Brother Candle felt small when he considered the Twilight. Hope was painting on a large canvas and dared no conservative brushwork. She did not mind flashing some gaudy color once in a while, either.
He did not think that she was careful enough about hiding her true nature.
He should remind her that few mortals were flexible enough to accept a supposedly impossible Instrumentality. And these men knew that gods could be murdered.
Kedle’s blank face failed to mask her own similar thinking. Then Hope’s flirtatious wink told the old man that she knew his mind. She was being deliberately provocative. Probing for something to do with the Special Office brothers?
Madouc offered a probe of his own. “My lady, if your family knows the Idiam around the Dead City I would be interested in engaging in a conversation.”
“How familiar they are I can’t say. They don’t confide in me. They think I talk too much.”
Brother Candle stifled a smile. She had used the truth to tell a lie.
The more he knew about her tribe-learning in snippets-the more the true lie seemed a family convention.
Hope said, “I recommend patience. Wait till the Righteous arrive. You will receive informed answers then.” She tipped a hand toward the Pramans. “Those gentlemen know more than I do. They have seen the Dead City, and the devil er-Rashal as well.”
Again Brother Candle was troubled. Hope went right on being too open. She was demanding trouble.
Why?
He did not think he could work that out by observation and reason alone.
Madouc said, “Suppose we stop posturing and speculating and review what we do know, collectively. It’s almost certain that we have more tools than we think.” He made a two-handed gesture toward his map.
Brother Candle said, “My lord Master is correct, Hope.” She flashed him a look that caused serpents to stir.
44. Gherig, the Idiam, and the Lord of the Dead City
It was evening. The sun had settled to the horizon, behind the rearguard. The light got mixed weirdly in as-yet unsettled dust from an earlier windstorm, then painted Gherig an unflattering orange. Ugly when Lord Arnmigal had seen it as Else Tage, the fortress shone uglier still in that light. Lord Arnmigal scowled. Despite having suffered vast damage, still being repaired, Gherig looked even more formidable than it had back then.
Titus Consent rode on Lord Arnmigal’s right. Bold as death, Empress Helspeth rode to his left, with an ease and style that recalled her elder sister. Wife played a more mature, reserved, and dignified Helspeth than did Hourli but her Empress lacked the sly, warm good humor of Eavijne’s. Lord Arnmigal sometimes tried to pick his players to suit the moment.
The differences were fine but Titus had noticed. He had wondered aloud why the Empress had become so mercurial.
He remained uninformed of Helspeth’s condition. God willing, gods willing, he would never know.
Lord Arnmigal did not normally ride with the van. He did so now because he wanted to see Gherig while there was yet light enough and, further, wanted to escape the constant complaining of Queen Clothilde, whose battered company his scouts had taken captive that morning.
Only a few people remained with Clothilde. Most had deserted because she was so unpleasant. The few sterner folk had been depleted further while fighting off Gisela Frakier in the pay of a crusader noble with a grudge.
Lord Arnmigal cared nothing about that. That was past. Clothilde was inside his shadow, now. Future foul behavior would be punished.
Never had he encountered anyone with a greater sense of entitlement than Clothilde. She would fit well with the most self-absorbed pre-Revelation devil-gods. He asked Wife: “Is there a formula for dealing with her sort?”
Clothilde refused to recognize that she was at the mercy of her captors.
The Helspeth avatar smiled as though at a private joke. “Are you hinting that something be done? Murder works.”
“Now you’ve planted an ugly idea.”
“Ah. You’re too much of a gentleman.”
“Not an accusation often directed my way.”
She nodded. “Perhaps not by the true Empress. But she is mad, in her special way. I suppose something should be done just to rivet the Queen’s attention.”
“She’s no queen, now. Don’t let it be anything fatal, really.”
“Still the surest cure.”
“There would be repercussions.”
“Then fix the possibility in her mind. You don’t want her to become even more unbearable.”
Something did happen. Something actually rather small.
Clothilde lost her voice during a fuming rant at a hapless servant. The more she strove to rage and roar the more constricted her throat became, to the point where she could no longer breathe.
She collapsed. She never got another word out but kept right on trying. Three collapses were required to make her understand. She would smother herself if she insisted on being herself. She could end the attacks whenever she was ready.
So Clothilde did begin to hold her tongue-and swiftly became terrified. Insidious reality gnawed furiously at the roots of her universe.
It dawned at last. No one cared. She was at the mercy of this gang who had taken her everything. Many clearly would not be loath to make sure she became no threat in the future. The Commander of the Righteous had but to nod.
Clothilde was servility personified by the time the Righteous reached Gherig, but she did not deceive Lord Arnmigal’s strange women. They recognized every malevolent impulse as it spawned. The Commander of the Righteous restrained the malice of the Shining Ones but allowed them to make it crystal that Clothilde would own no power or significance other than that of a prisoner.
Empress Helspeth told her directly, “Discard any hope you have because your cousin awaits you. His situation mimics your own, though he tells himself that it is otherwise. He will be a hostage to your behavior. You will be a hostage to his. The Brotherhood of War could win great favor with Indala by delivering Rogert du Tancret.”
Indala’s attitude toward Black Rogert was secret from no one but Rogert himself. Du Tancret was willfully blind and cared nothing for the opinions of others.
Wife told Lord Arnmigal, “The woman has grasped the enormity of her situation at last.”
“And still you have a caveat?”
“A wolf never stops being a wolf. A wolf will remain a wolf even when it should become a lapdog in order to survive.”
“Meaning she won’t be able to control herself?”
“She will not. She is what she is. Point out any of her sort who ever changed their nature.”
He knew of no one, of course. “Then smart money wouldn’t bet on changes for the meeker.”
Wife chuckled. “Oh, naturally not. However, if you put your ducats down it wouldn’t be the first long shot you ever bet. But this one wouldn’t come up a winner. I still say smart money ought to consider a surprise viper bite or fatal accident.”
Easily arranged with allies such as her.
“Maybe someday. But not yet.”
The question she did not ask hung in the air.
“That’s too much going the easy way. That’s the kind of thing that gives us men like Gordimer and er-Rashal.”
Wife stared with eyes gone entirely blank.
“All right.” He confessed, “You are correct. I have made some easy choices myself.” The transition might be an inalterable consequence of changes that came with the advance up the ladder of command. “Whatever, that isn’t our problem now. The Rascal is our problem. He is our only problem. The coming few days could shape the Holy Lands forevermore. They might shape the fate of the Shining Ones, too. Do we know what’s going on at Gherig?”