Lord of the Silent Kingdom

by Glen Cook

  He eased up. “There is a humorous side. One court remained interested. Jaime of Castauriga himself came all the way to Alten Weinberg to meet you personally. Castauriga being under heavy pressure from Navaya, he’s in desperate need of allies. When he presented himself to Katrin it was, for her, love at first sight. Despite the age difference.”

  Helspeth’s brain began to move again. “And he wouldn’t mind being the consort of the Empress of the Grail Empire.”

  “Especially after she has a few children.”

  “When will they marry?”

  “Springtime. Ironically, after the Remayne Pass opens.”

  Helspeth sighed. “Have the crones heard?”

  “They’ll be told. The news will ease your situation. And the wedding should mark the end of your exile.

  Unless you do something else to frighten the councilors.”

  “I still don’t understand all that.”

  “Certain people have elevated themselves dramatically by orbiting your sister closely, Princess. Most of them Brothen Episcopals. They know the majority inside the Empire are strongly indisposed toward the Brothen Patriarchy. When you show the initiative you did, even bringing in specialist operators, you remind them that you’re Johannes’s daughter. The Princess Apparent who could step in and change their world.”

  Helspeth began to get a glimmer. “But I’m not interested, in any of that.” She made a soft, squeaky noise as the Captain-General popped into mind.

  “Yes?”

  “Just a random thought. It startled me.”

  “I see. Tell me. Have you heard anything I’ve been saying?”

  “Yes.” Sigh.

  “Katrin’s marriage isn’t set in stone. Negotiations are still going on. Jaime is making demands that no one on our end will meet.”

  “So I’m not off the hook?”

  “Not till Katrin gives birth to a male heir who survives long enough to have sons of his own.”

  “God help me.”

  “As I said, it should get easier once I speak to your keepers. Then easier still after Katrin weds. That should end your rustication. Behave and you could be back in Plemenza before winter comes round again. In Alten Weinberg at the least.”

  Sadly, feeling shame, she asked, “And my Braunsknechts?”

  “There’ll be no pardon for them. They failed their trust.”

  Helspeth did not meet Renfrow’s gaze. But at that moment she decided to rescue Algres Drear and the others. They did not deserve such cruel punishment for having been browbeaten into compliance by the daughter of the Ferocious Little Hans.

  She awarded herself a small sneer. She was in a spot so weak she could not save herself. Her one hope was this mysterious Renfoew, who dashed around shoring up the creaking foundations of the Empire.

  “Someday …”

  “Yes?”

  “Someday I’d like to find out who you really are.”

  Renfrow was startled. Then he smiled. “Your father said the same thing, once.”

  “And did he?”

  “Sadly, Fate caught up first. Quiet. Listen. I’ve cautioned you. I’ve cautioned you again. I’ve changed your situation to one you can survive. If you think before you talk or act. If you avoid being your father’s daughter.”

  “I get it, sir!”

  “I hope. I sincerely hope. I have my doubts. Blood will out. I won’t be here in the morning. I have to go to Brothe. Please take care.”

  “Why doesn’t anybody …? Why do you keep saying the same thing over and over?”

  “Experience. It takes immense perseverance to get an idea through an Ege skull.”

  “But I …”

  “You aren’t who or what you think you are, Princess. You’re what the world thinks you are. Your great task is to convince the world you are what it wants you to be. You have to be a chameleon. A timid, retiring chameleon. In the eyes of your enemies.”

  “Enemies? But …”

  “You see? Not listening. Again.”

  A sharp pain of the soul. No one cared what she thought. She was a piece on a chessboard. Truly, she would have to wear masks to avoid sacrifice to the advantage of the Queen.

  “I just grasped the full message, Ferris. Thank you.”

  “Excellent. When next we meet, then, it should be in better circumstances. Drink some more broth.

  Rest. The Schmitts will put you on a better diet tomorrow.”

  Helspeth wanted to ask something else. The question sort of slid out of her mind sideways. Renfrow shimmered.

  She did not recall her dreams. They felt portentous. The Captain-General was there. Katrin was there.

  So were scores more, known and unknown, in a time of great stress.

  She wakened feeling better than she had in months.

  Ferris Renfrow was gone. He left the tower refurbished in plant and attitude. Helspeth had no more trouble with Tooth or Fang. She became perfectly pliant in turn.

  19. Khaurene, in the Time of Bleakest Despair

  Brother Candle and Socia Rault clung close for warmth. Also in the cluster were Michael Carhart, Hanak el-Mira, and Bishop Clayto. Above them were two ragged blankets taken from a dead man found alongside the road. No one knew which side he had served. No one cared.

  The clump of misery huddled inside a stand of brush. The blankets had accumulated enough snow to conceal their color and keep body heat confined.

  Though miserable and hungry, no one wanted to risk the road. There was a lot of traffic headed west.

  Ducking into hiding would leave tracks in the snow.

  Brother Candle wondered if escape had been smart. Their captors had shown no inclination to abuse them, nor any to turn them over to the Society. They had been warm and fed regularly. Of course, their captors had recognized Bernardin Amberchelle. It would not have taken long for reason to lead them to Socia’s identity.

  There was a search on, prosecuted with minimal enthusiasm. It was cold out. Why be out in it when nobody really knew what they were hunting? Refugees? Those were everywhere, many young women trying to get somewhere safe from God’s laborers. Many were Maysaleans desperate to escape territories where failure to acknowledge Brothe’s primacy might become a capital crime.

  Socia murmured, “We need to reach friendly territory before they realize who I was. There’ll be a reward, then.”

  Brother Candle nodded, careful not to disturb the blankets. “But Patriarchals aren’t the only danger.

  Duke Tomond’s defeated mercenaries are out there, too.”

  Bishop Clayto muttered, “We have to move. This flesh is too infirm to withstand this for long.” He was shaking. He could not stop. Fear, malnutrition, and cold all contributed.

  El-Mira whispered, “Get a grip, Clayto. Brother Candle has a decade on you.”

  “He’s used to this. I’m a bishop.” Clayto snickered, still able to joke at his own expense.

  The weather never cooperated. On the other hand, the Night and Patriarchal patrols proved harmless.

  Michael Carhart, el-Mira, and Clayto all claimed their success reflected the favor of their gods. Claimed without sharp conviction.

  Like Brother Candle, they feared good fortune might be by the grace of Instrumentalities associated with the Adversary. Hard not to suspect special favor when Patriarchals were running wild during the interregnum in Brothe.

  It took sixteen days to reach Khaurene, a distance of less than eighty crow-flight miles. That sixteenth dawn saw them still fifteen miles from the city itself. They fell in with a strong patrol led by Sir Eardale Dunn. Dunn put them onto borrowed cogs and hurried them westward. They could help steel the will of their respective religious communities.

  Brother Candle clung desperately to his mount. He was no skilled rider. But he did have attention left for his surroundings. And did not like what he saw.

  He saw devastation. The Patriarchals had decided to destroy the regional economy. But he was more troubled by what looked like preparations for a showdown
battle. By his own side.

  “You don’t think that’s a good idea?” Socia asked.

  “I think it’s insane. Any Connecten army will be a rabble with little prospect of success. Unless they outnumber the enemy badly. Or catch him unawares. Can our people manage that?”

  “I think if Raymone Garete was in charge …”

  “Yes. If Count Raymone was in charge the rivers would run red. The revenants would feast. And the Connec would become a desert. Because Count Raymone would burn it barren before he let it fall into the hands of Brothen invaders.”

  Socia had no problem with that, he knew. She would joy-fully scour the earth to destroy her enemies.

  What a horror it would be once she took her place in the shadows behind Count Raymone.

  Sir Eardale did not lead Brother Candle up to Metrelieux. “Tormond doesn’t want to see you, Brother.

  He’s made up his mind at last and doesn’t want you whispering counterarguments in his ear.”

  The Perfect was surprised by the hurt he felt. Those few words declared a ripened disdain for the voice of reason. Henceforth, Duke Tormond IV would wear blinders.

  “You blame me …?”

  Wrong approach.

  “Not personally. Your faith. Two generations of passivity and pacifism … Decades of weak leadership …

  We have invaders among us by the tens of thousands. And haven’t the skills or backbone to do what needs doing. Because we’ve been bedazzled by the Maysalean Heresy. Or whatever you want to call it.”

  “I suspect centuries of peace and prosperity have more to do with it.” Brother Candle was startled by the strength of his emotions. He had to put the world aside and find his way back to the Path. He drifted farther from it by the minute.

  The streets of Khaurene were crowded with Seekers from farther east. Some would go on to the strongholds in the Al-tai or to coastal provinces now under the protection of King Peter. Or even into Direcia itself. Peter welcomed Seekers. Most were tradesmen with useful skills.

  They were welcome in Praman Platadura, too.

  Tannery stench seemed thicker than ever, down where Raulet Archimbault lived. Socia observed, “I sure missed a lot, growing up in the country.”

  “Do I detect a note of sarcasm?”

  “Each city we run to is bigger than the last. And is more crowded and smells worse.”

  “You’ll like the Archimbaults.” He hoped. But sparingly. Socia Rault remained deeply conscious of class and station. “If you don’t, keep your mouth shut.” She had had the chance to move into Metrelieux and had refused.

  The streets were particularly crowded in this neighborhood, where local Seekers welcomed countless refugees into their homes.

  Raulet’s daughter Kedle answered Brother Candle’s knock. He said, “Wow! That didn’t take long.” The girl was prominently pregnant.

  “It can be difficult, trying to ignore the demands of the flesh.” Kedle did not sound interested in denying the flesh. Nor was she pleased to find the Perfect on the family doorstep.

  “You’re not at work?”

  “My work is here while this is going on.” She patted her stomach. “The fumes at the tannery. Not good for the unborn. We don’t have room here, Master. Soames and I have to live here. Because his father’s brother’s family are staying with them. See Scarre the Baker. His sons have gone to be soldiers.”

  Kedle stared at Socia but was too polite to ask.

  “As you wish. Tell your father that I came by. He can trace me through Scarre’s bakery.”

  Kedle donned a scowl worthy of the most guilt-ridden Episcopal or Devedian. Brother Candle turned away, pleased and shamed at having left the girl feeling bad about turning him away.

  Socia asked, “What was that all about?”

  “I’ve known Kedle since she was born. It’s taken her longer than most young people, but she’s in her rebellious stage.”

  “She’s pregnant.”

  “Very. She was getting married last time I was here.”

  “She’s younger than me.”

  “True. By several years.”

  “I thought you Seekers put sex aside.”

  “We Seekers?” The Raults were Seekers themselves. “Some manage. Once they get old.”

  “Weird. Where are we going?”

  “Kedle is still too young. We’re going to Scarre the Baker’s.”

  Socia changed topic. “I don’t believe in any of that stuff. Only in things that can bite me.”

  “The countryside is swarming with Instrumentalities wearing really big teeth.”

  Their little band had spent more time shivering in fear of the Night than from the cold during their flight.

  Out there, in the country, revenant Night prowled everywhere. And sometimes left pale, drained bodies alongside the roads.

  Another reason for crowding in Khaurene.

  Darkness was gathering as they entered Scarre’s bakery. Scarre worked in a ferocious heat, sweat rolling off him as he scooped fresh loaves out of his huge oven. He was naked to the waist, like a blacksmith. His wife, wearing padded gloves, stacked the hot loaves. Scarre grunted a greeting.

  Brother Candle observed, “There must be a huge demand for bread.”

  “You looking for a job? I can’t keep up. I need somebody to work the dough.”

  “Not looking for work but we’ll work for bed and board while we’re here.”

  “Absolutely. But why aren’t you staying with Raulet? You staying with him makes him feel like the big …

  Sorry. We’re supposed to be beyond petty competitions.”

  “Kedle says there is no room there.”

  “Marriage hasn’t agreed with that girl. She should’ve waited. Raulet should’ve waited. In one year she’s gone from wide-eyed child of wonder to complete harpy. Raulet fears for her soul.”

  “I see. We can address that in our evening meetings. What is it?”

  “We don’t have many meetings, Brother. Society spies are everywhere. They keep records for after they take control.”

  “Once upon a time Seekers had the courage to stand behind their beliefs.”

  “Once upon a time they didn’t used to burn us.”

  “They don’t do that much, now. More members of the Society get killed, one way or another, than Seekers do.”

  Scarre shrugged. Plainly uninterested in the tribulations of Brothen Episcopals. “If you stay with me I’m going to expect some help. The girl can do the household cooking while you work in here.”

  Brother Candle chuckled. “I don’t think so, Scarre. Not if you want to avoid being poisoned. She can help in here. Like an apprentice. Only, you’ll have to keep your hands to yourself.”

  Scarre bobbed his head, getting the message.

  Socia did not like being discussed. But the world outside Caron ande Lette had hammered her long enough to teach her to manage emotion. For minutes at a time.

  “Long as she earns her keep.”

  “She will. She’s a good woman. She just needs to be shown what to do.”

  Madam Scarre was not convinced.

  Scarre was not the best host. He worked his guests hard. Which explained why no refugees stayed with him. Most Maysalean households had a refugee family squeezed in. Brother Candle and Socia were exhausted when they joined the Archimbaults for their late meal.

  Socia had complained just once. Brother Candle offered, “I’ll take you up to the castle.”

  “No.”

  “No bread kneading. No Madam Scarre barking at you for being young and attractive.”

  “That woman is mad. Has she actually looked at him? All sweaty and covered with hair, like a bear? And fat? But I won’t go up there. They’d use me to manipulate Raymone.”

  She had a point.

  Which sparked a fresh worry.

  The Society was strong in Khaurene. Those fanatics would have no reservations about using the girl as a weapon. And Raymone had shown weak that way already.

  Br
other Candle said little during supper, except to answer Kedle’s questions about his adventures.

  Afterward, the leaders of the Seeker community began to arrive. Brother Candle found himself a place out of the light. He wanted to catch up. There had been changes. Despair and pessimism ruled.

  Spiritual issues never arose. That was the most dramatic change.

  Talk was iron-hard practical. Should the Seeker community emigrate now, before Patriarchal forces made escape impossible? Heading into winter, fleeing to fastnesses in the Altai that might not be adequately provisioned? Should they stay and hope that Patriarchal politics and Duke Tormond’s stiffened backbone would make it possible to get through the winter here?

  Brother Candle heard nothing to inspire faith in the Duke’s steadfast determination to defy the invaders.

  Nor anything positive about the probable results. And little confidence in the friendship of Peter of Navaya.

  “Peter needs the Brothen Church behind him to pursue his ambitions in Direcia,” someone insisted when someone else suggested that Peter might send an army to enforce his rights in Castreresone.

  Another someone said, “Peter can’t turn his back on the princes of al-Halambra. And he has troops committed in Artecipea.”

  “Nothing will happen anywhere while there’s no Patriarch in Brothe.”

  “The Captain-General isn’t sitting on his hands.”

  “Duke Tormond will make all these worries moot.”

  “Excuse me,” Brother Candle said. Silence fell. “These discussions remain speculative only until after the battle.”

  A puzzled Raulet Archimbault asked, “What battle, Master?”

  “Sir Eardale Dunn is trying to engineer a decisive confrontation. Which, I think, the Patriarchals would rather avoid. They’ve done well with a pinprick strategy. But there will be a battle. And the passion of the Khaurenese won’t be enough. My advice? Be ready to travel but wait on the result of the fight. If Sir Eardale is successful, there’s no need to suffer winter in the mountains. If it’s defeat, the Patriarchals will need time to pull themselves together and move against the city. That would be time enough to go.”

  A spirited discussion followed, a dozen people talking at once, all arguing with one another but all agreeing with Brother Candle. Though a few still heard the siren call of the Altai.