Lord of the Silent Kingdom

20. Artecipea: The Unanticipated Crusade

The Captain-General was reviewing inventory lists payrolls. Scut work was the biggest part of his job. "How the hell do one hundred fifty-eight crossbowmen use up eight barrels of bolts in one engagement?"

"They kill a lot of people," Titus Consent replied. Sounding mildly amused.

He was, Hecht knew. Consent thought he was becoming a miser.

"Sure. But you'd think they'd get more of the bolts back after the dust settled."

"They probably missed twenty times for every hit. Those bolts aren't going to be recovered. Unless you put a thousand men out to glean the battlefield."

"Phooey. I'll make the Khaurenese buy me fifty new barrels when we take the city."

Consent smiled without being amused. It was an open secret: The Connecten Crusade had run its course. When elected, the new Patriarch would discontinue the war gainst heresy.

Reports had the balloting deadlocked. None of the Five Families could muster even a significant minority backing for their Principate. All they could agree on was unity against the non-Brothen candidates. Neither the Brotherhood of War nor the Society had backed a candidate yet.

Principate Delari had garnered the second biggest plurality in the initial poll, to his complete consternation. Hugo Mongoz was the front-runner, a compromise candidate who could be counted on to die soon. An interim figurehead to fill a role while the Collegium worked out a real succession. The Five Families could stomach Hugo Mongoz for a year or two.

"Messenger from Antieux," one of Hecht's lifeguards announced.

"No doubt Ghort whining for more money. Send him in."

A road-weary, dirty, damp courier entered, accompanied by Redfearn Bechter. The room was the warmest in the fortress, Camden ande Gledes, which stood a scant twenty miles from Khaurene. It commanded both old roads from the east.

Bechter presented a one-sheet estimate of the damage suffered by the Khaurenese and their allies. The fallen numbered more than fifteen thousand. Thousands more had been captured. The fools had fielded an army with no centralized command. Hecht had given them no chance to overcome that disadvantage.

"Good, with the Navayans. Some important catches there."

Bechter nodded. Hecht turned to the courier. "Yes?" The man behind the mud was one of Ghort's most trusted.

"The Colonel wants you to know he's been recalled. The City Regiment has been ordered back to Brothe. Never mind that they're in pay. The orders came from the city senate but were signed by Bronte Doneto. Colonel Ghort says the senators are scared there'll be major disorders after the election."

Hecht surveyed his staff, saw raised eyebrows. "Does that mean they expect another foreign Patriarch?"

"Colonel Ghort said, 'When he asks if they're going to pick a non-Brothen, tell him the guy in Viscesment, Bellicose or whatever, is running a strong fourth. And he's ex-communicate.'"

"I see." Hecht reflected. "How soon will he move?"

"He's already started. The orders gave him no wiggle room

Doneto knew Ghort.

"Do the people inside Antieux know?"

"Of course."

"Any idea how much longer the election could take?"

"Maybe ages. There isn't much bribe money floating around. Extra funds got burned up financing the Calzir Crusade."

"Get some hot food and some rest. I'll have something for you to take back when you go."

Bechter led the courier out. Hecht asked the air, "What does this mean to us?"

Consent said, "You'll have to reinforce Sedlakova. Leaving us too thin here."

True. Losses had not been great and desertions refreshingly few but, still, there had been a sizable turnover. Hecht had little reason to trust the locals and defeated mercenary who wanted to join up.

Consent said, "We have to decide what we want to get done before a new Patriarch comes in. Everything will change once he does. He won't share Sublime's obsessions. He may fire us all to save money so he can afford to commission monuments to himself."

That was the future Hecht feared and expected. Few in the Collegium shared Sublime's obsession with eradicating heresy and recapturing the Holy Lands.

Hecht said, "We've been on borrowed time since Sublime died. Being aggressive hasn't gained us much. Sure. A blood triumph. Heroic in proportion. It'll be talked about for years. But it wasn't decisive. It just taught the Khaurenese to stay inside their walls. Send somebody over there tomorrow. Demand a huge fine and a commitment to root out the heretic What we've been asking for all along. Tell them they have no time to talk about it. Start pulling in the patrols, foragers, and raiders, so it looks like we're going to attack. Let it out that we have Society friends inside waiting to help us."

"Your point being?"

"Maybe they'll bite. Maybe they'll bribe us to go away. But once we have everyone together we'll move back to Castreresone."

Duke Tormond did not surrender. Did not offer to accept terms, despite Khaurene's suffering. The Captain-General was not surprised. Even the hotheads over there should see that their best course would be Duke Tormond's traditional strategy. Just sit and wait.

The Patriarchal army had exceeded the easy reach of its logistical support, in country desolated by fighting, in the midst of the worst winter the Connec had ever known. It lacked the backing of a distant, obsessed Patriarch. Its commanders were not driven by fanaticism, which was not lost on the snoops and note takers of the Society.

Khaurene had only one worry. Treachery.

Plots failed regularly. The plotters were, usually, outsiders who had entered Khaurene to escape the Patriarchals. So they claimed.

The Captain-General faded quietly, taking valuables but doing no great damage to homes or fortresses or public works.

Madouc asked, "You want something to happen to that asshole?"

He meant a Society bishop who had just left, after raging at the Captain-General for not furthering the Society's agenda.

"Not at all. I just turned it all over to him. He can do whatever he wants, any way he wants, now. I won't interfere."

"You figure he'll get shit on. Right?"

"The Connectens are a patient, long-suffering people. But they've passed the point where they'll tolerate him and his kind."

"Good. Those crows need a lesson in humiliation."

"You had a reason for seeing me?"

"I need to put more men around you and keep them closer."

"Please! I've already got men unlacing my trousers for me when I need to use the latrine. Why?"

"The last courier brought a letter from your uncle. He told me to be especially vigilant for the next two months. There will be a serious effort to destroy you."

"My uncle?"

"The author said. Lord Silent? Or is someone playing tricks?"

"Possibly. I'm never sure how to take him. He's actually more like a great-grand-uncle. If he says be more although, we have to pay attention. Like it or not."

"I didn't know you had any family, sir." A hint of suspicion, there.

"I don't. In a blood sense. Lord Silent is a distant, secretive relative of Principate Delari. He's part of that family's adoption of me."

"One must confess a certain curiosity about that."

"One must, mustn't one? I don't get it, myself. I think somebody saw something in a chicken's entrails."

Hecht had just sunk into sleep, in his down bed in the keep of the Counts of Castreresone, first night back. Titus Consent burst in, accompanied by four of Madouc's lifeguards.

"What the hell? It can't wait till morning?"

"I don't think. The populace may have heard by then. It could cause trouble."

"All right. Let's have it."

"We have a new Patriarch. Pacificus Sublime."

"Huh?"

"I don't know why he chose that reign name. He used to be the Fiducian, Joceran Cuito."

"A front-runner before Sublime died but not a name we've heard much since. What happened?"

"King Peter showed up. And spread a lot of money around."

"The Five Families are fit to be tied, I'm sure."

"I don't know about that. There wasn't much more to the message. But this could mean trouble here. Castreresone belongs to King Peter."

Hecht avoided the obvious counterargument. "Put patrols out. Tell them not to start anything but to be ruthless if they're provoked."

"Letting that word out should do wonders." Hecht treated everyone fairly, by his lights. But he was not merciful toward those who defied him. The Castreresonese would understand. "Can I get some sleep, now?"

There was a definite change in the White City. Anticipation filled the air. Positively, not as a premonition or foreboding. The Castreresonese were willing to bide their time.

The officially sealed message wallet from the Patriarch arrived nine days later. His staff assembled while he reviewed the messages. "Nothing unexpected here. A formal announcement that the Connecten Crusade is over. A list of Connectens who are being restored to the bosom of the Church. Including Duke Tormond and Count Raymone Garete. The siege of Antieux is to be abandoned. Castreresone should be turned over to agents of its rightful master, who are on their way. We are to withdraw down the Laur and assemble at Sheavenalle for transport."

Redfearn Bechter said, "That makes no sense. Why wouldn't he just tell us we're fired? Just leave us where we are?"

"We aren't fired. Obviously. Maybe we're needed in Brothe. People there won't be happy having a Direcian Patriarch. It would be Ornis of Cedelete all over again."

There was more to the letters but little of immediate import. Hecht told the staff to make ready for movement. To finish getting ready. The order to abandon Castreresone was no surprise.

Titus Consent was last to leave. He observed, "Have you noticed who the big winner was in this crusade?"

"Navaya? King Peter?"

"Exactly. At small cost he's become the power in the Connec. He's been using his gains in the last crusade to take over Artecipea. Now he owns the Patriarchy. He's letting other people build him an empire."

"Clever."

Inasmuch as there had been no Patriarchal instruction otherwise, Hecht left a garrison in Castreresone's keep. They would guarantee access if he decided to come back. They would keep order. They received instructions not to resist Duke Tormond or Queen Isabeth.

Buhle Smolens prepared quarters. Despite losses, desertions, and the absence of the City Regiment the army numbered more than ten thousand. There were no forty-day men attached, either. The last of those had gone before the weather turned really ghastly. Hecht had won outside Khaurene with a third of the numbers he had had when crossing the Dechear, westbound.

Hecht assembled his senior officers and staffers.

"I wanted to thank everyone. We did well. Probably too well. The new people are afraid of us. Which leaves me suspicious of their gathering us here. They're up to something."

Sedlakova stood. His handicap lent no strength to his argument as he made an impassioned appeal for men of faith to enter the Brotherhood of War.

Hecht stopped listening. The others all talked about what they might do with their lives, now. The Connecten Crusade was over. Nothing had been concluded. They were not distraught, though. That was not a new experience. Castles and cities fell. Death and misery walked the earth. Little changed in the broader picture.

He sank into a reverie about Anna Mozilla and the children. Thoughts of home had had a powerful impact on him these past few months. Never had he been drawn that way back when he was Else Tage.

He had developed new dimensions here in the west.

Everyone was distracted by concerns about tomorrow, forgetting that today still harbored dangers more deadly than the nuisance perils lately offered by the Night.

Hecht and some staff went to the harbor to watch the ships come in. Peter of Navaya's ships, mainly fat traders flying the banners of Platadura. A few lean triremes boasting Navayan colors larked around the flanks of the convoy. Hecht studied those ships and wished Pinkus Ghort was handy so they could brood over shared suspicions. He noted that several older, more weary-looking ships flew Sonsan standards and resembled vessels he had seen falling into ruin along the wharves of that city.

Shrieking birds wheeled and dove where the ships churned up the water. Though it was winter, the harbor reek was thick. The chill had reduced the insect population to a tolerable level.

Clej Sedlakova, seated on a cask, said, "Them tubs is riding high in the water. They must figure on really loading them down." Sedlakova was in a permanent foul temper lately. He was sure that, given just a few more weeks, maybe just a few more days, he could have reduced Antieux. Even absent Bronte Doneto and the City Regiment. People inside the city had begun to put out feelers, looking for rewards.

"Put Antieux behind you," Hecht told him. "We get paid the same sitting here as we do risking our behinds in the field."

Colonel Smolens said, "It isn't the risking that bothers me. It's the freezing and starving."

Sedlakova said, "Listen to that shit. What's he had going, this whole war? Hanging out in Viscesment. Then hanging out here. Check him out. He's gained fifteen pounds."

Smolens said, "I confess. The food is good. I'll miss it."

Hecht said, "You may not have to leave."

"What? What's this?"

"I haven't heard anything about us giving up Sheavenalle. If King Peter is running the new Patriarch, you can bet he won't give up control of a city this important. My guess is, they'll try to make it over into a free city, like Sonsa or Platadura. Allied to Navaya."

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"Sounded like a giant bumblebee."

Twenty yards out on the mucky bay gulls dove to examine a small splash.

Madouc, always close by, still moving gingerly because of his wounds, said, "That was no bumblebee, sirs." Then he howled, flung back against Hecht, clawing at a crossbow bolt that had penetrated the left shoulder of his leather body armor.

Another bumblebee struck the cask that served Sedlakova as his throne. Sedlakova had vanished. Most everyone had. Madouc was down and trying to drag Hecht along.

Hecht refused to be dragged.

He headed for the source of the bolts. Not thinking, just reacting. With controlled anger. Grabbing half a broken oak stave abandoned by some dock walloper. The wood was old. Probably older than he was, Hecht thought, having one of those irrelevant thoughts that surface in times of stress, when everything seems to be happening in slowed motion.

People yelled behind him, telling him to get his dumb ass down.

Someone else yelled out front, right where the assassins ought to be. He jerked to the right. A bumblebee hummed on by, headed for the harbor.

He burst into a crowd of snipers. Two were desperately spanning crossbows. The third abandoned his weapon and took off. Which made no sense to Hecht.

He clubbed the first man he came to.

The second stopped wrestling his crossbow. He produced a short sword, then a dagger in his off hand.

Hecht drew his own blade. But kept the broken stave in his right hand.

He hit the man who was down several times so he would not help his associate.

Help arrived. "There's one more, headed that way. Dressed the same." He dropped onto a small bale of cotton that must have been smuggled out of Dreanger. Distracted by irrelevant thoughts again, he stared at his broken stave, imagining it being used to lever cargo before its mishap.

Buhle Smolens settled beside him. "What the hell was that, Piper? You could've gotten killed. Which was probably the point of the exercise."

"I didn't think. I just acted."

"Those boys are Artecipeans. You notice?"

"I'm not surprised. But how can you tell?"

Smolens said a blind man could see it.

"I didn't grow up around here, Colonel. Everybody from around the Mother Sea looks pretty much the same to me."

Smolens shook his head in disbelief. "Let me talk to these guys. They'll get cooperative once they understand the alternative."

Hecht began to shiver but not because he was cold.

"That was a stupid thing to do."

The words were a whisper so soft no one else heard. Hecht glanced aside. And saw Cloven Februaren. No one else noted the old man. Who said, "Something to worry about. Could someone else do the things I do?"

For sure.

"You have to be more alert, Piper. Those who want to destroy you never sleep."

"I can't live that way."

'Then you won't live at all." Februaren turned sideways.

Titus Consent asked, "Who were you talking to?"

"I said I can't stand to live this way. With somebody always after me."

"I heard another voice."

"I don't think so."

Consent did not believe him. But did not contradict him. "You don't want to keep on like this, find out who's sending the assassins. Deal with him. Or her."

"I know who's doing it. I wish I knew why."

"Who?" As Hagan Brokke wearily plunked himself down on a nearby bale, Hecht wondered why the bales were so small. Because of how they were smuggled out of Dreanger?

"Rudenes Schneidel. It's always been Rudenes Schneidel." He looked to Brokke. Brokke had not been there to watch the ships come in. Brokke was recovering from wounds suffered in the battle outside Khaurene, where his quick thinking had kept Queen Isabeth's Direcians from getting through the boggy ground to the unprepared troops on the Patriarchal left. "You feeling chipper enough to go back to work?"

"No. A courier boat brought some men in from the fleet. They want to see you."

"Some men?"

"A Principate I don't know who speaks only Direcian and Church Brothen. Some functionaries from the Mother City. And a big wheel Direcian."

"And they want?"

"To talk to you."

"I figured that part out. What about?"

"They wouldn't say. They didn't seem very patient."

"Get your strength back. Then go tell them I'm tied up in another assassination attempt. As soon as I survive I'll hustle over there to see them. Where were we, Titus?"

"Rudenes Schneidel."

"Ah. So what have you found out about him, intelligence chief?"

"His name is Rudenes Schneidel. And he holes up in the High Athaphile, the mountains that form the spine of Artecipea. He has a castle up there. Arn Bedu. A legendary place on top of a mountain. He may be a pagan priest of some kind. His name comes up every time there's any serious talk about Weaver, Hilt, or any of those Instrumentalities trying to make a comeback."

"That's it?"

"Yes. He's a shadowy guy. And a scary one, according to his assassins."

Hecht's party had begun gathering before Hagan Brokke appeared. Madouc's men wanted to hurt some people. Hecht wished they would all go away so he could talk to Cloven Februaren. But he could not run them off. They would not go, now.

Buhle Smolens was last to rejoin. "I've made a few contacts here. I put out word that we're interested in Artecipeans. Dozens of them have shown up since Sublime died. And they have no friends here."

Hecht was not going to get a chance to talk to the old man in brown. "We came down to watch the ships come in. So let's watch the ships."

Everyone, of course, argued against taking the risk. And Titus Consent insisted on reminding him that there were important men who wanted to see him.

Colonel Smolens had established himself in the home of a wealthy Praman who had fled Sheavenalle ahead of the approaching Patriarchals. Hecht felt a mild melancholy nostalgia there. The place showed strong Praman architectural influences. Entering, he spun off orders for dealing with prisoners and wounded. His visitors from the fleet heard the hubbub and came outside.

Redfearn Bechter had collected every man Hecht had ever suspected of being Brotherhood. They were arrayed around the newcomers suggestively, only a few of whom understood that they were surrounded.

Hecht read it fast.

These people had arrived with an attitude problem. And had failed to make themselves beloved. Someone had said something unflattering about the Brotherhood of War.

The Brotherhood did not care if you were a king. They were a kingdom unto themselves.

Hecht had seen only one of the newcomers before. He was a Witchfinder who knew his way around the Brothen catacombs. He was extremely uncomfortable right now.

The Principate, too, understood and was thoroughly unhappy, but mainly because he was not in control.

The ingredients were there for a nasty pissing contest.

Hecht was tempted. He had reason. But the long game compelled him to be amenable. "Sergeant Bechter. Have these gentlemen been made comfortable?" He told the outsiders, "We're in a difficult situation, here. But we can protect you if you don't wander around. We've swept up a lot of villains since they tried to kill me this afternoon."

Hustle was the critical tool, here. Moving the outsiders around fast. Implying that a swift response, if not thoroughly effective, was better than any alternative.

Hecht asked, "What did you gentlemen want to bring to my attention, now that we're safe?"

Hecht kept moving, maneuvering the outsiders into the sprawling ground-floor space he had chosen for his center of operations in Sheavenalle.

He settled into a heavy oak chair. "Gentlemen. Again? You hurried in here, ahead of the fleet. You must have something you want to discuss before God's enemies find out that you're here."

The Witchfinder seemed ever more uncomfortable. He searched his surroundings constantly. Cloven Februaren? Sobering thought. "Well?"

The Principate took control. "I am Hernando Ernesto Ribiero de Herve, Patriarchal legate assigned to bring peace to the End of Connec. Too, I've been directed to crush paganism on Artecipea. Pacificus Sublime believes Rudenes Schneidel and his revenant Instrumentalities are a greater threat than the pacifist, dualist Connecten heretics."

Hecht exchanged glances with his staff. De Herve noticed. "I see you agree."

"I never understood why Sublime was so adamant about exterminating them."

"Did you ask?"

"I did. I got a rambling answer that made no sense. But I'm not paid to ask questions. I'm paid to get things done." The Witchfinder made a startled squeak and spun. Everyone stared. He said, "Must have been a flea." But he did not believe that.

"Knock it off, old man," Hecht said.

Now everyone stared at him, the Witchfinder with abiding suspicion.

De Herve said, "Pacificus Sublime wants the crusade shifted to Artecipea."

"Which explains the fleet."

"Yes."

"You can't manage Artecipea with the troops you have there now?"

The Principate managed to appear baffled.

"King Peter has put several thousand soldiers in there. Sonsa is involved, too. And wasn't there a significant victory not long ago?"

"Each victory makes it more difficult to manage the survivors."

The Witchfinder said, "We're convinced that the chaos in the Connec has Artecipean influence behind it. That it was meant to be a diversion from what's going on over there. What we found in Calzir, especially at al-Khazen, has led some of us to believe there's a greater threat than Praman ambition. We first encountered the name Rudenes Schneidel there. We think that Schneidel developed his dread of the Captain-General after seeing what happened there. For some reason, the Night has decided that Piper Hecht is a walking, talking doom destined to destroy it. Unless he's destroyed first."

"What?"

De Herve nodded agreement. "Brother Jokai puts it plainly. All who commune with the Night know the Instrumentalities fear you irrationally and excessively."

Hecht felt a chill. Those who communed with the Night might learn more about the Godslayer than he wanted known. "I don't understand."

Jokai said, "You don't have to, Captain-General. None of us do. We accept what is and deal with that reality."

A man from the Special Office of the Brotherhood of War talking about accepting the Night as it really was?

De Herve said, "That's neither here nor there. The Patriarch wants to know if you'll stay on if the crusade shifts to Artecipea, Rudenes Schneidel, and his corpse birds, these Asparas of Seska."

That startled Hecht. Asparas were Sky Dancers. Minions of Kharoulke the Windwalker. Seska, the Endless, was an Instrumentality of the same ancient age and dark dominion, but from the pantheon that had preceded all other pantheons in Dreanger. "Seska? Asparas I understand. For the Windwalker they were like the ravens who brought rumors and whispers to Ordnan."

Jokai explained Seska. Great Old Gods must be his specialty. He concluded, "Seska is something like an older, darker Adversary. Some think Seska has survived into modern times, in reduced circumstance, hiding parts of himself in the devils of our age."

"All right," Hecht said. "I don't get it. But I don't have to. I'm a soldier. I get paid to get things done. Principate, are we supposed to ship over to Artecipea right away?"

"Yes. Sorry. The campaign hasn't gone well, lately. The thinking…"

"Excuse me. Titus, see what that man wants."

The meeting would not be interrupted for trivialities.

Consent came back. "He didn't say how the information came. There's been some big sorcerous event in the catacombs in Brothe. Not as destructive as the one that destroyed the hippodrome, but Principate Delari's house fell into a hole. The catacombs collapsed underneath it."

The temperature dropped suddenly and dramatically. Hecht's ears popped.

De Herve asked, "What just happened?"

Jokai said, "Something left us. I felt it before. Now I don't." He seemed more worried than ever.

Hecht asked, "Could that be connected with this?"

"What happened in Brothe?"

"Yes." Hecht watched closely. The Witchfinders were close to Bronte Doneto. Though Cloven Februaren claimed that Hecht and Principate Delari had misinterpreted events in the catacombs badly. That those Witchfinders had not been in league with the monster Delari slew under the hippodrome. The animosity between Doneto and Delari was, however, real. And there had been congress between the Witchfinders

and Rudenes Schneidel, the latter unaware that he was dealing with the former. Schneidel thought he was manipulating ordinary Special Office sorts, his goal the destruction of the Godslayer. The Witchfinders wanted to worm deeply enough into Schneidel's scheme to get at the man trying to resurrect the horrors of antiquity. Hecht's walk-through in Sonsa, with Pinkus Ghort, had started all that unraveling.

The Ninth Unknown had reported all that in snippets during the Connecten campaign. He had discovered no real significance to Vali Dumaine, however. He could not even confirm old Bit's claims about the girl's origins.

"Probably. The Artecipeans have been active there. As you know."

"Yes."

"You seem particularly disturbed by this news."

"I've been close to Principate Delari. He's been especially kind to me and mine." In truth, though, what troubled him was confirmation that Cloven Februaren could move from one place to another without setting foot to the ground between.

There was much to learn about his guardian angel.

Principate de Herve asked, "How long will you need to get ready for transport?"

"I could start some units loading tomorrow. But our animals might be a problem."

De Herve said, "Transport won't be any trouble. These crews know how to move troops and animals, both. Loading in this port could become an adventure, though. Sea levels have dropped so far that only smaller vessels can warp in to the wharves and still have water under their keels at low tide if they're loaded. The pilot who brought us in said the dredges can't take any more mud off the bottom. Sheavenalle's senate

has talked about building new wharves farther out. But if the Mother Sea keeps getting shallower they'll have the same problem again in a few years."

"They should build floating wharves that can be pushed out as the shoreline moves." That seemed obvious enough.

"But they aren't there now. It's now that we need to load."

Hecht made himself unpopular by talking about loadmasters and cargo other than human. His force came with an immense amount of duffel, weaponry, equipment, and animals. A lot of technical, dull business stuff had to be managed so the men with sharp steel could show up where they were needed, with tents to sleep in, food to eat, and horses to ride.

His lifeguards and the Brothers were relaxed, now. They no longer expected a head-butting contest.

Once he had bored the newcomers cross-eyed witty workaday details of army management, Hecht said, "Colonel Smolens, assemble the officers. Explain what we've been asked to do. Be clear. I want them to poll the troops. Find out how many will stick with us." There had been a lot of talk about seeing Brothe again, at all levels.

Smolens said, "I don't think many will drop out."

"We need hard numbers. We have ships to load. We have a new war to plan." In a land almost completely unknown.

The Captain-General was tired. He was seeing double. It was deep in the night. He was studying bad maps with men from the transport fleet, none of whom had been to Artecipea. They knew only that the new Patriarch wanted them to land on the west coast of Artecipea, near Homre, a fishing port on the north lobe of the island.

Artecipea consisted of two distinct land masses joined by an isthmus at one point only slightly more than a mile wide. The northern mass was a third the size of the southern. The northern people spoke a language not unintelligible to the folk of the End of Connec. Those from the south could make themselves understood to outsiders only with difficulty. According to Principate de Herve Artecipea strongly preferred the Seska revivalists, other pagans, Pramans, and several varieties of primitive Chaldareans, to the Brothen Episcopal Church. Brothen Episcopals controlled only a few port cities. God and the Church had a more solid grip up north, though the mountain peoples there were all pagans, too, and lately devoted to Rudenes Schneidel.

All the fighting, so far, had occurred on the southern lobe.

Pacificus Sublime wanted to land an army behind an enemy focused south and east. A powerful, veteran army commanded by a man who had scores to settle with Rudenes Schneidel.

Hecht understood the thinking. He could not find fault with it. He could not imagine Schneidel having anticipated what was about to happen.

A change of Patriarchs changed the world.

Titus Consent, scarcely able to keep his eyes open, brought news Hecht would have waited, willingly, years to hear. "It's a day for harsh news, boss," Titus said.

"Give it to me. I'm numb enough to take anything, now."

"King Charlve suffered a massive stroke and died. It looks legitimate. Anne of Menand was nowhere around when it happened. But she was ready to go. She got hold of the instruments of power before anyone could catch their breath. That's just in from Salpeno."

"What's it mean for us?"

"Not much. It may mean a lot for Arnhand and the Connec. Despite her loose behavior, Anne is very religious. And ambitious. The Connec, with its heretics, has already given her excuses to express the one through the other."

Hecht frowned. "Oh? Which is which?"

"Write it yourself. It doesn't matter."

"We're out of it now, though, aren't we?"

"We should be."

"Are you going home? Or are you coming with me?"

"I'm going to Artecipea. Reluctantly. I have a child I've never seen."

"Noe deserves sainthood. On a throne in Heaven right beside Anna."

"Anna is more used to being her own mistress."

"Do you wonder about the Night determining times of drastic change? About what forces might be in motion?"

"You just lost me, Captain-General."

"In an historically minuscule time span we've lost a powerful Grail Emperor, a driven Patriarch, and the sovereign of the most militantly religious Episcopal Chaldarean kingdom. All harbingers of dramatic change. Especially considering the advance of the ice."

Titus grunted indifferently. He was too tired to worry about it. "I'm going to bed. Court-martial me if you want. Execution is starting to smell sweet."

"So waste your life on sleep, weakling." Hecht settled into a chair, out of the way, and tried to relax, rest, and recuperate while he eavesdropped on his deputies and the men from the fleet.

Hecht's ears hurt suddenly, briefly. For one instant the air. seemed dense and oppressive. He did not care. He was too tired.

"False alarm," someone breathed into his ear. "Muniero is fine. Heris is fine. Anna and your children are fine. I've brought letters from all of them. There was some damage to the town house. Likewise, certain other properties. There is little likelihood of further problems. In the short run. Joceran Cuito has a new vision for the Church."

Piper Hecht pretended he heard the voices of distant ancestors, out of nowhere, all the time. "What will the new situation in Arnhand mean?" Hoping to catch the Ninth Unknown out He did not. "Misery for the End of Connec. In time. You'll be able to throw up your hands and say it wasn't your fault You were gone before the real wretchedness started."

Hecht had no idea what the ancient was babbling about. He did have brainpower enough to realize that his mutterings were attracting attention. Jokai, in particular. The Witchfinder had that constipated look again. Hecht said, "Gentlemen, I need to go lie down. I've started talking to myself." His staff could see what needed doing and could get on it without detailed instructions.

Hecht removed his boots before lying down. Nothing more. "I meant what I said about resting. There's nothing that needs talking about so desperately that it can't wait till I'm able to uncross my eyes."

"I brought letters."

"They'll be there in the morning. Go away." He closed his eyes. Briefly, he wondered how Februaren accomplished so much in so little time. Then his lifeguards were rousting him out. One told him that Madouc would survive his wound. Again. "The man needs to retire. You can't win, you keep throwing the bones with Death."

That got him some looks.

Despite obstacles and confusion, a dozen loaded ships warped out next day. To Hecht's surprise, most of the Patriarchal soldiers had chosen to stay. He blamed that on the harsh times.

Those who had become part of the army during its progress through the Connec were those most inclined to leave. Men with families did not want to leave them behind.

HECHT WAS ABOARD SHIP AND EXTREMELY UNCOMFORTable. He did not like travel by ship. And this ship in particular disturbed him.

Titus Consent joined him at the rail, in the waist of the vessel, where he stared back at Sheavenalle. "It's official, sir. The ships will have to make two trips. We're moving more people and animals and stuff than I would've thought possible."

"It's pretty impressive when you lump it all together." Hecht caught a glimpse of a man in brown trying to avoid notice on the crowded deck. That was good for a boost.

Consent asked, "Why the bleak look?"

"Ever been out on the Mother Sea?"

"No."

"You'll figure it out."

"When were you ever out?"

"When Ghort and I sneaked off to Sonsa." Sonsa? The wrongness about the ship hit him. He had been aboard her before, coming over from Staklirhod.

"What now?" Consent asked. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I just remembered how awful it got when we hit bad weather. Pray there aren't any storms. Are there storms sea this time of year? Do you know?"

"No. Of course not."

Hecht caught a passing deckhand. "Are there storms out there this time of year? What's this ship's name?"

Head cocked, not quite sure about the Captain-General's sanity, the deckhand said, "Not so many storms this time of year, sir. In another month, month and a half, maybe. Her name is Vivia Infante, sir."

Consent asked, "Why does the name matter?"

"Where I come from people worry about the names of ships. Crewman, do we have a veteran crew? Men who have been aboard a long time?"

"Yes, sir. All experienced hands. We'll get you there safely, sir. I promise." He got away from the crazy man as fast as he could.

Consent said, "Sir, you'd better get hold of yourself. You're being watched. The men have never seen you show fear or a lack of confidence. Headed into a war with a sorcerer of the apparent stature of Rudenes Schneidel is no time to strain their faith."

"You're right. Of course. You always are." He had meant to mask his interest in the possibility that there might be someone aboard who could recall a down-on-his-luck, homeward-bound crusader named Sir Aelford daSkees. "But I can't help thinking about what's swimming around down there, waiting to eat me."

"It's good to see you have a human side, sir."

"Sarcasm duly noted, Lieutenant. In your intelligence capacity, find out why Sonsa is suddenly best pals with King Peter. They've been in a halfhearted war with Platadura for the last hundred years."

"That one's easy. Economics. Sonsa lost. They've joined the winners. It's their alternative to economic extinction."

Probably true, Hecht thought. But… was there still some hidden connection with the Brotherhood of War?

Good thing it was Pinkus Ghort and the City Regiment who occupied Sonsa. Otherwise, these sailors might see a chance to pay off a grudge.

THE CROSSING WAS NOT SUPPOSED TO TAKE LONG. A little voice in Hecht's ear promised him good weather all the way. He stayed out from underfoot and, when opportunity afforded, dipped into the letters from Anna and the kids. Over and over. Anna was stoically living the life of a woman whose man had a career that kept him away, a sort of benign, resigned, artificial widowhood. The children were living the excited lives of kids who had no wants and few fears. Pella's letter was, in the main, a vehicle for showing off his rapid grasp of learning. Hecht was impressed but thought Pella needed to improve his penmanship.

Vali's letter was brief and clearly a work of obligation. She was well. She hoped the war would be over soon so he could come home and make Anna smile more. Anna worried too much. There was a lot of rioting in the city, lately. She did not understand. She liked Lila, the girl he had sent.

And that was that. Except for the missive from Principate Delari, which just told him to take care. To be prepared to undergo an intense educational experience once he returned to the Mother City.

Half of Hecht's staff was aboard Vivia Infante. Colonel Smolens had been left behind. Hecht hoped to keep him in Sheavenalle, in control, indefinitely, as a logistical root for the Patriarchal forces in Artecipea. Rather than having that support come out of Brothe, at the mercy of whatever political wind happened to be blowing there.

Staff work proceeded, as best it could with limited information. Hecht could not find anyone who had visited the area where he was expected to land. Some genius in Brothe had picked it off a map because it looked like a handy place to get behind the pagans. Brother Jokai – full name Jokai Svlada, from Creveldia – assured him that a Brotherhood team had crossed over from the Castella dollas Pontellas to explore the region. Quietly. They would be waiting for the fleet.

"That's good thinking."

"The Brotherhood has a lot of experience at these things."

"What are the chances they'd be spotted by the enemy and captured? I wouldn't want to show up and find an army waiting for me."

"They're good. They're used to operating inside Praman territory in the Holy, Lands. Those who don't learn how to do it don't live to try it again."

"I look forward to meeting these paragons."

Clej Sedlakova came round. "Stomach all right, boss? You don't seem as rattled as you were."

"I'm fine. Too busy obsessing about the deep trouble we could be in after we get there to worry about being seasick." Seasickness was troubling him not at all. Might Cloven Februaren be to blame?

He wished he could talk to the old man. But that could not happen. In his most private moments two lifeguards were within touching distance. Always. Even now. To them every Sonsan crewman was a potential assassin.

None of those men recognized Hecht. He wore his hair shorter now, affected a small goatee beard, and dressed like a Brothen noble. He bore no resemblance to the ragged, hirsute Sir Aelford daSkees. He did recognize several deckhands. None paid any attention to him.

Hecht consulted Drago Prosek often. Just three falcons remained functional. He wanted them instantly available for any confrontation with a major Instrumentality. He was sure something would come from the deeps to attack the fleet. There were old thalassic Instrumentalities uglier than any revenants stirring ashore.

A little voice told him he was wasting his worry. This enemy had no traffic with gods of the sea, nor with any lesser Night thing living on or under the water. Hecht refused to be reassured.

The first day the fleet followed the Connecten coast eastward, barely making headway. It was ninety miles from Sheavenalle to the mouth of the Dechear River. The fleet reached that around noon the second day. It hugged the coast thirty miles more, then turned directly south. The sailors expected to spy Artecipea before sundown the third day. Winds permitting. They would then follow Artecipea's western coast to the landing site.

Piper Hecht experienced it as a far longer journey ihan the actuality. The first day was intense, the second more relaxed. There was nothing to do but talk. He pulled rank and forced himself on the ship's master. He wanted charts showing the land he had to invade.

Horatius Andrade was cooperative. So much so that Hecht became suspicious. But he trusted almost no one lately, Consent reminded him.

The charts were reliable, Andrade insisted, but concentrated on the waters off Artecipea, noting only those land features useful as navigational aids. Hecht asked, "Have you been this way before? Have you seen these coasts?"

"A long time ago. On another ship. It's never been a friendly coast."

"You know Homre?"

"Only by repute. It's a glorified fishing village at the mouth of the Sarlea River. I haven't been past in over twenty years. Sea levels have dropped. But even then we couldn't have brought any of these ships into that harbor."

"Are there beaches we can use?"

"Not there. Farther south. Do I know you? Your voice sounds familiar. Have you been aboard Vivia Infante before?"

"No. But I did sneak through Sonsa on a secret mission last year. Caused a big stir around a sporting house with galleons in the name."

"Maybe. Strange. I remember voices better than faces."

"I used to not have the beard and wore my hair in the Brotherhood style. Thanks for your help. I don't think we'll land at Homre."

Clej Sedlakova joined Hecht late the second afternoon, after what little information anyone had about Artecipea had been talked to death. "Sir, I don't know how, why, when, where, any of those damn things, but when I dipped into my locker to dig out something for supper, I found these under my stuff. Sergeant Bechter says he thinks we have a guardian Instrumentality."

Vivia Infante had scores of lockers on her main deck, in places out of the way, there so travelers could stow their possessions.

"An interesting find, Colonel. An interesting find indeed. And so conveniently timed."

"Maybe Bechter is right. Maybe not all the Instrumentalities are our enemies."

"That occurred to me, too. Let's hope it's true." Sedlakova had discovered copies of several ancient maps. The commentary on them was in Old Brothen. Not the Church version, either. They showed Artecipea as two islands. In modern times an isthmus joined them. Titus Consent said, "Sea levels have really dropped since classical times. Which means the changes in the world have been going on for a long time."

The Unknowns had been following the process for centuries.

There were too many secret things going on. And too many perfectly banal, openmouthed evils driven by ambition or fanaticism distracting everyone from the creeping apocalypse.

Hecht saw no man in brown that day. Februaren must have polished his turn sideways trick. Neither Jokai Svlada nor Redfearn Bechter was particularly uneasy, either, so it might be that the old man was no longer aboard.

The Ninth Unknown had skills more frightening than those boasted by er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen. And the man was his ancestor? How deep did this madness run? What had he stumbled into?

"Who are you talking to?" Consent asked.

"Huh?"

"You're muttering. You do that a lot these days. How come?"

Hecht told the truth. 'Trying to get advice from my grandfather's grandfather." Titus would not believe him.

"All right. That might be useful."

"Tell the captain I want to talk. We're definitely going on down the coast." Would the Direcian Principate accept that? How would he get word to the other ships?

The sailors were more clever than Hecht expected. They used signals and fast boats to communicate between ships. They had done this before.

The Principate did not object. He asked Hecht to explain his thinking. The Captain-General did so. Ships forced to lighter cargo ashore needed beaches more congenial than the dangerous, rocky coast around Homre, where sea levels had dropped a dozen feet since Andrade's most recent charts had been drawn. The boats would be too easily broken up in the pounding surf.

Landfall came the third day, just after noon. Soon pillars of smoke arose inland. Hecht said, "They were watching for us. So much for surprising them."

Brother Jokai observed, "Surprise shouldn't be necessary. There can't be two hundred thousand people on all Artecipea. A lot live in the cities and are good Brothen Episcopals."

"Or Deves, or Pramans, or Dainshaus, from what I hear. But I also hear that Rudenes Schneidel has found a lot of followers back in the mountains."

Another reason Hecht had moved the landing. The northern lobe of Artecipea featured an almost complete circle of mountains forming a vast natural fortress. Someone seemed to have thought he should fight through that and dispose of the Unbelievers there. Hecht saw no point. The soul and center of the problem lay inside Arn Bedu, in the western mountains of the larger southern lobe.

"Why are they fighting?" Hecht asked. "Any of them?"

"To restore Seska," the Witchfinder said, shuddering. "To resurrect one of the darkest, oldest Instrumentalities."

"I get that. But, why? The pagans in the mountains, maybe they've fallen under the spell of a glib talker. But what's in it for Rudenes Schneidel? What is he promising them? What does he get for opening the way?"

Jokai cocked his head, considered the coast. "Immortality? Power? The things that turn up in all the stories about wicked sorcerers? Ascension? That sort of went out of fashion after Chaldareanism and al-Prama began promising an eternal afterlife."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"In ancient times a clever, powerful man, unencumbered by any concern for his fellows, could ascend to Instrumentality status. Could become a god. Which explains those old Dreangerean gods with the heads of animals and bodies of men. They started out as real priests who elevated themselves by preying on the rest of Dreanger. Facilitating their own ascension through alliances with older Instrumentalities. Seska was a particular favorite."

"Is that what Rudenes Schneidel is up to?"

"I think so. The Special Office thinks so. We've had no luck convincing anyone else. This expedition isn't about that. This is Pacificus Sublime paying off King Peter for making him Patriarch. Peter wants Artecipea for its location and resources. And because it will make him lord of more lands than any Chaldarean but the two emperors."

"Things to think about."

The fleet raised Homre late in the afternoon. Too late to land. The shoreline was inhospitable. The bottom was muddy and not far down. The vessels closed up and anchored. The charts showed the mouth of a small river, the Sarlea, which was not obvious to the eye. There was none of the brown outflow common at the mouths of major rivers.

Brother Jokai went ashore to find his Brotherhood compatriots. He returned with six lean, hard men within hours. Only one was injured.

Jokai said, "You're right to move the landing site. There are thousands of pagans in the hills up there. They mean to swoop down while we're landing tomorrow."

"Ah. So not only did they know we were coming, they knew where we were supposed to come ashore."

Jokai's ripe henchmen nodded. They did most of their communicating by gesture. Their mouths were busy eatin.

"Interesting. You have to ask yourself how they managed that."

"Their great sorcerer leader can spy on people from afar."

Hecht thought Rudenes Schneidel had agents spying for him.

Jokai continued. "They tell me the sorcerer is desperate and frightened. He believes that Piper Hecht is the only thing that can thwart his ambitions. He believes that powers greater than you are using you to block every effort he makes to relieve himself of your threat."

"Good to hear. Though every time I turn around, here comes another Artecipean assassin."

One of the recon brothers paused long enough to say, That's how come the sorcerer thinks you got allies inside the Night. Clever things never get near you. Clumsy assassins do. Schneidel's followers were convinced that some great, grim sea Instrumentality would devour you during your crossing. It didn't happen. Nothing even tried. Now they're all terrified that you might be a revenant yourself. Maybe one of the old war gods who infested the lands around the Mother Sea in pagan times."

Hecht shook his head. "We've stumbled into a superstitious age, haven't we?"

Jokai and the recon brothers eyed him narrowly, themselves not entirely sure that he was not more than just a man.

Hecht said, "It's dark enough. Time to move on."

Men began making a racket all through the fleet, singing to mask the sounds of capstans hoisting anchors. Carefully, showing stern lights that could not be seen from ashore, ships drifted southward.

Silence returned. Though silence was never complete where wind moaned through rigging and timbers creaked as a vessel rose and fell upon the seas. Hecht rejoined Jokai. "On a completely different tack, do you know anything about people called the Unknowns?"

"Librarians for the Collegium, I think. I've heard that they keep a big map of the Chaldarean world. Why?"

"I'm not sure. I heard some talk when I was working at the Chiaro Palace. Principate Delari had a connection with someone he called the Eleventh Unknown. I'm not sure why that got to nagging me right now. I never thought much about it before."

"A long time ago, the Special Office thought the Unknowns were an unholy cabal inside the Chiaro Palace. I suppose they found out differently. This is the first I've heard them mentioned since I was a student."

It was a tense sea passage, that night. The move was supposed to deceive people ashore. Would it?

Hecht slept only fitfully.

Dawn came. The right number of mastheads were visible. None had gone missing. Andrade guessed they had moved them thirty miles down the coast.

Signal smokes rose ashore. Hecht thought they seemed panicky.

He was thirty miles from where he was supposed to be. The rising breeze would push him along faster than his enemies could run.

Unloading began shortly after noon. Only a handful of men were ashore when friendly locals pointed out that just a mile back north the ships could move closer inshore and dramatically shorten the landing process. These people were Brothen Chaldareans. They had been persecuted lately. The arrival of the fleet had deluded them into believing that the Patriarch wanted to rescue them.

The Captain-General went ashore as soon as his lifeguards permitted. Earth underfoot, he sighed, said, "This is pure chaos. There must be a better way. If there was anyone here to resist us we'd be getting slaughtered." He spoke to no one in particular, though Redfearn Bechter, Drago Prosek, Titus Consent, and Jokai Svlada were all close by. 'Titus, talk to these people. Get a feel for the ground. Hire some guides. I expect to have to fight off a major attack. Will we need to include the Night amongst the enemies we expect? Keep Prosek in the know."

By nightfall the ships were headed back to Sheavenalle. A solid camp had been established, in the Old Empire fashion. It had a timber wall with a ditch at its foot. Scouts with local guides crawled all over the surrounding countryside.

Two miles up the coast, on the south bank of a creek the locals called a river, was a fishing village cleverly named Porto. It had been called something else in Imperial times and had been bigger then, anchoring the north end of trade across the narrow strait that had existed at that time. The villagers were proud of their history, religion, and dialect, which resembled Old Brothen more closely than did modern Firaldian. They had suffered numerous turns for the bad since the fall of the Empire, as Artecipea passed through the hands of frequent conquerors. With, always, the hinterlands' pagan storm just over the horizon.

Piper Hecht spent his first night on Artecipea as a guest of the leading men of Porto. They insisted that he was a deliverer. He wasted no time disagreeing.

The people of Porto delivered intelligence enough to show Hecht what he must do to withstand the approaching pagan storm. In numbers that astonished everyone. Somehow, Rudenes Schneidel had gathered almost eight thousand men to throw the Patriarchals back into the Mother Sea.

The local chieftain's son, going by the unlikely name Pabo Bogo, told Hecht, "You destroy this bunch, you've won your whole war, Lord. There can't be many more down south. They say the Sonsans and Platadurans and King Peter's soldiers have cleared two-thirds of the High Athaphile. Only the evil sorcerer's witchcraft keeps them from complete success."

"I'll do what I can." Hecht hoped to use the lay of the land to get the better of an imbalance in numbers.

The transports were gone. Two Plataduran warships anchored close inshore, to be artillery platforms.

The first pagans arrived in the afternoon. They were a wild and ragged lot, reminding Hecht of Grolsacher refugees seen in the Connec. They were overheated from their rush south, and were tired, thirsty, and hungry. Hecht had positioned his visible force with the afternoon sun behind them. The pagans saw only a few men between themselves and the food and water inside the Patriarchal camp.

More and more pagans arrived, as families, clans, and tribes instead of as an army. Some tried rushing in to throw javelins. They met missiles from crossbowmen and archers. The crossbowmen, though few, were very good at what they did.

More pagans piled up. They made a disorganized charge. They suffered scores of casualties and enjoyed no success whatsoever. Even so, they tried again a quarter hour later.

Hecht watched in disbelief from inside the camp, atop a low tower infested by lifeguards. The pagans seemed compelled to do things his way.

"Looks like their big chiefs are arriving, Captain-General." The speaker pointed. A mob including standards and banners had appeared. Followed by a vast mass of pagan humanity. That settled down briefly after some horns blared. When the horns sounded again the pagans all roared and charged as though determined to see who could be first to die. Their sheer weight almost broke the Patriarchal line. Hecht muttered, "I didn't leave enough men out there." He had not anticipated such numbers, so soon.

His modest heavy cavalry force, hidden in some woods to the enemy right, saw the danger. They charged. The warships discharged their ballistae, an effect expected to be more psychological than actual.

The heavy cavalry were supposed to smash through, break free, then wheel for another charge. They lost their momentum instead. The pagans were too densely gathered.

Hecht's best infantry had hidden in ravines behind the heavy cavalry. They came out, in order, as the line protecting the camp did start to give.

Hecht ordered his infantry reserve out. He told his lifeguards, "The fools think they're winning. They don't see how badly they've been trapped. I'm being sarcastic!" he snapped at one puzzled bodyguard.

It looked like even the reserves would not suffice. Pagans kept arriving and rushing into the melee. But the later they showed, the more exhausted they were already.

An hour after the fighting began the pace of the struggle slowed. Hecht's fighters were tired, now, too.

The last of the Patriarchal infantry left cover south of the fighting, double-timing into blocking positions across the enemy's escape route. They went unnoticed till they set on a band of very late arrivals.

The pagan chieftains panicked. Not unexpectedly. Tribesmen were fierce, sturdy fighters individually but lacked team discipline. They did not train to fight as an army.

Hecht signaled light cavalry waiting inside the camp. The pursuit phase was about to begin.

Hecht left the tower. He had no desire to watch the slaughter.

More disaster awaited the pagans if they chose to flee to southern Artecipea. More Patriarchals awaited them where the land narrowed into that tiny, low isthmus.

"A FEW GOT AWAY," CLEJ SEDLAKOVA SAID. HE HAD GOTten into the fight briefly, with the light cavalry, tied into a saddle. "They always do."

"Let's hope we took the fight out of them for this lifetime." The men had counted near five thousand dead. They were still finding bodies.

The chieftain of Porto was aghast at the magnitude. "It's going to be a hard winter in the mountains."

"It'll be a hard rest of their lives with so many hands not there to do the work anymore," Hecht said. "It's bound to be a better world once we get this Schneidel beast. I'm going to walk through the camp and talk to the men."

A lifeguard said, "That wouldn't be wise, sir. If there's a counterattack, there'd be no better time than tonight, when the men are worn out. You should stay here, with the falcons around you." He was worried about the Night.

"I'm going walking through the camp." He needed to burn off nervous energy.

"As you wish, sir." With great unhappiness.

"Yes."

Hecht visited the hospital tents first. The army's few surgeons were hard at work. So were any veterans who could manage minor field surgery. Hecht found everyone cheerful. Some of the wounded seemed grateful as puppies that he had come to visit.

"What are these men doing here?" He meant men from Porto who were being treated, but by gesture expanded the question to include a dozen pagan captives. Why waste resources on men who had been trying to kill him only hours before?

"The locals got hurt helping hunt down fugitives. The pagans are supposedly men of standing. They say they might be willing to change sides."

Hecht's inclination was to have them killed. But if northern Artecipea could be pacified… That would be useful. "Good for now. If they show willing, and aren't lying, we'll work something out. Has anyone seen the Principate? I can't find him."

"The Direcian?" Redfearn Bechter asked.

"Preferably. If we have another one underfoot, he'd do."

"Principate de Herve left with the fleet."

"He did, did he?"

"I assumed you knew."

"And the Witchfinder? Svlada? What about him?"

"Here, Captain-General," Svlada said from the far side of the tent. "Sewing men back together."

"Good. Tell me. Why did de Herve run away?"

"I don't know. Maybe he thought his work was done."

That matched Hecht's suspicions.

Minutes later he reached the area where the animals were tended. He heard a familiar voice. "Bo? That you?"

Biogna jumped as though ambushed by a ghost. "Oh! Sir." He looked at the bodyguards. "You startled me."

"What're you doing out here?"

"Helping Joe. This's when he needs a friend. It breaks him up when the animals get hurt."

"It bothers me, too." Beyond Bo Biogna's small fire Hecht saw Pig Iron, Just Plain Joe's signature mule. Strictly speaking, Joe had broken the rules by bringing the mule to Artecipea. Pig Iron did no work.

"Pipe." Just Plain Joe came into the light. He carried a big copper bowl full of surgical instruments and bloody water.

"Joe. How bad was it?"

"I'm only glad you're not a cavalry type. We haven't had to put too many of them down. But even one is cause for tears."

Hecht felt the sorrow rolling off Just Plain Joe, potent enough to make his own eyes water. He rested a hand on Joe's shoulder while the man cleaned his instruments. Items he had less business having than he did Pig Iron. There would be complaints. The Captain-General would ignore them when they came. "You keep on, Joe. You're the truest man I've got." He left the man to his calling.

Nowhere did Hecht find cause for complaint. The work of recovery was under way everywhere.

He climbed his observation tower, considered the moonless night. To seaward the stars shed just enough light to give hints of breakers rolling in. Elsewhere, torches floated through the woods like will-o-the-wisps. A mortal shriek explained that. Chaldareans from Porto were sending their pagan countrymen to their rewards in order to grab loot not worth whatever they called their fractional copper here.

Fires burned in Porto. Were they celebrating?

He stared at the town. Something had come to mind during the fighting, a question he wanted to ask those people, but he could not now, for the life of him, remember what it was.

Another squeal from the woods sapped the last of his energy. Exhaustion hit like a boulder falling. "All right, men. I'm over it. I can sleep, now."

One of the falcons barked. Just once. "Must be a false alarm."

But one side of his shelter was smoldering when he arrived. Kait Rhuk looked him in the eye and made a dramatic showing of letting a little egg thing clunk into a small iron box. One of a dozen such that Drago Prosek had acquired in Sheavenalle.

Nobody said a word. Everybody looked at Hecht.

"I get the point. Everybody. Good night."

He refused to let the lifeguards inside.

His dreams were terrible.

Someone shook Hecht's shoulder. "Wake up, boy."

Hecht surged up, not quite aware that he was not in the grasp of the thing that had stalked him through his nightmare. He did not rise too high. The Ninth Unknown possessed surprising strength.

"Calm yourself."

Hecht did so. With an effort. "I was having a bad dream."

"Probably not. They know what happened. They're hunting you. They can't find you because of the amulet. And the ring. The thing they sent forgets what it's supposed to do when it gets close."

"They?"

"Rudenes Schneidel. And the thing he's trying to resurrect. Seska."

"Through my dreams?"

"They can't get to you in the wakening world, day or night."

"Then I should stay awake?"

"No. You're safe. I won't be far off. Trust the amulet, the ring, and me. And your lifeguards. You'll be all right. Your suspicions are on the mark, by the way."

"Which suspicions?"

"About you and your army being sent here mainly to keep you from intervening in Firaldia."

One candle burned inside the shelter. It was all the light and heat the Captain-General enjoyed. "I suspected that?"

"Or the like. The Patriarch expects you to be chasing Rudenes Schneidel for years. He doesn't know about me. He doesn't plan to bring you out of Artecipea once you do bring Schneidel down. Though King Peter might salvage you."

"He would? Why?"

"While we were preoccupied in the Connec, and while Brothe was getting a new Patriarch, al-Halambra gained a new Kaif. Not a Direcian Praman, this time, but an old-fashioned, hard-core Believer from beyond the Gebr al Thar. Something Sabuta Something al-Margrebi. Who's preaching a holy war to recover the lost provinces in Direcia. And more. Thousands of warriors have crossed the Gebr al Thar already. The news is spreading on our side of the Mother Sea. Pacificus will have to preach a real crusade, if he doesn't want Peter overrun."

"A big war in Direcia should show us just how grand a champion King Peter really is."

"And how strong his hold on his Praman allies is."

"And my part would be?"

"No part. You'll be here, trying to exterminate Rudenes Schneidel. But if things go bad for King Peter you can expect to see Direcia before long."

"I have family in Brothe. My men have families."

"Next time you see the Patriarch ask him how much he cares."

"Should I ask what his problem with us is?"

"You have the power to make kings. You have a large force of skilled, experienced soldiers who are loyal to you. He judges you by what he would do if he had what you have. It's a common weakness."

"What's your advice?"

"Send people to Brothe to see what's what. There are plenty of local boats. Finish Schneidel fast. Then cross over to the mainland yourself. You'll be safe. Pinkus Ghort still runs the City Regiment. Which has gotten a renewed lease on life and a fattened budget since a foreigner managed to become Patriarch. You'll have Muno and me behind you, too."

"Sounds good. You think Rudenes Schneidel might turn up tomorrow morning, ready to give up?"

"No. You'll have to lead these men into the High Athaphile and root him out of Arn Bedu. Which should be easier than it sounds. I'll be along."

"You. Yes. I've seriously begun to wonder. What are you, really, great-great-grandfather?'

"That. And the Ninth Unknown. Go back to sleep."

Hecht had an angry question but sleep snatched him quick as a shark's strike.

The dreamstalker did not get close again.

The pagans learned, first disaster. No more confrontations. Their guerrilla efforts were ineffectual, however. The Patriarchals had learned the cure while in the End of Connec. Any village or fastness that caused trouble ceased to exist. Villages and fastnesses that did not resist suffered nothing more than disarmament. In each such Hecht made it known that his sole target was the sorcerer Rudenes Schneidel.

The Captain-General's advance into the High Athaphile was inexorable. And grew stronger with the arrival of the rest of his troops from Sheavenalle.

Resistance faded. Schneiders rebellion – if that was what it could be called – collapsed. Eighteen days after he landed near Porto Piper Hecht stood on a mountainside looking up at the sorcerer's final stronghold, Arn Bedu. The Mother Sea was an amazing blue expanse behind him, stretching away forever. Looking east, he could just make out Pramans serving King Peter making camp at the far foot of the mountain. His successes had eased their difficulties dramatically.

"What's so amusing?" Redfearn Bechter asked.

"Look. Good Pramans out there. Men we fought not that long ago. And good Chaldareans here. All of us about to get together to go up there and exterminate that pagan who got all uppity."

"I don't see the joke. But I'm told I have no sense of humor."

"You won't get an argument from me. How about you let Brother Jokai know I'd be ever so appreciative if his scouts took a real good look at this mountain. Tell him they should be careful. Not just because of the pagans but because King Peter's troops will be scouting, too. Hell, we need to get together with them and coordinate. Work it out so they can get most of the glory by doing most of the dying."

"You're a cynical bastard. Sir." That was Clej Sedlakova.

"I am. I'm thinking, based on what we've seen in the towns and villages, that nothing up there will be worth plundering. So why not let somebody else get busted up getting there first to claim it?"

"Somebody heading this way from yonder camp," Bechter said.

Sedlakova observed, "Looks like Colonel Smolens is about to catch up, too," indicating people climbing the mountain from the west. Smolens had been evicted from Sheavenalle by Principate de Herve.

Smolens arrived first. "Sorry I couldn't stand up to the Principate, boss. I just didn't have the horses." He found himself a place to lie down. He surrendered to exhaustion instantly. Madouc was part of Smolens's party. He collapsed just feet from the Colonel. Hagan Brokke still labored up the slope with other invalids also expelled from Sheavenalle.

There would be regrets, someday.

The allied party halted, awaited a response. Hecht looked around for a flash of brown. He did not find it. "Prosek. One falcon team with me. Plus four lifeguards. And Brother Jokai."

Jokai started to protest. Hecht told him, "We're supposed to cooperate with them. For now. You're no good at disguising yourself. So it won't hurt to show you off. Let them know how serious we are. We need horses. Somebody. We can't meet them on foot. It wouldn't look right."

Moving at last. Two lifeguards out front. Two back behind Drago Prosek, Kait Rhuk, and another two falconeers. Jokai Svlada beside Hecht. Hecht wishing that Titus Consent were there instead of having sneaked into Brothe. Jokai asked, "Is us bringing the smaller party a statement?"

"No. I wanted to come alone. But the lifeguards would have revolted."

"You feel safe? You don't know these people?"

"I'm safe. As long as the man on top of the mountain is still up there."

"The wind's got a bite to it around here."

True. There was snow on the slope where shade lay most of the day. Local guides said snow was new this winter.

The other party resumed moving toward a grassy shelf not far away. Hecht caught the flash of brown he hoped to see. Cloven Februaren was the company he did want.

Hecht halted once his people were all onto the grassy shelf. The falcon team set up, trying not to look threatening as they did.

"Here's a ridiculous mix," Hecht whispered to Brother Jokai.

Ten men came forward. Four were Direcian. One of those was a Chaldarean bishop. Two were heralds or squires. The other looked to be a noble of standing. Hecht did not recognize his colors. Brother Jokai was no help.

Hecht was not interested in the Direcians. He focused on the Pramans behind them. Bone and Az watched from beyond the edge of the grass. Not so big a surprise. He had known they were over here trying to unravel the Rudenes Schneidel puzzle. But he had not expected to see Nassim Alizarin al-Jebal on this side of the Mother Sea. He locked gazes with the Mountain briefly.

The Direcian Bishop urged his mount closer. He scanned Hecht's companions, recognizing the lifeguards as Brotherhood of War but not comprehending Prosek and Rhuk at all. Brother Jokai rated barely a glance. Then he saw something behind Hecht that left him with his mouth open.

"Bishop?"

The man could not talk.

Wait! Everyone had frozen. As though time had stopped. But it had not. Yonder, birds swooped over the Direcian camp. To one side Cloven Februaren perched on a boulder like an anchorite on his pillar. The old man grinned, gave him the thumbs-up, then pointed.

The Mountain, baffled and disturbed, looked around carefully.

"Sorcery," Hecht said, trying his voice.

Nassim's gaze fixed on him. Confused.

Hecht got it. Februaren had frozen everyone but himself, Hecht, and the Mountain. But that would not last. "What are you doing here?"

"They killed Hagid. That word did get through. Thank you."

"You know who?"

"The one up there. Rudenes Schneidel."

"And?"

"Yes. I know that, too. The Rascal. His turn will come."

"They must be missing you in al-Qarn."

"They could be. And they may never understand. Neither Gordimer nor er-Rashal have sons. The Lion knows nothing but feeding his own vices, these days himself. The Rascal has some secret scheme going that only he understands."

"Gordimer is a puppet. And doesn't know it. Er-Rashal's scheme involves Seska and making himself immortal. He has no love for the Faith. There is no other explanation for the last several years."

"No other explanation that makes sense," Nassim agreed. "Why did he want those mummies?"

"I don't know. They must be part of his quest for ascension."

"What?"

"He's trying to turn himself into an Instrumentality. There's no time to explain. This spell won't last. We need to go up there and exterminate Rudenes Schneidel, who is the Rascal's partner."

"Looks likely to be difficult."

"I don't want to just sit here."

"You have somewhere else to be?"

"I do." Inasmuch as Pacificus Sublime meant him to perish on this island.

"Prisoners say they didn't expect a siege."

"We still might starve ourselves out first." Hecht explained his situation.

"There are ships here. Artecipea is an island. Not so?"

"Yes. The men behind you, though, are beholden to King Peter and the syndics of Platadura. And Peter made this Patriarch."

"I understand. The spell is starting to slip."

Hecht saw an eye blink slowly. "Anything more? Fast. We won't have this chance again."

"One thing. Rudenes Schneidel is mine. Whatever else he's done, I stake first claim."

"Done. But manage those others…"

Cloven Februaren made a warning sound.

The air shimmered. Everyone resumed moving. Universally adopting baffled expressions. Several, in lockstep, blurted, "What just happened?"

Brother Jokai said, "We were hit by a spell of some kind. Check yourselves. See how it affected you."

No one found anything unusual. Which only heightened the tension.

Hecht said, "You're our top sorcerer, Jokai. Guard against it happening again." He faced the Direcian party. "Gentlemen. I'm Piper Hecht, Captain-General for the Patriarch. His Holiness wants this fortress overcome and its tenants compelled to pay the penalty for apostasy. I assume King Peter wants the same. None of us gets to go home till we finish it. So why don't we figure out what we ought to do?"

"Hercule Jaume de Sedilla, Count of Arun Tetear," said the Direcian who was in charge. "King Peter's viceroy on Artecipea." The Count seemed to be having trouble with his eyes. Nevertheless, he forged ahead, naming his companions. Nassim he introduced as Shake Malik Nunhor al-Healtiki. Shake Malik was a survivor of the Calziran Crusade. Having no better prospects, al-Healtiki had raised a company of veterans to serve King Peter for pay.

Clever Nassim.

His company included Bone, Az, and the other survivors of Else Tage's special company.

Shake Malik was a minor captain amongst the Pramans. The overall commander was a surprisingly fat man from Shippen who used no name but Iskandar.

The siege of Arn Bedu proceeded traditionally, though the fastness squatted atop one of the tallest and bleakest mountains in the High Athaphile. Iskandar and Count Hercule operated on the eastern slope. The Captain-General and Patriarchal forces operated on the less congenial western face. Each did what besiegers do – at a leisurely pace. They did not mind waiting. The pagan rebellion had fallen apart everywhere else.

Hecht worried about Titus Consent as the days and weeks turned into months. Where was the man?

The great monster sorcerer cornered inside Arn Bedu never deployed his vaunted power.

Hecht had Sedlakova try to undermine. The decomposed, soft stone on the surface gave way to hard, living stone too soon. Work went ahead anyway. The men had to be kept busy doing something.

Mining became an industry.

Hecht left that to his staff. He went down to the coast and hired ships to bring supplies over from Sheavenalle. He put spies aboard those ships. Those men brought back news of the broader world. Big changes were going on. The Church had abandoned the Connecten Crusade completely. Sublime Pacificus kept issuing bulls calling on all Episcopal Chaldareans to join King Peter in a crusade in Direcia. Anne of Menand had pledged the manhood and wealth of Arnhand to help repel the anticipated Praman offensive. Knights from Arnhand, Santerin, and Santerin's continental possessions were on the move. So were Brothen Episcopal knights from the Grail Empire, encouraged by Empress Katrin.

There were hints that Anne of Menand's men might give the Connec special attention returning home from obliterating the Unbeliever.

Other news was less exciting. The new Patriarch had subdued his enemies inside Brothe. Unlike Ornis of Cedelete before him. And managed without bringing home his Patriarchal army. Which said something about Pinkus Ghort's ability to work under pressure.

Hecht seldom got to talk to those he knew in the other camp.

Titus Consent finally returned. With a small fleet. "Thanks for sending me," he said. "I got to see my new son. Noe named him Avran. I wasn't there to remind her that we converted. So Avran he'll be." Consent handed over a case of letters. Some were from Anna and the children. Others were from Principate Delari and several men of standing who wanted to get his ear.

"How were Anna and the kids?"

"I only got to see them once. I had to keep my head down. You're a lucky man. They miss you more than my bunch missed me."

"Did anyone notice you?" Dumb question. Of course they had. Otherwise, there would be no letters. "Did you get my new falcons and firepowder?"

"First instance, probably not till after I left. By anyone we worry about." He frowned, remembering something. "I did bring the stuff. All that I could lay hands on. Way more than you asked for. To keep anyone else from getting them. Those in the business kept working. They knew somebody would pay a lot for a more efficient way to kill people."

"It isn't people I want to kill. I can do that now. My concern is the Night."

"The Night is at our mercy. So let's see what we can do about its servant on the mountain."

Madouc, recovered enough to work now, and several other lifeguards all frowned over Consent's suggestion. They were quite willing to take it easy as long as there was food and drink and their pay came on time – though there was nothing to spend it on in the High Athaphile.

Hecht asked, "What about our situation here? Will there be problems if we try to come home?"

"Who could stop you? If you come up with the transport?"

"I don't know. I can't make sense of the political situation." He watched the men dragging up the new falcon batteries, kegs of firepowder, cases of ammunition, and other weaponry. Most of those men would rather be working the mines under Arn Bedu. That did not necessitate climbing the mountain carrying a hundred pounds. Men from the Direcian camp watched, too, obviously troubled. They suspected Hecht was about to pull something.

"There's more news."

Hecht caught the edge in Consent's voice. "Do we need to talk about it privately?"

"It wouldn't stay secret. I didn't make the trip alone. It's a question of caring, really."

"I'm likely to care more than most?"

"Precisely."

"Then get to it, since it won't matter to any of these dunderheads."

"Hey!" Madouc protested.

'Titus?"

"King Charlve is dead."

"And? We've known that for months."

"There have been a lot of changes in Arnhand because of it. And now it looks like Anne is trying to buy the new Patriarch, too."

"Meaning?"

"She has Sublime's letters of blessing. She's put Regard on the Arnhander throne."

Hecht chuckled. "She paid enough. To our profit."

"Now she wants something more. She's called out the entire feudal levy to help King Peter stop the Almanohides."

"The what?"

"The who. The Almanohides. Praman tribal fighters from the other side of the Escarp Gebr al Thar."

"Oh." Hecht had not heard that name for those people before.

"The new Kaif of al-Halambra summoned them."

That Hecht did know. The process had begun before their departure from the Connec.

"He's determined to crush Peter before he can be any more successful. He means to keep on moving north if he breaks King Peter. He sees nothing to stop him now that we've moved over here to Artecipea."

Hecht understood the hidden message.

A new storm was coming. It was time to keep an eye on their backs, in case the uneasy alliance here fell apart.

Hecht said, "Let's put the fear of God in our friends. We'll let them see the firepowder weapons at work. Speaking of which. You need to find Drago Prosek right away."

"The situation in Direcia had another interesting effect. The Patriarch himself postponed the marriage between Empress Katrin and Jaime of Castauriga."

Hecht had not thought much about events inside the Grail Empire. "Interesting."

"Want some more interesting? You were invited."

"Say what?"

"Anna showed me the letter. With the Imperial seal. Signed by the Empress herself. Requesting the presence of the Captain-General at the celebration mass. And so forth."

"I don't understand."

"Don't ask me to explain."

Was it Helspeth? "One more puzzle to keep me awake at night, then."

"Plenty of puzzles to keep me up."

Hecht frowned. Consent sounded unhappy. "How so?"

"There have been a couple more suicides amongst my Devedian relatives and acquaintances."

"And? I'm not understanding. Were they that upset about you converting?"

"No. None of them believed I meant it. I was the Chosen One. How could I run out? They're only now starting to believe it. But they're still cooperating. They still think they can profit from the connection."

"And I'm still confused, Titus."

"My problem is, these men who killed themselves, I've known them all my life. I can't believe any of them would become that hard a slave of despair. Devedians and despair are intimates. Life partners. Soul mates. They wouldn't kill themselves."

"So what's going on?"

"I don't know! That's the horrible part! Men who wouldn't kill themselves at the worst times did it in front of witnesses."

Hecht sighed. He sensed Consent's pain. But what could he do? "I can pray for them, Titus. That's all. I didn't know them. I don't know what drove them."

"Never mind me, Captain-General. The new falcons are here, including the ones Prosek designed. Along with tons of firepowder and ammunition. If you want to provoke the Night, now is the time."

"Which is why you need to get together with Drago Prosek."

The pagan stronghold had not suffered much from traditional artillery. The besiegers had not been able to build many engines. Lumber was scarce. What little there was had to be hauled a long, hard way before it could be used.

Ammunition was plentiful, though. There were rocks everywhere.

The falcons could do little damage, either. They did not have the power. But those that Prosek had redesigned could be fired faster than the others.

The powder and shot for the new generation were preloaded into a cast-iron pot that seated into a breech in the reinforced base of the falcon. A protruding thumb rotated into a notch, holding the pot in place. That rotation brought a drilled hole into view. Firepowder dribbled into the hole would be fired with a slow match. The pot could be replaced quickly. The spent pot could be reloaded at leisure while the weapon itself went through subsequent firing cycles.

Hecht now felt better about his chances for surviving the interest of the Night. But the new weapons and ammunition and firepowder had cost enough to leave the Patriarchal army strapped. Despite successes in the Connec and intercepted specie shipments from Salpeno, there would not be enough money to carry on past midsummer.

Hard work in the mines helped keep the soldiers out of trouble. And they needed distraction. Disaffection had begun to appear amongst the rank and file. Some thought their Captain-General was not forceful enough with Brothe. They thought their commander should have told the Patriarchal legate to use his new assignment for a suppository.

Titus Consent suggested, "A few bordellos down the mountain would be more useful than making these guys work fifteen hours a day on mines and approach curtains. Especially when those people around the other side aren't doing anything."

They were not working because Count Hercule and his Praman associates were as nervous about each other as they were about Arn Bedu. Both told the Captain-General, individually, that there was no reason to work. That time was the best weapon in their arsenal.

Hecht told them, individually, "I want to go home. And my men aren't in a patient mood."

The Mountain and Az, or Bone, were always close by when Hecht talked to Iskandar and Count Hercule. He got few chances to visit. Nor did the Ninth Unknown create many opportunities for communication. Yet the man in brown was often there, in the corner of Hecht's eye.

Redfearn Bechter reported sightings every day. Bechter was troubled. Bechter was no longer convinced by his Captain-General's protestations of ignorance.

Cloven Februaren did manage when he cared enough. Usually deep in the night, when sleep was more precious than rubies. Employing one of those time-stopping spells. Freezing the lifeguards on duty. Who panicked when the spell wore off. They always knew that something had happened. They never came close to guessing the truth.

"Piper!" The old man spoke softly but insistently. "Wake up, Piper."

Piper Hecht grunted and rolled away. It seemed he had just gotten to sleep.

"Come on, boy. Wake up and listen. Or you're going to be dead. Real soon now."

That moved him. Some. He cracked an eye. And found himself nose to nose with Cloven Februaren. "What?"

"There's going to be an attack. By the Night. Soon. You need to get ready."

Hecht said something rude and tried to turn over.

A bee sting pain hit his right buttock. He almost cried out. Boyhood training stopped him.

Tears did flood his eyes.

"Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"The Night will come. Your great enemy has told it where to find you. That's always the Night's great challenge when it reaches into our world. Finding the right man in the right moment. The Night sees our world through nearsighted eyes."

"So I've heard." Tone suggesting that Februaren make his point.

"You must prepare."

Hecht believed he was prepared. "I'm listening."

"It's time to use the ring."

"Uh? Ring?" What was the man blathering about, now?

"The ring you appropriated from the Bruglioni. The one you forget about. The one you wear on a chain around your neck, along with your silver dove and iron pomegranate." Symbols from the earliest days of the Chaldarean faith – in metals the Night most despised.

Hecht rooted beneath his shirt and brought out his symbolic disguise. A gold ring hung between the pomegranate and dove. "Where did that come from?"

The Ninth Unknown was disinclined to waste time reeducating him. The old man touched his left temple. He remembered.

"Put the ring on."

"Uh?"

"Pick a finger. Any finger. The one that it fits tightest. Put it on. Then put this on behind it." Februaren extended a gaudy silver thing encrusted with small gems.

Hecht fumbled the gold band a couple times getting it off the chain and onto the middle finger of his left hand. It felt like the damned thing was trying to get away. Cloven Februaren helped herd it, then forced the garish bauble on after it.

"That's your safety lock. It won't come off till I release it. So the other will stay where you need it until I do."

Hecht did what he was told, thinking the ring could still get away. If it could get his finger amputated. He asked, "Why are we doing this?"

"We're denying the Night the focus that Rudenes Schneidel and er-Rashal have tried to give it. The nearer it comes to you the more distracted it will get. Distracted? That's not quite right. But I'm too tired to find the perfect word."

"You seem chipper enough to keep me awake all night."

"You've done what I came to get you to do. You have the ring on. You still wear the amulet. I can fade away and you can get back to wasting your life on sleep. All before these dedicated boys of yours can wake up and be terrified because they almost did something that might have put you at risk."

What in the name of the Adversary did he mean by that?

The old man touched him again.

Sleep came instantly.

Sleep ended, sudden as the man in black's sword stroke, slain by the bark of falcons.

Waking with mind fuzzy, Piper Hecht tried to recall the name of the goddess of sleep. That seemed terribly important for a dozen seconds. Until he understood. That was not thunder, never heard up here anyway, but the crude speech of weapons designed to thwart the Will of the Night.

Drago Prosek and his henchmen were on the job, as alert and ready as they had been told to be.

The Captain-General shook off the slut sleep and got his feet under him. With the assistance of lifeguards who insisted they had to be right there beside his rude mattress even while he was unconscious. The same lifeguards who had failed to notice the earlier visit of the Ninth Unknown.

Sobering realization. They could be circumvented easily.

The moon was almost full. It splashed Arn Bedu with ghost light. And made it possible to see Drago Prosek's crews doing their cleanup while most of the Patriarchal force watched and babbled in awe.

The egg the falconeers came up with beggared the one found after the destruction of the bogon in Esther's Wood, a seeming eternity ago. What had died here, tonight, must have been a minor god. Eliminated quickly and efficiently by men just doing their jobs, using munitions designed for the task.

This was why the Night dreaded Piper Hecht. Destroying Instrumentalities was about to become no more special than any other death stroke.

Whole new realms of warfare would open up once men understood that they could butcher one another's gods.

The night lighted up when an immense flash appeared against the base of Arn Bedu's northwest mural tower. A roar like all the thunder in the world at once followed a moment later. That was so loud it deadened the ear. There was no hearing the crash and grind of stone as the tower and nearby wall surrendered to gravity and came down, but it felt like an earthquake.

Nearly a ton of new, refined, more potent firepowder had been packed into the mine under that tower. The fuse trail had been lit off by sentries with orders to do so whenever Rudenes Schneidel tried to use the Night against the besiegers.

The Captain-General stared up at the moonlighted pillar of dust leaning westward above the wreckage. He wished that he had had storm troops ready to go while the rubble was stabilizing.

Troops did push into Arn Bedu soon. Many carried portable firepowder weapons, after the fashion of the capture of the Duke of Clearenza. But this time the men were armed against the Night. Their attack was disorganized but they did know what needed doing.

Titus Consent asked, "Any idea how much this is costing?"

Hecht said, "I can't imagine. But I see ordinary guys like you and me grinning from ear to ear because we just murdered a midget god of some kind and we're about to take a fortress that's been considered invincible forever. And we hardly had to work at either one. Because we knew what we wanted to do and we worked hard to make sure everything was ready to make it happen when an opportunity popped up."

Exhaustion claimed Hecht before the sun rose. He left Arn Bedu to the mercies of his associates. His preparations had proven out. His veterans had done their work completely indifferent to the Will of the Night.

Hecht began to think that even he now had an inkling why he had gained the enmity of the Night.

He was sound asleep before his messengers reached the camp of his allies. They offered King Peter's partisans the opportunity to complete the capture of the pagan fortress.

That assault might be costly despite the horrible shocks already suffered by Am Bedu's defenders.

The most shaken and enfeebled of those proved to be the dreaded sorcerer Rudenes Schneidel himself. The man offered no resistance whatsoever when discovered.

Hecht's lifeguards convinced him that it would be politic to appear in full ceremonial dress to recognize his allies for having successfully cleansed Arn Bedu.

The Mountain passed him with a prisoner in tow, a man bound and gagged in a way that made it clear he was important, powerful, and dangerous. The man's face was locked into an expression of utter, possibly eternal disbelief. This could not be happening!

Iskandar, Shake Malik, and Count Hercule had conquered their disbelief. Publicly. But they kept glancing at Hecht as though certain he must be more than what they could see, or that another shoe had yet to fall. He wanted to yell at them. He had not done anything special. His sappers had packed firepowder in under the wall. Drago Prosek's falconeers had overcome those Night things that tried to interfere with God's soldiers.

The same weapons lubricated the assault.

Arn Bedu's defenders were dead or captured. Including even Rudenes Schneidel, whom Hecht had not expected to see in the flesh, ever. He had assumed the man would escape in the final confusion, as er-Rashal had done when al-Khazen's defense fell apart.

Titus Consent murmured, "Things have changed again. Reality definitely shifted when that wall came down."

Hecht understood. This time he saw the future as he had not after destroying the bogon in Esther's Wood.

It should have taken months more, if not years, to reduce Arn Bedu. He had brought it down in days once his new firepowder and weapons arrived.

No fortress would be invulnerable ever again.

It would take time, though. He knew. People did not like change.

He started up the mountainside.

Madouc demanded, "Where are you going?"

"Up there to look around."

"You think you're suddenly safe?"

"I'm hoping." He glanced toward where an argument simmered between the Mountain, Iskander, and Count Hercule. Each wanted Schneidel. Hecht said, "See that Nassim gets the prize."

"What?"

"A random thought. The chief of that band from Calzir. He came here because Schneidel was behind his son's murder. So I've heard."

"Schneidel tried to kill you and your family. Why don't you take him?" Brother Jokai asked.

"Because I don't want the Special Office tempted by the evil that surrounds him. And only the Special Office could manage him. So let the Pramans punish him."

The Praman Nassim would put an edge on Schneidel and use him against er-Rashal. And right now er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen was the most dangerous man in the world. In Piper Hecht's mind.

"You could be right. Unbelievers they may be. But they tolerate wickedness and truck with the Night less than do our own true believers."

Hecht knew better but did not say so. He was just a bright boy from the far north who got lucky.

He climbed the mountain. His lifeguards tagged along. Madouc complained all the way. Ahead, Prosek and the falcon crews warily recovered shot expended during the assault. Several dark things flapped through the breach in the wall. Falcons dispatched them in seconds.

Prosek came to meet his Captain-General. "The loading pots worked perfectly, sir. As did the falcons. Not one blew up. You got to hand it to them Deves. They know what the hell they're doing when it comes to casting brass."

"That's why they got my contract."

"I hear there's some bad feelings about that."

"No doubt. Nobody likes an elitist."

Prosek frowned, puzzled.

Madouc told Prosek, "He's determined to go poke around. Get some of them damned thunder busters up there with us. He's got no fucking idea what the hell is still hiding inside that rock pile."

Hecht paused at Arn Bedu's open gate. He had not thought of that. And there was definitely a tingle round his left wrist.

All his thoughts had been focused on Cloven Februaren. What part had the old man played in Arn Bedu's fall?

There was no way it should have gone so smoothly and quickly. The Ninth Unknown was the only explanation for Rudenes Schneidel turning so meek in the end.

What the hell was that old man?

He said, "Arn Bedu was never meant to be anything but a refuge. This gate isn't big enough to launch a sortie."

Prosek said, "The guys found a lot more store than we expected. The pagans could've held out for ages. Except that their water went bad. The prisoners thought something in the stone used to line the cisterns was leeching out."

"What?"

"The captives say it was slow poison. Arsenic, or something. Guys sometimes suffered convulsions. Most of them didn't have much strength left. And nobody was thinking clearly. The guy in charge dealt with that by drinking nothing but wine."

Rudenes Schneidel was a drunk? That might have something to do with his passivity.

Bad water and too much wine might mean that the Ninth Unknown had not been the key.

Hecht was not ready to buy it. Not whole. The Ninth Unknown was huge in everything. He was totally sure.

Hecht did not move again until Drago Prosek brought up all his falcons.

Arn Bedu was a sad, barren shell. Evidence that it had been occupied by real, living human beings was limited. And there had been fewer prisoners taken than expected.

Arn Bedu was no standard castle. The wall did not shield inner courts. It was the outside wall of a building occupied by a rich, deep darkness. The interior was mazelike as well.

Piper Hecht lost his compulsion to prowl and investigate seconds after entering the fortress. The place was haunted by a bleak despair so deep it recalled the creeping fractions of fallen gods reawakened in the End of Connec. By a despair so deep it had become a part of Arn Bedu's stone.

Cloven Februaren's doing?

Was there any chance that old man was that powerful?

Just could not be. Had to be because of what Rudenes Schneidel had been trying to do.

Hecht really did not want that old man to be something that much more than an ordinary man.

The lifeguards gabbled suddenly. Drago Prosek and Kait Rhuk babbled, too. Firepowder exploded an instant later, in the darkness ahead. The flash illuminated a passage pretty much standard for the bowels of a stone-built fortress. But there was something in that passageway. It struck every mortal with a fear of the Night of the sort known so intimately when men huddled round campfires and willingly did whatever was necessary to push the terror away.

"Seska!" Hecht gasped.

The face he saw in that flash was the face of Seska portrayed on the most ancient bas-relief murals within the timeless structures of al-Qarn. That face could not be described nor be immortalized by mortal artisan, yet it could not be mistaken.

Godslayer. Come to your end.

A falcon barked. Light and smoke rolled down the passageway.

Another falcon spoke.

Pain. Stunned, uncomprehending, incredulous pain, accompanied by fear of a sort unknown for ages.

The first falcon reiterated its declaration.

The second barked again.

Prosek and Rhuk had brought weapons capable of rapid speech.

Godslayer. You have won nothing! Fading. Surrender to the Will of the Night!

The falcons spoke again. And again. Shot rattled and whined off the walls of the passage, searching for the mystical flesh of the Old One, Seska. The revenant, the Endless, who must be but a shadow of the original.

The insane, shrieking something surged forward, psychically far more powerful than any of the bogons that had crossed Hecht's path. But Drago Prosek's falcons grumbled their basso profundo aria, proclaiming the passing of an Instrumentality of the Night.

The tide of Night reached Hecht. It tried to devour him. His amulet burned. It froze. He cried out. The pain!

The revenant screamed inside minds, continuously, incoherently, its only discernible thought a driving need to destroy the Godslayer. It struck like a cobra, over and over, its aim never true.

The Bruglioni ring burned colder than the coldest ice. Hecht was sure he would lose the finger.

Hands grabbed him. He fought. Thunder rolled overhead. His cheek stung from the heat of a falcon's breath.

Darkness. Unconsciousness. A sojourn within the realm of the Night, hiding in plain sight amongst hunting Instrumentalities who snuffled through space and time alike in their search for the thing they were convinced could destroy them.

He wakened inside his own shelter. The transition from deep down in the darkness to waking came suddenly. He tried to jump up.

He could not. He had been placed in restraints.

His attempt to shout failed completely.

Reason set in. He noted that he was not alone. A priest from one of the healing orders hunched over a charcoal brazier. Madouc and Titus sat near the entrance, still as battered gargoyles.

"You made it." Cloven Februaren.

"I did."

"How deep did you go?" The voice came from behind him, from out of sight.

"I don't know. I don't know what you mean. I was out. I had nightmares. Now I'm awake."

"It never got its claws into you. Lucky you, you were wearing that ring."

"Why am I tied down?"

"So you can't hurt yourself. They'll cut you loose after I leave."

"What happened?"

"You found Seska. Then Seska found you."

"And?"

"You survived. Seska didn't. It might have done if everything hadn't been in place ahead of time."

"Everything? In place?"

"You with the proper amulet. You with the ring. You with the falcons behind you. And me behind the falcons. You need to leave this place, now. The Night is in chaos at the moment. But it does know where the Endless was before it was ended."

"It wasn't really the Endless, though. Was it? Wasn't Rudenes Schneidel building himself an imitation Seska?"

"It was Seska, Piper. The Seska. The real thing. Almost fully reborn. Almost ready to step back into the world where it was first imagined. Where it would have rewarded Schneidel and er-Rashal richly for having given it back its reality."

The old man had grown ferociously excited. "You definitely filled the role of Godslayer this time. You've won the attention of all the Instrumentalities of the Night, now. The human race is lucky that the wells of power have weakened so much."

Hecht had trouble following the old man. His mind had not yet fully cleared.

And his amulet had begun to itch. And more. "Something is coming."

"I feel it. I'll deal with it."

Time resumed as Hecht sank back down. He fell asleep vaguely aware that Madouc and Titus had begun a troubled

analysis of why such a sudden chill had developed inside the boss's shelter.

The Captain-General had no strength in his legs. He was on crutches. The healing brothers assured him he would recover. He needed to be patient.

Patience was not a virtue he had had to observe much since Sublime V loosed him on the End of Connec.

Jokai Svlada and some Special Office henchmen finished scourging Arn Bedu. Piper Hecht had come to the great hall there to witness the last Special Office purification ritual. That included Just Plain Joe and a big-ass sledgehammer. Drago Prosek placed an egg-shaped object the size of a toddler's head on an anvil captured with the fortress. The biggest man in the army swung his hammer. The shimmering egg shattered into a million fragments, most as fine as talc. Larger fragments returned to the anvil for further attention.

A voice in Hecht's ear whispered, "Once this dust washes down into the Mother Sea, there'll be no chance ever of pulling Seska together again." Which Hecht took to mean that there was no way to be rid of any Instrumentality eternally. That the Godslayer had not, really, slain the Endless. Not the way he left mortal men forever slain.

He murmured, "Seska is gone. Negated. The power it used to suck up is now available to Instrumentalities as yet undefeated."

"Clever boy."

Jokai Svlada and friends swept up dust, mixing it with acids or corrosives.

These Witchfinders definitely meant to end the rule of the Night.

Ceremonies done, Hecht commenced the long descent to the coast. On crutches, with lifeguards round about threatening to drive him crazy with their fussing. Wishing he had had more opportunities to talk to Nassim, Az, or Bone. But those men had gone as soon as they got hold of Rudenes Schneidel.

"If wishes were sheep."

"What?" Redfearn Bechter asked.

"Condemning myself for wasting time on wishful thinking. I know better."

"I see." Clearly meaning he had no idea.

The nearest usable port was Hotal Ans, a fishing town of fewer than four hundred souls. Hotal Ans meant something special in one of the old languages once used on Artecipea but nobody remembered what, now.

Piper Hecht arrived minutes after a ship from Sheavenalle tied up at the pier, bringing supplies and, more importantly, news.

A courier brought plenty of that and took the critical stuff directly to… Titus Consent. Who, minutes later, told his Captain-General, "Pacificus Sublime is dead. Of apoplexy, supposedly. He collapsed during a furious argument with members of the Collegium about his favoritism toward Peter of Navaya. He went red in the face, collapsed, and was gone before anyone with a healing talent could help. There were dozens of witnesses."

Buhle Smolens observed, "Sounds like God didn't approve the results of the last election." Invoking a timeless joke ascribing the final, definitive vote in any Patriarchal election to the Deity Himself.

Hecht asked, "What's our financial situation?"

Consent said, "There isn't a lot left in the war chest."

"Enough to get us off this island?"

"Some of us. What are you thinking?"

"That I'd like to have me and a convincing number of our hardest veterans in Brothe in time to monitor this new election." Having spoken, Hecht ground his teeth. Anticipating unfriendly seas during any crossing to Firaldia.

Miraculous staff work made it possible for the Captain-General and a thousand picked men, with all the firepowder weaponry of the Patriarchal army, to land in a suburb of Brothe just below the most downriver of the chains across the Teragi. A vast sympathy for a successful Brothen general made that possible. Titus Consent acquired a crucial bit of information before anything inexcusable took place.

"Principate Mongoz was elected Patriarch on the second ballot. My guess is, the main business of the Collegium right now is trying to decide who steps in after Hugo Mongoz."

Hecht asked, "How much did Peter of Navaya spend to get Joceran Cuito elected? He sure didn't get value for his money, did he?"

"He didn't? Think. Where does Peter stand today?"

Hecht could not refute the vast good fortune the Direcian King had enjoyed of late.

There was no resistance to the return of the Captain-General and his troops. Rather, the opposite. Crowds came out to cheer as they marched toward the heart of the Mother City. It could have been a triumphal procession in olden times.

"What is this?" Hecht asked his staffers, most of whom had accompanied him. "It isn't like we did anything for them. They won't benefit." Buhle Smolens and Jokai Svlada were the main left behinds. Hecht felt guilty about having left Smolens. His number two had family he wanted to see, also.

Clej Sedlakova said, "They're just thrilled to be associated with victories, boss. You had big successes in the Connec, then you wrapped the war in Artecipea practically overnight."

"Five months is overnight?"

"Compared to what the Patriarch counted on, sure."

On some thoroughfares the City Regiment held back the crowds. Pinkus Ghort's men did not seem pleased to have the Patriarchals home.

Hagan Brokke observed, "We've started losing men, boss." And that was true. A few were falling out when they spied families unseen since their departure for the Connec.

"Can't blame them. It's what I want to do. It's damn well what I plan to do before nightfall, too." But first he meant to present the troops in the Closed Ground. To force the new administration to show him its attitude toward its soldiers. "As long as a few hundred stick we'll be fine." The problems would all be on the Church's side until the new Patriarch came to an accommodation. The troops would not tolerate the machinations of another Pacificus Sublime. They would not let that happen under this regime.

Hecht would not be able to control them. Nor would he try to stay their righteous anger if it was baited.

Brothe had laws against garrisoning Patriarchal troops inside the city wall. Hecht intended to test those, though not to the point of conflict.

The majority of the men stuck, knowing their captains were as eager as they to see their families. They formed a fierce formation in the Closed Ground. The falcon batteries with their smoldering slow matches were particularly intimidating.

The balconies of the Chiaro Palace filled with nervous dignitaries and functionaries. Hecht spied Osa Stile's pale young face. He did not see Principate Delari. Palace guards assumed the stations they occupied whenever there was a ceremonial observance in the Closed Ground. They seemed anxious.

Good.

Boniface VII – Hecht had just learned that Hugo Mongoz had taken that reign name – appeared on the high balcony reserved for the Patriarch. Younger priests supported him. The soldiers immediately saluted, then took a knee, the Captain-General included. The men stayed down. The Captain-General rose and advanced a few paces. "Your Holiness, we who serve Mother Church bring victories to shine on Her crown of glory."

Titus Consent, Hagan Brokke, and Clej Sedlakova then rose and stepped forward. They announced offerings like the keys to Castreresone's gates, to the gates of Sheavenalle, and a piece of hearthstone from Arn Bedu. They were replaced by men carrying trophies from lesser cities and fortresses, plus a banner listing the names of the pagan chieftains slain during the battle at Porto. Hecht had elected not to present a similar banner for the battle at Khaurene. Many key names belonged to men close to Boniface's predecessor and Peter of Navaya.

In a surprisingly strong voice, Boniface declared, "Well done, Soldiers of God. Well done indeed. Our blessings and those of Aaron and the Founders be upon you, and Our Lord's Favor also."

The soldiers responded, "And also upon you."

"You have performed well and honorably. For this you will be honored and rewarded. And for this, as must befall all who do well, you will be given further tasks on behalf of Mother Church. But not today. Go to your homes. See the ones you love. Visit your confessors. Square your souls with the Lord of All Things. Most of all, treat yourselves to a well-earned rest."

Not many remembered now because few were old enough. In his youth Hugo Mongoz had spent five years in the Holy Lands, cleansing them of the Infidel. He had not forgotten what it meant to be a soldier.

Boniface's voice quavered toward the end. His hand and arm were shaky when he offered a last benediction. His companions helped him back inside the Chiaro Palace.

The Captain-General gave the sign to rise. "Sergeant Bechter. I want weapons turned in at the Castella. Keep them separate from those of the Brotherhood. Have any men who don't have somewhere to stay bunk at the Castella. Those who want can leave for their home garrisons tomorrow. I'll send word if we need to reassemble." The implication being that comrades still on Artecipea would not be allowed to languish.

He gave orders to everyone, those who needed them and those who did not. He shook hands with several intimates. Then, "Titus, ready to go home?"

"I am indeed, sir. I hope home is ready for us."

"Did you send word?"

"I'm trusting rumor. Anyway, I saw your kids in the crowd when we were coming up the old Chamblane Thoroughfare."

"Goddamnit, Madouc! What now?"

"We're your lifeguards, sir." Taken aback. The Captain-General never used blasphemous language.

"Don't you men have families?" He regretted asking immediately. Most of his lifeguards were Brotherhood. They had one another, and the Order.

"Those with that greater obligation have joined those going to the Castella dollas Pontellas, sir."

Hecht bit back what he was inclined to say. It would be a waste of venom. Madouc would do nothing but his best. And would cut no corners.

"All right. I understand. But I'm wondering, what will convince you that I'm in no more danger?"

"Us failing. You'd be dead. Then we wouldn't have to protect you anymore."

Hecht exchanged looks with Consent. Titus tried and failed to suppress a grin.

Madouc barked. Lifeguards scurried. Steel sang leaving scabbards. Hecht froze like a startled deer, taken so far off guard that he could have died right there if it had been another sniper attack.

"Easy! Stand easy!" Madouc ordered as Pinkus Ghort and two companion riders emerged from the late-afternoon gloom, hands far from their weapons.

"Damn, Pipe! Madouc. You scared the shit out of me."

"Don't jump out of the shadows like that."

Ghort had done no such thing but did not argue. His companions dismounted. Carefully. Making it clear they were doing nothing else. Ghort said, "I thought you might be tired of walking." Two lifeguards closed in, making sure he was not an assassin disguised as Pinkus Ghort.

Hecht said, "You shouldn't have changed your look so much. Why have you gone Brothen fop?" Ghort wore bright yellows and reds in the latest Firaldian courtly styles. He had a thin, Direcian style goatee, delicately trimmed and possibly colored. His hair hung straight, in bangs across the front, two inches below the ears on the sides and in back. The hair had been darkened for sure, and ironed. Nothing gray or

curled remained. The silly hat up top made him look like a flaccid mushroom.

Ghort's companions handed him the reins of their mounts, carefully backed away.

"His nails are painted," Titus observed. "Can you believe that?"

"Not my choice," Ghort said. "Orders. These days I got to spend most of my time with the senators and consuls. Principate Doneto nabbed him one of the consulships last month."

The senators were what civic bodies elsewhere might call aldermen or city councilmen. The two consuls were similar to mayors or burgomasters. The dual power sharing went back to beyond the beginnings of the Old Empire. One consul managed the city's business inside the wall while the other's mandate concerned business outside. Meaning, generally, seeing to the procurement of water and grain. And commanding the army during wartime. Not something the consuls had done in recent centuries. But might again, now, with Bronte Doneto in office.

The ancient Brothens dreaded personal ambition more than they honored skilled leadership. Consuls had to swap jobs very three months. Nor were they allowed to serve consecutive terms, one of which lasted just a year.

That, of course, changed under the emperors. Emperors derived much of their legitimacy by being consuls. And, initially, by being anointed dictator by their political cronies in the senate.

"Good for him. He always wanted to be the big cheese. What's he doing about the hippodrome?" Hecht had seen no obvious restoration work while passing the site, heading for the Chiaro Palace.

"Funny you should ask. The hippodrome was the issue he harped on the loudest, getting himself elected. If I've figured it out right, he managed to get hold of one of the specie shipments from Salpeno, too. He plans to use that to restore the hippodrome."

"Did any of Anne of Menand's bribe money get through to Sublime?"

"Quite a bit, actually. He got out from under his debts from the Calziran Crusade. He didn't get ahead. He didn't lose ground on the Connecten Crusade, though. Thanks to you."

Hecht allowed himself a smirk. "Yes. The hippodrome isn't why you ambushed me, though."

"No. It ain't. I wanted to see you. Before you get swamped."

"You could've come by Anna's house." His only immediate plans were to hole up with Anna for as long as he could.

Ghort chuckled. "Right. She'd rather set me on fire, then chase me off with a broom."

"You could be right. Unless you play chess with her. You aren't the most charming of my friends. And you haven't answered my questions."

"True. Not that I was evading. The fact is, folks a lot more important than me are going to be sucking up all your time, going forward. I wanted to sneak in ahead and give you some straight shit."

"I appreciate that. I'd do the same for you. So what do I need to know that everyone else is going to lie to me about?"

"One thing is, there's been all kinds of riots. I'm out there with my guys braiding ropes of sand every goddamned night. league with the Adversary. If they weren't they wouldn't fight Every idiot in this damned burg thinks he's got a grievance and that entitles him to bash people and bust stuff up. About once a week some demagogue decides it's all the Deves' fault. A mob heads off to the Deve quarter. It gets mauled, which all the rabid Deve haters claim is proof that they're in the back. And they especially wouldn't have all those loud weapons that cause such cruel, festering wounds."

Hecht glanced over at Titus, who was about to swing aboard the mount that Ghort had presented him. Consent shrugged. "I've been with you, boss. I'll get on it as soon at Noe lets me think about work again."

"What about Principate Delari?" Hecht asked as he settled into a saddle. "He didn't show up when I presented the trophies to the Patriarch in the Closed Ground. I saw the boy, Armand. But not the old man."

"Delari and his pet aren't together anymore. I don't know why. They say the boy is playing night games with the new Patriarch, now."

Surprised, Hecht diverted himself by saying, "I heard that Principate Delari's town house fell into a sinkhole. Because of some kind of confrontation down in the catacombs."

"That's crap. One corner of the place did collapse. But it wasn't because of anything like what happened with the hippodrome. Delari must be preoccupied with something. He hardly ever shows himself."

Mounted, Hecht walked his horse slowly in the direction of Anna Mozilla's house. Allowing Madouc and his lifeguards to keep up. He felt mild despair about the attention his passing caused.

"Things have really changed here, Pipe. But they've stayed the same, too."

"Good to know, Pinkus. But try to be a little less clever. What does that mean?"

"Never mind me, Pipe. I'm a walking cliche factory."

"That doesn't take us to any point, either."

"You are a hard, cruel man, Piper Hecht."

"The tasteful constraints of my faith won't let me say what you are, though it features the stern of a horse with tail upraised for the drop."

Ghort laughed. Then he got busy talking about everything he thought Hecht ought to know about the current situation in the Mother City. A situation unlikely to spark conflagrations of optimism.

The refugees just kept coming. There was nothing for them to do.

Ghort chattered all the way across town, from the Teragi right down to the street outside Anna Mozilla's house. He went right on chattering at Titus Consent when the Captain-General broke away. Hecht was grateful for Ghort's effort. The man had told him more than he had thought.

Vali and Pella were in the open doorway to Anna's house, Pella practically jumping up and down. They had known he was coming. They had been out scouting. Hecht had seen them dashing through the crowds, speeding ahead with news that he was coming.

Vali stepped in front of Pella and gave Hecht a huge hug, startling him totally. She did not say anything, though.

Pella had plenty to say for both of them. Questions. Reports. Brags about how he was doing with his studies.

Forcing a word in edgewise, Hecht asked Madouc to see Titus safely home, then told Pella, "You've grown about a foot. And Vali, too." Vali looked like she was starting to bud. He was thrilled to see the changes.

Pella continued to jabber. Vali was more restrained but did keep the fingers of her left hand touching his arm. "Anna! Anna Mozilla! Are you in there? Can you come rescue me from these wild monkeys?"

He was nervous about this. How had Anna dealt with their separation? Would she invite him in?

Anna came to the doorway because he had not been able to push past the children. His worries were unfounded. She was pleased to see him. Her embrace enveloped him, swamping him with hungry promise. But she said, "You smell like you haven't had a bath for a year."

"And I was just up at the Chiaro Palace. Why didn't I use the baths when I had the chance?"

"I refuse to say what I'm thinking. Pella! Calm down. Your father will be here. Piper. The other one, Lila, is too scared to come out."

"It's all right. I remember being the same way when my father came home from the marshes. You don't know how long it'll last. And you don't know if there'll be a next time. The Sheard are cruel and cunning."

Anna gave him the oddest look, as though wondering if he had started believing his own made-up back story.

No. But the children needed to believe it. Children talked.

Anna led him to the kitchen. She had bathwater heating.

The precursors of a meal were cooking. Vali and Pella worked on that, Pella never easing up on the chatter. When his questions interested Anna, too, Hecht responded.

She asked few questions herself. But, "We heard a rumor about a giant worm attacking you beside the Dechear River."

"Sort of true. Whatever you heard would've been exaggerated. We destroyed it. Hardly anyone got hurt."

She gave him a hard look. "Principate Delari was there, too. Wasn't he?"

"He was," Hecht admitted. "I wonder if he exaggerated." Hecht had no answer.

By the time he was clean he was so warm and relaxed he was inclined to head for bed. "Oh, how marvelous it will be to fall asleep with no worries to keep me up. Knowing there won't be interruptions all night."

Anna said, "I don't know about that."

Pella and Vali snickered.

Anna said, "Pella, set the table. Vali, keep an eye on the sauce. She planned the meal, Piper. I'm just a consultant."

"But I saw her out…"

"A working consultant. It's her project. And Lila's."

Hecht got the message. Though he never saw Bit's daughter.

As he settled in to work on the capon and sides, Hecht said, "Blessed Eis and Aaron, it feels good to be clean and wearing fresh clothing."

"Which, I see, hangs loosely. You lost weight."

"That happens. So now I'll get busy putting it back on."

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Hunh?"

"Prayer?"

"Oh. Got out of the habit out there. The only priests were Brotherhood of War types. Pella, unless Vali wants to do it, you go ahead."

Vali smirked. Pella managed a rather imaginative grace. Following the lead of his literary namesake, Hecht supposed.

Later, before the inevitable adult encounters, Anna whispered, "Vali is talking now. To Pella. To Lila all the time when she thinks I'm not listening. To me sometimes, when she's excited. She'll slip up with you, too. She feels secure enough, now. Did you find anything out over there?"

Piper Hecht had no worries about Vali Dumaine. But, "Nothing. No famous child disappeared anytime in the last few years. Titus's people found relatives of the Erika Xan who supposedly brought Vali to the sporting house in Sonsa. They knew nothing except that Erika Xan disappeared years ago."

His worries had faded mainly because Vali was getting older.

In the wee, paranoid dark hours in the camp, awash in the pervasive enmity of the Night, he had come to fear that Vali might be a planted living artifact. Like Osa Stile.

Anna Mozilla soon distracted him from all outside concerns.