Lord of the Silent Kingdom

by Glen Cook

  The Penital, the Brothen palace of the Grail Emperors, was another immense stone pile, eclipsed in size only by Krois, the Chiaro Palace, the Castella dollas Pontellas, and several half-ruined city-managed edifices dating from classical times. The Penital was only as old as the Grail Empire itself. It had been erected on ground once featuring a prison and, farther back, a gladiatorial school where men condemned to die in the arena trained to suffer their fates in style.

  The name was a play on an Old Brothen word. That had to do with the dim view of service in Brothe nursed by those sentenced to represent the Emperor in the Mother City.

  A majordomo met Hecht in the vast foyer, after he had been passed on by several committees of Braunsknechts. At each layer he lost some of his lifeguard. Only Madouc was with him when the majordomo led him away for his interview with the ambassador.

  Then Madouc had to stop. And just hope the northerners would not start a war by doing something stupid.

  Piper Hecht stepped through a doorway. And spied Ferris Renfrow at the far end of a long, narrow, richly appointed room. “Everyone is arranging meetings under false pretenses today.”

  Renfrow looked surprised. “Really?”

  Hecht described his meeting with Rinpochè. The Empire might be interested in what Anne was thinking.

  “I see what you mean,” Renfrow said. “I’m not out to get you to serve the Empire’s interests. Not directly.

  We’re all happy as clams the way things are.”

  Did sarcasm lie beneath those words?

  “I just wanted to deliver your invitation to the wedding of the Empress and King Jaime of Castauriga.”

  “Again?”

  “Again. It will come off this time. Barring another Direcian crisis.”

  “Why?”

  “Why a wedding? Or why an invitation?”

  “The latter.”

  “I don’t know. It was the Empress’s idea. I was surprised. Another source seemed more likely.”

  Hecht showed nothing. He had no idea what this man knew. Or did not. Irregular letters slipped back and forth between Alten Weinberg and wherever life dragged him.

  Renfrow’s cast-iron expression suggested that he knew more than he should. Possibly even some content. Though a letter that went astray would do little to compromise its sender.

  Helspeth stopped taking risks with the letter delivered by the Braunsknecht who had come to beg the loan of Drago Prosek. Exile had taught her caution.

  Hecht said, “You’ll have to present an invitation formally, through the Holy See. To get leave of the Patriarch. I expect to be campaigning against revenant evils in the Connec by then.”

  “Maybe you’ll see King Jaime when he passes through.”

  “It could happen.”

  “Did you ever learn the truth about the child you brought home from Sonsa? The niece or daughter or whatever it was you were faking at that inn?”

  “She was a clever liar. She convinced the women of the sporting house that she’d been kidnapped by Special Office types. In fact, her mother sold her to the house. Why are you here? An invitation doesn’t need the infamous Ferris Renfrow.”

  “Infamous?”

  Flickering, an old man in brown appeared behind the Imperial spymaster. Renfrow was looking directly at Hecht when it happened. He spun around. And around again. “What was that?”

  “What?”

  “Behind me. Something happened. You were looking at it. Tell me.”

  Hecht put on his best baffled face. “What are you talking about?” And, “If this is all you want, I have real work that needs doing. This Patriarch has strong ideas about his armed forces.”

  Ferris Renfrow had lost interest in Piper Hecht and whatever else had led him to arrange a meeting with the Church’s leading warrior. He was off on a small, local quest, determined to unravel this sudden mystery. He mumbled, “What’s become of Osa Stile? Why haven’t I heard from him?”

  Hecht did not respond. The question had not been addressed to him.

  The Ninth Unknown showed himself just long enough to flash a grin and an old-fashioned thumbs-up.

  Renfrow spun around again.

  Madouc said, “Again you’re out of an interview with an important legate earlier than I expected.”

  “This one was crazy.”

  “Based on all I’ve seen lately, sir, most of the world fits nicely into that category. Meaning us three or four normal guys maybe better get to work making sure wickedness doesn’t have its way completely.”

  “And you aren’t so sure about me being one of the three or four. Right?”

  Madouc grinned. Hecht suspected the man was not joking.

  Hecht saw Titus Consent briefly before he moved on to his interview with Principatè Doneto, who, after an exchange of messages, had agreed to move their meeting up. But he would have to see Doneto at his city home.

  “There have been two more deaths,” Titus whispered.

  “Suicides?”

  “The one in the quarter was. The other, probably not. Though it wasn’t murder.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Syphon Credulius. In the quarter.”

  “I don’t know the name. Who was he?”

  “A recent immigrant. Came while we were on Artecipea. Supposedly from the Holy Lands. But he didn’t have the accent. He spent a lot of time nagging people for details about what happened in Sonsa. During the riots.”

  “Sounds like a spy.”

  “And a stupid one. Him killing himself made me think about what he was looking for. Which led me to a connection between most of the dead men that doesn’t rely on them having been part of a slaving ring.”

  Hecht’s heartbeat increased slightly. Titus seemed to have found his way to the conclusion Hecht himself had reached not long ago. “And?”

  “I believe they shared a common thread of knowledge. I wonder how deadly having any grasp of that knowledge might be. And I wonder who it worries so much that he has to execute anyone who might be in on the secret.”

  Titus did seem to have worked it out. People who knew that Piper Hecht was not a fugitive from Duarnenia had been killing themselves. Only … “I don’t know who’s doing what to whom, or why, Titus.

  I once thought I saw the same connection you’re seeing now. But a third of the dead men just won’t fit.

  And, I gather, there have been similar deaths overseas. A whole rash in one port once famous for its slave market. Do you want permission to dig? Go to it. Maybe Bechter can enlist a Witchfinder to help.

  Whatever is going on, there’s got to be sorcery involved.”

  Titus looked puzzled. But only for a moment. “I’m more worried about Noë and my children. They’d be lost if anything happened to me. None of our relatives would take them in. Because of our conversion.”

  “I can’t see any reason for you to worry. But, I do admit, I don’t know what’s going on. I’ll look out for you the best I can.”

  Titus was not reassured.

  “There was another death?”

  “Polo. That was your man, then Ghort’s, and got crippled in that ambush.”

  That startled Hecht. He let it show. “Polo? That’s sad. He was a good soul, if slow and inclined to pocket small coins and trivial bits that didn’t belong to him. What’s the story?”

  “He fell down a flight of stairs. At home. No obvious signs of foul play. He’d been drinking. He’d been doing that a lot. But the Bruglioni are suspicious.”

  Hecht was suspicious. Polo was another someone who knew things about Piper Hecht. Possibly things he did not know he knew.

  “Was this recent?”

  “Day before yesterday. Paludan had him interred in the Bruglioni crypt. In the servants’ area.”

  Hecht shuddered. “I started to go down there once. Got as far as the wine cellars and whatnot. Polo talked me out of going deeper. He said there was nothing to see but bundles of bones.”

  “That would be typical.”

  “And
now I have to see Doneto. I’m not looking forward to it.”

  Pinkus Ghort guided Hecht into the little room where Bronte Doneto waited. It was overfurnished and overheated. Hecht had visited it once before, following the Plemenzan captivity. This was Doneto’s ultimate refuge. Here the man felt safe to be whatever he wanted. Undoubtedly, the walls included stone from the Holy Lands.

  Ghort did not leave. Neither did he appear thrilled by having to stay. Hecht did not question his presence.

  Doneto said, “Make yourself comfortable. Coffee will be up momentarily. Your only vice, as I understand it.”

  “That and, according to some, being steadfast.”

  “A trait highly respected in Duarnenia, I hear. A title of high respect, Steadfast Guardian.”

  “Steadfast Guardian is what they call the Chief Castellan of the Grail Order. But, you’re right, it can be given as an honor, too. Generally to somebody who has slaughtered an impressively large number of savages.”

  “Such is the way of the … What?” Doneto sat straight up, reminding Hecht of nothing so much as a hound startled out of sleep. “Pinkus. Did you …?”

  Ghort asked, “Principatè?”

  “Something just happened. A force stirred. But I don’t feel it now.”

  Hecht suspected someone in brown might have tried to enter the room. Something in the doorway had made his amulet react when he arrived.

  Hecht put on his best perplexed expression and waited.

  Doneto relaxed. He said, “Colonel Ghort tells me you feel we have a neutral balance of obligation between us.”

  “Essentially. I wakened you in the Ownvidian Knot. You got me out of captivity in Plemenza. Most would consider a life of slightly more value, but I’m content.”

  Doneto nodded. To himself. “And how do you feel about Principatè Delari?”

  “I owe him a great deal, professionally.”

  “Indeed. And many wonder why.”

  “It’s worked out well for everyone. So far.”

  “I think Rudenes Schneidel would demur.”

  Hecht chuckled. “And well he ought.”

  “Were you aware that Muniero Delari and I were once great enemies?”

  “He mentioned having had a problem with you, yes. He said it was all a misunderstanding. That you’d discovered that you were both working toward the same objective.”

  “Not quite true, but a good foundation for a truce. Where has he been lately? He’s been invisible since the election.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him. I’m supposed to take the family to his town house this evening.”

  The coffee arrived. The old woman who brought it was shaking.

  “Hannah?” Doneto asked. “What is it?”

  “A ghost, Your Grace. Or something of the Night. Right out there. Cold, Your Grace. Cold as the grave.”

  Doneto scowled at Hecht. “What did you bring into my house?”

  “Nothing. You know I’m stone deaf to anything sorcerous.”

  “Except when it’s about to murder you in the mountains. So. The question would seem to be, what follows after you? The answer would interest a lot of people.”

  “Sir?”

  “You live a charmed life, Piper Hecht. Neither Death nor the Night seem able to find you, however hard they try.”

  “Praise the Lord.”

  “Enjoy your coffee. Hannah, show me where this happened.” Doneto left the room.

  Hecht asked Ghort, “Want some?”

  “Only two cups there, Pipe.”

  “Only two of us here.”

  “I can’t get away with the games you play, Pipe.”

  “Speaking of, what’s he up to? What does he want?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course.”

  “I think he’s trying to get a feel for how much trouble you’ll be down the road.”

  “He’s known me almost as long as you have.”

  “And I’m wondering, too. Things happen around you, Pipe. You maybe don’t have a friggin’ thing to do with getting them started. Like them soultaken that turned up at al-Khazen. You didn’t conjure them, but according to anybody who looked into it, they were there on account of you. Them and Starkden and Masant al-Seyhan. Then you got Rudenes Schneidel making a career out of trying to kill you. And a giantass worm crawling up out of the ground, fixing to eat your ass. And that’s just the shit I know about. What all else have guys like Doneto spotted?”

  “So I’m like, what? The Chosen One of Legend? Something like that? And God, or the gods, haven’t bothered to let me in on the secret?”

  “Hey. That could be.” Ghort stepped over to where he could look out the doorway. Then he stepped back and helped himself to a long swig off a bottle of liqueur he took from a sideboard near where he had been standing. A dozen bottles in various shapes stood there. Glass bottles. Those alone bespoke wealth and power. “I’m not the expert.” He did the peek-out-and-duck-back again, drank from a different bottle. “Ugh! That’s foul.”

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “I told you. Sizing you up. Him looking farther down the road than most of the Collegium. Those others just want to get you gone to the Connec. You can do some good there and be out of the way at the same time. Doneto is maybe worried that you might turn into the kind of threat that Pacificus Sublime feared.”

  Hecht wondered how rehearsed this might be. “Why would people consider me a threat because I do my job?” It had to be his fault, somehow. It kept coming up.

  Doneto returned just after Ghort helped himself to a third draught of liqueur. He stopped halfway across the room, sniffed, frowned, seated himself. His glance darted to the bottles. “How is the coffee?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Pinkus, you should have taken the other cup. It’s getting cold.”

  “I’d never presume, Your Grace.”

  Doneto almost smiled.

  “Hecht, I’d hoped to spend a few hours getting a better feel for your views. But I have to deal with something that’s gotten into the house. That’s a real problem right now. I’ll have to take the rest as it comes.”

  Hecht hoped he looked suitably bewildered. And just irked enough, with a dark glance at Ghort, to make Doneto think he believed the interruption had been staged.

  He hoped Cloven Februaren had gotten a running start.

  “It must be you,” Madouc said as they descended to the street outside Doneto’s town house. “You go in anticipating a long session and they bounce you right back out.”

  “This time the guy had a paranoid seizure. He suddenly decided that something awful had invaded his house. He had to get it out. Nothing else mattered.”

  “And he wasn’t looking at you when he said it?”

  “You’re in a feisty mood. He was not looking my way.”

  “Got to do what I can to keep my spirits up, sir. This will be my longest day since we got back from Artecipea.”

  “Take the rest off. I don’t need a shadow.”

  “How can you be bright about so much, yet persistently dumb about your own safety?”

  Hecht started to argue.

  “Sir! There are people and things who want to kill you. Wishful thinking won’t change that.”

  Hecht grumbled something to the effect that somewhere Anna Mozilla was cackling and rubbing her hands together. Anna had started hinting that he should consider retirement. He owed no one. And the Connecten campaign had brought wealth his way. Not a vast fortune such as Sublime had hoped to gain but enough to live comfortably.

  He could not do that. He was not made that way. Chances were, he would follow Grade Drocker’s example and die in service. Possibly equally miserably.

  Hecht grumbled some more. Without point. It was unreasonable to expect the anonymity he had enjoyed when he, Ghort, Bo Biogna, and Just Plain Joe joined the first expedition into the Connec.

  “Madouc, I understand. Intellectually. But I’ll never like dragging a mob around.”
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  “We could solve that by letting you get got once. Not fatally. Just enough to get the message pounded into your soul.”

  “Yes. That might do it.” Really? After the attempts he had survived already?

  There was. only one way he could get what he wanted back. Rid the world of er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen.

  Or pray that Nassim Alizarin would do so.

  “Well, Madouc, I’ll try to uncomplicate your life. I’ll stay inside safe places as much as I can.”

  Madouc did not appear mollified. Presumably because he recalled the firepowder attack on Anna’s house.

  “At least learn to delegate.” Madouc did not trust his own men to do their jobs without him watching over their shoulders.

  “A shortcoming of my own.”

  “Well, that’s interesting,” Hecht said as he helped Anna board Principatè Delari’s coach.

  “What’s that?” She was ravishing. She had commissioned a new gown. Hecht wished he could parade her through the Chiaro Palace, just to make those cranky old men drool.

  “Madouc. He found a way to compromise with his conscience and let his men do their jobs.”

  “Does he have a family?”

  “The Brotherhood. Come on, kids. Vali, you look stunning.” Vali had a new gown, too. She would be a beauty in a few more years.

  “And you, Lila.” Lila wore a gown of Anna’s that had been refit for her. Her idea. She loved the particular piece. It was the richest thing she had ever worn.

  “Pella, you look like a young lord.”

  “An’ I itch like one, too.”

  Pella did not want to go to Principatè Delari’s town house. He felt too self-conscious.

  “It’s the price you pay for the life you live. You want to be comfortable, you have to dress up and be uncomfortable. Look at me.”

  Hecht was an adult reflection of Pella. Though Pella was heavy on green and Hecht wore dark blue. Both preferring one main color to the flash lately shown by Pinkus Ghort. “I always feel silly in hose.”

  Though he protested dressing in style, Hecht had grown accustomed to doing so. The west had seduced him thoroughly.

  He climbed aboard the coach and settled beside Anna, opposite the children. Lila was terrified. Vali took her hand and tried to look bored. Hecht observed, “We’ll need to get Pella a razor pretty soon.”