“No. They’ve heard from Serenity and the Patriarchal States, too.”
“That would be Pinkus’s fault. Bet you. He’d want to stock up. He loves falcons almost as much as Prosek and Rhuk do. But with all the demand, how will Krulik and Sneigon manufacture enough weapons?”
“They might not. They’ve only made sample deliveries so far. They’re taking orders against future delivery, no credit offered.”
“That’s smart, considering the people they’re dealing with. Pinkus might never see a new weapon. Unless Bronte Doneto is a better money manager than his predecessors.”
“Yes. Here’s a problem. They’ve figured out how to make big lots of firepowder. They’re experimenting all the time, trying to improve it. One formula includes nephron from Dreanger. I don’t know what that means but someone thought we should know.”
“Nephron is used by mummy makers. I know that. I’ll have to tell the Empress about this, first chance.”
“What good will that do?”
“Who knows? Maybe none. But she has those moments when she’s as fierce and brilliant as her father.” Hecht knew what Johannes would do, Monestacheus Deleanu be damned. “Have your agents dug out Krulik and Sneigon’s future plans?”
“No. But they’re obvious. Get filthy rich producing the instruments of murder.”
“The very best instruments. Of which, you’ll agree, they can produce only so many.”
“Of course. Maybe they’ll go to auctioning their weapons.” That was basic economic sense, every man’s daydream-and a good way to get butchered by an exasperated prince.
“Or?”
“Or what?”
“Or they could pick and choose who gets what. They could steal the power to decide winners and losers.”
Titus grunted unhappily.
“Does that noise have meaning?”
“Krulik and Sneigon moved out to that wilderness in part because they’re so greedy their own people would have turned on them if they had stayed in Brothe.”
“A point you made last year.”
“Keep it in mind.”
“I’ll consider it. I need to rest. The wound is really barking tonight.”
“Want something?”
“No. I don’t want to get addicted.”
That night Hecht spent an hour tapping on his pendant. He received only a curt acknowledgment from Heris.
He had not seen Heris in months, nor Cloven Februaren in twice as long. He had not weaned himself from emotional reliance on the Lord of the Silent Kingdom. The protection of the Ninth Unknown had been there as certain as the dawn.
The pain in his left shoulder was a solid reminder of the change.
What were those two doing? Why such focus? How grim had it become?
A warm wind came up around the end of the Jagos, putting smiles on every face. Though pessimists like Titus Consent still talked doom and gloom through their exposed teeth.
The snows might melt in a rush. The Bleune and its tributaries could flood. That was the case, three years out of five.
The Commander of the Righteous felt no compassion for those who would suffer. “The waters do rise three years out of five. Anybody who keeps living where they’re sure to get wet deserves whatever they get.” But he would help with the relief effort.
Piper Hecht was out reviewing his troops. They, with their animals and equipment, had assembled in the Franz-Benneroust Plaza, in front of the main citadel. Franz-Benneroust had been a weak, early Grail Emperor, forgotten except for his public works, though he had ruled longer than any Grail Emperor since. He had spent most of his income improving Alten Weinberg and Hochwasser, and building bridges. His own descendants did not recall him well enough to connect him with the name attached to so many buildings and bridges.
Hecht knew because he accumulated such knowledge. It was a compulsion and a defense mechanism. The more he knew the safer he felt. He was better able to fit in.
For the first time in an age he wondered where he would be if er-Rashal had not made Gordimer fear him.
For the first time in an age he examined the question of why the Rascal needed him dead or out of al-Minphet permanently. As ever, he found no answers.
For the first time in an age he wondered if Gordimer and er-Rashal knew he still lived. Or if they cared, since he was out of their way.
Him leading an Imperial crusade ought to remind them. He could go south from the Holy Lands. It should not be hard to convince Katrin that Dreanger needed liberating, too. Dreanger had been critical to the early history of the Chaldarean faith. Definitely more important than Firaldia had been till the Praman Conquest inundated that end of the world.
He reminded himself that Katrin Ege was the daughter of the Emperor Johannes III and far more clever than she pretended. She would not be led easily.
The parade went off with minimal difficulties. His soldiers were paid up, well fed, not overworked, had several sorts of sharp new uniforms, and could not be in better morale. There were fourteen hundred of them now. Almost to a man they were living the dream that had drawn them into service. Only absent was the part where they got to smash enemy cities and get rich on the plunder.
They were sure that part would come soon.
Drago Prosek and Kait Rhuk concluded the event with a thunderous concert from their falcons. Sulfurous clouds of firepowder smoke drifted through the city in sulfurous clouds, potent reminder of where the power lay.
26. The Chosen: Transitions
The Windwalker’s thrall had fallen off half a frozen world. Wherever they could, wherever they were bright enough, whole peoples took flight.
The edge of the ice became the realm of fury, of war and chaos. Few princes or peoples were as welcoming as Tsistimed the Golden and the Hu’n-tai At.
But Tsistimed did rule the steppes and mountains for six thousand miles.
In the west geography and history made the situation a little different. The refugee problem was not as troublesome. The lands above the Jago Mountains had not been heavily populated, initially, and many natives of the northern principalities had migrated south already. Only around the cities was there a significant impact. Thousands could live off the land in the wilds. And only thousands had escaped the Windwalker’s reign.
The god had spent the rest.
Few escaped the lands above the Shallow Sea, most of those by crossing the Ormo Strait on a bridge of ice that formed briefly during the winter.
The handful who failed to make that crossing would not see summer’s return.
A dozen figures prowled the shingle where the fallen god lay, all encompassed by the feeble thrum-hum of the life still animating the Windwalker. Seven were men. One was a wild-haired woman. Those eight were all mad, dedicated priests, the last of Kharoulke’s local adherents. They protected him from lesser Instrumentalities. They prayed and performed rites in an effort to waken him. They grew weaker by the day. They had little to eat but dead things found on the ice, or washed ashore during those brief times when the tides were not roaring back and
