Surrender to the will of the night

29. Alten Weinberg: Spring

Titus Consent tapped on the frame of the open doorway. Hecht said, “Come ahead.” He set Redfearn Bechter’s memory chest aside. “What?”

“Algres Drear is here. He wants to see you. He seems distracted.”

“He say why?”

“Not straight up. Not to me.”

“Bring him in. And feel free to eavesdrop.”

Hecht expected that to happen with or without his approval. His people got more protective every day. There were times when he missed Madouc’s easygoing ways.

He resented the increasing isolation. He went back to contemplating Bechter’s bequest.

He did that when he was feeling low. Wondering if there was a deeper message. Was it part of a pattern? Was it proof that the world was essentially random? Was his own passage through life part of a divine plan or just a stream of events with no real meaning?

He could argue both ways. Were he in an epic it would, for sure, lack a traditional plot, everything connecting to everything else and coming together in the end. His epic consisted of a lot of little plots entangled.

Titus Consent coughed, held the door for Algres Drear, then disappeared. Drear peered around. “No armed guards in the inner sanctum?”

“Don’t give them ideas.” Drear was back in Braunsknecht livery, with an extra band of black silk around his wrists.

“It might already be easier to get to Serenity than it is to reach you.”

“I find it tedious, too. Then I have a shooting pain in my shoulder that reminds me why. I try to tolerate the overreaction of the people who want to keep me among the living.”

“Not to be critical. But if you let them isolate you, pretty soon you won’t have any idea what’s going on.”

Which echoed Hecht’s fears.

“You aren’t here to warn me about that.”

“No. I have a different warning in hand.”

“If it’s time-sensitive you’d better spit it up.”

Drear decided not to take offense. “There’s a new plot afoot against you. It appears to include some serious players.”

Hecht considered. “You did go back to work for the Princess Apparent, didn’t you?” He knew the answer, of course.

“I did. In part thanks to you. I owe you for that. Plus, I want to shelter the Princess from the ambitions of her supposed friends.”

“Ah. Do go on.”

Drear told his story. He named no names because he had most of his information second- and third-hand. But there was a cabal, embracing some of the Electors, the Council Advisory, and senior court functionaries. They planned a palace revolution. The Commander of the Righteous would be arrested before all else. And killed, if he resisted. Katrin would be replaced with the more tractable Helspeth.

Hecht observed, “Those kinds of rumors have been around since Lothar went belly-up.”

“And the plotters never have the balls to take the plunge. I know. But Katrin’s recent behavior has given them fresh courage. And I don’t want my benefactor hurt by power squabbles amongst the Empire’s most spoiled nobles.”

“And you especially don’t want your principal to become a pawn in a game not of her own devising.” Hecht suspected that Drear harbored deep, well-hidden feelings for the Princess Apparent. Possibly more realistically founded than those of an itinerant war fighter who was not at all sure of who he was or where his true loyalties lay. He suspected, as well, that Algres Drear was perfectly aware of the weakness of the Commander of the Righteous where the Princess Apparent was concerned.

Captain Drear, married man, was offering to found a conspiracy of would-be lovers who dared not touch.

“I especially don’t,” Drear agreed. “With the Empress getting more erratic, more unpredictable, and more harsh, I don’t. She could have Helspeth executed this time. She’d be sorry and penitent afterward but it would be done.”

“If somebody does something really stupid and says he acted on her behalf.”

“That’s what I’m trying to stop. If we can make it to summer, and the diplomats find a court interested in a marital alliance, Katrin wouldn’t feel so threatened. Although Helspeth getting married won’t change the succession. Katrin has to produce an heir to do that.”

Hecht feared Katrin’s enemies would feel pressed to act before Helspeth could be dealt on the marriage market. “A lot of old men would be thrilled if they could just get Helspeth out of the country. If Katrin died they might have years to run the Empire if they could keep Helspeth away. If they could get her to abdicate. I understand that Anies is senile but healthy as a horse.”

Anies, Johannes’s sister, followed Helspeth in the succession. She was old but likely had a decade left. Hecht had not met her, though she shared Winterhall with the Empress and Princess Apparent. Indeed, she was the grande dame of that establishment.

Drear grunted unhappily.

“Dynastic troubles. There must be a better way,” Hecht mused. “How could we get Jaime of Castauriga back here for a while? He could solve all our problems with a five-minute effort.”

“That would be ideal. But we’d have to kidnap him. Witnesses agree, Jaime developed an abiding, irrational loathing for Katrin while he was here. As potent as her obsession with him. Who knows why? Nobody knows what happened in private. But it’s there, and Jaime’s feelings are so strong he’s even lost interest in gaining the Empire through his descendants.”

Titus Consent held the same opinion. But would that continue to be the case? The opportunity had to be gnawing at Jaime. When he fell asleep at night. In that twilight state when he was wakening. And every time one of his family reminded him what he was putting aside.

He could be the father of an Imperial dynasty.

Hecht said, “Maybe Helspeth should marry. She’d be safer. Her husband would have a vested interest in protecting her.”

Sourly, Drear agreed. “It would make her safer. But because Katrin has no issue there’ll always be knives with Helspeth’s name on. The temptation to meddle might even increase if it looked like a foreign line might come in. Especially if a match with Regard of Arnhand turned up.”

There had been resistance to that from all factions before. But that had begun to change when Katrin created her own lifeguard legion while steadfastly refusing to wilt like a woman.

Hecht said, “It could happen. The flaw, though, is that Arnhand is so supportive of the Brothen Patriarchs. That’s where Anne of Menand doesn’t restructure her values when a change might be convenient. And she’s definitely not somebody anyone here wants playing the wicked mother-in-law. Katrin would be the best match for Regard.”

The moment he said that he started to worry. He saw the identical fear take root in Algres Drear.

Katrin Ege was close to Serenity. Jaime of Castauriga was not. Jaime remained an adamant supporter of Peter of Navaya, who made no secret of what Serenity could do with his Connecten ambitions. There would be armed confrontation this summer. Anne of Menand had to scramble to hang on to allies who were not inclined to face the victor of Los Naves de los Fantas and the hardened troops of the Direcian Reconquest.

The Empress could not divorce Jaime. But no especially clever Church lawyer would be needed to develop an annulment action. Katrin’s pregnancy problems could be laid off on Jaime’s whoring and consorting with the Night.

Drear nearly moaned. “If Katrin’s crowd think of that, they’ll be at her day and night. Her loving Jaime will become irrelevant. They’ll argue the good of the Empire. No Ege can resist that.”

“You’re right. The religious angle could make her spite her emotional attachment, too. She really does believe the souls of her subjects are her responsibility.”

“Just keep her fixated on the Holy Lands. Feed that obsession and starve the rest.”

“Of course. Don’t mention any of this to anybody. Those people have proven that they can get up to plenty of mischief on their own.”

Drear nodded.

Hecht continued, “I know you don’t want to accuse anybody. But how about suggesting a few people that I should keep an eye on?”

Captain Drear’s conscience proved more flexible than he pretended. He produced a generously annotated list. “Some of these won’t be deeply involved. Others you’d expect. And some might surprise us if it came time to take a stand.”

Hecht read. Drear’s penmanship was obsessively precise. And his rating of suspects definitely did include surprises.

Drear said, “I should get back. I don’t like leaving her unguarded.”

The Princess Apparent was not, of course, unguarded. She just was not guarded by Algres Drear.

“All right. Thank you. Real food for thought, this. One thing. Don’t take it all on yourself. The weight could break you. Then what good will you be? If you can’t trust anybody else, holler at me.”

The men locked gazes. Drear nodded. “I will.” He left.

Titus knocked.

“Come. You heard?”

“Not all, but enough.”

“Here’s his list. You’ll find some surprises. Maybe with personal meaning to our Braunsknecht friend. Watch as many as you can. Carefully. If Drear isn’t making it up, go ahead and make it obvious that we’re watching. That’ll start them complaining. But it should make the weaker ones run scared. I want to see Sedlakova, Rhuk, and Prosek as soon as they can come in together.”

After three tries the Commander of the Righteous caught the Empress feeling well enough to attend a demonstration in support of an idea he had presented and she had given a supportive nod but not final approval. “The actual show will take only a few minutes, Your Grace. But it does have to be seen to be understood.”

So the Empress, her sister, and a handful of functionaries joined him on a cavalry training field two miles north of the city wall. Katrin was not in a good mood. Captain Ephrian, commanding her guards, insisted her disposition was its sunniest since the funeral.

She left her sedan demanding, “Why couldn’t you show me this in Franz-Benneroust Plaza?”

“The danger, Your Grace. You’ll understand in a minute.”

“I hired you. I suppose I have to trust you. So do it! While I’m still well enough to care.” She began to needle Helspeth.

Hecht left the review stand. Rhuk and Prosek awaited him. Titus Consent joined them. Consent murmured, “I keep reminding myself that I didn’t believe her when she told us she was pregnant.”

“Meaning?”

“That now she might really be badly sick.”

“I thought that was obvious. She’s been going downhill since the baby came.”

“Not quite true, boss.”

Hecht had been about to give the order to fire. He lowered his right hand. “Explain.”

“Near as my guys can tell, she made a turn for the better when we started dogging the folks on Drear’s list. I consider that suggestive.”

“She’s had help getting sick?”

“That would be my guess.”

Hecht pretended to study the field. He had detailed twelve falcons and four heavier pieces for the demonstration. They stood in line abreast. The falcons pointed toward a hundred rude scarecrows made up to look like advancing infantrymen, at ranges up to a hundred yards. Clej Sedlakova and Buhle Smolens had found enough junk armor to partially equip each scarecrow.

Amongst the scarecrows there were bales of straw.

Two larger targets had been prepared, too. Both were derelict stone buildings proved up for the occasion.

Hecht gave the signal. The falcons popped off in succession, left to right.

Most of the scarecrows went down. Several nearer straw bales scattered downrange.

Rhuk and Prosek let the smoke clear, then fired the four squat, almost bowl-shaped weapons they called mortars. Each spoke with a deep rumble. Sixty-pound stones arced through the air, easy for the eye to follow. Three of four landed on the lesser stone structure, demolishing it.

The smoke cleared off again. Kait Rhuk lighted a powder train laid to be obvious to the observer. Sparkle and smoke raced toward the larger stone structure.

A corner and one side came apart. The sound arrived a second later, like a kick in the stomach. Smaller debris fell within yards of the reviewing stand.

Hecht went over. “Your Grace, if you will, I’d like you to examine the weapons and what they did to their targets, close-up.”

The Empress’s entire party seemed dumbfounded. That would be because of the noise and smoke. An effect that did not remain intimidating long, he knew.

Katrin nodded. “I’m impressed, so far.” She rose, refusing help, and made her way slowly to the firing line. Drago Prosek, flustered, explained the two types of falcon, muzzle-charged and fast fire, and the mortars. “Which we called that because they kind of look like an apothecary’s mortar.”

Hecht guided Katrin to the target area. “We used stones in the falcon loads today. Pebbles are free. In battle we’d want to use metal shot because it’s more effective.”

The old armor had not stood up to the stone shot, out to about eighty yards.

Katrin said, “Archers could do as much damage, couldn’t they? And they’d be cheaper.”

“Cheaper, perhaps. But trained soldiers aren’t at great risk from archers. Falcon shot, though, will rip right through shields and hauberks. And you need to take into account that these weapons are already obsolete where we’re headed. Krulik and Sneigon are making them bigger and more reliable and are manufacturing better firepowder. And they’re letting Indala order as many as he can afford.”

Katrin made her way slowly back to the fast fire falcons, cast to Kait Rhuk’s design. “I don’t believe your Krulik and Sneigon have anything like this. Do they?”

“No, Your Grace. Kait?”

Rhuk showed the Empress how the preloaded pots went into a breech in the rear of the tube. Turned a few inches, a protruding knob moved into a slot and held the pot in place. A touchhole in the pot needed charging with a dram of firepowder. A falcon supported by a dozen pots and an experienced crew could fire four or five times as fast as the crew of a front-loading weapon.

The Empress was appropriately impressed. But Rhuk held Hecht back when Katrin decided to move on. “Don’t try to sell her on the fast firers. I’m not going to have any more made.”

“What? Why not? They were a stroke of genius.”

“The pot needs to seat into the breech perfectly. The founders can’t cast them with enough precision. We can’t get them to line up right. Which isn’t a huge problem if we’re shooting gravel but metal warshot can hang up and damage the weapon. Solid shot can hang up enough for the pot to explode. The weapons would have a very short life under field conditions.”

Hecht sighed. This was an old story. The human mind could invent things that human hands could not make work. “I understand. But don’t give up on the idea completely.” He hurried to overtake the Empress.

Katrin went straight to her sedan. She had had all the activity she could take. She told her Commander of the Righteous, “I’m inclined to turn you loose. Next planning session bring your best assessment of the weapons makers. We may have to alter our strategy. Meanwhile, I’ll be flooding the Eastern Empire with embassies this summer. Maybe they can do some good.”

“As you will, so shall it be, Your Grace.”

“How do you think it went, boss?” Prosek asked. He had not yet recovered from having to speak to the Empress directly.

“Relax, Drago. She’s as human as you are. Just more dangerous. And a little crazier. I think we did well. She got what we wanted her to get.”

Prosek muttered something.

“What?”

“I just said them two women are too damned smart.”

“You could be right.”

Helspeth said, “You’re going to get what you want.” She sipped coffee, looked at Hecht over the rim of her cup. “From my sister.”

“Really?” In a teasing tone that surprised him more than it did the Princess Apparent.

“I could tell what you were thinking. Wicked man.”

“Ouch! Then I’d better kill you before you tell somebody.”

“Smart aleck.”

“Can’t help it. I get distracted.”

Helspeth smiled a small smile.

Hecht said, “And I’m as happy as I’ve ever been. Life is good. I have a job I like, working for somebody who is interested and supportive. If a little scary sometimes. What more could I ask?”

“Ask? Maybe nothing. Want? I could make a suggestion but these old cows might hear.”

There did appear to be an extra ration of chaperones.

“Well, yes. There’s something that would be nice.”

Helspeth said, “She isn’t a little scary, she’s very scary. Almost enough to make me hope they find some fool prince who wants to carry me off. To safety. For as long as Katrin hangs on.”

Was that a hint of something hidden but important?

Helspeth leaned in to whisper, “The Council Advisory has sent a delegation to Castauriga. Very secret. To get Jaime to come back. Katrin doesn’t know. Yet. She’ll figure it out.”

Hecht had not known. Titus had missed that.

Numerous delegations had departed Alten Weinberg in recent weeks. Several of Algres Drear’s suspects had been posted to one or another. Almost, Hecht thought, as if the person handing out the appointments had a good idea which of her subjects might be most useful farthest from town.

Helspeth said, “It’s risky. No telling what Katrin will do if Jaime flat refuses to see her again.”

“I hear rumors that she’s not well.”

“Rumors? You saw her the other day. Did she look healthy?”

“No.”

“No is right. Her physicians keep looking grim. At the same time, a lot of people who are never nice to me have been stricken kind.”

“Good. Have the physicians told you anything?”

“Not really. They thought she was being poisoned. Caches of arsenic and belladonna were found in the Winterhall kitchen. The cooks disavowed any knowledge. They didn’t seem to be lying. There’s no sorcerer available who can backtrack and identify the culprit.” And that villain would have been busy covering trail.

“I wondered. Because of how she looked. But she started improving.”

“Because of you.”

“What?”

“People notice things, Piper. Like you having your men tag along behind half the nobles in the city. Things like thugs who try to discourage your men ending up thoroughly discouraged themselves.”

“Really?” He had not known about that. But he did not need to know. “The people being followed are supposed to notice. The idea is to encourage them to behave.”

“They’re encouraged. Katrin’s health started improving right away. So much that she noticed and worked it out for herself. So she started handing out ambassadorships to people you seemed not to trust.”

“It’s all working out, then.”

“Except that she’s still sick in her head and heart. In her soul and her body. A lot of people think she’ll die even if she isn’t being poisoned.”

“Which they thought about your brother.”

“And Lothar died.”

“But years later than even the optimists were betting. Your sister does still have something to live for. Her crusade.”

“Her mad expedition that she hopes will make her more famous than Hansel Blackboots.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“Don’t you?”

“No. I believe her. She’s so sincere it’s terrifying. When you consider where her determination might take us. What it might cost the world.”

“You puzzle me, Piper. Truly. I’d expect you to be a butcher. The nature of your profession. But you do care about the harm you do. Maybe that’s what… No. That’s animal. It started the first time I saw you. Anyway, my father cared, too. A great deal.”

“Cared but didn’t let caring keep him from doing what needed doing.”

“Nor will you.”

“No. I won’t.”

“You showed that in the Connec.”

“I hope the world understands the points I was trying to make. But I doubt it. Most people can’t get anything more subtle than a hammer between the eyes.”

Helspeth poured fresh coffee. She contrived to touch him several times as she did.

Several women noticed. None seemed to care.

Hecht wondered if there might not be a faction hoping a liaison developed. That could take Helspeth off the marriage market for a decade at least. Once a woman reached a certain age she was no longer expected to be an innocent maiden. Especially if she came equipped with a handsome dowry.

What could be more handsome than an entire empire?

To the pleasure of some and the despair of others the Empress regained her color and strength and energy, if not her full grasp on reality. She became bold. She braved the streets with a handful of lifeguards. She looked fortune in the teeth and sneered. She passed many of her more tedious duties to her sister and spent her time watching the troops train, both those assembling at Hochwasser and her own Righteous, as she now styled Piper Hecht’s force. Which she authorized to increase their numbers twice over the course of just two weeks.

She bestowed the incomes of several of her grander holdings upon the Righteous, having seen little waste and less corruption there.

There being no stemming the flood of money, Hecht armed Buhle Smolens with an additional mission and the power to enforce it.

Temptation toward corruption would be growing. Hecht made it absolutely clear that graft and corruption would not be tolerated. Not even where local custom made it acceptable.

He did not find these sins morally abhorrent, just detrimental to the image and reputation he wanted to create for himself and the Righteous.

The Remayne Pass to Firaldia was not yet open when the Righteous moved out, intent on circling the Jagos to the east. The mission was to begin preparing the country in that direction for next year’s passage of armies.

Those looked likely to be bigger than hitherto hoped. The Empress would send priests to preach the crusade in Arnhand, Santerin, Direcia, and all the lesser principalities of the west.

With permission from the Eastern Emperor quartermaster companies would move into foreign territories to scout out the best routes overland.

Dozens of Imperial knights and nobles invited themselves along. Hecht thought they wanted to keep an eye on him more than they meant to contribute anything to the cause.

The Empress invited herself, as well.

The woman was in pursuit of her childhood. She brought out the armor she wore when she and her sister followed Johannes south for the Calziran Crusade. That armor was much looser on the older Katrin.

The Empress seemed happy. Her health continued to improve. Reports from the people who had gone to Castauriga were encouraging.

Hecht found them suspect. Those people could not have traveled that far, worked their way into the presence of a disinterested King Jaime, then have had time to get a messenger back to Katrin, all the way to Glimpsz.

The lands through which the Commander and his troops passed were strange and mostly wilderness. The farther the Righteous marched the more palpable the presence of the Night became. In the nebulous region between empires the Instrumentalities had a presence sensible even at high noon.

It was a presence aware of and intimidated by the passage of the Godslayer.

The Godslayer had his firepowder weapons travel charged with godshot. Men with slow matches paced them, always ready should the Night do something unfriendly.

Heris would not explain but during widely separated, brief visits did promise that big things were happening elsewhere. Eventually, the Night would notice. He needed to stay alert. The Night’s ire might turn his way.

After each whispering visit Hecht wondered again what she and Februaren and the revenant were doing. He had only the vaguest notion. His cynical side suggested that they were up to no good and were hiding the details because he would take it in the neck if their scheme went sour.

There was no defined, formal frontier between the Grail Empire and the Eastern Empire. That remained in dispute, always. East and west were, instead, separated by a myriad of minuscule principalities informally attached to one empire or the other, usually by the claims of the respective Emperors. Though they paid tribute these states were independent in the minds of their princes, who never proclaimed that independence lest they spark a response by bruising an imperial ego.

Hovacol was an exception. Cleverly, though, Hovacol chose not to lie directly between empires. Instead, it lay to the east of the geographic pinch. King Stain declared he was no one’s running dog. Of late he had begun making noises about extending his own sway over his neighbors. The empires were busy elsewhere. Emperor and Empress seemed content to ignore him.

Those folk of Hovacol who were not still pagan preferred the Eastern Rite. A tenth of the population shared a heresy close cousin to the Maysalean of the Connec.

All that tripped Katrin’s intolerance trigger.

The Commander of the Righteous established his forward headquarters near Glimpsz, yards from a line which, if crossed, would make the Rh?n observers yonder nervous. His quartermaster scouts had gone on, to make maps and blaze routes, supervised by the Eastern Emperor’s men. He passed his days being intimate with mixed feelings. He was excited about what he was doing. It was historically unique. But he was unhappy about being far from developments in the west. And about being away from Anna and the kids. And away from Helspeth. And he was growing frightened of the changes taking place in his employer.

The Empress grew stranger by the day, in ways difficult to define. The changes were taking place inside. She wanted to hide them.

Katrin summoned the Commander of the Righteous. Hecht entered the Imperial Presence reluctantly, though he had rehearsed himself for the moment. Katrin wanted to deploy his idle forces against Hovacol. That kingdom’s people refused to give up their romance with the Eastern Rite. They tolerated heresy. They accepted the presence of pagans. They even ignored a few wicked Pramans.

She had hinted for days. He had, so far, managed to appear too thick to come to the idea on his own.

Rehearsed, Hecht spoke first. “My staff tell me enough reports are in, Your Grace.” He feigned an excitement too great to conceal. “We have all the work done. A way to do it, fast, without attracting attention, suffering minimal casualties, without offering direct insult to the Emperor. The infiltration routes are set. The men have been chosen. We can go when you give the word.”

Katrin had to be distracted from side issues like Hovacol and its preening bantam rooster king.

Hecht’s ploy worked. This time. What could have become an unpleasant evening devolved instead into celebration. Which developed its own dark side soon enough.

The Empress imbibed too much strangely flavored local water of life. Her speech became difficult to follow. None of the witnesses, including the Princess Apparent, failed to understand when Katrin invited the Commander of the Righteous to share her bed.

Those witnesses were appalled. Hecht was as frightened as ever he had been. How to get out of this?

Katrin soon proved too far gone to pursue the notion, but suppose she added that to her obsessions? Too often she did drag her frustrations to the center of her life.

The Empress remained isolated for two days, recovering from a massive hangover. There was no indication she recalled her bad behavior. No one reminded her.

Even so, when the raiders slipped into the Eastern Empire Piper Hecht went along. And Helspeth headed for the safety of Alten Weinberg.

Only after trudging southward for two days, reviewing those events all the while, did Hecht realize that a huge milestone had slipped past without his having noticed. And it was one he could in no way blame on the bad behavior of his employer.

He had moved swiftly to keep Katrin from distracting herself from her determination to rescue the Holy Lands. A committed agent of Gordimer the Lion, al-Minphet, and al-Prama would have welcomed the opportunity to wander off into Hovacol, to fritter wealth and strength butchering other Chaldareans. He would have sprung at the chance to ruin the Grail Empress’s reputation when she made that offer.

So. His loyalties had worked themselves out to the satisfaction of his soul. And he had noticed only now, well after the fact.

The job at hand, and the dread potential inherent in the interest of the Empress, left him little time for self-examination concerning that silent decision. 30. Khaurene: Death Dancing The pavane in the Khaurenesaine progressed inexorably farther into the realm of dark fortune. King Regard turned aggressive as soon as his countrymen began to join him. Always outnumbered, he succeeded, nevertheless, more often than he failed, through vigor and ferocity. He was willing to act, often without forethought.

The Khaurenese habit was to dither. To try to gather enough information to be on firm ground before making a move. The Direcian garrison had picked up the disease.

Towns and castles fell. The Arnhander forces grew stronger daily.

The King’s mother was at her most persuasive.

Regard’s successes stirred a swift response from Navaya and Castauriga. King Peter brought four thousand veterans of the Reconquest. Jaime of Castauriga brought twelve hundred, every man a blooded veteran of Los Naves de los Fantas. Coming along behind were fourteen hundred more contributed by other kings and princes.

The lords of Direcia were determined to keep Serenity and the Church from becoming too powerful in the Connec.

Thousands of Connectens headed for Khaurene, too. The Arnhander bandits would face overwhelming odds once all those fighters came together, with the armed men of Khaurene behind them.

This time Regard meant to concentrate his force instead of acting in driblets, striking in every direction. He wanted a quick conquest of Khaurene itself.

The prospect of Serenity and Anne of Menand enforcing their will in the End of Connec was so unpopular that several counts who had abandoned Tormond during the times of chaos now offered knights and soldiers for his defense.

Even Terliaga offered troops. Queen Isabeth, at Peter’s request, asked the Terliagans to concentrate on defending the Littoral. They ought not to offer Serenity further excuses for inciting religious conflict.

The Terliagans were clever enough to understand.

Brother Candle thought they were clever enough to make themselves look good with an offer they expected to be refused. Fielding Praman troops against Chaldareans in a purported Chaldarean religious squabble could irk even Peter’s best friends.

The Perfect was staying with Kedle Richeut, daughter of Raulet and Madam Archimbault. With Kedle and her husband, Soames. Who did not like the arrangement but who kept his mouth shut. Soames had no friends. He wanted no more enemies. Brother Candle found him creepy. Absolutely creepy.

More than one Seeker reminded the Perfect that Soames had returned from captivity a changed man. That he was an agent of Arnhand, or even the Society. Brother Candle acknowledged those warnings with a smile and a nod. They might be true. Likely were true. He considered that a good thing. For him. In the fork of a cleft stick, Soames dared not betray him. Further, Soames likely hoped to deliver him to his secret masters once Khaurene fell.

The Perfect might be the coin wherewith Soames purchased safety for himself and his family.

In brief, for the moment, Brother Candle felt safer and freer in the house of the enemy. Too, he was sheltered by Kedle’s upbringing. The girl had problems but she was no running dog of the Adversary.

Brother Candle felt comfortable going out amongst the Seekers of Khaurene. Because Regard was terrorizing everything north of Khaurene, and getting stronger by the day, Tormond’s Direcian allies, and those Khaurenese who wanted the Duke’s succession scheme to fail, had little time to hunt a missing Perfect.

When he did preach Brother Candle always worked in a few words about Tormond’s adoption of Count Raymone. Though embarrassed, he sang Raymone’s praises, too. Strictly as a patriot.

Time fled at a blistering pace, headed for an apocalypse. Khaurene desperately wanted more in which to prepare. But, long before anyone high or low wanted, Arnhander crusaders appeared north of the city.

Brother Candle joined the crowds on the wall, weakly disguised, usually with Kedle and her children. Sometimes he went out with other elderly Maysaleans taking a break from getting ready to spit in the eye of doom. He saw smoke in the distance several times, never explained. Nearer to hand the enemy did not repeat past mistakes by destroying resources he might need later.

Regard was confident that he would be able to deny the countryside to Khaurene’s defenders.

They did say the young King lacked no confidence in himself-so long as he was outside the reach of his mother’s voice.

Skirmishes happened. King Peter’s proconsul, Count Diagres Alplicova, believed in harassing an enemy mercilessly, to bleed his strength, steal his sleep and comfort, keep him off balance, and force him onto the defensive. No Arnhander foraging party, patrol, or smaller action force could expect to get through an assignment without running into Direcians accustomed to using similar tactics against their Praman foes.

Word spread: Regard meant to force a battle. Then he would take Khaurene. He was completely certain of the superiority of the Arnhander knight over all other fighting men.

Brother Candle observed, “The Night never lets such hubris go unpunished. Or is it arrogance? We have a chance. It could be that soon every bell in Arnhand will ring in mourning.”

“Let’s hope,” Kedle replied. Grown withdrawn under Soames’s regime, the girl was, nevertheless, as ferocious as Socia Rault. On the wall she left the babies to the old man while she helped work on the nearest missile engine. Khaurene’s women faced a worse fate than any of its men.

The old man saw legends in the making. Should it come to a siege.

Though spring had made itself known, belatedly, winter refused to retire. It made repeated comeback bids while the armies collected, skirmished, maneuvered. Random late snowstorms came and went, inconvenient and annoying. Then came a final heavy fall and hard freeze, more cruel to the invader than to the invaded.

The Arnhanders scattered into whatever shelter they could find. Meaning they split into three concentrations plus numerous smaller forces. King Regard and his force, three thousand strong, settled into and around a the castle at Repor ande Busch. The King, surrounded by priests set on him by his mother, spent his time fasting and praying. Outside Repor ande Busch, which could house only two hundred eighty in crowded discomfort, Regard’s force camped in misery on the banks of a creek known sometimes as the Envil and otherwise as the Auxvasse. It was narrow and shallow and muddy, carrying away excess moisture from the vineyard slopes behind the castle and from marshy ground between Repor ande Busch and Khaurene. The creek provided just enough water for the needs of the camp. Thick, unpleasantly flavored water.

Three miles northwest of Repor ande Busch the Captal du Days and four thousand men hunkered in the relative shelter of a narrow, deep valley known locally as the Raffle. The biting cold wind did not get down to its bottom. The men huddled there had no inclination to leave but there was no food, little fodder, and not much water. Firewood consisted of scrub brush.

The third concentration, commanded by Anne of Menand’s cousin Haband, including the strongest religious campaigners, coalesced round Peque ande Sales, six miles north of the Raffle. Their right flank and back lay against the mountainous wilderness whither Connectens fled in the worst of times. Partisans of one sort or another were always close by. Haband’s force numbered fifteen hundred at the onset of the late foul weather.

Several thousand more men were scattered in smaller clusters, within a day’s brisk march. All prayed for better weather.

The situation seemed ideal to the Navayan captains. The enemy was scattered, hungry, and dispirited. Many of them were unblooded. Count Alplicova hoped to silence Arnhander ambitions in the Connec for at least a generation. If the Direcians attacked with the vigor they had shown at Los Naves de los Fantas, Arnhand might never come back.

One sharp, quick, thoroughly bloody engagement. With King Regard taken prisoner. His ransom would be his sworn word to leave the Connec and never again torment that land. Nor ever again presume upon the rights of Peter of Navaya and his allies.

Overly optimistic planners thought native Connectens could silence the Society once that wicked brotherhood had no national power behind it.

Brother Candle was on the wall with hundreds of spectators, mostly old folks, women, and children. He held the youngest of Kedle’s babies. Raulet Archimbault had the older, wrapped in a heavy, ragged cloak. Some of the crowd eyed Raulet harshly. He was not too old to be out there defending his city.

Kedle stayed close to the Perfect. Her husband was nearby but made no effort to keep her warm.

Soames drew more potent stares than did Raulet. He ignored them, disdainfully, yet did seem tense, nervous, worried, even frightened. This could be a bad day in the life of Soames Richeut.

The Navayans looked ragged, advancing toward Repor ande Busch. King Peter’s standard was not out there with them. Rumor said the King had spent the night drinking and sporting with a woman who was not Isabeth of Khaurene. Count Diagres Alplicova, whispered to bear an unrequited passion for Queen Isabeth, had taken command.

Brother Candle thought the Navayans seemed unsure they wanted to follow today’s commander.

Soldiers moving left of the Navayans were the Castaurigans and their King. Jaime’s mission was to interpose himself between Repor ande Busch and the Raffle so the Captal du Days could not reinforce King Regard.

Khaurene’s militia formed behind the Navayans. Brother Candle was surprised to see so many. And was further surprised to see Duke Tormond’s own standard out there with them. He told Archimbault, “I’m amazed that he could get that armor on. He hasn’t had it out in twenty years.”

Other Connecten forces, though, were not yet present. Scattered, hiding from the weather, they were reluctant to assemble. There was too much confusion for anything to happen.

Though determined to force a decisive encounter neither Peter nor Regard was prepared for the opportunity. Both were still abed when the first arrows flew. Peter was the worse for a terrible hangover. His people did their best to get him up, get him dressed, get him armed, armored, and mounted. He departed Metrelieux under the stern eyes of his Queen, her gaze so flush with anger that, hangover and all, he preferred a battle to explaining himself.

Peter joined his knights after the fighting became chaotic, neither side pursuing any strategy deeper than hacking at the man who was nearest. Contingents of Navayans sat their mounts outside the fray and did nothing because they had received no instructions and had no initiative. Many Arnhanders did the same. And the Khaurenese stayed well back from danger.

On the wall, beside Brother Candle, Raulet Archimbault grumbled, “I feel like I’m hearing this story for the second time.”

Kedle responded, “You are, Dad. But last time it was the Captain-General. And he was ready.”

Archimbault grunted. “Handed us our heads and hearts and sent us scurrying into the Altai like terrified rats.” He eyed Soames but said nothing.

Kedle, the Perfect noted, did not so much as glance at her husband.

Archimbault said, “Things were different, then.”

Indeed. The Patriarchal forces had been disciplined and well led. For them it had been another day’s work at organized murder.

The Navayans approached to within bowshot before the Arnhanders wakened their sovereign. Regard had spent the night with an equerry named Thierry, sure there would be no fighting for days. The weather made campaigning impractical.

The enemy did not agree. He began making probing attacks. Frightened courtiers brought word that several of Anne’s favorites had fallen already.

The situation looked desperate.

Regard would not be hurried. He refused to hear talk of flight. He performed his morning religious obligation, demanding added blessings for a warrior headed into harm’s way on God’s behalf.

Panic found a home in the hearts of some awaiting the King’s appearance, particularly those in the Connec out of greed rather than conviction. Several dozen knights chose to leave Regard in God’s keeping before he completed his obligation. Among them were three of his cousins, his mother’s brother, and Anne’s latest pet priest, Bishop Mortimar du Blanc. Du Blanc was a senior member of the Arnhander branch of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy.

The omens were bad from the beginning. Regard’s squires broke the laces on his mail shirt as they tightened them. While they hunted replacements news came that the last hint of organization had fled the battlefield.

More faint hearts discovered a conviction that they would be of more value at home than at Khaurene. Anne might spit and swear but she would not leave them facedown, dead, in freezing Connecten mud.

Several contingents from counties that had shifted allegiance from Tormond IV to Charlve the Dim moved off, refusing to participate, having no desire to make a permanent enemy of Peter of Navaya.

The Navayans had similar problems. Many Direcian allies would not engage unless Peter himself took command.

Elsewhere, King Jaime of Castauriga exceeded his instructions. Rather than block the road to Khaurene he stormed into the Raffle, a valley poorly suited to fighting on horseback.

At Repor ande Busch King Regard’s back cinch broke when he put weight on his stirrup. He fell. His left shoulder and the back of his head hit hard. He did not break his skull, only knocked himself dizzy. But he hurt his shoulder so he could not raise his shield more than a few inches.

His right leg also turned back under him when he fell. Some who were present later claimed they heard bone break. Regard himself only ever admitted to injuring his ankle and knee.

Several dozen more reluctant warriors saw the last evil portent they could stand. They joined the dribble headed north.

Once Regard did settle astride his great gray warhorse the animal at first refused to accept commands. Another ill omen.

Barely two hundred lances followed the Arnhander King when, finally, he rode out to face the victors of Los Naves de los Fantas.

Severely hungover, yet still drunk, Peter of Navaya arrived on the battlefield at the same time. He cursed Count Alplicova for not having been more forceful and aggressive while, at the same time, damning as an idiot any petty-minded count or prince who had failed to carry out Alplicova’s directives. He ordered them to assemble.

Some nobles arrived looking sheepish. Some arrived defiant. More than one, obliquely, indicated that Peter’s disrespect for his Queen had cost him much of his own respect.

It was not so much that he had bedded a woman not his wife but that he had done it in his wife’s home castle, making no effort to be discreet.

Peter, King of Navaya, honored by most Chaldareans and respected by his enemies, nevertheless stood second in the hearts of millions. Good Queen Isabeth’s admirers believed her destined for sainthood.

Peter’s state did not leave him best capable of temperate thinking and reasoned decisions. His allies saw that.

They had no faith at a moment when faith was all they needed.

King Regard led a charge as soon as he got his men aligned. When that line surged forward a dozen horsemen did not move.

The Navayans were not prepared despite Regard’s slow, lackluster preparation for the attack. However, there were a lot of Navayans. And most of the Arnhanders who followed Regard did so out of obligation, not enthusiasm.

The Navayans were no more enthusiastic once it became man-to-man.

Regard set his eye on Peter’s standard and kept pushing that direction.

He kept having dizzy spells. He had trouble staying on his horse. His friends had to protect his left and keep him in the saddle.

No one knew who did what to whom. The chaos only worsened. It became ever more every man for himself. Navayan numbers and experience should have told quickly but did not gel. Count Alplicova never gained tactical control. King Peter had arrived too late. Many of his knights never knew that he had come to the fray. Quite a few got bogged down in the marshy ground while trying to circle the disorganized and confused Arnhanders.

At one point someone knocked Regard off his horse. His men surrounded him. He managed to remount as his foes mistakenly began shouting that he was dead.

The entire engagement was one of the most ill-starred and incompetently managed of the age despite the presence of the veterans, the trained fighters, and the famous commanders. At the root, no one had any idea what they were supposed to be doing.

After what seemed ages of inconclusive, halfhearted, chaotic fighting, King Peter lost control of his mount. The animal had had enough. It bolted. He fell off.

While fighting the Pramans Peter had taken to wearing plain armor so he could not be singled out. Praman Direcian princes considered him a demon incarnate. In every engagement their whole strategy would hinge on their destroying him first. He had followed habit here, though his standard-bearer did stay close.

Stunned by the fall, Peter failed to make his identity known. A foot soldier who could have grown rich ransoming Peter of Navaya instead killed an unknown knight. He used a mason’s pick-hammer to punch holes through Peter’s helmet.

No one noticed. No one knew. The chaos continued. Count Alplicova strove to bring order but had no luck. He began moving his own followers out of the fight, meaning to disengage long enough to re-form.

The Khaurenese militia watched from a slope a few hundred yards distant. They did nothing because no one gave the order.

The Connecten counts did not show, though messengers had gone to their several camps.

Tormond IV, given a powerful draught of medicine, had been led out to inspire his people. But all he could do was remain upright in his saddle.

People on the city wall cried out in anguish, anger, outrage. Who dared send Tormond into battle? They wept. The most devout pacifists among the witnesses agreed: Someone, anyone, had but to give the order and the Arnhanders would be overwhelmed. They were scattered, disorganized, outnumbered. Their King kept falling off his horse. It was a raging, diabolic miracle that the Navayans had not crushed them already.

Arnhander reinforcements were sure to come soon, from the Raffle and Peque ande Sales, then from the numerous scattered small contingents.

King Jaime and his Castaurigans surprised the Captal du Days. The Arnhanders hunkered down in Raffle were confident that the weather precluded enemy action. Their only warning came moments before the Castaurigan storm, brought by fleeing foragers.

King Jaime was as vicious and aggressive a warrior as he was a lover. And today he was inattentive to doctrine developed through centuries of battlefield experience. He did not take time to assemble and array so his charge would have maximum impact. He just rushed in and started killing.

The slaughter was terrible amongst those who were not knights, the majority in any camp. The knights themselves, once they donned their armor and mounted up, managed well enough.

Just as in the struggle nearer Khaurene, the fighting went on and on. The living on both sides neared that point where they might collapse from exhaustion. King Jaime still drove his followers. So great was the slaughter, and so numerous were those who fled, that the Castaurigans developed an advantage, including one in leadership. The Captal had been killed. So had most of his captains and champions-unless they had run away.

Jaime’s advisers wanted him to leave while his men and animals had strength enough to return to Khaurene. Fresh Arnhanders could arrive anytime.

Thirsts for blood and glory ruled the young King. He refused to go. He meant to spend the night in the camp of the defeated. He thought Haband would be too frightened to come out of Peque ande Sales.

But Haband came. Though hardly fresh after a six-mile forced march, his men were less exhausted than the Castaurigans. Fugitives from the Raffle added weight to Haband’s force, professing eagerness to redeem their earlier cowardice.

Haband’s men were inexperienced. Most were the useless sort of night crawler who concealed natural-born cowardice by hiding inside the Church and Society. They could be terribly fierce with an enemy already caught and disarmed, but with an armed and angry knight, not so much.

For a while it seemed there would be an afternoon of epic slaughter in sequel to the morning’s butchery, with the same result. The faint of heart from earlier had found no additional courage. Most ran away again.

Then a fighting bishop, quite by accident, knocked King Jaime off his exhausted mount. The youngster ended up in the midst of a wild tangle of men on foot.

Responsibility, later, would be claimed by every bishop who survived. Haband himself would lay claim, though scores of witnesses put him miles away already, with companions who believed they were too valuable to die in that cruel valley.

Credit mattered not. It might even have been a stray Castaurigan blade that delivered the first wound, unintentionally.

The Castaurigans lost their stomach. They backed out of the fight. Jaime’s brother Palo, just sixteen, tried to rally them. He wanted to recover Jaime’s body. No one would join the effort. His advisers insisted that he ransom it later. So bullied, he led the survivors south.

In fact, no one had seen the King actually die. But no one expressed any doubt that he was dead.

They did remain professional in retreat. They ambushed those who pursued them, and killed all the Arnhanders they encountered along the way.

Brother Candle had been shaking his head for hours. It had become a tic. He could not control it. Like every Khaurenese and Direcian still breathing he could not believe that the militia had remained paralyzed all day. Any idiot could see what needed doing. The old man began talking to himself. He had been mad to leave Sant Peyre de Mileage. He should go back to Navaya Medien before the insanity here twisted round to where the crusaders were on the inside, with the Seekers and true Khaurenese driven out.

The world now imposed itself. His muttering faded as he realized that all those who had shared the ramparts with him had disappeared. He conjured vague recollections of Raulet and Kedle trying to get him to go. Fear must have forced them to abandon him.

Still he stared. This disaster, likely to echo through the centuries, had happened only because his oldest friend could never make a decision. Though, to be fair, today’s Tormond had all he could do to stay upright and breathe.

“Master!” The voice was impatient. It had been trying to get his attention for some time.

Brother Candle turned. “Hodier! Why aren’t you out there with the Duke?”

“Because Isabeth made me stay here to deal with you.”

“There’s no dealing to do. The thing is done. Count Raymone has the tokens and instruments.”

“I know.” Tormond’s herald stepped forward, separating himself from his escort, Direcians all. “Yet there might be cause to delay the transition.” Hodier pointed. “Out there. King Peter didn’t apply his genius because he has so little to gain. Tormond still breathes but can’t do anything. The magnates won’t do anything because they dread losing Tormond in battle. The consuls are hiding under their beds.”

Hodier rambled on, a soliloquy for his mother city. The old man listened in silence. Succession complications. They plagued all lands, all the time, and caused endless dislocation, confusion, and misery. There had to be a better way.

He did not expect to see it in his lifetime.

Every plan, every scheme, every social experiment broke down as soon as people became involved.

“Arrest me, Hodier. Take me away if you must. You’re wasting your time. And mine. What little I have left. These days I’m nothing but a spectator.” He moved half a step so he could lean on a merlon. Nearer the gate carpenters had started putting up hoardings.

Hodier appropriated a nearby merlon. “Tormond was aware. He hardly slept last night. He wishes he had done things differently. Once his mind and body started going he decided he wanted to ride out on a day like this so he could leave Khaurene remembering the Great Vacillator defending his city. He could go out a hero. Then a more confident, savage hero, Count Raymone, could come avenge him. He built that whole legend in his mind.”

“But?”

“But Peter of Navaya. Peter wants to be the great champion of the Chaldarean world. Bigger than the Grail Emperors. As big as the emperors of the Old Empire. Despite his successes he hasn’t become that to anyone outside Direcia. And he’s convinced that if he doesn’t add the Connec to his diadem he’ll never get to be what he wants to be.”

“He needs to work that out with Count Raymone.” It could be done. Count Raymone Garete had a big ego. He was the product of his class. But he was a fierce patriot, too, capable of swearing fealty to the kings of Navaya if that would save his motherland.

Hodier said, “I believe that to be in line with what the Queen hopes to accomplish.”

“The Queen?”

“Isabeth. She sent me. I told you. She sees a way past the dilemma. I imagine she wants you to take her message to Count Raymone.”

“Oh, for Aaron’s sake! Look at me! In another week I’ll turn sixty-seven. Everybody older than me is already dead. I’m not likely to survive another journey across the Connec.”

“That may be. It’s not for me to decide. My job is to bring you to Isabeth. You can quibble with her.”

Brother Candle stared out at that fraction of the fighting visible from his vantage. What he saw was still mostly chaos. And looked like it could come out favorably if only the Khaurenese militia would do something.

Those with Duke Tormond, pretending he was in charge, finally made a decision. The militia would return to the city. At the moment when a few Connecten knights finally began to appear.

When battered driblets from the Raffle and Peque and Sales began to arrive Count Alplicova ordered his Navayans to follow the Khaurenese. He remained unaware how few the Arnhander reinforcements would be. He had had no news from the Castaurigans, who were retreating past the city to the west.

It would be determined later that four thousand Arnhanders and allies perished in the day’s fighting. More died later from wounds. Navayan, Castaurigan, and allied losses amounted to fourteen hundred, more than a hundred of those being men taken prisoner.

Tormond IV’s Khaurenese militia suffered twenty-three casualties, six due to enemy action.

Brother Candle joined a grim, angry Isabeth. She had just dismissed men covered with filth and sweat and blood. The Perfect guessed their news had not been good. Finally, she said, “They think Peter is dead.”

The sun was low in the west. Its light poured in through high, arched windows, splashing the audience with gold. Not appropriate, Brother Candle thought.

Isabeth added, “Jaime is dead, too. The Castaurigans are withdrawing. They say they left the Arnhanders badly weakened. They killed a lot of fugitives from the fighting here.”

Brother Candle sighed, focused on the afternoon light. An omen of darkness to come. Turnabout on the old saw about darkest before the dawn.

A runner announced that the Khaurenese magnates had made up Tormond’s mind. They were on the move, back into the city, with never a blow struck.

Isabeth suddenly looked old. She told the Perfect, “Remember what Tormond was like last time you saw him.”

“It wasn’t that long ago, if you’ll recall.”

“Oh. Of course. But the Tormond who went out this morning was in worse shape than back then, despite all that wizards and physicians did. He shouldn’t have gone. But without Eardale Dunn we had no one else. Mas Crebet and Casteren Grout are bad jokes.” She meant the consuls, Khaurene’s equivalent of a mayor.

“There is Your Majesty,” Hodier observed.

“Crap. They won’t follow a woman.”

Brother Candle observed, “It might have been worth a try. But that opportunity has fled.”

“Who knows? Jaime is gone. Peter is gone. Tormond is next to extinct. Count Raymone is at the other end of the Connec and Regard is at the gate. So it comes down to me, anyway. We will find out who’ll follow a woman.”

The Perfect was at sea. He had been brought to Metrelieux to discuss a matter that had been pushed aside by subsequent news. The world had changed, for everyone, wherever they stood.

Isabeth said, “The lords of Navaya will be back, soon. That could get exciting. I need to steel myself.”

Brother Candle could see that. Without Peter to curb them the Direcians were likely to treat Khaurene as an occupied city instead of an ally and dependent. They would feel justified. The Khaurenese could have overwhelmed the Arnhanders but had chosen not to act.

That would not be forgiven.

“We need to be quick,” Hodier said.

Isabeth waved that off. “I became a queen mother today. But my son is practically still a baby. In the normal course Count Alplicova would become regent until Little Peter comes of age. I’ll push for that. But Fate was wearing her big stomping boots today. Dead or alive, I lost my brother, too. Dead or alive, he’ll no longer be a factor in the considerations of princes. Nor of the Patriarchs, whom Tormond did, at least, always make nervous.”

A minor chamberlain burst in. “A band of Brothen Episcopals led by Society brothers are trying to take control of the north gate.”

“They’re wearing colors?” Isabeth asked.

“They are, Your Majesty.”

“Then kill them. If they surrender, throw them off the wall.”

“Your Majesty?” Appalled.

“No exceptions. If they have families, kill them, too.”

Though appalled himself, Brother Candle did the cold equations. A show of ferocity now would save lives later. Nor could he summon much empathy for people who meant to burn him at the stake.

The chamberlain went away.

Isabeth said, “I’ll do everything I can till they come take it away.” She went silent for a moment. Brother Candle said nothing. Eloquently. Isabeth finally mused, “They killed King Jaime, too.”

Hodier murmured, “God willing, then, Death will claim King Regard, as well.”

“God willing. He’s been reported down several times. But he keeps getting back up.”

Brother Candle finally worked himself up to ask, “Why am I here?”

The Queen replied, “Because you’re an agent of and apologist for Count Raymone Garete.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would. You were Tormond’s friend. He thought. Mine, too, but not so much. My conscience wouldn’t trouble me if I had to drop you down a well. Count Raymone.”

“What about him?”

“Exactly. Tormond made Raymone his heir. The men best equipped to keep Raymone from inheriting all died today. I want to know what we can expect from Antieux. Does Count Raymone want to become Duke? What kind of man is he?”

“Yes to the first and stubborn to the latter. Count Raymone Garete is everything people always wanted Tormond to be, only twice as much. He’ll become Duke because that will give him the power to punish any foreigner who refuses to leave him, Antieux, and the Connec alone.”

“I might like this man better than the Count Raymone I remember.”

“A caution. If Raymone assumes the Dukedom, there’ll be war.”

“We’ve got war now.”

“I mean a war involving man, woman, and child, all out, until Raymone Garete draws his last breath. Or until Arnhand and Brothe fold their hands and direct their ambitions elsewhere. Even Raymone’s death might not be the end of it. The Countess, Socia, is more bloodthirsty than he is.”

Another underchamberlain rushed in. He reported that the captains of the militia, who had chosen to do nothing all day, were now in a demanding mood.

“Where is Alplicova? I want him here. Tell those people I’ll be with them shortly.”

It took more than a few minutes to locate Count Alplicova and chivvy him into the Queen’s presence. He was in no fit condition to be there. His wounds had not yet been treated. He had been busy readying Khaurene’s defenses rather than getting cleaned up and patched up.

Isabeth demanded, “Are you well enough to endure the demands of command, Count?”

“As ever, I will do what must be done. There is no one else.”

“You could be right. Collect some reliable men and bring them here. Quickly. The magnates are in a mood to make demands. After all they did for us today, on the battlefield, I’m not inclined to be indulgent.”

“I understand completely, Your Majesty.”

“Master.”

Isabeth’s sudden attention startled Brother Candle, who had slipped into a dark reverie. He failed to remind her that “Master” was inappropriate. “Your Grace?”

The Navayan Queen failed to remind him that she did not like being “Your Grace.” “I don’t have time for you, now. Keep yourself available.”

“As you wish.”

“At the moment I wish you to find my brother. Someone brought him back, I expect still breathing. Find him. Attach yourself. Take care of him. Hodier. You just became the Master’s shadow. Where he goes, you go. Do what he says needs doing.”

“As you command.” Said without pleasure.

The Perfect and the herald left the Queen’s presence, two old men glad to get away.

To the distress of few outside their own families Isabeth arrested the leaders of the Khaurenese militia. Rumor soon claimed that several had taken bribes from the Society-or from Anne of Menand, or from the Patriarch-to shun the fight. Treason being a more attractive explanation than indecision or incompetence.

There was a lot of anger in Khaurene. Brothen Episcopal Faithful suffered the brunt. Anyone even vaguely suspect dared not show himself lest he be thrown down to the befuddled Arnhanders trying to initiate a siege.

The scattered smaller Arnhander companies had begun arriving.

King Regard was so stiff and bruised he could barely move. His concussion caused occasional brief blackouts. But he saw an opportunity. He was determined to strike while the Khaurenese remained stunned.

Regard, however, lacked followers who shared his vision.

Those who had fought and survived, those who had not deserted, were too exhausted to do anything but go through the motions while the bands coming in were cold and tired and hungry. And they all faced heretics determined to fight. They would not flee to the Altai this time. Not this early in the season.

Once the sun set, siege work proceeded desultorily by artificial light. It was difficult to see arrows in flight. Meaning it became difficult to dodge.

Bicot Hodier drafted a couple of guards he trusted and had them accompany him and the Perfect. “Just in case. Some people may consider today an opportunity.”

Brother Candle grunted, saved his breath for keeping up. But he understood. Khaurene teetered on the brink of chaos. Adventurers would see opportunities that, likely as not, existed only in their own imaginations. But they would act anyway.

Count Alplicova began arresting city magnates and militia captains before the herald and Perfect located Tormond. The Duke had been whisked into the home of the consul Sieur Casteren Grout. Grout and his fellow consul, Sieur Mas Crebet, had not turned out for morning muster and, thus, had not been with the militia in the field. A gross dereliction by Crebet, whose principal responsibility was to lead the city levies when they were called out.

Brother Candle wondered if there might not be some substance to the bribery rumors.

The consuls were not pleased to receive fresh guests. But Sieur Casteren Grout grasped the precarious nature of his position. He put on a grand show of concern for his Duke’s well-being.

Tormond was, indeed, in terrible shape. Brother Candle insisted that he not be moved. He sent for Father Fornier. And more trustworthy soldiers lest Grout and Crebet suffer a further bout of stupidity.

Isabeth told Brother Candle, “We’ve exploited you mercilessly lately. And you’ve given your best. But I have one more request before you go back into the wilderness. The Arnhanders intend to storm the north gate tomorrow. The defenders there are mostly Seekers. It would hearten them if you were there with my brother.”

Khaurenese morale was poor. Those who thought they might not suffer if King Regard triumphed were vocal about negotiating a surrender. Those threatened by the Society and the Church took the opposing view, as did Queen Isabeth on behalf of Navaya, her husband, and her son.

Navayan strength had dwindled as Isabeth sent out streams of messengers, across Peter’s empire, to warn every garrison and proconsul that unrest could be expected.

It would be hard to cling to all of Peter’s gains, however faithful Count Alplicova and his peers remained. Alplicova himself she sent back to Oranja to gather the reins of state on her son’s behalf. And to make sure Little Peter would be safe from anyone with secret ambitions.

Brother Candle understood what Isabeth wanted. He and Tormond would be companion symbols of Khaurenese defiance. Harmless old men, cornerstones for the reconstruction of Khaurene’s self-confidence.

The woman was clever.

Father Fornier reanimated the Duke enough for the man to stand. With assistance. He and Brother Candle took places on the wall two dozen yards west of the northern gate, well protected by hoardings. The Perfect wore an uncharacteristic white robe. He drew cheers from the defenders, many of them familiar. Just ten feet away Madam Archimbault, her daughter, and her neighbors made up the all-female crew of a light ballista.

Where were Raulet and the men? The only men to be seen were nearly as old as Brother Candle.

Somewhere, every man who could move was being assembled for a counterattack. Given past performance, that might prove disastrous.

The Arnhanders began moving engines toward the city. That was not easy work. They had to advance up a slope, under fire. Literal fire, frequently. The Khaurenese engines flung burning missiles. The slope of the ground and height of the wall gave the defenders a range advantage.

The flaming missiles did little serious damage. The two siege towers had been covered with fresh hides. Some genius had faced the mantlets with water-soaked thatch, which made them heavy but, essentially, fireproof. Likewise, the tortoise bringing a ram up to pound the gate. Other little houses on wheels would shelter sappers who would try to burrow directly through the wall. Elsewhere, other sappers were, likely, starting tunnels.

King Regard had assembled a formidable array of artillery, all standard stuff, similar to the captured engine. He readied his weapons, protected them appropriately, then began dueling with the amateurs behind the hoardings atop the wall.

Regard made no effort to disguise himself. He wore gaudy armor and livery and traveled with heralds and standard-bearers. His party became a favored target.

Everyone who paid attention saw that there was something wrong with Regard. He was slow, suffered bouts of clumsiness, and dizzy spells. But he refused to be anywhere but up front, heartening his crusaders and directing artillery fires. He took savage pleasure in sniping at Khaurenese personally. He snatched crossbows from infantrymen and dashed forward to discharge the bolt. He was an excellent shot. The hoardings saved numerous lives.

Brother Candle could not help being amazed by the spirit of the ferocious Seeker women operating the nearer missile engines. Kedle told him, “We have the most to lose if they get inside.”

The woman had a talent for murder. Once she usurped command of her particular ballista every shaft it sped struck where it would have an effect. Her marksmanship silenced several enemy engines. She also slaughtered several men trying to advance to the nearer siege tower.

Her unexpected talent caused a stir along the wall. People came to see what she was doing right. She could not explain. Ammunition bearers made sure her crew never ran short. An old mechanic stood by in case her engine needed a repair.

The girl showed the Perfect a fierce grin, reminding him of Socia Rault. He forced an answering smile, then went to watch the deployment of a weapon similar to one used by warships in classical times.

The tortoise protecting the Arnhander ram snugged up to the gate. The men inside started a work chant.

An argument broke out behind the Perfect. He turned.

Soames Richeut had materialized. He was determined to remove Kedle from her post despite venomous abuse from every woman within range. Soames glared at them like he wanted to remember their faces.

Kedle would not leave. Her companions made it clear they would not let her be coerced.

Brother Candle wondered who was taking care of the children.

Soames yelped in pain when his mother-in-law barked him one with the butt of the shaft she was about to load into the ballista.

Brother Candle turned back to the crane swinging its long arm out above the Arnhander tortoise. A one-ton stone “dolphin” on a chain hung from the arm. The Perfect had no idea where that had come from. It looked more like a penis than a denizen of the deep. Whatever its name or provenance, it was effective when it struck.

The first drop cracked and shifted the massive timbers of the tortoise. It took the crane crew twenty minutes, under fire, to hoist the dolphin again. The second drop smashed through the timbers and injured several men. The third time the dolphin fell two yards farther out, made sure the tortoise could not be dragged away for repairs.

Direcian veterans issued through a sally port, butchered the ram crew, and set the tortoise afire.

The Arnhanders would have to clear the wreckage before they could bring another ram to the gate.

The crane operators began to shift it to attack the sappers chipping at the wall-though those men had to deal with hot sand, quicklime, and firebombs already.

Brother Candle kept up a conversation with the Duke, as though Tormond understood and was in charge. Tormond had been positioned in such wise that he could be seen by nearby defenders, all of whom conspired in the pretense.

In fact, there was no real command, insofar as Brother Candle could see. People just did what they thought needed doing, feeling around for what they could do best.

Soames Richeut went away for an hour, then returned to berate Kedle again. He was not kind. Nor were Kedle’s friends kind to him.

The Perfect lost patience with the bad husband. He went to admonish the man. Kedle’s crew shifted a hoarding so she could loose another deadly shaft.

Someone outside awaited that opportunity.

Richeut stepped in front of Kedle’s ballista to block her aim. The Arnhander bolt hit him in the right temple and passed on through his head. The marksman shouted, “Thirteen!” in an accent from the Pail.

In the calmest murder Brother Candle ever witnessed Kedle Richeut avenged her husband before his body stopped twitching. Almost before the celebrant outside finished congratulating himself.

A slowly building tumult developed amongst the Arnhanders. When Brother Candle dared look he saw gaudy King Regard being held erect by his heralds. Kedle’s shaft had transfixed him. He was alive but that would not last. The gut wound would kill him slowly. Only the absolute best sorcerer’s care would help now, unlikely in an army ruled by the Society.

Kedle did not wait on peritonitis. She sent a second shaft. It passed through Regard’s equerry, Thierry, then the King, then lodged in the haunch of the King’s confessor, Simon du Montrier.

Brother Candle started, turned, found that Tormond had been led up to see the enemy. Tormond gurgled something the Perfect thought sounded like, “There’ll be no getting over that.”

Brother Candle mused, “This is history. This is a tipping point. Three kings in one week. Possibly the three most important in the western world. Everything is going to change.”

The future could be bleak indeed. The successes of the Calziran Crusade, the Artecipean campaign, and the triumph at Los Naves de los Fantas might all have been rendered naught these past several days.

Only the Perfect thought that way. There was dancing and singing on the wall and a shower of abuse on the enemy. There would be city-wide drunken celebrations later, after the militia finally fought. And succeeded to the point where only the fastest scuttlers among the Arnhanders and Society scum managed to escape.

The Khaurenesaine had been saved, at incredible cost. But the storm still loomed over the rest of the Connec.