Lord of the Silent Kingdom (69 page)

“A big war in Direcia should show us just how grand a champion King Peter really is.”

“And how strong his hold on his Praman allies is.”

“And my part would be?”

“No part. You’ll be here, trying to exterminate Rudenes Schneidel. But if things go bad for King Peter you can expect to see Direcia before long.”

“I have family in Brothe. My men have families.”

“Next time you see the Patriarch ask him how much he cares.”

“Should I ask what his problem with us is?”

“You have the power to make kings. You have a large force of skilled, experienced soldiers who are loyal to you. He judges you by what he would do if he had what you have. It’s a common weakness.”

“What’s your advice?”

“Send people to Brothe to see what’s what. There are plenty of local boats. Finish Schneidel fast. Then cross over to the mainland yourself. You’ll be safe. Pinkus Ghort still runs the City Regiment. Which has gotten a renewed lease on life and a fattened budget since a foreigner managed to become Patriarch.

You’ll have Muno and me behind you, too.”

“Sounds good. You think Rudenes Schneidel might turn up tomorrow morning, ready to give up?”

“No. You’ll have to lead these men into the High Athaphile and root him out of Arn Bedu. Which should be easier than it sounds. I’ll be along.”

“You. Yes. I’ve seriously begun to wonder. What are you, really, great-great-grandfather?’

“That. And the Ninth Unknown. Go back to sleep.”

Hecht had an angry question but sleep snatched him quick as a shark’s strike.

The dreamstalker did not get close again.

The pagans learned, first disaster. No more confrontations. Their guerrilla efforts were ineffectual, however. The Patriarchals had learned the cure while in the End of Connec. Any village or fastness that caused trouble ceased to exist. Villages and fastnesses that did not resist suffered nothing more than disarmament. In each such Hecht made it known that his sole target was the sorcerer Rudenes Schneidel.

The Captain-General’s advance into the High Athaphile was inexorable. And grew stronger with the arrival of the rest of his troops from Sheavenalle.

Resistance faded. Schneiders rebellion — if that was what it could be called — collapsed. Eighteen days after he landed near Porto Piper Hecht stood on a mountainside looking up at the sorcerer’s final stronghold, Arn Bedu. The Mother Sea was an amazing blue expanse behind him, stretching away forever. Looking east, he could just make out Pramans serving King Peter making camp at the far foot of the mountain. His successes had eased their difficulties dramatically.

“What’s so amusing?” Redfearn Bechter asked.

“Look. Good Pramans out there. Men we fought not that long ago. And good Chaldareans here. All of us about to get together to go up there and exterminate that pagan who got all uppity.”

“I don’t see the joke. But I’m told I have no sense of humor.”

“You won’t get an argument from me. How about you let Brother Jokai know I’d be ever so appreciative if his scouts took a real good look at this mountain. Tell him they should be careful. Not just because of the pagans but because King Peter’s troops will be scouting, too. Hell, we need to get together with them and coordinate. Work it out so they can get most of the glory by doing most of the dying.”

“You’re a cynical bastard. Sir.” That was Clej Sedlakova.

“I am. I’m thinking, based on what we’ve seen in the towns and villages, that nothing up there will be worth plundering. So why not let somebody else get busted up getting there first to claim it?”

“Somebody heading this way from yonder camp,” Bechter said.

Sedlakova observed, “Looks like Colonel Smolens is about to catch up, too,” indicating people climbing the mountain from the west. Smolens had been evicted from Sheavenalle by Principatè de Herve.

Smolens arrived first. “Sorry I couldn’t stand up to the Principatè, boss. I just didn’t have the horses.” He found himself a place to lie down. He surrendered to exhaustion instantly. Madouc was part of Smolens’s party. He collapsed just feet from the Colonel. Hagan Brokke still labored up the slope with other invalids also expelled from Sheavenalle.

There would be regrets, someday.

The allied party halted, awaited a response. Hecht looked around for a flash of brown. He did not find it.

“Prosek. One falcon team with me. Plus four lifeguards. And Brother Jokai.”

Jokai started to protest. Hecht told him, “We’re supposed to cooperate with them. For now. You’re no good at disguising yourself. So it won’t hurt to show you off. Let them know how serious we are. We need horses. Somebody. We can’t meet them on foot. It wouldn’t look right.”

Moving at last. Two lifeguards out front. Two back behind Drago Prosek, Kait Rhuk, and another two falconeers. Jokai Svlada beside Hecht. Hecht wishing that Titus Consent were there instead of having sneaked into Brothe. Jokai asked, “Is us bringing the smaller party a statement?”

“No. I wanted to come alone. But the lifeguards would have revolted.”

“You feel safe? You don’t know these people?”

“I’m safe. As long as the man on top of the mountain is still up there.”

“The wind’s got a bite to it around here.”

True. There was snow on the slope where shade lay most of the day. Local guides said snow was new this winter.

The other party resumed moving toward a grassy shelf not far away. Hecht caught the flash of brown he hoped to see. Cloven Februaren was the company he did want.

Hecht halted once his people were all onto the grassy shelf. The falcon team set up, trying not to look threatening as they did.

“Here’s a ridiculous mix,” Hecht whispered to Brother Jokai.

Ten men came forward. Four were Direcian. One of those was a Chaldarean bishop. Two were heralds or squires. The other looked to be a noble of standing. Hecht did not recognize his colors. Brother Jokai was no help.

Hecht was not interested in the Direcians. He focused on the Pramans behind them. Bone and Az watched from beyond the edge of the grass. Not so big a surprise. He had known they were over here trying to unravel the Rudenes Schneidel puzzle. But he had not expected to see Nassim Alizarin al-Jebal on this side of the Mother Sea. He locked gazes with the Mountain briefly.

The Direcian Bishop urged his mount closer. He scanned Hecht’s companions, recognizing the lifeguards as Brotherhood of War but not comprehending Prosek and Rhuk at all. Brother Jokai rated barely a glance. Then he saw something behind Hecht that left him with his mouth open.

“Bishop?”

The man could not talk.

Wait! Everyone had frozen. As though time had stopped. But it had not. Yonder, birds swooped over the Direcian camp. To one side Cloven Februaren perched on a boulder like an anchorite on his pillar.

The old man grinned, gave him the thumbs-up, then pointed.

The Mountain, baffled and disturbed, looked around carefully.

“Sorcery,” Hecht said, trying his voice.

Nassim’s gaze fixed on him. Confused.

Hecht got it. Februaren had frozen everyone but himself, Hecht, and the Mountain. But that would not last. “What are you doing here?”

“They killed Hagid. That word did get through. Thank you.”

“You know who?”

“The one up there. Rudenes Schneidel.”

“And?”

“Yes. I know that, too. The Rascal. His turn will come.”

“They must be missing you in al-Qarn.”

“They could be. And they may never understand. Neither Gordimer nor er-Rashal have sons. The Lion knows nothing but feeding his own vices, these days himself. The Rascal has some secret scheme going that only he understands.”

“Gordimer is a puppet. And doesn’t know it. Er-Rashal’s scheme involves Seska and making himself immortal. He has no love for the Faith. There is no other explanation for the last several years.”

“No other explanation that makes sense,” Nassim agreed. “Why did he want those mummies?”

“I don’t know. They must be part of his quest for ascension.”

“What?”

“He’s trying to turn himself into an Instrumentality. There’s no time to explain. This spell won’t last. We need to go up there and exterminate Rudenes Schneidel, who is the Rascal’s partner.”

“Looks likely to be difficult.”

“I don’t want to just sit here.”

“You have somewhere else to be?”

“I do.” Inasmuch as Pacificus Sublime meant him to perish on this island.

“Prisoners say they didn’t expect a siege.”

“We still might starve ourselves out first.” Hecht explained his situation.

“There are ships here. Artecipea is an island. Not so?”

“Yes. The men behind you, though, are beholden to King Peter and the syndics of Platadura. And Peter made this Patriarch.”

“I understand. The spell is starting to slip.”

Hecht saw an eye blink slowly. “Anything more? Fast. We won’t have this chance again.”

“One thing. Rudenes Schneidel is mine. Whatever else he’s done, I stake first claim.”

“Done. But manage those others …”

Cloven Februaren made a warning sound.

The air shimmered. Everyone resumed moving. Universally adopting baffled expressions. Several, in lockstep, blurted, “What just happened?”

Brother Jokai said, “We were hit by a spell of some kind. Check yourselves. See how it affected you.”

No one found anything unusual. Which only heightened the tension.

Hecht said, “You’re our top sorcerer, Jokai. Guard against it happening again.” He faced the Direcian party. “Gentlemen. I’m Piper Hecht, Captain-General for the Patriarch. His Holiness wants this fortress overcome and its tenants compelled to pay the penalty for apostasy. I assume King Peter wants the same. None of us gets to go home till we finish it. So why don’t we figure out what we ought to do?”

“Hercule Jaume de Sedilla, Count of Arun Tetear,” said the Direcian who was in charge. “King Peter’s viceroy on Artecipea.” The Count seemed to be having trouble with his eyes. Nevertheless, he forged ahead, naming his companions. Nassim he introduced as Shake Malik Nunhor al-Healtiki. Shake Malik was a survivor of the Calziran Crusade. Having no better prospects, al-Healtiki had raised a company of veterans to serve King Peter for pay.

Clever Nassim.

His company included Bone, Az, and the other survivors of Else Tage’s special company.

Shake Malik was a minor captain amongst the Pramans. The overall commander was a surprisingly fat man from Shippen who used no name but Iskandar.

The siege of Arn Bedu proceeded traditionally, though the fastness squatted atop one of the tallest and bleakest mountains in the High Athaphile. Iskandar and Count Hercule operated on the eastern slope.

The Captain-General and Patriarchal forces operated on the less congenial western face. Each did what besiegers do — at a leisurely pace. They did not mind waiting. The pagan rebellion had fallen apart everywhere else.

Hecht worried about Titus Consent as the days and weeks turned into months. Where was the man?

The great monster sorcerer cornered inside Arn Bedu never deployed his vaunted power.

Hecht had Sedlakova try to undermine. The decomposed, soft stone on the surface gave way to hard, living stone too soon. Work went ahead anyway. The men had to be kept busy doing something.

Mining became an industry.

Hecht left that to his staff. He went down to the coast and hired ships to bring supplies over from Sheavenalle. He put spies aboard those ships. Those men brought back news of the broader world. Big changes were going on. The Church had abandoned the Connecten Crusade completely. Sublime Pacificus kept issuing bulls calling on all Episcopal Chaldareans to join King Peter in a crusade in Direcia.

Anne of Menand had pledged the manhood and wealth of Arnhand to help repel the anticipated Praman offensive. Knights from Arnhand, Santerin, and Santerin’s continental possessions were on the move. So were Brothen Episcopal knights from the Grail Empire, encouraged by Empress Katrin.

There were hints that Anne of Menand’s men might give the Connec special attention returning home from obliterating the Unbeliever.

Other news was less exciting. The new Patriarch had subdued his enemies inside Brothe. Unlike Ornis of Cedelete before him. And managed without bringing home his Patriarchal army. Which said something about Pinkus Ghort’s ability to work under pressure.

Hecht seldom got to talk to those he knew in the other camp.

Titus Consent finally returned. With a small fleet. “Thanks for sending me,” he said. “I got to see my new son. Noë named him Avran. I wasn’t there to remind her that we converted. So Avran he’ll be.” Consent handed over a case of letters. Some were from Anna and the children. Others were from Principatè Delari and several men of standing who wanted to get his ear.

“How were Anna and the kids?”

“I only got to see them once. I had to keep my head down. You’re a lucky man. They miss you more than my bunch missed me.”

“Did anyone notice you?” Dumb question. Of course they had. Otherwise, there would be no letters.

“Did you get my new falcons and firepowder?”

“First instance, probably not till after I left. By anyone we worry about.” He frowned, remembering something. “I did bring the stuff. All that I could lay hands on. Way more than you asked for. To keep anyone else from getting them. Those in the business kept working. They knew somebody would pay a lot for a more efficient way to kill people.”

“It isn’t people I want to kill. I can do that now. My concern is the Night.”

“The Night is at our mercy. So let’s see what we can do about its servant on the mountain.”

Madouc, recovered enough to work now, and several other lifeguards all frowned over Consent’s suggestion. They were quite willing to take it easy as long as there was food and drink and their pay came on time — though there was nothing to spend it on in the High Athaphile.

Hecht asked, “What about our situation here? Will there be problems if we try to come home?”

“Who could stop you? If you come up with the transport?”

“I don’t know. I can’t make sense of the political situation.” He watched the men dragging up the new falcon batteries, kegs of firepowder, cases of ammunition, and other weaponry. Most of those men would rather be working the mines under Arn Bedu. That did not necessitate climbing the mountain carrying a hundred pounds. Men from the Direcian camp watched, too, obviously troubled. They suspected Hecht was about to pull something.