by Glen Cook
Saluda observed, “This siege can’t go on forever.”
“Nor will it. In fact, I’m authorizing you to go up there and talk them into giving up. Right now.”
Both were startled. There had been no negotiations whatsoever, even sub rosa. “Terms?”
“I trust you to be sensible.” He just wanted them gone. Bechter had Drago Prosek ready to report.
Anyway, Hecht was sure that the White City did not yet despair enough to contemplate surrender.
Queen Isabeth remained poised just twenty miles away. And her brother had begun to stir behind her.
Gervase Saluda gave Hecht one long, penetrating look as he departed.
Hecht shrugged.
“Rough trip?” he asked Prosek.
“Yes, sir. Not attracting attention. Especially after I crossed the Dechear. We’re not popular out there.”
“Where anyone cares. Sit. Be comfortable. Sergeant, bring the man whatever he wants. So. Tell the tale.”
Titus Consent entered as Bechter left. He made Prosek uncomfortable. But Prosek began after an encouraging gesture from his commander.
“Why didn’t you go back to the others?”
“I didn’t trust them. That Princess. She was probably straight. The ones around her … I figured they’d do what they did. Once we took care of their monster.”
“That being?”
“They locked everybody up. Gonna force them to explain firepowder and how the falcons work. And how to make them.”
“I see.” Hecht smiled. “And you’re the only one who could tell them anything.”
“Pretty much, sir. Those guys aren’t ignorant. They know the theory — just not the practical knowledge.”
Typical of soldiers. Indifferent to why something worked, so long as it did when the arrows started flying.
Prosek continued. “On the up side, sir, they’ll get decent medical care. Which most of them needed. Both falcons committed suicide. I made sure the firepowder was used up.”
“The monster. The Instrumentality. What about it?”
“We didn’t kill it. But I don’t think it’ll be a problem again. It can’t be much more than what it was when it was still a man. And it’s badly crippled. It could barely crawl.”
“Good. Good. I’ll ask Principatè Delari what it all means. Then we have to figure out how to make these confrontations go our way faster.”
“I had a lot of time to think while I was traveling. I had some technical and tactical ideas.”
Hecht listened patiently. Prosek amazed him. “Stunning. And expensive. Godawful expensive.”
“Not my money, though. And worth it if you really want to break the Tyranny of the Night.”
“Lieutenant Consent. Work some financial sorcery on these ideas. The rest … The way to speed the firing cycle … That’ll have to go to the foundry people. Traps, though … We’ll get to work on those. We can experiment right here. The Connec has become an Instrumentality-rich environment.”
Consent said, “I don’t have to do a lot of calculating to tell you there isn’t enough silver in the world. So long as the wells of power keep producing. A vigorous push against the Night could even be counterproductive.”
“Explain.”
“The wells are fading. Which is cyclical. This time looks like the worst ever. For us, that means more people pushed into smaller territories having to survive on dwindling resources. Fighting over those makes things worse because much of the resources are destroyed in the fighting. Right here, we can see how that works. You see people worried about where food will come from — for the first time in centuries.”
“And that connects with the Night how?”
“The wells of power produce the food and wine of the Night. Again, dwindling resources. If we remove an entity from the competition, there’ll be more resources for the rest.”
“I think I see.”
“I didn’t make that as clear as I should have.”
“Clear enough. Don’t the big ones feed on the little ones? Like bugs and fish?”
“In a sense. I think.”
“Would destroying the little ones starve the big ones?”
Consent shrugged.
Hecht said, “Prosek, stay out of the way. Get back in shape. And keep thinking. I may put you in charge of figuring out better ways.”
Prosek looked to Redfearn Bechter for a cue. Bechter did not offer one.
Delari asked, “Have you seen Cloven Februaren?”
“There was a rumor about an invisible man spying on the leadership inside Castreresone. If that was him, he hasn’t bothered letting me know what they’re saying.”
“I’m worried.”
“Oh?”
“Not by what he’s doing. He’s like the weather. All you can do is live with it. No. I think there’s trouble in Brothe.”
Politics. Certainly. Hecht wished he did not have to suffer that side of the human condition. But if people could get along he would be unemployed.
“Could that be why we’ve seen so little of Saluda, Linczski, and Doneto lately?” Pinkus Ghort had visited twice and was expected again. Principatè Doneto had not visited once.
“Could be,” Delari admitted. “Doneto not wanting to draw notice. The other two are here mainly to keep an eye on us.”
“I let them go up to the gates today. To offer Castreresone a chance. Evidently, the wealthy haven’t suffered enough.”
“And aren’t sufficiently frightened.”
“Letting the city levies run wild wasn’t intimidation enough.”
“They won’t surrender while Isabeth is sitting there barely a day away. I know you don’t want King Peter for an enemy. But to finish here you need to end any hope of relief. Before Church politics yanks the rug out from under you.”
Engaging Queen Isabeth would support the mission he had been given in Dreanger. Particularly now that Sublime had an accommodation with the Grail Empire.
“I wanted a minimum of death and destruction.”
Hecht was not unprepared to assume a more aggressive strategy. Plans had been made. That was what he and his staff did while artillery pounded the walls, patrols kept the Burg and New Town cleared, and pickets harassed anyone trying to get in or out of the White City. While the engineers continued undermining and overtowering, trying to overawe but preparing for an assault as well.
“I’ll deal with Isabeth first, I suppose.”
“Not going to be easy.”
“I know. Peter won’t have sent her without his best men to protect her. She has between eight hundred and a thousand men now, maybe half of them men Duke Tormond raised.”
“Heavy cavalry.”
Yes. He had to find a way to diminish that fierce advantage. Numbers meant little if unprepared infantry had to face men in armor, atop warhorses running shoulder to shoulder.
“I know. We have ideas.” Which would not work. These Navayans had survived all the traps and trickery of the Pramans of al-Halambra.
He wished he had Buhle Smolens and Pinkus Ghort with him. They managed to execute the strategies he chose to employ.
It was time to find the limit of Hagan Brokke’s talents.
Probing attacks found the White City in a state of excitement. Its defenders swarmed to every assault site and made themselves thoroughly obnoxious if the crusaders persisted.
Hecht did not sustain any assault for long. He was taxing the enemy. Wearing his will to rush hither and yon.
The artillery never stopped. Even the dimmest and most devoted Castreresonese could foresee the inevitable end to that.
One day the Captain-General would decide there were breaches enough and order a general assault.
The Castreresonese could not resist everywhere at once. But hope remained. Encouraging messages did get through.
“I know,” Hecht told Consent. “There’s no way to stop everything. Given time, though, those messengers will bring despair instead of hope.”
Troops filter
ed out of camp after dark. For the benefit of spies they were sneaking off to reduce towns and fortresses to the northwest, where colonies of Maysaleans and adherents of the Viscesment Patriarchy were common. And they did make life miserable wherever the locals had not yet yielded to Sublime’s forces. But their mission was to collect on the upper Laur, along the northern road to Khaurene, two dozen miles from Duke Tormond’s capital. Whence they could go forward against the Khaurenesaine or ease down behind Isabeth’s position at Mohela ande Larges.
Hagan Brokke would command. He would make enough noise to be considered a clumsy sneaker.
What he did later would depend on how Duke Tormond and Queen Isabeth responded to his presence.
Patriarchal forces east of Queen Isabeth would build up clumsily enough to be noticed, too.
Hecht told Consent, “These people have made a career of war. They’re probably eager to teach us not to challenge our betters but smart enough to see the dangers. They won’t charge into a trap.”
“So you’re doing what?”
“Creating options. Options they’ll see clearly. If they sit, I’ll gradually surround them. Their only hope will be Duke Tormond. Unless they fight.”
“And Tormond does nothing but talk.”
“He hasn’t done anything else so far.”
“They’ll have the interior position. If they go after Brokke we won’t know in time to help.”
“We’ll know. We have scouts camped in their saddlebags.” He had a roster of the Navayans in Queen Isabeth’s force.
“Where can you fight them? There’s no good place out there.”
“Too true. The best strategy looks like attrition. While waiting for them to do something stupid before I do.”
“Is that likely?”
“Titus! Sarcasm? I like that. I think.” Smile gone, Hecht said, “You could have a point. I’m feeling some time pressure. Things are happening in Brothe. And people there are trying to keep me from hearing about it.”
“Did it occur to you to ask me?”
After a moment, “No. My spymaster? Why consult him? Because I’ve been too focused on what’s in front of me? What do you know?”
“My contacts in the Devedian community aren’t what they used to be. But some still think being friendly could pay dividends. They tell me when there’s something they think we should know.”
“And?”
“Most Brothens think Sublime is dying. The gang around him want to make sure they can name his replacement. The Fiducian, Joceran Cuito, looks like he’ll be their candidate.”
The Direcian. Peter of Navaya’s man. That could lead to interesting times. “A Navayan? We’re still not over the last non-Brothen who won a Patriarchal election.”
Consent shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I hear. They say Peter wants it. And has the money to make it happen.”
“I see. And I’m being kept isolated because?”
“Because you have an army. You could veto the outcome of an election. If you had the inclination. Like a general from Imperial times.”
Hecht chuckled. What would Gordimer and er-Rashal think? Their throwaway agent was in a position to influence the selection of the next main enemy of the Kaifate of al-Minphet.
Consent asked, “You thought about who you’d rather have take over if Sublime went away?”
Hecht assayed tone and expression. Was he being felt out? He decided not. “Something else to worry about.”
“Always plenty.”
“Where is Principatè Delari? I don’t see him around anymore.”
“Nor do I. But he’s out there. Maybe missing Armand.”
“Maybe.” Hecht did not miss Osa Stile even a little.
Seeing the diminution of the besieging forces, the magnates of the White City launched another desperate night sortie. The Captain-General saw it coming. Every sally had been presaged by the gathering of watchers on the city wall.
A lot of dead men decorated the slopes when the sun rose. Few were Patriarchals.
The revenant Instrumentalities were busy all night. There were numerous reports of encounters in the form of sound or stench, but only a few had seen anything.
Hecht asked his staff, “Are they rattled enough to fall apart if we attack?”
Consent said, “Our men are exhausted, too. Those who were away from the main action wore themselves out mounting diversionary attacks.”
And had gained several footholds inside the main wall. >
“I’ll let the Principatès give them one more chance to surrender. What’s this?”
A courier. With news that Queen Isabeth was moving. Her whole force was headed east, two hundred fifty knights, their associated sergeants, squires, and infantry, and nearly eight hundred Sevanphaxi and Terliagan mercenaries Tormond had conjured somehow. Nearly two thousand men, almost all veterans.
Hecht scanned the message again. “They’re coming straight at us. To see what we’ll do, I imagine.
They’re in no hurry. That’s good for us.” Otherwise, they’d be right behind the news. He sent messengers flying. To Hagan Brokke. To the scouts watching Isabeth. To those whose job it was to watch Mohela ande Larges.
An intricate dance began. It developed slowly. Each dancer waited for the other to misstep.
Isabeth halted after traveling twelve miles. She occupied the common farmland outside the town Homodel. Hecht’s scouts reported the ground looked good for cavalry.
“Let them sit. Let them get colder.” He thought it looked like there would be a more serious snowfall sometime soon. “Chase their scouts. Ambush their foragers. We’ll let Brokke upset them.”
While he waited, though, he kept on filtering men out of camp.
The bombardment of the White City went on.
Hagan Brokke feinted toward Mohela ande Larges, the attack the Captain-General supposed the enemy expected. Once Brokke saw that the Queen’s headquarters could not be taken quickly, he headed toward Khaurene. As always, his troops crushed resistance ferociously. In two days they captured six towns and fortresses and accepted the surrenders of three more.
The Patriarchals from around Castreresone established a camp three miles from Isabeth’s. Making no offer of battle.
The nights became filled with the bark and chatter and numbing stench of the Night, worsening fast. The Connecten Instrumentalities were gathering, tormenting the sons of men not nearly so much as one another.
So said Principatè Muniero Delari, more in evidence now that a collision might be coming.
The old man assembled a team of falconeers whose weapons had been lost in the confrontation with the god grub. They built and tested traps, some as imagined by Drago Prosek, most designs handed down from early Old Empire times.
The smallest Instrumentalities were easily caught, often because they were desperate to escape larger predators. Delari hoped to use the small captives to lure the large.
“What kind of sorcerer are you?” Hecht asked. “I thought, as a class, that was your high purpose. To round up a bigger, nastier herd than anyone else has.”
“You aren’t sufficiently well informed.” Delari said that deadpan. And did not explain. His sense of humor was hard to detect. “You need to spend more time with your grandfather.”
The Navayans were patient. Hecht went out to the camp and took charge. It was an excuse to get away from Castreresone. He tried provoking the Navayans with nighttime harassments. His men could not penetrate their picket lines. He had his surviving falcons fire stone shot toward the fanciest pavilion.
Their accuracy was foul, one exploded, and the noise frightened the crusaders’ own animals. There was no evidence the Navayans were impressed.
Hecht began a process of encirclement, having his men pick off anyone who strayed from the enemy camp. His patrols watched for couriers. Those from the White City were allowed to get through.
Messages coming out were intercepted as often as possible. Those were in cipher. Even Titus Consent had no luck
breaking the code. The couriers themselves, naturally, had no clue.
Hecht said, “I don’t mind if they just sit there. Except that it’s cold. We have food. They don’t. Not enough to wait us out.” While they sat, they would be hammered by increasingly desperate pleas from Castreresone.
The Captain-General refused to engage an enemy with such a heavy cavalry advantage.
Four days into the standoff news came that Patriarchal troops had gotten a solid foothold inside Castreresone. Several leading men had been captured.
It looked like the beginning of the end for the White City. That same day word came that Hagan Brokke’s men had shown themselves to watchers on the wall at Khaurene. They had burned villages and manors within sight of the city, concentrating on properties belonging to Duke Tormond. A huge, angry response from the city forced them to withdraw. But the message had been delivered.
Titus Consent materialized at Hecht’s elbow as the Captain-General tried to pry advice out of Principatè Delari. The old man was depressed for no obvious reason. Hecht told him, “You don’t have to be here.
I can send you down to Sheavenalle. You could get passage across to Brothe. You could be back loafing in the Chiaro baths in a week.”
“That won’t change the future. Nor the past. Lieutenant Consent has something urgent. Spend your empathy on him.”
“Titus?”
“The Navayans are up to something over there. Scouts are heading out.”
Soon afterward the Navayans left camp. The knights headed toward the Patriarchal camp. The mercenary infantry marched out eastward. Their own infantry followed the horsemen. Knights, sergeants, senior squires, and whatnot, those numbered almost three hundred. More than Hecht had expected.
The horsemen stopped outside bowshot, dismounted, began an advance on foot, each armored man backed by two foot.
Hecht did not know what to do. Crossbowmen being at a premium, he had left his at Castreresone.
“We have to go. Now. Lay down some kind of harassing fire. Burn some firepowder for the smoke. The breeze is blowing their way.”
It was close but the Patriarchals escaped. The Navayans evidently had no enthusiasm for their tactics and so did not move forcefully. Nor did they show any desire to enter the foul firepowder smoke.
