Lord of the Silent Kingdom

by Glen Cook

  Prosek caught up with Hecht. “You saw how the smoke bothered them? Sir?”

  “Of course. It was my idea.”

  “Make some with more sulfur in it. For that purpose.”

  “Do it. Add captain of chemical warfare to your job description.”

  The Patriarchal forces reassembled farther east. Infantry there had been skirmishing with the mercenaries all afternoon. The mercenaries were waiting on their paymasters. Hecht did not press them.

  The Navayans were not inclined to be drawn in, either. Titus Consent opined, “This could be a long, nasty war if there are never any battles.”

  “It’s long and nasty now. These people have been crippling each other by ruining one another’s agriculture for several years.”

  “We can turn the country into a desert.”

  “And God will love us more. Apparently.” Redfearn Bechter scowled the whole time. He was a cynical old man himself, but this talk smacked of heresy. He sent a look of appeal to Madouc. The chief lifeguard shrugged. Doctrinal indiscretion was not his problem.

  The Captain-General said, “Sergeant, disrespect for the intellect of the Patriarch isn’t heresy. It isn’t sacrilege, either. It’s not even insubordination. We’re doing what he tells us. We’re just not sure he’s hearing what God is whispering in his ear.”

  No explanation would comfort the old soldier. He had lived his life for God and the Church. He said,

  “The men we have hidden in the hills are having a lot of trouble with Night things.”

  “For example?”

  “Just little things. So far. But always something wicked. Spoiling wine. Making beer go skunky. Stirring up hornets. Spooking horses.”

  “Where’s Principatè Delari gotten to? He should’ve been here long before us. I started him off early.”

  Bechter said, “I kept him going back to Castreresone. Assuming you didn’t want him exposed to misfortune out here.”

  “Of course. Damn! No, you did right. It’s just inconvenient. I wanted to ask him why the Night is ganging up on us all of a sudden.”

  Consent asked, “Is it? I’d bet it’s being just as obnoxious to those people back up the road.”

  The skirmishing ended at nightfall. The Navayans withdrew into a tight encampment. Which suggested that the Night was, indeed, being impartially obnoxious.

  Something big came after midnight. Something that made Hecht’s amulet burn his wrist. Something that reeked and birthed terror with its stench. The animals nearly revolted.

  The Captain-General summoned Drago Prosek. “There’s work for the falcons.” The first weapon barked ten minutes later. There was no need for a second to comment.

  Instantly there was an absence of any sense of supernatural presence. The falconeers reported a vast, panicky rustle a moment before the falcon spoke.

  Then there was excitement to the west. Fires blazing up. Distance-muted shouting.

  Nothing more happened. Hecht told Prosek, “Keep a crew standing by. They don’t need permission to fire but they better not waste charges on their imaginations.”

  Prosek nodded, expression grim. Knowing perfectly well the nervous falconeers would fire first and worry about weathering the Captain-General’s displeasure once they had survived.

  Hecht headed for the shelter his lifeguards had thrown together. And discovered that he would be getting no sleep anytime soon.

  Cloven Februaren sat in a corner, barely discernible. Hecht said, “I thought we’d lost you.”

  “I’m always around. Somewhere. You’re getting comfortable with destroying Instrumentalities.”

  “It’s easier than killing people. Emotionally.”

  “You should keep yourself inside a circle of ready falcons. From now on.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Night sees you finding it easier than killing people, too. The Night doesn’t understand that the djinn can’t be shoved back into the lamp. It hasn’t gotten over Man having gained the secret of fire.”

  Hecht nodded. He was exhausted. Dawn would come sooner than he liked. “You always turn up when something awful is about to happen. What will it be this time?”

  “Not this time. Just passing through. Wanted to caution you to be careful with Isabeth. She’s in a tight place. She has to be seen trying to do something. But neither she nor her captains know what. This war is nothing like what they’re used to in Direcia, where they know who the enemy is. And people don’t change sides when the whim strikes.”

  Hecht knew of no fickle, shifting allegiances, except during the little county wars that faded once the Grolsacher and Arnhander incursions began. “I haven’t seen any of that.”

  “You will. All those towns and castles you’re taking, that have sworn fealty to Sublime and the Church.

  They’ll turn in an instant if they sense any weakness.”

  Hecht had not thought about that. It sounded true, though. Those people were not joining the Brothen cause for love of Sublime V. “Makes sense.”

  “I have further advice. Whatever you hope to accomplish here you’d best get done soon. Big changes are coming. And round up any Artecipeans you can. They’re behind the resurgence of the Night. They’re a third side in this war. They aren’t friends of the Connecten factions but they’re helping them because they’re your worst enemies.”

  “Why?”

  The old man bowed his head as though in contemplation. He said, “They want to destroy you for the reason they’ve always wanted to destroy you. A conviction on the part of certain Instrumentalities that you could become the mechanism of their destruction.”

  “Every encounter I’ve suffered has been initiated by the Night.”

  “Amusing, isn’t it? Them bringing on what they dread by trying to get even first?”

  “Isn’t the same thing happening every day, somewhere?

  This prince, that duke, a random count, strikes before some enemy can carry out a potential attack?”

  Februaren chuckled. “Every day. And half the time it’s a damned good idea. Hitting them back before they can hit you back first.”

  “I’m tired. And, as usual, you’re just being vague. So I’m going to sleep. You can get back to watching over me.”

  “Sarcasm? Interesting.” The old man grinned. Despite his antiquity, he had a full set of teeth. “Go ahead.

  I’ll hover like a guardian angel.”

  News came early. A fresh contingent of forty-day men from Firaldia, not told not to, had attacked the White City through breaches from the New Town. The defenders were unprepared for a heavy assault.

  The invaders were running wild in Castreresone’s streets.

  Hecht said, “We have to go get a bridle on this before the officers go loot-crazy, too.”

  Titus Consent asked, “What about those people over there?”

  “They’ll hear about it. They’ll have to make a decision. Let Castreresone go? Or charge in where their prospects are grim?”

  “We’d have the hammer by the handle if we caught Isabeth.”

  “We would. Yes. But don’t expect it to happen.”

  Hecht withdrew toward the White City. The mercenary infantry remained in contact but avoided serious combat. The knights followed on, still looking for that opportunity to exploit their advantage. The wind picked up in the middle of the morning. A drizzle began soon after noon. That turned to freezing rain.

  Shortly afterward the Patriarchals reached hastily prepared defenses meant to break a cavalry charge.

  The Navayans attacked, without enthusiasm, because the situation compelled them. Their appearance stiffened the resolve of the city’s defenders.

  Freezing rain turned to light, steady snow.

  Come nightfall, the Queen’s men withdrew. The Captain-General launched several nighttime counterattacks. He suffered the heavier losses. Come morning, though, the Navayans resumed moving toward Mohela and Larges. Which they might find held against them, Hagan Brokke having taken the garrison by surprise th
e morning before.

  Brokke would give the castle up uncontested, though. If instructions from his Captain-General got through.

  Brokke reported taking prisoners that might be of interest to his commander.

  Cannon fire wakened Hecht. Three roars from three directions. The excitement was over before he caught up with Drago Prosek. Prosek’s crews were digging up the muddy little eggs left by the deaths of the Instrumentalities.

  “Changes coming fast,” Hecht muttered. Using the falcons against the Night had become routine.

  Prosek said, “Sorry we woke you, sir. Couldn’t do it quietly.” He brushed snow out of his hair.

  “I thought they’d let us alone. After what we’ve done.”

  “You can’t beat stupid, sir. I put some of the new traps out tonight. We’ll see what good they do.”

  “Carry on, then. Make sure those eggs get to Principal Delari.” He turned to go back to his tent.

  “Sir, we need more ammunition. We have nine rounds special left. Four of those I made myself from shot we’d already used once.”

  “We’ll do something. Good work, by the way.” Hecht was halfway to his shelter when several blazing spears leapt off Castreresone’s walls, barely discernible through the falling snow.

  Excitement raced through the Patriarchal camp. Sleeping soldiers came out to see what the racket was this time. They added to it once they understood. Patriarchal forces had captured Castreresone’s main gate from inside. The soldiers raced off to sack the White City.

  Hecht did not try to stem the tide. That could get him trampled. As dawn came, he told Titus Consent,

  “Sometimes you have to let chaos sort itself out.”

  “Not everyone has gone crazy. A few men stuck to their posts.” Consent indicated Hecht’s lifeguards, all of whom looked like they were constipated. Even lifelong members of the Brotherhood of War wanted a share of the plunder.

  “Good. Somebody needs to keep us from being caught with our trousers down. What’s this?” Riders were crossing the Laur bridge, looking around warily.

  “Messengers.”

  “Gutsy guys, too, if they’ve been traveling in the dark.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  ***

  PlNKUS GHORT WAS ON HIS WAY FROM ANTIEUX. SOMEthing big was afoot. Bronte Doneto had, with explosive suddenness, abandoned the siege that had been the center of his life for months.

  “Sergeant Bechter, we want to move into the Count’s keep as soon as possible. You need to figure out what we need for a permanent headquarters.”

  “Yes, sir. Colonel Ghort’s party is on the down slope across the river now.”

  “Hope he doesn’t mind the mud.”

  “He’ll be distracted by the damage to the vineyards.”

  Hecht laughed. “No doubt. Have you seen the Principatè?”

  “Which? The Bruglioni and the Aparionese fellow are leaving, I hear. Going to leave us to our fate.”

  “Delari. The only one who ever interests me.”

  “He’s in the city. Keep an eye on the Bruglioni. Madouc tells me he looks like a man nursing a secret grudge.”

  “Paludan Bruglioni and Gervase Saluda have never forgiven me for abandoning them to go to work for the Patriarch.”

  Bechter scowled. He did not believe that for a moment.

  Redfearn Bechter seldom said anything not involved with getting on with work. But he had eyes and a brain. Hecht feared the man was picking up more than he needed to know. Which was why the Brotherhood had him next to the Captain-General in the first place.

  If Gervase Saluda had developed a true grudge, he might be putting things together, too.

  There were always people who knew uncomfortable things. Some could not resist gossiping.

  “It’s time we went up there and saw this gem we’ve added to the Church’s crown. Right after I see Colonel Ghort.”

  Bechter was not pleased.

  “There’s a problem, Sergeant?”

  “Madouc won’t let you go without a full complement of lifeguards. But that would tell the Castreresonese you’re someone important. They might attack you.”

  “I doubt it. They’ve had enough. They don’t want us to do the White City the way we did the lesser towns.”

  “Even where the troops were merciless we’ve had trouble with ambush and murder. The Society brethren won’t go scourge the rustic heretics.”

  “Gosh, Sergeant. Imagine that. People who resist opportunities to be robbed and burned alive. How un-Chaldarean of them.”

  “Have a care, sir. The Society grows stronger every day. They might enjoy the opportunity to pull down somebody important, just to feed the fear surrounding them.”

  “Good point. Tell Madouc I intend to move into the keep.” He should be safe there. That fortress within had been built to provide a refuge from the Castreresonese themselves, not as a place to make a last stand against invaders.

  “As you will, sir.” Bechter making his disapproval amply clear. “One point more. I saw that old man in brown. Be careful.”

  Once Bechter left, the Ninth Unknown asked, “How does he do that?”

  Hecht squeaked. “How do you do that? Popping out of nowhere?”

  “He shouldn’t be able to see me.”

  “You have a special reason to scare the pants off me?”

  “No. Except to reinforce what Bechter said. Don’t irritate the Society. They’ll get thick as flies now.

  There’s been a battle on Artecipea between Pramans King Peter recruited in Calzir and some Artecipean mountain people. Your former associates participated. A great deal of sorcery was involved. Peter’s forces were victorious. The point of it all, though, remains obscure.”

  Februaren seemed cocky. Like he had had a hand in assuring that outcome. But that could not be.

  Could it? The Lord of the Silent Kingdom must be powerful, but not so much so that he could cross long distances in no time. Could he?

  Februaren revealed a small smile. Hecht suspected that the man knew his thoughts. Whereupon the smile became a smirk. Februaren startled him by asking, “Why would Gervase Saluda become your enemy?

  You did well by the Bruglioni when you worked for them. Set their feet solidly on the road toward restoring their glory.”

  “Principatè Divino Bruglioni. The only thing I can think of. Some rumor may have gotten out of the Arniena family. And the ring.” A recollection of which took Hecht by surprise. He had not considered the Bruglioni ring for a long time.

  “Ring?”

  Even the Ninth Unknown could not resist the ring’s power to elude memory.

  “Polo knows I had it. I forgot that for a long time. He may have remembered and told somebody.”

  “Polo. That’s the one who was your manservant when you were with the Bruglioni? Crippled in the ambush meant to kill you and Ghort.”

  Hecht nodded.

  “Time to turn around. Bechter is back.”

  Februaren turned. And vanished. Leaving Hecht feeling that he was truly gone, not just hidden from the eye.

  “Enter,” he responded to Bechter’s appeal.

  The sergeant peered into shadows. He had heard something. “The lifeguard is assembling. Colonel Ghort should be here in time to join us. Apropos my earlier caution, Morcant Farfog is with Colonel Ghort’s party.”

  It took Hecht a moment. “Bishop of Strang?”

  “Archbishop, now. Head of the Society in the End of Connec. Convinced that he’s the most powerful churchman after Sublime. I heard he may have one eye on the Patriarchy.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Competence is seldom the leading qualification for succession.”

  “But …”

  “Not to worry, Captain-General. He wouldn’t get the votes.”

  ***

  PlNKUS GHORT DID NOT LOOK WELL. “EXHAUSTION,” HE explained. Barely putting one foot in front of the other as he climbed the hill with Hecht. “That Raymone Garete is a stubborn bastard
. Then I got Doneto barking in one ear and that pile of monkey shit Farfog howling in the other. That prick don’t know how lucky he is to be alive.”

  “That could be more true than you realize.”

  “Eh?”

  ‘The Brotherhood doesn’t love him, either. Sooner or later, they’ll butt heads. If Sublime doesn’t rein them in.”

  “Man, you wrecked this place. It’ll take years to fix these walls.”

  “How’s your bombardment?”

  “There’s gotta be sorcery involved. Or something. We keep pounding away. And the rocks keep bouncing off.”

  “There must be a way.”

  “Starvation.”

  “What about mining?”

  “Working on it. From half a dozen directions. Antieux is built on the hardest damned limestone I’ve ever seen. We’ll get there eventually. If our bosses are patient enough.”

  “Principatè Doneto hasn’t been any help?”

  “Debatable. He’s ferocious about tearing the place apart. But he never did anything useful. If he’s really some heavyweight sorcerer, he does a damned good job of hiding it.”

  “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “Uhm?”

  “If he really is. You hear it all the time, he’s one of the great bull sorcerers in the Collegium. But he never does anything.” That fight under the hippodrome might be an exception. Though that had not been public and there should have been no survivors.

  “Is he behind his own rumors?”

  Hecht shrugged. “We’re here.” At the keep of the Counts of Castreresone. Madouc led them to a large, poorly lighted room where several dozen locals waited nervously. Hecht’s most trusted soldiers lined the walls.

  “The vultures didn’t take long to gather.” Black-robed Society brothers were much in evidence.

  Hecht said, “Bechter, clear those crows out. This isn’t religious business.”

  Ghort whispered, “Be careful. They have Sublime convinced that religious law trumps civil and martial law.”

  Hecht understood. The Church meant to follow his hammer strokes by insinuating its agents into every facet of Connecten life, intent on making everything subservient to the Brothen establishment. Soon enough, the Captain-General would have to be replaced with someone less competent but more ideologically dependable.