by Cook, Glen
The logic people brought to these sessions boggled a rational mind.
He knew the news had raced around the city, growing fat on the popular imagination. Everyone became nervous when they looked at him—Bishop LaVelle being a serious exception.
The Bishop lived life in an alternate reality.
Brother Candle wanted to cringe away from people who looked at him the way they looked at Bernardin about to go on a rampage.
The assizes started as they always did, with stupid arguments that had no business being brought before the Countess. All three cases should have been handled at the neighborhood level.
The Perfect leaned down to one of three scribes recording the proceedings. (Three because one could not scribble fast enough by himself. The trio would later unify their notes into an official transcript.) “Tomorrow. Noon. In this hall. I want every justice of the peace and local magistrate. No excuses. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Scribble scribble. “It shall be done.” So this was what power felt like.
Better get shot as soon as he could. Even this small taste was seductive. What wonders might he perform if no one dared deny him!
The cases were the usual nonsense. Bishop LaVelle’s matter was not unusual, either. He was so confident of the righteousness of his Church’s doctrine that he argued that it should be the basis of all civil law. At the moment he had a problem with fines levied on a church that had granted sanctuary to three brothers convicted of multiple murders, arguing that the killings could not be considered crimes because they had been done on behalf of the Church.
The brothers belonged to the Society.
Though LaVelle was frustrating he remained untouched. He was the least villainous bishop in living memory.
“Your time is nearly up, Bishop,” Socia said. “Your petition says nothing about these matters. Are you here to present a false case?”
False case meant a case sneaked into proceedings without prior warning, not a case based on lies or deception. Those were part of all trials.
This time the Countess allowed some leeway. Complaining publicly filled the Bishop’s need to do something. He stirred no trouble elsewhere while he was free to vent in court.
“My heartfelt apologies, Ladyship. Again I let myself drift from the critical subject. I meant to protest the vandalism in the churches.”
“Vandalism?”
“Yes, Ladyship.”
“You have two more minutes. Don’t waste them. Vandalizing a sacred place is something I won’t tolerate. Speak.”
The Bishop did so but failed to articulate clearly the reasons for his distress.
Socia said, “We’ve heard all this before. That isn’t vandalism. You haven’t identified any actual damage. As the Church reminds me frequently, sacred matters are none of my business. But I will, for thoroughness’s sake, ask: what did you think I could do to help?”
Bishop LaVelle had no answer.
“All you do is register complaints. Bring specifics. What happened? Where did it happen? How do you know it happened? None of this vague, ‘it doesn’t feel right anymore’ stuff. Do you understand?”
The Churchman filled with new hope simply because Socia had listened and given instructions.
Clever girl, she said nothing that LaVelle could not have worked out for himself.
The bailiffs brought the next matter forward, a classic concerning the ownership of almonds fallen from branches extending over a fence.
* * *
Bernardin said, “I need you to come with me, Master.”
“Where? Why? For what?”
“We’re going church hopping to see why the Bishop is upset.”
“All right.” Though he felt uncomfortable leaving the citadel. He might run into somebody whose enmity would waken his serpents. “Have your tattoos done anything, Bernardin?”
“What? Oh.” It took a moment. “No. They aren’t tattoos, though. They’re scars.”
“Whatever. No unexpected behavior?”
“Not yet. Quit stalling.”
Brother Candle realized that he was, indeed, stalling. “I’m ready.”
Bernardin started with the nearest chapel.
“There’s definitely something not right here,” the Perfect said immediately. “I can’t say what, though.”
He roamed the place, touching, sensing. Bernardin trailed him. He felt the wrongness, too, though less sharply. “There’s no pastor here anymore. The last one turned out to be a Society don.”
They and their bodyguards visited a dozen Episcopal Churches. Most had been abandoned by their parishioners. Each had the same dead feel.
Bernardin’s answer was not original. “It’s like the holiness has gone away. I know. The priests keep saying that. I guess it’s true, even if we never considered Episcopal churches true holy places.”
“We need to visit churches that aren’t Brothen Episcopal.”
“Good idea. There aren’t so many of those.”
“Let’s start with some that recognized Viscesment instead of Brothe.”
That made no difference. Every church was the same. Each was just a building, now.
Brother Candle grew increasingly depressed.
Bernardin said, “We should check the temples of the Deves and Dainshaus, too.”
The Perfect understood his own mood, then. He was afraid they would find Maysalean holy places barren of grace, too. His faith was not secure enough to defy a Night that penetrated the fastnesses of his own religion.
Bernardin headed for the Devedian temple where Brother Candle had consulted Radeus Pickleu.
The story remained the same.
The Perfect observed, “It wasn’t like this the other night.”
The beadle explained, “The sanctification went the morning after you visited us, Master, some think because a nonbeliever was allowed inside.”
Bernardin said, “It’s happened at every church in town.”
“Pickleu made that argument. We’re not superstitious savages like Pramans.”
Pramans did believe nonbelievers polluted a temple just by entering. The temple so fouled had to be cleansed and consecrated anew.
“A loss of consecration?” the old man muttered. “Is that what it is? Assuming all things are possible inside the Night…” He was not sure where he was headed but knew he was tramping alongside the frontiers of enlightenment.
How could a holy place become unconsecrated without the collusion of its priests and congregation?
“No choice now,” Brother Candle said. “We have to check meeting places used by Seekers After Light.”
“Want to try the Dainshau place?”
“No. They’re worse than Pramans about pollution.”
The beadle said, “They are. But they do have the same problem. Their holiness went the same day ours did.”
The plague had not spared the meeting places of the Seekers After Light.
Brother Candle and Bernardin returned to the citadel, to the small room off the kitchen, for supper. The old man toyed with his food.
Spiritually, he was devastated.
Bernardin finally hazarded, “It must have something to do with that woman. That Instrumentality.”
The Perfect grunted.
“The changes started after she visited us.”
“So she’s the real, true God?”
“She’s the bull Instrumentality around here, right now. That’s all.”
Maybe. But how could one weird adolescent be more powerful than any traditional deity? Assuming all things were true in the Night—a premise no established religion entirely accepted—faith alone should leave even the God of the Dainshaus able to withstand the demon. Unless every established religion included a fatal flaw in its foundation.
The absolute, root question would be, how could an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent God fail to deal with some previously unknown entity possessing the ability to amble in and suck the holiness out of His consecrated sites?
Socia was nowhere to be found.
Bernardin grumbled, “I’ll bet she sneaked off to see Kedle. She didn’t have any other obligations today.”
“But she…”
“Really, Master. Socia Rault? Who knows her better than you? Will the woman let good sense get in her way?”
Guillemette had just come to see if they needed anything. She snapped, “The Countess spent the morning with Lumiere. After lunch she went to the audience hall to deal with a gaggle of magistrates who claimed they’d been ordered to a general assembly of city judges.”
“Damn me!” Brother Candle swore so seldom that Bernardin and Guillemette alike were stunned. “I forgot! I was going to upbraid them for wasting Socia’s time with petty cases. I blame you, Bernardin. If you hadn’t dragged me out…”
“My fault? You could have said you had something going.”
“You made it sound like Socia wanted it handled right now.”
“It could have waited. Getting those chickenshit justices to look down and find their balls would be more important than any silly-ass running around we did.”
Exasperated, Guillemette said, “And you’re the men the Countess considers the backbone of Antieux. Is there something you want? I’ll only be here a few minutes more.”
Bernardin said, “You could tell us where the Countess is. So we can tell her what we found out. And so the Master can apologize.”
Brother Candle rolled his eyes.
Guillemette made a growling noise. “You can get your own supper.” She headed for the nearest doorway, but halted, framed there. “She’s probably enjoying dinner with my cousin in Arnhand.” Then she was gone.
Half a minute later Brother Candle said, “Bernardin, I’m too old. I should have been one with the Light years ago. I feel more like I’m not in my own world anymore, every day.”
“You know too much. Everybody we saw today would feel just as lost if they knew what you do.”
Bernardin had misunderstood. Deliberately? Maybe not. Amberchelle’s worldview was simpler. “No doubt. No doubt.”
“What I’m thinking now is, we’re missing something. Something that might be obvious to an outsider but you and I can’t see because of what we believe.”
“Bernardin…” This was one of those times when Amberchelle amazed and perplexed him by being deeper than seemed possible.
Talk of the devil conjured her. Socia wandered in, looking exhausted. An attentive Guillemette rematerialized.
“Thought you were going away,” Amberchelle grumbled.
“I lied. I had to get away from you children.”
Socia volunteered, “I went and saw Kedle.”
Brother Candle grunted. He wanted to mention the obligations of motherhood but did not, recalling what Guillemette had said about how Socia had spent her morning. It would be breath wasted, anyway.
Amberchelle responded, “And? They haven’t hung her yet?”
“No. I’m getting worried about her.”
“Really? Why would that be?”
Socia did not catch Amberchelle’s sarcastic tone.
“Because she’s running wild. She’s killing people. She doesn’t care who. If they aren’t one hundred percent our friends and willing to exterminate anybody who doesn’t think the way we do … She’s in Arnhand, now, being more cruel than the Arnhanders ever were. Yesterday she overran an estate belonging to one of Anne of Menand’s cousins. She killed everything, including mice and sparrows where she found them. She burned everything burnable. She poisoned the wells. Her men never argued. They believe she was chosen by God to punish Arnhand. They idolize her.”
“And you’re jealous?” the Perfect asked.
“Not anymore. Now I’m terrified she’ll start believing what her men say. That she’ll decide God really is with her and it’s perfectly reasonable to think she can subdue Arnhand with just a few hundred men.”
Bernardin muttered something about more men slipping away every day to join Kedle. He did not mean to be heard.
Brother Candle said, “You’re worrying too much. Kedle is stubborn and willful but she does have a sense of proportion. She’ll just harass Arnhand. She won’t get into any real fights.”
“You sound like you’re behind her.”
“I’m trying to tell you what I think she’s thinking.”
Bernardin shifted talk to what they had learned about the problems in Antieux’s churches.
* * *
Antieux enjoyed a halcyon season of several weeks’ duration. The entire city seemed happy and content. Even Bishop LaVelle’s complaints were infrequent and random.
The magistrates, justices of the peace, and remaining parish priests began taking care of the trivia they should have since Socia’s ascension. They learned that she would not overrule them even where she disagreed with their judgments.
Then came news concerning the improbable events at Vetercus.
21. Alten Weinberg: Winter
The Righteous reached Alten Weinberg on an afternoon when random snowflakes swirled, proclaiming the end of the campaign season. There had been enthusiastic welcomes along the way. Common folks, for some reason, seemed to feel included in the triumphs of the Righteous.
The nobility were more restrained. A common adventurer, however favored by the Ege sisters, was poaching in their preserve.
Hecht did his best to charm those he met along the way. Possession of Anselin of Menand helped, but not a lot.
Although holiness had abandoned more and more churches the hunger for crusade was rising, a communal insanity taking hold of the Chaldarean world. Hecht began to worry about the whole becoming too big to control.
He worried about the Shining Ones, too, though they respected their contract and remained disguised. The more compliant they were the more nervous he became. The core him, hammered into shape in the Vibrant Spring School, did not want to believe any good could come of traffic with devils.
As much as he worried about them, his staff worried about him more.
Events in Hovacol had rendered less striking his apparent return from the dead. He had been strange after that, but only somewhat and only for a short while. He had appeared normal enough in Brothe. His turning up unconscious on the road into the Remayne Pass was troubling, but …
Lord Arnmigal was downright weird. He called devils to the battlefield. He did not break a sweat while conquering a renowned brawler. He had driven a demon out of said brawler.
None of which had been explained to anyone’s satisfaction. Lord Arnmigal was as concerned as anyone else.
Always clever, he had become smoothly facile tactically. He knew what his opponent would do before that opponent moved. He seemed incapable of error and equally incapable of understanding why monstrous competence scared those around him.
He had every characteristic desirable in a Commander of the Righteous on the eve of a history-defining effort to cleanse the Holy Lands of unbelievers, heretics, and other abominations in the eye of God.
On the other hand … Piper Hecht was frightened. He could not shake a conviction that he was not the man he had been. The Hovacol raid had changed him. Again.
Else Tage had become Piper Hecht. Piper Hecht had settled in so comfortably that Else Tage was scarcely a reminiscence. Piper Hecht had become so real that he had memories of his manufactured Duarnenian past. It took an effort of will to recall the Vibrant Spring School.
When he did ferret out those elusive recollections he banged up against the realization that he had been another someone before he became Else Tage, the boy Gisors, whose natural father was a lord of the Brotherhood of War. Gisors had had a family. Piper Hecht had found that family again—and right now very much wished that the member called the Ninth Unknown would show up and help navigate the stormy emotional seas.
Where was that old man? For that matter, where was Heris? Where were Lila and Vali? His only family was Pella, who went round in a slack-jawed daze, constantly frightened.
The
boy had been unable to get both feet on the ground since the confrontation with King Stain.
Hecht wished he could summon Hourli and find out what was going on. Which sparked a faint touch of good humor. “No matter what I have I always want more.” Then he felt a sudden conviction that he needed only lift his arms and the Choosers would respond. That Sprenghul and Fastthal were up to no mischief because only Arlensul had known how.
Hecht and an escort left the column in response to an Imperial summons that included Anselin of Menand. Hecht felt a twinge of jealousy.
Suppose Helspeth fell for Anselin the way Katrin had for Jaime of Castauriga? Anselin was handsome, young, confident, and personable. He might make a good king if he eluded his mother’s machinations.
“Pella. Come with me.”
“Dad?”
“You may never get another chance to see the inside of the palace.”
* * *
They did not get far inside. Helspeth met them in a room normally used to assemble the palace guard. Braunsknechts filled the corners. The lighting was bad except around the Empress. She was developing a taste for drama. Also, her pleasure at seeing Hecht was so obvious that even the densest witness had to wonder.
His jealousy slithered down into the fetid deeps.
Helspeth had a dozen women and functionaries with her. She could do nothing now. She turned to her guest king.
Anselin’s attitude remained guarded.
Hecht had seen little of the man in transit. He had not acknowledged Anselin’s status, nor had he treated the man with more deference than others who traveled with him.
Anselin’s companions had given no trouble. Perhaps durance in Cholate had been less pleasant than the prospect of the same in Alten Weinberg.
Helspeth sparked off orders to people who had been rehearsed. Hecht noted her wary glances at Pella.
This might, indeed, be the boy’s only chance to see the inside of the palace.
Helspeth said, “It pleases us to see thee returned hale and successful, Lord Arnmigal.” She sounded imperially remote. From behind her, Lady Hilda showed Hecht a ghost of a wink and spectral smile. And he understood.
Daedel would be Helspeth’s avatar. She would do what Helspeth dared not do herself. He returned Lady Hilda’s ghost wink. Helspeth saw and ghost-smiled herself.
