Lord of the Silent Kingdom

by Glen Cook

  Renfrow drew a portion and retreated into the same shadows as the night before.

  Hecht had assumed his place in his own dark clot a half hour earlier. His day had been unproductive. The children had discovered nothing — though they did feed his suspicions of the men he and Ghort had tagged as probable villains. They were from farther north or west, by their accents. They had horses stabled behind the inn. The stable boys had been paid to keep their tack ready for instant use. They prayed a lot. Pella considered that the most damning thing about them.

  Hecht told Pella to arrange for some of that tack to disappear.

  The suspects did not seem unusually wary.

  Sometime during their second morning there the Knight of Wands began to buzz. A Grolsacher mercenary force, supposedly armed with letters of marque from Sublime V, had come to a bad end in the Connec. Only a handful survived — by running faster than Count Raymone Garete could chase. One survivor was a dastardly coward of a bishop, Morcant Farfog of Strang. The band’s captain, Haiden Backe, had been among the first to fall. Prisoners willingly betrayed the Patriarch’s role in their bad behavior. Documentary evidence had been thin in the Grolsachers’ camp, however. The actual letters of marque had vanished. Of course, they were extremely valuable instruments.

  Ghort whispered, “Your boss is a raving madman, Pipe. What the hell was he thinking? That Raymone Garete was one of the guys who made the Calziran Crusade work. What kind of gratitude is that?”

  “Typical gratitude. The gratitude of kings. Sublime has never been out of Brothe. He’s never been outside his tiny little clique of family and associates. He only hears what they think he wants to hear. He honestly believes that most of the world thinks just like he does. That they’re longing for a champion who’ll lead them into the fray. He thinks big things will go his way because little things have ever since he was in diapers. He’s absolutely convinced of his divine right and of Patriarchal Infallibility. I don’t think there’s any way to scrape the scales off his eyes. I’ve tried. Though I never get close enough to actually talk to him.”

  “People like that mostly end up prematurely dead.”

  “Now we know why Sublime and his gang weren’t worried about money.”

  “Plundering the heretics was always part of his plan.”

  “It won’t work out any better in the Connec than it did in Calzir. There’s a lot of wealth there. That country has been peaceful for so long. But most of the wealth will get destroyed or disappear during the getting.”

  “Shit,” Ghort murmured. “This news is gonna get back to Brothe before we do. Our asses are gonna be in a sling when they can’t find us.”

  Hecht thought so, too. There would be a lot of running in circles, screaming and shouting, once this news reached the Mother City. Though it should not have much practical impact. “We might’ve made a bad career move, sneaking off.”

  “Maybe this guy will give us a job.” He meant Ferris Renfrow, who was headed their way.

  Renfrow said, “You’ve heard the news from the Connec.”

  Hecht nodded.

  “You should know that while the results delight me, neither the Emperor nor I contributed to Haiden Backe’s embarrassment.”

  “That makes it all right, then.”

  Renfrew grinned. Hecht had not seen that before. “Sublime … No. Mustn’t show disrespect to the Father of the Church. But I have to wonder about a man who’d hire Grolsachers — and Backe in particular — after all the disasters involving those people the last ten years. It’ll be a fearsome hard winter in Grolsach, for sure.”

  Ghort said, “He hired Haiden Backe because he couldn’t find anybody else stupid enough. Never minding Sublime’s genius. Grolsach is terrible. Not so bad to be from, though, on account of nobody expects a lot from you.” More to himself, Ghort muttered, “Any Grolsacher tries to change their luck, he screws up and it just gets worse.”

  “Spoken like a man who knows whereof he speaks.”

  “Smart guys get out and find work somewhere else. Which helps them and Grolsach both because then there’s fewer mouths to fill.”

  “If the smartest people emigrate, what does that say about those who don’t?”

  Ghort shrugged. He did not know Ferris Renfrow. He did know the man’s reputation. The Imperial fancied himself the cleverest man around. And liked to show it in pointless debates.

  Renfrow turned to Hecht. “You’ve got a couple of kids you’re towing around. How come?”

  “Cover. Plus, somebody has a soft streak.” He nodded at Ghort. “Says one of them reminds him of him.”

  “Ugly kid?”

  “First shot. They have their uses. Eyes and ears. Though the smaller boy is a mute.”

  “You came from Sonsa.” Not a question.

  Hecht nodded. Renfrow knew.

  “What’s going on there?”

  “We weren’t there long.”

  But long enough to collect a couple of street urchins, Renfrow said with his calculating gray eyes.

  Ghort said, “The dump’s a ghost town. I expected more people and more business. Guess they ain’t never recovered from the Deve uprising.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Hecht knew Renfrow wanted to keep talking, but every question he asked revealed information as well.

  Which was why, in turn, Hecht did not ask about Vali Dumaine.

  If anyone did know that story, Renfrow would.

  So Hecht asked, “How much support will Lothar give the Duke of Clearenza?”

  Renfrow chuckled. “What will the Patriarch do in response to fon Dreasser coming to his senses?”

  Hecht smiled back.

  Renfrow saw something that interested him. Startled and disturbed him, perhaps. For a flickering instant.

  “He wouldn’t have delusions of …”

  “Plenty,” Ghort said. “Illusions, too. He’s loony as a band of rock apes on fermented fruit.”

  What did that mean? Hecht said, “We wouldn’t be here if he was serious about that, would we?”

  Renfrow grunted, headed out the front door.

  A man went out after him. Hecht said, “That would be the man he hoped we wouldn’t notice.”

  Ghort agreed. “Yes. And now I’m curious. Because that was Lyse Tanner.”

  “Don’t know the name.”

  “He’s from Santerin. One of the ones who ran out after their last succession squabble. He tried to get a commission from the Patriarch. His brother is a bishop. He didn’t get the job.”

  “So he went to work for the Emperor?”

  “He was probably on Renfrow’s payroll first. Let’s keep an eye on him. See who his associates are. If he brought any. Think Renfrow knows we caught it?”

  “He won’t assume we didn’t, I expect.”

  “Pipe, I’m getting a little anxious. Things are going on around us. And we ain’t got a clue what they are.”

  “That’s the story of my life. I’d be worried if I thought I was getting on top of everything.”

  Hecht and Ghort were eating supper with the children when the deserters arrived. “That’s them,” Ghort whispered. He handed his bowl down to Vali, who pushed it under the bench. She was more relaxed but had not yet spoken. Ghort stared at the floor, letting the shadows disguise him.

  Hecht whispered, “Pella. The men who just came in. Go outside and wait for them to come back out.

  Keep track. Don’t be obvious.” He glanced over. Ferris Renfrow had not yet crept into his evening shadow.

  The children headed out the back way, Pella blathering about outhouses. Nobody paid attention. The brats had become furniture already.

  “And now?” Ghort asked.

  “And now I wish I’d had Pella go eavesdrop.” The newcomers had begun by questioning the one-eyed man. If he had a name Hecht had yet to hear it. One-eye indicated one of the men Hecht had picked out earlier. The newcomers interrupted his before meal prayer.

  The seated man was not pleased.

&
nbsp; Hecht said, “He didn’t want them to find him in here.”

  Ghort asked, “You dug out anything that you haven’t told me yet?”

  “They pray a lot. That one told the redhead serving girl that he’s a priest. From Ormienden. He didn’t say from where.” Sublime’s backers in parts of Ormienden were savage fanatics. Immaculate’s were less determined but more numerous.

  “Your basic godshouter is a shifty weasel, whatever his spiritual poison. But that guy and his pals look a little more so than usual.”

  Hecht thought so himself. But he had found no way to learn more about them.

  “Here comes another one.” Another supposed priest. “There’s one more, right?”

  The newcomer seemed nervous. The deserters paid no attention.

  Ghort related what he imagined was happening. “My boys want their money. They’re anxious to get on down the road. The paymaster is saying, relax. Don’t attract attention. Anyway, it wouldn’t be smart to get back out there on the road. There’s some bad Night things prowling around north of here.”

  Which was true. A blood-drained corpse had been found only miles away just that morning.

  “My boys don’t care. They’ve worked themselves into a lather, worrying about how awful their lives will get if Iron Bottom Ghort ever gets hold of them.”

  “I’d be nervous myself.”

  “You’d have reason … Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  ‘The prayer brothers just sold them some snake oil. The money is hidden outside. The stable, probably.

  Some kind of crap like that. They’re going to let the priests take them outside.” The deserters and their interlocutors rose.

  “Can they be that stupid?”

  “They signed on to set you up.”

  “There is that.” That seemed more like overweening optimism, though. “Let’s don’t let them get too far ahead.”

  Ghort muttered, “Shit. Timing. Here’s your Imperial pal.”

  Ferris Renfrow drifted into his habitual shadow. What had passed between him and Lyse Tanner? Why was he still hanging around? Did he have regular connections at the Knight of Wands?

  “They are going out back. The stable or the outhouses.”

  “Or the woods behind, if they’re up to any real wickedness.” He thought Renfrow showed a flicker of interest in the four men. Then glanced from them to him.

  Of course. Renfrow would want to penetrate his business if he could.

  “No help for it,” Ghort muttered. “Let’s go. I wish it was busier tonight.”

  The deserters were not complete fools. Both made sure of hidden weapons when their paymasters were not looking. Hecht saw Renfrow become more alert.

  “You’re right. Nothing for it.”

  The path to the outhouses led through the kitchen area, dark, smoky, and filthy enough to silence hunger for days. A greasy, heavily furred fat man was loafing, dispiritedly chatting up a bored serving girl who had no interest in a game of slap and tickle. She was not more than three years older than Vali. The cook demanded, “What’s this damned parade to the jakes? Ain’t nobody drunk enough to need a piss between them. You.” He pointed a sausage finger at Hecht. “You ain’t had a drink since you been here. That’s unnatural.”

  Ghort countered, “It ain’t the beer, brother. It’s the rotten food all in a gassy hurry to get out the shit chute.”

  The cook considered taking umbrage. It was not worth the energy. He would save himself for the serving girl.

  Hecht said, “She’s probably his daughter.”

  “Even so, can’t say as I blame him for trying. She’s got an interesting look.”

  Pella materialized outside the back door. He whispered, They headed for the stables, Your Honors. With two other men. Ones that was staying here already.”

  “Where’s Vali?”

  “Watching them.”

  “Show us where they are. Then you and Vali get back inside. Go to bed. You’ll need the rest. We’ll be on the road again tomorrow.”

  “This what you been waiting for?”

  “Yes. Get moving.”

  Pella led off like he could see in the dark. Hecht and Ghort eased along behind, Hecht wondering what had become of the third priest.

  The stables were quiet. The stable boys were asleep and he animals snoozing. Even the rats seemed to have taken the night off. An utter lack of response from his amulet told Hecht that no supernatural threat was afoot. Meaning none had an interest in what was happening here.

  Their quarry proved not to have gone to the stable itself but into the attached feed shed. A lantern burned there. Light leaked through unsealed walls. Ghort used touch and gesture to tell Pella to collect Vali and head back inside. To Hecht, he breathed, “Keep alert. There’s another one around somewhere.”

  Hecht nodded. He eased up to peek through an uncaulked crack between horizontal logs.

  The missing man was inside. He helped his friends move sacks of oats. The would-be assassins were more wary than the men paying off.

  Interesting, Hecht thought. The holy men seemed inclined to play it straight. The deserters must have convinced them that everything had gone well.

  Ghort breathed, “I don’t buy it. Those two aren’t even the ones that were sent down there.”

  Hecht squeezed Ghort’s arm. They could talk later.

  The three counted out silver to the two. There was a brief argument about whether or not the wages of dead conspirators ought to be paid. The deserters argued that the dead men had left families behind.

  The paymasters offered half the agreed sum. Or nothing.

  The deserters took what they could get. Hecht got the sense that their concern about the families of relatives now fatherless and husbandless was genuine. The plot may have been an extended family enterprise.

  There was little talk, though the deserters did offer an account of the attack that failed to match what Hecht recalled.

  Why were the paymasters so amenable?

  Well, the deserters were no real threat since they could not know anything about these three.

  The deserters pocketed their money and took off for the stable. They roused the stable boys and ordered their mounts readied. One boy protested. “Them nags is plumb worn out. Yer killin’ them. And yer don’t want ter go ridin’ round in the night, nohow. On account a they’s banes on the road up north.

  “An’ thank ‘e, Yer Honors!” The boy stopped having opinions. Hecht guessed that he had received a nice tip.

  Hecht peeked through the feedshed wall. All three priests were seated on sacks. After a joint prayer, one produced a kuf pipe. As he packed it, he asked, “Coyne is ready?”

  “I sent word. He’ll handle it.”

  Hecht became aware of Pella’s continued presence. Irked, he said nothing. He did not want the boy to argue and give them away. He pulled Ghort closer, breathed, “What do you think?”

  “We need to move now. Never gonna get a better chance. They’re cornered.”

  But there were three of them, complete unknowns.

  ***

  GHORT WENT FIRST. HE WANTED TO SEE THEIR SHOCK. When Hecht followed the three had just begun to rise in a loud of kuf smoke, confused. Ghort said, “Just a social visit, guys. We smelled the pipe. Hoped you’d share.”

  Pella slid in behind Hecht, armed with a piece of kindling he considered a worthy truncheon.

  Ghort continued. “My name is Pinkus Ghort. My friend is Piper Hecht. The short guy is a famous literary character. You know who we are, now. We’ll talk while we’re passing the pipe.”

  The trio did recognize at least one of the names.

  Pella looked at them, back and forth. He did not know those names but was pleased to hear what might be real ones.

  Ghort warned, “Don’t be that way. You aren’t killers. We’re professionals. You pull a knife, you get hurt.”

  One man did not listen.

  Ghort moved so fast he startled Hecht as much as the man he disa
rmed. “So, what we’re going to do here is, we’re going to share a pipe and talk about assassinations.”

  Ghort collected the fallen knife. “Pipe? Want to throw anything in here?”

  “You’re doing fine. But let’s not dawdle.”

  Ghort flipped the knife. It stuck in the throat of the man farthest from him. “You,” he told the next farthest.

  “Take care of him. He’ll live if you pay attention. Unless you all want to be stubborn. Then none of you will. And you’ll ruin a lot of good oats before you stink enough for them to dig you out.”

  “Sit,” Hecht told the man Ghort had disarmed. “Talk to us. Who are you?”

  After a brief consultation with his courage, the man said, “We’re priests. Lay brothers, actually.”

  “Priests don’t murder people.”

  “They do it all the time, Pipe. They just dress it up in mumbo jumbo. Do go on. This could get fascinating.

  Our own Church is trying to stab us in the back.”

  “Not the Church. Not your Church. Not the Usurper.”

  “She-it! Viscesment! Immaculate?”

  Hecht found that hard to swallow. It was a given that the Anti-Patriarch was weak and ineffectual, little more than a joke. The consensus was that Immaculate II would drink himself to death and the dual Patriarchy would fade into history with him. Immaculate’s line, though it had sound legal footing, would end.

  “That will take some explaining,” Hecht said.

  “Are you really the Captain-General?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “The Advisory concluded that you are the most dangerous weapon the Usurper has in his arsenal. If you’re removed Sublime will never pull together forces able to impose his will outside his own territories.

  Especially once the Emperor dies.”

  The Empire was expected to weaken and become chaotic when Lothar died. His sister Katrin would succeed. And she would have to deal with scores of Electors and lesser nobility who would chafe under the rule of a woman.

  “Explains the incompetence of the whole thing,” Ghort muttered. “The Anti-Patriarch. Who’d of thought he even had a hair, let alone a complete set of balls?”