Glen Cook - Surrender to the will of the night

Isabeth suddenly looked old. She told the Perfect, “Remember what Tormond was like last time you saw him.”

“It wasn’t that long ago, if you’ll recall.”

“Oh. Of course. But the Tormond who went out this morning was in worse shape than back then, despite all that wizards and physicians did. He shouldn’t have gone. But without Eardale Dunn we had no one else. Mas Crebet and Casteren Grout are bad jokes.” She meant the consuls, Khaurene’s equivalent of a mayor.

“There is Your Majesty,” Hodier observed.

“Crap. They won’t follow a woman.”

Brother Candle observed, “It might have been worth a try. But that opportunity has fled.”

“Who knows? Jaime is gone. Peter is gone. Tormond is next to extinct. Count Raymone is at the other end of the Connec and Regard is at the gate. So it comes down to me, anyway. We will find out who’ll follow a woman.”

The Perfect was at sea. He had been brought to Metrelieux to discuss a matter that had been pushed aside by subsequent news. The world had changed, for everyone, wherever they stood.

Isabeth said, “The lords of Navaya will be back, soon. That could get exciting. I need to steel myself.”

Brother Candle could see that. Without Peter to curb them the Direcians were likely to treat Khaurene as an occupied city instead of an ally and dependent. They would feel justified. The Khaurenese could have overwhelmed the Arnhanders but had chosen not to act.

That would not be forgiven.

“We need to be quick,” Hodier said.

Isabeth waved that off. “I became a queen mother today. But my son is practically still a baby. In the normal course Count Alplicova would become regent until Little Peter comes of age. I’ll push for that. But Fate was wearing her big stomping boots today. Dead or alive, I lost my brother, too. Dead or alive, he’ll no longer be a factor in the considerations of princes. Nor of the Patriarchs, whom Tormond did, at least, always make nervous.”

A minor chamberlain burst in. “A band of Brothen Episcopals led by Society brothers are trying to take control of the north gate.”

“They’re wearing colors?” Isabeth asked.

“They are, Your Majesty.”

“Then kill them. If they surrender, throw them off the wall.”

“Your Majesty?” Appalled.

“No exceptions. If they have families, kill them, too.”

Though appalled himself, Brother Candle did the cold equations. A show of ferocity now would save lives later. Nor could he summon much empathy for people who meant to burn him at the stake.

The chamberlain went away.

Isabeth said, “I’ll do everything I can till they come take it away.” She went silent for a moment. Brother Candle said nothing. Eloquently. Isabeth finally mused, “They killed King Jaime, too.”

Hodier murmured, “God willing, then, Death will claim King Regard, as well.”

“God willing. He’s been reported down several times. But he keeps getting back up.”

Brother Candle finally worked himself up to ask, “Why am I here?”

The Queen replied, “Because you’re an agent of and apologist for Count Raymone Garete.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would. You were Tormond’s friend. He thought. Mine, too, but not so much. My conscience wouldn’t trouble me if I had to drop you down a well. Count Raymone.”

“What about him?”

“Exactly. Tormond made Raymone his heir. The men best equipped to keep Raymone from inheriting all died today. I want to know what we can expect from Antieux. Does Count Raymone want to become Duke? What kind of man is he?”

“Yes to the first and stubborn to the latter. Count Raymone Garete is everything people always wanted Tormond to be, only twice as much. He’ll become Duke because that will give him the power to punish any foreigner who refuses to leave him, Antieux, and the Connec alone.”

“I might like this man better than the Count Raymone I remember.”

“A caution. If Raymone assumes the Dukedom, there’ll be war.”

“We’ve got war now.”

“I mean a war involving man, woman, and child, all out, until Raymone Garete draws his last breath. Or until Arnhand and Brothe fold their hands and direct their ambitions elsewhere. Even Raymone’s death might not be the end of it. The Countess, Socia, is more bloodthirsty than he is.”

Another underchamberlain rushed in. He reported that the captains of the militia, who had chosen to do nothing all day, were now in a demanding mood.

“Where is Alplicova? I want him here. Tell those people I’ll be with them shortly.”

It took more than a few minutes to locate Count Alplicova and chivvy him into the Queen’s presence. He was in no fit condition to be there. His wounds had not yet been treated. He had been busy readying Khaurene’s defenses rather than getting cleaned up and patched up.

Isabeth demanded, “Are you well enough to endure the demands of command, Count?”

“As ever, I will do what must be done. There is no one else.”

“You could be right. Collect some reliable men and bring them here. Quickly. The magnates are in a mood to make demands. After all they did for us today, on the battlefield, I’m not inclined to be indulgent.”

“I understand completely, Your Majesty.”

“Master.”

Isabeth’s sudden attention startled Brother Candle, who had slipped into a dark reverie. He failed to remind her that “Master” was inappropriate. “Your Grace?”

The Navayan Queen failed to remind him that she did not like being “Your Grace.” “I don’t have time for you, now. Keep yourself available.”

“As you wish.”

“At the moment I wish you to find my brother. Someone brought him back, I expect still breathing. Find him. Attach yourself. Take care of him. Hodier. You just became the Master’s shadow. Where he goes, you go. Do what he says needs doing.”

“As you command.” Said without pleasure.

The Perfect and the herald left the Queen’s presence, two old men glad to get away.

To the distress of few outside their own families Isabeth arrested the leaders of the Khaurenese militia. Rumor soon claimed that several had taken bribes from the Society-or from Anne of Menand, or from the Patriarch-to shun the fight. Treason being a more attractive explanation than indecision or incompetence.

There was a lot of anger in Khaurene. Brothen Episcopal Faithful suffered the brunt. Anyone even vaguely suspect dared not show himself lest he be thrown down to the befuddled Arnhanders trying to initiate a siege.

The scattered smaller Arnhander companies had begun arriving.

King Regard was so stiff and bruised he could barely move. His concussion caused occasional brief blackouts. But he saw an opportunity. He was determined to strike while the Khaurenese remained stunned.

Regard, however, lacked followers who shared his vision.

Those who had fought and survived, those who had not deserted, were too exhausted to do anything but go through the motions while the bands coming in were cold and tired and hungry. And they all faced heretics determined to fight. They would not flee to the Altai this time. Not this early in the season.

Once the sun set, siege work proceeded desultorily by artificial light. It was difficult to see arrows in flight. Meaning it became difficult to dodge.

Bicot Hodier drafted a couple of guards he trusted and had them accompany him and the Perfect. “Just in case. Some people may consider today an opportunity.”

Brother Candle grunted, saved his breath for keeping up. But he understood. Khaurene teetered on the brink of chaos. Adventurers would see opportunities that, likely as not, existed only in their own imaginations. But they would act anyway.

Count Alplicova began arresting city magnates and militia captains before the herald and Perfect located Tormond. The Duke had been whisked into the home of the consul Sieur Casteren Grout. Grout and his fellow consul, Sieur Mas Crebet, had not turned out for morning muster and, thus, had not been with the militia in the field. A gross dereliction by Crebet, whose principal responsibility was to lead the city levies when they were called out.