Lord of the Silent Kingdom (72 page)

Crowds came out to cheer as they marched toward the heart of the Mother City. It could have been a triumphal procession in olden times.

“What is this?” Hecht asked his staffers, most of whom had accompanied him. “It isn’t like we did anything for them. They won’t benefit.” Buhle Smolens and Jokai Svlada were the main left behinds.

Hecht felt guilty about having left Smolens. His number two had family he wanted to see, also.

Clej Sedlakova said, “They’re just thrilled to be associated with victories, boss. You had big successes in the Connec, then you wrapped the war in Artecipea practically overnight.”

“Five months is overnight?”

“Compared to what the Patriarch counted on, sure.”

On some thoroughfares the City Regiment held back the crowds. Pinkus Ghort’s men did not seem pleased to have the Patriarchals home.

Hagan Brokke observed, “We’ve started losing men, boss.” And that was true. A few were falling out when they spied families unseen since their departure for the Connec.

“Can’t blame them. It’s what I want to do. It’s damn well what I plan to do before nightfall, too.” But first he meant to present the troops in the Closed Ground. To force the new administration to show him its attitude toward its soldiers. “As long as a few hundred stick we’ll be fine.” The problems would all be on the Church’s side until the new Patriarch came to an accommodation. The troops would not tolerate the machinations of another Pacificus Sublime. They would not let that happen under this regime.

Hecht would not be able to control them. Nor would he try to stay their righteous anger if it was baited.

Brothe had laws against garrisoning Patriarchal troops inside the city wall. Hecht intended to test those, though not to the point of conflict.

The majority of the men stuck, knowing their captains were as eager as they to see their families. They formed a fierce formation in the Closed Ground. The falcon batteries with their smoldering slow matches were particularly intimidating.

The balconies of the Chiaro Palace filled with nervous dignitaries and functionaries. Hecht spied Osa Stile’s pale young face. He did not see Principatè Delari. Palace guards assumed the stations they occupied whenever there was a ceremonial observance in the Closed Ground. They seemed anxious.

Good.

Boniface VII — Hecht had just learned that Hugo Mongoz had taken that reign name — appeared on the high balcony reserved for the Patriarch. Younger priests supported him. The soldiers immediately saluted, then took a knee, the Captain-General included. The men stayed down. The Captain-General rose and advanced a few paces. “Your Holiness, we who serve Mother Church bring victories to shine on Her crown of glory.”

Titus Consent, Hagan Brokke, and Clej Sedlakova then rose and stepped forward. They announced offerings like the keys to Castreresone’s gates, to the gates of Sheavenalle, and a piece of hearthstone from Arn Bedu. They were replaced by men carrying trophies from lesser cities and fortresses, plus a banner listing the names of the pagan chieftains slain during the battle at Porto. Hecht had elected not to present a similar banner for the battle at Khaurene. Many key names belonged to men close to Boniface’s predecessor and Peter of Navaya.

In a surprisingly strong voice, Boniface declared, “Well done, Soldiers of God. Well done indeed. Our blessings and those of Aaron and the Founders be upon you, and Our Lord’s Favor also.”

The soldiers responded, “And also upon you.”

“You have performed well and honorably. For this you will be honored and rewarded. And for this, as must befall all who do well, you will be given further tasks on behalf of Mother Church. But not today.

Go to your homes. See the ones you love. Visit your confessors. Square your souls with the Lord of All Things. Most of all, treat yourselves to a well-earned rest.”

Not many remembered now because few were old enough. In his youth Hugo Mongoz had spent five years in the Holy Lands, cleansing them of the Infidel. He had not forgotten what it meant to be a soldier.

Boniface’s voice quavered toward the end. His hand and arm were shaky when he offered a last benediction. His companions helped him back inside the Chiaro Palace.

The Captain-General gave the sign to rise. “Sergeant Bechter. I want weapons turned in at the Castella.

Keep them separate from those of the Brotherhood. Have any men who don’t have somewhere to stay bunk at the Castella. Those who want can leave for their home garrisons tomorrow. I’ll send word if we need to reassemble.” The implication being that comrades still on Artecipea would not be allowed to languish.

He gave orders to everyone, those who needed them and those who did not. He shook hands with several intimates. Then, “Titus, ready to go home?”

“I am indeed, sir. I hope home is ready for us.”

“Did you send word?”

“I’m trusting rumor. Anyway, I saw your kids in the crowd when we were coming up the old Chamblane Thoroughfare.”

“Goddamnit, Madouc! What now?”

“We’re your lifeguards, sir.” Taken aback. The Captain-General never used blasphemous language.

“Don’t you men have families?” He regretted asking immediately. Most of his lifeguards were Brotherhood. They had one another, and the Order.

“Those with that greater obligation have joined those going to the Castella dollas Pontellas, sir.”

Hecht bit back what he was inclined to say. It would be a waste of venom. Madouc would do nothing but his best. And would cut no corners.

“All right. I understand. But I’m wondering, what will convince you that I’m in no more danger?”

“Us failing. You’d be dead. Then we wouldn’t have to protect you anymore.”

Hecht exchanged looks with Consent. Titus tried and failed to suppress a grin.

Madouc barked. Lifeguards scurried. Steel sang leaving scabbards. Hecht froze like a startled deer, taken so far off guard that he could have died right there if it had been another sniper attack.

“Easy! Stand easy!” Madouc ordered as Pinkus Ghort and two companion riders emerged from the late-afternoon gloom, hands far from their weapons.

“Damn, Pipe! Madouc. You scared the shit out of me.”

“Don’t jump out of the shadows like that.”

Ghort had done no such thing but did not argue. His companions dismounted. Carefully. Making it clear they were doing nothing else. Ghort said, “I thought you might be tired of walking.” Two lifeguards closed in, making sure he was not an assassin disguised as Pinkus Ghort.

Hecht said, “You shouldn’t have changed your look so much. Why have you gone Brothen fop?” Ghort wore bright yellows and reds in the latest Firaldian courtly styles. He had a thin, Direcian style goatee, delicately trimmed and possibly colored. His hair hung straight, in bangs across the front, two inches below the ears on the sides and in back. The hair had been darkened for sure, and ironed. Nothing gray or

curled remained. The silly hat up top made him look like a flaccid mushroom.

Ghort’s companions handed him the reins of their mounts, carefully backed away.

“His nails are painted,” Titus observed. “Can you believe that?”

“Not my choice,” Ghort said. “Orders. These days I got to spend most of my time with the senators and consuls. Principatè Doneto nabbed him one of the consulships last month.”

The senators were what civic bodies elsewhere might call aldermen or city councilmen. The two consuls were similar to mayors or burgomasters. The dual power sharing went back to beyond the beginnings of the Old Empire. One consul managed the city’s business inside the wall while the other’s mandate concerned business outside. Meaning, generally, seeing to the procurement of water and grain. And commanding the army during wartime. Not something the consuls had done in recent centuries. But might again, now, with Bronte Doneto in office.

The ancient Brothens dreaded personal ambition more than they honored skilled leadership. Consuls had to swap jobs very three months. Nor were they allowed to serve consecutive terms, one of which lasted just a year.

That, of course, changed under the emperors. Emperors derived much of their legitimacy by being consuls. And, initially, by being anointed dictator by their political cronies in the senate.

“Good for him. He always wanted to be the big cheese. What’s he doing about the hippodrome?” Hecht had seen no obvious restoration work while passing the site, heading for the Chiaro Palace.

“Funny you should ask. The hippodrome was the issue he harped on the loudest, getting himself elected.

If I’ve figured it out right, he managed to get hold of one of the specie shipments from Salpeno, too. He plans to use that to restore the hippodrome.”

“Did any of Anne of Menand’s bribe money get through to Sublime?”

“Quite a bit, actually. He got out from under his debts from the Calziran Crusade. He didn’t get ahead.

He didn’t lose ground on the Connecten Crusade, though. Thanks to you.”

Hecht allowed himself a smirk. “Yes. The hippodrome isn’t why you ambushed me, though.”

“No. It ain’t. I wanted to see you. Before you get swamped.”

“You could’ve come by Anna’s house.” His only immediate plans were to hole up with Anna for as long as he could.

Ghort chuckled. “Right. She’d rather set me on fire, then chase me off with a broom.”

“You could be right. Unless you play chess with her. You aren’t the most charming of my friends. And you haven’t answered my questions.”

“True. Not that I was evading. The fact is, folks a lot more important than me are going to be sucking up all your time, going forward. I wanted to sneak in ahead and give you some straight shit.”

“I appreciate that. I’d do the same for you. So what do I need to know that everyone else is going to lie to me about?”

“One thing is, there’s been all kinds of riots. I’m out there with my guys braiding ropes of sand every goddamned night. league with the Adversary. If they weren’t they wouldn’t fight Every idiot in this damned burg thinks he’s got a grievance and that entitles him to bash people and bust stuff up. About once a week some demagogue decides it’s all the Deves’ fault. A mob heads off to the Deve quarter. It gets mauled, which all the rabid Deve haters claim is proof that they’re in the back. And they especially wouldn’t have all those loud weapons that cause such cruel, festering wounds.”

Hecht glanced over at Titus, who was about to swing aboard the mount that Ghort had presented him.

Consent shrugged. “I’ve been with you, boss. I’ll get on it as soon at Noë lets me think about work again.”

“What about Principatè Delari?” Hecht asked as he settled into a saddle. “He didn’t show up when I presented the trophies to the Patriarch in the Closed Ground. I saw the boy, Armand. But not the old man.”

“Delari and his pet aren’t together anymore. I don’t know why. They say the boy is playing night games with the new Patriarch, now.”

Surprised, Hecht diverted himself by saying, “I heard that Principatè Delari’s town house fell into a sinkhole. Because of some kind of confrontation down in the catacombs.”

“That’s crap. One corner of the place did collapse. But it wasn’t because of anything like what happened with the hippodrome. Delari must be preoccupied with something. He hardly ever shows himself.”

Mounted, Hecht walked his horse slowly in the direction of Anna Mozilla’s house. Allowing Madouc and his lifeguards to keep up. He felt mild despair about the attention his passing caused.

“Things have really changed here, Pipe. But they’ve stayed the same, too.”

“Good to know, Pinkus. But try to be a little less clever. What does that mean?”

“Never mind me, Pipe. I’m a walking cliche factory.”

“That doesn’t take us to any point, either.”

“You are a hard, cruel man, Piper Hecht.”

“The tasteful constraints of my faith won’t let me say what you are, though it features the stern of a horse with tail upraised for the drop.”

Ghort laughed. Then he got busy talking about everything he thought Hecht ought to know about the current situation in the Mother City. A situation unlikely to spark conflagrations of optimism.

The refugees just kept coming. There was nothing for them to do.

Ghort chattered all the way across town, from the Teragi right down to the street outside Anna Mozilla’s house. He went right on chattering at Titus Consent when the Captain-General broke away. Hecht was grateful for Ghort’s effort. The man had told him more than he had thought.

Vali and Pella were in the open doorway to Anna’s house, Pella practically jumping up and down. They had known he was coming. They had been out scouting. Hecht had seen them dashing through the crowds, speeding ahead with news that he was coming.

Vali stepped in front of Pella and gave Hecht a huge hug, startling him totally. She did not say anything, though.

Pella had plenty to say for both of them. Questions. Reports. Brags about how he was doing with his studies.

Forcing a word in edgewise, Hecht asked Madouc to see Titus safely home, then told Pella, “You’ve grown about a foot. And Vali, too.” Vali looked like she was starting to bud. He was thrilled to see the changes.

Pella continued to jabber. Vali was more restrained but did keep the fingers of her left hand touching his arm. “Anna! Anna Mozilla! Are you in there? Can you come rescue me from these wild monkeys?”

He was nervous about this. How had Anna dealt with their separation? Would she invite him in?

Anna came to the doorway because he had not been able to push past the children. His worries were unfounded. She was pleased to see him. Her embrace enveloped him, swamping him with hungry promise. But she said, “You smell like you haven’t had a bath for a year.”

“And I was just up at the Chiaro Palace. Why didn’t I use the baths when I had the chance?”

“I refuse to say what I’m thinking. Pella! Calm down. Your father will be here. Piper. The other one, Lila, is too scared to come out.”

“It’s all right. I remember being the same way when my father came home from the marshes. You don’t know how long it’ll last. And you don’t know if there’ll be a next time. The Sheard are cruel and cunning.”