“And?”
“And as nearly as I can reconstruct it, he’d gone to speak with an informant without taking any backup.” Wynchystair shook his head wearily. “I’ve warned all my men to be insanely cautious about that sort of thing, Your Eminence. But the truth is, if they want to turn up the information we need, they have to take chances.”
Rayno grimaced in agreement. It hadn’t always been that way, yet the Fist of Kau-Yung’s record of successes—and its ability to vanish like smoke after one of its attacks—required riskier tactics. Worse, the Inquisition couldn’t resort to open searches and manhunts without admitting to Zion’s citizenry in general that someone was systematically assassinating the Grand Inquisitor’s allies in the vicarate. And as long as they had to operate in the shadows, without drawing attention to the threat.…
“Understood,” he said and, finally, held out his hand. He unfolded the letter, and his face tightened as he read it.
To Wyllym Rayno, Archbishop of Chiang-wu and traitor to God:
This is to inform you that Brother Vyktyr will file no more reports about Vicar Sebahstean’s unfortunate demise. We were tempted to send him back to you alive, lest you replace him with someone competent. Instead, however, we take this opportunity to inform you that your own security is less than perfect. Last Thursday, when you visited St. Evyryt’s, you entered by the eastern door, as you always do. If you send one of your agents inquisitor to check, you will discover a twenty-pound charge of powder in the crypt below the walkway you used. We can’t imagine how it might have gotten there.
While the attitude which has led your subordinates to dub us “the Fist of Kau-Yung” is no doubt flattering, we prefer another, more accurate designation. And so we inform you that, in time, the Fist of God will come for you as we have already come for so many of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s corrupt and venal tools in the vicarate. For now, however, it best suits our purposes to leave you exactly where you are … for the same reason we were tempted to send Brother Vyktyr back to you alive.
Rayno made himself read it completely through a second time, then refolded it with meticulous care and laid it neatly on his blotter.
“This is a new departure,” he observed in a toneless voice.
“It is, Your Eminence.” Wynchystair nodded. “And there are three things about it which concern me most deeply.”
He paused, and Rayno waved for him to continue.
“First, I did send three of our agents inquisitor to Saint Evyryt’s, and I’m afraid they found the gunpowder exactly where the heretics said we would. Whether it was there Thursday or not is more than we can say at this point, but in my judgment, it would be wise to assume it was. In either case, Your Eminence, they’re much too well informed about your own movements, even if only after the fact. I think we’re going to have to begin taking greater precautions to ensure your safety. No doubt that’s exactly what they want us to do, but I don’t see that we have any other option.”
Rayno’s nod was noncommittal, an invitation to continue rather than a sign of agreement, but deep inside the archbishop felt a stab of fresh dismay. The Inquisition had been forced to take a more and more open role in policing Zion and the Temple. Officially that was because the Temple Guard had been cut to the bone to find the men the Army of God required, yet the real reason had been to be sure of the Inquisition’s grip upon the city of God on earth. The regular city guard knew better than to challenge the Order of Schueler’s authority, but the Grand Inquisitor had decided it was time to make sure of that. As for the Temple Guard, the Inquisition knew who its friends were within its ranks, and on Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s orders, Rayno had assigned special intendants to the Guard as well as the regular army. Every bit of armed force in Zion was firmly under the Inqusition’s control … and still the heretics had murdered Brother Vyktyr and gotten their gunpowder into Saint Evyryt’s!
“Second,” Wynchystair continued, “the fact that they know our agents inquisitor have begun referring to them, at least among themselves, as the Fist of Kau-Yung is troubling. There might be several explanations for how they came by that knowledge. I think, however, that we must assume they do, indeed, still have agents of their own in the ranks of the Inquisition. It’s entirely possible that, as in the case of tightening your own security, that’s exactly what they want us to assume. Unfortunately, I don’t believe we have any other choice.
“But, third, Your Eminence—and what concerns me the most, frankly—is the way in which this note to you emulates the ones the false seijins have been leaving at the scenes of their crimes. It seems to me that this is a clear-cut declaration that this ‘Fist of God’ is in—or has entered into—a direct alliance with ‘Dialydd Mab’ and his accomplices.”
Rayno considered Wynchystair’s analysis for several moments, his expression far calmer than the icy fury and—little though he cared to admit it even to himself—the fear behind it. And then, slowly, he nodded.
“As usual, you’ve cut straight to the heart of the matter, Father Allayn.” He picked up the letter and returned it to the upper-priest. “File this in the Level One files, but have a single copy of it made and returned to me first. No one other than your own document clerk is to see it or know of its contents.”
“Of course, Your Eminence.” Wynchystair tucked the letter into the sleeve of his cassock and folded his hands before him. “And then, Your Eminence?”
“And then I want you to begin a point-by-point consideration of my own and—especially—Vicar Zhaspahr’s security. Clearly, this ‘Fist of God’ wants us to be … anxious about our safety. As you say, however, their accomplishments to date leave us no option but to take them seriously.”
“I’ll discuss that with Bishop Markys this very afternoon, Your Eminence. I’ll take Father Byrtrym along to be sure he’s briefed in, as well. I’m sure the Bishop will want his input,” Wynchystair said, and Rayno nodded.
Markys Gohdard was one of Rayno’s senior deputies, charged with the supervision and coordination of his own and Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s personal security. Byrtrym Zhansyn had been one of Wynchystair’s best agents inquisitor until he’d been wounded in a Fist of Kau-Yung ambush which had killed two other agents inquisitor. Zhansyn had been left for dead when the Temple Guard responded to the sound of the shooting. His injuries had left him with a permanent limp, and the fact that the terrorists had obviously figured out who he truly was had taken him out of the field. Since then, he’d been attached to Gohdard as Wynchystair’s personal liaison.
“Good,” the archbishop said. “And as soon as you’ve done that, Allayn, I want a complete analysis of this Brother Vyktyr’s files. I want every report he ever wrote, and I want every agent inquisitor he ever worked with interviewed. I want to know exactly who he might have interrogated or interviewed about Vicar Sebahstean’s assassination. It’s most likely he got too close to something the heretics don’t want us to know about, but it’s remotely possible that something else—something that may have happened years ago but which they were afraid he or his superiors might put together—was behind it. Whatever it was, I want it found.”
“Understood, Your Eminence.” Wynchystair bowed, his nondescript face iron-hard. “If it’s there to find, we’ll find it for you.”
* * *
Snow fell silently, sifting onto the sidewalks of Mylycynt Court without the cutting winds which so often swept through the streets of Zion. Ahrloh Mahkbyth gazed out at it through the front window of his quietly elegant shop, watching the thick flakes settle as gently—and coldly—as a false lover’s kiss. It was already dark and growing quickly darker. Other shops’ windows glowed with lamplight, and he smoothed his guardsman’s mustache with one index finger as he considered the time.
He wasn’t as much a stickler as some of his fellow merchants about exactly when he closed shop, especially in the winter. His clientele was extremely well-heeled, including many members of the episcopate and more than a few vicars. Not that he often saw such exalted individuals
in person here in the shop; that was what servants and wine stewards were for. He did see quite a few priests and upper-priests, though. He supposed some of that was a case of ambitious members of Mother Church’s hierarchy being eager to be seen patronizing the “right” shops, but mostly it was because he was one of the half-dozen best in the entire city of Zion at his trade.
The fact that he was also an honorably retired Temple Guardsman didn’t hurt, but he’d always had a refined palate. Twenty-two years ago, shortly after his son’s death, he’d used the generous pension the Guard had extended to him, along with his savings and loans from a few people who’d believed in him, to open Mahkbyth’s Fine Spirits and Wines.
He smiled—briefly—at the memory. Even his wife, Zhulyet, who’d loved him dearly, had been convinced he’d lost his mind. And, truth to tell, in some ways he’d come pretty close to doing just that after Dahnyld’s death. But he’d proved the doubters wrong, and while the first major customers he’d secured might have been … ladies of negotiable virtue, their enthusiastic recommendation to their own clients had brought Ahrloh to the attention of his present ordained and quite often excessively wealthy customers.
He’d stayed in touch with his old comrades in arms, as well. At sixty-one, his physique remained powerful, kept that way by rigorous exercise that included regular fencing bouts with several current members of the Temple Guard. A dozen of his old friends had risen to senior rank in the last two decades, and he doubted their recommendations hurt his prospects with their ecclesiastic superiors, either. Whatever the explanation, business was brisk despite the unsettled times and life was about as good as a childless widower could have asked for.
On the positive side, Mahkbyth’s Fine Spirits and Wines showed a very comfortable cash flow. Indeed, one of the reasons his hours could be as flexible as they were was that so many of his sales were special orders, with the price tags that implied these days. Perhaps even especially these days, since his cellars were deep and he’d laid in an extensive collection of the harder-to-get brands—especially from Chisholm—before the embargo had shut down legal commerce with the heretical Out Islands. There were some, mostly competitors, who suggested—quietly—that at least a few of those bottles and casks had found their way to Zion after the embargo was declared, but no one paid much heed to such libelous accusations. The mere thought that such illustrious individuals as Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair, Mother Church’s own Chancellor, would patronize a common smuggler was preposterous! Why, even the Grand Inquisitor’s wine steward had been known to nip into Mahkbyth’s shop for the odd bottle of Vicar Zhaspahr’s favorite Old Mykalym Grand Reserve, the single thing about Chisholm which had somehow escaped the Inquisition’s anathematization.
On the negative side, when one of his special customers requested him to remain open a little later, he didn’t really have much choice. Those sorts of people were accustomed to special treatment. They tended to get … surly when they didn’t receive it, and the last thing anyone in Zion needed these days was to have high-ranking clergymen irked with him.
No one of such august stature had made any such request tonight, though, and so he stood there, watching the lights and thinking about the past, about his vanished family, about the future which would never have them in it, and about the things which made that future worthwhile anyway. A snow lizard-drawn trolley car rolled noisily past, the draft lizard’s breath jetting like smoke, and he wondered how low the temperature was going to dip. Some of his fellow shopkeepers began to shutter their windows for the night, and the snow fell a little faster, and he stood there, watching it.
The bright, cheerful jingle of the silver bell above the shop’s door was so sudden that Ahrloh twitched in surprise. Then he shook himself, straightened the subdued but well-tailored tunic that went with his professional standing, and turned to greet the last-minute customer.
“Good evening, Father.”
“And good evening to you, Master Mahkbyth,” the newcomer replied. He was a solidly built man, thirteen years younger and an inch or so taller than Ahrloh, who wore the purple-badged cassock of a Schuelerite priest under his heavy coat and carried a cane in his right hand. “I apologize for arriving so late, but I was delayed at the office.”
“It’s not a problem,” Ahrloh assured him. “I was just standing here, watching the snow. Besides,” his lips twitched a fleeting smile, “there’s no one waiting for me to get home by any set time. Well, no one except my housekeeper, and she’s used to my … irregular habits, let’s say.”
“If you’re sure I’m not keeping you?”
“Well, to be honest, you are, Father.” Ahrloh smiled at him. “As I just said, though, my time’s my own, and you’re one of my better customers. In fact, I only wish you could afford the really expensive brands.”
“Ouch!” The priest raised his free left hand in a gesture of surrender. “You’re already my greatest single monthly expense, Master Mahkbyth!”
“It’s always a pity when the demands of someone’s palette exceed the reach of his purse,” Ahrloh observed with another smile, this one more of a grin, and glanced over his shoulder at Zhak Myllyr, his senior employee.
“I think the snow’s going to pile deeper tonight than we expected, Zhak,” he said. “If it does, the trolleys won’t be running much longer, and you’ll have a fair walk home in the cold. Why don’t you go ahead and start now?”
“Are you sure, Master Mahkbyth?” Myllyr was about the priest’s age, with hair and eyes as brown as the apron he wore. “I don’t mind staying till closing.”
“Oh, don’t be silly!” Ahrloh waved dismissively. “You’ve already swept, there’s no dust anywhere I can see it, and I can close up just fine. And unlike me, you’ve got a wife and two children still at home waiting to make your life miserable—or maybe my life miserable—if you’re late getting home. On the other hand, if I decide to, I can easily bed down here for the night. That’s why I’ve got the cot in the office, isn’t it? Mistress Gyzail doesn’t start my supper till she sees me coming this time of year, and if I don’t turn up, she’ll feed Chestyr for me before she turns in herself. Two good things about cat-lizards: they’ll eat dry food, and they don’t need to be let out as long as there’s a pan handy. Of course, he’ll make my life Shan-wei’s own hell tomorrow night, but every so often a man has to remind his cat-lizard who’s in charge.”
Myllyr snorted, then shook his head and began removing his apron.
“In that case, I won’t pretend I wouldn’t like to get home while the trolleys are still running,” he admitted. He hung the apron on a hook behind the counter; bundled into his coat, scarf, and gloves; and nodded to the priest. “Good night, Father.”
“Good night, Zhak.”
The bell jangled again as Myllyr disappeared into the gathering darkness, and the cleric turned back to Ahrloh.
“How do you manage to smile at him that cheerfully?” he asked, leaning on his cane.
“He’s been with me for twelve years, and he really does know his spirits. He’s worth every silver I pay him, and as for the rest—” Ahrloh shrugged. “I’ve had lots of practice. Besides, not all of Rayno’s informants are evil at heart any more than all of Rayno’s enemies are pure of heart.”
“I suppose. Langhorne knows there are worse bastards out there,” the Schuelerite acknowledged, and it was his turn to shrug. “I really am sorry to be dropping in on you this late, Ahrloh, but something’s come up.”
“That’s what I figured when you sent your note around this afternoon,” Ahrloh replied. “Let me lock up behind Zhak, then we’ll go down into the cellar where we can talk and I’ll pick you out a bottle of something nice in case anyone asks about it.”
“Sounds good to me—you have so much better taste in these matters than I do, anyway.”
“Byrtrym, with all due respect, I could scarcely have worse taste than you do! Everyone knows you’ve been trusting me to pick out your whiskeys for the last eight years.”
?
??Yes, and I’ve been grateful to Arbalest ever since, even if you are a snob about it.”
Ahrloh laughed, then twitched his head towards the cellar stairs.
“Should I assume this has something to do with that little gift we left in the crypt at Saint Evyryt’s?” he asked as he opened the door at the head of the stairs.
“You should indeed. In fact, it’s had an … unanticipated consequence. Guess who Wynchystair’s decided should coordinate with our esteemed Adjutant’s and Grand Inquisitor’s security staff?”
“Langhorne!” Ahrloh paused on the stairs, looking back over his shoulder, then whistled when the priest nodded. “Never saw that one coming.” He shook his head. “Opens all sorts of possibilities, doesn’t it?”
He started down the stairs again as he spoke, the priest following him, careful on his weakened right leg.
“Not as many as we might like,” he said. “We could have gone ahead and gotten Rayno at Saint Evyryt’s, you know. Now that he’s been warned, he’s going to be a lot more careful, and I’m only Wynchystair’s liaison. It’s not like I’m going to be involved in the day-to-day planning of his schedule, and you can be damned sure he and his bodyguards will be keeping that as close to their tunics as they can, especially after Saint Evyryt’s.”
“Point’s not about killing Rayno—not yet, anyway,” Ahrloh replied, turning up the wick on the lantern at the foot of the stair. “Mind you, I’d love to see the bastard dead, and his day’ll come. But Arbalest’s right. Killing Rayno before we get a clear shot at Clyntahn would produce the worst bloodbath Zion’s ever seen—worse than when Clyntahn went after the Wylsynns and his other opponents in the vicarate. It would hurt the fat pig badly, at least for a while, but he’d find a replacement, and the cost to the innocent bystanders would be way too steep for such a short-term advantage. Scaring the shit out of all of them in the meantime’s likely to be a lot more useful. Arbalest’s right about that, too.”