back?'
'You don't have muscle enough to bully me into that, Pipe. That guy is the worst asshole I've ever met. He makes old Bishop Serifs look like a fairy-tale princess. It's too bad the Connectens didn't kill his ass when they had the chance.'
'I've avoided him so far. I won't be able to forever.'
'Something to look forward to, then. If we're lucky, the next Patriarch will get rid of him. Hell, if we could just get him up in front of the Collegium… He'd make such an ass of himself, they'd appoint him chief missionary to the Dreangereans. Or something bad. You got anything for me to take back when I go?'
'Just find Prosek. Have him tell you how to handle your Night things. If you need to, tell Sedlakova he should bring in people from the Special Office. I'm sure he knows a few.'
'If he isn't one himself.'
Cloven Februaren appeared as Hecht was crawling into bed. The feather bed being the one thing he found positive about having moved into the keep. He groaned. 'I was hoping to get an extra hour tonight.'
'I'm only here to tell you I won't be around for a while. You'll need to stay closer to your lifeguards.'
Hecht suspected that Februaren had a severely inflated notion of his own importance. Yet the old man might have stopped any number of attempts to assassinate the Captain-General. How would he know about attempts that failed? 'I'll try to remember.'
'They only need be successful once. It's important that they not be.'
'I'm glad you share my viewpoint.'
'I worry that you aren't serious enough about sharing mine. Very worried. It's important that you survive.'
Hecht agreed. But he and the old man were not talking about the same thing. It was not personal with Februaren. Februaren was a man with a plan. And that plan hinged on a supposed remote descendant.
Again, 'I won't be out there. So you
'I've got it. Really.'
Februaren did his turn-around thing. Hecht snuggled down into the warmth of the feather bed. He fell asleep wondering if he had it in him to be paranoid enough to satisfy the Ninth Unknown.
Three thousand of the best-rested troops headed west. Hecht hoped to provoke Duke Tormond into doing something unwise now that he had invoked his feudal right to summon his dependents to war. Hecht was not eager for a fight. But a fight would stir the political cauldron. And he did want that kept bubbling, whether or not his most secret self remained faithful to the mission given him by his first master, Gordimer the Lion.
The review of the departing troops done, Hecht went to see Hagan Brokke. Brokke was apologetic about his failure to handle the Navayans. He had paid the price of failure, physically. He would not have survived long had he not come into the hands of the healing brothers.
From Brokke's bedside Hecht went to see the prisoners Brokke had brought in. He expected a handful. There were more than forty, the majority being knights and minor nobility. Those had been given comfortable quarters in Inconje. Those of more immediate interest, though, had been driven into a stock pen.
'Bo. I haven't seen you for an age.'
'Been too busy to socialize. Sir.' Biogna scowled at all the bodyguards. Madouc must have had a dream visit from Cloven Februaren. He had increased the protection significantly.
'Are you involved in this?'
'I was out there with Brokke. Being his Titus Consent. Keeping him convinced that we needed to take a few prisoners.'
'Why such a mob?'
'Most of them can be ransomed. The men insisted. But there are some interesting ones, too.'
'Them?' Hecht indicated the men in the pen.
'Artecipeans. Every one. Probably useless for anything but Society food.'
'Uhm?'
'They're not just heretics, they're Unbelievers. Trying to bring back the Old Gods. Virulently dangerous. Unlike those ones back yonder in the other pens. That whole clutch there are Khaurenese we picked up at Mohela ande Larges. One of Immaculate's bishops, a Praman priest of some kind, and a Deve elder. A couple days later, we found a Perfect Master hiding in some brush. Wouldn't have known it. He wasn't in costume. But the ones from Khaurene knew him. One of them said something before his brain checked in.'
Hecht considered the Artecipeans. They avoided his gaze. 'I've seen some of these men before.' One face, in fact, he recalled from the crowd of gawkers outside Anna's house the night they moved her to Principate Delari's town house. 'I'll work up a list of questions. Whoever answers them honestly won't get turned over to Archbishop Farfog. Show me what else you've got.'
The captured soldiers were not impressive. Prisoners of war seldom were.
Biogna said, 'This might be the best catch. Bernardin Amberchelle. Count Raymone's ugly cousin. In the top five on the Society's wanted list. He killed a bunch of their thugs. That's the Perfect Master over there, with the girl. He was traveling with Amberchelle. Says the girl is his daughter. He was trying to get her to safety in Khaurene. He's lying. She has a different accent. They're both very careful to protect her. She's got to be somebody important.'
'Pity Ghort's gone. He might be able to use the cousin to get to Raymone.'
'Send a messenger. He can use the information.'
'Good work. Keep after these people. Use Farfog as leverage.' Hecht considered the old man and the girl. The girl appeared to be about twenty, possibly not unattractive under the grime. She had a ferocious look.
'The Amberchelle person. Was he wearing or carrying anything we can send to Antieux? To prove we have him?'
'I'll find out.' Skirting the certainty that the soldiers who caught him had relieved him of everything of value.
'Do that.'
Hecht avoided Morcant Farfog for two more days. By which time he had Castreresone under control. It was not a pleasant interview. Those who had reported the Archbishop's failings had not exaggerated. Hecht endured what he had to endure and gave the minimum in response to demands. The Archbishop went away thinking he had won several major points. In fact, Hecht had yielded little.
He told Titus Consent, 'That man must be beloved of God. He's too stupid, venal, and opinionated to survive otherwise.'
Farfog had been vigorously obnoxious from the moment he entered the White City. Local Brothen Episcopals fed him names where they wanted plunder or vengeance.
It was one of the most interesting days Piper Hecht ever enjoyed. In the morning, while reviewing a force of two thousand moving west to add to pressure on the Khaurenesaine, he received word that his troops had engaged enemy mercenaries in a series of skirmishes and small battles and had overcome them in almost every instance. Numerous towns and fortresses had sent surrender offers as a result.
More good news arrived early in the afternoon. Count Raymone Garete seemed inclined toward reason, suddenly. Having been apprised of his cousin's situation. He was now willing to talk, though apparently unwilling to yield.
Immediately afterward came news that Sublime V had gone to his reward. Brothe had begun the monthlong series of ceremonies and rituals that would end with a conclave to choose a successor. Hecht ordered the appropriate shows of mourning-but instructed his officers to avoid allowing their opponents any advantage from the news. 'I want our men seen everywhere. In bigger groups. They're to hit back hard at any provocation. I won't let Castreresone fall apart now.' Yet it almost did.
Archbishop Farfog responded to the news from Brothe by surrendering to his obsessions.
First reports were confusing. No one was sure what was happening. Violence had erupted but was not directed at the soldiers. First guesses suggested factional fighting between the two strains of Chaldarean Episcopals. Hecht kept sending small bands to establish order. Each conflict extinguished seemed to spark two more somewhere else.
Consent came to report. 'It's Farfog. Out to do all the damage he can before a new Patriarch shuts him
