by Glen Cook
“Yes, he can. I’m not working because we’re getting ready for the wedding.”
“Whose wedding?”
“Mine.”
“But you’re just … Well.”
“Time does pass, Teacher.”
The child always did have a philosophical bent.
“Evidently faster when you’re not around to keep an eye on it.”
“Well, come in, Master. We’ll manage something.”
The Maysalean Heresy retained a concept of communal responsibility that had been forgotten by the Brothen Episcopal Church. The same philosophy had animated the Founders but faded as the Brothen rite of the Chaldarean creed aged and became increasingly hierarchical, reflecting the culture around it.
When the Old Empire collapsed the Church assumed most of the old Imperial palaces, dignities, and trappings. The Old Empire’s ghost lived on — inside the Church bureaucracy.
Kedle’s wedding took place on time. Asked to speak, Brother Candle did so briefly, his themes optimism, spiritual vigilance, and tolerance. Afterward, he arranged to spend his nights in rotation between several Seeker families. He did not want to add to the strain on the Archimbaults. The Maysaleans of Khaurene were eager for the status conferred by having him as a houseguest.
Days passed. He heard nothing from Metrelieux.
Evening meetings continued to be held at the Archimbault establishment. Only they had room to accommodate those who turned out to see the Perfect Master.
Ten minutes into the first gathering, Brother Candle knew that Khaurene’s Maysalean community had changed.
People were afraid. They had no confidence in the future.
Maysaleans should not fear tomorrow. Tomorrow would come. There was no need to dread it, however harsh.
“What’s happened?” Brother Candle asked. “Have you all lost faith?”
Kedle Archimbault stepped in when her elders failed to explain. “The trouble is the Duke, Master.”
“Brother,” he corrected automatically.
“The Duke is old. And tired. And weak. He’s done nothing to keep the Connec from falling apart. His orders seldom make sense and usually make things worse. No one outside Khaurene pays much attention anymore. He won’t enforce his will.”
Similar complaints could be heard everywhere. The lesser nobility no longer feared their Duke, nor had much confidence in his protection.
Raulet Archimbault found his tongue. “That’s the surface of it, Master. There’s also the uncertainty caused by the Duke’s bad health and lack of a designated successor.”
That was a huge point. Brother Candle hoped Tormond’s sister would succeed.
It did not matter what religion you were, nor what class. The passing of Tormond IV would have a profound impact. Because someone would replace him. And that someone’s religious views would be crucial. The struggle for the souls of the Connec grew more heated daily.
“Gangs roam the streets,” Amis Hainteau said. “Brothen Episcopals, whipped up by monks from the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy. The Duke does nothing. Chaldareans sworn to Viscesment outnumber the Brothen thugs but hardly ever fight back. The gangs mostly attack Seekers.
And Deves and Dainshaus when they find them.”
“They looted the Praman church last month,” Kedle kicked in. “The only one in Khaurene. They tried to burn it, too. Twenty-two people were killed.”
Her mother, with fat arms folded across her chest, said, “And the Duke did nothing. Again. He ignored it entirely.”
Brother Candle was baffled. How could the situation have deteriorated so?
Archimbault said, “We’re about two outrages short of civil war.”
Someone mentioned priests being murdered. Somebody had begun picking off priests who favored Sublime or any of his works.
Someone observed, “War is unavoidable. The Brothens intend to force it.”
That fit the common prejudice, Brother Candle was sure. “I should see Duke Tormond soon. I’ll prick his conscience.” He had little real hope of that, though. The man seemed blind to everything, trapped in a world spun from his own wishful thinking.
Agents of the Brothen Church causing chaos? Why? They were a minority in Khaurene. And across the End of Connec. The border counts whose faith more closely aligned them with Sublime than Immaculate had defected to Navaya, the Santerin dukedom of Tramaine, or Arnhand, already. Navaya’s influence continued to wax along the Terliagan Littoral. King Peter did not permit disorder in his realm. Order was what people wanted most.
“We wish you all grace and good fortune, Master,” Archimbault said. “But we’ll continue to prepare for the worst.”
Madam Archimbault said, “My cousin Lettie’s son Milias is a varlet at Metrelieux. He sees the Duke all the time. He thinks Tormond is demented. The way really old people get.”
Amis Hainteau said, “It isn’t badly behaved Brothen Episcopals or the Duke’s apathy that worries me. It’s the Night I’m scared of.”
Brother Candle asked, “There’s more bad news?”
Raulet Archimbault nodded. “The Night has begun to stir. It started with mischief. That turned to malice. And now it’s getting dangerous to go out after sunset.”
“There have been murders.” Kedle’s manner made it sound like wholesale butchery started up with every sundown.
“Two,” her father said. “Blamed on the Night because there wasn’t any more obvious explanation.”
“Only two,” Kedle admitted. “But they were awful. The people were torn to pieces. And parts were missing.”
Grim. But ordinary little men, tradesmen, artisans, shopkeepers, were capable of such evil. There were monsters behind a lot of smiling eyes. Quite possibly some of the agents of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy.
Brother Candle promised, “I’ll find out what’s being done.”
“Ain’t nothing being done!” someone grumbled. An angry murmur followed.
“That may be,” Brother Candle said. “But Tormond and I have known each other since childhood.
Sometimes he listens lo me when nobody else can get his attention.”
Prayers for his success broke out immediately.
Metrelieux, home of the Dukes of Khaurene, stood on a bluff overlooking a bend in the Vierses River.
Brother Candle had been in and out many times in his three score plus years. Each time he approached it he thought the place seemed that much nearer surrendering to the seduction of gravity. The old gates would not close anymore. And the same few guards were on duty, now, daily less capable of offering any real resistance to an incursion. No one was there to meet him. He made his way to the privy audience, where he found a dozen others also waiting.
Count Raymone asked, “You take a look at the outside of this place, Brother? The disease has gotten to the stone itself.”
Time’s bite was even more obvious here inside.
The Raults had not visited before. All they saw was old. Socia Rault was angry and exasperated. She had received strict instructions to hold her tongue, both from her brothers and Count Raymone. The Count had enjoyed Socia’s company for several days now and had learned to dread the bite of her sarcasm.
She was too young to be concerned by considerations of consequence.
Count Raymone had developed an interest, in part, Brother Candle suspected, because Socia made it ever more clear that she could not be won through flattery and romantic ballads.
The Count was a fair lutist and managed a workmanlike baritone. For a poet and composer, though, he made an outstanding soldier and indifferent administrator.
Still, he tried, demonstrating the same ferocious determination he had shown in dealing both with Haiden Backe and those Arnhanders he had butchered during the Black Mountain Massacre.
Socia did appreciate his effort. She understood determination. She was determined herself.
Or just bone stubborn if you consulted her brothers.
Broth
er Candle socialized and observed for half an hour before Tormond’s chief herald, Bicot Hodier, materialized, embarrassed. “My apologies, Master. I didn’t think you’d arrive on time. Come with me, please.”
Hodier led Brother Candle to a small, chilly sitting room with no proper furnishings and no refreshments.
It was unpleasant and lonely, not unlike the anchorite’s cell it resembled. Moisture collected on the cold walls, then dribbled down to puddle on the floor. The chill was too deep for mold or mildew.
He waited an hour, pacing more than sitting on the room’s one damp stone bench. Shivering. His patience waned, a weakness he had not suffered since his ascension to Perfect status.
“Is it getting to you, too, Brother?”
He turned, confessing with a nod, though unsure what “it” might be. “Sir Eardale?” He pronounced it
“Ey-air-da-lay,” which was nearer the Santerin than most managed.
“Yes. And you want to know why me and why this.”
Brother Candle exercised his nod again. Sir Eardale Dunn was not the man he expected to see. Dunn was Duke Tormond’s top soldier and adviser. The Perfect Master wondered why he did not return to Santerin. He must like his life here, despite Duke Tormond’s tendency to ignore his advice.
Sir Eardale said, “This room is proof against sorcery. The stone came from the Holy Lands, quarried near one of the veils of power. You waited so long because I wanted to make sure nobody noticed me.”
“I see.” Though he did not.
“No, you don’t. Not yet. But I’ll explain.”
“Please do.”
“Something bad is happening here. The Duke hasn’t been himself. Not for a long time. Lately, though, he’s been getting worse. It’s like a wasting disease of the spirit.”
“He isn’t young anymore.” Tormond was just weeks older ihan Brother Candle.
“He has those problems, of course. Complicated by his diet. All meat and wine. But this is something else. It exaggerates those tendencies that make him ineffective.”
“Has anyone new moved into Metrelieux?” Having summed the evidence, Brother Candle suspected malign sorcery. But by whom?
“No one significant. There’s always turnover in staff and pages. None of them suspicious. It’s someone we know. Someone who’s been here all along. Who found a new talent recently. Or a new calling.”
“Uhm. And this secretive interview is because?”
“Because you have stature and respect and haven’t been here to become part of any faction. You’re neutral. You care about the Duke and you care about the End of Connec. You might see something the rest of us can’t.”
“I see.” More, probably, than Sir Eardale thought.
The knight from Santerin would not be alone in reaching the conclusions he had presented. Everyone not guilty would be watching everyone else, hoping to finger a villain. The paranoia would be thick.
“I misspoke,” Dunn said. ‘There is one new face. Father Rinpochè, representing our friends in Salpeno.”
“That idiot? I thought he was dead.”
“Unfortunately, no. Or, maybe, fortunately. He’s too stupid and blindered to be a real danger.”
“Why would they send him? Of all people?”
“He’s a favorite of Anne of Menand. And Anne is in the ascendant, these days. She’s real chummy with the Brothen Church lately, too.”
“She always was.” The mistress of Arnhand’s King Charlve once raised her own band of crusaders to punish the Connec on the Church’s behalf. The force fell apart before it did anything but that hadn’t been Anne’s fault.
“More so, now. I hear she bought the letters of marque that belonged to Haiden Backe. From Bishop Farfog, who managed to salvage them when he got away from Count Raymone. The Bishop, by the way, is now the Brothen Patriarch’s chief agent in the Church’s effort to tame the Connec.”
Sublime seemed to dump all his dimmest and most corrupt agents on the Connec.
Dunn added, “I don’t think Rinpochè is here as a true ambassador. He’s really a spy, looking for weaknesses. Finding collaborators. And probably not doing well at that. He’s too stupid.”
Brother Candle was not so sure. Rinpochè might be a clever man posing as a fool.
The Perfect nodded as though everything in this world was perfectly clear. “Do you people have any idea what’s really going on outside Metrelieux?”
Sir Eardale sighed. “No, Brother. Most of us don’t. Most of us apparently don’t want to know. Or don’t care.” He paused a moment. When Brother Candle said nothing he continued. “I myself am aware of the creeping chaos. Incompletely, no doubt.”
“Creeping chaos is putting it too optimistically, sir. The Connec is dying. It’s falling apart. So fast it makes the head spin. If you travel more than twenty miles from Khaurene, you stand an excellent chance of wandering into a local war or falling foul of brigands. Half the counts and knights out there, especially in the north and west, are feuding. Half of those can’t explain why. It’s just something they have to do. A matter of honor. If it weren’t for Count Raymone and a few men like him, I’m afraid the collapse would be complete in another year.”
“I hadn’t thought it that bad. Not yet. I thought we still had some time.”
“The time is all used up. The Duke has wasted it for far too long already.”
“Tormond is obsessed with the state of his soul. When he’s rational at all.”
“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 go
ne 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.”