A Madouc henchman made the obvious concrete. “This could mark a sea change for the Crusader States.”
Yes. It could.
This could be the first temblor of a vast cultural shift. The Grail Empire was not Arnhand. Arnhand was not going under the ice. Parts of the Grail Empire were. The displaced had to go somewhere.
All the Crusader States, large or small, were ruled by families rooted in the nobilities of Arnhand or the Connec. Knights and pilgrims hailed from every Brothen Episcopal principality but mostly Arnhanders and Connectens stayed to colonize the land of their God’s birth. Several generations later, now, the eastern branches of the families were almost as foreign as the peoples they ruled.
Vantrad the kingdom was now a fragment of the Grail Empire, where traditions were alien and the ruling class was actively hostile toward the Brothen Episcopal Patriarchy despite a deep connection to the Brothen Episcopal faith. Paradoxically, the Patriarchy might gain influence, now. Its lip-service-only Crusader States supporters, heavily dependent on moral, financial, and manpower support from Arnhand and the Connec, might be overthrown for a more honest regime.
The founders of the Crusader States had been as much land-going pirates as warriors of a holy cause. Today’s Black Rogert was, simply, an extreme exemplar.
The exemplar added, “The Queen evaded capture. She is headed here with such people as she was able to save.”
Nassim took that to mean that Clothilde’s companions were people who had been able to keep up.
His estimate of Clothilde had formed based on her popular reputation.
Garnering little response from the Brotherhood, Black Rogert reminded everyone, “Whatever the military situation imposes on me, Gherig still belongs to the du Tancrets.”
Not strictly true and easily rendered moot but neither the Master of the Commandery nor his companions cared to debate. Madouc simply nodded. “Of course.”
Could he be thinking that Clothilde might be better wrangled here than elsewhere? Wherever she was she would spin wild, irrational plots and contrive insane conspiracies.
Black Rogert was at a loss. He had been stripped of place and power. Now his last anchor was dragging.
Nassim entertained himself with an idea so wicked it was fit to have sprung from the mind of a villain like Clothilde or Black Rogert.
He could suggest that they flee to Shamramdi.
Indala would welcome them. Of course he would. It would be no sin, promising protection to draw them into his power. The God Who Is God had no problem with the Faithful deceiving Unbelievers. And Indala owed Black Rogert so much.
Du Tancret would never amble into that. His nose for danger should be itching already, simply because the Mountain had had the thought.
Du Tancret, frowning, did turn Nassim’s way, as though he had caught a whiff of malice.
Madouc of Hoeles stared into infinity briefly, then told du Tancret, “Begin preparations to receive the Queen. Right now Gherig boasts no suitable quarters.”
Black Rogert started, at first amazed that Madouc would receive Clothilde, then realizing that Madouc had stated a bald truth. Reconstruction was focused on Gherig’s defenses. Even Madouc and du Tancret lived as rough as their soldiers and workmen.
News of Nassim’s latest defection should have reached Indala by now. Hopefully, the Great Shake was clever enough to reason his way to the truth.
Nassim thought that Indala did have the intelligence, in both senses, to understand. Young Az swore that Indala knew his grandnephew would never defect in fact, but only in appearance, for tactical reasons.
Madouc of Hoeles said, “That man is out of the way. We can speak freely, now.” Du Tancret was gone.
“Yes?”
White flashed, Madouc smiling behind his artfully sculpted beard. “You are a cautious man, General.”
“More a man so nervous that, you should note, he has successfully shied off deadly shadows for ages, in a chancy trade.”
“I do keep that in mind. Also, the fact that you’re so clever they should have called you the Fennec instead of the Mountain.”
Nassim flashed his own smile. Another tooth had gone missing. He thought the desert fox was more elusive than crafty but would accept the compliment. “That may be, but I have managed about as long a run of luck as a man can carry. Whatever the outcome this time, this will be my last skirmish with the Night.”
“We will triumph,” Madouc predicted. “God stands with us.” He gauged the proximity of his Special Office brethren. “As do you, the Widow of Khaurene, the Captain-General of the Brothen Church, and, possibly, Indala al-Sul Halaladin. And ever lurking in the shadows ready to pounce in a wolf-strike, the Righteous with all the hooligan Instrumentalities the Commander of the Righteous has recruited.”
Nassim said nothing. Young Az did the same, preferring to remain unnoticed by Madouc. Then Nassim did ask, “You actually credit those theories?”
Could anyone be as successful as the Commander of the Righteous had, absent help from Heaven or Hell?
Hell always seemed most likely to the envious.
Human nature assumes that anyone successful must be a liar, cheat, and deadly backstabber.
Sometimes that was true. Gordimer the Lion, for example. In the case of the exiled Sha-lug Else Tage, the condemned man appeared to be an orphan beloved of the Night.
Stories of the sort were uncommon but existed. Witness Aaron of Chaldar or the Founding Family of al-Prama. Or, more recently, Tsistimed the Golden, a demigod ascendant not known to have sought the power deliberately. Not in er-Rashal’s willful way.
Nassim shuddered, awash with dread. He might actually know someone who would ascend to Instrumentality status.
“General? Are you unwell?”
“My apologies. A curse of age. I have reached a stage where staying anchored and focused is difficult.”
The Master of the Commandery, as he often did, put any questions aside. “Should we invite the Widow and Captain-General up to discuss combining our knowledge and strengths?”
“The Widow has a reputation for not working well with others.”
“There are ways to work around personalities. I want to confer and have something decided before the Queen gets here to complicate our lives.” He paused but, before Nassim could respond, told young Az, “You will join us, of course.” Saying so much while saying nothing specific.
So. Madouc knew who Azim was. Nassim would speak for the Sha-lug and old enemies who knew the Rascal best. Azim al-Adil ed-Din would be the eyes, ears, and mouth of the Great Shake of Lucidia and Qasr al-Zed.
Azim inclined his head, an equal deferring to a more qualified equal. “As you wish, Master.”
Nassim felt pride. The boy had handled that well. He might indeed be the future of Qasr el-Zed—if he could shed the emotional encumbrance of his early failures.
The boy would face fierce challenges. God Himself might not surmount the circumstances of the times, with the Righteous triumphant everywhere and the Hu’n-tai At stirring, despite all their suffering of late.
The situation could only get worse. There would be another wave of western adventurers next summer but no Believers to replace the Faithful already fallen.
The Adversary should be dancing in his black palace, all was going so well for the children of darkness.
Nassim said, “We can but do what we must, and quickly would be best.”
43. The Vindicated: A Tempest Gathering
Brother Candle bestrode a ragged donkey, a mangy beast, if mange was what made the creature look so pathetic. It was the simplest and gentlest conveyance available yet the Perfect feared losing his concentration for even a moment. Did he, he would fall for sure, despite everything.
This was no venue for slapstick.
The overawing mass of Gherig reared above. He could not tilt his head back far enough to view its battlements. The awe extended beyond mass and scale to the widespread evidence of firepowder damage that had yet to be r
epaired.
He did not want to ride. Kedle had ignored his every protest to install him aboard this gargantuan hoofed rat. Hope had smirked and patted his cheek and applied a spell to help reduce his chances of falling. That did not stop him from tipping way too far, to one side or the other.
He could not have survived the climb to Gherig on foot. He was too feeble. But Kedle would not make the visit without him.
The child did very little without his attendance anymore.
She and the Captain-General led from out front, her only lifeguards the nervous boys from Arnhand. Pinkus Ghort flaunted his supposed confidence, too, having brought just one shifty-eyed little devil that the Perfect was sure he knew from somewhere. Ghort called him Bo. The runt insisted that Brother Candle must have him confused with someone else. Bo seemed to know his way around.
Kedle made Bo nervous. He stayed clear of her.
Hope, in a restrained guise but plenty recognizable as a woman of allure, led Brother Candle’s charger, playing with her role as a nun from some obscure Holy Lands order. But …
She was Hope. Dawn. She riveted the attention of every man they passed, leaving each troubled and confused and breathing hard.
Seven souls made up the deputation. Kedle thought fewer would be more in the eyes of Gherig’s masters. Hope and the Captain-General agreed. Brother Candle was inclined to trust Hope’s judgment. She had scouted ahead.
Pinkus Ghort’s agreement rested on his past association with Madouc of Hoeles. He knew nothing about Hope’s talents, nor did he fully fathom the Perfect’s lethal capacity, though he had caught a glimpse at Triamolin.
Brother Candle thought Ghort’s assessment of the Master of the Commandery could be excessively optimistic. And he believed that Hope thought too highly of the advantages owned by the Vindicated and their allies.
This Madouc of Hoeles, this Master of the Commandery, would be the lifeguard of the former Captain-General that Ghort remembered no longer. The runt Bo had argued as much during preparations for this visit. Unfortunately, Ghort had enjoyed some wine beforehand. Once he had a taste of the grape he became disinclined to hear statements of fact that disagreed with what he wanted to be true.
The Master of the Commandery and other hard men awaited them just outside Gherig’s innermost sub-fortress, nearly half a mile beyond and uphill of the barbican gate. They were surrounded by rubble. Scaffolding and engines used to hoist materials skirted the keep. Even here the damage remained intimidating.
Hope pointed out the Pramans, though they would have been no less obvious had they been standing on their heads—though they did seem to consider themselves disguised. Brother Candle rehearsed the names that Dawn had reported. Important men, but not Gisela Frakier.
Smirking and flirty, Hope stayed beside the donkey’s neck, holding the beast. She assisted in Brother Candle’s inelegant dismount. Briefly, he failed to recall that he was supposed to look inept. Those men were supposed to underestimate the Vindicated.
He was expected to carry the weight of the conversation.
Why? These people were supposed to be allies.
He doubted that anyone would be fooled.
Only … Those were Pramans. One of them belonged to Indala’s own family.
Hope helped him walk, alternately radiating an implication that she was a favored concubine or a favorite granddaughter. She distracted the receivers completely—excepting Madouc of Hoeles. Her efforts went right past the Master of the Commandery. Brother Candle whispered cautions he might have given a sulky fourteen-year-old.
“I know! I know! I can handle it!” she whispered back, too loudly for his comfort. “But I don’t have to like it!”
The Master made introductions as they moved into the keep, if such a monster could be so called. Entire castles in Arnhand and the Connec were smaller than this forlorn hope. Brother Candle offered introductions in turn. He did not introduce Hope after Madouc failed to introduce Azim al-Adil.
The Master of the Commandery went straight to a huge quiet room that Hope had not known existed. Rogert du Tancret waited there, in a chair rigged to support his bad leg. He was pleased by their surprise at his secret room. “This is new. Our enemies were way too familiar with our thinking before.” He glowered at the elder Praman. “Master Madouc and the Special Office were quick to see my point when I raised the matter.”
Brother Candle read that as du Tancret actually complaining.
“This will be the first use of the room for its intended purpose,” Madouc said, ignoring du Tancret. “Tests finished up yesterday. It’s sound. Once the door shuts you can speak without fear of eavesdroppers.”
Brother Candle kept a straight face. Kedle did the same. The Instrumentality already in the room gave nothing away, either, though the room’s integrity would be compromised already.
Brother Candle said, “We came to listen. We’ve seen revenants before. The circumstances in the Idiam are extremely dangerous. We want to support you—if we can accept your overall intent.”
He hoped that sounded good. Hope and her aunts believed that getting involved was a fine idea—though he thought they were not entirely, fully forthcoming. He was sure that he was not the only one clever enough to work out why, either.
The good host, Madouc of Hoeles offered places around a table large enough to seat two dozen. The boys, Bo, and Hope, though, he left against the wall by the door. Brother Candle beckoned Hope to come sit with him. The locals were not pleased. Bad enough, one woman being involved, but two, one a total mystery?
But no one objected—though the old Praman looked like he had run into his mother walking the street naked.
He must not be used to women.
Brother Candle rested a hand on Dawn’s once she settled. He said nothing but she understood that he wanted her to go easy on the old warrior. She nodded but, even so, she practically sparked off an intent to commit mischief.
She spoke without permission or recognition. “This confab is premature. The Commander of the Righteous and Grail Empress have also decided that the sorcerer is a huge danger in need of being crushed. They have decided to deal with him themselves. They are headed here now.”
That was news to Brother Candle—and everyone else as well. None were pleased, Hope herself the least.
Roger du Tancret broke the ensuing silence with an unpleasant, belittling commentary.
The Master of the Commandery told him coldly, “Stop it.” Du Tancret stopped as though smacked.
Brother Candle said, “That was uncalled for, my lord. Lady Hope is never wrong.” He feared that du Tancret would waken her anger. She refused to be taken lightly.
Kedle said, “Be calm, Dawn. We knew the man was a jerk before we came here.” She spoke plain Connecten in a conversational tone, which Madouc understood. Black Rogert must not have, or he managed an uncharacteristic moment of self-control.
The Master of the Commandery said, “My lord of Gherig doesn’t handle the novel well. I don’t ask your forgiveness, just that you suffer in patience. He is a vicious little pervert with an irredeemably foul soul but he’s still one of us. We face a villain of considerably more substance who isn’t. This lesser villain will mind his manners.” He spoke stiff, stilted, accented Connecten while meeting each eye around the room.
Brother Candle saw du Tancret following the conversation after all. A wicked ugly something stirred behind his empty expression. The man had more command of his awful self than was generally supposed but a dark pressure had to be building inside. He would explode eventually.
The Master of the Commandery had taken complete control, however, with no more pretense.
A clash avoided, Madouc shifted to Arnhander. “The lady is correct in suggesting that the coming of the Righteous be considered. However, none of us belong to that chain of command. Even did we, we would be remiss by not preparing for conflict, and should do so sooner than later. The enemy will only get stronger while we dither.” He waved to the Arnhand boys, provin
g that little escaped him. He used their regional dialect to say, “Bring that roll from the corner to the table.”
They jumped to it, groaned and strained, were too feeble to shift the thing. It was a foot and a half in diameter and eight feet tall. The younger Praman joined them, showed astonishment when he discovered how much heft that roll really had.
Madouc pointed out where he wanted it placed. He then unrolled it personally, nudging bodies aside.
The insides of the hides sewn together to create the roll boasted a colorful map. Gherig lay represented at the heart of the finest detail.
Madouc confessed, “I have trouble sleeping. I fill the time working on this.” He would have personal experience of much of the territory shown.
The map portrayed a strip far longer than it was wide, consisting mainly of the valley that Gherig overlooked. It might, perhaps, be of limited value in the north and south directions. But then the Perfect noted that there were really four distinct charts. The largest was that most accurate strip portraying Gherig and environs he had noted immediately. The smaller adjacent frames were less well realized. Even so, Brother Candle recognized landmarks well north and south of Gherig.
The last small frame was the weakest. It wanted to portray the Idiam. Characters from the alphabet used in the Eastern Empire arced over a symbol for a mountain, forming the syllables An-de-ska.
Bold as ever, Hope said, “Pretty good for guesswork but foreshortened in the north-south direction.”
“You know that country?” Madouc asked. His tone remained carefully neutral. He would not prejudge even the most absurd remarks.
“I’ve never been. This is my first time east of the Well of Days. Others of my family have explored there, though. They are deeply interested.”
Brother Candle shook his head. Kedle did the same.
Hope was volunteering too much.
The Perfect wanted to bark, “Tell me you have a plan, girl!”
At times it was hard to remember that Hope belonged to the Night and was not the empty head she pretended.