Lord of the Silent Kingdom

17. A New Dawn and a New Night

Each day the staff selected two promising prisoners. The Captain-General took time to interview them while Madouc and his lifeguards hovered. "Titus. I'm suspicious."

"Sir? About what?"

"These prisoners. Are they being chosen to tell me what I want to hear?"

"You need more bad news? Or more defiance?"

"Never mind. How much longer will this take?"

"This being?"

"Castreresone."

"That's up to them. Isn't it? If you're determined to limit casualties and damage." The staff insisted that the White City could be taken whenever the Captain-General ordered it. But thousands would die and the city itself might be destroyed.

"I'm not in a hurry. Yet."

"You could offer terms. Sublime isn't here."

"Still no respect for our master?"

"Not in our lifetime."

"Don't be too public about it. Society types are everywhere. Popping up faster than these Connectens can murder them."

"I have trouble remembering that the rest of the world runs different than our little slice here."

"Don't. You have a family. Where's Bechter? I haven't seen him for days." Bechter was always underfoot when that was inconvenient.

"Making the rounds of the siege works. He has experience from the Holy Lands."

"Have you reeruited any solid sources? Anywhere?"

Consent shook his head. Looked vaguely defeated. "The Devedian and Dainshau communities won't talk. They're getting out. Going to Terliaga, Platadura, anywhere where the Society won't be able to follow."

Hecht was baffled. Peter of Navaya, Lion of the Chaldarean Reconquest, openly accepted Unbelievers into his dependencies. And insisted that they be treated well.

Consent said, "Peter saw what you accomplished in Calzir."

"If so, he saw in it an affirmation of policies he had in place. He had a lot of Pramans with him in the Calziran Crusade. Now he's recruiting in Shippen and Calzir. And getting a good turnout." He heard that two thousand Pramans from Shippen had been ferried to Artecipea to further Peter's ambitions there.

Hecht felt a little thrill of apprehension. Bone and the company were on that island.

"I see Bechter. You still want him?"

"Yes."

Lifeguards orbiting him, Hecht moved a dozen yards, to gain a different perspective on the barbican protecting Castreresone's main gate, doing its job now as a mountain of rubble. Work gangs hauled the rubble off for use as ammunition.

Only the more ferocious of the expanding community of Society hangers-on dared complain about the Captain-General's efforts to reduce the White City. And they did. He tempered their fury by offering them weapons and the privilege of leading the assault wave. No takers so far.

"Captain-General, you wanted to see me?"

"Sergeant. Yes. I've been wondering. The man in brown. Seen him lately?"

"Not in weeks, sir. Is it important?"

"No. I just hadn't seen him either, myself."

"Have you ever figured him out?"

"No. I do think I know who he is, now. Or was."

"Was, sir?"

"He might be a ghost." Or a minor ascendant. A notion Hecht was not ready to loose into the public domain.

Bechter frowned. That failed to conform to his Brotherhood vision of how the world should work.

"Yet another conflict between what we want to be true and what we have to suffer," Hecht said. Those conflicts tormented everyone but the Patriarchal Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy, these days. Faith had begun to creak under the strain.

The Society thought God was testing faith by dealing contradictory evidence.

Piper Hecht wondered why God – anybody's God – would bother. The God of the World ought not to be so petty.

Bechter said, "Prosek is back."

"Tell me."

"He was just coming in when I heard you wanted me. I just had time to say hello. And make sure he didn't attract attention."

"I thought he was dead." There had been little communication with Plemenza. That little had not been optimistic. The falcons had been destroyed, their crews injured, and Prosek lost. The pass was open but the fate of the monster remained uncertain. It might be lying up somewhere, recovering.

Princess Helspeth's having opened the pass had generated a political storm inside the Grail Empire.

Hecht suffered troubled nights.

"I need to see him as soon as he's able."

Gervase Saluda and the Principate from Aparion, with minimal courtesy, demanded an audience. After lurking in the background for weeks, acting as Collegium spies. Hecht expected an argument about access to Drago Prosek.

The Principates surprised him.

Saluda, never warm since he had assumed the Bruglioni seat in the Collegium, said, "We've received a suggestion from Brothe that it may be time to be a little more aggressive toward Castreresone."

Not subtle, Gervase Saluda, hinting that Sublime had grown impatient. "Really? I think he'd let me know directly if he was. He hasn't been shy about that yet."

Saluda observed, "This siege can't go on forever."

"Nor will it. In fact, I'm authorizing you to go up there and talk them into giving up. Right now."

Both were startled. There had been no negotiations whatsoever, even sub rosa. "Terms?"

"I trust you to be sensible." He just wanted them gone. Bechter had Drago Prosek ready to report. Anyway, Hecht was sure that the White City did not yet despair enough to contemplate surrender.

Queen Isabeth remained poised just twenty miles away. And her brother had begun to stir behind her.

Gervase Saluda gave Hecht one long, penetrating look as he departed.

Hecht shrugged.

"Rough trip?" he asked Prosek.

"Yes, sir. Not attracting attention. Especially after I crossed the Dechear. We're not popular out there."

"Where anyone cares. Sit. Be comfortable. Sergeant, bring the man whatever he wants. So. Tell the tale."

Titus Consent entered as Bechter left. He made Prosek uncomfortable. But Prosek began after an encouraging gesture from his commander.

"Why didn't you go back to the others?"

"I didn't trust them. That Princess. She was probably straight. The ones around her… I figured they'd do what they did. Once we took care of their monster."

"That being?"

"They locked everybody up. Gonna force them to explain firepowder and how the falcons work. And how to make them."

"I see." Hecht smiled. "And you're the only one who could tell them anything."

"Pretty much, sir. Those guys aren't ignorant. They know the theory – just not the practical knowledge."

Typical of soldiers. Indifferent to why something worked, so long as it did when the arrows started flying.

Prosek continued. "On the up side, sir, they'll get decent medical care. Which most of them needed. Both falcons committed suicide. I made sure the firepowder was used up."

"The monster. The Instrumentality. What about it?"

"We didn't kill it. But I don't think it'll be a problem again. It can't be much more than what it was when it was still a man. And it's badly crippled. It could barely crawl."

"Good. Good. I'll ask Principate Delari what it all means. Then we have to figure out how to make these confrontations go our way faster."

"I had a lot of time to think while I was traveling. I had some technical and tactical ideas."

Hecht listened patiently. Prosek amazed him. "Stunning. And expensive. Godawful expensive."

"Not my money, though. And worth it if you really want to break the Tyranny of the Night."

"Lieutenant Consent. Work some financial sorcery on these ideas. The rest… The way to speed the firing cycle… That'll have to go to the foundry people. Traps, though… We'll get to work on those. We can experiment right here. The Connec has become an Instrumentality-rich environment."

Consent said, "I don't have to do a lot of calculating to tell you there isn't enough silver in the world. So long as the wells of power keep producing. A vigorous push against the Night could even be counterproductive."

"Explain."

"The wells are fading. Which is cyclical. This time looks like the worst ever. For us, that means more people pushed into smaller territories having to survive on dwindling resources. Fighting over those makes things worse because much of the resources are destroyed in the fighting. Right here, we can see how that works. You see people worried about where food will come from – for the first time in centuries."

"And that connects with the Night how?"

"The wells of power produce the food and wine of the Night. Again, dwindling resources. If we remove an entity from the competition, there'll be more resources for the rest."

"I think I see."

"I didn't make that as clear as I should have."

"Clear enough. Don't the big ones feed on the little ones? Like bugs and fish?"

"In a sense. I think."

"Would destroying the little ones starve the big ones?"

Consent shrugged.

Hecht said, "Prosek, stay out of the way. Get back in shape. And keep thinking. I may put you in charge of figuring out better ways."

Prosek looked to Redfearn Bechter for a cue. Bechter did not offer one.

Delari asked, "Have you seen Cloven Februaren?"

"There was a rumor about an invisible man spying on the leadership inside Castreresone. If that was him, he hasn't bothered letting me know what they're saying."

"I'm worried."

"Oh?"

"Not by what he's doing. He's like the weather. All you can do is live with it. No. I think there's trouble in Brothe."

Politics. Certainly. Hecht wished he did not have to suffer that side of the human condition. But if people could get along he would be unemployed.

"Could that be why we've seen so little of Saluda, Linczski, and Doneto lately?" Pinkus Ghort had visited twice and was expected again. Principate Doneto had not visited once.

"Could be," Delari admitted. "Doneto not wanting to draw notice. The other two are here mainly to keep an eye on us."

"I let them go up to the gates today. To offer Castreresone a chance. Evidently, the wealthy haven't suffered enough."

"And aren't sufficiently frightened."

"Letting the city levies run wild wasn't intimidation enough."

"They won't surrender while Isabeth is sitting there barely a day away. I know you don't want King Peter for an enemy. But to finish here you need to end any hope of relief. Before Church politics yanks the rug out from under you."

Engaging Queen Isabeth would support the mission he had been given in Dreanger. Particularly now that Sublime had an accommodation with the Grail Empire.

"I wanted a minimum of death and destruction."

Hecht was not unprepared to assume a more aggressive strategy. Plans had been made. That was what he and his staff did while artillery pounded the walls, patrols kept the Burg and New Town cleared, and pickets harassed anyone trying to get in or out of the White City. While the engineers continued undermining and overtowering, trying to overawe but preparing for an assault as well.

"I'll deal with Isabeth first, I suppose."

"Not going to be easy."

"I know. Peter won't have sent her without his best men to protect her. She has between eight hundred and a thousand men now, maybe half of them men Duke Tormond raised."

"Heavy cavalry."

Yes. He had to find a way to diminish that fierce advantage. Numbers meant little if unprepared infantry had to face men in armor, atop warhorses running shoulder to shoulder.

"I know. We have ideas." Which would not work. These Navayans had survived all the traps and trickery of the Pramans of al-Halambra.

He wished he had Buhle Smolens and Pinkus Ghort with him. They managed to execute the strategies he chose to employ.

It was time to find the limit of Hagan Brokke's talents.

Probing attacks found the White City in a state of excitement. Its defenders swarmed to every assault site and made themselves thoroughly obnoxious if the crusaders persisted.

Hecht did not sustain any assault for long. He was taxing the enemy. Wearing his will to rush hither and yon.

The artillery never stopped. Even the dimmest and most devoted Castreresonese could foresee the inevitable end to that.

One day the Captain-General would decide there were breaches enough and order a general assault. The Castreresonese could not resist everywhere at once. But hope remained. Encouraging messages did get through.

"I know," Hecht told Consent. "There's no way to stop everything. Given time, though, those messengers will bring despair instead of hope."

Troops filtered out of camp after dark. For the benefit of spies they were sneaking off to reduce towns and fortresses to the northwest, where colonies of Maysaleans and adherents of the Viscesment Patriarchy were common. And they did make life miserable wherever the locals had not yet yielded to Sublime's forces. But their mission was to collect on the upper Laur, along the northern road to Khaurene, two dozen miles from Duke Tormond's capital. Whence they could go forward against the Khaurenesaine or ease down behind Isabeth's position at Mohela ande Larges.

Hagan Brokke would command. He would make enough noise to be considered a clumsy sneaker. What he did later would depend on how Duke Tormond and Queen Isabeth responded to his presence.

Patriarchal forces east of Queen Isabeth would build up clumsily enough to be noticed, too.

Hecht told Consent, "These people have made a career of war. They're probably eager to teach us not to challenge our betters but smart enough to see the dangers. They won't charge into a trap."

"So you're doing what?"

"Creating options. Options they'll see clearly. If they sit, I'll gradually surround them. Their only hope will be Duke Tormond. Unless they fight."

"And Tormond does nothing but talk."

"He hasn't done anything else so far."

"They'll have the interior position. If they go after Brokke we won't know in time to help."

"We'll know. We have scouts camped in their saddlebags." He had a roster of the Navayans in Queen Isabeth's force.

"Where can you fight them? There's no good place out there."

"Too true. The best strategy looks like attrition. While waiting for them to do something stupid before I do."

"Is that likely?"

"Titus! Sarcasm? I like that. I think." Smile gone, Hecht said, "You could have a point. I'm feeling some time pressure. Things are happening in Brothe. And people there are trying to keep me from hearing about it."

"Did it occur to you to ask me?"

After a moment, "No. My spymaster? Why consult him? Because I've been too focused on what's in front of me? What do you know?"

"My contacts in the Devedian community aren't what they used to be. But some still think being friendly could pay dividends. They tell me when there's something they think we should know."

"And?"

"Most Brothens think Sublime is dying. The gang around him want to make sure they can name his replacement. The Fiducian, Joceran Cuito, looks like he'll be their candidate."

The Direcian. Peter of Navaya's man. That could lead to interesting times. "A Navayan? We're still not over the last non-Brothen who won a Patriarchal election."

Consent shrugged. "I'm just telling you what I hear. They say Peter wants it. And has the money to make it happen."

"I see. And I'm being kept isolated because?"

"Because you have an army. You could veto the outcome of an election. If you had the inclination. Like a general from Imperial times."

Hecht chuckled. What would Gordimer and er-Rashal think? Their throwaway agent was in a position to influence the selection of the next main enemy of the Kaifate of al-Minphet.

Consent asked, "You thought about who you'd rather have take over if Sublime went away?"

Hecht assayed tone and expression. Was he being felt out? He decided not. "Something else to worry about."

"Always plenty."

"Where is Principate Delari? I don't see him around anymore."

"Nor do I. But he's out there. Maybe missing Armand."

"Maybe." Hecht did not miss Osa Stile even a little.

Seeing the diminution of the besieging forces, the magnates of the White City launched another desperate night sortie. The Captain-General saw it coming. Every sally had been presaged by the gathering of watchers on the city wall.

A lot of dead men decorated the slopes when the sun rose. Few were Patriarchals.

The revenant Instrumentalities were busy all night. There were numerous reports of encounters in the form of sound or stench, but only a few had seen anything.

Hecht asked his staff, "Are they rattled enough to fall apart if we attack?"

Consent said, "Our men are exhausted, too. Those who were away from the main action wore themselves out mounting diversionary attacks."

And had gained several footholds inside the main wall. ›

"I'll let the Principates give them one more chance to surrender. What's this?"

A courier. With news that Queen Isabeth was moving. Her whole force was headed east, two hundred fifty knights, their associated sergeants, squires, and infantry, and nearly eight hundred Sevanphaxi and Terliagan mercenaries Tormond had conjured somehow. Nearly two thousand men, almost all veterans.

Hecht scanned the message again. "They're coming straight at us. To see what we'll do, I imagine. They're in no hurry. That's good for us." Otherwise, they'd be right behind the news. He sent messengers flying. To Hagan Brokke. To the scouts watching Isabeth. To those whose job it was to watch Mohela ande Larges.

An intricate dance began. It developed slowly. Each dancer waited for the other to misstep.

Isabeth halted after traveling twelve miles. She occupied the common farmland outside the town Homodel. Hecht's scouts reported the ground looked good for cavalry.

"Let them sit. Let them get colder." He thought it looked like there would be a more serious snowfall sometime soon. "Chase their scouts. Ambush their foragers. We'll let Brokke upset them."

While he waited, though, he kept on filtering men out of camp.

The bombardment of the White City went on.

Hagan Brokke feinted toward Mohela ande Larges, the attack the Captain-General supposed the enemy expected. Once Brokke saw that the Queen's headquarters could not be taken quickly, he headed toward Khaurene. As always, his troops crushed resistance ferociously. In two days they captured six towns and fortresses and accepted the surrenders of three more.

The Patriarchals from around Castreresone established a camp three miles from Isabeth's. Making no offer of battle.

The nights became filled with the bark and chatter and numbing stench of the Night, worsening fast. The Connecten Instrumentalities were gathering, tormenting the sons of men not nearly so much as one another.

So said Principate Muniero Delari, more in evidence now that a collision might be coming.

The old man assembled a team of falconeers whose weapons had been lost in the confrontation with the god grub. They built and tested traps, some as imagined by Drago Prosek, most designs handed down from early Old Empire times.

The smallest Instrumentalities were easily caught, often because they were desperate to escape larger predators. Delari hoped to use the small captives to lure the large.

"What kind of sorcerer are you?" Hecht asked. "I thought, as a class, that was your high purpose. To round up a bigger, nastier herd than anyone else has."

"You aren't sufficiently well informed." Delari said that deadpan. And did not explain. His sense of humor was hard to detect. "You need to spend more time with your grandfather."

The Navayans were patient. Hecht went out to the camp and took charge. It was an excuse to get away from Castreresone. He tried provoking the Navayans with nighttime harassments. His men could not penetrate their picket lines. He had his surviving falcons fire stone shot toward the fanciest pavilion. Their accuracy was foul, one exploded, and the noise frightened the crusaders' own animals. There was no evidence the Navayans were impressed.

Hecht began a process of encirclement, having his men pick off anyone who strayed from the enemy camp. His patrols watched for couriers. Those from the White City were allowed to get through. Messages coming out were intercepted as often as possible. Those were in cipher. Even Titus Consent had no luck breaking the code. The couriers themselves, naturally, had no clue.

Hecht said, "I don't mind if they just sit there. Except that it's cold. We have food. They don't. Not enough to wait us out." While they sat, they would be hammered by increasingly desperate pleas from Castreresone.

The Captain-General refused to engage an enemy with such a heavy cavalry advantage.

Four days into the standoff news came that Patriarchal troops had gotten a solid foothold inside Castreresone. Several leading men had been captured.

It looked like the beginning of the end for the White City. That same day word came that Hagan Brokke's men had shown themselves to watchers on the wall at Khaurene. They had burned villages and manors within sight of the city, concentrating on properties belonging to Duke Tormond. A huge, angry response from the city forced them to withdraw. But the message had been delivered.

Titus Consent materialized at Hecht's elbow as the Captain-General tried to pry advice out of Principate Delari. The old man was depressed for no obvious reason. Hecht told him, "You don't have to be here. I can send you down to Sheavenalle. You could get passage across to Brothe. You could be back loafing in the Chiaro baths in a week."

"That won't change the future. Nor the past. Lieutenant Consent has something urgent. Spend your empathy on him."

"Titus?"

"The Navayans are up to something over there. Scouts are heading out."

Soon afterward the Navayans left camp. The knights headed toward the Patriarchal camp. The mercenary infantry marched out eastward. Their own infantry followed the horsemen. Knights, sergeants, senior squires, and whatnot, those numbered almost three hundred. More than Hecht had expected.

The horsemen stopped outside bowshot, dismounted, began an advance on foot, each armored man backed by two foot.

Hecht did not know what to do. Crossbowmen being at a premium, he had left his at Castreresone.

"We have to go. Now. Lay down some kind of harassing fire. Burn some firepowder for the smoke. The breeze is blowing their way."

It was close but the Patriarchals escaped. The Navayans evidently had no enthusiasm for their tactics and so did not move forcefully. Nor did they show any desire to enter the foul firepowder smoke.

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 Principate 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 ande Larges. Which they might find held against them, Hagan Brokke having taken the garrison by surprise the 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 Principate?"

"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."

"Principate 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."

"Principate 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.

Bechter went to work with enthusiasm.

"Hope you see what I'm seeing," Ghort said.

"Which would be?"

"How much the Brotherhood resents the Society."

"Useful to know, down the road."

"I'm thinking so."

Ignoring the protesting Society brothers, Hecht assumed the role of Captain-General. "Let's have some order. Pay attention."

Silence. The Castreresonese were intensely interested in the victorious general's comments.

Hecht presented Sublime's directives, which had not changed. He presented a list of heretics and enumerated steps to be taken to suppress, convert, or evict Unbelievers. Their properties were forfeit to the Church. The city was expected to raise funds for repairs to its defenses and public works. Leading men were to be fined for their obdurate behavior.

Those fines would fall into Hecht's war chest.

Once Castreresone was settled he would move against Khaurene.

Castreresone, not Duke Tormond's home city, was the key to control of the Connec, in Hecht's estimation. He owned the key, now.

He took the seat reserved for the ruling count. His officers introduced locals of standing, starting with the consuls, the manager-senators who handled the daily business of city government. Castreresone retained many of the appurtenances of its youth as a city-state. With layers of feudal law and obligation laid on over the centuries.

The eight senators present were eager to please. Three more were absent, all on the Society's wanted list. Hechi asked. One supposedly died in the fighting. One had suffered a stroke. And one had fled the city.

Heeht picked names at random. "You three will speak for them to the Society."

The magnates were introduced next. They were the rich men of Castreresone. Many belonged to the urban nobility disdained by traditional nobility because they were more interested in commerce than warfare.

Another round in the ancient contest between city and country.

The Captain-General found a total lack of defiance in the defeated. The excesses in the towns and villages had beet useful. Once the introductions had been made and the oaths of fealty administered, Hecht made a brief speech. He would forgive the sins of the past. In return, he expected thos oaths to be fulfilled absolutely. Rebellion would be dealt with harshly.

The Captain-General went through the motions, tired. But he studied the Castreresonese closely.

He did not identify a single potential troublemaker.

Titus Consent approached, grim as he weaved between Hecht's lifeguards. He whispered, "Bad news from Hagan Brokke."

"I'll finish as soon as I can."

Now that he had seen the human face of the city there was little more he wanted to do. Plans for the occupation had been made long since.

He what?" Hecht asked.

"In the vernacular, he got his ass kicked," Consent said. "He slid out of Mohela ande Larges, as directed. He made a show of threatening Khaurene again, then headed east. And ran into Isabeth's mercenaries. An encounter engagement. Which escalated. Both sides seeing an opportunity that wasn't really there. Brokke had the advantage till the Navayans arrived."

Hecht said nothing. There was no point. Things happened. There were no guarantees. Genius was not infallible. And… things happened. Finally, "How bad?"

"Not sure yet. Pretty bad. But he didn't lose his prisoners."

"Good. Torturing them will make me feel better about losing those men."

"You're in a fine mood."

"I don't take misfortune well. As you see. And I want to go home. I haven't seen Anna or the kids in half a year."

"You are unique in your exaggerated pain, sir. Why is Colonel Ghort blessing us with his company?"

"I'm not sure. It must have to do with Principate Doneto and Morcant Farfog. But he isn't as forthcoming as he once was."

"It couldn't be just that he needs to relax with someone he's known since before the responsibilities started piling on?"

The Captain-General closed his eyes. He drifted into a fantasy realm where he, Ghort, Bo Biogna, Just Plain Joe and the mule Pig Iron, and a few comfortable others surrounded a campfire, swapping tall tales. The good old days, when they were hungry but had the luxury of being able to relax.

"Could be, Titus. How scattered are we? How disorganized? How long to pull it all together to march on Khaurene?"

"I don't want to get above myself. But these guys need some rest. They need to relax. They need to get in out of the Night. Which won't get any better because we took Castreresone. Despite Prosek's efforts."

"What's that?"

"The racket? Probably Archbishop Farfog insisting on seeing you so he can give you your orders."

"Here are some orders for him. Go away. Stick to robbery and saving souls. I'll handle the war business."

"Sure you want to offend him?"

"I don't mind. Do you?"

"Sir?"

"They say he keeps records. On everyone. I'm sure you're one of his favorite suspects."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"It won't be a happy world if Farfog is running free. Maybe we ought to help him become Patriarch." He enjoyed Consent's startled response. "The Patriarch gets so isolated he has to drill through layers of hangers-on to have much impact outside Krois. Farfog isn't a leader. He's a pusher. He'd drown in the bureaucratic swamp."

Consent chuckled. "Interesting idea. Disarm the idiots by putting them in charge, then let their own incompetence destroy them."

"Something like that." Hecht did not think Farfog would destroy himself. But he was venal and corrupt enough to render the Church a cripple, incapable of undertaking another massive religious offensive. "When you tell him to go away, feel him out about how much the army's support might be worth to him."

Consent did not like that. But he did not question it.

PRINCIPATE DELARI WAKENED HECHT. WHO WONDERED how the man had gotten past his bodyguards. "Problems in Brothe, Piper. I have to leave."

"What is it? Saluda and Linczski have gone already."

"And Doneto. He has a big lead."

"What is it?"

"Sublime is gone. Or going. His gang is trying to keep it secret."

"We've been hearing that for months."

"It's true, now. All the Principates away from Brothe will be moving that direction. Like flies to a cow flop. Wanting to reach the Chiaro Palace in time to get in on the first vote."

Members of the Collegium not on hand for the initial vote could not participate in subsequent polls. The rule helped keep the Patriarchy in the hands of members of the Firaldian primates.

"You've been sharing wine with Pinkus Ghort."

"With my grandfather. I don't see him often enough." Nor sounded like this opportunity had gone that well.

"I'll miss you. I'll feel naked, having you go just when the Night has begun this escalation."

"You'll be protected. He'll be out there somewhere. Hovering. Trying to make the world run according to his own weird prejudices."

"I'm not worried about me. I'm worried about the other twenty thousand men…"

"Talk to him about that. I need to get busy. I'm way behind."

"Take a boat down to Sheavenalle. Then a ship across to Brothe. You'll get home weeks ahead of everybody. You can fix it up to be the next Patriarch yourself."

"I don't want it. Wouldn't take it if it was handed to me."

"If you get a chance, see Anna and the kids. I think that would mean a lot to them." He did not know what else he could do. "I'll give you a letter for them before you leave."

Hecht told Ghort, "I liked it better down in Inconje. This place is dark, dank, and smells bad." He exaggerated. The keep had not been built for comfort. The offending smell was the result of generations of cooking with unfamiliar spices.

They were alone except for a couple of lifeguards. Ghort was sampling local vintages.

Hecht asked, "What's really on your mind?"

"I don't know if we can take Antieux. An assault would just get a lot of people dead. They aren't getting hungry in there. They aren't getting thirsty. The walls won't come down. Winter is closing in. We're starting to see sickness in the camp. Probably brought in by all the hangers-on we've accumulated. And we're having trouble with Night things. Trouble that looks like it could get bad."

"We have that here, too. I've got a man, Drago Prosek, who seems to be on track to controlling it."

"I heard the falcons."

"That's for the big ones. I've got more falcons being cast, including a test kind that can be fired faster. But that's in Brothe. Which doesn't do us any good here. Where he is doing good, here, is with traps. You should see the things he's caught. A whole menagerie of stuff that should've been extinct since the Old Empire. Stuff no one's ever seen before."

"But not dangerous?"

Hecht shrugged. "I don't know. I'm short my adviser on those things."

"Delari? Yeah. Doneto was useful that way, too. When you figure on moving west?"

"It'll take a week to get organized. Then it depends on the weather. Much more snow and mud, I may just sit down here and keep warm. May just wait to see what happens in Brothe." If Sublime went, would all his lunatic drive to rid the Chaldarean world of heresy and Unbelievers go with him?

Should Sublime's successor be indifferent to goals set by the present Patriarch, what would become of the Captain-General and his army?

"My guys aren't going to like winter… Oh! This is awful!" Ghort shoved an earthenware bottle away.

"Have you been getting ready?" Pinkus Ghort, Hecht suspected, had let things slide on the assumption that long-term thinking was a waste of time for a soldier.

"Probably not enough," Ghort confessed. "Sedlakova, more than me."

"Then you know what you need to do."

"Winter is coming. We don't have a lot of stores. Count Raymone cleared the countryside."

"You're on a river, Pinkus. And there's a road to Sheavenalle. I have no trouble supplying my people." That Ghort was less than fully prepared was no surprise. He was not a born manager. Which was why Clej Sedlakova was in charge at Antieux. Sedlakova recognized his own weaknesses and chose under-officers to deal with them. "Is Sedlakova having trouble? Are you managing things separately?"

"I've got to, Pipe. Even working for pay, I'm City Regiment, not Patriarchal."

"Point. But the fact remains. You need to do the scut work. Or find yourself a Titus who can."

Admonished, Ghort nodded. Understanding the message behind the message. Friendship could not trump the welfare of the soldiers. Not with Piper Hecht. Who stared pointedly at the wine in front of his friend.

He had reason to believe that Pinkus spent too much time sampling the vintages at Antieux. Time better spent preparing for winter.

Ghort asked, "What do we do if Sublime does die?"

"We may have to look for work. If Joceran Cuito succeeds."

"The Fiducian? Why him?"

"I don't know. I've heard he's the front-runner. Backed by King Peter."

Madouc, the lifeguard captain, entered. "Hagan Brokke has arrived, Captain-General. You asked to be informed."

"Thanks. I'll see him as soon as he feels up to it."

"He isn't in good shape. He may need time with the healing brothers."

"Then I can go to him." He shifted to Ghort. "Any chance you'll take Farfog with you when you head back?"

"You don't have muscle enough to bully me into that, Pipe. That guy is the worst asshole I've ever met. He makes old Bishop Serifs look like a fairy-tale princess. It's too bad the Connectens didn't kill his ass when they had the chance."

"I've avoided him so far. I won't be able to forever."

"Something to look forward to, then. If we're lucky, the next Patriarch will get rid of him. Hell, if we could just get him up in front of the Collegium… He'd make such an ass of himself, they'd appoint him chief missionary to the Dreangereans. Or something bad. You got anything for me to take back when I go?"

"Just find Prosek. Have him tell you how to handle your Night things. If you need to, tell Sedlakova he should bring in people from the Special Office. I'm sure he knows a few."

"If he isn't one himself."

Cloven Februaren appeared as Hecht was crawling into bed. The feather bed being the one thing he found positive about having moved into the keep. He groaned. "I was hoping to get an extra hour tonight."

"I'm only here to tell you I won't be around for a while. You'll need to stay closer to your lifeguards."

Hecht suspected that Februaren had a severely inflated notion of his own importance. Yet the old man might have stopped any number of attempts to assassinate the Captain-General. How would he know about attempts that failed? "I'll try to remember."

"They only need be successful once. It's important that they not be."

"I'm glad you share my viewpoint."

"I worry that you aren't serious enough about sharing mine. Very worried. It's important that you survive."

Hecht agreed. But he and the old man were not talking about the same thing. It was not personal with Februaren. Februaren was a man with a plan. And that plan hinged on a supposed remote descendant.

Again, "I won't be out there. So you have to think about your own safety whenever you choose to do something. Every single time."

"I've got it. Really."

Februaren did his turn-around thing. Hecht snuggled down into the warmth of the feather bed. He fell asleep wondering if he had it in him to be paranoid enough to satisfy the Ninth Unknown.

Three thousand of the best-rested troops headed west. Hecht hoped to provoke Duke Tormond into doing something unwise now that he had invoked his feudal right to summon his dependents to war. Hecht was not eager for a fight. But a fight would stir the political cauldron. And he did want that kept bubbling, whether or not his most secret self remained faithful to the mission given him by his first master, Gordimer the Lion.

The review of the departing troops done, Hecht went to see Hagan Brokke. Brokke was apologetic about his failure to handle the Navayans. He had paid the price of failure, physically. He would not have survived long had he not come into the hands of the healing brothers.

From Brokke's bedside Hecht went to see the prisoners Brokke had brought in. He expected a handful. There were more than forty, the majority being knights and minor nobility. Those had been given comfortable quarters in Inconje. Those of more immediate interest, though, had been driven into a stock pen.

"Bo. I haven't seen you for an age."

"Been too busy to socialize. Sir." Biogna scowled at all the bodyguards. Madouc must have had a dream visit from Cloven Februaren. He had increased the protection significantly.

"Are you involved in this?"

"I was out there with Brokke. Being his Titus Consent. Keeping him convinced that we needed to take a few prisoners."

"Why such a mob?"

"Most of them can be ransomed. The men insisted. But there are some interesting ones, too."

"Them?" Hecht indicated the men in the pen.

"Artecipeans. Every one. Probably useless for anything but Society food."

"Uhm?"

"They're not just heretics, they're Unbelievers. Trying to bring back the Old Gods. Virulently dangerous. Unlike those ones back yonder in the other pens. That whole clutch there are Khaurenese we picked up at Mohela ande Larges. One of Immaculate's bishops, a Praman priest of some kind, and a Deve elder. A couple days later, we found a Perfect Master hiding in some brush. Wouldn't have known it. He wasn't in costume. But the ones from Khaurene knew him. One of them said something before his brain checked in."

Hecht considered the Artecipeans. They avoided his gaze. "I've seen some of these men before." One face, in fact, he recalled from the crowd of gawkers outside Anna's house the night they moved her to Principate Delari's town house. "I'll work up a list of questions. Whoever answers them honestly won't get turned over to Archbishop Farfog. Show me what else you've got."

The captured soldiers were not impressive. Prisoners of war seldom were.

Biogna said, "This might be the best catch. Bernardin Amberchelle. Count Raymone's ugly cousin. In the top five on the Society's wanted list. He killed a bunch of their thugs. That's the Perfect Master over there, with the girl. He was traveling with Amberchelle. Says the girl is his daughter. He was trying to get her to safety in Khaurene. He's lying. She has a different accent. They're both very careful to protect her. She's got to be somebody important."

"Pity Ghort's gone. He might be able to use the cousin to get to Raymone."

"Send a messenger. He can use the information."

"Good work. Keep after these people. Use Farfog as leverage." Hecht considered the old man and the girl. The girl appeared to be about twenty, possibly not unattractive under the grime. She had a ferocious look.

"The Amberchelle person. Was he wearing or carrying anything we can send to Antieux? To prove we have him?"

"I'll find out." Skirting the certainty that the soldiers who caught him had relieved him of everything of value.

"Do that."

Hecht avoided Morcant Farfog for two more days. By which time he had Castreresone under control. It was not a pleasant interview. Those who had reported the Archbishop's failings had not exaggerated. Hecht endured what he had to endure and gave the minimum in response to demands. The Archbishop went away thinking he had won several major points. In fact, Hecht had yielded little.

He told Titus Consent, "That man must be beloved of God. He's too stupid, venal, and opinionated to survive otherwise."

Farfog had been vigorously obnoxious from the moment he entered the White City. Local Brothen Episcopals fed him names where they wanted plunder or vengeance.

It was one of the most interesting days Piper Hecht ever enjoyed. In the morning, while reviewing a force of two thousand moving west to add to pressure on the Khaurenesaine, he received word that his troops had engaged enemy mercenaries in a series of skirmishes and small battles and had overcome them in almost every instance. Numerous towns and fortresses had sent surrender offers as a result.

More good news arrived early in the afternoon. Count Raymone Garete seemed inclined toward reason, suddenly. Having been apprised of his cousin's situation. He was now willing to talk, though apparently unwilling to yield.

Immediately afterward came news that Sublime V had gone to his reward. Brothe had begun the monthlong series of ceremonies and rituals that would end with a conclave to choose a successor. Hecht ordered the appropriate shows of mourning – but instructed his officers to avoid allowing their opponents any advantage from the news. "I want our men seen everywhere. In bigger groups. They're to hit back hard at any provocation. I won't let Castreresone fall apart now." Yet it almost did.

Archbishop Farfog responded to the news from Brothe by surrendering to his obsessions.

First reports were confusing. No one was sure what was happening. Violence had erupted but was not directed at the soldiers. First guesses suggested factional fighting between the two strains of Chaldarean Episcopals. Hecht kept sending small bands to establish order. Each conflict extinguished seemed to spark two more somewhere else.

Consent came to report. "It's Farfog. Out to do all the damage he can before a new Patriarch shuts him down."

"He foresees a shift in the direction of the Church? Does he know something we don't?"

"Inside his idiot mind, maybe. In the real world? Who knows?"

"It'll be a month before we get a new Patriarch."

"Then we have a month, ourselves. Not so?" Hecht grinned. Exactly! He had that long to write whatever future he might inscribe.

Madouc arrived. "Sir, you might want to go up on the wall. See if you're inclined to intercede in what the Society is doing."

The view from the wall was a horror show. "How many?" Hecht demanded.

A junior officer said, "Over three hundred, sir." Hecht stared. Some wore the yellow tabards the Society forced on convicted heretics. But not many. He recognized men he had met since taking control of the city. Men who had been perfectly cooperative. Men who happened to have had money left after Castreresone paid its fines.

"Madouc. Take Starven's company and break that up."

"Sir? The Archbishop…"

"I'll deal with the Archbishop. Bring him."

Madouc did not save all the prisoners. The first score were given to the flames before the soldiers arrived. The more fanatic Society members resisted. The soldiers showed unprecedented restraint. Hecht watched Madouc and several of his lifeguards – all Brotherhood of War, the Captain-General suspected – take Archbishop Farfog into custody.

The soldiers did not release the prisoners back into the wild. Some might well deserve execution. But not by Farfog's brigands.

Hecht returned to the keep to await his confrontation with the Church's hellhound.

Time passed.

More time passed.

"Somebody! It's getting late. Where the devil is that idiot Farfog? Why isn't he in here? He's had time to go bald. Titus! Where are you, Titus Consent?"

Consent did not materialize. Nor did Redfearn Bechter, nor Drago Prosek, nor any of the others whose presence around him could be taken for granted. Nervous, he pulled his weapons within reach.

Madouc the lifeguard did materialize. Eventually. Twenty minutes after he should have done. He was bleeding. He had suffered a dozen wounds. More than one might qualify as mortal. He was going on by willpower and the insane sense of duty of a Brotherhood warrior.

"Sir. We were ambushed. By local partisans. They killed the Society brothers. They were after the Archbishop. They cut him to pieces. They took his head with them."

"This isn't good, Madouc. The Society…" But the Society might not be around much longer. Nor the crusader army and its Captain-General.

The course of history hinged on the choice of Sublime V's successor.

The uprising in Castreresone lasted one evening and night and focused entirely on the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy.

In a whisper next morning the Captain-General confided to his spy chief, "I'm not going to miss any of those villains."

"But Morcant Farfog's murder…"

"Will cause a lot of trouble. How much depends on our next Patriarch."

Hagan Brokke reclaimed his honor in a series of fierce little engagements that stripped Queen Isabeth and Duke Tormond of their mercenary strength. His light cavalry harassed Isabeth's Direcians continuously, deliberately targeting one knight or noble at a time. Because they were who they were, each death or capture would have a significant impact in Direcia.

The Queen of Navaya withdrew to the shadow of her brother's capital city.

From elation about events in the west Piper Hecht fell into a depression over news from the east. Count Raymone Garete had resumed his stubborn defiance, with a more punishing daily cost now that Bronte Doneto had gone. Piper Hecht reviewed the whys and wherefores. What strange, small change had reanimated the Count's stubborn insolence?

"Those prisoners Brokke brought in," Titus Consent said. "Some got away, probably with help, while we were running in circles because of Farfog's murder."

Hecht scowled. He grumbled a question about who he needed to have stoned or drowned.

"That would be a waste of time and emotion. Focus on those who didn't get away. Bernardin Amberchelle, for example."

"Tell me."

"Count Raymone's cousin. The man we thought he wanted back when he showed a willingness to talk. But he's gone back to being stubborn while Amberchelle is still down in the prison pens."

"Uhm? What changed?"

'The old man and the girl who came with Amberchelle," Consent said. "I'd bet she's the fiancee we've heard about. An upcountry girl who stole Raymone's heart. Socia something. Who is supposedly chaperoned by the Grand Masterest of all Maysalean Perfect Masters."

"And that would be the grayhair." The Captain-General did not finish. "You exult over little triumphs while big defeats sneak up."

Patriarchal crusaders now owned the eastern half of the End of Connec – excepting only Antieux. They threatened Khaurene from three directions. Lesser forces, featuring impassioned Society brethren determined to see Archbishop Farfog's great vision fulfilled, had begun probing the Altai, discovering the incredible mountaintop fortresses of the Maysalean heretics. And snow choked much of the rural world, not only in the Connec but in Tramaine, Ormienden, Grolsach, Arnhand, and even much of Firaldia. The Grail Empire was blanketed. Artecipea saw heavy, temporarily incapacitating snows for the first time since antiquity. The war there dwindled into the doldrums of winter. As did wars all round the Mother Sea.

Wherever snow fell there arose dreadful rumors of Kharoulke the Windwalker, the god before gods from the age before antiquity. Kharoulke the Windwalker, before whom the great modern Instrumentalities must quail. But Kharoulke needed deep snow, deep ice, before he could supplant the gentler Instrumentalities of the present. Kharoulke needed millennial cold before he could rise above the vague lost deities who had supplanted his kind – before being shoved aside by the powers of today. Those vague lost deities beloved of secret cults devoted to resurrecting the lost lord Instrumentalities of antiquity.