Nassim did not have the strength to exterminate the traitor Pramans. He did hammer home the point about the folly of becoming an ally of Rogert du Tancret.
A week later the truth made itself known.
The crusaders attacked a vast, rich caravan from Dreanger headed for Lucidia and the silk road beyond. The caravaneers had refused to take the harsher but safer path through the eastern desert. They believed a bribe to Rogert would guarantee safe passage.
Rogert seized all the goods and made captive the few people not slain outright. Those were all people who could be ransomed. The dead and captured both included important Chaldareans from the Eastern Empire. Among the dead were Dreangerean diplomats headed to Shamramdi and Lucidian ambassadors coming home.
Young Az observed, “At least this time there were no women from my granduncle’s family.”
But there had been Praman pilgrims by the hundred, going to visit shrines in the east or returning from shrines in the west. They had been robbed and butchered without concern for their religion or status. To Rogert they were all Unbelievers and vermin. There was no market for them as slaves. Murder was the obvious way to be shut of their hungry mouths.
“He’ll get a war for this,” young Az predicted. “It’s a prince’s duty to protect pilgrims. Even Unbeliever pilgrims.”
“Or, failing that, to avenge them so nothing wicked happens to the next band.”
Nassim bemoaned the disaster. But it had happened miles away and without warning. It was over before the news reached him. He could have done nothing, anyway. His forces were not concentrated. In retrospect, though, he thought he should have anticipated something of the sort, based on du Tancret’s past behavior.
Before the attack the crusaders bled most of the strength from the lines around Tel Moussa. Nassim took advantage of that to launch frequent counterattacks against what, in the end, proved to have been a calculated distraction.
A brace of new falcons arrived from Haeti, having evaded interception along the way.
15. Wrong Place, Wrong Time
The Perfect Master approached Khaurene late in the day. The setting sun liberally splashed the golden light for which the Connec was famous. He meant to bypass the city and would have done, but circumstance adjusted his thinking.
A year earlier Brother Candle would have gotten behind Khaurene’s walls to escape Patriarchal invaders and revenant things of the Night. Now the great dangers were bandits and itinerant heretic hunters from the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy. The Writ of several recent Patriarchs banning the Society had not taken hold in Arnhand, where those grim monks had been multiplying like mice, with Anne of Menand’s blessing. There was a new Patriarch, Serenity, now. Society vermin were coming out, getting into everything, everywhere, excepting those counties in the eastern Connec where the locals were not in the least reluctant to invite them to become participants, as targets, at archery practice.
Bandits were no threat to a wandering Maysalean Perfect. Bandits were a homegrown peril. Those desperadoes knew the holy men carried nothing worth stealing. Even their ragged clothing had no resale value. Society brethren, though, would happily rob the Perfect of their lives. And, though those villains were not yet numerous in the Connec, they were so absolutely convinced of their righteousness that most people had not the courage to stand up to them. They were fanatic about keeping lists. Including lists of what people were worth.
And they had the threat of Arnhander crusaders behind them.
King Regard himself was headed for Khaurene with an army, rooting out heretics as he came.
The Khaurenesaine had recovered substantially from its recent travails. Crops were in. Vineyards seemed restored. That which had been damaged or destroyed had been repaired or replaced. But the folk the old man met did not smile. They were worn down, exhausted, but had not lost hope. Not even in the face of this latest invasion.
The Connec had the greatest soldier of the age behind it.
Peter of Navaya’s Queen was Duke Tormond’s sister. And Peter had guaranteed the safety and independence of Khaurene. Peter of Navaya, hero of Los Naves de los Fantas, was the most beloved, honored, and respected monarch of the Chaldarean west. Not even Serenity dared try to call him to heel. If Serenity assayed the usual holy bluster and bullying he might find himself master of nothing but what he could see from Krois. He might even lose allies his predecessors had gathered so painstakingly.
Among Peter’s devoted battlefield allies was Jaime of Castauriga. There was no love between those Direcian monarchs but Jaime was unshakably hitched to the Navayan star. And was worshipped by the Grail Empress Katrin. Who had a vast capacity for making any Patriarch’s life more miserable than ever Peter might.
All this Brother Candle heard on the road from Sant Peyre de Mileage. It piled emotion atop emotion, luring him ever farther from Perfection.
He might yet have avoided Khaurene had he not needed to dodge Arnhander scouts that afternoon. They roamed unchallenged. Regard himself was tied up harassing the gentle folk of the Maysalean-tolerant communities of the Altai but did have strong recon patrols surveying the countryside around the Connec’s greatest city. He was, at least, making a grand show.
A show was the best Anne of Menand had yet gotten from most of the men she bullied into going after the Connec’s heretics. Only the fanatics of the Society were enthusiastic. And their captains were notoriously incompetent as warriors.
Brother Candle entered Khaurene just before the gates shut. When he was young the gates never closed. Often they went unguarded because the old men charged with the task failed to show up for work. Now everyone who entered Khaurene enjoyed a personal chat with a young, fit, and suspicious soldier, usually Direcian. The soldiers were practiced and efficient and familiar with the local dialect. They asked quick questions while their comrades watched. Society infiltrators usually betrayed themselves by the lies they told.
One soldier murmured, “Take care in the streets, Master. We still haven’t controlled all the gangs.” Religious violence had become part of city life.
“I’ve been here before. I know which streets to avoid. But thank you for reminding me.”
“Fair weather and good fortune, then.” Since he could not wish a Seeker “Godspeed.”
“And you as well, young man. And you as well.”
King Peter had chosen his soldiers well. Or, more likely, Queen Isabeth had done.
Sometimes the Perfect thought Isabeth loved Khaurene more than did her brother. Duke Tormond seemed to find his role an oppressive burden.
So Brother Candle entered the capital city of the End of Connec, that had stood since before men began keeping records. He had no specific plan but knew he would have to reveal himself to the local Seeker community. He could not survive here, otherwise. He had no money. He had no family here. He had left those things behind to become Perfect.
No choice seen, he made his way toward where the weavers, dyers, tanners, and leatherworkers dwelt. Those trades found the Maysalean philosophy congenial. That area was where he stayed regularly. If those people had recovered from the siege and defeat Khaurene had suffered he should find hospitality there again.
He arrived shortly before nightfall.
Grim news. Brother Candle was too well known. He had been recognized. News of his coming had raced ahead. Raulet Archimbault, the tanner, intercepted him as he turned into a street where all the tanners, spinners, and weavers were Seekers After Light. A plump Madam Archimbault hurried after her husband. Both brought the reek of the tannery with them. The entire neighborhood shared that stench. Weather could only make that worse, never weaken it.
Archimbault definitely showed the consequences of life in a time of stress, having regained few of the pounds he had lost during a grim winter spent hiding in the Altai. His wife had been eating well, though, and actually seemed younger than the Perfect remembered.
Archimbault swept Brother Candle into a great embrace. “We feared you had gone on, Master. No one knew what had become of you.”
