Glen Cook - Working God's Mischief

“That’s hardly a fair question.”

“Why?”

“There’s no way the Empress can count on my answer being truthful.”

Helspeth scowled. Hilda Daedel had been her principal lady-in-waiting for ages. They had become friends, as much as they dared. Hilda was familiar with Helspeth’s insecurities and obsessions. Lack of confidence in her looks was high on the list.

“Don’t go all philosophical on me. I just need an honest answer.”

“But when I tell you you’re drop-dead gorgeous, instead of believing me you’ll accuse me of telling you what I think you want to hear. If I say you’re plain you’ll accuse me of-”

“Hilda! Why must you be exasperating?”

“I? Hilda Daedel? Of Averange? Exasperating? Maybe because…”

“Let’s stop this.”

“Right behind you, Helspeth.”

“Hilda, I’m terrified. When the news breaks…”

“You’ll have Captain Drear and the Braunsknechts behind you. All of the Braunsknechts. They’re yours, now. You’ll have the Commander of the Righteous when he gets here. Not to mention Ferris Renfrow. And, if the old men do try to brush you aside, the only legitimate successor they could put up is your crazy old Aunt Aneis. She doesn’t know what century it is.”

“They might think that’s good.”

“Enough. Your problem isn’t vulnerability. You have too much time on your hands. You use it to fuss, worry, and obsess.”

Helspeth would not see what the mirror reflected. She was not a great beauty but she was a slim young brunette more attractive than most women her age.

“I don’t want to be Empress, Hilda.”

“The last Ege who asked for the job was your father. And, from what my father says, he didn’t develop a taste for it till he’d had the job ten years.”

“Why are undergarments always so heavy and rough?”

Lady Hilda was accustomed to Helspeth’s darting attention. “Because they need washing more often. If you saw what the washerwomen do to keep them clean you’d understand. You’d probably wonder why they aren’t made of iron.”

“Must you always be literal and reasonable?”

“Someone has to bring balance…”

“Damn you! I need…”

“No. You don’t. Still, I could develop a fierce case of emotional dependence and go home to plague my husband.”

“Hilda?”

“I’m thinking about having another child.”

“Stop it.”

“Lady va Kelgerberg could take over. She knows the ins and outs.”

“Damn it, stop!”

Lady Hilda shifted approach but did not stop. She meant to conquer Helspeth’s mood. “What will you do about the Commander of the Righteous once you’re officially Empress? He’ll be yours to do with as you please.”

“You go too far.”

“The Commander. The Righteous. Katrin’s crusade. You need to think about them.”

“I will. I have been.”

“And?”

“Hilda, I’m a virgin. I’m going to die a virgin.”

“You’re talking crazier than ever, now. Your value on the marriage market is about to soar.”

That was true. She knew it. But she meant what she said. The pressure to wed would be relentless. The old men would want to see an heir.

“Where are they, Hilda?”

This time Lady Hilda lost the intellectual trail. “They? They who, Helspeth?”

“Renfrow. The Commander of the Righteous. Why aren’t they here to help me?”

“They’ll be here. But right now they’re in Firaldia, dealing with the consequences of a huge Imperial triumph.”

Helspeth continued to worry and fuss.

She was suffering imposter insecurity. Helspeth Ege could not possibly deserve the position that God, fate, or the Instrumentalities of the Night were putting into her hands.

“I’m terrified, Hilda. It’s easy to be a great emperor when you only have to do it in your head. But now it’s going to be real.”

Where were they?

She felt more exposed, more vulnerable, than even she had when her sister had driven her into internal exile, hoping she would do the convenient thing and die.

Count Raymone Garete was an able war leader and a deft administrator, and he had a gift for convincing others of his righteousness. He had been excommunicated several times by several Patriarchs. Excommunication was a potent threat. It terrified Episcopal Chaldareans. Count Raymone, though, made light of such tribulations. Those excommunications had come from Patriarchs considered illegitimate by Connectens so why should they carry any weight?

His latest, however, had been issued by Serenity, legitimately Patriarch via massive bribery. As a man, Bronte Doneto, Serenity bore the Connec and Antieux that abiding grudge. The sole weakness to Serenity’s writ was that he had been run out of office.

Even so, the exiled Serenity had influence and friends. Anne of Menand was especially supportive. The armed might of Arnhand stood behind Anne.

“For the moment,” Raymone told Socia as they lay together. “We need but bide our time. There will be changes when Anselin gets home.”

“And how do you-ouch! This is a boy for sure. He’s trying to kick his way out.”

“How do I what?”

“How do you know Anselin will change anything? Do you know him?”

“I do not. But know his situation. My spies in Salpeno have investigated him thoroughly.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the new king in Arnhand could become one of our best friends because his mother hates us.” Raymone Garete knew something about the troubles a son could have with his mother.

“Oh! The waiting is almost over! Your little bastard is going to hit the ground running.” She made mock of the Brothen Episcopal Church, saying that. Their marriage had not been sanctioned by the Patriarch. But Raymone did not smile. Socia said, “You need to make your meaning more clear.” She wanted to nudge his thoughts toward something else that annoyed him.

He said, “Anne always treated Anselin badly, blatantly favoring Regard. Some say because Charlve the Dim wasn’t his real father. But Regard is dead. Anne’s own machinations make Anselin the only heir.”

Raymone rested a hand on Socia’s belly. The skin there had stretched till it glistened. Her navel had become a strange little knot that looked like it was about to pop off. His touch was featherlight.

“So Anselin will reverse Anne’s policies just because they’re hers?”

“Some. Maybe most. But he’ll still have to deal with people who aren’t his mother. They won’t let him do whatever he wants.” Half a minute passed while Raymone contemplated Socia’s stomach. “Anne of Menand may find herself locked up in a cloistered nunnery before they finish cleaning up the coronation mess.”

“She’s slippery, though.” Socia could not concentrate on politics. The baby was clog dancing. “So you think we’ve won.”

Raymone Garete thought nothing of the sort. “I haven’t looked at it that way. You could be right. We’ll have a respite, at least.”

“So why so disappointed?”

“It means a huge change in our lives if, suddenly, nobody is trying to kill us and steal everything.”

“I need something to drink. No! Good God! Not wine. Water. Or small beer. No. Better. The water the Master blessed.” And, once Raymone delivered that, “It’s time for Mistress Alecsinac.” She groaned. “The pains are real, now. Yah!” She suppressed a scream. “Now, love! Get the midwives. And the Master.” She had no idea what use the old man could be but he had been there for all the landmarks of her life since she was fifteen. He needed to be there for this-especially if something went wrong.

Terrified, suddenly, she needed Brother Candle desperately.