Lord of the Silent Kingdom (56 page)

Brother Candle went up onto the wall south of the barbican two days later. A hundred fires burned outside, providing light for the Patriarchal artillerists. Their engines worked day and night. The troops manning them worked in shifts. Local people brought the stone and firewood.

Part of the barbican had collapsed a few hours ago. The main wall had begun to creak and groan and shift.

The Patriarchals had begun building floating wharves on the east side of the Laur, below their pontoon bridge. A dozen barges and boats were tied up already, unloading by night. Buildings were being erected to warehouse incoming cargo.

The besiegers were living far better than the besieged.

Though the siege might not go on much longer. The New Town had been lost. Now it looked like the crusaders meant to hit the Burg suburb again, soon.

Despair had found a home in the narrow, shadowed streets. Few people now believed this city, that had not been overcome in five centuries, would remain inviolate. They invested their hopes in Queen Isabeth and Duke Tormond.

Isabeth and her knights were twenty miles away. The Great Vacillator had sent out a call for volunteers to go help the Connec’s second city.

Brother Candle suspected little would come of that. A new, small hope came with news from Viscesment. Immaculate’s supporters had assembled after the departure of the Patriarchals. They had elected a successor to the murdered Anti-Patriarch. An unknown bishop, Rocklin Glas from Sellars in the Grail Empire, had accepted the ermine and assumed the inauspicious reign name Bellicose. He promised a vigorous campaign against the Pretenders of Brothe. Not the traditional resistance but an aggressive countercampaign. He had sent out a call for crusaders. Though he was not taken seriously outside Viscesment, the Society in those parts faced savage persecutions already. Reaping what they had sown.

Bellicose promised to execute a member of the Society every time a non-Brothen Episcopal suffered at its hands. He and Sublime were bee-busy excommunicating and publishing Writs of Anathema against one another. More insanity, Brother Candle thought. Maybe the sides could exterminate each other.

Leave the world to the Unbelievers, the Seekers, and those whose harsh old deities had begun slithering in out of muck and shadow.

The Perfect Master grew increasingly dismayed as he watched the besiegers. He realized he was looking at something unseen since the collapse of the Old Empire.

Professional soldiers led by professional officers, chosen for competence rather than noble lineage, veterans all, were going about their business with the dispassionate skill of butchers and bricklayers.

However much the nobility on either side disdained them, they represented sudden, efficient death.

How would they stand up to a massed heavy cavalry charge?

Bernardin Amberchelle found him there, in his pessimism. “Brother? I just left another meeting of the consuls and magnates.”

“Let me guess. They can’t agree on a sensible course of action.”

“You should be a professional gambler, Brother.”

“I am, in a way, nowadays. Risking my soul chasing earthly illusions.”

Amberchelle’s short, wide frame shuddered. “I’ve decided. They won’t do the needful things. The Patriarchals should go after the Burg in the morning. Tonight may be our last chance to get out.”

“I feared as much. I am, of course, ready to go.”

“Good. Good. There’ll be enough moonlight. We should be well away before sunrise.” Amberchelle sounded shaky. Frightened and trying to hide it.

“Something out there worries you?”

“Rumors. Horrible things in the dark.”

Brother Candle nodded, though the horrible things he had heard of were awful mainly on an intellectual level. Rook. Hilt. The other revenants. They were disgusting but nothing he feared. Not at the strength they possessed now.

They barely qualified as ghosts of the gods they had been.

Brother Candle said, “Very well. I’ll get my things and chivvy the girl.”

“I’ve spoken to her already.”

“Excellent. We might get out of here before sunrise.”

It was midnight. Socia Rault and Brother Candle, accompanied by Bernardin Amberchelle and his associates, eased out a sally port in Castreresone’s north end. They had waited half an hour for their turn.

A human river was headed out.

Those Brother Candle made out by feeble moonlight were Seekers and other minorities. Those who had most to lose if Castreresone fell.

They made less than a mile before the clouds masked the moon permanently. The chill breeze picked up, growing colder. The darkness became oppressive.

A mile farther on the path rounded a hill. The darkness deepened. The fugitives now moved in a slow shuffle, feeling the way. There was talk of torches. Nobody had one. Then someone with a clear head observed that a torch would attract enemy pickets. Who were out there somewhere. Who would cheerfully rob and murder them all. The Patriarchal city levies did most of the scouring of the countryside.

The Captain-General did little to restrain their greed.

It stood to reason that if they killed everyone who resisted soon enough few Connectens would show any inclination to fight.

This darkness was not friendly. It hid them but also blinded them. The path wound between rolling hills.

Eventually, it split. The right-hand path led to the old Imperial highway, which could be followed easily even in darkness. Bernardin Amberchelle had hoped to be on it a dozen miles west of the White City by first light.

That did not happen.

First light came. They had not found the old road yet.

There were delays, not only because of the darkness.

Things moved in the night, pacing them. Things that stank. Things that laughed foully. Things that raced across the path, triggering screams, apparently just for the hell of scaring people.

Brother Candle’s band never reached the Imperial road. Word came that it was occupied by Patriarchals moving west to keep an eye on Queen Isabeth. They thought she might do something when she heard about the new assault on the Burg.

The band joined the rest of the fugitives, heading back to find another way. Snow began to fall.

***

“NO REST FOR THE WICKED,” THE PERFECT MUTTERED TO Socia. He had had no intention of joining the Queen’s camp. He had gone there only because the road ran past Mohela ande Larges.

And because the Navayans would make a nice block in the path of any pursuit. He followed the man who had recognized him among the refugees. “Michael Carhart, why must you do this to me?” He was amazed that the Devedian philosopher would be found outside Khaurene.

Carhart chuckled. “Relax. Isabeth just wants to talk about Castreresone. She’s harmless.”

“So is an adder. To those wise enough not to sup with serpents.”

Michael Carhart did not like that. “Watch your tongue, old friend. The nobility have no patience for that sort of jest these days.”

“Yes. I recall those times when the jongleurs roamed freely, like wild chickens, cackling that seditious nonsense to anyone who would listen.”

“Make light if you like. But you know what I mean. Take care.”

Brother Candle did understand. The mighty were not happy. They wanted someone else to hurt.

There were more familiar faces in the great hall of Mohela ande Larges, the little castle Isabeth had appropriated. She was accompanied by a half-dozen darkly handsome men, none of them her husband.

King Peter must trust them indeed. Or the several women in shadow behind Isabeth were harsh enough chaperones to provoke Peter’s absolute confidence.

Michael Carhart joined others whose presence startled Brother Candle: Hanak el-Mira and Bishop Clayto. Friends. Or as much so as could be amongst men of such diverse backgrounds. Only Bries LeCroes was missing.

What had become of LeCroes? He should ask. He had heard no final disposition of the poisoner’s case.

The handsome men said nothing. They stared at the Perfect Master with a feigned indifference bordering on disdain. The Navayan nobility were dedicated Brothen Episcopals, their faith tempered by worldly convenience. King Peter had more allies among Direcia’s Pramans than among rival Episcopal princes.

The Queen was courteous. “Be seated, Master. Your companions will be cared for. I understand they’re rather ragged.”

Brother Candle inclined his head. “Socia Rault and I have spent months staying ahead of Arnhanders, Grolsachers, revenant demons, and now the Usurper Patriarch’s Captain-General.”

“Tell me what you’ve seen since last our paths crossed.”

Brother Candle did so. In detail. Duke Tormond’s little sister was more patient than the child he remembered. The handsome men became restless long before he finished. She did not.

Isabeth observed, “The Night would seem to be more active in the east. We hear a thousand rumors from that direction but almost nothing from farther west.”

“The things stirring are Instrumentalities associated with conflict and chaos. Peace seems to have settled in everywhere but around Antieux and Castreresone.”

Isabeth nodded. Having known the child, Brother Candle found it hard to believe the rowdy storm of flying limbs had matured into someone regal. He wondered about her son. Where was the baby Prince?

Was he well? Domestic gossip got little attention these days.

Isabeth asked, “Is Castreresone truly in danger?”

“Imminent.”

“But those walls …”

‘The walls are magnificent. The people behind them are the weakness. Half still believe there’s no real danger. The Captain-General does what he wants, when he wants, where he wants. And those people won’t do what they must to resist effectively. Their strategy is to wait for you and your brother to rescue them.” He spent a few minutes cataloging the shortcomings of Castreresone’s leading men. “Berto Bertrand drives himself to exhaustion but has no luck getting anyone to listen.”

“God is a cruel practical joker. He could have left us Roger Shale for another half year.”

Brother Candle did not respond. Their views of God need not clash just now.

Isabeth said, ‘The situation sounds bad. Count Alplicova.” One of the handsome men stepped forward.

“You know, in general, my thinking, and that of the King, in regard to our Connecten dependencies.”

The handsome man bowed slightly. “I do, Your Majesty.”

Brother Candle detected a hint of romantic worship. There would be nothing to it. Direcians, always at war and of necessity less relaxed than their Connecten cousins, did not indulge in the courtly love games promoted elsewhere by jongleurs.

The Perfect Master reflected. Count Alplicova. Could there be more than one? Diagres Alplicova was called Sword of the Unbeliever by the warlords of al-Halambra. His blade hammered out King Peter’s great victories. Why was he here when there were Praman castles to conquer in Direcia?

“Your Majesty.” Daringly, speaking unbidden. Though the Perfect often flouted such rules. “The gentleman you’ve named shouldn’t be named aloud — if he’s the gentleman famed for that name.” He reminded Isabeth of the invisible intruder in Castreresone.

Isabeth replied, “I understand your concern. But we’ve made no secret of our cousin’s presence. My husband believes it will give us additional leverage. As to your invisible man, you give the lie to his existence yourself when you report the successful attacks on the Laur bridgeworks. You were the victim of a practical joke.”

“Oh, he was. But not by me.”

The voice seemed to come from amongst the smoke-blackened beams overhead.

Laughter followed. The Queen and her people began muttering about sorcery.

“Oh, yes. Sorcery in the highest. But not nearly so foul as that coming off the island of Artecipea.”

Count Alplicova, Brother Candle noted, had shown no superstitious response. He and his companions studied the shadows while moving to control the exits.

Queen Isabeth yelped. She stared aghast at something in her lap.

The men surged toward her. Blades rang as they cleared scabbards.

Sidelong, Brother Candle caught a glimpse of someone in brown sliding out of the room. The man tossed him a mocking salute. And was not there when the Perfect turned for a better look.

He had seen that man before, in the streets of Castreresone and on its wall, among the watchers. “He just left.” He described the man.

The others were not interested. They were focused on Isabeth.

The thing in her lap was a hand. With rock salt crusted on it.

“It’s the ring,” Brother Candle said. ‘The ring is the message.”

“Explain,” Count Alplicova said. With no stress in his voice.

The man had a reputation for being unshakable.

‘The invisible man in Castreresone slipped a similar ring to Count Raymone’s fiancee. Men from Artecipea were there at the time. They reacted as though they’d just gotten news of a disastrous defeat.”

Isabeth recovered. “This hand isn’t human.”

It was an odd bluish black. The fingers were overly long, with less bluntly shaped nails. The flesh under the nails was yellow. The nails themselves were cracked and broken.

The Direcians were not convinced. One said, “The Pramans bring strange breeds of men across the Escarp Gebr al Thar.”

Isabeth said, “It looks like an ape’s hand.”

Brother Candle asked, “Does it matter? It’s more likely the hand of a demon incarnated. The invisible man is getting away.” He described the man he had seen. “I’ve seen him before, always at the edge of crowds.”

A frantic search enjoyed no success whatsoever.

Once Isabeth exhausted Brother Candle’s store of information, she told him, “We don’t want you whispering any Maysalean nonsense in the camp. Take your charge to Khaurene. I’ll give you letters to my brother. He’ll see to your care. Nag him. His people are being murdered in the name of a God that most of them disdain.”

He smiled gently. Isabeth’s faith would not fill a thimble. Even leaned toward his own. But she could not show that to her husband’s men. Politics trumped faith. As always.

Brother Candle observed every royal formality. Peter’s men watched with faces of stone, fiercely disapproving.