Lord of the Silent Kingdom (13 page)

“Hell, yeah. He’d ruin Sublime’s hopes for decades. Where would that fool find two more men like us?”

“A telling point. But I doubt he rates us as highly as we rate ourselves. But to reassure you, I’ll just go ask.”

“What? Are you out of your bean?”

Hecht approached the Imperial. “The name Rudenes Schneidel mean anything? Especially in connection with Viscesment?”

Renfrow raised an eyebrow. “It’s turned up inside a few unpleasant rumors. Evidently a sorcerer. Of some attainment. But a complete blank otherwise. Why?”

“There was an assassination attempt in Brothe. You’ll be hearing about it. Schneidel was behind the play.

If that’s something you can use.”

“Probably not. The folks at Viscesment have grown increasingly independent. Tell your friend I’m going to let him get away. This time.”

Hecht laughed. “Is his act that obvious?”

“It is.”

“I’ll pass the word. One more name I want to toss up. Dumaine.”

“Dumaine?”

“That’s all I’ve got. I heard it in Sonsa. Overheard it. Someone who’s part of a plot involving the Durandanti family.”

The only Dumaines I know are minor Arnhander nobility. The current Viscount Dumaine is an enemy of Anne of Menand. With the enmity mostly on her side. Dumaine is a minor marcher, unimportant in Arnhander affairs, except as a scapegoat when Anne’s plans go bad. Although he spends all his time at home, fending off his cousins who are enfiefed to the King of Santerin. He evidently had the bad judgment to turn down an offer Anne made. Doing so publicly.”

Anne of Menand was the mistress of King Charlve of Arnhand, who was mentally incompetent. She wanted her son Regard to succeed. Charlve had no legitimate children. Her physical appetites were legendary. As was her malevolence toward those who crossed her.

“That wouldn’t fit. I don’t think. I must’ve heard wrong.”

“Ah. This doesn’t look good.”

A rider was coming down the West Way astride a mount so blown it could barely keep moving. The beast would be ruined forever. Yet the rider’s was not the will driving it. He was unconscious. He had tied himself into the saddle.

Ghort jogged out and intercepted the animal. It did not resist his guidance. It had no spirit left.

Hecht and Renfrow followed Ghort. Something bad had happened. Horse and rider alike were covered with dried blood, not all of it their own.

Ghort said, “It’s Ogier. Three-fourths dead.”

“They lied to us,” Hecht said.

“Priests? Tell lies? You must be joking. But, no. That’s not it. Look at these wounds.”

Hecht and the Imperial walked round man and beast. The horse’s nose practically dragged on the pavements. Hecht untied Ogier. Ghort and Renfrow lowered him to the ground. Hecht said, “He might’ve run into a rabid bear. Or a hungry lion.”

“Lion? Excuse me, Pipe. There ain’t been no fuckin’ lions in these parts since Old Brothen Imperial times.”

Renfrow agreed. “The ancients used them up in their blood games. Once in a while one would cross the Escarp Gibr al-Tar back then, maybe, but they were even hunted out on the far coast of the Mother Sea by the time of the Praman Conquest.”

“More than I needed to know.” Hecht’s amulet was responding to the residual shadow clinging to the deserter and his steed. They had fallen foul of something powerful.

Gawkers from the Knight of Wands began to gather. Hecht and Renfrow kept them back while Ghort tried to question the deserter.

Ogier was not hurt as badly as all the blood made it seem. But he would need luck to survive. Claw wounds always festered.

One client of the Knight of Wands confessed to having some small skills as a healer. Once he was satisfied that no one would denounce him to the Church he went to work on the deserter.

The Episcopal Chaldarean Church suffered from a schizophrenic attitude toward powers derived from the Instrumentalities of the Night. It railed against congress with sorcerers and witches, yet some of its greatest dignitaries were among the most powerful mages known. Talented folks not on the inside frequently suffered persecution. Particularly where the Witchfinders of the Special Office roamed.

“Well?” Hecht asked when Ghort finally came away. “Did he have a story?”

“Fraught with irony.”

“I’m surprised you even know two of those three words.”

“All right. Hang on. I’m going to do this all in one long blast. Then we need to get on down the road.”

“So, go.”

“Ogier and Aubero ran into robbers. Who robbed them. While the robbers were arguing over whether they should kill them it suddenly got icy cold. A mist closed in. The moonlight faded away. Men started screaming. Something with claws and rotten breath mauled him but got distracted before it finished him off. He passed out. He woke up at daybreak. Some of the horses were missing. The rest, along with his brother and all the robbers, were dead, some torn to pieces. He headed here because it was the only place he could think of. He kept passing out. He hid out whenever he felt that coming on. He remembers our three priests charging past. He tried to warn them but they didn’t hear him. A while later screaming broke out back the way he had come. He kept moving. He found a saddled horse grazing in a field. He caught it and calmed it, mounted up and tied himself on in case he passed out again. Something in the woods roared and started crashing toward them. The horse panicked. It ran till it couldn’t run anymore.

Then it kept walking. And here he is.”

“What happened to the money?” Some things of the Night had an abiding loathing for silver. Iron bothered a lot more, though those daunted by the ignoble metal were mainly minor entities.

“Whoever had the coins would’ve stood the best chance of surviving.” He went back to Ogier briefly, then returned to Hecht looking puzzled. “He had some silver on him that the robbers didn’t find. Their captain took the money. But he and the rest all ended up dead. The money must still be there.

Somewhere.”

Though Ghort kept his voice down, he was overheard. Members of the crowd began to find interests elsewhere. Despite complete ignorance of how much might be involved.

“Ain’t that amazing?” Ghort beckoned the one-eyed man, whispered briefly, then said, “We got to get on the road, Pipe. Trouble ain’t gonna wait on us down there.”

And so they did, turning their backs to a sudden flow northward. Hecht muttered, “They’re idiots. Eight or ten men have just been killed by a monster and all they can think about is there might be money on the corpses. What were you whispering about, there at the end?”

“About him taking care of Ogier till he can get on his feet again. I explained about the money Ogier has.

And how things will turn nasty for the Knight of Wands if he don’t do right by Ogier.”

“I see.” And saw more than Ghort perhaps intended.

Ogier and Aubero might have been family after all.

3. Alten Weinberg, Heart of the NewBrothen Empire

Princess Helspeth, Grafina fon Supfer, Marquesa of Runjan, and so forth, had come to Alten Weinberg thinking the Emperor meant to celebrate her twentieth birthday. She went to her knees three times before her little brother, Lothar, Emperor of the Grail Empire. In the presence, now, she suspected his summons had nothing to do with her birthday. The hall was filled with the ravens and vultures who orbited Lothar these days. And Katrin had come, too.

But not Ferris Renfrow. She would have been more comfortable if Renfrow were visible. You could call Ferris Renfrow the conscience of the Empire.

Helspeth did not like bending the knee but her brother was acting in his official capacity tonight. Probably reluctantly. In front of Omro va Still-Patter, Grand Duke of Hilandle, first among equals in the Council Advisory, styled the Protector. Accompanying Hilandle, interposing themselves between the Emperor and the lesser lights in the hall, were the Master of the Wardrobe, the Master of the Privy Purse, and the Lord Admiral Vondo fon Tyre, whose fleet was almost entirely imaginary. These men had gotten their claws into the Imperial power simply because Lothar was still five years short of his majority.

Helspeth’s older sister Katrin, Grafina fon Kretien and Gordon, Princess Apparent, also knelt. She did not disguise her irritation, nor her loathing, for Hilandle and his cronies. Lothar was her baby brother, her beloved “Mushin.” She had pampered him through countless illnesses, spoiling him terribly. Helspeth did not like or think well of her sister but she ould not deny that Katrin loved, nurtured, and indulged her brother selflessly. And, like Helspeth, she loathed the grasping old men who had seized control of the boy.

Tall, lean, blond, and beautiful, clad simply in dark clothing, Katrin Ege seemed cold and remote. She had her father’s stubborn will but little of the magnetism that had served him so well. That lack, her sex, and the ambition of so many nobles put her in a weaker position than she liked. But the Protector and his cronies were blinding themselves willfully, seeing either of the Ege daughters as a weakling.

All the children of the Ferocious Little Hans were in weaker positions than they liked.

Johannes had compelled the Electors to fashion an Act of Will and Succession that enacted, published, and ratified by the Patriarch and Collegium would withstand every possible challenge. But Johannes Blackboots had not anticipated his own death in battle. He had expected to outlive his sickly son and see the Imperial throne passed on through Katrin and her sons. He had hoped to forge powerful alliances through both daughters.

Negotiations had come and gone before Johannes fell at al-Khazen. No arrangements had been finalized.

Helspeth had been included in the succession almost as an afterthought. Johannes was thorough in everything. After Helspeth, the sons of his sister Anies were named in the Act.

It would take a major Ege family disaster to put the succession back into the hands of the Electors.

Lothar stated, “The Council Advisory has cautioned us, and we are in agreement, that the world today presents our reign with unprecedented challenges.”

This was the first time Helspeth heard Mushin use the royal “we.” It took her aback. She was not accustomed to her little brother being anything else. And, studying him closely, she suspected that this Emperor Lothar was a creation of the Grand Duke and his cronies. An eventuality she had feared increasingly as Hilandle and his flock circled more closely round the Emperor and isolated him ever more from his family and the world.

Lothar understood what was happening. A minor, he had little hope of halting the process. He had to remain strong and play one Councilor off against another. He managed that with some success.

“It has been demonstrated that our present style of life is inappropriate for a family of Imperial dignity.

The daughters of our father should not be inviting scandal and disaster by roving like common men-at-arms.”

Helspeth glared at Lothar. Half the nobility had spent the past ten years appalled and scandalized because the old Emperor not only permitted but encouraged his maiden daughters to accompany him to the field, to risk the life of the camp, and to come into regular contact with coarse, crude common soldiers.

So the Council was about to end all that.

The boy Emperor wilted under Helspeth’s glare. And was no happier when he turned to his older sister.

Katrin was less inclined to the scandalous life. Helspeth had taken up arms and armor during the Calziran Crusade, getting into desperate straits under al-Khazen’s wall. Katrin was more willful, more determined to preserve her prerogatives and independence.

Lothar was strong of mind, if not of flesh. He did not remain cowed. “We have decided that our princess sisters shall withdraw into their households till suitable marriages can be negotiated. Silence!

Both of you.” Helspeth had been about to explode. She did not see Katrin’s reaction because her own focus had become so narrow. She was sure her sister was equally outraged.

The Grand Duke all but sneered behind his short, gray-tinged beard. His eyes were icy. “It’s the Emperor’s will.” Meaning Lothar had been bullied until he gave in.

Helspeth reminded herself that Hilandle, till Johannes forced his Act of Will and Succession upon the Electors, had counted himself the leading candidate to succeed.

The boy Emperor then demonstrated that his advisers did not have him as neatly under thumb as they might want to believe. “Katrin, we convey to you the Imperial holdings at Grumbrag, with all the rights of Eathered and Arnmagil.”

Members of the Council were so aghast they failed to sputter. There were snickers amongst the lesser lights.

The boy continued. “To our sister Helspeth we convey the City of Plemenza and its dependencies and trust that she will lake the opportunity to further her education.”

Plemenza was much the lesser prize. Eathered and Arnmagil, now unified into a single Imperial province, had been kingdoms in their own rights scarcely a century gone. But Plemenza had been Johannes’s favorite city. He would have shifted his capital there from Alten Weinberg had the Firaldian city not been so far from the heart of the Grail Empire. He had spent a lot of time in Plemenza, often for his own pleasure, not just because Imperial policy focused on Firaldia and the difficult behaviors of Sublime V

and the Church. Johannes’s daughters had enjoyed much of their schooling there.

Helspeth flashed a grin. Lothar flashed right back.

Hilandle had been outmaneuvered. Two score witnesses, few congenial to the Grand Duke, had seen the Emperor convey Imperial holdings to members of his family. If Lothar was clever indeed, the patents were ready now, prepared by someone he knew was not Hilandle’s tool.

The Grand Duke’s face turned stony. He would never underestimate the boy Emperor again.

Helspeth glanced sideways. Katrin seemed pleased. Eathered and Arnmagil was a plum, a fine, fruitful country — and Grumbrag was known for its craftsmen and ingenious artificers. A suitable city and province for the Crown Princess of the New Brothen Empire.

The fleeting look Katrin sent Helspeth’s way was only slightly less venomous than the one she had given Hilandle.