Working God's Mischief (29 page)

“And you're jealous?” the Perfect asked.

“Not anymore. Now I'm terrified she'll start believing what her men say. That she'll decide God really is with her and it's perfectly reasonable to think she can subdue Arnhand with just a few hundred men.”

Bernardin muttered something about more men slipping away every day to join Kedle. He did not mean to be heard.

Brother Candle said, “You're worrying too much. Kedle is stubborn and willful but she does have a sense of proportion. She'll just harass Arnhand. She won't get into any real fights.”

“You sound like you're behind her.”

“I'm trying to tell you what I think she's thinking.”

Bernardin shifted talk to what they had learned about the problems in Antieux's churches.

*   *   *

Antieux enjoyed a halcyon season of several weeks' duration. The entire city seemed happy and content. Even Bishop LaVelle's complaints were infrequent and random.

The magistrates, justices of the peace, and remaining parish priests began taking care of the trivia they should have since Socia's ascension. They learned that she would not overrule them even where she disagreed with their judgments.

Then came news concerning the improbable events at Vetercus.

 

21. Alten Weinberg: Winter

The Righteous reached Alten Weinberg on an afternoon when random snowflakes swirled, proclaiming the end of the campaign season. There had been enthusiastic welcomes along the way. Common folks, for some reason, seemed to feel included in the triumphs of the Righteous.

The nobility were more restrained. A common adventurer, however favored by the Ege sisters, was poaching in their preserve.

Hecht did his best to charm those he met along the way. Possession of Anselin of Menand helped, but not a lot.

Although holiness had abandoned more and more churches the hunger for crusade was rising, a communal insanity taking hold of the Chaldarean world. Hecht began to worry about the whole becoming too big to control.

He worried about the Shining Ones, too, though they respected their contract and remained disguised. The more compliant they were the more nervous he became. The core him, hammered into shape in the Vibrant Spring School, did not want to believe any good could come of traffic with devils.

As much as he worried about them, his staff worried about him more.

Events in Hovacol had rendered less striking his apparent return from the dead. He had been strange after that, but only somewhat and only for a short while. He had appeared normal enough in Brothe. His turning up unconscious on the road into the Remayne Pass was troubling, but …

Lord Arnmigal was downright weird. He called devils to the battlefield. He did not break a sweat while conquering a renowned brawler. He had driven a demon out of said brawler.

None of which had been explained to anyone's satisfaction. Lord Arnmigal was as concerned as anyone else.

Always clever, he had become smoothly facile tactically. He knew what his opponent would do before that opponent moved. He seemed incapable of error and equally incapable of understanding why monstrous competence scared those around him.

He had every characteristic desirable in a Commander of the Righteous on the eve of a history-defining effort to cleanse the Holy Lands of unbelievers, heretics, and other abominations in the eye of God.

On the other hand … Piper Hecht was frightened. He could not shake a conviction that he was not the man he had been. The Hovacol raid had changed him. Again.

Else Tage had become Piper Hecht. Piper Hecht had settled in so comfortably that Else Tage was scarcely a reminiscence. Piper Hecht had become so real that he had memories of his manufactured Duarnenian past. It took an effort of will to recall the Vibrant Spring School.

When he did ferret out those elusive recollections he banged up against the realization that he had been another someone before he became Else Tage, the boy Gisors, whose natural father was a lord of the Brotherhood of War. Gisors had had a family. Piper Hecht had found that family again—and right now very much wished that the member called the Ninth Unknown would show up and help navigate the stormy emotional seas.

Where was that old man? For that matter, where was Heris? Where were Lila and Vali? His only family was Pella, who went round in a slack-jawed daze, constantly frightened.

The boy had been unable to get both feet on the ground since the confrontation with King Stain.

Hecht wished he could summon Hourli and find out what was going on. Which sparked a faint touch of good humor. “No matter what I have I always want more.” Then he felt a sudden conviction that he needed only lift his arms and the Choosers would respond. That Sprenghul and Fastthal were up to no mischief because only Arlensul had known how.

Hecht and an escort left the column in response to an Imperial summons that included Anselin of Menand. Hecht felt a twinge of jealousy.

Suppose Helspeth fell for Anselin the way Katrin had for Jaime of Castauriga? Anselin was handsome, young, confident, and personable. He might make a good king if he eluded his mother's machinations.

“Pella. Come with me.”

“Dad?”

“You may never get another chance to see the inside of the palace.”

*   *   *

They did not get far inside. Helspeth met them in a room normally used to assemble the palace guard. Braunsknechts filled the corners. The lighting was bad except around the Empress. She was developing a taste for drama. Also, her pleasure at seeing Hecht was so obvious that even the densest witness had to wonder.

His jealousy slithered down into the fetid deeps.

Helspeth had a dozen women and functionaries with her. She could do nothing now. She turned to her guest king.

Anselin's attitude remained guarded.

Hecht had seen little of the man in transit. He had not acknowledged Anselin's status, nor had he treated the man with more deference than others who traveled with him.

Anselin's companions had given no trouble. Perhaps durance in Cholate had been less pleasant than the prospect of the same in Alten Weinberg.

Helspeth sparked off orders to people who had been rehearsed. Hecht noted her wary glances at Pella.

This might, indeed, be the boy's only chance to see the inside of the palace.

Helspeth said, “It pleases us to see thee returned hale and successful, Lord Arnmigal.” She sounded imperially remote. From behind her, Lady Hilda showed Hecht a ghost of a wink and spectral smile. And he understood.

Daedel would be Helspeth's avatar. She would do what Helspeth dared not do herself. He returned Lady Hilda's ghost wink. Helspeth saw and ghost-smiled herself.

Less formally, the Empress said, “We understand that you are anxious to see to the welfare of your soldiers and would like a chance to shake the road off, Lord Arnmigal. Now that we have satisfied our eyes we will not keep you. Captain Drear will arrange an informal audience for tomorrow. We will expect grand tales of adventure. Anselin of Menand, a suitable suite has been prepared for you.”

Hecht caught a speculative look in Daedel's eye as she considered that handsome youth.

He wished her luck but thought she might be disappointed.

Anselin of Menand had proven himself a formidable warrior in the Holy Lands. He had revealed unexpected skills as a commander. He was tall, blond, pretty, played the lute and had a good singing voice. He was the perfect knight in every way and everywhere but in the tilts of love.

Not once had his name been coupled with that of a woman, neither high nor low. Which left Hecht the more puzzled by his own jealousy.

Ah. It was not Anselin but what Anselin represented that sparked the emotion. The attraction between him and Helspeth remained, as powerful as ever, but now she was Empress. Socially, she was further away.

Back in the street, Pella asked, “Dad, how come the Empress was so rude? I thought you were friends.”

Hecht settled into his saddle. Snowflakes wobbled into the light of lanterns and torches. “She was being the Empress Helspeth, not Helspeth Ege. She can't be just a person anymore, she has to be the personification of the state. She wasn't trying to be rude.”

“I think it stinks.”

Lord Arnmigal, Commander of the Righteous, did not disagree. “You're right, Pella. That shouldn't make a difference. But it always does. It's the way the world works. It's the way people are made.”

*   *   *

Alten Weinberg remained Alten Weinberg, even in winter. Those who did not return to their estates remained doggedly political and contrived to cross paths with the Commander of the Righteous. Lord Arnmigal gained a reputation for being short-tempered. He did manage to deal respectfully with Archbishop Brion, Katrin's uncles, Rodolof Schmeimder, Arnhand's ambassador, and Algres Drear. The pressure of Imperial politics was severe. The role of Commander of the Righteous had accumulated considerable gravitas. The princes of the west were sending commissions, observers, representatives, or ambassadors to look into possibly joining the Enterprise of Peace and Faith—while much of the Grail Empire nobility insisted the crusade was a smoke screen masking the tyrannical ambitions of the Empress and her Commander of the Righteous.

Lord Arnmigal sometimes roared in frustration but as often was as thrilled as a boy who had successfully executed an amazing prank.

He had advantages enjoyed by no warlord before him.

*   *   *

Hecht entered Helspeth's quiet room warily. The customary band had gathered beforehand: the Archbishop, the Graf fon Rhejm, Ferris Renfrow, Lady Hilda, and the Grand Duke. The Empress had, in Hecht's absence, won that crusty old warrior over.

She could be a charmer when she tried.

Renfrow shut the door. Captain Drear did not remain inside.

Lady Hilda began serving coffee. The smuggling routes had recovered. She was brisk today, absent all flirt. She looked worn out. Hecht lifted an inquiring eyebrow when she was behind the Archbishop. She responded with a weak shrug.

Renfrow, checking the room's integrity, caught the exchange. “Our lady paladin of the night tilts has been defeated.” For which Lady Hilda gave him a look braided of purest venom.

Hecht observed, “The good Anselin has the makings of a perfect monk.”

“The makings of a Perfect,” Renfrow said. “I believe he could resist the blandishments of…” He stopped but Hecht understood. Anselin would remain indifferent even to Eavijne, Sheaf, or Aldi. “I have a final test in mind.”

Helspeth said, “Anselin is the perfect guest. By now news of his presence here will have reached Salpeno. He plans to deliver some exquisite pain once he gets back there.”

All eyes turned her way. “I paraphrased something he told the Compte de Longé. Lord Arnmigal. You're the reason we're here. I want to hear every smelly, sordid detail of your romp through Hovacol. My spies tell me strange things happened.”

Hecht glanced at Renfrow. Renfrow had not been out there. “Lord Arnmigal? You seem distracted.”

“I'm tired, Majesty.”

“A feeble excuse. Tell the story. And don't leave stuff out.”

He told most everything, failing only to explain that the Shining Ones—never mentioned by name—were Instrumentalities from olden times now serving the Commander of the Righteous on a lifetime indenture.

Archbishop Brion would have had another stroke.

Brion had yet to say anything. In fact, there was a conspiracy of silence between him, the Grand Duke, and the Graf fon Rhejm. They asked nothing and offered nothing.

Hecht talked. Helspeth asked questions. Indeed, she pecked at every detail, sure he was holding back.

Renfrow enjoyed his discomfiture. The spymaster sipped coffee, smiled occasionally, and left Hecht wondering what Renfrow had actually reported.

Helspeth kept after the duel with Stain. Once he finished, she said, “I've heard the story three times, now. It seems like no two people saw the same thing.”

“Witnesses to an emotional situation seldom agree about the details, Majesty,” Archbishop Brion observed. “Reports I've heard made it sound like His Lordship had a guardian angel.” The edge to his voice, nearly hysterical, implied that Brion knew any such angel must be one of the fallen.

Hecht said, “If you said that right after, I might have agreed. Things did get strange. But if anything is watching over me it isn't for my sake.”

With amused admiration, Renfrow said, “Masterful, Lord Arnmigal. Masterful.”

Helspeth demanded, “Are you two playing a game without including the rest of us?”

Renfrow replied, “Every day, Majesty. Every day. But it's just boys will be boys. Now, unusual as Lord Arnmigal's adventure was, there are other things that need attention. For example, the question of what to do with Anselin of Menand.”

Helspeth said, “I foresee serious concessions from Arnhand in exchange for his return.”

The Grand Duke grumbled, “Sell the pretty shit.”

“Milord?”

“Do what that absurd Stain meant to do. Put him on the auction block. Isabeth of Navaya might cede Calzir and Shippen in exchange. The Connectens, if they had anything, would beggar themselves to claim him. And his mother might be forced to finance your Enterprise. Make her pay. Make her pay big. Keep her paying till she bankrupts Arnhand.”

Renfrow observed, “Anselin is worth a fortune in political capital just sitting here doing nothing, too.”

Helspeth said, “I want your thoughts, Ferris, but first I have a question for Lord Arnmigal, which is, do we still have issues enough with Bronte Doneto to demand that his person be part of Anselin's ransom?”

“Entirely your decision, Majesty. You know what your sister would want.”

“Yes. All right. Ferris.”

“If you'll reflect, Majesty, I'm sure you'll see a number of ways that Anselin could be of more value held here.”