18. Alten Weinberg to Cholate: For the Prize
Alten Weinberg did not boast a large Devedian community. The one that existed was prosperous, cultured, and strove to be included in Imperial society. Devedians were prominent in the state bureaucracy.
A Devedian scholar named Rodolof Schmeimder was his people’s spokesman to the Righteous. He had appointed himself back when Carava de Bos returned with captives and plunder from the raid on the Krulik and Sneigon manufactory.
Schmeimder asked to see the Commander.
Titus Consent argued, “It can’t hurt to see the man.”
“Special pleading for a member of the old tribe?”
“No. I only met the man once before. He rubbed me wrong. I sent him back to de Bos. Carava thinks he’d be a valuable friend.”
“Why does he want to see me?”
“Because he can’t get what he wants from de Bos or me if you’re going to fly off the handle when we do our jobs. You can’t second-guess us like that if you don’t actually know the people involved.”
“I see.” This went back to a blow-up he had suffered on discovering that Deve craftsmen from Krulik and Sneigon, now restricted to a controlled access section of the Hochwasser canton, had been allowed to send letters to their families. Mostly those were in Brothe, where Piper Hecht had enemies. “So. This is punishment for me having overreacted.”
In the calm following his outburst Hecht had taken a moment to examine their logic. It was no secret what had become of the people taken in the raid. The craftsmen, their outrage spent, seemed content to pursue their careers in their new surroundings—so long as they enjoyed some basic freedoms, kept their dignity, were paid, and were not badly treated.
“I did overreact. I was too paranoid. What could they tell the world that it doesn’t already know? What does Schmeimder want to nag me about, specifically?”
“He’ll have several things. The biggest, I think, will be permission for the falcon makers’ families to join them.”
Hecht felt his anger rise. But, why? He stilled it, more easily than he had before.
Titus continued, “It makes sense. If their families are here they will be less inclined to make trouble or try to get away.”
Hecht tried to recall when he had begun suffering spells of irrational anger. Normally, he calculated carefully before exploding. Consent and de Bos had been taken aback once they realized he was not acting.
Titus said, “He’ll also ask for their confinement to be relaxed. I don’t see much worry about them wandering off.”
“If we let their families come here.”
“Yes.”
“What’s their productivity like?”
“Feeble. They do just enough to get by. Quality isn’t what it was before, either. Plus, we’re having problems providing ore and firewood. Hochwasser isn’t well located for those things.”
“Bring them smelted iron and charcoal already burned.”
“And sulfur? And saltpeter? We should consider moving the craftsmen to the resources instead of doing it the other way round.”
“Then look at that. Making sure we don’t give up anything.” The critical result of the Krulik and Sneigon raid was not that he had acquired those master weapons makers but that he had denied their products to everyone else. Those firepowder weapons he encountered in battle would be second grade.
Titus Consent listened but did not respond to his concerns. “Schmeimder will also want permission to raise a Devedian and Dainshau regiment to join in the liberation of the Holy Lands.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Their faiths were born amongst the Wells of Ihrian, too. Long before ours.”
* * *
Rodolof Schmeimder was no stereotypical Deve. What hair he had was vaguely blond. His eyes were the blue common to half the subjects of the Grail Empire. And he smiled a lot, which was not characteristic of the portrait of the species Hecht had built inside his head.
While Hecht took Schmeimder’s measure the visitor returned the favor. “I hope you don’t think I’m out of line, here, Commander, but your aura suggests that you’ve been touched by the Night.”
Consent, keeping notes, gasped.
Hecht asked, “How so?”
“Unfortunately, that sort of thing can’t be explained like describing the good and bad points of a horse.”
“So, like a fortune-teller, you can make up whatever you want. You don’t have to deliver any evidence.”
That startled Schmeimder. “Well, uh … yes. I see how you might think that if you’re not sensitive to it yourself.”
“I promise you, sir, my Night sensitivity is such that the Night has to smack me with a club before I take notice.”
“No one has mentioned this?”
“My troops tell me I’m spooky all the time. I don’t think like they do. And strange things happen around me. But that’s because we’re out there trying to make strange things happen.”
Titus Consent kept quiet, face blank.
Hecht said, “Which is all irrelevant. Mr. Consent says you want to discuss specifics. Let’s get to that. I
have a meeting with the Empress coming up.”
“I know. You have to decide what to do about Anselin of Menand … Oh!” Schmeimder blanched. He knew things he should not and had betrayed himself.
Hecht did not glance at Consent. The leak would not have come from there. The lapse would be at Helspeth’s end and, likely, inadvertent.
“Spying certainly isn’t the best way to win the affections of the Empress and the Righteous, Master Schmeimder.”
“I’ll grant you that. But I would remind you that nothing stays secret in Alten Weinberg. Only when nothing is written down and every discussion happens in a quiet room is there any hope at all. And even then, word gets out. Somebody tells his wife or lover or best friend. In strictest confidence.”
That was true in Brothe, too, where conspiracy and intrigue had become art forms.
“I understand that. Some things, though, need to be kept quiet so bigger secrets aren’t betrayed and lives aren’t lost. The matter of the missing king features both risks.”
“I’ve forgotten I ever knew anything I shouldn’t.”
“You wanted to see me why?”
Schmeimder expressed almost exactly what Titus had said he would.
Hecht asked, “Do you understand why we isolated those people?”
“I don’t, sir. Not really. They were craftsmen who found ways to make better products faster than their competitors in response to the demands of an expanding market. Which is what merchants, artisans, and craftsmen do.”
“Exactly. You are correct. But let me offer a counterpoint, from the perspective of the Righteous. The Shades.”
“Excuse me? I don’t understand.”
“The main engagement of the Firaldian campaign happened at a place called the Shades.”
“Oh.” Still puzzled.
“A few hundred Righteous engaged several thousand troops raised by the Patriarch. The Patriarch’s troops died. The tool we used to make that happen was the Krulik and Sneigon falcon. Manufactured by the men we’ve isolated at Hochwasser.”
“Oh.”
“Master Schmeimder, I do not want to take the Righteous onto any field where they’ll face what Serenity’s men faced. That is why those men are locked up out there.”
“You want to hold the knife-maker responsible for what his customer does with his product.”
“I don’t want the knife-maker to sell his product to anyone but me. Which I have managed with a minimum of disruption and pain—compared to most episodes in the history of your people.”
Schmeimder stopped short of arguing after recognizing the veiled threat.
Hecht continued, “My staff agree with you. Those people haven’t been troublesome, just willfully slow and mildly obstructionist. If productivity and quality improve, improved conditions will follow.”
“About that. About quality. I’ve been asked to point out that the saltpeter you’re providing isn’t the best.”
“Maybe someone should pay closer attention during the refining process.” He glanced at Titus. Titus shrugged. “In future, bring your concerns to Mr. Consent or Mr. de Bos. They will do what is best.”
“The other thing, then, sir, is, can you make room for a company of free will Devedians who also want to see the Holy Lands?”
“Mr. Consent told me you might ask. You understand my natural reluctance?”
“A knee-jerk response common throughout the Chaldarean world. Deves with weapons? It raises frightening prospects. But it could prove disarming in the long run. Working in common cause, Chaldareans should become less frightened of their neighbors. And younger Devedians could improve their self-image by getting involved in something the broader society approves and respects.”
Consent kept his face blank and mouth shut. Once upon a time he had been filled with that kind of naïve optimism, too.
Hecht said, “My staff is with you on this one, too, Master Schmeimder, though I’m skeptical myself. It will be a hard sell for me but I will remind everyone how well my Devedians did during the Calziran Crusade.”
“Is that a roundabout no?”
“It’s a roundabout yes. But prepare to be disappointed. Grand Duke Hilandle, Lord Admiral fon Tyre, and their sort won’t be confused by any facts I present in lieu of prejudicial arguments.”
“I see.” Schmeimder remained puzzled, like he had thought the Commander of the Righteous could damned well do whatever he wanted.
“I’ll present the idea and recommend a positive response. Now. This news about my agents having learned the whereabouts of Anselin of Menand. Is that out yet? Has the Arnhander ambassador heard? Or the Archbishop?”
“I think not. Not yet. But don’t count on having much time. That’s just too big a story.”
“No doubt. No doubt.” It might be time to deploy his special resources.
* * *
The Grand Duke had been back in Alten Weinberg just a few days. He was, he claimed, likely to die of apoplexy if many more wicked changes tumbled into his path. It was all he could do to maintain his composure in the Imperial presence. He managed that only because of the relentless pressure of observing eyes.
Lord Admiral fon Tyre was not pleased, either. But he, too, felt the watching, calculating eyes.
Those eyes were numerous but the most intent were those of Katrin’s uncles. Those men had not been reluctant to spread the word that Hansel Blackboots’s last child was not going to suffer what her siblings had. They had been particularly remiss where Katrin was concerned, repelled by her romance with the Patriarchy. That was over. Helspeth Ege was of age. She was Empress legally. She did not need self-serving old men bullying her.
Wherever the Grand Duke, the Lord Admiral, or the former Masters of the Wardrobe, the Privy Purse, or the Household began to show exasperation publicly, an uncle turned up.
All this Hecht learned within minutes of reaching the palace. Which, to his surprise, was overrun by the ruling class.
There might be no intimate meeting to decide about Anselin.
Helspeth had had the grand ballroom opened and lighted profligately. The excuse was, ostensibly, a celebration of Katrin’s amazing success in the war against the Patriarchy.
The new Empress had had a throne brought in. Twelve Braunsknechts surrounded it. The Commander of the Righteous had brought a dozen of his own most intimidating soldiers, on the recommendation of Hourli, who assured him that of the countless plots afoot at least three meant to free the Empress of her wicked Commander of the Righteous by murdering him.
Hecht worked his way through the press, to Algres Drear. “What is all this? I expected a planning meeting.”
Drear could add nothing to what Hecht had picked up crossing the ballroom. “She doesn’t confide in me. I think she wants to hit these people over the head with a shovel. She wants them to go home for the winter with their heads stuffed with things to brood about.”
The northern lords would move on quickly. It would be harvest time soon. In three weeks Alten Weinberg would be a ghost of its summer self.
“I have a bad feeling about this, Drear.”
“A sensibly upbeat attitude.”
“Trouble?”
“Let’s see what she does.”
Drear was right. Helspeth did want to hit people over the head. As the crowd began to relax, a Braunsknecht sounded a trumpet. Helspeth read Katrin’s will into the startled silence, word for word, including a rambling excoriation of Serenity—and, most especially, her elevation of the Commander of the Righteous to the high peerage.
Piper Hecht nearly melted in the heat of the glares directed his way, heat that did not reflect directly on Helspeth. This would be recalled as further proof of Katrin’s insanity, though, surely, there would be a faction that damned Helspeth for not having burned the will instead of making it public.
* * *
The Grand Duke did suffer his apoplectic episode when he heard that a common adventurer from the Empire’s nethermost frontier had been made a prince.
The Grand Duke did not yet understand that the Council had been disbanded, to be reconstituted with people selected by the new Empress.
Hilandle noted an especially oversize member of the Commander’s lifeguard regarding him intently. The Grand Duke thought he seemed familiar. His frown deepened when he noted that the man had no right hand.
Hilandle chose that moment to lose control.
* * *
There were scores of invisible people in that ballroom, bringing beer and wine and foodstuffs, clearing away and cleaning up. They went unnoticed but were neither deaf nor blind, nor were they immune to the influence of the Shining Ones.
By celebration’s end Helspeth would become beloved of the common folk. She had defied the wicked old men whom even her father had dared not alienate. Her favor carried the new Lord Arnmigal along.
No one saw that at the moment. Nor was it obvious that Helspeth could defy the old men more easily because they were so much older today. Hilandle and fon Tyre had used themselves up trying to rage through Firaldia like youngsters still in their forties.
None of the dismissed Councilors had the fire in their bellies anymore. They preferred to get their ways by banging their swords on their shields. But an Empress with Ferris Renfrow, Algres Drear, Katrin’s uncles, and Piper Hecht behind her was not likely to be intimidated.
* * *
“This is Lady Hourli,” Hecht said. “She’s my new intelligence chief.”
Eight people had crowded into Helspeth’s refurbished palace quiet room. The smells of fresh plaster and fresher paint lingered. With Hecht and Hourli were the Empress and Lady Hilda, Ferris Renfrow, Algres Drear, and, to their consternation, Grand Duke Hilandle and Lord Admiral fon Tyre.
