The Arnhanders did not believe, either, though something so terrified their horses that most fled despite the darkness. The surviving camp folk, now without shelter, had less trouble believing. Quietly, beneath Grolsach's placid Chaldarean surface, some recollection of the old gods soldiered on. In circumstances as woefully reduced as those of the Grolsachers themselves.

The mosquitoes returned. As they did, Brock Rault insisted, "Get up, Master. We don't have far to go. And the worst is behind us. You'll be asleep in a feather bed before the sun comes up."

Brother Candle clambered to the parapet overlooking Caron ande Lette's gateway. The sun was going down. He had slept eleven hours. Every joint still ached. As did every muscle. He was too old for adventures.

Before coming topside he had eaten till he was ready to burst. Now, content despite his discomfort, he stood in twilight considering the besieging mass pathetic despite its numbers.

There were hundreds of Grolsachers out there. More were off foraging, finding neither food nor plunder. Those on hand were not in a bellicose mood. They were the tailenders. Yesterday's survivors. There were not a lot of healthy adult males among them.

Wailing broke out whenever a corpse was found and identified. Though how they recognized their dead after Rook's passage was beyond Brother Candle.

He had not seen a corpse touched by the Instrumentality. He had heard a description. While eating. The Great Demon left only a dried husk so desiccated that it could be hoisted with one hand.

Brock Rault was on post. As always. The Perfect asked, "You've decided to live up here, now?"

"I can see from here, Master. Not a lot, but enough to follow what's happening right around here."

"Which would appear to be not much."

"Correct. Pretending, but nothing of substance. We broke their spirit."

Thurm and Socia arrived, Thurm teasing crumbs out of the red brush at the corners of his mouth.

"And the Arnhanders?" Brother Candle acknowledged Socia with a nod.

"Trying to forage. Having no luck. If they work in small parties they get attacked. If they go in number they only find people too stupid or stubborn to go hide in the woods."

"So someone deluded the Grolsachers into thinking they'd just stroll into milk and honey. And the Arnhanders into believing that there would be no resistance."

"That isn't wrong. We can't do much but sit here." Brother Candle did not believe him. Sitting was not in keeping with the Rault character.

Socia said, "You've got plenty of initiative left, big brother."' She gestured. Barely discernible in the failing light were' earthworks the invaders had begun that day, without enthusiasm or urgency. Only a fraction of the foreigners had pitched in. The more hale had gone looking for food and plunder. Many foragers failed to return to their loved ones. "Yes?" Brock asked.

"If the Arnhanders go foraging, sortie. Destroy their camp. Steal or kill their extra horses. And their grooms and servants."

Thurm grunted. "Only, why take risks? If we just wait… How long before Count Raymone rescues his precious Socia?"

Socia punched him. An argument ensued. Socia was full of bloodlust. Ready to fling one-woman sallies at the Grolsachers. 'To keep the weeds down. So they don't get too numerous to handle."

Brother Candle feared the truth of her central argument. What they saw was the first lapping wave of a flood. The Sadew Valley could become a river of desperate humanity that would come till they overwhelmed the Connec.

Providence knew, the province could not mount an organized effort to defend itself. The central authority remained confused and irresolute, if not moribund. Foiling the poison plot had not paid off in a ducal resurrection. Many lesser lights remained interested only in making their neighbors miserable. Those who did retain a sense of responsibility mostly were content to wait for trouble to come to them. Only Count Raymone Garete, because of past successes, could rally many followers. But he had no legal power to raise levees or give orders outside his own county.

Count Raymone was the most dangerous man in the Connec, from the viewpoint of the Brothen Church. Which explained why Antieux attracted so much attention from the Society.

Campfires appeared as darkness deepened, all round Caron ande Lette. They were too few to establish a blockade.

That could change.

Brock had no intention of letting an investiture develop. He collected a volunteer force of five. He and they went down ropes on the south side of the fortress, where the wall was shortest. Rault explained, "They should be watching for a sally from the gate."

Brother Candle spent hours, waiting, listening, watching. There was nothing to hear. And only lightning bugs to see. Brock was working with admirable stealth.

The old man wore out before midnight. His body still had a thousand repairs to make.

The Perfect wakened once, round what was called the witching hour. He had felt something terrible in the night. But it was gone before he wakened fully. He drained his bladder, returned to bed. He shivered like it was the heart of a cold, damp winter till sleep returned.

Brother Candle rose with the sun. Despite all the sleep, he was weak and groggy and inclined to lie down again.

Thurm and Socia joined him for breakfast. That included fresh bread, preserves, and bacon in quantity. Brother Candle felt compassion for the Grolsacher families outside.

Thurm said, "That thing was out there again last night."

"Thing?"

"From before. Up the valley. The Lord of Maggots."

Socia said, "Oh, stop pussyfooting and say it. Rook! Rook! Rook was out there, following Brock around while he exterminated the vermin."

As Brother Candle opened his mouth, Socia barked, "Don't even bother. You might be more clever than the average Episcopal priest but you just aren't gonna twist things around so you can say that that wasn't Rook."

Brother Candle responded, "The Instrumentality we call Rook can't exist in today's world."

"Go tell it that, dipshit. I'm sure it'll be embarrassed and go lie down again."

Thurm slugged his little sister on the upper arm. "A little respect there, girl child."

Brother Candle said, "I'm not saying that something big isn't crawling around in the dark. And it does present similarities to the old pagan god of corruption. But that god doesn't exist anymore."

Socia sneered. "If it looks like a turd, smells like a turd, and draws flies like a turd, I'm gonna call it a turd."

Thurm said, "Maybe not all of Rook got bound. Or maybe part of him got loose. Something weird happened in the White Hills when the Amhanders came down on Antieux that time. The ones that ended up getting killed in the Black Mountain Massacre. They say a bunch of old graves opened up and evil things came out."

Could be, Brother Candle thought. The White Hills, on the northeast edge of the Altai, were also called the Haunted Hills. For all its stench and psychic impact, the thing did not seem particularly powerful. Could it be just a tiny shard of a god, driven by its original instinct?

Would it try to grow? Was that even possible? Would it hunt for scattered bits of itself? Would it free other old terrors from its youth?

"I'll stop wishful thinking and defer to my own ignorance at this point," the Perfect said. Though he despaired of the answer, he asked, "Did Brock enjoy any success last night?"

Thurm showed fresh excitement. "He did. He got into the Amhanders' paddock and stole some of their horses. Which he killed where the Grolsachers could grab them and eat them."

That ought to sow seeds of distrust.

Thurm's face closed down. The Perfect sensed that there was more, of a nature so dark he did not want to share it with a holy man.