Lord of the Silent Kingdom

by Glen Cook

  “I guess that’s irrelevant.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “I’m supposed to have acted on this a month ago.”

  “It’s never too late, Captain-General. My cousin understands that messages go astray. It’s why we go redundant with important communiques. When we can.”

  Hecht was in no mood for low-level philosophical musings.

  The letter had included the orders he had been awaiting, hoping they would not come. Had they arrived in a timely manner Antieux would be invested now. Likewise, Sheavenalle. The main force would be giving Castreresone attention it did not want. And Antieux would not have had time to evacuate so many of its most valuable people.

  Persons with skills were resources, too, and prize commodities for the successful conqueror. Which was why Devedians could be found all round the marges of the Mother Sea.

  Hecht reflected briefly on the fact that even the children of slaves were not loath to participate in the slave trade.

  And the grandfather of the grandfather of a slave was not loath to punish slavers for their daring cruelty.

  Nor cared that he himself must have slaves amongst his own ancestors. Everyone did. Somewhere, far enough back.

  Piper Hecht was angry about the tardiness of the go order. He was excited about the challenges, real and potential. All but a tiny portion of him had become Piper Hecht, Captain-General of the Brothen Episcopal Chaldarean Church.

  “Hecht?”

  “Sorry, Your Grace. I was eye to eye with the fact that I’m going to make history. The kind remembered long after the misery ends.”

  Doneto paused. As though this unconsidered thought had an impact now that it hung there in front of his face. “Real history. You could be right. When this army crosses the Dechear it will step into the rolls of history as far more than a footnote about a skirmish. A successful Connecten Crusade will define the future of the west.”

  “True. But there’s no time to speculate about futures quickened or aborted by what we do. I’m a month behind, now.” He wondered if the timing of the belated war order had more to do with hidden agendas than with difficulties in transit.

  Hecht shouted downstairs. He wanted a staff meeting immediately, with an officers’ assembly to follow.

  And he wanted the ferrying of troops increased.

  Despite having received no orders earlier, Hecht had sent three thousand men across already. Their presence yonder would simplify the crossing for the rest. There would be no resistance.

  An embarrassed Pinkus Ghort admitted, “They were my men, Pipe. Again.” He meant the murderers, who had been betrayed by wounds they could not explain, then identified by Osa Stile and Bit’s daughter.

  “I assume you’ll protect them till they’ve been questioned?”

  “Yes, Pipe. I’m doing it!”

  Hecht’s anger subsided. Some. “Have they said anything yet?”

  “Only that they don’t know anything. They got offered a good bounty. The guy who hired them took off when he saw that the killings hadn’t taken. His name was Ingram Five. Him and his brother Anton crossed the river right after the attacks. They didn’t report in over there. They just kept on going.”

  “This stuff keeps happening. And we keep reacting. How do we get ahead of it, Pinkus? These villains don’t work in a vacuum. People have to notice them. How do we get them to warn us before somebody gets killed?”

  “You’re on your way. The soldiers are more loyal to you than to Sublime. Give them a victory and you’ll have them. They’ll winkle out the villains on their own.”

  Armies deified successful commanders. Too many commanders let that go to their heads.

  “I want to take it back to the source. Smash some skulls there. Throw some people in a fire pit. Be an altogether unpleasant guest.”

  “We’d need to invade Artecipea first. The threads all lead there.”

  Pinkus Ghort seldom seemed thoughtful. This was one of those rare times. “That don’t make sense, Pipe.

  None of us ever had nothing to do with nobody from out there. I don’t think. You? So how come somebody from there is hot to put you under?”

  “I ask myself all the time. All I can come up with is, the Instrumentalities of the Night don’t love us.”

  “Sure you ain’t getting a bit of a swelled head, there?”

  “Just brainstorming. Based on what Principatè Delari has said. I might do something someday that will inconvenience the Instrumentalities of the Night. So they want to stamp me out before I can.”

  Hecht believed he had done what the Night feared already. He had turned up a tool that mortal men could use to end the Tyranny of the Night. Whatever the Night and its black agents did now would be throwing the bones with futility. The djinn was out of the lamp. And the lamp had melted down.

  Hecht asked, “Has Bo finished?” Bo Biogna and his select thugs had been punished for their good work by being given the chance to collect materials of interest from the crack where the god grub surfaced. A gash vigorously sealed off by troops chosen by Titus Consent. Who were watched in turn by Brotherhood members supervised by Redfearn Bechter.

  “He isn’t finding any more amber pieces. His guys are still sifting pellets out of the dirt. They have to break the layer of glass to get it. They aren’t finding enough silver to justify the work, though. Most of it burned up killing that thing.”

  Ghort drifted off into awed recollections. Then he shuddered. “Interesting times, Pipe. Interesting times.”

  Hecht sighed. “They are. But we’re eating regular. I have a job for you. If you want it.”

  “You know me. A glutton for punishment. What?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “It’s possible. Just don’t tell me anything I can sell for enough to retire on.”

  “This might be that.”

  “So. What’ve you got?”

  “I want you to recruit men from the levies willing to stay on for pay.”

  “Not hard to come up with those. If you can pay them.”

  Hecht smiled tightly. “I can.”

  “How?”

  “That’s the secret you need to keep.”

  “You talked me into it, you sweet-talker.”

  “Smolens was in the right place at the right time. He picked off the latest specie shipment from Salpeno.”

  Ghort looked startled, then astonished. Then amused. “You’re going to rob your own boss?”

  “Isn’t the money supposed to support this army? If I let it travel down to Brothe, then come back, how much will disappear along the way?”

  “Most, probably.”

  “There you go. So, how about you take over the volunteer brigade?”

  “We are going over the river, right?”

  “Soon.”

  “I’m in. Bound to be something left worth stealing over yonder.”

  “Could be. You’ll go to Antieux. You and Doneto. With Clej Sedlakova in charge. Keep Doneto from going totally berserk.”

  Ghort raised a questioning eyebrow. Hecht noted the gray there.

  “I’d rather not be remembered for turning the Connec into a desert.”

  Ghort gave him a narrow look. “What’ll you be doing?”

  “I’m going to Castreresone. Smolens will try to take Sheavenalle.”

  “Castreresone? Even after Roger died?”

  “Yes.” It could not hurt to have Sublime V and King Peter nose to nose and fuming. “The confusion there should work to our advantage.”

  “Wish we’d gotten going sooner.”

  “So do I. So do I. Go on. You’ve got work to do.”

  As Ghort neared the head of the stairs, Hecht asked, “Is that daughter of Bit’s still healthy?”

  “She’s recovering.”

  “Keep her safe. When you have trustworthy men going back to the city, send her along. I’ll warn Anna that she’s coming.”

  “You think you ought to ask her first?”

  Hecht shrugged. “I
should.” But … “Principatè Delari will want his plaything to go back, too. If he can travel.” He would love to have Osa Stile out of the way.

  “That kid gives me the creeps, Pipe. They’s something stone wrong with him.”

  “Then you better be careful he doesn’t sneak into your tent.”

  “Not funny, Pipe.”

  Hecht did wonder, sometimes. Ghort seldom talked about women. That was not right in a soldier.

  The Captain-General watched the marching troops from a hillside that had been a vineyard once. “Pinkus would be disappointed if he knew,” he told Cloven Februaren. The old man had turned up while Hecht was observing the force Sedlakova, Ghort, and Doneto were taking to Antieux. The Captain-General’s lifeguards had yet to notice Februaren. The old man showed no sign of the pummeling he had suffered.

  “The vines? Yes. I see. Those men seem healthy, trained, and modestly motivated. You’ve done well.”

  “Really? You walked up and none of these men noticed.”

  “Not to worry. They’ll frustrate mundane dangers. I’ll do the same to the Night.”

  “You weren’t much help with that worm.”

  “You weren’t paying attention, then. Why did it surface where it did, instead of under your mill?”

  Hecht did not know. He shrugged.

  “It surfaced where your old amulet was being worn by an unlucky goat. Somewhere, there’s a very worried Dreangerean sorcerer.” The old man chuckled.

  Hecht did not know how to respond. Februaren had no reason to sidle round the truth.

  The Ninth Unknown said, “You recall me saying that fools might ally with the elder Instrumentalities in hopes of gaining power and favor?” He surveyed Hecht’s lifeguards. They were getting nervous.

  “Yes.”

  “Those fools already exist. The trident ring is their emblem. Rudenes Schneidel is their western chieftain.

  Lieutenant to er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. Who seems to be dedicated to restoring the Dreangerean gods of antiquity.”

  Hecht was not surprised. “There was always a suspicion that the old religion hadn’t been expunged.

  Er-Rashal was marginal in his devotions at best, but too useful to punish.”

  “Your brothers in the Sha-lug band have worked this out for themselves. The man Bone has returned to Dreanger. He hopes to warn Gordimer by going through Nassim Alizarin.”

  “If Bone convinces the Mountain I foresee a difficult life for the Rascal.”

  “Don’t forget what er-Rashal is.”

  The bodyguards heard ghost voices. They talked about it. But they could not see the old man, nor did they note their charge holding a conversation with something invisible.

  “No doubt. They’re getting nervous. You need to go soon.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did er-Rashal want with those mummies?”

  “I don’t know. But no good will come of him having them. Maybe he wants to conjure the shades of the sorcerers they used to be. Though he’d have to be atop one of the Wells of Ihrian to have enough power.

  And he’d need the support of the Night. Unless he prepared with extreme discretion, then moved too fast for the Instrumentalities to notice.”

  “Not likely, if they see threats two hundred years ahead.”

  “He could be in for a painful surprise. If he hasn’t made the right alliances inside the Night.” But that was the story of most sorcerers, including those who had infested Andesqueluz. They began to overvalue themselves and underrate the Instrumentalities of the Night. Then the Night devoured them.

  The lifeguards were thoroughly unsettled now. None could stand still. But none had yet discovered the ancient in brown.

  Hecht said, “What changed when we crossed the Dechear?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We had no trouble with the Night east of the river. Just the mischief you get anywhere. But once we crossed over we started getting pestered. Bad. Like the spirits of rock and brook and tree are more offended by our presence than Count Raymone and his friends. Principatè Delari seems indifferent. Or maybe he just can’t explain.”

  “Might he be preoccupied with more pressing matters?”

  “Sir?”

  “The Night may be more active but it’s still just a nuisance. Precautions you learned while you were crawling will head off most of the monkey business. Expect it to intensify. Yes. The land itself feels threatened. Because it is. And now it’s time to go. Yon lad with the fine blond hair just caught something from the comer of his eye. He’s going to mention it to someone.”

  The old man did a snappy about-face. And vanished as he finished. “No,” Hecht muttered. “You don’t just disappear.”

  “Sir?” Madouc had crossed twenty yards of abandoned vineyard in a blink.

  “Thought I saw something. Out of the corner of my eye. But it wasn’t there when I looked. Are they coming out in the daytime? Can they?”

  “I don’t know, sir. You should ask the Principatès about that. But I think we should move you down where you’ll be less exposed.”

  “Maybe so. Lead on.” Hecht wondered why the Night would harass Patriarchal invaders but not those from Arnhand or Grolsach.

  “That isn’t true,” Principatè Delari said when Hecht made the point. “Arnhanders and Grolsachers alike have encountered a range of significant revenants. Rook and Hilt have been underfoot from the start.

  Weaver and Shade have turned up more than once. Others are stirring. Death. Skillen. Kint. Someone is freeing their bound fragments. Some may have pulled themselves together enough to start feeding on lesser spirits.”

  “I’ve never heard of those before. Death, Skillen, Kint?”

  “Death is death. Personified. A reactive rather than a proactive. Not a claimer but a proclaimer.”

  “Huh?”

  “Death shows up when it’s time for somebody to die. Like a herald. Rook, Hilt, and the others come in to clean up.”

  “Skillen? Kint?”

  “Misfortune. Despair.”

  “Did the ancients have any happy gods?”

  “Does anyone? Today’s gods range from unpleasant to psychotic. The God Who Is God, the All-Powerful and Merciful, when He bothers to show Himself — and note that He hasn’t for several hundred years — only dispenses disasters, plagues, and pestilences. Likewise, the Devedian God and our Chaldarean deity, as currently edited. The Dainshaukin deity is a freak out of pre-history, always in an insane rage. None of them can fend for themselves. They need people like the Society to put words in their mouths and break bones in their names.”

  “I’m seeing a new side of you here.”

  “The Connec is upsetting my sense of discretion. God ought to be able to look out for Himself. If He doesn’t like your heresy He can smack you down Himself.”

  “Pardon me. I’m going to move a few rods downrange so a stray lightning bolt don’t pick me off by mistake.”

  “You just sealed your own doom, Piper. By definition, God can’t make a mistake.”

  “He doesn’t seem to mind sarcasm, either.” Madouc moved in and out of hearing as the road climbed, descended, and meandered. He seemed appalled by what he heard.

  Delari suggested, “Those of His minions who feel He needs occasional assistance could be anywhere, Piper. Maybe even among the lifeguards of the Captain-General of His Living Voice.”

  Hecht wanted to protest the absurdity. But it was not absurd. He had not chosen the bodyguards.

  Surely one would belong to the Brotherhood of War. The Society might have placed a spy, as well.

  He did not respond. Aloud.

  Delari added, “We’re never so invulnerable that there isn’t one worm who can bring us down.”

  “Not even you?”

  “Not even me. They haven’t forgotten me, Piper. They’re biding their time. There’ll come a day.” There would. Of course. Those coals never burned out.

  ***

  BUHLE SMOLENS CAME DOWN FROM THE NORTH
. HE passed behind the main Patriarchal force. He turned over the captured Arnhander specie and records of all that he had done, investigated, and learned while in Viscesment. He picked up an additional two thousand men.

  The material named and described several men he hoped to meet.

  Witnesses in Viscesment believed them to be Artecipean. They fled into the End of Connec when Smolens arrived. Immaculate’s more ardent supporters had done the same. Most were now in Antieux.

  The Artecipeans had done nothing blatant while in Viscesment. Even so, the locals believed they were up to no good. Men with such ugly personal habits could only be villains.

  The Night made itself more felt with each darkfall. Though never more than malicious mischief, the harassment sapped morale. Pinkus Ghort had trouble recruiting militiamen. When, despite their Chaldarean faith, every imaginable demon and malevolent sprite seemed possible, most wanted to relocate to where interaction with those entities was less likely.

  There were few desertions from the Patriarchal force. And plenty of natives were willing to help the Church tame the heretics of the Connec.

  The weather turned. Rains came. Not just the occasional shower whose misery faded in a few hours but frequent violent thunderstorms featuring high winds, massive lightning, and, often, accompanying barrages of hail. In calmer hours the sky remained overcast.

  The wet did no good for equipment, clothing, boots, feet, or the hooves of the animals.

  “It’s natural,” Principatè Delari assured Hecht when he asked if the gods themselves were conspiring to destroy the army with mildew, mold, foot rot, and rust. “There’s just more of it this year than normal. So the locals assure me.” The sky seldom shone through.

  The weather was inhospitable the day they sighted Castreresone. Its walls were as dreary as the sky. The folk of city and surrounding countryside were astonished to find a crusader army going into camp astride the broad old bridge over the Laur. There was never any contact with enemy scouts or skirmishers. The vedettes met no one but startled peasants and amazed travelers.

  Hecht kept asking, “How could they possibly not know we were coming? No infantry force moves faster than the news of its coming.”

  Titus Consent opined, “They heard. They didn’t believe. It isn’t possible. Peter of Navaya is their shield now. Not even Sublime V is crazy enough to offend King Peter.”