Surrender to the Will of the Night (44 page)

“Then we won’t talk to him. Just beat him and send him along.”

“An excellent idea,” said a horseman who had materialized behind the threesome. “Only let’s make it the black crow who takes the cane.”

Brother Candle met Bernardin Amberchelle’s merry eyes. He did not want this but dared not speak up.

The Bishop’s men knew Amberchelle. Still, they were inclined to be uncooperative. Till more horsemen arrived.

Amberchelle said, “Lay into it, men. I want him to remember his place. I’ll stick him with my sword when you’re done. If he squawks I’ll have you beaten, too.”

This Bishop was new. He thought he could bully the boldest priest-baiter in this end of the Connec.

Amberchelle kicked him in the mouth. “That’s the way you feel, I’ll kill you now so I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder.” He drew his sword.

Brother Candle bit down on his tongue.

Amberchelle held back. “I find myself feeling merciful. Carrion bird. Bishop. If you offend me again I’ll take your head. No courtesy warning. Just a quick chop. And stay away from the cathedral. It’s Antieux’s memorial to all the evil done in Brothe’s name.”

The Brothen Episcopals staggered away, the Bishop unbeaten but bleeding. Amberchelle peered down at the old man. “I thought so. Come along, then. Want to ride?”

“I’d rather go looking like a prisoner.”

“You want the boys should hit you once in a while?”

“You don’t have to make it that authentic.”

Amberchelle laughed. “A pity.” Then, “I sense disapproval, even though I didn’t beat that vulture. But you know
nothing
we do will appease the Church. So I might as well enjoy sticking knives in while I can.”

The old man did not respond. He should, he knew. Something about multiple wrongs not adding up to a right. But what Amberchelle said was true. Nothing short of the will of the Chaldarean God Himself would keep His Church from designing and conspiring in one of the great evils of history. The more people talked about a Connecten Crusade, the more carrion eaters would begin to circle.

Brother Candle dragged it up from his deepest heart but did say, “You could be right, Bernardin. Maybe we should make sure the rape of the Connec is something so bad that it’s never forgotten.”

“Come on, Master. People are starting to wonder if you’re our prisoner or our pal.”

***

“So it’s true,” Amberchelle said. “You did make off with Duke Tormond’s baubles.”

Brother Candle was infatuated with his first decent meal in weeks, but did respond. “I made off with nothing. Tormond forced them on me. He gave me no chance to refuse.”

“That’s such a crock, I think I’ll believe you. I never knew Old Indecisive. I figure that’s exactly the kind of thing he’d pull if he ever did make up his mind. I wish I could read his letters.”

“I wish you could, too. I’d give it all to you and let you worry about getting it to Count Raymone.”

Amberchelle indulged in what he called his evil laughter. “No way, old-timer. He’s up near Viscesment, working out how to bloody the new Captain-General’s nose when Serenity turns him loose.”

The Perfect shook his head. Nothing would be gained by beating his head against that particular wall. He had argued for peace a hundred times. Peace had been rejected just as often.

Amberchelle asked, “You think they know what you have? The people back in Khaurene?”

“Of course they do. Why else have they been hunting me?”

“There’s your winning personality. And your message.”

Brother Candle started to reply, stopped short.

Bernardin Amberchelle, the seriously violent thug, sounded much too thoughtful and subtle.

The mindless thug grinned. “Messengers are on their way to Raymone. Three, just to make sure word gets through. Sometimes odd things happen. Especially at night.”

Brother Candle had experienced little of that during his travels but had heard fearful stories from the country people. Though the last Captain-General had rid the Connec of major revenants he had done little to quell the malice of lesser Instrumentalities. Those crowding in from the north excited those already resident in the shadowy out-of-the-ways. All of the Instrumentalities seemed inclined to take it out on the nearest unwary mortal.

It should not be so. Simple precautions, of the sort undertaken by anyone with half a brain, were enough to leave a wise user nearly unaware of what haunted the darkness around him. That had been worked out two thousand years ago.

Brother Candle said, “Let me pass the tokens and instruments on, now. Their weight is crushing.”

“Oh, no. Bear up, Brother. I’m a wicked man. You don’t want to put that much temptation in my way.” Wearing a wistful sort of look.

“I see.” Bernardin might win Count Raymone’s title, rescission of excommunication, and pardon of his sins and crimes in exchange for the treasures in Brother Candle’s keeping. “A man should recognize his limits.”

“I’ll send you on to Raymone.”

“No. No. I’m almost as old as the limestone under the Connec. I’ve been on the road forever. This old dog needs to curl up on the hearth and nap. For months.”

“As you will.”

“Where is Socia?”

“Out there. With Raymone most of the time. Off on her own when she thinks he isn’t aggressive enough.”

“Frightening.”

“More than you can imagine, Master. More than you can imagine.”

“Explain.”

“She’s started hearing voices. Telling her how to defend the Connec. Telling her how to deal with our enemies. Raymone tried to stifle her. He failed. She’s started recruiting her own Companions. Each time she massacres some invaders more young men rush to join her. It doesn’t hurt that she’s such a handsome woman.”

“Raymone can’t control her.” An observation. He was not surprised. He had had charge of Socia Rault before their marriage. The child was willful and ferocious. A Seeker whose sole adherence to doctrine was to equality of the sexes.

“He never could. The challenge was what attracted him in the first place.”

Brother Candle agreed.

Count Raymone saw himself mirrored in his wife. … O wicked dread!

“You don’t think they might get into a competition? Trying to show each other who’s more bloodthirsty?”

Amberchelle’s face darkened. “Brother, there’s some of that already. There was news last week about her taking the castle at Suralert Ford. Among the captives were a distant cousin of Anne of Menand and a viscount who was popular in Salpeno. There was a bishop, several priests, and a dozen members of the Society. She beheaded the knights and nobles, no exceptions. She burned the churchmen. She applied the torches personally. But the common soldiers she disarmed and paroled.”

Brother Candle closed his eyes and shook his head. “Socia, Socia. Bernardin, I knew she had the taint, but not that bad.”

“Brother, she promised them safe-conduct to win their surrender. Then went back on it. She said God doesn’t expect us to keep faith with agents of the Adversary.”

True enough. Church people claimed that all the time. “Didn’t the Society execute ‘heretics’ when they captured that same castle?”

“They did. Two Seeker students. Two. Who were confused about what to do if they were captured. The garrison surrendered without a fight.”

Brother Candle learned that Socia had, improbably, taken the Suralert stronghold with thirty-six men. Only three suffered injuries. The defenders had numbered eighty-four. They had had supplies enough for two months. Socia executed twenty-two prisoners. A twenty-third, Bishop Morcant Farfog, decided to change sides. …

“Farfog?
Morcant Farfog?
The Farfog who was with Haiden Backe when he attacked Caron ande Lette? Who took command of the mercenaries after Backe was killed? The Morcant Farfog who had several wicked titles under several wicked Patriarchs and the Arnhander Crown?”

“Uh … Yes. Interesting turn, eh? He turned coat and made speeches denouncing the wickedness of the Society. His other option was the stake.”

“Ah. Yes. St. Morcant the Martyr. I knew him well. And good for him. But, just one problem, Bernardin. Morcant Farfog was an Archbishop. And he was murdered in Castreresone way back when the Captain-General occupied the city.”

“Uh-oh, then. I must’ve got it wrong. Or Socia did. Hey! Maybe it was that other famous Arnhander asshole Bishop, Austen Rinpoché.”

“The hunchback? Didn’t he get killed somewhere along the way, too?”

“No. He was the one, I’m pretty sure. My mistake. I can’t tell one Arnhander Church dick from another. It had to be Rinpoché, the special idiot. Anne’s favorite idiot. She kept trusting him with missions. He kept screwing them up. I heard she’s started nagging Serenity about making new seats in the Collegium so she can pay off her clerical lapdogs.”

“The Patriarch can’t expand the Collegium. Only the Principatés can do that. And that won’t happen. The Firaldians have too thin a majority. One that won’t hold up if Serenity comes at cross-purposes with the Empire.”

“Then let’s hope our new shepherd of souls offends the Empress.”

“Let us hope.” A chill had shaken Brother Candle. He was no student of Church history but did recall that more than one Patriarch had tried to reshape the communal attitude of the Collegium by eliminating Principatés of insufficiently sympathetic attitude in order to replace them with men whose views were more compatible.

***

Because Bernardin Amberchelle wanted the world to think the Perfect was a prisoner Brother Candle became, in practice, a loosely confined prisoner. He had freedom of movement inside Antieux’s citadel but was not allowed out.

Three times Bernardin reported taking prisoners who admitted having been sent to recover the treasures the Perfect had carried away from Khaurene. That hunt had grown vigorous, now.

Socia Rault turned up one morning as Brother Candle was breaking his fast. Nine days had passed since Bernardin found him. She had cleaned up but it remained obvious that she was not long off the road. She held a finger to her lips, tapped her ear, swept her hand round to indicate the plentiful shadows.

Brother Candle was not sensitive to the Night but had felt the chills and creepiness supposedly associated with the presence of lurking Instrumentalities. Did he care what they overheard? Those interested in him ought to know everything worthwhile already.

Socia produced a doeskin sack a good foot deep. She shoved a hand inside, winced, then flung a scatter of something all round. It rattled like pea gravel against the walls of the cell. Socia licked bloody spots on her fingers.

Whatevers from the handful rolled back toward Brother Candle. They did look like bits of dark gravel. Then they opened like sow bugs uncurling, took a moment to get oriented, considering him and Socia first. Then they headed for the shadows, fast.

“Not rolly-polies,” he said. Sow bugs had no speed at all.

“No. I’m not sure what they are. I bought them from a pagan witch out in the hills. Don’t mention them to Raymone. They work better than any charm.” She counted on her fingers as she talked, dropped the doeskin sack at a hundred beats. The creatures began to crawl back inside it. “We can talk, now. They ate everything spying on you.”

Brother Candle did not understand, had no idea. “You’ll have to explain someday. Though I’m not sure I want to know.”

“It isn’t just the Old Gods wanting to come back. Little things are stirring, too. They didn’t interest the Captain-General. He was after big revenants.” Then, “Is it true? Duke Tormond adopted Raymone? He sent Raymone everything he needs to become the next Duke?”

“It’s true. All wrapped up in a legal package so neat that the only way to break it is to voluntarily, publicly, choose eternal damnation.”

“Meaning a lot of people are going to be unhappy.”

“A lot of people are thoroughly unhappy already, child. Ask Bernardin. He’s already run into squads of agents sent to get me before I turned the baubles over. Expect a flood of immigrants now that my whereabouts are known.”

“Bernardin and I will enjoy the hunt.”

The old man shuddered. Socia was almost a daughter. He loved her like his own. But the more he heard about Socia today the more troubled he became.

She was possessed of a soul both dark and cruel. Her husband’s enemies had cause for dread.

***

Winter was cruel in the Connec. Even the old folks admitted that its like had not been seen before. There were ices floes in the Dechear. At Viscesment citizen crews worked for weeks to keep the ice from damaging that city’s precious bridges.

The cold forced an end to all campaigning. Even Count Raymone Garete’s hardiest fighters abandoned the field once they started losing fingers and toes.

The Arnhanders harassing the Khaurenesaine suffered the worst, though winter was less harsh in the west. They had failed to show the season adequate respect when they wasted the countryside. Depriving the enemy meant depriving oneself. Food, fuel, and fodder had to be dragged in from far away. Other than in the few overcrowded castles shelter was hard to come by. Huddling for warmth elsewhere could turn fatal. Well-fed and well-clothed Navayans or Khaurenese almost always attacked when smoke gave a gathering away. They tried to recapture the castles whenever it looked like they could manage cheaply.

Despite all, King Regard kept a force in the field. He stayed in the End of Connec himself. Which occasioned humor on both sides.

There would be an invader army on hand when spring came. The Arnhanders believed the campaign would go their way once the weather turned. Then Khaurene would pay the butcher’s bill.

***

Count Raymone came home at last, compelled by the cold outside and the heat within. He and Socia were shameless in demonstrating their affection.

***

Brother Candle was one of a dozen guests at a small feast. Something private was being celebrated. No one said what. Brother Candle suspected that Socia was pregnant. He was not sure why he was present. The other guests were all intimates of Count Raymone.

The merry mood was unjustified, in the old man’s view.