He waited an hour, pacing more than sitting on the room's one damp stone bench. Shivering. His patience waned, a weakness he had not suffered since his ascension to Perfect status.
'Is it getting to you, too, Brother?'
He turned, confessing with a nod, though unsure what «it» might be. 'Sir Eardale?' He pronounced it 'Ey-air- da-lay,' which was nearer the Santerin than most managed.
'Yes. And you want to know why me and why this.'
Brother Candle exercised his nod again. Sir Eardale Dunn was not the man he expected to see. Dunn was Duke Tormond's top soldier and adviser. The Perfect Master wondered why he did not return to Santerin. He must like his life here, despite Duke Tormond's tendency to ignore his advice.
Sir Eardale said, 'This room is proof against sorcery. The stone came from the Holy Lands, quarried near one of the veils of power. You waited so long because I wanted to make sure nobody noticed me.'
'I see.' Though he did not.
'No, you don't. Not yet. But I'll explain.'
'Please do.'
'Something bad is happening here. The Duke hasn't been himself. Not for a long time. Lately, though, he's been getting worse. It's like a wasting disease of the spirit.'
'He isn't young anymore.' Tormond was just weeks older ihan Brother Candle.
'He has those problems, of course. Complicated by his diet. All meat and wine. But this is something else. It exaggerates those tendencies that make him ineffective.'
'Has anyone new moved into Metrelieux?' Having summed the evidence, Brother Candle suspected malign sorcery. But by whom?
'No one significant. There's always turnover in staff and pages. None of them suspicious. It's someone we know. Someone who's been here all along. Who found a new talent recently. Or a new calling.'
'Uhm. And this secretive interview is because?'
'Because you have stature and respect and haven't been here to become part of any faction. You're neutral. You care about the Duke and you care about the End of Connec. You might see something the rest of us can't.'
'I see.' More, probably, than Sir Eardale thought.
The knight from Santerin would not be alone in reaching the conclusions he had presented. Everyone not guilty would be watching everyone else, hoping to finger a villain. The paranoia would be thick.
'I misspoke,' Dunn said. 'There is one new face. Father Rinpoche, representing our friends in Salpeno.'
'That idiot? I thought he was dead.'
'Unfortunately, no. Or, maybe, fortunately. He's too stupid and blindered to be a real danger.'
'Why would they send him? Of all people?'
'He's a favorite of Anne of Menand. And Anne is in the ascendant, these days. She's real chummy with the Brothen Church lately, too.'
'She always was.' The mistress of Arnhand's King Charlve once raised her own band of crusaders to punish the Connec on the Church's behalf. The force fell apart before it did anything but that hadn't been Anne's fault.
'More so, now. I hear she bought the letters of marque that belonged to Haiden Backe. From Bishop Farfog, who managed to salvage them when he got away from Count Raymone. The Bishop, by the way, is now the Brothen Patriarch's chief agent in the Church's effort to tame the Connec.'
Sublime seemed to dump all his dimmest and most corrupt agents on the Connec.
Dunn added, 'I don't think Rinpoche is here as a true ambassador. He's really a spy, looking for weaknesses. Finding collaborators. And probably not doing well at that. He's too stupid.'
Brother Candle was not so sure. Rinpoche might be a clever man posing as a fool.
The Perfect nodded as though everything in this world was perfectly clear. 'Do you people have any idea what's really going on outside Metrelieux?'
Sir Eardale sighed. 'No, Brother. Most of us don't. Most of us apparently don't want to know. Or don't care.' He paused a moment. When Brother Candle said nothing he continued. 'I myself am aware of the creeping chaos. Incompletely, no doubt.'
'Creeping chaos is putting it too optimistically, sir. The Connec is dying. It's falling apart. So fast it makes the head spin. If you travel more than twenty miles from Khaurene, you stand an excellent chance of wandering into a local war or falling foul of brigands. Half the counts and knights out there, especially in the north and west, are feuding. Half of those can't explain why. It's just something they have to do. A matter of honor. If it weren't for Count Raymone and a few men like him, I'm afraid the collapse would be complete in another year.'
'I hadn't thought it that bad. Not yet. I thought we still had some time.'
'The time is all used up. The Duke has wasted it for far too long already.'
'Tormond is obsessed with the state of his soul. When he's rational at all.'
'While all the southwest and the Terliagan Littoral defects to Peter of Navaya.'
'Not a stupid move for those people, eh?'
Brother Candle frowned.
'I'm being rational, not disloyal. I understand what's happening. I'm powerless to do much. I'm allowed to send letters to this noble or that ordering him to stop burning his neighbor's corn but they don't listen. I have no teeth. They know they can go right on murdering sheep. The only power capable of staying them will be the owner of the sheep. Or maybe the sheep themselves once they've had enough. I can't raise the levies. I can't send ducal troops out. And superior force is the only answer. Everyone else has to pile on whenever anybody acts up. So I can't blame people for switching fealty to Peter, or even Charlve, if that's what they have to do to secure themselves against anarchy.'
Brother Candle said, 'Of course. On that one level. Strictly speaking.'
'I am worried, though, by all the mercenaries coming into…' Dunn shut up, cocked his head, laid a forefinger across his lips. He eased toward the doorway, making a series of signs Brother Candle took to mean that Dunn thought someone was eavesdropping.
Dunn made a production of drawing the short sword that symbolized both his station and the level of trust the Duke invested in him. The sound echoed in the barren room.
Footsteps hastened away.
Dunn said, 'I've stayed too long. Can you find your way back to the privy audience? Bicot Hodier will find you there. He'll show you your quarters.'
'Quarters? I'm staying down in the town.'
'No. The Duke wants you here. But he can't see you today. Probably tomorrow.' Dunn leaned out the doorway. Seeing no one, he departed. Swiftly.
Brother Candle's party cooled their heels several more days. The Perfect had not spent that much time there ever before.
Metrelieux was typical of its time and kind. Large, badly furnished, and cold. Cold even for the time of year. For the climate.
Last winter there had been snow for the first time in modern memory. Snow that accumulated and stayed, not just the occasional scatter of random flakes that vanished in the morning sun.
Spring had been late arriving.
The summons to the presence came at last.
Tormond IV, Grand Duke of Khaurene, Duke of Sheavenalle, Count of Flor and Welb, and so forth, looked like he had enjoyed a sleepless night and had not yet pulled himself together. He had aged severely. He had lost a lot of hair, in no regular fashion. His beard had gone white and was patchy, too. His gray eyes, once steel and as penetrating as death, were dull and hollow. He seemed confused about where or when he was and what he was doing.
Nevertheless, he recognized Brother Candle. 'Charde! Charde ande Clairs. Welcome. At last, a friendly face among all these shrieking blue jays.'
'It's Brother Candle now, Your Lordship. But a pleasure to see you again, too.'
The Duke slid his right arm across Brother Candle's shoulder, letting the Perfect take some of his weight without being obvious. Tormond was tall and lean. What little hair he retained was white and wild. His clothing showed no care, either. He had not changed in days. Residue from several meals decorated his shirtfront.
