blockade.
That could change.
Brock had no intention of letting an investiture develop. He collected a volunteer force of five. He and they went down ropes on the south side of the fortress, where the wall was shortest. Rault explained, 'They should be watching for a sally from the gate.'
Brother Candle spent hours, waiting, listening, watching. There was nothing to hear. And only lightning bugs to see. Brock was working with admirable stealth.
The old man wore out before midnight. His body still had a thousand repairs to make.
The Perfect wakened once, round what was called the witching hour. He had felt something terrible in the night. But it was gone before he wakened fully. He drained his bladder, returned to bed. He shivered like it was the heart of a cold, damp winter till sleep returned.
Brother Candle rose with the sun. Despite all the sleep, he was weak and groggy and inclined to lie down again.
Thurm and Socia joined him for breakfast. That included fresh bread, preserves, and bacon in quantity. Brother Candle felt compassion for the Grolsacher families outside.
Thurm said, 'That thing was out there again last night.'
'Thing?'
'From before. Up the valley. The Lord of Maggots.'
Socia said, 'Oh, stop pussyfooting and say it. Rook! Rook! Rook was out there, following Brock around while he exterminated the vermin.'
As Brother Candle opened his mouth, Socia barked, 'Don't even bother. You might be more clever than the average Episcopal priest but you just aren't gonna twist things around so you can say that that wasn't Rook.'
Brother Candle responded, 'The Instrumentality we call Rook can't exist in today's world.'
'Go tell it that, dipshit. I'm sure it'll be embarrassed and go lie down again.'
Thurm slugged his little sister on the upper arm. 'A little respect there, girl child.'
Brother Candle said, 'I'm not saying that something big isn't crawling around in the dark. And it does present similarities to the old pagan god of corruption. But that god doesn't exist anymore.'
Socia sneered. 'If it looks like a turd, smells like a turd, and draws flies like a turd, I'm gonna call it a turd.'
Thurm said, 'Maybe not all of Rook got bound. Or maybe part of him got loose. Something weird happened in the White Hills when the Amhanders came down on Antieux that time. The ones that ended up getting killed in the Black Mountain Massacre. They say a bunch of old graves opened up and evil things came out.'
Could be, Brother Candle thought. The White Hills, on the northeast edge of the Altai, were also called the Haunted Hills. For all its stench and psychic impact, the thing did not seem particularly powerful. Could it be just a tiny shard of a god, driven by its original instinct?
Would it try to grow? Was that even possible? Would it hunt for scattered bits of itself? Would it free other old terrors from its youth?
'I'll stop wishful thinking and defer to my own ignorance at this point,' the Perfect said. Though he despaired of the answer, he asked, 'Did Brock enjoy any success last night?'
Thurm showed fresh excitement. 'He did. He got into the Amhanders' paddock and stole some of their horses. Which he killed where the Grolsachers could grab them and eat them.'
That ought to sow seeds of distrust.
Thurm's face closed down. The Perfect sensed that there was more, of a nature so dark he did not want to share it with a holy man.
'I see. Maybe that's all I need to know.'
Brother Candle made his way to the parapet over the gate. The invaders were digging a trench around Caron ande Lette. Piling the earth on its far side. If the siege lasted long a palisade would be raised atop that earth. Others worked on what, even from afar, was obviously a cemetery. And a few Amhanders were adding to the defenses of their camp.
Horsemen gathered in the small court behind the fortress gate. To the east, near the river, a file of ragged people trudged southward, ignoring Caron ande Lette.
The gate swung open. Socia Rault and a dozen youths burst out. They ignored besiegers. They galloped over and scattered the people by the river, killing the men, then ran away before the Amhanders could ready themselves for a light. Socia committed atrocities along the developing trench until the Arnhanders did come after her.
Keeping low so as not to be seen, archers jostled Brother Candle as they took position. Others came to operate the ballistae.
Socia tried to lure the Arnhanders into range. They would not come.
Seuir Brock showed up. Livid. When Socia arrived, grinning wildly, he told her, 'You won't do that again. Am I understood? Brother Candle. Would you be violating Count Raymone's instructions if you were to escort my sister out of here?'
Socia shut Brock out the instant he started telling her what she would not be doing anymore.
'Would that be wise? With all these lawless folk roving the countryside?'
Softly, Brock said, 'They'll be the lesser risk.'
'Seuir?'
'We can't survive here. Not if this keeps on. They're disorganized and incompetent. I'll kill thousands. But I'll lose a man sometimes. And get no replacement. They'll wear me down. Like a riverbank devoured by a never- ending stream. They'll find the hiding places in the woods. I don't want Socia here when that happens.'
Brother Candle opined, 'If I take her to Antieux and you fall, don't doubt that you'll be avenged.' Socia struck him as the sort who would slash and burn all Arnhand if Charlve the Dim or Anne of Menand irritated her sufficiently. 'She'll find a way.'
'You might be right.'
'What are you two muttering about over there?' Socia demanded. 'Are you talking about me?'
'In a way. I'm trying to get the Perfect to leave while he still can.'
'That's a big puff of wind, brother. What are you really saying?'
'Every minute. She has to be contrary. Every minute of every day.'
Brother Candle nodded. That would be the way to get the girl to do the necessary.
Seuir Brock said, 'Little sister, come share a bowl of wine. I need you to do something. Maybe the most important thing you'll ever do.'
The heights of Artlan ande Brith fell behind. Brother Candle admired Seuir Brock Rault's manipulative skills. Rault had sold him on saving Socia. Then he had sold Socia the notion that Brother Candle was too important a Maysalean philosopher to lose. He was a moral giant, to be preserved at all cost. Only she had influence enough with Count Raymone to see that he was protected.
Letters each carried to Seuir Lanne had convinced that worthy to send them on, disguised, accompanied by a pair of Tuldse nieces and two donkeys. Their horses remained at Artlan ande Brith.
Socia's war gear, however, was in the packs on one of the donkeys.
The girl and nieces were disguised as peasant boys. Brother Candle wore what he had for years. All Perfect wore the same gray robe.
Care was necessary even south of Artlan ande Brith. Grolsachers had gotten past the Tuldse stronghold.
Seuir Lanne was every bit as pessimistic as Seuir Brock Rault.
Count Raymone was pleased to see Socia but not the Perfect Master. The Tuldse nieces did not enter the equation. Those had been delivered to local relatives.
Count Raymone was almost obsequious toward Socia while apologizing for having sent no troops north.
The man was smitten.
Then, 'Nobody's listening, Master. Tell me the truth. What happened? What's really going on up there?'
Brother Candle left out nothing.
Count Raymone goggled at Socia's behavior but asked only, 'Rook? Really?'
'Some part of him, possibly. Or something that wants him remembered. Maybe something meant to spread fear and chaos by wakening our dread of the old evils.'
'I think it's the real thing. A sliver of the real thing.'
