crusaders. Though he was not taken seriously outside Viscesment, the Society in those parts faced savage persecutions already. Reaping what they had sown.
Bellicose promised to execute a member of the Society every time a non-Brothen Episcopal suffered at its hands. He and Sublime were bee-busy excommunicating and publishing Writs of Anathema against one another. More insanity, Brother Candle thought. Maybe the sides could exterminate each other. Leave the world to the Unbelievers, the Seekers, and those whose harsh old deities had begun slithering in out of muck and shadow.
The Perfect Master grew increasingly dismayed as he watched the besiegers. He realized he was looking at something unseen since the collapse of the Old Empire.
Professional soldiers led by professional officers, chosen for competence rather than noble lineage, veterans all, were going about their business with the dispassionate skill of butchers and bricklayers. However much the nobility on either side disdained them, they represented sudden, efficient death.
How would they stand up to a massed heavy cavalry charge?
Bernardin Amberchelle found him there, in his pessimism. 'Brother? I just left another meeting of the consuls and magnates.'
'Let me guess. They can't agree on a sensible course of action.'
'You should be a professional gambler, Brother.'
'I am, in a way, nowadays. Risking my soul chasing earthly illusions.'
Amberchelle's short, wide frame shuddered. 'I've decided. They won't do the needful things. The Patriarchals should go after the Burg in the morning. Tonight may be our last chance to get out.'
'I feared as much. I am, of course, ready to go.'
'Good. Good. There'll be enough moonlight. We should be well away before sunrise.' Amberchelle sounded shaky. Frightened and trying to hide it.
'Something out there worries you?'
'Rumors. Horrible things in the dark.'
Brother Candle nodded, though the horrible things he had heard of were awful mainly on an intellectual level. Rook. Hilt. The other revenants. They were disgusting but nothing he feared. Not at the strength they possessed now.
They barely qualified as ghosts of the gods they had been.
Brother Candle said, 'Very well. I'll get my things and chivvy the girl.'
'I've spoken to her already.'
'Excellent. We might get out of here before sunrise.'
It was midnight. Socia Rault and Brother Candle, accompanied by Bernardin Amberchelle and his associates, eased out a sally port in Castreresone's north end. They had waited half an hour for their turn. A human river was headed out.
Those Brother Candle made out by feeble moonlight were Seekers and other minorities. Those who had most to lose if Castreresone fell.
They made less than a mile before the clouds masked the moon permanently. The chill breeze picked up, growing colder. The darkness became oppressive.
A mile farther on the path rounded a hill. The darkness deepened. The fugitives now moved in a slow shuffle, feeling the way. There was talk of torches. Nobody had one. Then someone with a clear head observed that a torch would attract enemy pickets. Who were out there somewhere. Who would cheerfully rob and murder them all. The Patriarchal city levies did most of the scouring of the countryside. The Captain-General did little to restrain their greed.
It stood to reason that if they killed everyone who resisted soon enough few Connectens would show any inclination to fight.
This darkness was not friendly. It hid them but also blinded them. The path wound between rolling hills. Eventually, it split. The right-hand path led to the old Imperial highway, which could be followed easily even in darkness. Bernardin Amberchelle had hoped to be on it a dozen miles west of the White City by first light.
That did not happen.
First light came. They had not found the old road yet.
There were delays, not only because of the darkness.
Things moved in the night, pacing them. Things that stank. Things that laughed foully. Things that raced across the path, triggering screams, apparently just for the hell of scaring people.
Brother Candle's band never reached the Imperial road. Word came that it was occupied by Patriarchals moving west to keep an eye on Queen Isabeth. They thought she might do something when she heard about the new assault on the Burg.
The band joined the rest of the fugitives, heading back to find another way. Snow began to fall.
'No rest for the wicked,' the perfect muttered to Socia. He had had no intention of joining the Queen's camp. He had gone there only because the road ran past Mohela ande Larges. And because the Navayans would make a nice block in the path of any pursuit. He followed the man who had recognized him among the refugees. 'Michael Carhart, why must you do this to me?' He was amazed that the Devedian philosopher would be found outside Khaurene.
Carhart chuckled. 'Relax. Isabeth just wants to talk about Castreresone. She's harmless.'
'So is an adder. To those wise enough not to sup with serpents.'
Michael Carhart did not like that. 'Watch your tongue, old friend. The nobility have no patience for that sort of jest these days.'
'Yes. I recall those times when the jongleurs roamed freely, like wild chickens, cackling that seditious nonsense to anyone who would listen.'
'Make light if you like. But you know what I mean. Take care.'
Brother Candle did understand. The mighty were not happy. They wanted someone else to hurt.
There were more familiar faces in the great hall of Mohela ande Larges, the little castle Isabeth had appropriated. She was accompanied by a half-dozen darkly handsome men, none of them her husband. King Peter must trust them indeed. Or the several women in shadow behind Isabeth were harsh enough chaperones to provoke Peter's absolute confidence.
Michael Carhart joined others whose presence startled Brother Candle: Hanak el-Mira and Bishop Clayto. Friends. Or as much so as could be amongst men of such diverse backgrounds. Only Bries LeCroes was missing.
What had become of LeCroes? He should ask. He had heard no final disposition of the poisoner's case.
The handsome men said nothing. They stared at the Perfect Master with a feigned indifference bordering on disdain. The Navayan nobility were dedicated Brothen Episcopals, their faith tempered by worldly convenience. King Peter had more allies among Direcia's Pramans than among rival Episcopal princes.
The Queen was courteous. 'Be seated, Master. Your companions will be cared for. I understand they're rather ragged.'
Brother Candle inclined his head. 'Socia Rault and I have spent months staying ahead of Arnhanders, Grolsachers, revenant demons, and now the Usurper Patriarch's Captain-General.'
'Tell me what you've seen since last our paths crossed.'
Brother Candle did so. In detail. Duke Tormond's little sister was more patient than the child he remembered. The handsome men became restless long before he finished. She did not.
Isabeth observed, 'The Night would seem to be more active in the east. We hear a thousand rumors from that direction but almost nothing from farther west.'
'The things stirring are Instrumentalities associated with conflict and chaos. Peace seems to have settled in everywhere but around Antieux and Castreresone.'
Isabeth nodded. Having known the child, Brother Candle found it hard to believe the rowdy storm of flying limbs had matured into someone regal. He wondered about her son. Where was the baby Prince? Was he well? Domestic gossip got little attention these days.
Isabeth asked, 'Is Castreresone truly in danger?'
'Imminent.'
'But those walls…'
