Surrender to the will of the night

12. The Connec: Confrontations

The circle had closed. At last. Rook had proven slicker than a barrel of greased snakes, according to one veteran of the interminable campaign to eliminate the last of the Old Gods resurrected by Rudenes Schneidel. Hecht told Clej Sedlakova and Titus Consent, “I’m worn out. And I wasn’t here for half the work.” He glanced eastward. First light limned the Connecten hills. “There’s no way he can slide out again?”

Sedlakova waved his one arm in exasperation. “No! Hell, no. Only, he’s managed twice already when I promised he couldn’t. So, no, I won’t guarantee anything. He could turn into a flock of crows and fly away. One of his appellations is Prince of Ravens.”

“Easy, Colonel. You have nothing to be ashamed of. None of you do.” That thing about the crows, though… Some of the old Instrumentalities had done stuff like that. Another of Rook’s appellations was Lord of Flies. If he turned into a million flies, what hope would there be, ever, of eliminating him?

On the other hand, that would be the ultimate act of desperation by the revenant. What hope would even a god have of pulling a million flies together again, far enough away to be safe? How many would survive? How many would become distracted by carrion, offal, fecal matter, or mating imperatives?

Rook would never become that desperate.

The world lightened. Dawn illuminated the hilltops. Rook and the lesser Instrumentalities attached to him would be shrinking down into the deeps of the valleys, looking for places the light never reached. The sprites and bogies did not interest the Captain-General. He needed to get this one last, stubborn revenant. Then he, and all who were part of this campaign, could go home to their families.

Hecht turned, hoping to see an unusual shadow, or movement in the corner of his eye, to assure him that these events were being observed by the Lord of the Silent Kingdom, Cloven Februaren. The Ninth Unknown. Grandfather of his supposed grandfather. Who had been there in the shadows, making sure all went well, throughout the Connecten Crusade and the campaign on Artecipea.

But the old man never showed. Hecht hoped for the best and feared the worst. He did not want to lose the aid and friendship of that too often sophomoric old man.

Muniero Delari had been training his whole life to step into Cloven Februaren’s role. But Hecht was not entirely confident of Delari. The Eleventh Unknown did not have the command of sorcery of the Ninth-despite his reputation as the big bull sorcerer of the Collegium.

“One more hour. We’ll have him where we want him,” Titus Consent promised. “And when the bang-bang stops, I’m heading for Brothe. I’m going to have No? making some noise.”

Hecht cocked his head and eyed his intelligence chief. It was unlike Titus to be that crude.

Only Sedlakova was in earshot. Consent added, “Been a damned long time, Piper. You got to visit Anna… No? will probably be knocked up two minutes after I walk in the front door.”

Hecht chuckled despite the familiarity. Which was unusual, though Hecht was godfather to one of Consent’s children and had helped sponsor his conversion to the Chaldarean faith.

Sedlakova retailed the punch line to a crude joke. “Me so horny.”

“And that’s the truth,” Consent said. He did things with his arms, overhead and beside himself, that caused movement down where the shadows were creeping out of sight of the rising sun.

Hecht saw others of his senior people on the far ridge, up and ready for action.

Sedlakova said, “Time to tighten the circle.” He gestured with his one arm. Consent continued his own signals, using both arms. Movement began, hard to see because of the brush and trees.

A little waterfall dropped a modest stream into a cold, deep blue pool. The foliage nearby was especially verdant. The air was cool. The Patriarchal soldiers surrounded the area, high and low, almost shoulder to shoulder. Every falcon the force owned was there, inside the circle. Some of the soldiers carried the smaller man-portable falcons with the one-inch bore, double charged and loaded with iron shot. They were to employ their slow matches only if the Instrumentality survived the falcons.

Sedlakova was now on the side of the stream opposite Hecht. Like Hecht, he was twenty-five feet above the stream leaving the pool. The Brotherhood man waved and pointed at dense growth beside the pool, against the cliff, in a sort of armpit formed by the turn and meeting of the high ground. It would be dark in there all day long.

Kait Rhuk accompanied Hecht. Drago Prosek, senior falconeer, was at the head of the waterfall with Colonel Smolens, tasked to lay the falcons so as to get the most from their fire.

Rhuk grumbled at his crew captains. Never satisfied. But, in an aside, he told Titus Consent, “Lieutenant, when the smoke clears off, I’m jumping into that damned pool. That sure looks good.”

Hecht thought so himself. And the thinking was universal. In fact, why wait? The monster wasn’t going anywhere. Let the men have a dip, take the tension off.

He found himself rubbing his left wrist. Startled, he looked down. Then looked around. Several men were in the initial stages of undress.

“Rhuk! Consent! With me!” He stepped to the nearest falcon, seized the slow match from the chief gunner. “Lift the back end. I want it pointed right at the middle of the water.”

Consent and Rhuk did as instructed. Which both would regret.

As he touched match to primer Hecht saw a face on the surface of the water. It did not last. The falcon bellowed. Consent and Rhuk howled when the recoil threw them back. Silver and iron darts whipped the surface of the pond.

Thunder began a continuous roll as every falcon crew assumed the first blast was the signal to fire.

Godshot shredded the shadows in the natural armpit.

No one could hear. Hecht moved Consent and Rhuk back, examined their wrists while the falcon crew swabbed and reloaded. “Put the shot into the water!” he shouted in the crew captain’s ear. “That’s where it is!”

The center of the pool rose, a pillar of dark water that took human form. That morphed into a naked woman. An incredibly sensuous woman. Twice life-size.

The Patriarchals were practiced at deicide. Most kept their heads. Lighter weapons began popping. A few falcons shifted aim. Their shot tore the water woman apart.

She did not rise again.

The firing faded. The weapons reloaded. The troops awaited their commander’s will.

The Captain-General wished the Ninth Unknown were handy. He did not know how to identify success.

His officers seemed as uncertain as he. “Titus. Can you hear me now?”

“Yes, sir. It’s only really bad if you get in front of the falcons.”

“You went through this with all the others. How did you know when they were done?”

“You just felt it. You knew. The earth itself seemed overwhelmed by sorrow.”

“Meaning we haven’t gotten our guy.”

“Not fatally. What came up out of the water wasn’t Rook. That was some local Instrumentality. Too big for a dryad. Maybe a water horse…”

A falcon spoke, someone having seen what he took for movement. In a moment every weapon discharged, mostly into the pit that had been the main target before. With the brush destroyed and the rock laid bare, now, the darts ricocheted, buzzed, and whined off in every direction. A man died and a dozen were wounded before the firing stopped.

Hecht asked, “Do you suppose he’s laughing at us? For being so panicky?”

“No,” Titus said. “I think he’s been hit so many times that he’s more scared than we are. He was right down there where we guessed he’d be. Because there was nowhere else for him to be.”

“And he didn’t fight back. An Instrumentality, a revenant deity, and he didn’t fight.” Shade had put up a fierce fight. Men had died. And the revenant had left a husk of a corpse that the Patriarchals ground in a mortar and scattered a pinch at a time.

“He was never that strong. And he’s been getting cornered and escaping now for more than half a year. Each time we get close we hurt him. This is the end. Stirring the undine, or whatever that was, was his last hope. If we thought it was him we’d killed…”

Consent was rattling. Stream of consciousness pouring out his mouth. Hecht had seen it before in men under stress. Had been guilty himself when he was younger.

A soldier yelled. Another did the same. A third called, “Hey, General, there’s some guy down there.”

Hecht squinted. Sure enough, he saw a bony, pale character in rags who looked like one of the Grolsacher fugitives Count Raymone and his bloodthirsty wife were hunting out of this quarter of the Connec. The man had both hands in the air. He kept bowing.

Hecht asked, “What do you think?”

Consent replied, “I think Rook is still with us.”

“Bring him up that gully. Rhuk, I want a whole battery positioned to rip him apart. Have him stop on that piece of white stone…”

Rhuk was frowning and shaking his head. Hecht saw the problem. If the falcons fired while the man was right there shot would ricochet into the troops on the far slope.

“All right. He stops a yard short. The ricochets will mostly hit him.”

The man seemed to be waiting for someone to come get him. “It isn’t going to happen, fellow,” Buhle Smolens called down from the head of the fall. He had a pair of falcons discharged in the man’s direction.

Hecht said, “Bonus for Smolens.”

A shadow flickered over the ground. “Raven,” Kait Rhuk said. “Landed in that big oak behind Sedlakova. Just to the left.”

No one knew how much power the revenant had over ravens today. The legendary Prince of Ravens had had a great deal. But the troops were ready.

A skilled crossbowman dropped the bird the moment it stopped moving.

That was the only raven seen, though they flew in mated pairs.

Vultures had begun to circle high above, though.

Moved by gestured orders, the man below waded the stream and started climbing toward Hecht. He was emaciated. Starved. Weak.

There was not one ounce of sympathy amongst the watchers. Grolsacher or Instrumentality in refugee guise, this was no one capable of generating compassion in men who had been in the field for more than half a year. Most wondered why the old man didn’t just kill him and be done.

“Stop him. Move a couple falcons to make the point.”

Rhuk did as directed.

Across the way, Clej Sedlakova repositioned his falcons to get a better angle of fire into the little shadow left down below. Buhle Smolens had his men drop firebombs, including some from the precious nephron supply.

Rhuk returned from moving the weapons. “He stinks, boss.”

“Probably has a religious problem with bathing.”

“A bath won’t help this smell. Never has since God created the world.”

The Instrumentality could not mask the stink of corruption.

“Before you do that,” the disguised revenant called, in a strong bass voice, as Hecht started to give the fire command, “a word.”

“Quickly.”

“A crisis is coming. You’ll need all the allies you can muster. Especially across the boundaries of the Night.”

Hecht rehearsed what he knew about the Old Gods and crises pending.

He made a hand gesture out of sight of the revenant.

Rook had some power in reserve. It prevented the match men from firing their falcons. All but one.

One was enough. Rook’s concentration broke.

The falcons began to bark. Raggedly.

Belatedly.

Rook collapsed into a seething mound of maggots.

Kait Rhuk did not need to be told. Injured wrists and all, he helped tilt a falcon so it could fling its godshot into that mess before many maggots could wriggle away.

Hecht felt the sensation Titus Consent had talked about earlier. An abiding, deep sorrow that an age had come to an end.

Ravens began to gather. Hecht said, “Take iron tools and mash those maggots. Throw coals on them. Do whatever it takes.” An Instrumentality as old as Rook must have had several ways of evading ultimate death. The evil always did in old stories.

This one would get no help from Piper Hecht.

Titus Consent said, “You didn’t consider his offer.”

“It would not have stuck to the bargain. It couldn’t have. That was not its nature. It would’ve turned on us.”

Everyone got busy destroying maggots and cleaning up. Hecht sat on a boulder and contemplated the pool. It had changed color. Maybe because of the changing angle of the light. Maybe because of something else.

That water was cold and uninviting now.

Something did not want to be disturbed.

Let it be. It would harm nothing now.

Hecht sensed that it grasped the “Or else” implicit in his clemency.

The men all talked about what they would do now. Everyone assumed there would be downtime. Maybe a lot. They might all be unemployed soon.

Not one man decided to go swimming.

The Patriarchal army left the wilderness, headed into garrison in Viscesment. From Viscesment Hecht intended to return to Firaldia, where he expected his force to wither. The Patriarch would start letting soldiers go, now. He had no need for them anymore.

Riders on exhausted horses came hurrying up the old Imperial road beside the Dechear. They caught the army two leagues east of Viscesment. Pickets brought them to the Captain-General. Who picked one out and snapped, “Pella! I told you to stay…”

“Dad, the Patriarch sent me! Bellicose himself! He thought I could find you easier than anyone else.”

Hecht saved his thoughts, including those about a boy so young being abroad with only four lifeguards in these anxious times. “What is it?”

Pella swelled with pride as he handed off a courier case bearing the Patriarchal seal. Hecht felt some pride himself. So much trust for one so young. Pella had come far since the streets of Sonsa.

The boy said, “It’s about Arnhand invading the Connec. In defiance of Krois and the Collegium.”

Hecht sent orders for the companies to tighten up, then had the trumpets sound Officers’ Call. And kept moving. The soldiers came alert. Something was up. They feared that something was unlikely to be good.

A message from Count Raymone arrived during the officers’ meeting. It reported rumors of an Arnhander army headed for Viscesment, to capture the bridges there before invading the Connec. The Count had friends and agents in Salpeno. And Anne of Menand had enemies willing to betray Arnhand if that would burn the whore.

“Gentlemen, it’s clear. Anne of Menand has defied the Patriarch. She’s sending troops into the Connec to cleanse it of the Maysalean Heresy. Her real motive is probably the same old grab for property and power. There seem to be three armies. One is coming our way. It numbers between two thousand and twenty-eight hundred, the leadership mostly people Anne of Menand would like to be shut of. It should accumulate Grolsachers along the way. The Patriarch wants us to stop these people. We have the numbers and the skills. And these won’t be men eager to die for Anne of Menand. So we have to delay our holidays. In the meantime, we need to secure Viscesment and its bridges.”

He expected grumbling.

There was a lot of grumbling. The officers reminded the men that while commanded by the Captain-General they had never missed their pay. How many soldiers could say that?

In many armies the leaders considered the opportunity to steal money meant for the men to be one of the perquisites of command.

Titus Consent, possibly the most disgruntled Patriarchal of all, said, “There may be irony at work, here.”

“Yes?” Hecht asked.

“It’s well known that since Regard took the throne Anne and her Church cronies have taxed Arnhand blind. She must have sent some of that with her crusaders.”

Consent launched a long-winded explanation of his reasoning. Hecht listened with half an ear, already worrying how best to carry out his orders while minimizing the suffering of his troops. “What was that?”

“I said if they bring as big a war chest as they’ll need to finance a long campaign, we could take enough to keep the troops together.”

What next? was on the minds of thousands.

“Maybe, Titus. Maybe. One thing at a time.”

The Patriarchal army reached Viscesment with days to spare. The Arnhander crusaders did not want to be in the field. They moved just fast enough to soften the screeches of the Society monks. The force had been raised according to the laws of the feudal levy. Their forty days were rolling away. They might never have to fight if they dithered long enough.

Consent was right about the war chest. The bishops who considered themselves to be in charge intended to keep the army together by taking its men into pay. Once they had completed their feudal obligations, they could not imagine the nobles and knights not being willing, even eager to continue. They would be, after all, doing God’s work.

Titus Consent sent agents to meet them. Those assessed the oncoming troops, took names, estimated individual wealth. Disgruntlement vanished in the face of confidence and the expectation of ransoms.

The grumbling changed character. Now the men groused about not getting a chance at the bigger Arnhander columns out west, where richer prizes could be taken. Even King Regard, in the field again because that was the only way to escape his terrible mother.

The Captain-General was less sanguine. What was he missing? Why would Anne send a force so small-even counting on it being reinforced by essentially useless Grolsachers-against his own veteran force?

Count Raymone Garete and Socia offered an answer that fifth evening, two before the crusaders were expected to slouch into view. Hecht was entertaining them at a small, private supper.

“You’re ignoring faith, Captain-General. You’re overlooking the fact that Anne is so sure her cause is righteous, she can’t imagine that the Church would do anything to stop her. Corrupt as her life may be otherwise, she truly believes she’s doing the work of God in this. She knows, beyond any doubt, that you’ll step aside after a token gesture to maintain the pretense of honor. I have friends inside Arnhand’s councils. The people most devoted to this crusade absolutely believe that your soldiers will defect before they risk their souls fighting God’s Will. They’re also convinced that you won’t resist a chance to finish what you started last year.”

Hecht asked, “Titus. Do you know any of our men who actually think like that?”

“A few may. Possibly. I haven’t run into them. I know some who say they’ve let Society spies think they feel that way. Hoping they’ll keep coming to the harvest.”

Always there were complications. Problems guessing the true loyalties of various men. Hecht believed he could count on most of his people. But adding religion to any equation altered its balance unpredictably.

Men would do bizarre things when they thought their immortal souls were at stake.

“Let’s not disabuse them of their illusions. Once Count Raymone leaves us, and has gotten a good head start, start a rumor that I plan to arrest him. Count, I’ve come up with a fairly complicated scheme that could help us succeed at slight cost.”

“I’m all ears.”

“As may be these walls. The Anti-Patriarchs had several fine quiet rooms. I suggest we use the nearest after supper.”

Arnhander scouts informed their commanders that the Captain-General’s troops were headed back to Firaldia. A few remained in Viscesment, getting ready to go chase Count Raymone Garete as soon as an accommodation with the crusaders had been reached. If they could not capture the wicked Count they would, at least, cut him off from Antieux.

“We’ll find out how much those people are slaves to their own wishful thinking,” Hecht said. “Titus. Has it been going smoothly?”

Consent was one of few staffers who hadn’t been sent to set up what was coming.

“Like clockwork.”

“I worry when things go too well.”

“And you worry when they don’t. You just plain worry.”

“Oh. Yes. I guess I do. And something that’s worrying me now is, I don’t see any Deves around anymore. Have we lost them?”

“Yes. I get very little out of the Devedian community anymore. When I do I’m not sure it’s any good.”

“Why?”

“They feel badly used in the matter of Krulik and Sneigon.”

“They feel badly used? They do?”

“No point yelling at me. They think they have the right to do whatever they want with their product as long as they fill your needs first. The constraints imposed after the explosions, and after they were found out, they consider unreasonable. Outright oppressive, even.”

Though inclined, Hecht did not say that he was fully capable of showing those people some real oppression.

“Where are they building their secret foundries?”

“Sir? Piper?”

“I’m not stupid, Titus. Nor are you naive enough to think they’ve accepted the rules we set down. They see a chance to get rich fixing the rest of us up to kill each other more effectively. It’ll take more than one rebuke for them to get my message.”

Consent’s eyes narrowed. His face hardened. “Was Krulik and Sneigon destroyed on purpose?”

“No. But I might’ve if I’d known what we found out after we got into their records. I wouldn’t lose any sleep, either. The way they were operating, they would’ve sold the powder Rudenes Schneidel’s thugs used to attack Anna’s house. They don’t care how their product is used as long as it’s paid for.”

“I do understand… What, Berdak?”

“A gentleman wants to see the Captain-General. He says it’s life-and-death critical. He has plenipotentiary credentials from the Imperial court.”

Ferris Renfrow. Or, if not Renfrow, Algres Drear. Which could have dramatically different implications.

“Send him in. Stay, Titus. Unless he asks you to go.”

A moment later, “Ah. Renfrow. Not a gentleman after all. How long did it take you to get past all the people who don’t want me to find out what’s going on in the world?”

“Not so long. I have a golden tongue. People listen when I tell them it’s important.”

“So, then, tell me.”

Renfrow glanced at Consent.

“He’ll know in a minute, anyway.”

“A quiet room, at least? So the whole world doesn’t know in a minute? Some people need to be kept in the dark.”

“Titus? We have a small room right back there.” To Renfrow, “They’re all over the Palace. The Anti-Patriarchs were justifiably paranoid.”

Titus Consent did not know Ferris Renfrow, other than by reputation. Clearly, he wondered how Hecht knew the man.

Hecht shut the door of a tight little room that had been used to hide female visitors more than to protect conversations.

“Crowded,” Renfrow observed.

“The sooner you tell it the sooner we’re back out where we can breathe.”

“Bellicose is dead. Your old friend Bronte Doneto has arranged to succeed him. That will be decided on the second ballot. A bull forged in the name of the Collegium is on its way. It will direct you to forget Bellicose’s orders. You’re to place your forces at the disposal of the Arnhander crusaders. This isn’t a legal order now. It will become legal once the Interregnum is complete and Doneto takes full control. Tomlin Ergoten will take over from you the day the Interregnum officially ends.”

“Who is Tomlin Ergoten? A Brotherhood import? I thought I knew everyone of standing in Firaldia.”

“Tomlin Ergoten is a false name meant to protect Pinkus Ghort. Some people are afraid you won’t cooperate if you know Ghort is going to replace you.”

“Some people being Bronte Doneto?”

“Exactly. The man has a hard-on for you.”

“Hang on,” Titus Consent said. “An Interregnum. It lasts twenty-six days. When did Bellicose die?”

“About four hours ago.” Renfrow’s expression dared Consent to pursue that.

Titus knew a waste of time and energy when he met it head-on. Renfrow would not explain. He nodded, left it to his commander to ask questions.

Hecht remained impassive. With an effort.

Where was Cloven Februaren when he could be particularly useful?

There had been no sign of that old man for ages.

“Tomlin Ergoten. Strange name.”

“Sounds like a disease,” Renfrow said.

“Wonder where they came up with that?” But curiosity was pointless. “How long till the orders get here?”

“You have something in mind?”

“Just a gesture. To leave Bellicose’s stamp on the world.” The latest Patriarch could not have taken a more controversial reign name. He had wanted the world to know he was one militant bastard about the true mission of the Church.

Renfrow said, “Give me an idea. Maybe I can contribute.”

“I can crush the Arnhanders headed this way. Capture most of them. Ransom them. So my men go into unemployment with some prospects.”

“It could be made difficult for couriers to get through. But your men don’t have to be unemployed. Take them with you.”

“With me? Where?”

“Don’t be coy, Captain-General. The Empress wants you to lead a crusade to liberate the Holy Lands. A most ironic turn of the wheel. Take the job. The barons will scream but there’s a lot of Ferocious Little Hans in Katrin. She’ll get what she wants. Once you take the job, you can bring your own people in to help.”

Piper Hecht had no desire to lead another crusade.

“I’d say you don’t have much choice. You’ll get no work in the Patriarchal States. Bronte Doneto must be nursing a huge grudge.”

“He knows he can’t count on me to be his tool instead of the Church’s.”

“Sure. That sounds good.”

Titus made a growling noise. He was not best pleased by the Imperial.

Hecht asked, “You speaking for the Empress?”

“She hasn’t heard the news.”

“Let’s see where she stands once she has.” Hecht signed Consent to silence.

Renfrow bowed slightly, with just a hint of mockery. “Fine, then. As general information, you could probably get on with Anne of Menand. If her captains show their usual overpowering incompetence.”

After another slight bow, Renfrow departed.

“What was that, Piper?” Consent asked.

“Huhm?”

“The man said a lot that he wasn’t saying. If you see what I mean.”

“He was. My problem is, I’m too literal to understand most of it.”

Consent was not convinced. He did not pursue the matter. He knew his way around his boss. He did ask, “Are we on the brink of becoming Imperials?”

“Possibly. We have an army to care for.”

“The army is in no grave danger. Only those of us that Bronte Doneto knows he can’t tuck in his pocket.”

Consent had a point. Several key staffers were Brotherhood of War. If Bronte Doneto had an arrangement with the Brotherhood-which seemed likely-Pinkus would inherit a ready-made staff.

Consent continued, “We ought to consider the implications.”

“Meaning?”

“Doneto was all set to jump when Bellicose went down.”

“It does seem like. But he can’t take full power till the mandated mourning time is over.”

“Sure. But I’m thinking, if he had his election rigged, maybe he rigged some other stuff, too. How about a deal with Anne of Menand? As much as any Patriarch, he’ll need money. The greedy ones all want to plunder the Connec.”

“And Doneto does have an old grudge. I’ll send a warning to Count Raymone.”

“Good. Meantime, let’s get ready for the crusaders. Maybe they’ve been dawdling because they’re waiting for this news.”

Hecht did doubt that. The Arnhanders were slow because they did not want to come at all. They were giving forty days a chance to pass without them having to bleed for the Whore of Menand.

“Nothing else we can do to get ready,” Colonel Smolens told his Captain-General. “I don’t know if it’ll work. There are bound to be locals who sympathize with the Arnhanders.”

“If Titus did his job-and hasn’t he always? — they’ll hear so much conflicting stuff from so many sources that they won’t believe anything. Especially not that we might fight with the few people we have left here.”

Those responsible for baiting the trap rode out to meet the captains of the crusader force.

“Titus, if you don’t have anything pressing? I want to talk falcon manufacture.”

That earned looks from several staffers as they returned to their duties. But they shrugged. It was typical of the Captain-General. He would turn to unrelated matters at the most difficult moments.

“You want time off?” Hecht asked Titus Consent. Titus looked exhausted. Threads of gray had begun to appear at his temples. He was losing the hair at his crown.

“I do. Of course. But to business. I’ve got what you wanted to know about iron production.”

“Let’s be quick. We’ll be at war in an hour.” He did not recall asking Titus anything about iron.

“Iron is now the metal of choice in falcon production. It stands up better to heavier charges. But it’s hard to work. Only Krulik and Sneigon have figured out how to cast and cool it reliably.”

“Meaning anyone they want to share the wealth with will find out.”

Titus frowned. Though a convert, he still resented stereotyped observations about the Devedian people. “Possibly. But listen. It will take a major operation to manufacture iron falcons in any number.”

Hecht seated himself, cleared his mind. “Go ahead.”

“The first thing is, wherever they locate, it will have to be forested. With old hardwoods. It’s astounding how much oak it takes to make smelting quality charcoal. Then it takes almost two hundred cubic yards of charcoal to smelt out twenty-five pounds of what they call malleable iron. The light iron falcons weigh almost a hundred pounds. Immense amounts of charcoal are consumed all through the process. Which is also labor-intensive. I couldn’t get exact figures but the Krulik and Sneigon records suggest hundreds, maybe even thousands, of man hours are needed to make one iron weapon.

“As a labor example, making a simple iron sword, of basic utility and ordinary hardness, using malleable iron already smelted, takes about two thousand pounds of charcoal and up to two hundred hours of smithing.”

It never occurred to Hecht to be curious about what it took to create the tools of his profession. “Krulik and Sneigon make swords, too, don’t they?”

“They produce a complete range of weaponry. Most of us carry something of theirs. I’m fearing the explosion in Brothe may have been a blessing for them. Their productivity has always been constrained because of their location. They had to bring the iron and charcoal to the manufactory. There are no decent forests anywhere near the Mother City.”

“I see. They’ll be able to offer better prices, now.” He and Titus shared a chuckle. “Or to improve their profit margin.”

“Yes.” And, as though thinking out loud, Consent said, “Charcoal is also an ingredient in firepowder.”

“Yes?”

“Just occurred to me. I’ve been thinking in terms of regions that have a lot of hardwood near iron deposits. There are a lot of those. But if you add a need to be near sources of chemicals to make firepowder, the possibilities shrink.”

“Artecipea. It’s the main source of natural saltpeter. There are iron deposits, copper deposits, some low-grade sulfur pits. We saw forests.”

“We saw softwood evergreens. But there are hardwoods at lower altitudes, in the east part of the island. And it isn’t that far over to the south coast of the Mother Sea. And right there, in what used to be the Imperial province of Pharegonia, are mines that have been producing first-quality sulfur for two thousand years.”

“So you think they’ll relocate to Artecipea.”

“I would. Because Artecipea has one more resource, maybe more important than all the rest.”

“Which is?”

“It’s outside the Patriarchal States. In territory now beholden to King Peter of Navaya. No Patriarch or Patriarch’s Captain-General can tell anyone how to run his business there.”

“I see. We’ll see. Keep after that. In your copious free time.”

“Yeah. I told the quartermasters to round me up a set of brooms so I can sweep up when I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Believe it or not, Titus, I know how you feel. I’m thinking I might enjoy being unemployed.”

“For the first few minutes, maybe.”

“Yes.”

The consuls of Viscesment had told the approaching crusaders that the city would not resist their passage. Pass through, cross the bridges, head off into the Connec, no bad behavior along the way. The crusaders had agreed despite knowing they could not control their Grolsacher hangers-on. Nor even the more fanatic members of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy, who damned Viscesment for tolerating the Maysalean Heresy.

The consuls did insist that the common soldiers, Grolsachers, and camp followers surrender their weapons to the armorers and quartermasters during the passage through the city.

The pliable Arnhander nobles acquiesced. The Society churchmen gave the consuls promissory scowls.

The Captain-General lost patience. He sent a message telling the consuls to get on with it.

In the end, the crusaders were granted use of one broad, paved street leading to the Purelice Bridge. The Grave Street. The Purelice Bridge was the broadest and longest of the three Viscesment boasted.

The crusaders found the cross streets all blocked with carts, wagons, and furniture, the barricades backed by local militia. The distrust shown by the locals accentuated an ages-old southern attitude toward the cousin in the north.

The Purelice Bridge, named for the Emperor who ordered it built, humpbacked over the middle of the Dechear to make it easier for traffic to pass under without having to unstep masts. Today, few riverboats or ships depended on sail power.

The bridge was straight. The west end could not be seen from the east end because of the hump. The bridge’s west end had been barricaded. Eighteen falcons loaded with pebbles backed those barricades. Buhle Smolens and Kait Rhuk were in charge. They had several companies of archers and spearmen in support.

The rest of the Patriarchal firepowder weaponry was scattered along the Arnhander route of march, hidden, sited by Drago Prosek. The point was to stun the crusaders into surrendering. If they failed to be convinced by the cruel logic of their situation.

Should the falcons be discharged they would generate noise and smoke enough to summon the rest of the Patriarchal force to cut off retreat to the east.

From the bell tower of Sant Wakin’s Church-the Anti-Patriarchs’ own-the Captain-General could observe both ends of the Purelice Bridge and most of Grave Street. Nowadays, nobody knew why the street was called that. Some locals would not use the name for superstitious reasons. The street filled. First came determined Society types who suffered catcalls and occasional thrown stones as they excoriated the locals for being sinful. Then came the gaily caparisoned nobles who commanded the army, followed by their lances, foot, and train.

“What a lot of clutter,” Hecht said. “We aren’t that bad on the march, are we, Titus?”

“Not so much. But if you let the men bring their families…”

That touched a nerve. That was one way Piper Hecht differed from other captains. He did not allow a lot of noncombatants to form a tail that impaired his mobility.

Despite his efforts, though, the force inevitably developed a drag whenever it remained in place more than a few days.

The leading priests reached the height of the hump in the bridge. And came face-to-face with dread reality.

Hecht said, “I wish I was out there. I should’ve gone out there.”

“Better you’re here where you can control everything but Smolens and Rhuk.”

“Looks like the priests are yelling for their bishops and archbishops.” His breath came faster. He trusted Colonel Smolens. Yet… Bishops were clever. One might convince Smolens that…

“Smolens will stay the course,” Consent said, reading his unease. “Kait Rhuk wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I worry about Kait, too. He enjoys his work too much.”

“You’re never happy about anything, are you?”

“Not so much. Not at moments like this. Oh, damn!”

The falcons had discharged into the churchmen and Society brothers. Smoke rolled up and drifted eastward, concealing the western end of the bridge. By the time the rumble reached him Hecht knew part of the plan had gone south. Flashes shone inside the smoke. Kait Rhuk’s falconeers continued to fire.

Below, a wave of consternation ran back along Grave Street. That turned to fright. Fright turned to panic at the speed of rumor.

“Hold off, Prosek,” Hecht muttered. “Hold off. Let’s don’t kill anybody we don’t have to.”

Consent gave him an odd look, then whispered to a messenger. The messenger dashed off to give that word to Drago Prosek.

The rattle in the distance slackened, then stopped. Smoke continued to conceal the far end of the bridge. Hecht could see only mass confusion as mounted nobles and knights tried to push back east into a street already filled. While below the bell tower calmer crusaders continued to push west.

The panic faded after the falcons fell silent. Attempts to break through the street barricades declined. The militia showed remarkable restraint.

Hecht began to breathe easier. “All right. We killed a bunch of Society priests. That isn’t so bad. They weren’t going to survive anyway.” If Count Raymone had a say.

Firing resumed at the bridge. One salvo. “Fourteen weapons,” Hecht said. “That means several are out of service. Unless…”

Titus Consent observed, “You do need to take time off.”

“Where’s Pella?” Continuing to worry. Realizing that he had not seen the boy for two days. Feeling sudden guilt because he had not been giving Pella much of his time.

He did not know how. He had not had a father of his own.

“Tagging around after Kait Rhuk. He’s infatuated with the stinks and bangs.”

“And Rhuk doesn’t mind having him underfoot? With all his lifeguards?”

“Knowing Rhuk, Pella is getting his tail worked off. His lifeguards, too.”

“Speak of the Adversary.”

Madouc had invited himself into the belfry. He had not been seen much lately. “A messenger from the consuls, sir. They want to know if they can begin accepting surrenders.”

“Remind them that the Arnhanders are ours. Otherwise, yes. Let’s move on. I want to get home as much as any of you.” After Madouc ducked out, Hecht asked, “Does it seem like he’s changed?”

“Absolutely.”

“How? Why?”

“He’s not doing his job for you, now. He’s doing it because the Brotherhood wants him to.”

Hecht grunted. Kait Rhuk was raising hell on the west bank again. Why? He wasn’t being attacked. Why waste valuable firepowder when a handful of fanatic churchmen could be brought down by archers and crossbowmen?

“I messed up with Madouc, didn’t I?”

“Yes. But that was bound to happen, you two being who you are. And it isn’t a dead loss. He still respects you. Make sure to show your respect for him.”

“What the hell is Rhuk up to?”

“A demonstration, I’m sure. That’s just one falcon, now. Talking slow.”

“Ah. Right. I got it. He’s probably letting Pella play. Using Society brothers for targets.” He saw dust from far beyond the bridgehead. That should be Count Raymone.

The main hall of the Palace of Kings was filled. The magnates of Viscesment, the Captain-General’s own champions, Bernardin Amberchelle and Count Raymone’s lady, Socia, and the greats who rode with them, and the leaders of the defeated crusaders, all were gathered. Some in despair, most in high spirits. No invader churchmen were present. The few survivors had been claimed by Bernardin Amberchelle. The Captain-General had given them over, bishops and all. The Connectens could ransom them. Or not.

Titus Consent brought Madouc to the high table. Seating him to the Captain-General’s left. “His report is ready.”

“Ah. Good,” in a soft voice. “Madouc?”

“Seventeen dead priests, sir. And more than a hundred wounded. Including two bishops, one of whom won’t survive. A stone opened his gut.”

“It could have been worse, all the firing Rhuk did.”

“Showing off.” Disapproving. “Just two Arnhander knights were wounded. Back up the column, there were minor injuries among the foot, taken trying to escape. And one man dead. From a fall. He landed on his head.”

“That’s good. The consuls will get a lot of labor out of the prisoners. So. The treasure? And the Grolsachers?”

“The treasure is secure. It’s not as big as you hoped. The bishops expected plunder would cover their expenses starting around fifty days into the taken into pay period. And the news isn’t good for the people of Grolsach. Again.”

“Is there anyone left up there?”

“There’ll be less competition for resources now.”

Hard but true. Count Raymone and his band had gone north to cross the Dechear and get into position to intercept the fleeing Grolsachers. Raymone meant to stop those people coming to the Connec-if he had to exterminate their entire nation.

His attitude toward Arnhand was no less fierce.

“Madouc, have you made any plans?”

“Sir?” Sounding honestly puzzled.

“We’re near the end of our run. Bellicose’s health is fragile…”

“Bellicose is dead. Sir. That may not be common knowledge but it isn’t a secret anymore.”

Hecht reflected briefly, scanning the crowd. Typically, knights from both sides were catching up with relatives on the other. The Arnhanders were relieved about not having to feed Anne of Menand’s ambitions.

“All right. My question stands. And becomes more pertinent.”

“I’m a Brother of a holy order. I’ll do what my superiors tell me.”

“As will we all, of course. I hope they reward you well. Though I always felt fenced in, you did an amazing job.”

“Thank you, sir.” With no great warmth.

He had lost Madouc for sure. He had wasted the honor of seating the man so close.

Madouc yielded just the slightest. “I’m hoping for a command in the Holy Lands. Addam Hauf sounded positive when I spoke to him. When we were in Brothe.”

“Perhaps we’ll meet again overseas.”

“Sir?”

“Not really. I’m done crusading. I’m thinking about buying a rural tract somewhere and retiring. Spend my last days with Anna, making wine for Colonel Ghort.”

Madouc did not react to the mention of Pinkus Ghort. He had no feelings on the matter. Or lacked knowledge.

Hecht said, “When we’re done here I want a private word with the Viscount Dumaine.”

“Yes sir.”

For the remainder of the evening Hecht mostly observed. Keeping an eye on Pella, in particular.

Anna had gotten a few social skills to stick.

Madouc remained in the quiet room while the Captain-General saw the Viscount. It was the largest quiet room in the Palace of Kings but not so big that the chief bodyguard had to strain to eavesdrop. Madouc was less inclined to avoid the Captain-General lately.

“How can I help you?” the Viscount asked. Politely, conscious of being a prisoner but unwilling to stifle his pride of class completely.

“Sit. Share coffee with me. And tell me about Vali Dumaine.”

The Viscount did the first two, not concealing his delight at being offered the rare and precious drink. But he thought some before doing the third. “Vali Dumaine is my sister. She’s Countess of Bleus. Why do you ask?”

“To find out. What you just said is a variation on what I’ve already heard. I thought she was your wife. I didn’t understand why your wife would be Countess of Bleus while you were Viscount of… what is it?”

“Klose. You can throw a rock across it. Once I’ve been ransomed it’ll belong to someone else. I’ll have to go live with my sister. Or join the Brotherhood. You haven’t told me why you’re asking.”

“I haven’t.” The Captain-General let that lie there. “Do you have any connection with Sonsa?”

“I? None. My father traveled on a Sonsan ship when he went on crusade. Him and his three brothers. He was the one who came home. The one who inherited even though he was the third son.”

“The Holy Lands are a harsh mistress. They devour all who come there. Are you involved with the Special Office? The Witchfinders in particular?”

“No. We don’t see that kind back home. There used to be a Brotherhood chapter house outside Salpeno. You’d see a few of them in the city. But they pulled out before Charlve the Dim died. Cherault, one of Anne’s clever villains, had a scheme for confiscating their assets. They found out. They left with all their wealth. Cherault contracted a wasting disease. It causes him a lot of pain. He’ll be a long time dying.”

“Are the two connected?”

Madouc was very attentive. And contemplative.

“Unfortunately, the world doesn’t work that mechanically. Bad people don’t get what they’ve got coming. And good people die young.”

“And all we can do is trust that it’s part of God’s plan. Yes. You have children? On either side of the blanket?”

The Viscount glowered. “I insist on knowing what this is about.”

“Sit. Viscount. You don’t insist on anything. I’m a lowlife hiresword with no noble blood and no honor, even if I do command the Patriarch’s armies and embarrass his enemies regularly. How can you count on a man like that not to drop you off a bridge, or have you strangled and burned to deny your hope of resurrection? Or any of the other wicked things a man like me might do?”

“You’d lose your ransom.”

“Hardly a problem. The Count of Antieux will buy all the Arnhander prisoners I’m willing to wholesale. He wants to send their pickled heads to your sweet King Anne. Or he could sell them into slavery across the Mother Sea. He talks about that when he’s feeling particularly vengeful.”

Viscount Dumaine had turned pale. But he did not disgrace himself.

“He’s a mad dog, Count Raymone. If you Arnhanders insist on plundering the Connec, Raymone will make you pay in barrels of blood. But I don’t want to talk about that. I’m interested in a girl child named Vali Dumaine. About thirteen. Possibly younger. Found as a captive in a Sonsan brothel. She claimed she was being used as leverage to force her father to do something. Everyone who can answer to the truth or falsehood of the claim is dead. I look into it when I get the chance. This was a chance. You and your sister are the only Dumaines I’ve ever identified.”

“I can’t solve your mystery. Sorry.”

Hecht wished the Ninth Unknown was making a nuisance of himself, still. He could help with this. The Viscount was being truthful, in the main, but something not quite right was happening, too.

Might be interesting to have him stripped, to see if he didn’t have some little hidden tattoo.

Hecht asked, “You haven’t gone on crusade? Never been to the Holy Lands yourself?”

Dumaine eyed him several seconds before making a decision. “I went with my father.” That would be a matter of record, hard to hide. “I was a child. Eight when we left. Twelve when we came home. I pray God never again requires my presence in the east. Hell can’t be worse than the Holy Lands in summer. Or winter. Or any season in between.”

Hecht nodded. Some westerners felt that way. Others liked the Holy Lands well enough to stay. There were generations of crusaders, now, who had been born in the east and who offended their western cousins by having adopted local clothing and customs.

“I felt the same about Firaldia when I first came down. The summers were too hot and they never seemed to end. And snow was a rare treat instead of the natural state of the world.”

“I hear that’s changing.”

“It is. Definitely. People in the Chiaro Palace have been tracking the changes. They’re dramatic. With worse to come.”

Once Dumaine left, Hecht brought in Titus Consent. “There’s something not right about that man. Keep an eye on him. Have him be the last we let go home. Have you seen Bechter?”

Sergeant Bechter had been scarce of late.

“He’s still sick. They say he tries to get up and come in every day. Most mornings his body won’t cooperate. He’s old.”

“I miss having him underfoot.”

“If he could, he’d be there.”

“Is he getting good care?”

“He should be shipped back to the Castella. Let him live out his last years with his brothers.”

“He asked? You haven’t sent him?”

“I’ve asked him. He wants to stay here. Says this is where he belongs, now.”

“The old coot is too stubborn for his own good.”

“Lot of that going on around the heart of this army.”

Hecht refused the bait. “You checked up on Pella?”

“He’s having the time of his life. He’s decided that firepowder artillery will be his career. Rhuk says he has interesting ideas.”

“That’ll change. I just want to know that he’s all right. Don’t want to fuss in his life like I’m his mother.”

“He’s fine, Piper. But, really, he could use a little more interference in his life. He’s too raw for the independence you give him.”

Anna would agree. “All right. Create a training program for falconeers. Put him in. Keep him close and busy.” That should sound good to the boy. And needed only last till Bronte Doneto fully assumed the Patriarchal throne.

Hecht asked, “What future do you see for your boys, Titus?”

“These days, maybe the priesthood.”

“Security.”

“Yeah. Only, I’m afraid the opportunity won’t be there when they’re old enough. The monasteries are full of freeloaders now.”

Titus might be pulling his leg. It was hard to tell. “There’re always careers in military staff work.”

“But how many? Assuming I’d let my sons get into this insanity?”

Hecht frowned.

“You still don’t realize what you’ve done, do you?”

Hecht felt, too frequently, that he had no idea. He raised an eyebrow in invitation.

“There hasn’t been anything like the Patriarchal force since the Old Empire. Not in the west. In the Eastern Empire they have professional soldiers, enlisted and officers alike. Here, since the fall, there’s been no need. We mainly fight our neighbors, on the smallest scale. And a fear of standing forces, plus contempt for mercenaries, is the standard. The warrior class is especially hard on men who fight for pay. Except when they go into pay after their forty days themselves. But they’d argue that that’s a different animal.”

Why did Titus want to remind him of the obvious? Oh. Because he really was changing the shape of thought about professional soldiery.

Titus went on, “All of which is about to be undone.”

“Indeed?”

“Pinkus Ghort isn’t Piper Hecht.”

“Piper Hecht won’t be out of work.”

“So you’ll sign on with the Grail Empress.”

“I don’t see any alternative.” Whenever he considered retirement, as he threatened so often, a disappointed Helspeth Ege wormed into his thoughts and, like a song getting stuck, would not go away. “For a while. But don’t count on me actually invading the Holy Lands.”

“How would No? and the boys fit in Alten Weinberg?”

“I don’t know. It’s cosmopolitan. People from all over the Empire live there. I didn’t see much prejudice. But it’s bound to exist.” And in some minds Titus would always be a Deve, whatever religion he pursued. “I hear so much about the Holy Lands from pilgrims and returned crusaders, I know I don’t want to go there.”

Titus gave him an odd look but kept his thoughts to himself. He was fully invested in Piper Hecht’s imaginary past. If Piper Hecht fell, Titus Consent would follow.

Madouc stuck his head into the room. “Can I interrupt, Captain-General?”

“Of course. What is it?”

“It’s Bechter, sir. The healing brothers say he’s slipping. They don’t understand why. He should be recovering. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes. Is it…? Do they think it could go fatal?”

“Very likely. And it might not be long.”

“Titus, I have to go.” He felt the sorrow rising. Another way the west had infected his soul. He had become a servant to his emotions.

Consent asked, “Can I tag along? Bechter has been a force in my life, too. Almost a father since I converted.”

Hecht was surprised. He had not noticed. But it could be. He did not pay close enough attention to the lives of those around him.

Madouc waited outside. He explained, “Now would be when a villain might think we were relaxing.”

Hecht took the point. “Of course. Lead on.”

The Patriarchals had complete control of the Palace of Kings. A hospital had been established there. It served the troops principally, but aided poor locals where it could, in the name of Bellicose. That paid dividends. Titus Consent kept in touch with the nuns and healing brothers, who were not shy about passing on useful information.

Redfearn Bechter was the sole tenant of a room featuring pallets for four. A healing priest sat with the old soldier, no longer trying to battle Bechter’s illness.

The room stank.

The Captain-General met the priest’s eye. Who shook his head sadly.

Bechter heard them enter. He cracked one eyelid, recognized the visitors. He struggled to lift himself.

The healing priest pushed him back.

Hecht knelt beside the old man. Took his hot, dry, fragile hand. Could think of nothing to say. He could remember only a sutra from The Written about finding love for one’s enemies. Redfearn Bechter was that most cruel of foes, a soldier of the Brotherhood of War. And the Sha-lug Else Tage, having transmogrified into the Patriarchal champion Piper Hecht, had grown to care for the man.

Bechter said nothing, either.

Hecht considered some banter about shirking, about hurrying up and getting back to work, but Bechter knew. The end was at hand. So the Captain-General said, “I have one last task for you, Sergeant. I want you to deliver a message when you stand before the Divine. Ask Him to show me His Design. Ask Him to still the turmoil in my heart by granting me a clear vision of His Will.”

Bechter did not speak. He could not. But he managed a slight inclination of his head. He had heard and would comply.

Hecht ignored his other duties till the end came. And that was not long delayed. The healing priest reported, “He was running on sheer willpower. He was determined not to pass over without making his farewells to those he loved.”

That idea startled Hecht. Redfearn Bechter had been the consummate Brotherhood warrior. He should have loved nothing but his own secret creed.

News of Bechter’s passing, and the circumstances thereof, swept through the army.

One uncalculated gesture won the Captain-General an even fiercer loyalty. None of the soldiers had ever heard of a high officer entrusting a trooper to carry a message to God Himself.

Hecht said little when he heard, other than to express bewilderment to Titus Consent.

Bechter’s latest assistant, Vladech Gerzina, onetime bodyguard, turned up asking for a minute of the Captain-General’s time. Hecht had no cause to refuse.

Gerzina carried a teakwood chest two feet long, fourteen inches wide, and nine inches deep, with an arching, hinged top. The old wood was almost black. The corners and edges of the chest were protected by fittings of brass. “Sergeant Bechter asked me to bring you his personal things, sir.”

Hecht could think of nothing appropriate to say. “Personal things?” Members of the Brotherhood were not supposed to accumulate personal things.

“Memorabilia, perhaps? Bechter was in his seventies. We think.” Gerzina was Brotherhood. He was not dismayed by Bechter’s bit of worldliness. “We all pick up souvenirs to remind us of key moments. Don’t we, sir?”

“Yes. I suppose.” Hecht still carried one small white pebble, twice the size of a chickpea, that had been in the load of the falcon he had discharged in Esther’s Wood. It connected him to the most critical moment of his life. No one else would know what that pebble meant.

Gerzina set the chest on a bench the lifeguards used when they kept watch on some dubious visitor. “I have to get back to work, sir. I’m behind because of the emotional distraction.”

“What’s in the box?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“It doesn’t appear to be locked.”

“It isn’t my place to look.”

Hecht considered the man closely for the first time.

Physically, Vladech Gerzina was nondescript. Average height, neither good-looking nor ugly, his colorings unremarkable. He was a few pounds overweight, which was unusual in a soldier.

A walking illusion. A man with a big don’t-notice-me spell on.

Maybe.

Gerzina’s body language shifted suddenly.

He didn’t like being noticed.

“Can you do Bechter’s job?”

“Sir?”

“I don’t believe I mumbled.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been doing it. All of it. I don’t know how he managed, at his age.”

“He had an assistant. You’re the man, now. Officially. At least till the new commander comes in.”

“No, sir. Begging your mercy, sir. I have to decline. And, no sir, it’s not because it’s too much work. It’s a cush job.” He patted his belly. “Enough to eat and warm in the winter. And not one heathen Praman in sight. But a time of change is on us. Sir. Those sworn to the Brotherhood have to leave you. Or the man who replaces you.”

“Oh?”

“There’s been word from Addam Hauf. The Master of the Commandery will send reinforcements to the Holy Lands. Men, material, and money. Which he’s having some success gathering since the Patriarch doesn’t have to use all his resources to stave off predatory Emperors.”

“I see.” And, though Hecht had not considered it before, he did.

Katrin’s peace had eased life dramatically for the Patriarchs. Bronte Doneto would see no need to consult Imperial ambitions at all.

“I’d better get everybody together and see who needs to be replaced. Help with that. Before you go.”

“Yes, sir. It won’t be right away. Sir.”

Alone again, Hecht sat down with Bechter’s chest.

He had worked up an expectation of something dramatic. Reality proved disappointing. Memorabilia, indeed. Bits of cord. Several stones. A small dagger rendered useless by means of having had an inch of its business end broken off. Several iron arrowheads of Lucidian design. Assuming Bechter followed Brotherhood custom, those had been removed from his own flesh. Then several scraps of paper, one crumbling, one in an unreadable hand, another a pass to be shown while traveling on Brotherhood business. A locket with a bit of brittle hair inside, uncharacteristic for a warrior-priest. Several small wooden boxes, beautifully made, all but one unlocked. One contained a perfectly preserved moth with a wingspan over four inches. Hecht had never seen its like. But he understood that it must have been beautiful when it was alive. And, in death, had been treasured by a man Hecht could not help but honor.

He opened two boxes that contained nothing, then one wherein lay a shredding little cotton sack containing several dozen copper coins from almost as many polities, forming a metal log of Redfearn Bechter’s journeys.

This was a life. Seventy years, plus.

Why had the man wanted him to have this?

As a message? A warning?

“Vanity of vanities. All is…”

There was still the box that was locked. The key was there in the mix with the copper coins, itself brass and as green as any of the money. Hidden in plain sight, perhaps without much concern.

The box contained a thin, bound book, its leather cover at once stained, worn, and grown brittle. Hecht opened it carefully.

The first page was done in artful calligraphy, in a language Hecht could not immediately identify. Till he suffered an epiphany: He was looking at Melhaic written down using the Brothen alphabet. Melhaic was the ancient language of the Holy Lands. He could read that clumsily. In its native characters Melhaic was inscribed across the page in a direction opposite that customary for most of the languages of the region.

He had just discovered that the book was a history recorded by Grade Drocker when Pella burst in, so startling him that he jumped.

“Dad? Pinkus Ghort is downstairs.”

“Pella. What’re you doing here?”

“I thought you’d be kind of down. Because of Sergeant Bechter. So I thought I’d see if I could do anything. I ran into Colonel Ghort in the street.”

How the devil had Ghort gotten here so fast? What was Bronte Doneto up to? The news about Bellicose was not yet general knowledge. The Interregnum had weeks to run.

“You’re right. I am in a bleak mood. Here’s how you can cheer me up. Get your butt on back home and get into school. Make something of yourself. So you don’t end up like Sergeant Bechter. Like I might end up any day.”

“Whew! It does have its claws in you.”

“It does. Bring Ghort. Tell Cederig I want some of the red wine I’ve been saving. Might as well get Pinkus started on it. Save the trouble of hauling it to Brothe and back.” And a few cups might loosen Ghort’s tongue.

“Damn, man!” Ghort said as soon as he walked in. “You look like shit on a stick. You need to get more sleep.”

“Put the wine on the desk, Cederig. And stand by. Pinkus, I’ll be getting all the rest I can stand starting real soon.”

“You know what’s up.”

“Of course I do.”

“Consent’s still got eyes in Brothe.”

“That, too. More importantly, several Principat?s aren’t happy about Doneto taking over. Some hoped I would overrule the election.”

“Care to name names?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What do you think?”

“I’m not some old-time legionary commander who wants to control who gets to be the next Emperor.”

“Yeah. The boss figured you’d see it that way. I meant, what’s your opinion? About Doneto.”

“He’s the best man available. But I wish he wasn’t nuts about the Connec.”

“Yeah. I don’t know for sure but I got a notion your Count Raymone won’t get no joy out of him.”

“Raymone will have plans in place. Doneto should let the old grievances go. He’s supposed to be everybody’s Patriarch.”

“Told him that myself. I don’t think he was listening. Hey. Pipe. No hard feelings?” Ghort was well into his first bottle. He had begun to slur.

“No reason. You didn’t fire me. Actually, I might’ve quit if I hadn’t been fired. I’ve had about all of this that I can stand. I couldn’t work for a busybody like him. I want a boss who tells me what he wants, then gets out of the way and lets me do it.”

“That scares the busybodies. Makes them afraid they might get run over themselves.”

Hecht understood that. He had dealt with it most of his adult life. It was the reason he had been sent west. Gordimer was afraid of getting trampled. “The problem is, those men see the world in the mirror of themselves.”

“Huh?”

“They’re scared because they know what they’d do in my place. Which means that they start from a different notion of honor.”

“Gotcha. But, hey, Pipe, you can’t never claim you don’t pull a slick once in a while your own self. Damn, this grape juice is fine.”

“Me? A fast one?”

“I ain’t as dumb as I look. You knew the change was coming. You jumped in on them crusaders anyways.”

“I did. Yes.” Hecht grinned.

“Doneto ain’t gonna like that.”

“What’s he going to do? Fire me?”

“That’s rich. I don’t know. He can be a vindictive prick. Like what he figures on doing to Count Raymone and Antieux.”

“Which would be?”

“I don’t know, Pipe. Not yet. But I ain’t gonna be nowhere near that berg when it happens. I don’t want to be remembered for what I’m scared is gonna happen.”

“In that case, I regret being so effective against the revenants.”

“Thanks, buddy. That’s all I need. Them goddamned spook demons traipsin’ round behind me, kicking my ass every time I bend over.”

“It would keep you humble.”

“This stuff right here keeps me from gettin’ bigger than myself.” Ghort took a long draw of wine, stared at his feet for a dozen seconds. “An’ I keep wonderin’ how long it’ll be before he fires me.”

“Look at it this way. Who could possibly replace Pinkus Ghort?”

“A good question, Pipe. A fine question. But you gotta remember, Doneto has got some huge blind spots. That might be one of them.”

“When do you plan to take charge?”

“Officially? When the Interregnum is up. If you want to work it that way. Otherwise, anytime after my core staff gets here.”

“You going to fire my guys, too?”

“Have to. Most of them. What I was told. I figure they wouldn’t stay on, no how. The Brotherhood ones is all gonna report back to the Castella. That Addam Hauf is a ball of fire. The rest are loyal to you. According to Doneto. My first job will be to vet all the officers, to see which ones need to go and which ones are loyal to the Church or their pay.”

“Too bad. This was an effective force. It won’t be anymore.”

Ghort shrugged. “Way of the world, Pipe. Sad way of the world. I need a place to lie down. This shit was just too damned good.” He put the wine bottle aside. Empty.

The Captain-General did what he could to hamstring a new crusade against the Connec. Falcons disappeared. Firepowder, likewise. Titus Consent’s records, and those of the quartermasters, turned sloppy, incomplete, and confused. Hecht suffered considerable guilt. Which he handled by telling himself Pinkus Ghort would still get paid. He would just have to work harder to start making the Connec miserable.

Most of the soldiers did seem inclined to stick. Few were pleased but an income was an income. There were a dozen refugees willing to replace any veteran afflicted with excessive scruples. The staff, though, did have theirs. Hecht had trouble keeping them in place till the day of the changeover.

Hecht overheard one staffer tell Ghort that his departure was not personal. Another insisted he had no problem with the new Captain-General, just with the villain behind him. Hecht passed the word that they might want to feel a little less free to speak their minds.

Bronte Doneto was less popular with the soldiers than Hecht had expected. They recalled Doneto’s behavior during the Connecten Crusade.

Hecht’s last official act was the release of the Viscount Dumaine and other remaining Arnhander captives. Those who had not yet been ransomed would send the money themselves. Their honor demanded that they not renege.

The change of command was no drama. Hecht shook Ghort’s hand and went away, leaving the new commander frazzled and dismayed.

“What do we do now, Dad?” Pella wanted to know. He had begun to stick close. He was not welcome among Pinkus Ghort’s artillerists.

“Go home. Settle in with your mother. Loaf.” Those who would make the journey to Brothe were gathering. The company seemed curiously small. Hecht needed a moment to work out why.

There was no Madouc. Nor any of Pella’s constant companions. There were no bodyguards at all.

For all that he had resented Madouc every moment that he was underfoot, Hecht found himself feeling naked now. And constantly uneasy.