Lord of the Silent Kingdom (16 page)

“While all the southwest and the Terliagan Littoral defects to Peter of Navaya.”

“Not a stupid move for those people, eh?”

Brother Candle frowned.

“I’m being rational, not disloyal. I understand what’s happening. I’m powerless to do much. I’m allowed to send letters to this noble or that ordering him to stop burning his neighbor’s corn but they don’t listen. I have no teeth. They know they can go right on murdering sheep. The only power capable of staying them will be the owner of the sheep. Or maybe the sheep themselves once they’ve had enough. I can’t raise the levies. I can’t send ducal troops out. And superior force is the only answer. Everyone else has to pile on whenever anybody acts up. So I can’t blame people for switching fealty to Peter, or even Charlve, if that’s what they have to do to secure themselves against anarchy.”

Brother Candle said, “Of course. On that one level. Strictly speaking.”

“I am worried, though, by all the mercenaries coming into …” Dunn shut up, cocked his head, laid a forefinger across his lips. He eased toward the doorway, making a series of signs Brother Candle took to mean that Dunn thought someone was eavesdropping.

Dunn made a production of drawing the short sword that symbolized both his station and the level of trust the Duke invested in him. The sound echoed in the barren room.

Footsteps hastened away.

Dunn said, “I’ve stayed too long. Can you find your way back to the privy audience? Bicot Hodier will find you there. He’ll show you your quarters.”

“Quarters? I’m staying down in the town.”

“No. The Duke wants you here. But he can’t see you today. Probably tomorrow.” Dunn leaned out the doorway. Seeing no one, he departed. Swiftly.

Brother Candle’s party cooled their heels several more days. The Perfect had not spent that much time there ever before.

Metrelieux was typical of its time and kind. Large, badly furnished, and cold. Cold even for the time of year. For the climate.

Last winter there had been snow for the first time in modern memory. Snow that accumulated and stayed, not just the occasional scatter of random flakes that vanished in the morning sun.

Spring had been late arriving.

The summons to the presence came at last.

Tormond IV, Grand Duke of Khaurene, Duke of Sheavenalle, Count of Flor and Welb, and so forth, looked like he had enjoyed a sleepless night and had not yet pulled himself together. He had aged severely. He had lost a lot of hair, in no regular fashion. His beard had gone white and was patchy, too.

His gray eyes, once steel and as penetrating as death, were dull and hollow. He seemed confused about where or when he was and what he was doing.

Nevertheless, he recognized Brother Candle. “Charde! Charde ande Clairs. Welcome. At last, a friendly face among all these shrieking blue jays.”

“It’s Brother Candle now, Your Lordship. But a pleasure to see you again, too.”

The Duke slid his right arm across Brother Candle’s shoulder, letting the Perfect take some of his weight without being obvious. Tormond was tall and lean. What little hair he retained was white and wild. His clothing showed no care, either. He had not changed in days. Residue from several meals decorated his shirtfront.

Tormond murmured, “Help me, Charde. I can’t tolerate this much longer.”

“Your Lordship?”

“I think I’m going mad. It’s like there’s more than one man inside me. And none of them are any good at being the Duke.”

“You’re too critical. You’ve done some wonderful things.”

‘Wonderful things,” Duke Tormond said, and sighed. “Wonderful things, Charde. Did you know they call me the Great Vacillator?”

The entire Connec knew. Little children knew, though no one would call him that to his face. At his best Tormond IV was so deliberate that crises usually resolved themselves before he responded. “I’ve heard that. Don’t let it bother you.” Brother Candle looked around to see if anyone was particularly interested in their conversation.

Everyone fell into that category.

The Duke made a feeble gesture. Pages began seating people. Tormond asked Brother Candle to sit beside him, in the seat his sister Isabeth occupied when she visited Khaurene. She, much younger than Tormond, was in confinement in far Oranja, about to present King Peter with an heir. If she had not done so already.

News moved slowly. Unless it was bad. Ill tidings had wings.

Servants brought coffee, a rare treat. No one refused. Brother Candle smiled into his cup as Socia and Thurm Rault enjoyed their first encounter with the dark beverage.

After coffee the Duke seemed collected and animated. Thank you all for coming. Count Raymone. Seuir Brock. Brother Candle. My apologies for keeping you waiting so long. I didn’t know you’d arrived.”

Really? Odd indeed.

The group was the same council Tormond always assembled. Sir Eardale seemed as tired as his Duke.

Michael Carhart was a renowned Devedian religious scholar. Bishop Clayto was the senior Brothen Episcopal in Khaurene.

Brother Candle’s friend Bishop LeCroes’s allegiance went to Viscesment. LeCroes liked Sublime better than Clayto did. Bishop Clayto viewed the Brothen Patriarch with open contempt.

Tember Sirht had replaced his father, Tember Remak, as spokesman for the Dainshaukin. Hanak el-Mira represented the Connec’s small surviving Praman population, on the Terliagan Littoral. Brother Candle recalled el-Mira from the Calziran Crusade. Terliagan slingers had been an important part of the Connecten contingent. El-Mira was younger than Brock Rault but belonged to a proud old family. Only in recent years had his people become active participants in the broader Connecten civilization.

Since Isabeth’s marriage to Peter of Navaya, in fact. Though committed to a relentless reconquest of Praman Direcia, Peter won numerous friends and allies among the Pramans. He did not destroy their religious places nor force his own beliefs on them, being content to let time and the superiority of the Chaldarean vision hasten the false religion into yesterday’s dust. Peter’s most devoted allies were the Pramans of Platadura, a city-state of traders. Platadura’s fleets engaged in continuous, bitter, and often deadly competition with those of the Firaldian mercantile republics, Aparion, Dateon, and Sonsa.

An unknown Praman accompanied Hanak el-Mira. Brother Candle thought his dress looked Plataduran. No one introduced him. Duke Tormond was in what was, for him, a hasty mood.

The Arnhander, Father Rinpochè, was there, too, in the background, alone, shunned. He seemed frightened, unhappy, lonely, and out of his depth. Brother Candle judged him a lute with just one string.

More would be too much for his circumscribed intellect.

Brother Candle concentrated on Tormond. The Duke was involved in a visible struggle to retain control of himself.

More than one man inside, he had said.

Was it possible that Tormond’s problems might not be of his own making? The hair loss, the distraction, the odd cast of his skin, suggested poison. Or truly wicked sorcery.

But, who? Someone right here, right now, if Sir Eardale was right. Someone who saw the Duke as an obstacle, not an enemy. Duke Tormond had no enemies. By doing nothing he offended no one. Not to the point where they sneaked around dripping dark ichors into his wine or gruel.

Anne of Menand could contort her conscience enough to order a murder. But someone would have to do the dirty work.

Brother Candle studied Bishop Clayto. Not long ago he had been Father Clayto, assigned to the worst parish in Khaurene because he would not keep quiet about Sublime’s bad behavior. Now, he was a bishop, in good odor with Brothe. At a time when the Brothen Episcopal sees of the Connec received nothing but scoundrels.

Clayto met his speculating eye, raised an eyebrow.

Maybe not. They had been chaplains together during the Calziran Crusade. Father Clayto had trouble clinging to his faith but Brother Candle never saw any indication that he had the moral agility to justify great wickedness.

And yet, he had been made bishop.

The Duke said, “Let’s get started.” He gestured at Brother Candle, then Count Raymone, and such Connecten nobility as lurked round the fringes, hoping to vent complaints.

Counting pages and serving folk, more than fifty people stopped doing anything but breathe.

Brother Candle continued to survey the gathering. The fate of the Connec would be decided by people in this crowd. They would keep it alive. Or let it d
ie.
It was time for the Great Vacillator, despite all, to do what he had been born to do.

Brother Candle chuckled suddenly.

Tormond had managed to create this situation in spite of conspiracies simmering around him. Possibly even despite malevolent espionage by the Instrumentalities of the Night.

The Duke said, “Seuir Brock Rault. Tell us what happened at Caron ande Lette.”

The youngster looked to Count Raymone, to his siblings, to Brother Candle, for reassurance, then grasped his nerve by the throat and told it.

“Well done,” Brother Candle whispered when Rault finished. “Exactly as it happened.”

Duke Tormond nodded, still focused, the businesslike personality firmly in charge. “Count Raymone?”

The Count told his tale, somewhat less humble in admiring his own role, but without fabricating.

“Sir Eardale?” the Duke said. “A comment?” Tormond having some trouble, now.

“What I find interesting is that before the villain’s feet were dry we received news from Brothe that Morcant Farfog has been appointed Chief Inquestor of the Patriarchal Office for the Suppression of False Dogma and Heretical Doctrine. With a new order of monks being created to support the office.”

Brother Candle was not surprised to hear it. “Farfog’s first job will be to root out heresy and dogmatic diversion in the Connec.”

Count Raymone could not restrain himself. “I recall this being tried before. Eight thousand people died.

Because of the meddling of one man who didn’t have the right.”

Bishop Clayto said, “Complain to Immaculate. He’ll cover you.”

Count Raymone glared. “The men responsible …” He controlled his emotions. Brother Candle nodded approval. Raymone Garete was maturing.

Sir Eardale continued. “Our options aren’t broad. Our mission to the Mother City, a while back, in effect recognized the Brothen Patriarch as legitimate.”

Bishop LeCroes opined, “Treat that with a respect equaling what Sublime has shown our contribution to his war on Calzir.”

“Grumbling won’t change the man. And he now has a Captain-General who’s building a real Patriarchal army. The man seems to be competent.”

“And he pays for men and arms with what?”

Sir Eardale said, “Just a minute. Perit. Bring our other guests.”

One of the pages departed. Murmurs started but did not last. The page returned quickly.

Dunn said, “I’ll let these gentlemen answer that.” He indicated two men who entered behind the page, Perit. “Tell these people what you told me earlier.”

“Yes, sir,” the elder newcomer said, amused. Brother Candle thought the pair looked a little frail for the hardships of travel. Though they could have come to Khaurene by boat, up the Vierses from Tramaine.

Sir Eardale said, “Gade and Aude Learner. On behalf of King Brill of Santerin.” Dunn’s tone was neutral.

Brill’s father had been the winner in the succession war that caused his exile. “They aren’t official ambassadors, just men with a message.”

One Learner took a seat. The other leaned on the back of a tall chair that had seen generations of service. “Our holdings are in Argony, near the Pail of Arnhand. We have cousins over there. They keep us posted. What’s been happening since the Black Mountain Massacre is scary.”

Learner had his audience’s full attention. “Anne has widened her web, nursing the anger of those who lost men. The fact that they asked for it doesn’t matter.”

Brother Candle stepped in. “Why has King Brill sent you?” And felt dim immediately. Any problem Arnhand suffered benefited Santerin.

“We have our own troubles with Arnhand. The more troubles they have, the better. Especially now, when the Crown is ineffectual and the strongest voice in the kingdom belongs to a whore.”

That was extreme. Anne was of high birth. She just had a huge appetite for pleasures of the flesh. And for power. She wanted her son Regard, by King Charlve, to succeed him despite the boy’s illegitimacy.

“And Anne’s problem lies at the heart of what you’re here to tell us?”

Both outlanders started.

“When you’re my age you’ll read minds, too.”

The talking Learner grinned. He had a decade on Brother Candle. “Yes. Anne has pulled most of the key folk of Salpeno into her camp by telling them she’s building a war chest to raise armies to punish the Connec. She’s making all manner of secret deals. Now she thinks she’s invulnerable. She’s raised enough.”

He had his audience enrapt. Even the serving staff.

Nothing said here would stay secret longer than it took these people to get home to their families. Even the churchmen would gossip.

“Enough?” Sir Eardale demanded. “Get to it, man. Never mind the drama.”

“Enough money to buy the Patriarch, sir. Not to raise the army that she’s been promising.”

That caused a stir, of course, but more of confusion than consternation.

“Please expand,” Sir Eardale ordered. “Again, dispensing with the drama.” A whip crack edged his voice, the soldier in the old knight blazing through.

“Yes, sir. Sublime has huge money troubles. Anne has problems getting her claws on Arnhand’s throne.

Should Charlve d
ie.
” Anne had two sons by Charlve the Dim, Regard and Anselin. Only Regard interested her. “She’s also raising money by selling royal treasures. Altogether it’s enough to see that Sublime will discover Charlve’s marriage to Queen Alisor not to be valid because he’s actually been married to Anne for two decades. Making Regard and Anselin legitimate and placing them at the head of the succession. With enough money extra to put together a small army.”

Terrible news, Brother Candle thought. Unless Anne’s obsessions had led her to pick Arnhand’s fiscal bones so clean that there was no way Arnhand could sustain more than a brief incursion into the Connec.