Tormond murmured, 'Help me, Charde. I can't tolerate this much longer.'
'Your Lordship?'
'I think I'm going mad. It's like there's more than one man inside me. And none of them are any good at being the Duke.'
'You're too critical. You've done some wonderful things.'
'Wonderful things,' Duke Tormond said, and sighed. 'Wonderful things, Charde. Did you know they call me the Great Vacillator?'
The entire Connec knew. Little children knew, though no one would call him that to his face. At his best Tormond IV was so deliberate that crises usually resolved themselves before he responded. 'I've heard that. Don't let it bother you.' Brother Candle looked around to see if anyone was particularly interested in their conversation.
Everyone fell into that category.
The Duke made a feeble gesture. Pages began seating people. Tormond asked Brother Candle to sit beside him, in the seat his sister Isabeth occupied when she visited Khaurene. She, much younger than Tormond, was in confinement in far Oranja, about to present King Peter with an heir. If she had not done so already.
News moved slowly. Unless it was bad. Ill tidings had wings.
Servants brought coffee, a rare treat. No one refused. Brother Candle smiled into his cup as Socia and Thurm Rault enjoyed their first encounter with the dark beverage.
After coffee the Duke seemed collected and animated. Thank you all for coming. Count Raymone. Seuir Brock. Brother Candle. My apologies for keeping you waiting so long. I didn't know you'd arrived.'
Really? Odd indeed.
The group was the same council Tormond always assembled. Sir Eardale seemed as tired as his Duke. Michael Carhart was a renowned Devedian religious scholar. Bishop Clayto was the senior Brothen Episcopal in Khaurene.
Brother Candle's friend Bishop LeCroes's allegiance went to Viscesment. LeCroes liked Sublime better than Clayto did. Bishop Clayto viewed the Brothen Patriarch with open contempt.
Tember Sirht had replaced his father, Tember Remak, as spokesman for the Dainshaukin. Hanak el-Mira represented the Connec's small surviving Praman population, on the Terliagan Littoral. Brother Candle recalled el- Mira from the Calziran Crusade. Terliagan slingers had been an important part of the Connecten contingent. El-Mira was younger than Brock Rault but belonged to a proud old family. Only in recent years had his people become active participants in the broader Connecten civilization.
Since Isabeth's marriage to Peter of Navaya, in fact. Though committed to a relentless reconquest of Praman Direcia, Peter won numerous friends and allies among the Pramans. He did not destroy their religious places nor force his own beliefs on them, being content to let time and the superiority of the Chaldarean vision hasten the false religion into yesterday's dust. Peter's most devoted allies were the Pramans of Platadura, a city-state of traders. Platadura's fleets engaged in continuous, bitter, and often deadly competition with those of the Firaldian mercantile republics, Aparion, Dateon, and Sonsa.
An unknown Praman accompanied Hanak el-Mira. Brother Candle thought his dress looked Plataduran. No one introduced him. Duke Tormond was in what was, for him, a hasty mood.
The Arnhander, Father Rinpoche, was there, too, in the background, alone, shunned. He seemed frightened, unhappy, lonely, and out of his depth. Brother Candle judged him a lute with just one string. More would be too much for his circumscribed intellect.
Brother Candle concentrated on Tormond. The Duke was involved in a visible struggle to retain control of himself.
More than one man inside, he had said.
Was it possible that Tormond's problems might not be of his own making? The hair loss, the distraction, the odd cast of his skin, suggested poison. Or truly wicked sorcery.
But, who? Someone right here, right now, if Sir Eardale was right. Someone who saw the Duke as an obstacle, not an enemy. Duke Tormond had no enemies. By doing nothing he
offended no one. Not to the point where they sneaked around dripping dark ichors into his wine or gruel.
Anne of Menand could contort her conscience enough to order a murder. But someone would have to do the dirty work.
Brother Candle studied Bishop Clayto. Not long ago he had been Father Clayto, assigned to the worst parish in Khaurene because he would not keep quiet about Sublime's bad behavior. Now, he was a bishop, in good odor with Brothe. At a time when the Brothen Episcopal sees of the Connec received nothing but scoundrels.
Clayto met his speculating eye, raised an eyebrow.
Maybe not. They had been chaplains together during the Calziran Crusade. Father Clayto had trouble clinging to his faith but Brother Candle never saw any indication that he had the moral agility to justify great wickedness.
And yet, he had been made bishop.
The Duke said, 'Let's get started.' He gestured at Brother Candle, then Count Raymone, and such Connecten nobility as lurked round the fringes, hoping to vent complaints.
Counting pages and serving folk, more than fifty people stopped doing anything but breathe.
Brother Candle continued to survey the gathering. The fate of the Connec would be decided by people in this crowd. They would keep it alive. Or let it die. It was time for the Great Vacillator, despite all, to do what he had been born to do.
Brother Candle chuckled suddenly.
Tormond had managed to create this situation in spite of conspiracies simmering around him. Possibly even despite malevolent espionage by the Instrumentalities of the Night.
The Duke said, 'Seuir Brock Rault. Tell us what happened at Caron ande Lette.'
The youngster looked to Count Raymone, to his siblings, to Brother Candle, for reassurance, then grasped his nerve by the throat and told it.
'Well done,' Brother Candle whispered when Rault finished. 'Exactly as it happened.'
Duke Tormond nodded, still focused, the businesslike personality firmly in charge. 'Count Raymone?'
The Count told his tale, somewhat less humble in admiring his own role, but without fabricating.
'Sir Eardale?' the Duke said. 'A comment?' Tormond having some trouble, now.
'What I find interesting is that before the villain's feet were dry we received news from Brothe that Morcant Farfog has been appointed Chief Inquestor of the Patriarchal Office for the Suppression of False Dogma and Heretical Doctrine. With a new order of monks being created to support the office.'
Brother Candle was not surprised to hear it. 'Farfog's first job will be to root out heresy and dogmatic diversion in the Connec.'
Count Raymone could not restrain himself. 'I recall this being tried before. Eight thousand people died. Because of the meddling of one man who didn't have the right.'
Bishop Clayto said, 'Complain to Immaculate. He'll cover you.'
Count Raymone glared. 'The men responsible…' He controlled his emotions. Brother Candle nodded approval. Raymone Garete was maturing.
Sir Eardale continued. 'Our options aren't broad. Our mission to the Mother City, a while back, in effect recognized the Brothen Patriarch as legitimate.'
Bishop LeCroes opined, 'Treat that with a respect equaling what Sublime has shown our contribution to his war on Calzir.'
'Grumbling won't change the man. And he now has a Captain-General who's building a real Patriarchal army. The man seems to be competent.'
'And he pays for men and arms with what?'
Sir Eardale said, 'Just a minute. Perit. Bring our other guests.'
One of the pages departed. Murmurs started but did not last. The page returned quickly.
Dunn said, 'I'll let these gentlemen answer that.' He indicated two men who entered behind the page, Perit. 'Tell these people what you told me earlier.'
'Yes, sir,' the elder newcomer said, amused. Brother Candle thought the pair looked a little frail for the hardships of travel. Though they could have come to Khaurene by boat,
