Glen Cook - Surrender to the will of the night

Hecht did doubt that. The Arnhanders were slow because they did not want to come at all. They were giving forty days a chance to pass without them having to bleed for the Whore of Menand.

“Nothing else we can do to get ready,” Colonel Smolens told his Captain-General. “I don’t know if it’ll work. There are bound to be locals who sympathize with the Arnhanders.”

“If Titus did his job-and hasn’t he always? — they’ll hear so much conflicting stuff from so many sources that they won’t believe anything. Especially not that we might fight with the few people we have left here.”

Those responsible for baiting the trap rode out to meet the captains of the crusader force.

“Titus, if you don’t have anything pressing? I want to talk falcon manufacture.”

That earned looks from several staffers as they returned to their duties. But they shrugged. It was typical of the Captain-General. He would turn to unrelated matters at the most difficult moments.

“You want time off?” Hecht asked Titus Consent. Titus looked exhausted. Threads of gray had begun to appear at his temples. He was losing the hair at his crown.

“I do. Of course. But to business. I’ve got what you wanted to know about iron production.”

“Let’s be quick. We’ll be at war in an hour.” He did not recall asking Titus anything about iron.

“Iron is now the metal of choice in falcon production. It stands up better to heavier charges. But it’s hard to work. Only Krulik and Sneigon have figured out how to cast and cool it reliably.”

“Meaning anyone they want to share the wealth with will find out.”

Titus frowned. Though a convert, he still resented stereotyped observations about the Devedian people. “Possibly. But listen. It will take a major operation to manufacture iron falcons in any number.”

Hecht seated himself, cleared his mind. “Go ahead.”

“The first thing is, wherever they locate, it will have to be forested. With old hardwoods. It’s astounding how much oak it takes to make smelting quality charcoal. Then it takes almost two hundred cubic yards of charcoal to smelt out twenty-five pounds of what they call malleable iron. The light iron falcons weigh almost a hundred pounds. Immense amounts of charcoal are consumed all through the process. Which is also labor-intensive. I couldn’t get exact figures but the Krulik and Sneigon records suggest hundreds, maybe even thousands, of man hours are needed to make one iron weapon.

“As a labor example, making a simple iron sword, of basic utility and ordinary hardness, using malleable iron already smelted, takes about two thousand pounds of charcoal and up to two hundred hours of smithing.”

It never occurred to Hecht to be curious about what it took to create the tools of his profession. “Krulik and Sneigon make swords, too, don’t they?”

“They produce a complete range of weaponry. Most of us carry something of theirs. I’m fearing the explosion in Brothe may have been a blessing for them. Their productivity has always been constrained because of their location. They had to bring the iron and charcoal to the manufactory. There are no decent forests anywhere near the Mother City.”

“I see. They’ll be able to offer better prices, now.” He and Titus shared a chuckle. “Or to improve their profit margin.”

“Yes.” And, as though thinking out loud, Consent said, “Charcoal is also an ingredient in firepowder.”

“Yes?”

“Just occurred to me. I’ve been thinking in terms of regions that have a lot of hardwood near iron deposits. There are a lot of those. But if you add a need to be near sources of chemicals to make firepowder, the possibilities shrink.”

“Artecipea. It’s the main source of natural saltpeter. There are iron deposits, copper deposits, some low-grade sulfur pits. We saw forests.”

“We saw softwood evergreens. But there are hardwoods at lower altitudes, in the east part of the island. And it isn’t that far over to the south coast of the Mother Sea. And right there, in what used to be the Imperial province of Pharegonia, are mines that have been producing first-quality sulfur for two thousand years.”

“So you think they’ll relocate to Artecipea.”

“I would. Because Artecipea has one more resource, maybe more important than all the rest.”

“Which is?”

“It’s outside the Patriarchal States. In territory now beholden to King Peter of Navaya. No Patriarch or Patriarch’s Captain-General can tell anyone how to run his business there.”

“I see. We’ll see. Keep after that. In your copious free time.”

“Yeah. I told the quartermasters to round me up a set of brooms so I can sweep up when I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Believe it or not, Titus, I know how you feel. I’m thinking I might enjoy being unemployed.”

“For the first few minutes, maybe.”

“Yes.”

The consuls of Viscesment had told the approaching crusaders that the city would not resist their passage. Pass through, cross the bridges, head off into the Connec, no bad behavior along the way. The crusaders had agreed despite knowing they could not control their Grolsacher hangers-on. Nor even the more fanatic members of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy, who damned Viscesment for tolerating the Maysalean Heresy.

The consuls did insist that the common soldiers, Grolsachers, and camp followers surrender their weapons to the armorers and quartermasters during the passage through the city.

The pliable Arnhander nobles acquiesced. The Society churchmen gave the consuls promissory scowls.

The Captain-General lost patience. He sent a message telling the consuls to get on with it.

In the end, the crusaders were granted use of one broad, paved street leading to the Purelice Bridge. The Grave Street. The Purelice Bridge was the broadest and longest of the three Viscesment boasted.

The crusaders found the cross streets all blocked with carts, wagons, and furniture, the barricades backed by local militia. The distrust shown by the locals accentuated an ages-old southern attitude toward the cousin in the north.

The Purelice Bridge, named for the Emperor who ordered it built, humpbacked over the middle of the Dechear to make it easier for traffic to pass under without having to unstep masts. Today, few riverboats or ships depended on sail power.

The bridge was straight. The west end could not be seen from the east end because of the hump. The bridge’s west end had been barricaded. Eighteen falcons loaded with pebbles backed those barricades. Buhle Smolens and Kait Rhuk were in charge. They had several companies of archers and spearmen in support.

The rest of the Patriarchal firepowder weaponry was scattered along the Arnhander route of march, hidden, sited by Drago Prosek. The point was to stun the crusaders into surrendering. If they failed to be convinced by the cruel logic of their situation.

Should the falcons be discharged they would generate noise and smoke enough to summon the rest of the Patriarchal force to cut off retreat to the east.

From the bell tower of Sant Wakin’s Church-the Anti-Patriarchs’ own-the Captain-General could observe both ends of the Purelice Bridge and most of Grave Street. Nowadays, nobody knew why the street was called that. Some locals would not use the name for superstitious reasons. The street filled. First came determined Society types who suffered catcalls and occasional thrown stones as they excoriated the locals for being sinful. Then came the gaily caparisoned nobles who commanded the army, followed by their lances, foot, and train.

“What a lot of clutter,” Hecht said. “We aren’t that bad on the march, are we, Titus?”

“Not so much. But if you let the men bring their families…”