“What about the Harchongians?”
“Yes, that is an interesting question, isn’t it?” Maigwair scowled. “Baron Falling Rock’s moving forward along the canal, exactly the way Rainbow Waters promised Gustyv he would. He’s moving a little faster than Rainbow Waters estimated, too. But even so, he’s barely into Usher by now; he’s still a long way from Lake City, far less Five Forks. We’ve got around twenty thousand of our own men already garrisoned in and around Lake City, but even that’s six hundred miles away by the shortest route. At this point, I’m afraid the best thing we can do with Falling Rock’s army is to reinforce Lake City. If the heretics get their damned ironclads back into Spinefish Bay and head south along the Hildermoss at the same time they’re moving north from Five Forks.…”
Duchairn nodded slowly, and Maigwair turned back to the window.
“And then there’s Kaitswyrth,” he said over his shoulder, never looking away from the snow. “He’s heard about Five Forks, too, and he’s heard about what Hanth’s doing to Rychtyr along the Sheryl-Seridahn. His ‘patrols’ are a piss-poor excuse for the sorts of patrols the heretics send out, especially this time of year, but he’s insisting there are over a quarter million men ready to attack him any moment now. Frankly, the tone of his reports is panicky enough I’m disinclined to believe his estimates, but I’ve got damn-all from any other source to confirm that. For all I know, he might even be right. On the other hand, nobody’s captured any critical depots in his rear. His supply line down the North Daivyn’s still secure, which means his line of retreat up the North Daivyn is also secure … and that the Mighty Host could relieve him a lot sooner than it could get to Guarnak. And if worse came to worst, he ought to be able to retreat up a shorter, intact river line faster than even Eastshare could follow him up.”
“And as long as he holds his current position, any troops who manage to retreat through Hildermoss could reinforce him?”
“Of course they could. And if I had my way, Wyrshym would relieve him in command as soon as he got there.”
Duchairn nodded again. Not that it was likely to happen. Even if Maigwair was allowed to pull out as much of Wyrshym’s army as possible, Zhaspahr Clyntahn remained stubbornly unwilling to acquiesce in replacing a onetime favorite like Kaitswyrth—even if Kaitswyrth hadn’t exactly covered himself with glory the previous summer. The Grand Inquisitor was even more unlikely to agree to replacing him with a “defeated” commander he’d never fully trusted in the first place.
“All right,” he said finally. “I think I’ve got the picture, Allayn, and I promise I’ll do what I can to support you. I can certainly point out how grim Wyrshym’s logistical position is now that we’ve lost Five Forks. And everything else you’ve said makes good sense to me.”
Maigwair turned to face him again, and the Treasurer saw the same recognition in the Captain General’s bitter gaze. What made good sense to them might not make the same sort of sense to Zhaspahr Clyntahn. In a reasonable world, the united front of the Army of God’s commander and its quartermaster ought to carry more weight than the passion and fury of the Grand Inquisitor. In the world they actually had, however.…
It’s the two of us against Zhaspahr on this one, Duchairn thought grimly. Zahmsyn’s collapsed completely where anything remotely connected to the military’s concerned since we found out about the Army of Shiloh. The news out of Geyra and Malyktyn aren’t doing anything to stiffen his spine, either. I think he can see what’s coming from Desnair, and he figures Zhaspahr’s going to lay that at his door, since he’s Chancellor.
The Treasurer grimaced at the direction of his own thoughts. There’d been times he would cheerfully have cut Trynair’s throat for his part in enabling this madness, and the Chancellor’s total lack of moral courage was enough to turn his stomach. But there was no point pretending Trynair was going to change course now. And, in some ways, given the alternatives, it was hard to blame the other man. At the same time, he was a vicar of Morth Church. That meant he had some responsibilities to God and God’s children, and—
Duchairn cut off that line of thought and inhaled deeply.
He was already frightened of Zhaspahr, he reminded himself. Now that the Inquisition’s officially taken over all the “security functions” here in Zion from the Temple Guard, Zahmsyn’s too terrified to cross him over anything, and not without reason, to be fair. Zhaspahr’s never been what anyone might call “reasonable,” and it’s getting a hell of a lot worse. He’s not telling us everything, either. He never did—Allayn’s got a point about his “downplaying” inconvenient bits of news—but it’s been five-days since he gave us any kind of progress report on the holding camps. That’s a sort of report in its own right, given the way he’s always gloated over them in the past. I don’t believe him when the says Rayno’s making progress against the Fist of Kau-Yung, either, and I’m damned well sure those propaganda broadsheets worry him one hell of a lot more than he’s willing to admit!
Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s belief in the iron rod and the power of terror was how this years-long nightmare had begun in the first place. What he’d never believed, in the beginning at least, despite whatever reverses he might encounter along the way, was that he could actually lose. Whatever might happen in the short term, in the long term victory had been certain, and with it the destruction of all those enemies, real or imagined, who’d dared raise their hand against Mother Church … and him.
But now, for the first time, Mother Church no longer faced simply one more failure to crush Charis and the schism for him. Now she was face-to-face with the very real possibility that they would defeat her … and with her, Zhaspahr Clyntahn. Duchairn doubted the Grand Inquisitor was prepared to admit that even to himself and even now, but beneath anything he might be willing to face openly, the uncertainty, the doubt—the fear—was like acid gnawing its way through the armor of his arrogance.
And because it is, he’s getting more and more desperate … and fanatical, the Treasurer thought. Any suggestion—any hint —that we have to give ground, even temporarily, is automatically unacceptable to him. So how in Langhorne’s name do we make him see reason now?
* * *
“The whole idea’s ridiculous!” Zhaspahr Clyntahn snapped, his heavy jowls mottled with fury. “Wyrshym’s not even under attack, and you already want him to retreat?! Never!”
“Zhaspahr, Allayn’s explained it to you in the simplest possible terms.” Duchairn kept his tone as reasonable as he could. “It’s not a matter of wanting him to retreat; it’s a matter of saving what we can.”
“Dragon shit!” Clyntahn slammed one meaty hand on the polished table then glowered around the council chamber, the power of his wrath filling the air like curdled thunder. “That’s dragon shit! You want him to abandon his position, give up almost everything we gained in last year’s campaign—that’s what you want!” His lips worked as if he wanted to spit. “That’s defeatism. That’s abandoning the Jihad, handing victory to God’s own enemies! If you think I—if you think the Office of Inquisition—is going to stand by and see that happen, you are sadly mistaken, Rhobair!”
“No one’s being defeatist,” Allayn protested. Which, Duchairn reflected, was less accurate than he might have preferred. “I want to preserve Wyrshym’s army and add it to Kaitswyrth’s, Zhaspahr! Assuming Kaitswyrth’s estimates of the heretic forces massing against him are remotely accurate, he’s going to need all the reinforcements he can get, and Wyrshym’s too far forward for us to support him. I know you don’t want to give up the ground he’s taken, but we need to … readjust our own positions. Let me do that. Let Rhobair finish reequipping our Army, as well as the Harchongians, with the new rifles and the new artillery. Let Dohlar rebuild at least some of its strength. For that matter, Harchong’s already raising another five hundred thousand men to add to the mix and the Emperor’s promised still more! Once we’ve done that, we’ll be in a position to resume our own offensive without worrying about shattered supply lines and arm
ies we can’t even feed.”
“No,” Clyntahn said flatly, and his eyes were slits of rage. Zahmsyn Trynair sat silent, eyes on the table, face pale, and the Grand Inquisitor glared at the other two members of the Group of Four. “Wyrshym is staying right where he is.”
“Zhaspahr, I’m Mother Church’s Captain General,” Maigwair said, meeting that glare. “And this is a military decision.”
“It’s only partly a ‘military decision,’” Clyntahn sneered. “If you pull back Wyrshym, you expose all of Inquisitor General Wylbyr’s camps. You give up all the territory we’ve reclaimed for Mother Church—territory the Inquisition, not the Army, is responsible for restoring to God. You abandon your responsibilities as Captain General at the time of God and the Archangels’ greatest need in the world since the War Against the Fallen itself! That’s what happens if you order Wyrshym to retreat, Allayn. Are you prepared for the consequences if you betray God Himself that way?”
Maigwair had gone almost as pale as Trynair. He refused to back down, but his gaze flicked sideways to Duchairn, and Clyntahn turned those furious eyes upon the Treasurer.
“I’m tired of hearing complaints about why we can’t do this, and why it’s impossible for us to do that, and how we can’t possibly sustain Wyrshym where he is,” the Inquisitor said flatly. “If a quarter of the effort you’ve spent explaining all the reasons for all the things we’ve failed to do, or we’re still unable to do, had been spent solving the Shan-wei-damned problems in the first place, we wouldn’t be in this mess! Well, if the Army and the Treasury aren’t prepared or able to do their duty, the Inquisition’s prepared and able to do its, no matter who it has to call to account!”
Duchairn felt the moment humming in the council chamber’s air as the iron gage of Clyntahn’s challenge hit the floor, and the need to take it up burned in him like a fire. It was time—it was far past time—to reclaim the vicarate and Mother Church herself from the likes of Zhaspahr Clyntahn. And yet—
The Treasurer never broke eye contact with the Inquisitor, but his mind saw the guards in Schuelerite purple standing outside the chamber’s door and the other inquisitors seeded throughout Zion and the Temple. If he let this moment pass, if he and Maigwair didn’t defy Clyntahn now, when all sanity was so overwhelmingly on their side, the Grand Inquisitor’s control would become absolute. But if they did defy him he wouldn’t hesitate to have them arrested and turn both of them into examples. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d murdered fellow vicars to make a point, and the public execution of the only two members of the Group of Four willing to confront him would make him, not the nonentity sitting on the Grand Vicar’s throne, the unchallenged dictator of Mother Church.
Face him! a voice cried out deep inside. Face him now, because if you don’t, you may never have another chance! Why have you been making preparations all this time if you’re never going to use them?
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He had made preparations, and he knew their strength, knew how deep they went, yet he also knew they relied not on weapons of war or the might of legions. They were no match for Clyntahn in a direct confrontation, especially not since the Inqusition’s imposition of outright control over the city of Zion and all its guardsmen.
No sword, no spear, no army is more powerful than the will of God. No shield, no armor, no fortress is greater safety than trust in Him who created all the universe. No shackle, no fetter, no prison can lock a child of God away from the love of God. Put not your trust in principalities or worldly powers, for principalities fail and any man is easily killed. But the word I have brought you from Him, the truth I have taught you as His messenger—that is invincible. It will endure more ages than the world itself, and he who places his faith in it, even though he taste of death, shall never know defeat.
The words of the Book of Langhorne ran through him, and he knew they were true. The truth of God was invincible … and any man was easily killed. The inquisitors outside the council chamber would obey whatever order Zhaspahr Clyntahn gave them, and if he and Maigwair died, they would accomplish nothing but their own martyrdom. There were times when Rhobair Duchairn longed for exactly that, if only as a way to lay down his burden. But even as Langhorne had promised the invincibility of God’s truth, he’d also warned that God knew how to measure a man’s task.
God will show you the path set before your feet. God will teach you the task He has laid upon you. It will not always be easy, and you may groan beneath its burden. Yet you will know the task which bears your name, written upon it in words of fire. You will know it, and you will lift it up, and you will walk every weary mile of the road. You may falter, you may long to turn aside, but you will not, for you are God’s, as this whole world is His, and as He will not fail you, you will not fail Him.
What other burden, what other task, had God set before him than to repair the frightful wounds of His own Church? It wasn’t simply his task—it was his duty … and his penance. His life was not his own to lay down before that task was finished. He might yet die in its doing, but he had no right—he’d forfeited the right—to let himself be killed unless that accomplished the charge God’s will and his own guilt had laid upon him.
He faced that bleak awareness, and then another passage flowed through him, this one from the Book of Bédard.
Be patient. Wait upon God, for be you ever so heavy laden with sin, He will show you all good things in His own time. His Love is forever, He does not abandon those who do not abandon Him, and He will search through all eternity for any who are lost. No darkness can hide you from His eye, no sin can place you beyond His forgiveness, and they who return to Him and take up their tasks once more will rise up upon the wings of wyverns. That which hinders them today, He will remove in the day of His own choosing, and that which bears them down He will cause to lift them up in the morning of His victory.
“Zhaspahr,” he said, still refusing to look away, “we may disagree about the best way to accomplish what lies before us, but whatever you may think, the Army and the Treasury have always been prepared to do their duty. As Allayn’s said, he and I want to preserve the Army of the Sylmahn. We have no more desire than you to give ground to heresy and schism. We simply believe that in order to resume the offensive successfully and carry God’s banner to victory we need to reorganize, rearm, and reequip His forces. And as part of that reorganization, we need to extract as much of Bishop Militant Bahrnabai’s army as possible from the trap the heretics have built around it.”
“Reorganize and rearm all you like,” Clyntahn said coldly. “We’ve seen in the case of the Mighty Host what you can accomplish when you truly set your hearts as well as your minds to your task, trusting in God for success. But we will not betray our duty to Him or to the complete cleansing of heresy in Siddarmark in the process. The Army of the Sylmahn is the shield for that cleansing; it will not be removed, and however much mortal men may despair of accomplishing what God has called them to do, there’s nothing He cannot accomplish through them so long as they keep faith with Him. The Mighty Host’s vanguard is already in motion, and if we can’t prevent the accursed heretics from reentering the Ice Ash, we can certainly destroy every river lock south of Spinefish Bay to deny them access to the Hildermoss! You may be right about the noose about the Army of the Sylmahn’s neck. Maybe it is doomed if it stands its ground. But if it doesn’t stand, even at the price of its destruction, we abandon all of Siddarmark west of Tarikah to Shan-wei and dark damnation. The Mighty Host will either relieve it or avenge it, but it will not betray God by abandoning the position He’s called upon it to defend in His name!”
“All right,” Duchairn heard himself say. “All right. I think you’re wrong, Zhaspahr. I want that clearly understood between us. But you may not be, and I can’t dispute anything you’ve said about Siddarmark or God’s ability to accomplish what fallible mortals believe is impossible. So Allayn and I will do everything humanly possible to support the Army of the Sylmahn, to expedite the movement o
f the Holy Host, and to prevent the heretics from using the rivers against us. But I want something from you in return, Zhaspahr.”
“What?” Clyntahn half sneered.
“I want your promise that your inquisitors will back off while we do it.” Duchairn’s eyes bored into the Grand Inquisitor’s. “We need—our people in the field need—the freedom to do their jobs without having one of your people who may know everything there is to know about the Writ but doesn’t know squat about logistics or strategy or troop movements looking over their shoulders and hampering them every step of the way. I can’t guarantee we’ll succeed even with that freedom, but I can guarantee we won’t succeed without it.”
Something flickered at the back of Clyntahn’s eyes. Duchairn didn’t know what that something was, but he didn’t much care, either. Silence hovered for a moment, and then Clyntahn nodded once.
“Very well. Your ‘people in the field’ will have the ‘freedom’ you say they need. See to it that they use it well.”
.XIII.
HMS Chihiro, 50, Gorath Bay, Kingdom of Dohlar, and HMS Destiny, 54, Great Western Ocean
“Thank you for coming so promptly, Pawal.”
“It’s not like I had anything else to do this afternoon,” Pawal Hahlynd observed dryly, reaching out to clasp arms with the Earl of Thirsk. “Except worry, of course,” he added rather more somberly.