Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,44

he had detached to keep order in Brothe and neighboring Firaldia. The new Patriarch had authorized the use of any force necessary to clear the Connec of revenants. And, in a secret directive, of agents of the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy. Too many members of that harsh order had gone underground rather than disband, their defiance fertilized by Anne of Menand’s covert support.

Hecht carried letters from Bellicose authorizing Count Raymone Garete to act against any monk or priest who refused to conform to the will of the Patriarch. Though he could only catch the renegades and turn them over to the ecclesiastical courts. Where they were too likely to be judged by sympathizers.

Clej Sedlakova, Hagan Brokke, and other trusted staffers assembled at Viscesment, in the Palace of Kings. With the Anti-Patriarchy ended, the Palace stood empty. The Patriarchals took over, which reduced the strain of their presence in the city.

Nothing critical needed deciding. The staff had managed well in their commander’s absence. “Makes me worry,” Hecht told no one in particular. “You men are either so good you don’t need me, or the job is so easy any fool can do it.”

His staff were all shrugs and smiles.

A feast of sorts filled Hecht’s first evening back. In attendance were the magnates of Viscesment and nobles of regions nearby. Count Raymone Garete and his bride Socia, and the Count’s more noteworthy henchmen, also attended. Senior churchmen were well represented, as well. They divided into clearly identifiable factions.

Bellicose’s friends formed the larger party. The other, called Arnhanders by their opponents, recognized the current state of affairs only grudgingly. And openly hoped for the end of Bellicose’s reign.

The Arnhander party did, in fact, consist almost entirely of outsiders who had come into the Connec during the crusader era.

Though officially only a lieutenant, Titus Consent had contrived himself a seat at Hecht’s left hand. Hecht supposed the rest of the staff had schemed to make that happen. Titus was in charge of intelligence. He would have a lot to report. Especially about those personalities of interest in attendance.

Consent whispered, “I’m still huffing and puffing from the rush to get here.” He had been in the field.

“Well, you made it.” Hecht noted several churchmen watching the exchange keenly. “Don’t take it personal, but you look like hell.” Consent did appear to have aged a decade in just a few months.

“Stress. These assholes want me to be you when you’re not around. No! Listen! We just got Rook cornered. Finally. In the Sadew Valley.”

“Isn’t that where he first turned up, back when?”

“Yes. The place must be important to him.”

Hecht flashed a sinister smile at one of the more notorious clerical agitators. The man wanted to be defiant, dared not. The Captain-General of Patriarchal forces did not, unlike the temporal powers, have to defer to the ecclesiastical courts. Which had led to occasional instances of harsh, summary justice.

“How soon will it be over?” With Rook stricken from the roll of revenants there would be no more demand for a Patriarchal presence in the Connec. Except for Shade. He had heard nothing positive about Shade. Yet.

“A while. It’s a loose cordon. They’ll tighten it slowly. They don’t want to get in a hurry and let him get away again.”

Hecht wanted to ask about problems in the force. But practical matters had to wait. He had powerful people to entertain, seduce, overawe.

8. Faraway East, the Oldest City:

A Slender String

How old was Skutgularut? Only the Instrumentalities themselves might know. Old enough to have been there in the Time Before Time, if its people could be believed. Old enough to have been there before men learned to write. Across the ages Skutgularut, anchor of the northern silk road, had been attacked, besieged, even conquered countless times. Never totally, not even by Tsistimed the Golden. Skutgularut was a place of high honor, sacred, that even Tsistimed could reverence. It was a place where scholars gathered. Where sorcerers met to study and experiment. It was a city at whose heart lay a small but utterly reliable well of power. A well never known, in all history, to have waxed or waned. For which it was called the Faithful.

Once Skutgularut yielded to the seductions of the Hu’n-tai At, Tsistimed made it his western capital. With age he came to favor the city’s famous gardens. The city prospered, for it no longer experienced war. Bandits dared not trouble the great caravans traveling the silk road. Those who tried were hunted down,