Lord of the Silent Kingdom

by Glen Cook

The Principatè nodded. But he was drifting again.

  “What did you talk about?” Anna wanted to know when Hecht slipped into their borrowed bed.

  “Yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Depressing stuff.”

  “And secret?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Politics?”

  “That, too. But you’ll get help with the killer in your neighborhood.”

  “And you have to …?”

  “I have to study something with Delari before I go back to the Connec.”

  Disappointed, she murmured, “How soon will that be?”

  “Depends on Boniface. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Certainly not till all the troops from Artecipea are over and rested and refitted.”

  Anna pressed against him, head to toe. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know. But I can’t not.”

  “I know. You can’t stop being you.”

  That was not really it. Or, maybe it was.

  “You’re the last person I expected to see,” Paludan Bruglioni said, looking startled. “You’ve gotten us out of your life.” The man was nervous. He had trouble meeting Hecht’s eyes. He had lost hair and gained weight.

  “Not at all. I owe you. You gave me work when I was new here. I gave you my best while I was here.”

  Grudgingly, Paludan admitted, “You did turn us around. You did win back the respect we’d lost.” Lost because of Paludan Bruglioni’s indifference toward management of the family he had come to head at too early an age.

  “But you were unhappy with me anyway. So I hear.”

  “You say you have something …?” Paludan lost focus. He stared at a shadowed corner, the color draining from his face.

  “I may have found the ring I was so sure I didn’t have.”

  He had a note on paper fixed to his left wrist. Writing never forgot. “If this is it.” He handed the gold band to Bruglioni. “I found it with some coins and jewelry I brought back from Artecipea. I don’t know if I picked it up there or if I had it all along. All along makes more sense.”

  Paludan glared as hard as a frightened man dared.

  “I showed it to Principatè Delari. He said there’s a spell on it that makes you forget it. I wrote it all down.” He showed his wrist.

  Bruglioni studied the ring. “It looks like the one Divino had. And he always claimed that only people who had seen it but didn’t actually have it could remember it.”

  “So what’s the point of it if you don’t know you have it? What kind of lunatic sorcerer makes a magic ring like that?”

  “I couldn’t guess the reasoning. Maybe the ring did what it was supposed to do way back when and is still around because nobody remembers it long enough to melt it down.”

  “That fits. The Principatè thinks it goes back to antiquity, even before the Agean Empire. But he couldn’t guess why it was made.”

  Bruglioni had been turning the ring over and over. Now he slipped it onto a finger. “Uncle Divino didn’t know. Didn’t remember he had it till it was gone.”

  “I’m really pressed for time. I just wanted to do right after I found out I’d been wrong and really did have the ring. And I wanted to see for myself that everything was going good here.”

  “Still better than before you came here. Gervase prods me when I backslide. He shows me the youngsters coming up. That reminds me what might be — if I don’t pay attention. I’m sorry I shoehorned him into Divino’s seat. He isn’t around enough, now.” He shrugged. “Gervase is the best we have.”

  Hecht offered to shake hands. Bruglioni passed. It was not a current custom. He told Hecht, “Good luck in the Connec. Clean them out this time.”

  “I mean to try.”

  Paludan let out a startled squawk soon after Hecht left him.

  That old man was going to get himself into something he could not handle, someday.

  Principal Delari was in a dark mood. “You’re late.”

  Hecht said, “Your grandfather played one practical joke too many. We almost didn’t make it out of the Bruglioni place.”

  Februaren managed to look sheepish. For a moment.

  Hecht joined Heris. She was looking down at the giant map of the world. “There’ve been changes.” Heris was grub-bier than usual.

  “The ice line?”

  “That.” That was obvious. “But some more subtle things, too.”

  “There’s the sea levels rising in the Negrine and those two lesser seas farther east. More snowfall to the north means more meltwater during the spring and summer.”

  “You’re well informed.”

  “Grandfather has been sneaking me in here all year. To learn the Construct. Hoping I’ll be able to work it someday. Now he wants to crash train you, too.”

  “What? We don’t have an ounce of talent for sorcery between us.”

  “He claims it doesn’t matter. The sorcery is in the engine. You just have to know how to tell it what to do. Februaren is a true master. He doesn’t even have to talk to it. Maybe he’ll teach us. Grandfather isn’t good at getting ideas across.”

  “If Februaren can stop pinching bottoms and tugging ears. How did you get here? Bribe the guards?” The only women allowed in the Chiaro Palace were nuns of the Bettine Order. And those nuns down there, updating the map.

  “I come in underground.”

  That explained the dust and grime. “Wow. You have more guts than I do. I’ve only been down a few times. I won’t go again unless I have to.”

  “Grandfather told me. But it’s tame, now. He’s made sure. The old man helped.”

  Hecht sighed. “I don’t know how he gets around and gets all those things done.”

  “The Construct.” Heris gestured at the map. “He’s a virtuoso.”

  “That’s how he skips all the walking in between?”

  “Yes. He’s the only one who can do it today. The wells of power are too weak and too many revenants are competing for what power there is. Your work in the Connec should help. Grandfather really wants the good old days back. He couldn’t even get himself out of that hole where you found him that time.

  When he still thought he was Lord of the Silent Kingdom.”

  While they talked Cloven Februaren sparked around the vast chamber, looking over the shoulders of people working on the Construct. He restrained his urge to startle.

  Principatè Delari did the same, using ladders and catwalks.

  Heris said, “If the wells come back strong, you and me, we should be able to do what the old man does.

  If we study hard enough and want it bad enough.”

  Heris wanted it badly enough. But her motives might not be pure.

  “What?” Heris asked. “I didn’t hear the joke.”

  “Thinking of motivation and purity. In this city. In this palace.”

  “That would be a joke, wouldn’t it?”

  Six weeks more passed before Boniface gave the order that sent Patriarchal forces into the field. Piper Hecht spent five hours each day beneath the Chiaro Palace. He did not believe he was doing any learning. Delari and Februaren disagreed. “You’re becoming attuned,” Februaren insisted. “Eventually, we’ll be able to communicate from afar. I can watch you from afar already. I won’t have to tag along quite so much. So. Go on out to the wild country, where the people talk funny, and kill some gods. I need the power they’re sucking up.”

  Four days before leaving for the wild country Hecht received a request that he visit the Penital, a direct appeal from the Imperial legate himself. With assurances that no misdirection was involved.

  Rumors that the Imperial nuptials had grown shaky abounded. Hecht supposed the legate wanted to set the record straight.

  He supposed right.

  The legate told him, “The wedding has been postponed again. Because of complications with King Jaime’s recovery from his wounds. He was less ready to travel than he believed. He collapsed as his party neared Khaurene.”

  “Is he trying to elude the commitme
nt?”

  “Not at all. He’s too eager. Her Majesty will contact you as soon as we set a new date.” The legate smiled at some private joke.

  “My appreciation, My Lord.” Hecht left the Penital bemused yet again by the Empress’s evident interest.

  Why?

  The legate had shrugged and shaken his head when asked the question direct.

  The Patriarchal army approached the Dechear River with twenty-four hundred men, all Boniface VII would approve for the campaign. The Patriarch believed a larger force might spark a Connecten resistance while fewer soldiers would not be enough to handle the anticipated supernatural chaos. The Captain-General had no Principatès underfoot. Members of the Collegium were sticking close to Brothe.

  The next Patriarchal election would be a critical one. It would be fought to the bitter end. There would be no antique compromise to fill the slot while younger men maneuvered. Hecht hoped there would be no election for years. He liked Hugo Mongoz as Patriarch. He hoped Principatè Delari and Cloven Februaren would use the power of the Construct to assure his longevity.

  “Rider coming in,” Clej Sedlakova announced. “I’d guess down from Viscesment.”

  Hecht spotted the man. He wore Braunsknecht dress. “Good guess.” Despite Empress Katrin’s rapprochement with the Brothen Church, a small band of Braunsknechts still guarded Bellicose.

  The man drew closer. He picked up shadows from among the outriders. Hecht observed, “We’ve seen this one before.” He urged his mount farther from the road, where the troops were heading down to the Dechear in no particular hurry. Sedlakova, Smolens, Consent, and several others stayed with Hecht.

  “Algres Drear,” Consent said. “That’s what he called himself when he came to borrow Drago Prosek.”

  Drear approached carefully, though his caution was of no value. “Captain-General. I bring dispatches.”

  “Captain Drear. I thought you attended to Princess Helspeth’s safety.”

  “Once upon a time. In another life. Before I let her get away with going into the field against the Remayne Pass monster. Where the chit embarrassed the heroes of the Empire by actually slaying the dragon. I got rusticated. I’m being rehabilitated, now. Allowed to work my way back. As commander of the six-man company protecting someone the Empress would rather not protect. But we have to observe Imperial tradition.”

  “I see. Dispatches?”

  Drear produced a fat, wheat-colored leather courier’s case. “Long-winded, I’m sure. But the gist will be, Bellicose and Boniface have a deal. Bellicose will end the Viscesment Patriarchy. He’ll succeed Boniface in Brothe. Once he’s gone, there’ll be just one Patriarchy.”

  Hecht’s staff refused to believe it. Those with deep ties to the Brotherhood indulged in some derision.

  Hecht read the dispatches. “The Captain is right, gentlemen. It’s all right here, in Church legalese.”

  Colonel Smolens said, ‘The whole goddamned Collegium will be shitting square turds over this.”

  “Probably,” Hecht said. “But first, Captain, how old would Bellicose be?”

  “In his fifties. And full of ambition. But he’s a cripple. Polio when he was little. It’s a miracle he’s lived this long.”

  “I see. So. The Collegium might go along. If cool heads prevail and enough men want to end the multiple Patriarch problem.”

  Not many men accounted the Collegium collectively capable of making mature decisions. Hecht counted himself among the skeptics. Those old men all behaved like spoiled eight-year-olds.

  Drear said, “A further consequence of the agreement is that Bellicose is now your ally. The bridges over the Dechear are now available. Bellicose hopes you’ll make Viscesment your base for operations in that part of the Connec. That would stimulate the local economy.”

  Interesting. “Colonel Smolens. An opportunity to return to the scene of your crimes. Take our main force north and cross at Viscesment. That will put us right opposite the country we need to clear.”

  Madouc was scowling already. He knew he would not like what he was about to hear.

  “I’ll stay with the battalion already crossing here. We’ll follow the west bank north. Madouc, I don’t want to hear it. Where’s my kid? Why the hell does he keep disappearing?”

  “He’s with Presten and Bags,” Madouc replied. “He wanted to see where the worm came out of the ground.”

  Hecht glanced southward. There was no sign now of what had happened last year. “You lose him, you won’t have to explain to me. I’ll just feed you to Anna. What now?”

  A rider was headed back alongside the road, as hard as he dared without trampling anyone. The soldiers had begun stopping and falling out as word spread that a change of plan was in the works.

  The rider was one of Drago Prosek’s falconeers. They had been first to cross the river.

  “Captain-General. Sir. Some Connecten nobles want to talk. One is that Count Raymone Garete.”

  “Never stops raining,” Hecht said. “Captain Drear, stick with me till I can deal with you more fully.

  Sergeant Bechter, make Captain Drear’s visit pleasant. Madouc, I wasn’t kidding about the boy. I had a letter from Anna yesterday. She isn’t happy.” She also reported that Principatè Delari and Principatè Doneto had enjoyed less than complete success at destroying the killing beast underneath Brothe. They had gone below with silver and iron and borrowed falcons. The thing had flown after one debilitating encounter. Since then it had evaded them. And had not betrayed itself by coming to the surface to practice its horrors. Now there were rumors of terrible things happening to those who lived underground.

  Pallid adults had dragged themselves into the hateful sunlight for the first time in their lives. The Principatès feared the killing thing was a more potent Instrumentality than originally suspected. Research was under way. Other members of the Collegium were being enlisted in the hunt.

  Principatè Delari still guaranteed its extermination.

  The Principatès now feared the thing was the queen of a terrible brood. They had caught and destroyed a dozen smaller, murderous evil things like it — all summoned into being by the hateful imaginings of the refugee populace.

  So. Instrumentalities could be created by the pressure of the irrational fears of too many people crowded into too narrow a space.

  Hecht supposed that should have been no surprise.

  Madouc said, “It’s not the boy we need to worry about. He’s tractable enough when it comes to the wishes of his lifeguards.”

  “Yes. Yes. I know that psalm by heart. Let’s go, gentlemen. I want to meet this paragon of Connecten nationalism, Raymone Garete.”

  Count Raymone did not seem remarkable. A reasonable man, apparently. He just wanted to be sure he understood what the Patriarchal forces meant to accomplish.

  “In that case, Captain-General, I can lend you some of my own people. In particular, those who fled the counties where the Night holds sway now. I hope you go after the invaders with as much zeal as you came after us last year.”

  “You’re welcome to join me. I can’t support you financially, though. I can barely support myself, that way.”

  “That isn’t a problem.”

  Hecht eyed the woman beside Count Raymone. The former prisoner, working hard to keep her mouth shut. Raymone’s wife, now. Presumably, some of the Count’s companions would be her brothers.

  “I expect another hard winter,” Hecht said. “We’ll operate out of Viscesment.” That startled Count Raymone. “Boniface and Bellicose have made peace.”

  The wide man, the cousin, Bernardin Amberchelle, barked malicious laughter. “Open season on the Society, brothers! Open season.”

  “Indeed,” Hecht said. “The new Patriarch has a fixed loathing for the Society. But I don’t think we’ll find many of those where we’ll be campaigning. They lack the nerve to operate under the nose of the Night.”

  “I like this guy,” Amberchelle said. “Even if it wasn’t all that comfortable being
his prisoner.”

  “Enough!” the woman said.

  Hecht said, “I trust you found your captivity less taxing, Countess.”

  The woman loosed a jackass bray of laughter. “Stupidest thing I ever did was run away. I was warm and I got fed regular. After I escaped I froze for weeks and almost starved to death. But, by damn! I was a free Connecten.”

  “I’ve been there. Count Raymone, I want to make it plain that I haven’t been sent here to recover your lost territories for you. I’m here to get rid of rogue things of the Night. I will, however, keep those things away from you while you deal with squatters. I’m told a previous attempt bogged down because there are so many Night things up there.”

  “There was that. And the fact that I only sent a few men.”

  “I’ll have no trouble working with you that way. I look forward to everything but winter. Which looks like it’s going to come even earlier this year.”

  It did. And it was fierce.

  Campaigning out of Viscesment made for some comfort. The Captain-General and Count Raymone moved from strongpoint to strongpoint, eliminating their respective targets, seldom spending much time in the cold. Neither the squatters nor the Night offered any challenge. Both fought in furious despair, to little effect. Arnhander knights in captured castles were more difficult at first, but faced with a choice between instant surrender or certain extermination, they abandoned resistance and began migrating northward before Nemesis overtook them.

  Drago Prosek and his henchmen had a wonderful time with the stinks and bangs. “But this isn’t much harder than butchering chickens,” Prosek averred. “Big or little, these Night things suffer from an abiding plague of stupid.”

  Months based in the onetime seat of the Anti-Patriarchs allowed the Captain-General to become familiar with the lo-cal offshoot of the Chaldarean faith. And to meet and grow partial to the man Rocklin Glas, a man much like Hugo Mongoz. Hecht made a point of reminding Cloven Februaren, who turned up randomly, that Bellicose was a good man. He wrote Boniface and the Collegium to report the same thing.

  Never failing to remind the latter that Bellicose could not possibly survive Boniface by long.

  Come spring Titus brought word: “King Jaime is on the move. His advance riders just arrived. He’ll use the Viscesment bridges. If you want to attend the wedding you can join up with him here.”