Brother Candle was not so sure. Rinpoche might be a clever man posing as a fool.

The Perfect nodded as though everything in this world was perfectly clear. "Do you people have any idea what's really going on outside Metrelieux?"

Sir Eardale sighed. "No, Brother. Most of us don't. Most of us apparently don't want to know. Or don't care." He paused a moment. When Brother Candle said nothing he continued. "I myself am aware of the creeping chaos. Incompletely, no doubt."

"Creeping chaos is putting it too optimistically, sir. The Connec is dying. It's falling apart. So fast it makes the head spin. If you travel more than twenty miles from Khaurene, you stand an excellent chance of wandering into a local war or falling foul of brigands. Half the counts and knights out there, especially in the north and west, are feuding. Half of those can't explain why. It's just something they have to do. A matter of honor. If it weren't for Count Raymone and a few men like him, I'm afraid the collapse would be complete in another year."

"I hadn't thought it that bad. Not yet. I thought we still had some time."

"The time is all used up. The Duke has wasted it for far too long already."

"Tormond is obsessed with the state of his soul. When he's rational at all."

"While all the southwest and the Terliagan Littoral defects to Peter of Navaya."

"Not a stupid move for those people, eh?"

Brother Candle frowned.

"I'm being rational, not disloyal. I understand what's happening. I'm powerless to do much. I'm allowed to send letters to this noble or that ordering him to stop burning his neighbor's corn but they don't listen. I have no teeth. They know they can go right on murdering sheep. The only power capable of staying them will be the owner of the sheep. Or maybe the sheep themselves once they've had enough. I can't raise the levies. I can't send ducal troops out. And superior force is the only answer. Everyone else has to pile on whenever anybody acts up. So I can't blame people for switching fealty to Peter, or even Charlve, if that's what they have to do to secure themselves against anarchy."

Brother Candle said, "Of course. On that one level. Strictly speaking."

"I am worried, though, by all the mercenaries coming into…" Dunn shut up, cocked his head, laid a forefinger across his lips. He eased toward the doorway, making a series of signs Brother Candle took to mean that Dunn thought someone was eavesdropping.

Dunn made a production of drawing the short sword that symbolized both his station and the level of trust the Duke invested in him. The sound echoed in the barren room.

Footsteps hastened away.

Dunn said, "I've stayed too long. Can you find your way back to the privy audience? Bicot Hodier will find you there. He'll show you your quarters."

"Quarters? I'm staying down in the town."

"No. The Duke wants you here. But he can't see you today. Probably tomorrow." Dunn leaned out the doorway. Seeing no one, he departed. Swiftly.

Brother Candle's party cooled their heels several more days. The Perfect had not spent that much time there ever before.

Metrelieux was typical of its time and kind. Large, badly furnished, and cold. Cold even for the time of year. For the climate.

Last winter there had been snow for the first time in modern memory. Snow that accumulated and stayed, not just the occasional scatter of random flakes that vanished in the morning sun.

Spring had been late arriving.

The summons to the presence came at last.

Tormond IV, Grand Duke of Khaurene, Duke of Sheavenalle, Count of Flor and Welb, and so forth, looked like he had enjoyed a sleepless night and had not yet pulled himself together. He had aged severely. He had lost a lot of hair, in no regular fashion. His beard had gone white and was patchy, too. His gray eyes, once steel and as penetrating as death, were dull and hollow. He seemed confused about where or when he was and what he was doing.

Nevertheless, he recognized Brother Candle. "Charde! Charde ande Clairs. Welcome. At last, a friendly face among all these shrieking blue jays."

"It's Brother Candle now, Your Lordship. But a pleasure to see you again, too."

The Duke slid his right arm across Brother Candle's shoulder, letting the Perfect take some of his weight without being obvious. Tormond was tall and lean. What little hair he retained was white and wild. His clothing showed no care, either. He had not changed in days. Residue from several meals decorated his shirtfront.

Tormond murmured, "Help me, Charde. I can't tolerate this much longer."

"Your Lordship?"

"I think I'm going mad. It's like there's more than one man inside me. And none of them are any good at being the Duke."

"You're too critical. You've done some wonderful things."

'Wonderful things," Duke Tormond said, and sighed. "Wonderful things, Charde. Did you know they call me the Great Vacillator?"

The entire Connec knew. Little children knew, though no one would call him that to his face. At his best Tormond IV was so deliberate that crises usually resolved themselves before he responded. "I've heard that. Don't let it bother you." Brother Candle looked around to see if anyone was particularly interested in their conversation.

Everyone fell into that category.

The Duke made a feeble gesture. Pages began seating people. Tormond asked Brother Candle to sit beside him, in the seat his sister Isabeth occupied when she visited Khaurene. She, much younger than Tormond, was in confinement in far Oranja, about to present King Peter with an heir. If she had not done so already.

News moved slowly. Unless it was bad. Ill tidings had wings.

Servants brought coffee, a rare treat. No one refused. Brother Candle smiled into his cup as Socia and Thurm Rault enjoyed their first encounter with the dark beverage.

After coffee the Duke seemed collected and animated. Thank you all for coming. Count Raymone. Seuir Brock. Brother Candle. My apologies for keeping you waiting so long. I didn't know you'd arrived."

Really? Odd indeed.

The group was the same council Tormond always assembled. Sir Eardale seemed as tired as his Duke. Michael Carhart was a renowned Devedian religious scholar. Bishop Clayto was the senior Brothen Episcopal in Khaurene.

Brother Candle's friend Bishop LeCroes's allegiance went to Viscesment. LeCroes liked Sublime better than Clayto did. Bishop Clayto viewed the Brothen Patriarch with open contempt.

Tember Sirht had replaced his father, Tember Remak, as spokesman for the Dainshaukin. Hanak el-Mira represented the Connec's small surviving Praman population, on the Terliagan Littoral. Brother Candle recalled el-Mira from the Calziran Crusade. Terliagan slingers had been an important part of the Connecten contingent. El-Mira was younger than Brock Rault but belonged to a proud old family. Only in recent years had his people become active participants in the broader Connecten civilization.

Since Isabeth's marriage to Peter of Navaya, in fact. Though committed to a relentless reconquest of Praman Direcia, Peter won numerous friends and allies among the Pramans. He did not destroy their religious places nor force his own beliefs on them, being content to let time and the superiority of the Chaldarean vision hasten the false religion into yesterday's dust. Peter's most devoted allies were the Pramans of Platadura, a city-state of traders. Platadura's fleets engaged in continuous, bitter, and often deadly competition with those of the Firaldian mercantile republics, Aparion, Dateon, and Sonsa.

An unknown Praman accompanied Hanak el-Mira. Brother Candle thought his dress looked Plataduran. No one introduced him. Duke Tormond was in what was, for him, a hasty mood.