“No one has mentioned this?”
“My troops tell me I’m spooky all the time. I don’t think like they do. And strange things happen around me. But that’s because we’re out there trying to make strange things happen.”
Titus Consent kept quiet, face blank.
Hecht said, “Which is all irrelevant. Mr. Consent says you want to discuss specifics. Let’s get to that. I have a meeting with the Empress coming up.”
“I know. You have to decide what to do about Anselin of Menand … Oh!” Schmeimder blanched. He knew things he should not and had betrayed himself.
Hecht did not glance at Consent. The leak would not have come from there. The lapse would be at Helspeth’s end and, likely, inadvertent.
“Spying certainly isn’t the best way to win the affections of the Empress and the Righteous, Master Schmeimder.”
“I’ll grant you that. But I would remind you that nothing stays secret in Alten Weinberg. Only when nothing is written down and every discussion happens in a quiet room is there any hope at all. And even then, word gets out. Somebody tells his wife or lover or best friend. In strictest confidence.”
That was true in Brothe, too, where conspiracy and intrigue had become art forms.
“I understand that. Some things, though, need to be kept quiet so bigger secrets aren’t betrayed and lives aren’t lost. The matter of the missing king features both risks.”
“I’ve forgotten I ever knew anything I shouldn’t.”
“You wanted to see me why?”
Schmeimder expressed almost exactly what Titus had said he would.
Hecht asked, “Do you understand why we isolated those people?”
“I don’t, sir. Not really. They were craftsmen who found ways to make better products faster than their competitors in response to the demands of an expanding market. Which is what merchants, artisans, and craftsmen do.”
“Exactly. You are correct. But let me offer a counterpoint, from the perspective of the Righteous. The Shades.”
“Excuse me? I don’t understand.”
“The main engagement of the Firaldian campaign happened at a place called the Shades.”
“Oh.” Still puzzled.
“A few hundred Righteous engaged several thousand troops raised by the Patriarch. The Patriarch’s troops died. The tool we used to make that happen was the Krulik and Sneigon falcon. Manufactured by the men we’ve isolated at Hochwasser.”
“Oh.”
“Master Schmeimder, I do not want to take the Righteous onto any field where they’ll face what Serenity’s men faced. That is why those men are locked up out there.”
“You want to hold the knife-maker responsible for what his customer does with his product.”
“I don’t want the knife-maker to sell his product to anyone but me. Which I have managed with a minimum of disruption and pain-compared to most episodes in the history of your people.”
Schmeimder stopped short of arguing after recognizing the veiled threat.
Hecht continued, “My staff agree with you. Those people haven’t been troublesome, just willfully slow and mildly obstructionist. If productivity and quality improve, improved conditions will follow.”
“About that. About quality. I’ve been asked to point out that the saltpeter you’re providing isn’t the best.”
“Maybe someone should pay closer attention during the refining process.” He glanced at Titus. Titus shrugged. “In future, bring your concerns to Mr. Consent or Mr. de Bos. They will do what is best.”
“The other thing, then, sir, is, can you make room for a company of free will Devedians who also want to see the Holy Lands?”
“Mr. Consent told me you might ask. You understand my natural reluctance?”
“A knee-jerk response common throughout the Chaldarean world. Deves with weapons? It raises frightening prospects. But it could prove disarming in the long run. Working in common cause, Chaldareans should become less frightened of their neighbors. And younger Devedians could improve their self-image by getting involved in something the broader society approves and respects.”
Consent kept his face blank and mouth shut. Once upon a time he had been filled with that kind of naïve optimism, too.
Hecht said, “My staff is with you on this one, too, Master Schmeimder, though I’m skeptical myself. It will be a hard sell for me but I will remind everyone how well my Devedians did during the Calziran Crusade.”
“Is that a roundabout no?”
“It’s a roundabout yes. But prepare to be disappointed. Grand Duke Hilandle, Lord Admiral fon Tyre, and their sort won’t be confused by any facts I present in lieu of prejudicial arguments.”
“I see.” Schmeimder remained puzzled, like he had thought the Commander of the Righteous could damned well do whatever he wanted.
“I’ll present the idea and recommend a positive response. Now. This news about my agents having learned the whereabouts of Anselin of Menand. Is that out yet? Has the Arnhander ambassador heard? Or the Archbishop?”
“I think not. Not yet. But don’t count on having much time. That’s just too big a story.”
“No doubt. No doubt.” It might be time to deploy his special resources.
* * *
The Grand Duke had been back in Alten Weinberg just a few days. He was, he claimed, likely to die of apoplexy if many more wicked changes tumbled into his path. It was all he could do to maintain his composure in the Imperial presence. He managed that only because of the relentless pressure of observing eyes.
Lord Admiral fon Tyre was not pleased, either. But he, too, felt the watching, calculating eyes.
Those eyes were numerous but the most intent were those of Katrin’s uncles. Those men had not been reluctant to spread the word that Hansel Blackboots’s last child was not going to suffer what her siblings had. They had been particularly remiss where Katrin was concerned, repelled by her romance with the Patriarchy. That was over. Helspeth Ege was of age. She was Empress legally. She did not need self-serving old men bullying her.
Wherever the Grand Duke, the Lord Admiral, or the former Masters of the Wardrobe, the Privy Purse, or the Household began to show exasperation publicly, an uncle turned up.
All this Hecht learned within minutes of reaching the palace. Which, to his surprise, was overrun by the ruling class.
There might be no intimate meeting to decide about Anselin.
Helspeth had had the grand ballroom opened and lighted profligately. The excuse was, ostensibly, a celebration of Katrin’s amazing success in the war against the Patriarchy.
The new Empress had had a throne brought in. Twelve Braunsknechts surrounded it. The Commander of the Righteous had brought a dozen of his own most intimidating soldiers, on the recommendation of Hourli, who assured him that of the countless plots afoot at least three meant to free the Empress of her wicked Commander of the Righteous by murdering him.
Hecht worked his way through the press, to Algres Drear. “What is all this? I expected a planning meeting.”
Drear could add nothing to what Hecht had picked up crossing the ballroom. “She doesn’t confide in me. I think she wants to hit these people over the head with a shovel. She wants them to go home for the winter with their heads stuffed with things to brood about.”
The northern lords would move on quickly. It would be harvest time soon. In three weeks Alten Weinberg would be a ghost of its summer self.
“I have a bad feeling about this, Drear.”
“A sensibly upbeat attitude.”
“Trouble?”
“Let’s see what she does.”
Drear was right. Helspeth did want to hit people over the head. As the crowd began to relax, a Braunsknecht sounded a trumpet. Helspeth read Katrin’s will into the startled silence, word for word, including a rambling excoriation of Serenity-and, most especially, her elevation of the Commander of the Righteous to the high peerage.
Piper Hecht nearly melted in the heat of the glares directed his way, heat that did not reflect directly on Helspeth. This would be recalled as further proof of Katrin’s insanity, though, surely, there would be a faction that damned Helspeth for not having burned the will instead of making it public.