by Glen Cook
“Thugs in skirts who have gained the favor of the Night.”
A man had come to Socia, last night, unnoticed by her lifeguards. He had explained the situation in Arnhand: Kedle had captured Anne of Menand and Serenity. The new Arnhander king was there, making peace. That would be enforced by the Righteous. The Righteous had had a scrimmage with the Vindicated. That had left the latter stunned and disinclined toward further argument.
The man walked out when she started to ask questions. She mentioned him to no one but Brother Candle.
“Was his right hand damaged?”
“You think…? Let me think. I don’t know. I don’t remember anything but his eyes. They were hypnotic.”
“I don’t suppose his identity matters. His message does, however. Let’s keep that to ourselves. Travel will be difficult enough without having to manage seven score drunken celebrants.”
Progress did remain slow. Their best day, after departing Castreresone, saw nine miles put behind. Two days of no travel followed when rain made the roads impassable. Rain came frequently. That season had arrived. It made up for the more clement weather farther east.
A drizzle was in progress when Socia and the Perfect finally sighted Khaurene’s northern and eastern faces. It was just past noon. No rain was falling on the city, which sat in an island of sunlight, glistening, surrounded by the thousand greens of spring.
Socia said, “Let us hope that is an omen.”
News of their approach had run ahead. People began to come out while the travelers were still hours away. Socia whispered, “I’m spoiled. I can’t help thinking that I could be there in ten minutes if I flew.”
“That must stay secret. Never give in to the urge to brag or show off.”
“I know. I know.”
“People will be afraid, not impressed.”
“I know. I’ll burn if I can’t tame my flamboyant side.” The old man chuckled.
The company entered Khaurene as day faded. The streets were bright with torchlight. People wanted to see the new rulers. Lumiere obliged by being awake and fussing.
Brother Candle noted some sullen faces. Despite all, a few Episcopal Chaldareans remained, of the sort who believed that the Society for Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy, and burning people, were good ideas.
He might actually pine for Bernardin’s no-nonsense justice.
The Archimbault family, less Guillemette and Escamerole, and those Maysaleans who had come back to Khaurene, left the company to reclaim their homes. Socia sent mounted soldiers to help evict squatters. She meant to make clear from the onset that she would be partisan. Her friends would be well treated. She would rule fairly but those who did not offer friendship should not expect kindness in return.
Brother Candle stayed with Socia. He would do so till she settled in. He would introduce her to the influential men of Khaurene and would lend moral support in her dealings with the Direcians. He feared the Direcian nobility would be disinclined to surrender the power they had acquired.
Soon, though, he told Socia, “This may be easier than you expect. Isabeth is here. The Navayans love her as much as the Khaurenese do.”
“How do you know she’s here?”
“The troops at the intersections are wearing Navayan livery.”
The remnants of the company entered Metrelieux after nightfall, in a drizzling rain, with Lumiere vocalizing prodigiously. The situation was outside normal protocol. The new Duke should have made his entrance in the morning, on a sunny day, to the blare of trumpets, amidst great pomp and ceremony.
The travelers dismounted in the bailey court. Servants hustled everyone off to appropriate quarters, where meals, baths, and other luxuries awaited, including real beds. The pomp and ceremony could wait.
“Very practical, usually, Isabeth,” Brother Candle told Bicot Hodier. The ducal herald had insisted on visiting while the Perfect lay back in warm water in a hammered copper tub. Brother Candle asked, “Why aren’t the public baths used anymore?”
Hodier said, “True religion came to the Connec. Good Chaldareans don’t expose their flesh to the eyes of strangers.”
“And most shouldn’t.”
Hodier got the jest. “Speak for yourself.”
“I am. What do you want?”
“I am terrified by this savage woman from Antieux. But, first, where did you get those bizarre tattoos? And why?”
“Where would be Antieux. I wasn’t given a choice. A thing of the Night took hold of me. When she turned loose I had the snakes. You didn’t come to gawk at my bony old corpse. Get to the point.”
“Seeing that, it’s a bit hard to remember.”
Brother Candle was inclined to be sharp but the servants remained within earshot. The city would simmer with rumors because of what he had said already.
“Please, Bicot. We’re too old to waste time.”
“Of course. I have no actual agenda, other than to tell you what’s happened since last you were here.”
“Do, then. Without trying to enlist me in anyone’s fantasy. I’m a Seeker After Light. The things of this world…”
“All right! Listen!” The old herald described social adjustments that had taken place. “You fled east because you thought Anne would throw the full might of Arnhand at Khaurene.”
“She would have if she could have.”
“Yes. But her support was evaporating. And the Vindicated forced her onto the defensive.” Then Hodier described a resurgence of the local Brothen Episcopal party, which he applauded.
Brother Candle warned, “Don’t expect another reign like Tormond’s. Socia will make mistakes but she won’t be indecisive. She won’t tolerate the usual squabbling.”
“She may be in for some surprises, Master.”
“As may be Khaurene, Bicot. I’ll let you in on a secret. The Vindicated are coming. You’ll hear the full story soon. The salient point is, Kedle Richeut, the Kingslayer, is on her way. Those who irritate the Countess won’t do so for long.”
Brother Candle had ignored his own advice. He excoriated himself silently. He rationalized by telling himself that Khaurene would make a more peaceful transition under threat of the Vindicated.
Bicot Hodier was at sea now. His mission, whatever it had been, was dead. As seconds passed he looked ever more like a cornered rodent.
He blurted, “Where are the tokens Tormond gave you? There can’t be a new Duke…”
“Bicot, calm yourself. Why are you so upset?”
“The tokens! The seal! Where are they, heretic?”
“Where they belong. With the Duke. What wickedness have you fallen into, Bicot? Confession is good for the soul.” Brother Candle extended his left hand.
Hodier blurted, “Extinguishing heresy is food for the soul!” He pulled a knife.
The Perfect’s serpent tattoo wriggled, slithered forth, poised to strike.
Hodier moaned.
The snake faced the servants. They went rigid.
The herald could not move but he kept babbling. “It’s true. You Perfect are marked by the Adversary.”
“Not at all. But this Perfect has been touched by the Night. And I want to know why Bicot Hodier, herald, is determined to thwart his sovereign. Are you an agent of Anne of Menand?” The servants heard him.
Just suspicion could become a death sentence.
Hodier was horrified. “No!”
“Then you must be an agent of the Society, which amounts to the same thing. Or is your allegiance to some other force determined to rape the Connec of its independence, wealth, security, and genius?”
“No! No! I’m my own man! I am no man’s pawn! Can’t you pull that thing in?”
“I have no control over the snakes, Bicot. I don’t know why they do what they do. I’m their tool, not the other way around.”
Brother Candle had known this man since they were boys. They were never close but neither had they ever been enemies.
“Bicot, you had some hope when you interrupted my ba
th. Which is getting cold, boys. One of you bring another pot of hot water.”
Seldom did life afford an opportunity to wallow in luxury. Tonight he would indulge. Tonight would offset, feebly, the winter spent on the Reindau Spine, or the winter spent on the run from the Captain-General.
The serpent threatening Hodier collapsed back into an incredibly detailed tattoo, with color showing in its mouth, extended tongue, and eyes.
Brother Candle had to tear his attention away.
There had been no color and fewer details before.
He needed a mirror. He needed to see the snake on his neck. That one had killed.
“Talk to me, Bicot.”
* * *
Socia and Lumiere managed morning and afternoon ceremonies without the Perfect. Nothing remarkable happened. Brother Candle watched from the gallery, studying the witnesses, seeing little emotion.
Rumors about his encounter with Hodier were out there, now. Hodier and friends had been intimidated. Their motivating force had been trivial: the fear of losing their sinecures.
Brother Candle did not understand. As long as he did nothing stupid, Hodier had been fixed for life. But he had done something stupid, now. Socia might make an example.
* * *
“I don’t care what you say, Master,” Socia said. She was holding Lumiere. The boy had gotten a lot of maternal attention lately. “I have certain advantages. I mean to exploit them. Khaurene won’t keep secrets from me. I want it tamed before Isabeth leaves.”
“Take care. Don’t hand the extremists any ammunition.”
“I’ll give them ammunition. With them standing against a wall.”
“Socia!”
“You are a wonder, Master. Like a father and a husband at the same time, only more so, with none of the fun. A treasure of an old fusspot. Let me say this: I really have learned most of the lessons you tried to teach me.”
That could be. But there was another level …
“I do wish we could have brought Bernardin. I’d feel so much better if I had him sorting out the local villains.”
“Socia, this isn’t Antieux. There are ten times as many people and five times as many factions.”
“And I’ll tame them. If not before Isabeth leaves, then after Kedle gets here.” Socia wanted to go see Kedle but was too busy. “I won’t use the Queen’s men unless I have to.”
“You need someone. The Navayans are what you have.”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Please!”
“You know the important people.”
“I thought I did till Bicot Hodier…”
“He was confused. I talked to him. He won’t be a problem again.”
“But … how did you…?”
“I threatened him with you.”
“What?”
“In a manner of speaking. Make a list of the most influential men. I’ll get them here for an old-fashioned come-to-Aaron meeting. I’ll show them I’m not a girl and that making me unhappy won’t be smart. You’ll roam around scowling and threatening to roll up your sleeves.”
The whole city knew about his tattoos. “You’d think, considering what Khaurene has suffered, that people would be worn out and ready for peace. But the conspiracy and backstabbing never end. Greed and ambition never let up.”
“Evil never sleeps.”
“Damn me. The girl has begun to think at last.”
“It had to happen someday. You wore me down.”
* * *
Rumors of events in Arnhand reached Khaurene seven days after the new Duke. More news arrived over the following days, some factual, some exaggerated, all meeting resolute disbelief. It was not possible that a woman, even the Kingslayer, could have beaten Arnhand to its knees.
While visiting the Archimbaults Brother Candle learned that Brothen Episcopals were abandoning the city. They believed that disaster had claimed the last great champion of their Church, Anne of Menand. Their faction, already decimated, could not survive another pogrom.
They would migrate to friendlier climes and abide there till God saw fit to extirpate the apostates and heretics.
Brother Candle was happy to see them go, both because he wished no one harm and because their absence would leave Khaurene more peaceful.
“We need to exploit this time while they’re still numb,” Socia said.
Brother Candle agreed but was not pleased with her constant use of a non-royal “we.” He was, in effect, her grand vizier. He did not want the job. There was no one else to do it. His most difficult task would be to find trustworthy people to do the work of the duchy. Socia had brought only a handful of functionaries. They knew little about Khaurene.
Isabeth meant to leave for Navaya as soon as the rains eased up. She had an empire to wrangle.
Socia wasted no time making herself the hard face of the new regime. Isabeth, urged by a Maysalean Perfect who was an old family friend, stayed out of sight and let the Garete graft take.
Navayan soldiers were never invisible, however. They enforced the peace whenever sectarian violence flared. Socia played no favorites when dealing with that.
Brother Candle knew she was shifting shape and running the Khaurenese nights. That was obvious to him, and it was effective. Three executions, a dozen imprisonments, several confiscations, and some heavy fines, in the space of a week, definitely taught the lesson of caution.
* * *
There were nights when the Perfect lay awake contemplating the fact that Sant Peyre de Mileage lay only slightly farther to the southwest than did Antieux to the east, and the journey thither would be no more difficult. If he joined Isabeth’s party he would be safe for all but the last twelve miles. Even a man his age could cover that in a day.
Socia cornered him. “Where are you at lately, Master? What’s on your mind?”
“I’m thinking about moving to the tranquility of a monastery.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“As ever, your last concern is for the welfare of my soul.”
Socia wasted no breath on a guilt-edged response.
When next he lay down for a nap the Perfect found himself thinking not of Sant Peyre de Mileage but about the pilgrimage notion that had wormed its way into his mind a few months ago. Before that it had been just one in a clutch of trivial wishes and regrets.
It had to be a sign of the times. The possibility of making the journey began to take on substance.
29. Lucidia: Al-Pinea, in the Idiam
Nassim Alizarin was a weary man particularly tired of failing. The move to al-Pinea had gone well. Since then, though, he and the Ansa had pursued the Rascal to little effect. Cynical Bone insisted that there could be no final solution while Indala subsidized the Ansa.
The Dreangerean sorcerer suffered no success, either. His powers were leaking away. He remained formidable but each attack he fended off cost him some of what he had left.
Mowfik approached. “Message from the Ansa, General. There are riders coming on the Shamramdi trace.”
“Not likely to be trouble, are they?”
“No, us being back here so far we have to get our sunlight hauled in on camelback.”
“Make sure Ginter gets a gift and a thank you for the warning. And tell Az that I need him.”
Riders coming did not feel right. He was not expecting anyone and had not asked for reinforcements.
Al-Azer er-Selim materialized moments before a dozen horsemen and three pack camels entered the decrepit village. “It’s the boy, General. Azim. His bunch don’t look like they’re back from a thundering victory.”
“They’re on the run? Impossible. Not with the numbers they had.”
“They don’t look whipped, either. Just worn down and disappointed. See for yourself.”
Nassim sat in the shade of a wall built by Imperial legionnaires a thousand years earlier. Young Az and some regular companions crossed what passed for a village square. On the far side, away from the water pool so their
wastes would not make the liquid any nastier than it was, a mixed flock of sheep and goats bleated incessantly in makeshift pens. A brace of wagons and three animal-hide tents stood close by. The tents housed several Ansa, one of whom was the elderly and vain sub-chief, Ginter.
The Mountain hoisted himself to his feet. His years did not bother him so much at al-Pinea. Er-Selim thought that might be because of the minerals in the water. He soaked regularly.
Alizarin was thrilled to see Azim but restrained his joy. The boy was grimly unhappy. His first independent assignment had not gone well.
Someone brought cool water. Others helped with the animals, who wanted water more than did their riders. Their refreshment took place away from the spring and pool.
Nassim said, “You’re exhausted. You have a reason for riding hard?”
Young Az joined the Mountain in his patch of shade. “Not really. No one is chasing us. We were working off our anger.”
“I see.” The Mountain awaited illumination.
“My uncle waited too long before sending us in. Gherig used the time to make repairs.”
“They couldn’t have had that many men left.”
“New crusaders arrive every day, Uncle. They’re coming by sea from Firaldia and kingdoms farther west. The ones at Gherig were Brotherhood of War. My foragers ran into them on the plain below Megaeda. The results were not pleasant for the Believers.”
“How many?”
“Fewer than a hundred, but all veterans of the Calziran Crusade. They compelled us to leave off harassing Gherig.”
Nassim observed, “I’m disappointed for you but I don’t know what else to say.”
“I didn’t come for comfort, Uncle.” The boy used the honorific for the second time. Nassim strained not to puff up with pride. “I’m here to pick your brain.”
“Flattering but unrealistic. My few successes came a long time ago.”
Young Az shrugged. “I’m afraid, Uncle. Those fighters hammered us. They didn’t fall into our traps. They were workmanlike about the whole business.” He flashed a quirk of a smile. “I’m afraid because the Commander of the Righteous is supposed to be more disciplined than any Arnhander we’ve seen before. And he will bring sixty thousand fighters.”
