Lord of the Silent Kingdom (41 page)

“Don’t start …”

“Stop! That isn’t all of it. But it’s a big part. And none of your fabrications change a whit who you are.”

Principatè Delari asked, “You’re certain, Grandfather?”

“There is no doubt. Excepting in his own mind, possibly. Because he doesn’t want it to be true.”

Delari asked, “Did they know who he was when they sent him over?”

“No. They still don’t. They sent him because they wanted shut of him. Gordimer feared his popularity with the soldiers. Er-Rashal feared him because of what he knows. He couldn’t silence him there because questions would be asked.”

Hecht didn’t argue. “The world is full of fools.”

“One named Piper Hecht,” the Principatè said. “I can figure it out third hand. It would be about the truth concerning the brothers who raided the haunted burial ground.”

The man in brown said, “Young Piper, you need not fear betrayal. We three alone know who you really are.”

“Really? You just mentioned the Rascal. What about a half-dozen Deves who helped me early on? Or Anna? Or Ferris Renfrow, the Imperial spymaster?” He chose not to mention Osa Stile or Bone and his band of the betrayed.

Cloven Februaren stared. He wore a small, knowing smile. “I was the Ninth Unknown, Piper. More powerful than the Patriarch. I gave that up so I could study the world through naked eyes instead of the lens of the Construct. Thus, I’ve wasted the best part of fifty years. Mostly trying to deflect inimical fortune. The raid that ushered you children into slavery was a complete surprise. Had there been the least likelihood of slavers striking so far from the usual places, neither of you would have been taken. But even the gods themselves don’t post guardians against the impossible.”

The man seemed much less than Collegium legend declared. He did not stand nine feet tall and fart lightning. He was just a middle-aged man so used to power that he could not imagine being disobeyed.

Nothing about him suggested any supernatural power or congress with the Night.

Nothing suggested that Muniero Delari was a big bull sorcerer, either. But Hecht had seen what he could do. And he, in his seventies, was still intimidated by his grandfather.

The man in brown said, “Muno, you and Heris can go, now. You’ve solved your mystery. I’ll join you for breakfast.”

Delari started to say something.

“In the morning, Muno. Right now I need to talk to Piper privately.”

Heris was a biddable child, though a grown woman who was Hecht’s senior. She went to the doorway, her eyes unfocused.

“Use the other door, please. Over there, Muno. In the interests of efficiency. That opens onto the interior hallway. Easier for you.”

“As ever, I must defer to your judgment.”

“He doesn’t like that,” Februaren said after Heris and Delari left.

“And you’d be pleased if you were in his shoes?”

“I wouldn’t be thrilled. Stipulated. I went through it with my own grandfather. He wouldn’t lie down and stay dead, either. But there’s a method to my madness, to dust off a cliche. First, get Muno out of here.

There’s work to do. Now. The emotionalism and long explanations would just get in the way.”

“Let me confess to complete ignorance of whatever the hell it is you’re talking about.”

“Clever. Excellent. Borrowing your attitude from your friend Pinkus Ghort.”

“If there’s something so time-critical that the Principatè has to be hustled out …”

“Where was I an hour ago? Right here. But undiscovered. Just the fact that you’re onto me changes the equation. Now I can’t be the ghost in the walls who’s your guardian angel. You knowing I’m real and here, and Muno doing the same, changes your attitude toward everything. I’m about to be hauled out of the realm of legend into a world where somebody besides that asshole Hugo Mongoz can see me.”

Hecht did not understand. He was disinclined to pursue enlightenment.

Februaren said, “We’ve failed to examine one whole class of would-be assassins. The Instrumentalities of the Night.”

“What?”

“The soultaken you defeated at al-Khazen were neither the beginning nor the end of your war with the Night. Their reasoning is fallacious. It’s too late to stuff the djinn back into the bottle. But the Night doesn’t see time the way we do. They think in centuries. They don’t often recognize individuals. But you they know. You’re a threat. You’re the Godslayer. You have to be stopped. Despite the obvious fact, from our viewpoint, that a lot of other people have figured it out, too, by now. Because you’re the spark who sparked bright enough for them to see.”

“One who hasn’t figured it out being Piper Hecht.” Cloven Februaren told him, “A while ago you decided to go along. You’d stop insisting that you’re Piper Hecht from Duarnenia. You’d let us define what we want you to be. As once you promised Ferris Renfrow you’d let him. As you’ve done with everyone since you arrived in Firaldia.

“Right here, right now, I’m telling you — between you and me, boy — the age of bullshit is over. I know every detail of your life. The most critical is that you stumbled on a way to kill the Instrumentalities of the Night. They don’t know how you did and they don’t know why it works, but they saw you spark. And your entire life since has been shaped by that night in Esther’s Wood.

“And your life is only one of thousands. On either side of the curtain between the world and the Night.

More so, probably, on the other side. They’re slow to learn but they can smell a threat before it arises.

The soultaken meant to destroy you began their journey two hundred years before you were born. And though they’ve failed so far, they haven’t failed yet.

“You’ve shown the world that there’s a way to free itself from the Tyranny of the Night. Unfortunately, those dedicated to that end are captained by a lunatic named Sublime who is the slave of his own obsessions. And who is continuously manipulated by people who make sure he never comes into contact with any taint of reality.”

“I’m no messiah.”

“Of course not. You can’t crusade against the Instrumentalities of the Night. You have neither the will, the skill, nor the temperament. You’re a talisman. A totem of the living. While you live, the Night feels threatened.”

“Wouldn’t it be threatened anyway, if the knowledge is loose?”

“Of course. But the Night is constrained by its own mythical thinking. You need to understand that. You can’t reason with the Night any more than you can with a crocodile. But you can figure out what goes on behind the curtain by studying the shadows cast.”

“I’m lost. I always am around this kind of talk.”

Februaren said, “The wells of power are weakening everywhere. The same thing happened in antiquity.

Which is partly why those people were able to tame that generation of Instrumentalities. The wells came back that time. Hopefully, they will again. Meanwhile, though, we suffer the consequences. Sea levels are falling. The ice is coming south. And building up in the high mountains. Fast. Populations are running ahead of the ice. The Instrumentalities of the Night as well as humans and animals.”

“Animals?”

“It shouldn’t be many years before we see species formerly found only in the north. They shouldn’t be a problem. Refugees will. They are already. But worst will be the hidden things. As they flee the ice they’ll be forced into closer contact. The predators will get stronger. The confined, constrained, and shattered monsters of the past will grab the imaginations of fools, offering a l
ie.
‘Free me. I will be your God, before all others, and you shall reign over all the nations.’ That sort of thing.”

“Resurrecting the old devils.”

“As you wish. What they’re called doesn’t matter. What does is, it’s already happening along the edges of the ice. And in the other cold places. They’ve smelled the essence of Rook in the End of Connec. The ghost of the Windwalker has been seen up where your imaginary forbears battled the pagan horde. On the steppe …”

“Hang on. Kharoulke the Windwalker isn’t a Sheard god. He belongs to a pantheon displaced by the northern Old Ones.”

“You’re right. And those Old Ones have fallen, blessings be upon you. Some of their strengths have been taken by the monster in the Jago Mountains. The survivors are locked inside a pocket reality that is, itself, trapped inside a closed realm they created for themselves long, long ago. Meaning they can’t constrain the terrors they conquered when they arose anymore. More are sure to reemerge after the Windwalker.”

“There are worse things to come?”

“It will happen, Piper. Everywhere. But this time we can fight.”

“Uhm?”

Irked, Februaren snapped, “Because of your damned toy cannon! What was it called? A falcon? A silver and iron blast from one of those will stop the most powerful Instrumentality.”

“Even God Himself?”

Februaren missed only one beat. “Most likely. If He assumes a corporeal form.”

Hecht shuddered. It was true. Godslayer.

“Like it or not, the God of the Chaldareans, and the God of the Pramans, is just a glorified brown
ie.
”

“Excuse me?”

“Brownie, Piper. Pay attention. A little bitty Instrumentality. The difference between a grain of sand and a mountain is the size of the rock. A brownie is a God who hasn’t grown up yet.”

“There is no God but God.”

“You can’t possibly be that blind ignorant. Take five minutes when you have five free. Use them to
think.
Then use the next five to think some more.”

Hecht started to say something underpinned by a foundation of his faith. The faith on which his life had been built since his earliest days in the Vibrant Spring School.

“Stop it, Piper. You’re over that nonsense.”

In a way, Hecht realized, he was. But dogma was a shield against reason. Faith was the way you defended yourself against real world evidence.

“It’s hard.”

“It’s hard for everyone, boy. You spend three decades being fed half-truths and untruths by trusted elders who have an abiding interest in having those who come up behind them swallow the same nonsense that they imbibed when they were young. Then you begin to discover details of the landscape and horizon that faith just doesn’t explain. You begin to grow suspicious. But you’re part of a culture that just can’t survive and prosper if it becomes infected by a wide-spread disbelief in the absurd.”

Hecht could not restrain himself. “What in the hell are you babbling about, Your Grace?”

“I’m saying it’s all bullshit, boy. The Episcopal Chaldarean Revelation. Everything Praman. Any other belief system you want to toss in. Every religion. The truth is, there are the Instrumentalities of the Night.

As huge as God. As tiny as a water sprite. All neutral in fact. All wicked in declaration by true believers of other religions. The believers shape the Instrumentalities by believing. They create reality with their faith. Change the minds of the true believers and you change the face of God. That’s what the first Pramans did. And the first Chaldareans. Before Aaron and the Founders, the Devedians found that they could no longer honor the harsh God of the Dainshaukin.”

“You’re saying it doesn’t matter what I believe? That God wears whatever face I want? That any belief, however heretical, is as valid as any other?”

“An uncomfortable way of stating it. But nearer the truth than most of my profession would admit.”

Hecht was honest. “I need the foundation.”

“Most people do. It’s essential to their spiritual well-being. They need to be a brick in a great edifice to feel like they have any meaning.”

“I’m happy the way I am.”

“Fine. Don’t let it blind you when the claws of the Night are pulling you down. Remember: Neither your God nor mine showed up at al-Khazen. But gods were there.”

The Godslayer reflected: Who but the God Who Is God could have inspired him to load that falcon with silver that night in Esther’s Wood?

Cloven Februaren revealed another thin smile suggesting he knew what Hecht was thinking. He said, “I’m not shilling for the Adversary, Piper. I’m trying to waken what small spark of reason you have, somewhere. You need to keep a watch for things that aren’t what they seem.”

“Yes.” With a touch of sarcasm.

“For example. The amulet you wear. Useful, yes? Saved your life several times, no doubt. But a huge frustration, now, to your great enemy. Who no doubt curses himself daily for having given it to you. In the form that he did.”

“Sir?”

“Relax. No one else has the skills to detect it. Though Bronte Doneto and Muno surely suspect there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

Hecht said nothing. He pursed his lips. He would gut it out.

“I think er-Rashal discovered something distressing after he armed you with the amulet and sent you our way. Maybe from the mummies. Maybe because of what happened in Esther’s Wood. Suddenly, you were more valuable dead than alive. But he can’t strike directly because of the amulet. His hirelings failed the straightforward attempt in Runch …”

The old man was thinking out loud, now. “Failure in Sonsa. Not er-Rashal’s fault. Grade had been warned there might be a person of interest aboard ship, but that wasn’t why he was traveling. Failure in the Ownvidian Knot. Substantial failure by Starkden and al-Seyhan, here and at al-Khazen. Failures by the soultaken and even by He Who Harkens to the Sound. And numerous failures since. It’s almost as if you have a guardian Instrumentality.”

“Thank you.”

“I nearly failed with the firepowder cart. Can I be lucky forever? The amulet. I know what a boon it’s been. But it’s coming time for it to go. It’s how they track you.”

Hecht had begun to nod. Exhaustion was wearing him down.

The old man told him, “I’ll replace it with something better. As soon as I can. Does it cause much pain?”

He was too tired to dissemble. “When something big gets close, it’s bad.”

“I’ll fix that. Er-Rashal isn’t half the sorcerer he thinks he is. Sit back down. Let me see your wrist.”

Februaren dropped down cross-legged, took Hecht’s left hand, ran fingers lightly over his wrist. “The madman was cleverer than I thought. This is difficult to sense, even knowing it’s there.”