by Glen Cook
Then he produced the grasper he had lopped off the monster in his own encounter. The emissaries of the Eastern Emperor pretended to be impressed.
Those men were not interested in the Grand Duke’s adventures. Rumors had leaked out. They had come to assess the likelihood that the Empress really would back another crusade in the east. Earlier crusades had not benefited the Eastern Empire. Especially those that originated in the Grail Empire.
Those earlier crusaders had traveled overland, of necessity passing through the Eastern Empire. They had been more terrible than any locust plague.
These days the eastern emperors, however mad they might be in their beliefs, policies, and social notions, made sure the locusts of the west would not scourge their empire again.
“Time to find out what those not beholden to us think,” Katrin said. Shakily. Because of too much brandy, not the uncertainty that ruled her secretly. She wanted to sit down with the strangely dressed easterners, whose beliefs seemed almost as bizarre as those of the Connecten dualists. She wanted what she could not have here, even with her confessor. She wanted to talk on into the night, as young people do, playing with ideas as though they were counters in some timeless game.
The chieftain of the eastern embassy seemed older than the world itself. He wore a huge, brushy black and gray beard. Katrin paid him little mind. She was almost flirtatious with his younger associates.
Helspeth followed Katrin’s lead, as much as her nature allowed.
There was no point, she thought. Katrin was amusing herself at the easterners’ expense. They pretended to be good Chaldareans but were only slightly less damned than the Praman Unbeliever. They refused to recognize the divine supremacy of the Principatè of Principatès, the Patriarch of Brothe.
Fifteen minutes into the audience Helspeth knew the easterners were playing the Empress more than she thought she was playing them. The encounter consisted entirely of posturing and lying. She tried to suggest that the visitors be left to the droning mercies of the Grand Duke. She failed. They played well to Katrin’s need for approval.
For the first time since her coronation Katrin was having a good time, Direcia forgotten.
The Direcian situation had not forgotten her.
An obsequious courtier came at Katrin like a bowing, pulling crossbow bolt, clearly the harbinger of great news. While having no idea what that news might be.
As her sister fell into a chair, crying, Helspeth spied Ferris Renfrow weaving through the parasites of the court at Alten Weinberg. He looked like he had just stepped off the battlefield. He was filthy. Heavily bearded. His clothing in tatters. Under a mail hauberk in worse shape than a shirt ripped and torn by squabbling dogs. He had been leaking blood recently. He was pallid. He approached in a controlled stumble.
Where had he been? Helspeth had not seen him since last winter. Nor had anyone. Mainly to their pleasure. Many creatures of the court considered Ferris Renfrow a tutelary, not just a man whose labors on behalf of the Grail Empire had been appreciated by no one other than Johannes Blackboots.
At Helspeth’s urging, Katrin brushed aside her tears. She recognized the spymaster and beckoned him.
“Hurry!” she insisted. ‘Tell me! What news? How awful is it? Must we go into mourning? Are we in danger from the Unbeliever? Why aren’t the bells ringing?”
The bells in every Chaldarean church were supposed to ring if the news from Direcia was good.
Ferris Renfrow seemed to gather strength. He dispensed with the usual honors. He treated his Empress, her sister, her courtiers, and the nearest easterners as though they were companions on campaign. “Not at all, Highness. The news is good. God stood with the Chaldareans in Direcia. He gave us a victory for the ages. The Unbeliever may never be a threat there again. Unless he gets help from the eastern kaifates.
His champions are all dead. Every Praman of substance who rode with Sabuta. Gone.”
Katrin seethed with impatience. She did not care about the battle’s outcome. She wanted to know,
“What about my Jaime?”
“He survived, Highness. He was one of the heroes. A timely charge by the Castaurigans sealed the thing.”
“I sense reservations, Ferris. Don’t toy with me. Tell me. I am the daughter of Johannes Blackboots.”
And for a moment everyone within earshot believed, except Helspeth. Helspeth felt the fear devouring the inside of this girl who pretended to be the despot of the Grail Empire.
“You are. My apologies. Jaime suffered numerous wounds, two of which were not inconsequential. He’ll be a while recovering but there’s no reason he shouldn’t. And, despite his injuries, he hopes the nuptials will happen on schedule this time.”
Helspeth kept her expression blank. She was unable to believe that handsome Jaime of Castauriga could be infatuated with her horseface, insecure sister. Other than as a means by which he could elevate his own status, especially inside the Grail Empire. Though the marriage contract kept Jaime from becoming more than Katrin’s consort, he would father the next Emperor.
Ferris Renfrow glanced at Helspeth. She smiled weakly.
“When can I expect my beloved?” Katrin asked.
“Not soon, Highness. But as soon as he’s physically able. He’s as eager as you are. He’d be headed this way now, but for his wounds.” Renfrow glanced at Helspeth again, caught her frowning. She thought he was just telling Katrin what she wanted to hear. He showed her a tiny smile she took to mean that he confessed the action but not the crime. What he said was true, although it did fit in with Katrin’s wishful thinking.
The Empress swallowed a draft of brandy that dismayed everyone and made it plain she had lost interest in the easterners. She did not care if they were affronted. In a soft voice she spoke to the chief of the serving staff. That man began shooing pages and servers out of the hall.
Katrin could have been more directly offensive only by shouting, “Get the fuck out of here, you assholes!”
By the standards of the easterners. Who did understand that she was not creating an incident willfully.
She was female, after all. At her best, most brilliant moments she was certain to be distracted and emotionally confused.
The easterners withdrew. Other guests departed. Members of the Council tried to assert themselves.
Just a scowl from Ferris Renfrow sent them scurrying.
Helspeth watched in wonder while the grand hall shed ninety percent of its occupants.
When Renfrow came so close that no one would overhear, Helspeth asked, “Who are you, Ferris Renfrow?” Getting no answer, she added, “I bet that battle isn’t more than a day old. How can you possibly know?”
“Why do you care, Princess? Isn’t it enough to know?”
Helspeth did not respond. But she had ideas that would not please the master spy. She shrugged, pretending it was only adolescent curiosity.
Renfrow went on, indifferent to the sharp-eyed suspicion of the younger Princess. He told the story of the battle, “In the central highlands of Direcia there’s a blistering plain known by several names. Piano Alto is the most common. It’s been a no-man’s-land between Chaldarean Direcia and al-Halambra since King Peter overcame the Praman principalities farther north. It’s set off by a range called the Brown Mountains. The most direct approach to al-Halambra is over those mountains, across the Piano Alto, then down to the river valley of the Plata Desnuda. Which means something like naked silver and makes no sense. But that’s not germane.
“Four kings joined Peter of Navaya in responding to the threat of the Almanohides. With them rode the chivalry of many other kingdoms, great and small. Meaning our ever-prickly contemporaries can recognize a real threat. As opposed to one contrived.” Just to make his point clear. Without naming any recent Patriarch. “Eighty thousand gathered. The Pramans were overawed. Counsels of caution prevailed. They decided to defend the passes through the Brown Mountains instead of invading Navaya until Peter’s allies went home.”
Ferri
s Renfrow glanced round, found his audience content to listen. “The Almanohides thought they had the advantage.
But a Chaldarean shepherd knew a way through the mountains that the Pramans hadn’t found. We got through, behind, defeating numerous Praman bands before Sabuta abd al-Qadr al-Margrebi gathered his forces near a village known, in Direcian, as the Baths of the Spirits. There are healing hot springs there, of which King Jaime is taking full advantage. Each spring is an extremely feeble well of power. Kaif Sabuta’s personal guard attached themselves by chains and shackles to posts driven deep into the ground all round their master’s tent. So they couldn’t run away if things turned out the way our side hoped.
“That was all for show. They didn’t think their god would turn his face away. I expect they’re asking him about that now.
“The Chaldarean victory was overwhelming. King Peter was the great hero. With King Jaime playing a smaller but still very big role.”
Helspeth said, “So, once again Peter of Navaya is made stronger.”
Renfrow said, “Some think he must be especially beloved of God. Each time he responds to the will of the Patriarch, his fortunes soar.”
Helspeth kept her opinions behind her teeth. Not needing Renfrow’s warning glance.
Katrin would not tolerate criticism of the Patriarchy. Although Boniface VII was doing bizarre things, like making overtures to Viscesment, canceling the charter of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy, trying to open the Collegium to a broader range of prelates, and, especially, striving to revitalize the Church in its role as Protector of the Small. Meaning taking up its ancient obligation to shield the poor and the weak from the Tyranny of the Night. Boniface was making himself unpopular by absolutely insisting that Mother Church do all those good things that, supposedly, Mother Church had been created to do.
Every new Patriarch offered surprises. This one was the terror of all clerics of standing: an honest, God-fearing pontiff.
Because Katrin was not interested, Helspeth asked questions. “What’s he done to make secular people unhappy?”
“He’s about to send the Patriarchal army back to the Connec. But this time to hunt down the Instrumentalities running loose there.”
“Instead of heretics?”
“It could be open season on dualists, too. But only if the troops want to bother. They call the Captain-General the Godslayer, these days. And that’s what he’ll be doing. Destroying things freed by the Artecipean pagans. Instead of just binding them.”
Helspeth understood, tactically. Having witnessed the destruction of an Instrumentality.
The Captain-General’s falconeers had, supposedly, refined and honed their methods dramatically since the encounter in the Jagos. Still … “How can the Church afford that? I saw the ammunition they use. It’s expensive.”
“The Deves of Brothe, who are allied with the Captain-General for reasons only they understand, have developed munitions that include only a twentieth of the silver needed when you attacked the monster in the Jagos.”
“But …” She did note the use of “attacked” in preference to anything more absolute and final.
“Yes. You’re right. It will be expensive to wage war on the Night, even so. Boniface will finance this campaign by the means used to fund the original crusades in the east. Every church, every monastery, every nunnery, every living, every instrument of the Church that produces revenue, will have to forward another tenth to Brothe to finance the scouring of the Connec. If that works, the compulsory donation could become a permanent weapon in the struggle against the Night.”
“That’s sure to cause him trouble.”
“The Special Office will be thrilled.”
“Are we going to trade in the Society for the Witchfinders?”
“Possibly.” Renfrow shrugged. “Boniface’s reign will be characterized by an inflexible adherence to canon law. He’ll root out corruption wherever it’s found. He’s issued a bull saying the Church must put its house in order. That it must be beyond reproach when it makes demands of the secular realm. He might well loose the Captain-General on any bishop who remains obstinate.”
“A great wind of reform, eh?”
“As Aaron declaimed on the steps of the Home Temple. It could be. Unfortunately, Boniface is older than the moon. He was a compromise, chosen to take up space while the factions agree on a younger man. A more flexible, more amenable man.”
“Boniface won’t live long enough to reform the Church?”
“That would require an immortal. Your Highness? Katrin? You haven’t said a word.”
“Jaime is all right?”
“He’ll recover. Expect him here before winter closes the passes. His journey may be slow and painful but he’s eager. You shan’t have to endure virginity many months more. And now I must take my leave, sweet ladies. I’m an old man. I’ve come a long, hard way to bring the news. I need rest.”
Katrin made a faint gesture, giving Renfrow permission to leave.
Helspeth surveyed those of the court who remained. They had closed in in order to listen. A few, old men of the Council Advisory, were not pleased. Not that they had hoped for a Chaldarean defeat. But they had hoped that King Jaime would embarrass himself somehow. This Imperial marriage, however much they had been part of making the arrangements, would only reduce their influence over Katrin.
Plotting. Always plotting. Helspeth fumed. And wondered how her father had controlled them.
Their natures must have compelled them to play the same games when Johannes was Emperor.
Therefore, perhaps, one nickname: Ferocious Little Hans.
They did respect power. When it was employed.
Katrin employed her power inconsistently. She had trouble keeping her mind made up, except in the matters of Jaime of Castauriga and her allegiance to the Brothen Patriarchy.
Helspeth wondered what Katrin would do if Boniface tried to take over Imperial holdings in Firaldia.
Lothar had come near war over Clearenza. Would have gone to war if he had lived. Katrin had accepted the Clearenza situation, urging that city’s Duke to be more obedient to Mother Church.
Sublime’s cronies did make sure the Duke’s loans got repaid.
The change in Katrin was dramatic. It infected the court, then Alten Weinberg as a whole, though hundreds of families still waited anxiously for word of those they had sent to Direcia.
Helspeth hoped to manage a private conversation with Ferris Renfrow. That did not happen. The spymaster slept twelve hours, ate a huge meal in the palace kitchen, then vanished. The gate guards did not see him go. Nor had any seen him arrive, either.
Helspeth worried about that often over the next six days, though without real passion. Ferris Renfrew had been an unpredictable enigma all her life. And all her father’s life before her, insofar as she knew.
Church bells began ringing the sixth afternoon after Renfoew disappeared. The racket puzzled Helspeth.
It was not a holy day, a feast day, a church day, or time for a call to prayer. Then it struck her.
News of the victory had come. Officially so, by courier. Each parish was proclaiming the celebration, as had been the order since war in Direcia became unavoidable.
Helspeth calculated distances and how hard the couriers must have ridden. They would have done relays, changing horses frequently, pausing just long enough to tell local bishops to spread the glad news in their dioceses.
So how did Ferris Renfrew manage to arrive six days early, rank, ragged, and bleeding? As though he had stepped through a doorway directly from the battlefield into a courtyard in the Imperial palace?
Something surpassing strange was afoot. And much as she wanted to know what that was, Helspeth did not discuss it with anyone. She might have stumbled over something no one else had yet noticed. No one ever accused Ferris Renfoew of having anything but an eerie mundane knack for slipping around unnoticed.
She had asked Renfrow who he was. The better question might hav
e been, what was he?
22. The End of Connec: The Master’s Release
The interminable months in the misery of the Altai ground souls into spiritual dust. Winter isolated Corpseour for three entire months. It was a winter beyond the prior imaginings of anyone trapped there.
The sole focus of the colony became keeping warm. Those who had stocked the fortress had done well with food and water and weapons, but they had failed to foresee the fuel demands of an unnatural winter.
Rationing was necessary. Fuel had to be reserved for cooking.
The refugees did everything to soften winter’s bite. But up there, in a narrow, draughty edifice built beam-on to the prevailing wind, it was impossible to hide from the cold. Nor was it possible to leave.
Worsening weather closed the path to Corpseour. Those who tried it inevitably lost their footing. Several fell to their deaths.
The dark running joke was that they could thank the Light that the Instrumentalities of the Night haunting the Connec would not trouble Corpseour. Those were smart enough not to climb into that icy hell.
“Lessons learned,” Brother Candle muttered. “Next spring they’ll bring up mortar for chinking, and firewood, too.” He was talking to no one in particular but was cuddled up with Socia, the Archimbaults, and half a dozen others, buried under a communal spread of blankets, trying to keep warm. It was not bad for him. He was in the middle, holding Kedle’s baby, they being the weakest of the group. The baby was not doing well. Brother Candle feared it would not survive. Kedle was not producing enough milk. If the baby did make it, it would always be a weak child.
Kedle knew. Kedle cried a lot, despite knowing that she would always be sheltered by the Archimbault tribe and Seeker community.
There had been no news about Soames.
The worst weather finally broke. A warm southern wind came. Ice began to melt. Brother Candle risked going to the battlements, being careful of his footing. Meltwater only made that more treacherous in shady places.
