“If they attack out of the Gap, they’ll be attacking directly into Wyrshym’s entrenchments,” Clyntahn riposted. “With Wyvern Lake in their way, they won’t be able to move all of that damned mobile artillery of theirs right up in his face, either. At worst, he bloodies them first, then has to retreat along the high road, which means he damned well ought to be able to stay ahead of them. At best, he stands his ground and cuts them to pieces. By the time anybody could come in from behind him, the Harchongians will be able to move.”
Maigwair darted a glance at Duchairn from the corner of his eye, and the Treasurer shrugged very slightly. No doubt Clyntahn’s analysis rested far more on his prejudices and refusal to disgorge his prize than on logic, but he did have a point. And as he’d just reminded them, it was Duchairn and Maigwair who’d transformed the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels into an increasingly formidable weapon. He’d supported them only grudgingly, too well aware of how bitterly the Harchongese aristocrats who’d supported Mother Church so faithfully and for so long had opposed every step of the change to be happy about it. Under the circumstances, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that he meant to call in his debt and insist the Harchongians be used where he thought they were most needed.
“All right, Zhaspahr,” Maigwair sighed. “I’ll tell Wyrshym to hold his position, and Rhobair and I will do everything we can to improve his supply situation. But you need to be aware that the Army of the Sylmahn’s our most exposed, vulnerable force. If the heretics come up with another surprise.…”
He shrugged, and Clyntahn grunted.
“In the meantime,” Duchairn said, “I’d like to discuss Brother Lynkyn’s latest report. In addition to the improved technique for banding the iron guns, he’s achieved some initial success in duplicating the heretics’ rocket throats. There are still some technical problems, and it looks as if it’s going to take rather longer than he’d anticipated, but—”
* * *
“I hope you have some good news for me,” Zhaspahr Clyntahn growled, flinging himself heavily into the comfortable chair behind his desk. “If I have to put up with another meeting with that pair of—!”
He cut himself off with an angry gesture, and Wyllym Rayno nodded silently. The increasingly close partnership between Duchairn and Maigwair worried Clyntahn more than he would admit, even to Rayno. He might have a sound basis for that concern, too. Unfortunately.…
“I’m afraid there isn’t a great deal of ‘good news’ available at the moment, Your Grace,” he said.
Clyntahn’s jowls darkened, but he pushed himself back in his chair and took a visible grip on his temper. He wasn’t pleased with the Archbishop of Chiang-wu, not at all. Yet however tempestuous his passions might be, he still realized how badly he needed Rayno or someone like him.
“Tell me,” he said flatly.
“I’ve completed my investigation of that business at Camp Chihiro,” his adjutant told him. “It confirms the initial reports. The commander of the camp’s guard force sent a pursuit after the murderer, but his men were unable to overtake him. They were able to confirm that there was only the one gunman, however, and according to the letter they found at the scene, it was Mab. And from the range at which the shots were fired, they could only have come from him or another of the false seijins.”
Clyntahn’s eyes flashed, despite his resolution to restrain his temper, but Rayno made himself return his superior’s glare levelly. There was no point trying to skate around the truth. Especially since the contents of “Mab’s” letter had already been made public throughout the Temple Lands.
Wyllym Rayno was not a man much given to despair, nor was he the sort who admitted defeat readily, yet the relentless appearance of blasphemous broadsheets bade fair to drive him to do both. There was no way whoever was posting them could keep evading his agents inquisitor this way. It simply wasn’t possible! Yet it continued to happen, as inevitably as the rising and setting of the sun. If he watched nine hundred and ninety-nine walls or village bulletin boards, the broadsheets appeared on the thousandth one. It was as if the heretics posting them knew exactly where every single one of his agents was on any given night.
And even if that hadn’t been true, how were they produced so well and how in Shan-wei’s name did they get distributed so quickly? The engraved illustrations rivaled—or even surpassed—the finest plates from Mother Church’s own Office of Engraving, the paper was first quality, and the printing itself was always crisp, clear, and clean. There were differences between the illustrations, differences in wording, and they were printed on different stock, yet it was as if every one of them had been produced in the same superbly equipped printing office. Except that they couldn’t have been, because they appeared everywhere from Desnair the City to Gorath to Zion herself and as far north as some wretched village church in the Province of Pasquale. Not only that, but in addition to the content they all shared, each of them contained stories about purely local events—stories that proved someone in the city or the town or the village where they were posted was responsible for them. Yet try as he might, his agents inquisitor had never once intercepted a single person on his way to tack one of his poisonous assaults on Mother Church onto a handy wall somewhere.
They had snapped up—and made examples of—almost a hundred corrupted individuals who’d sought to emulate whoever was behind the master campaign. But there’d been no comparison between the smudgy, amateurish sheets those people had been carrying and the ones which had inspired their imitation. And, truth be told, he wasn’t certain turning them into examples was the best solution. It made the point that people who posted such things were heretics and servants of Shan-wei, but it also made the point that people were doing it despite the promise of the Punishment if they were caught at it.
At least no one seemed aware of how broadly spread the damnable things had become … so far, at any rate. Not even all of his agents inquisitor realized that. Most of them, like the communities they were charged to protect, believed they were a purely local phenomenon. He’d gone to some lengths to keep it that way, but his most senior subordinates had to know the truth, and an awareness of how ubiquitous the problem had become was seeping steadily through the rank and file of the Inquisition’s investigators.
And that son-of-a-bitch Mab and the Fist of Kau-Yung aren’t helping, he thought bitterly.
It still worried Rayno more than he wanted to admit even to himself that the assassins had discovered the title his own agents inquisitor had bestowed upon them, even though Father Allayn’s investigations had turned up no signs that the “Fist of God” truly had penetrated the Inquisition. Unfortunately, all that proved was that they hadn’t found any penetration, not that it didn’t exist.
At least, unlike Mab’s accomplishments, none of their assassinations had made it into those pernicious broadsheets. Apparently even they shrank from the probable reaction of Mother Church’s loyal children if they discovered someone was systematically murdering God’s own stewards on Safehold. But there was no telling how long that restraint would last. And while word of the killings probably would inspire an outpouring of rage and fury—except, perhaps, among the handful of people who knew the truth about the dead vicars’ personal lives—it would also be proof Mother Church could not protect even her own princes.
“I assume the contents of his latest letter are appearing in every realm?” Clyntahn said, biting each word out of solid granite.
“Actually, no, Your Grace.” Clyntahn’s eyes narrowed, and Rayno inhaled surreptitiously. “It doesn’t appear to have been … generally distributed. Instead, it’s appeared at each of the holding camps. And—” he sighed “—on the door of St. Edmynd’s.”
“What did you say?”
The question came out quietly, almost calmly, which was far more terrifying in its way than the most enraged of bellows. St. Edmynd’s Church was the largest church in the Siddarmarkian city of Sairmeet. And Sairmeet was the central headquarters from which Inquisitor G
eneral Wylbyr Edwyrds administered the Inquisition in Siddarmark. In fact, the church was directly across the street from the mansion Edwyrds had requisitioned for his use.
“I’m afraid it’s confirmed, Your Grace. It was posted on the church door in a blizzard, but the guards swear no one could have gotten past them. They’ve been relieved, of course, in light of the possibility that they themselves put it there. Personally, I’m strongly disinclined to think they were responsible, since they were the ones who found it and removed it—before anyone else had an opportunity to see it, fortunately. They’ll be carefully interviewed, but I doubt anything will emerge to discredit their stories. Nonetheless, I’m sure rumors about it must’ve leaked out. Coupled with the broadsheets posted at the camps themselves, I’m afraid it’s had a … significant effect on the morale of Bishop Wylbyr’s Inquisitors.”
“This has gone on long enough, Wyllym.” Clyntahn’s voice was still low, but “calm” was not the word Rayno would have chosen to describe it. “The only way this could be happening is that the false seijins truly are Shan-wei’s demons reintroduced into the world by that Shan-wei’s bastard Cayleb and his bitch empress. There’s no other explanation. But the Writ and the Book of Schueler both teach us that demons cannot succeed against the holy. They may win battles, as they did in the War Against the Fallen, and even the Faithful may fall before them. But in the end—in the end—they must always fail before the kyousei hi of the Archangels and the wrath of God Himself. There can be no other outcome.”
His eyes met Rayno’s, and the archbishop saw a deep, burning determination that was far more frightening than Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s customary fury.
“Call in however many agents inquisitor it takes.” The words were beaten iron. “This so-called ‘Fist of God’ operates here in Zion. You’ve taken some of them, so we know that whoever and whatever they may be, they aren’t these accursed false seijins. They’re mortal and they can be killed—enough of them have killed themselves to avoid capture to prove that. I want this city flooded with your agents. I want these murderous bastards found, and I want some of them taken alive. I want them put to the Question, and then I want them put to the Punishment. We’ll find out who’s killing the vicars of Mother Church, and we’ll reveal the depth of their sin to the Faithful and make our dead brethren a rallying cry for vengeance and justice. And at the same time we do that, we’ll inform all of Mother Church’s loyal children that there are among them agents of Shan-wei, like those godless murderers, spreading sedition and lies in the service of Cayleb and Sharleyan, aided and abetted by the demons Athrawes and Mab and all the others. We’ll turn their own lying propaganda against them.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Rayno murmured, even as his heart sank.
If the resources already hunting for the Fist of Kau-Yung were insufficient, merely adding more manpower was unlikely to produce success. He was convinced the Fist could be found and destroyed—as Clyntahn himself had just pointed out, they had proof its members were, indeed, mortal, however foul the evil to which they’d sold their souls. But he was equally convinced it would take time. That, ultimately, it would depend upon some unanticipated break, some mistake on the Fist’s part which would yield to patient, meticulous investigation, rather than simply throwing additional bodies at the problem.
Clearly, however, this was not the moment to make that argument to the Grand Inquisitor. Nor was it the moment to suggest that an official authorization to … ease the rigor in the camps might be in order. Clyntahn’s expression and flat, hard voice made that abundantly clear.
On the other hand, he thought, the camp Inquisitors are already ‘easing the rigor’ with which they’re administered. None of them want to admit it’s out of terror that they might be the next to find themselves in Mab’s sights, but there’s no use pretending that’s not the reason.
This wasn’t the moment to mention that, either, but behind the customary tranquility of his own expression, Wyllym Rayno found himself deeply and unaccustomedly concerned. For the first time in his memory—for the first time since the War Against the Fallen—the Inquisition’s aura of invincibility as Schueler’s Rod in the world had begun to erode. It was still a small thing, and it was happening only slowly, yet it was happening not simply among the Inquisition’s own ranks but in the eyes of Mother Church’s children in general.
And, he thought, even the greatest avalanche began with the slippage of a few small stones.
.II.
Nimue’s Cave, Mountains of Light, The Temple Lands
“It’s hard t’ believe.” Greyghor Mahlard’s expression was troubled, but there was a hard light in his eyes. “Even after wakin’ up here and all, it’s hard t’ believe.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Merlin replied.
He wasn’t physically present at the moment—another of those things Mahlard probably found hard to believe—but Owl had placed his hologram in one of the chairs around the conference table. Now he leaned back in the chair his PICA actually occupied in far distant Siddar City.
“In fact,” he continued, “it may be even harder because of everything that’s happened, especially to you and your family, Greyghor.”
Mahlard snorted harshly.
“After what happened t’ my family?” His voice was even harsher than his snort had been. “Trust me, I’ve a lot less reason t’ put one damned bit o’ trust in those bastards in Zion. I’d figured that much out even before you rescued us, Seijin Merlin!”
“I don’t think that’s exactly what the seijin means, Greyghor,” Sandaria Ghatfryd said from her own place at the table. Mahlard looked at her, and she shrugged. “Of course you realized Clyntahn and the rest of them had betrayed everything they’d ever been taught about God! There are millions of people on Safehold who’ve realized that just by watching them in action; you and your family experienced the way they’ve twisted and broken every good thing in the Holy Writ. But there’s a difference between that and rejecting the Writ itself, and the more we’ve seen people—mortal people, like Clyntahn and the other three—pervert the Writ, the more tightly we’ve clung to what it really says. Our anger and our hatred for them and what they’ve done is … framed in our outrage for the way in which their actions defy what we know is the will of God and the teachings of the Archangels. And that makes it even harder for us to accept anything that challenges the rock we’ve been hanging onto for dear life, far less something that breaks the rock up into tiny pieces of gravel and then throws it out the window!”
Mahlard looked at her for several long moments, then nodded slowly.
“Sandaria has a point,” Nimue said from the chamber’s doorway. Her hologram walked across to the table and took a seat between Sandaria and Aivah. “Sorry I’m late.” She made a face. “Irys and Phylyp had a late session with Anvil Rock and Tartarian. And Koryn, of course. They’re hammering out the final details for incorporating the Corisandian Army into the Imperial Army, and Tartarian’s especially eager to get that out of the way.” She chuckled. “Getting Corisandian officers into the Navy’s the next step, and guess who wants his admiral’s streamer back?”
“I don’t blame him.” Merlin shook his head, expression sour. “He’s been stuck in council chambers ever since he ended up on the Regency Council, and I’ve had more experience of being stuck in an ‘office job’ of my own than I ever wanted!”
“I don’t think you’d get a lot of sympathy from Cayleb,” Aivah pointed out. “You do get out and about a lot more than you’ve allowed him to. Well, you and Sharleyan, anyway.”
Mahlard looked back and forth between speakers, following the conversation, and his expression had changed from its tight anger into one touched with wonder. He’d been a woodworker in a moderately prosperous but small Border State town far from any thronerooms or palaces. Now he found himself sitting at a conference table, face-to-face with potentially demonic beings out to steal his soul, yet it was evident that he found such casual references to the two most powerful
monarchs in the world almost more surreal.
“That may be true,” Merlin said, “but it’s getting a little afield from Greyghor’s point. And, frankly, how he winds up dealing with it is going to be significant for his future in more ways than one.”
“I know.” Mahlard leaned back in his own chair, rubbing his forehead with the fingers of his right hand. “Don’t think for a minute I’m not grateful t’ you—to all of you.” He lowered his hand to wave at the individuals, flesh-and-blood and electronic, around the table. “Fact is, I’d be dead by now, and so’d Stefyny and Sebahstean, and that’s the truth.” His mouth tightened with remembered pain as the faces of the wife and son he’d never see again flowed through his mind. “Whatever happens from here’ll be a lot better’n where we’d’ve been ’thout you. And I understand why you need t’ be sure I’ll keep my mouth shut ’bout just how you managed it.”
Merlin nodded, watching the Sardahnian’s expression thoughtfully. He’d been impressed by Mahlard’s intelligence and resilience. It was impossible to miss the dark places experience had left behind the gray eyes he shared with his daughter, but Nimue Alban had seen those dark places behind many another set of eyes, even before her resurrection here on Safehold, and Merlin had seen a lot more since. Mahlard handled his better than a lot of those other eyes’ owners had handled theirs, perhaps because his surviving children needed him to. And whatever else, they hadn’t slowed his mental quickness. He wasn’t a well-educated man, even by Safeholdian standards, but he possessed an abundance of common sense, and his horrific experiences hadn’t dulled it.
That was good … probably. Merlin had seen no option but to transport him and the two children directly to Nimue’s Cave after their rescue. The three of them couldn’t reappear in Sarkyn—or anywhere else they might conceivably be recognized, for that matter—after they’d “died” in Camp Chihiro. Nothing in the Church of God Awaiting’s theology supported the concept of physical resurrection, and even if it had, the Temple Loyalists would instantly have proclaimed the three Mahlards had to be demons. Nor could he have allowed them to simply awaken somewhere else—in Tellesberg, for example—with no memory or explanation for how they’d escaped the camp. Their confusion and disbelief would have driven Greyghor to ask the very questions no one could afford for him to ask.