'Titus! Sarcasm? I like that. I think.' Smile gone, Hecht said, 'You could have a point. I'm feeling some time pressure. Things are happening in Brothe. And people there are trying to keep me from hearing about it.'
'Did it occur to you to ask me?'
After a moment, 'No. My spymaster? Why consult him? Because I've been too focused on what's in front of me? What do you know?'
'My contacts in the Devedian community aren't what they used to be. But some still think being friendly could pay dividends. They tell me when there's something they think we should know.'
'And?'
'Most Brothens think Sublime is dying. The gang around him want to make sure they can name his replacement. The Fiducian, Joceran Cuito, looks like he'll be their candidate.'
The Direcian. Peter of Navaya's man. That could lead to interesting times. 'A Navayan? We're still not over the last non-Brothen who won a Patriarchal election.'
Consent shrugged. 'I'm just telling you what I hear. They say Peter wants it. And has the money to make it happen.'
'I see. And I'm being kept isolated because?'
'Because you have an army. You could veto the outcome of an election. If you had the inclination. Like a general from Imperial times.'
Hecht chuckled. What would Gordimer and er-Rashal think? Their throwaway agent was in a position to influence the selection of the next main enemy of the Kaifate of al-Minphet.
Consent asked, 'You thought about who you'd rather have take over if Sublime went away?'
Hecht assayed tone and expression. Was he being felt out? He decided not. 'Something else to worry about.'
'Always plenty.'
'Where is Principate Delari? I don't see him around anymore.'
'Nor do I. But he's out there. Maybe missing Armand.'
'Maybe.' Hecht did not miss Osa Stile even a little.
Seeing the diminution of the besieging forces, the magnates of the White City launched another desperate night sortie. The Captain-General saw it coming. Every sally had been presaged by the gathering of watchers on the city wall.
A lot of dead men decorated the slopes when the sun rose. Few were Patriarchals.
The revenant Instrumentalities were busy all night. There were numerous reports of encounters in the form of sound or stench, but only a few had seen anything.
Hecht asked his staff, 'Are they rattled enough to fall apart if we attack?'
Consent said, 'Our men are exhausted, too. Those who were away from the main action wore themselves out mounting diversionary attacks.'
And had gained several footholds inside the main wall. ›
'I'll let the Principates give them one more chance to surrender. What's this?'
A courier. With news that Queen Isabeth was moving. Her whole force was headed east, two hundred fifty knights, their associated sergeants, squires, and infantry, and nearly eight hundred Sevanphaxi and Terliagan mercenaries Tormond had conjured somehow. Nearly two thousand men, almost all veterans.
Hecht scanned the message again. 'They're coming straight at us. To see what we'll do, I imagine. They're in no hurry. That's good for us.' Otherwise, they'd be right behind the news. He sent messengers flying. To Hagan Brokke. To the scouts watching Isabeth. To those whose job it was to watch Mohela ande Larges.
An intricate dance began. It developed slowly. Each dancer waited for the other to misstep.
Isabeth halted after traveling twelve miles. She occupied the common farmland outside the town Homodel. Hecht's scouts reported the ground looked good for cavalry.
'Let them sit. Let them get colder.' He thought it looked like there would be a more serious snowfall sometime soon. 'Chase their scouts. Ambush their foragers. We'll let Brokke upset them.'
While he waited, though, he kept on filtering men out of camp.
The bombardment of the White City went on.
Hagan Brokke feinted toward Mohela ande Larges, the attack the Captain-General supposed the enemy expected. Once Brokke saw that the Queen's headquarters could not be taken quickly, he headed toward Khaurene. As always, his troops crushed resistance ferociously. In two days they captured six towns and fortresses and accepted the surrenders of three more.
The Patriarchals from around Castreresone established a camp three miles from Isabeth's. Making no offer of battle.
The nights became filled with the bark and chatter and numbing stench of the Night, worsening fast. The Connecten Instrumentalities were gathering, tormenting the sons of men not nearly so much as one another.
So said Principate Muniero Delari, more in evidence now that a collision might be coming.
The old man assembled a team of falconeers whose weapons had been lost in the confrontation with the god grub. They built and tested traps, some as imagined by Drago Prosek, most designs handed down from early Old Empire times.
The smallest Instrumentalities were easily caught, often because they were desperate to escape larger predators. Delari hoped to use the small captives to lure the large.
'What kind of sorcerer are you?' Hecht asked. 'I thought, as a class, that was your high purpose. To round up a bigger, nastier herd than anyone else has.'
'You aren't sufficiently well informed.' Delari said that deadpan. And did not explain. His sense of humor was hard to detect. 'You need to spend more time with your grandfather.'
The Navayans were patient. Hecht went out to the camp and took charge. It was an excuse to get away from Castreresone. He tried provoking the Navayans with nighttime harassments. His men could not penetrate their picket lines. He had his surviving falcons fire stone shot toward the fanciest pavilion. Their accuracy was foul, one exploded, and the noise frightened the crusaders' own animals. There was no evidence the Navayans were impressed.
Hecht began a process of encirclement, having his men pick off anyone who strayed from the enemy camp. His patrols watched for couriers. Those from the White City were allowed to get through. Messages coming out were intercepted as often as possible. Those were in cipher. Even Titus Consent had no luck breaking the code. The couriers themselves, naturally, had no clue.
Hecht said, 'I don't mind if they just sit there. Except that it's cold. We have food. They don't. Not enough to wait us out.' While they sat, they would be hammered by increasingly desperate pleas from Castreresone.
The Captain-General refused to engage an enemy with such a heavy cavalry advantage.
Four days into the standoff news came that Patriarchal troops had gotten a solid foothold inside Castreresone. Several leading men had been captured.
It looked like the beginning of the end for the White City. That same day word came that Hagan Brokke's men had shown themselves to watchers on the wall at Khaurene. They had burned villages and manors within sight of the city, concentrating on properties belonging to Duke Tormond. A huge, angry response from the city forced them to withdraw. But the message had been delivered.
Titus Consent materialized at Hecht's elbow as the Captain-General tried to pry advice out of Principate Delari. The old man was depressed for no obvious reason. Hecht told him, 'You don't have to be here. I can send you down to Sheavenalle. You could get passage across to Brothe. You could be back loafing in the Chiaro baths in a week.'
'That won't change the future. Nor the past. Lieutenant Consent has something urgent. Spend your empathy on him.'
'Titus?'
'The Navayans are up to something over there. Scouts are heading out.'
Soon afterward the Navayans left camp. The knights headed toward the Patriarchal camp. The mercenary infantry marched out eastward. Their own infantry followed the horsemen. Knights, sergeants, senior squires, and whatnot, those numbered almost three hundred. More than Hecht had expected.
The horsemen stopped outside bowshot, dismounted, began an advance on foot, each armored man backed by two foot.
