“Agreed,” Cayleb said after a moment. “We’ll do it your way, Domynyk. And in the meantime, if anyone has any spare time on his or her hands, I think it might not be a bad idea to spend it praying Fern does suggest that ‘alternate disposition’ of their prisoners and Clyntahn actually listens.”
“I’ll see to that,” Archbishop Maikel promised, then smiled a bit sadly. “We’re already holding daily masses of intercession for the prisoners, after all. On the other hand, I’m afraid some miracles are more likely than others.”
.II.
The Temple, City of Zion, The Temple Lands
“If this continues, Wyllym, there are going to be some changes,” Zhaspahr Clyntahn said coldly. “You can tell Wynchystair and Gohdard that. And—” his eyes were frozen flint as he glared across his desk “—it might not stop there.”
“Your Grace, I entirely understand your sentiments, and if you truly wish me to pass that … warning on to Father Allayn and Bishop Markys, I will, of course,” Wyllym Rayno replied levelly. “Unfortunately, removing them from their posts—or removing me from my post—isn’t going to defeat these heretic terrorists.” He returned the Grand Inquisitor’s icy glare without flinching. “The Inquisition has no servants better at their jobs or more aware of their duty than Father Allayn or Bishop Markys. I’ll leave your estimate of my own capabilities and loyalty to your own judgment. Replacing any of us, however, is more likely to create confusion among our agents inquisitor than to have any beneficial effect.”
“I don’t see how it could have any detrimental effect,” Clyntahn half snapped. “It would be rather hard to accomplish less than a total lack of progress or success, don’t you think?”
“We have made some progress, Your Grace,” Rayno said in that same level voice, working hard to make his expression reflect both an awareness of Clyntahn’s rage and just the right amount of confidence. It was rather more difficult to project the latter. “Over the last six five-days, we’ve intercepted two assassination attempts and killed a half-dozen of the heretic terrorists,” he pointed out.
“Yes, and failed to intercept the assassination of Vicar Styvyn and Archbishop Samyl,” Clyntahn shot back. “And unless my memory of your reports is in error, all but two of those terrorists killed themselves when they realized they couldn’t escape. Which brings another minor point rather forcibly to mind. It’s all very well to kill the bastards, but without someone to interrogate, we’re learning fuck-all about who they are and how they’ve gotten their hands on such fiendishly accurate intelligence!”
Rayno began to reply, then stopped himself, partly because contradicting his superior was always risky when Clyntahn was in this sort of mood and partly because the Grand Inquisitor had a point.
A very good point, as a matter of fact.
“Your Grace,” he said instead, after a moment, “I’m afraid I’m coming to the conclusion that your earlier belief that we were confronting more than merely mortal foes may very well have had merit.” He watched Clyntahn’s jaw muscles bunch but continued unflinchingly. “I’m not speaking here of the terrorists and assassins themselves. I believe we’ve amply demonstrated that even though they’ve sold their souls to Shan-wei, they, at least, are mortal. Whether or not they have demonic direction and sources of information, but when they’re shot or stabbed, they bleed, and when they poison themselves, they die.
“Yet having said that, I can find no other explanation than active demonic intervention for our complete inability to so much as see whoever’s spreading those damnable broadsheets throughout the Temple Lands. Your Grace, five-day before last, Father Allayn had twenty—twenty—of his best-trained and most reliable agents inquisitor surrounding Saint Ahnthyny’s Church. He had reason to suspect Saint Ahnthyny’s senior priest might have become involved with the so-called Fist of God.”
Rayno knew how much Clyntahn hated that name; unfortunately, the Grand Inquisitor hated hearing anyone call it the “Fist of Kau-Yung” even more.
“Why? And why wasn’t I told about it?” Clyntahn demanded, leaning belligerently over his desk towards Rayno.
“Because the evidence was very scant and because anything which might lead us to these murderers is kept very, very closely held, Your Grace. Unless there’s some reason to share such information, we don’t … even with you. As you say, the terrorists seem fiendishly—demonically—well informed, so we’ve adopted the same policies you established for the Rakurai. Unless someone needs to know critical information, he isn’t made aware of it.
“Moreover, in this case, I believe—and Father Allayn concurs—that the priest in question has not, in fact, had any contact whatsoever with Mother Church’s enemies. The informant who suggested he might have has disappeared as tracelessly as the terrorists themselves, and we believe the information laid against Father Sairahs was actually fed to us by the terrorists.”
“And why should they have done that?” Clyntahn fairly bristled with suspicion, and Rayno sighed.
“Because, Your Grace, Father Sairahs is Vicar Zakryah’s cousin,” he said.
Clyntahn sat back in his chair, his expression one of surprise. Vicar Zakryah Hahlcahm was one of his closer allies in the vicarate. A Chihirite of the Order of the Quill, Hahlcahm had been a seminary classmate of Rhobair Duchairn, and until the beginning of the Jihad, he and Duchairn had remained close. Clyntahn had found that quite useful upon occasion. More importantly, perhaps, Hahlcahm had given Clyntahn his allegiance without any of the blackmail or extortion the Grand Inquisitor used to control so many of his “allies.” Hahlcahm was a strong supporter of Clyntahn’s policies where heresy was concerned, which might very well explain a Fist of Kau-Yung attempt to undermine Clyntahn’s trust in him by falsely implicating his cousin in acts of blasphemy and treason.
“And you didn’t see fit to mention this to me?” he asked after a moment, his voice still hard but without the edge of distilled fury it had carried earlier.
“Your Grace, I’ve already explained why we’re holding critical information so closely, but to be honest, there was more than one reason you weren’t informed in this case. One of my responsibilities is to … to serve as your filter. If I’d brought this information to you, especially before Father Allayn and I found the opportunity to sift the ‘evidence’ against Father Sairahs, it must have planted a seed of doubt in your mind. It was my judgment that Vicar Zakryah is too important to the Jihad—and to you personally—to allow that to happen unless there was other, supporting evidence of the allegations made against him. Afterward, when I’d determined there was no such evidence, I still saw no reason to inform you of it lest some lingering doubt cloud your trust in the Vicar. If I erred in doing so, I ask your forgiveness, but you have far too many other and completely valid things to worry about. If I can spare you from things you needn’t worry about, I see that as one of the duties of my office and as the Adjutant of the Order.”
Clyntahn frowned, but he also seemed to settle just a bit, and Rayno drew a deep, surreptitious breath of relief. What he’d just said was true, and despite the Grand Inquisitor’s volcanic temper and near-paranoid suspicion of his many real (and imaginary) enemies, Clyntahn knew just how valuable Rayno was in that regard. In his calmer moments, at least; he found it unfortunately easy to forget such things when his fury was fully engaged. Despite that, he had no idea how many potential victims of that temper and suspicion Rayno had preserved by simply not mentioning their names to him until after the archbishop had investigated them thoroughly. Rayno, on the other hand, had a very clear notion of what that number was, and he wasn’t at all averse to reminding Clyntahn just how valuable he was and in how many ways that was true.
“Very well,” the Grand Inquisitor growled after a moment, waving one hand dismissively. “But if this Father Sairahs was innocent, then what do the agents inquisitor around his church have to say about demonic assistance for the heretics?”
“Only this, Your Grace. That church was surrounded all night long.
No one entered or left it after Father Sairahs retired to his rectory. Father Allayn has twenty agents inquisitor who will all swear to that, and I’ve personally walked every inch of Saint Ahnthyny. There is no way any mortal being could have entered that church unseen. Yet in the morning, one of the heretics’ broadsheets had been nailed to the inside of the church doors.”
He sat very still, hands folded in the sleeves of his cassock, and watched Clyntahn’s expression. It was clear his superior didn’t care for the implications.
“Under the circumstances,” the archbishop continued into the silence, “I’m forced to the conclusion that it required more than mortal abilities to accomplish that, Your Grace. And that means you were correct. The heretics are being aided by demons, and it seems very likely ‘Seijin Merlin’ and the others of his ilk are, indeed, Shan-wei’s own demons.”
“But actually inside a consecrated church?” For once, even Zhaspahr Clyntahn sounded subdued, almost frightened. “How could a demon penetrate that sacred ground?”
“There are reports of demons violating sanctified ground during the War Against the Fallen,” Rayno reminded him quietly. “I realize tradition holds those reports were inaccurate. However, the first Grand Inquisitor saw fit to include them in the official archive for some reason, and he actually lived through the last few years of that struggle. Perhaps tradition’s been wrong all these years.”
“But—”
“Even if those accounts were accurate, Your Grace,” Rayno said almost gently, “there are no reports of demons ever actually penetrating Zion herself or the Temple. Saint Ahnthyny’s is technically in Zion, but it lies a good ten miles beyond the original boundary of the city. We have no evidence of any of these mysterious broadsheets appearing closer than five miles from the Temple. So even if the heretics are being aided by demons, they clearly can’t penetrate the holiest ground in the world. I remind you also that we have no reports of these so-called seijins operating within the Old City, either.”
“But if they can operate freely elsewhere.…”
“Your Grace, however widely they may operate, there are clearly limits on both their numbers and how overtly they may operate. If, indeed, demons are distributing the heretics’ broadsheets, then why have they not done so openly? Surely the appearance of a demon walking the streets of our cities, laughing at our efforts to stop it, would have an even more terrifying impact upon Mother Church’s sons and daughters than the mysterious appearance of propaganda, the half of which is rejected out of hand by those who read it. Yet they haven’t done that, and none of the ‘seijins’ have dared to show themselves here, either. It seems evident to me that, for whatever reason, they’re forced to go about their accursed work even more circumspectly than they did during the War Against the Fallen. And just as they were unable to deliver the entire world to Shan-wei then, they’ll fail now.”
For once, there was no slightest trace of calculation in Wyllym Rayno’s voice, no sign of it in his eyes, and Zhaspahr Clyntahn sat a bit straighter in his luxurious chair.
“You’re right, Wyllym.” He nodded. “You’re right. But if your suspicions about demonic interference are correct, then it’s more important than ever that we get our heel on these terrorists’ necks!”
“Agreed, Your Grace.” Clyntahn’s calmer, more intent tone was a tremendous relief, but Rayno allowed no sign of that to color his voice or his expression. “In the meantime, I think—”
A soft chime sounded and Clyntahn scowled at the interruption. He started to ignore it, but then he snorted and touched the glowing God light on the corner of his desk. The door slid open and one of his senior clerks stepped through it.
“I beg pardon for interrupting you, Your Grace,” the man said nervously, “but Vicar Zahmsyn sent you this by special courier. It’s … it’s marked ‘Urgent,’ Your Grace.”
“Then give it to me,” Clyntahn growled.
The clerk handed it to him, kissed his extended ring, and disappeared quickly enough to raise Rayno’s hackles. None of Clyntahn’s subordinates were foolish enough to linger when their intrusion might have irritated him, but they seldom vanished quite that abruptly. Not unless they had reason to believe that whatever had prompted the intrusion was likely to prompt an eruption, as well.
Clyntahn slit the thick, official envelope with an ornamental letter opener. He withdrew the folded sheets, opened them, and scanned Zahmsyn Trynair’s cover letter quickly.
His face darkened and his lips tightened, drawing back from his teeth. He stripped the cover letter angrily from the rest of the correspondence, tossing it to one side, and began reading the rest of the document. He got perhaps halfway through the first sheet before—
“God damn those bastards!” He slammed the document down on his blotter and exploded to his feet. “Those cowards! Those Shan-wei-damned traitors! Those puking, fornicating, ball-less, weaklings! How dare they?! I’ll have every one of them put to the Punishment!”
Wyllym Rayno recognized the signs. He knew better than to ask any questions, and at least Clyntahn’s office was less filled with the sort of priceless treasures so many of his other tantrums had demolished.
Unfortunately, that office was occupied by one Wyllym Rayno, and any effort to withdraw could only have … unfortunate consequences.
“That fucking, backbiting, lying cretin! The fucker thinks his goddamned navy’s so damned important he can get away with this kind of crap?! I’ll have him and his Shan-wei-damned family here in Zion so fucking fast his arse won’t catch up to the rest of him for three fucking five-days! Then we’ll see about coddling men taken in active rebellion against Mother Church, God, and the Archangels! I’ll—”
It went downhill from there.
.III.
HMS Chihiro, 50, Gorath Bay, Kingdom of Dohlar, and The Glydahr-Selyk High Road, Princedom of Sardahn
“I’m afraid we have no choice, Lywys,” Bishop Staiphan Maik said heavily.
Night lay over Gorath Bay. The wind was into the bay, out of the west, and Earl Thirsk’s flagship moved gently as she lay to her anchor. Lamplight gleamed warmly on his cabin’s fittings, and the breeze blowing in through the open scuttles and funneled down the skylight by the canvas wind scoop was cool for this time of year. Beyond the galleon’s stern windows, the bay was a sheet of rippled glass, touched with dancing, reflected paths of moonlight, and the distant lights of the city of Gorath gleamed through the darkness.
It was a restful sight, but Lywys Gardynyr felt anything but restful as he stared at Maik. The bishop sat in one of his armchairs, facing him across a low coffee table, gripping a large glass of whiskey in both hands, and his expression was that of a man about to take a bullet.
“My Lord, we can’t—” the earl began, but Maik raised an open hand in a stopping gesture.
“Lywys, the orders are as clear and unambiguous as I’ve ever seen.” He shook his head. “And reading between the lines—and given the way Kharmych gloated when he passed them to me—I don’t think Duke Fern’s suggestion was … well received in Zion. I’m instructed to dispatch every prisoner taken in the Kaudzhu Narrows directly to Zion. And I’m also instructed that if anyone—anyone, Lywys—argues about those instructions or attempts to dissuade me from them in any way, I’m to send him to Zion, as well, to … explain his objections to Zhaspahr Clyntahn in person.”
The auxiliary bishop paused, then shook his head.
“From the fact that they directed those orders specifically to me, I don’t think they’re talking about Fern, Lywys. Too many people in Zion have figured out how you feel about this matter. I fear—I very much fear—that no matter who signed the letter to Vicar Zahmsyn, they think you were the instigator.”
An icy wind blew through the marrow of Thirsk’s bones as he looked back at the special intendant who’d become his friend.
“I suppose I should be relieved you haven’t already been instructed to send me to Zion, My Lord,” he said after a moment.
“Perhaps y
ou should be,” Maik agreed. “I can’t be positive, of course, but I suspect someone had to talk very fast to convince Clyntahn not to do just that.”
“And why should anyone bother to do that?” Thirsk couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. In fact, he didn’t try very hard, and Maik sighed.
“Probably not because they love you so much,” he said. “If I had to guess, somebody pointed out that your Navy’s won the Jihad’s only victory since the heretics demolished the Guarnak-Ice Ash Canal and stopped the Army of God’s advance across Siddarmark in its tracks. You may not fully appreciate just how much of a hero—a talisman of victory—that’s made you with the Faithful, but I assure you other people do. Mother Church’s children have been desperate for some sort of good news; your Navy gave it to them.
“Admiral Rohsail and Admiral Raisahndo get much of the credit, of course—and rightly so. But you’re the man who reorganized the Navy, built the fleet, and trained the men Rohsail and Raisahndo used, and your Navy is the only one to have twice defeated Charisian squadrons in battle. My guess is that someone—probably someone on the Council of Vicars itself—pointed out to Clyntahn that delivering the man who made that possible to the Punishment might have … negative consequences for the morale of Mother Church’s loyal supporters. In fact,” Maik looked at him very levelly, “it might make some of those Faithful question who truly ordered it … and what his personal motives might be.”
Thirsk snorted harshly. He pushed himself up out of his chair and stalked across to the stern windows, gazing out them at the lights of Gorath. They looked so pure, so innocent, from here. But he knew the truth, knew he would never feel clean again if he simply stood there and let this happen.