In the meantime, the second wave of the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels had reached the same camps in which Rainbow Waters’ men had overwintered. The Army of God training cadres who’d worked with the first wave had already begun improving the new troops’ training, and they’d learned a great deal about how to go about that over the previous winter. By spring, an additional Harchongese army, three-quarters of a million strong, would be ready to take the field. They’d be short on rifles, but relatively well equipped with artillery, and another half-million or so men were being raised, trained, and equipped for the Army of God, as well. Their weapons wouldn’t be as good as the heretics’, but that was a situation with which Mother Church’s defenders had become unfortunately accustomed to coping, and coupled with the forces already in the field, it would allow him to send the better part of three million men against Charis and Siddarmark.
The thought of armies that huge was enough to boggle anyone’s mind, but Mother Church’s manufactories were actually attaining a rate of production which should let him equip and supply all of them. For a time, at least, and assuming the Charisians and their allies couldn’t get in behind them and cut the canals through which every pound of food, every boot, and every bullet must travel. Neither Maigwair and Rhobair Duchairn nor Earl Rainbow Waters and Earl Silken Hills had forgotten what the ICN’s canal raid had done to the Army of the Sylmahn. That was why Rainbow Waters was so insistent on building up the largest possible supply magazines at his present positions. It was costing a pretty copper, and it gave someone like Zhaspahr Clyntahn entirely too much ammunition for complaints about “inactivity” and “timidity,” but that firm logistics base also meant Maigwair’s field armies wouldn’t find themselves starving to death if something unfortunate happened to the canals supplying them.
And we’d damned well better have a “firm logistics base” come summer, he thought grimly, resuming his walk with rather less pleasure than before. I think Rhobair might be a little overly pessimistic about the state of our finances, but if he is, it isn’t by much. We’ve got to score a significant victory next year. I’d love to see one decisive enough to inspire Stohnar to sign a separate peace, but that’s not bloody likely after Zhaspahr’s frigging “Sword of Schueler” and that bastard Edwyrds’ concentration camps! Either way, though, we have to hammer them at least hard enough to drive them back onto the defensive and buy ourselves some breathing space to get our economy reorganized into something more sustainable.
He tried very hard not to think about the fact that he didn’t have a clue how to do that.
* * *
“The prick isn’t going to do a damned thing about Thirsk,” Clyntahn growled. “If anyone does, it’s going to be up to us. Have you finalized plans for bringing his family to Zion for a winter vacation?”
“Not entirely, Your Grace.” Wyllym Rayno replied from the other side of the Grand Inquisitor’s desk. “We’ve been considering the possibilities. Our original intention was to bring them here overland, especially in light of what happened to the prisoner convoy.”
He shrugged ever so slightly. The Church’s official position was that the convoy interception had been a fluke, a matter of luck which had favored the heretics this time. Privately, Rayno was less confident of that explanation, and he knew Clyntahn was, as well, whether or not the Grand Inquisitor was prepared to admit it.
“Unfortunately, I’m not convinced that would be the safer avenue,” he continued. “As you know from our intendants’ reports, that ‘Fist of God’ terrorists are operating increasingly brazenly behind Earl Silken Hills’ lines. There’s evidence the murderer Mab is personally leading them, and they’ve carried out a half-dozen ‘reprisal’ attacks against our inquisitors and the guards on Inquisitor General Wylbyr’s new Border State camps.”
“And I assume no one’s done anything about it?” Clyntahn said caustically.
“Your Grace, there isn’t a great deal anyone can do.” Rayno really, really didn’t like telling his superior that, but he forced himself to meet Clyntahn’s glare levelly. “We have no evidence any of the local inhabitants are assisting the terrorists in any way,” he continued. “It seems clearly evident that the attackers are themselves ‘seijins,’ since we have yet to kill or capture a single one of them. And I know this is something you won’t wish to hear, but the terrorists have been relentless in hunting down any of our inquisitors who distinguish themselves in efforts to root out their local supporters.”
“Relentless enough that no one’s willing to ‘distinguish themselves’ any longer?” Clyntahn asked very softly, and Rayno sighed.
“Some of them are, Your Grace. But their superiors—with my agreement—have instructed them not to.”
“And why have you agreed to any such policy, Wyllym?” Clyntahn’s voice was even softer than before, and Rayno squared his shoulders.
“Because our previous policy had become counterproductive, Your Grace. It was clear we were failing to deter the terrorists’ attacks. At the same time, we were creating anger towards—even hatred for—Mother Church. This is no longer happening only in Siddarmark; it’s happening in Sardahn, Jhurlahnk, and Faralas, as well. It’s clear the attackers are coming over the border from the Republic, however. The Faithful of the Border States are already nervous, Your Grace. In some cases ‘terrified’ would probably come closer to their mood, and our agents inquisitor report that their courage and readiness to stand forth squarely for the Faith in the face of all trials and tribulation is wavering in far too many cases. I judged it was wiser to moderate the severity of our efforts to root out the terrorists coming into their lands from Siddarmark in order to reassure them of Mother Church’s concern for them and to strengthen their willingness to stand with her against the foreign terrorists murdering Mother Church’s own priests on their soil. If you believe my judgment was in error, I will of course instruct the local intendants and inquisitors to resume a more active policy.”
Which some of them may or may not do, even if I tell them to, he thought. Dialydd Mab and his “seijins” have made their own position on “active policies” abundantly clear, after all. Slitting throats in the middle of the night has a way of doing that. That’s not something I need to be pointing out to Zhaspahr at the moment, however.
Clyntahn sat silently for several endless, smoking seconds. Then he shook himself like an irate boar rising from a mud wallow.
“Very well, Wyllym,” he said harshly. “I understand your position … and I won’t countermand it at this time. It may even be the correct policy, at least for the moment.” He looked like a cat-lizard passing fish bones, but at least he got it said. “So I’m not going to overrule you. Not immediately, at any rate. If the terrorists expand the nature or the frequency of their attacks, that may well change, however.”
Rayno bent his head in silent acknowledgment … and to hide the relief in his eyes until he was sure his expression was back under control.
“In the meantime,” Clyntahn continued, “I assume you’re concerned about the possibility of this Mab kidnapping Thirsk’s family, the way Athrawes kidnapped Irys and Daivyn, if you use the overland route?”
“That concern has crossed my mind, Your Grace,” Rayno acknowledged, although “kidnap” wasn’t the verb he’d been using in his own mind.
“Well, in that case perhaps it’s fortunate after all that Thirsk has allowed the heretics free rein in the Gulf of Dohlar.” The Grand Inquisitor smiled unpleasantly. “Since the combination of his tireless efforts in the eastern Gulf and the fact that he doesn’t have a single damned rowboat in the western Gulf has inspired the heretic Sarmouth to take his entire fleet off to blockade Saram Bay, it would seem that it would be not only faster but safer to transport his daughters and their children in comfort by water, so long as they stay well away from Saram Bay. And so long as they make the voyage aboard one of Mother Church’s own vessels, of course.”
.VI.
City of Gorath, Kingdom of Dohlar
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“Good evening, My Lord. I came as quickly as I could,” Commander Ahlvyn Khapahr said as he entered the lamplit study and bent to kiss Staiphan Maik’s ring of office. “How may I serve you?”
“I’ll need to speak to Earl Thirsk as early as possible tomorrow, Commander,” Maik said, speaking a bit more formally than had become his habit where Khapahr was concerned. “I’ve received a message from Father Ahbsahlahn on Bishop Executor Wylsynn’s behalf. Apparently, the Bishop Executor has received a semaphore message from Archbishop Wyllym and Father Ahbsahlahn wishes to acquaint the Earl with its content. He’s … requested that the Earl and I attend upon him in the Archbishop’s palace tomorrow afternoon. I thought it would be best if he and I traveled to the palace together.”
Although Maik, as an auxiliary bishop, was technically superior to a mere upper-priest like Absahlahn Kharmych, Kharmych’s position as the Kingdom of Dohlar’s intendant made him Maik’s de facto superior in many areas, and Khapahr half bowed in acknowledgment and understanding.
“Of course, My Lord. May I tell His Lordship what the meeting is to discuss? In case he needs to bring any documents or reports, I mean.”
“I doubt any reports will be necessary. The Intendant hasn’t confided anything of a sensitive nature to me, you understand, but my impression—” the auxiliary bishop’s eyes bored very levelly into Khapahr’s “—is that he wishes to discuss something of a … personal nature with him.”
“I see.” Khapahr met Maik’s eyes steadily for a heartbeat before he gave another of those slight bows. “I’ll see to it that he’s informed, My Lord.”
“Thank you, Commander. I was confident I could rely upon you.”
* * *
“Yes, Mahgdylynah?” Lady Stefyny Mahkzwail looked up, fair hair gleaming in the warm lamplight, as Mahgdylynah Harpahr knocked quietly on the frame of the sewing room’s open door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, My Lady,” her housekeeper said, “but you have a visitor.”
“At this hour?” Lady Stefyny stuck her needle into the canvas stretched on the stand-mounted embroidery frame.
“Yes, My Lady. It’s Commander Khapahr.”
“No doubt he’s here to speak to Sir Ahrnahld,” Lady Stefyny said. “Did you tell him Sir Ahrnahld told us he’d be delayed at the office tonight?”
“I did, My Lady. He said to tell you that in that case he humbly begs a moment of your time.”
Lady Stefyny removed the glasses she wore for close work and frowned slightly. Ahlvyn Khapahr was a cousin of her husband, Sir Ahrnahld Mahkzwail, although the connection was distant. He and Sir Ahrnahld had known one another all their lives, but they’d never been especially close until Commander Khapahr became the personal aide of Lady Stefyny’s father. Since then, she’d come to know the commander quite well, yet he’d never called upon her this late at night with no previous warning and without his cousin’s being present.
“Did he say why he needs to speak to me?” she asked calmly.
“No, My Lady. He just emphasized that it was important.”
“I see.”
The two women’s eyes met. Mahgdylynah was fifty-three years old, twenty years Lady Stefyny’s elder, and while she’d been the Mahkzwails’ housekeeper for only five years, she’d been Stefyny Gardynyr’s personal maid long before that. In fact, she’d been Lady Stefyny’s nanny after her mother’s death, and she’d filled that same role for all three of Stefyny’s children … and for her older brother’s orphaned children for the last eight years, as well. If there was a single person on the face of Safehold whose loyalty Stefyny Mahkzwail trusted, it was Mahgdylynah. And at the moment, Mahgdylynah’s eyes were dark with worry.
“I suppose if it’s important, you should show him in,” Stefyny said after a moment.
“Of course, My Lady.”
Mahgdylynah disappeared. Minutes later, she returned with the handsome, dark-complexioned commander. Stefyny stood, holding out her hand, and he bent over it to kiss its back gallantly, then straightened and stroked his moustache with one finger.
“I apologize for intruding at this hour, My Lady,” he said. “Something’s come to my attention, however. Something which I believe concerns your father … and you.”
“Indeed?” Stefyny looked at him for several seconds, then waved a graceful hand at the large, deeply upholstered leather armchair set aside for her husband’s occupancy three nights out of the five when he joined her in the sewing room after dinner. “In that case, perhaps you’d better have a seat.” She glanced at the housekeeper. “Mahgdylynah, would you bring the Commander a glass of Sir Ahrnahld’s whiskey? The Glynfych, I think.”
“Of course, My Lady.”
Mahgdylynah dropped an abbreviated curtsy and withdrew, and Stefyny seated herself once more in her own chair behind the embroidery frame. She put her glasses back on, recovered her needle, and began setting neat, precise stitches as she looked across the top of the frame—and her glasses—at her visitor.
“And now, Commander, how can I help you?”
* * *
Ahlvyn Khapahr leapt easily from the boat to the waiting battens and swarmed up HMS Chihiro’s tall side. It was a climb he usually made at least twice a day and frequently rather more often than that, and no one watching him this morning would have suspected he’d been up throughout the night.
He reached the galleon’s entry port, stepped through it onto the main deck, and paused for a moment as he found himself facing Mhartyn Rahlstyn, Chihiro’s first lieutenant, rather than the midshipman of the watch.
It was only a brief pause. Then he touched his chest in salute.
“Permission to come aboard, Sir?” he asked formally, and Rahlstyn returned his salute.
“Permission granted,” he said, equally formal. His eyes met Khapahr’s. “I believe His Lordship is expecting you.”
“Indeed?” Khapahr asked calmly, one eyebrow quirked.
“Yes. Father Chermyn and two officers of the Temple Guard are with him.”
“I see.” There might have been the slightest of pauses. Then Khapahr nodded. “In that case, I’d best not keep them waiting.”
* * *
“Lieutenant Rahlstyn said you wished to see me, My Lord?”
Lywys Gardynyr turned quickly from the stern windows as Commander Khapahr entered the day cabin. Only someone who knew the Earl of Thirsk well would have recognized the anxiety in his dark eyes, but Ahlvyn Khapahr had come to know him very well. He saw not simply the anxiety but the stark appeal—and the despair—behind it, and he smiled ever so slightly before he glanced quickly around the cabin.
Captain Baiket sat in a chair to one side and Sir Ahbail Bahrdailahn, Thirsk’s flag lieutenant, sat next to his flag captain. Baiket’s expression was calm, but Bahrdailahn looked a bit nervous.
Two Temple Guardsmen, both with officers’ insignia, stood to either side of the door through which Khapahr had just stepped, and he nodded casually to them as he moved several more paces into the day cabin, coming to a halt under the central skylight, facing the earl. The skylight’s louvers were open, and a gentle breeze wafted in through them to stir his dark hair as he tucked his hat under his left arm. His expression was calm and respectful, the perfect model of an attentive staff officer. As always, he was immaculately groomed—it was easy to see why he’d attracted the eye of so many females over the years—although his tunic was unbuttoned this morning.
“Yes. Yes, I did ask Mhartyn to send you straight to me when you arrived, Ahlvyn,” Thirsk said after the briefest of pauses, and there was a slight but unmistakable edge to his voice.
“How may I serve you, My Lord?”
“I’m afraid Father Chermyn has a few matters he needs straightened out.”
“Of course, My Lord.” Khapahr turned to face the fair-haired, broad-shouldered cleric in the purple cassock of the Order of Schueler badged with the sword and flame of the Inquisition in the green of an upper-priest. “How may I be of service, Father?”
“As the Earl says, I have a few minor questions that need … clarification, Commander.”
Father Chermyn Suzhymahga was easily the tallest man in the cabin. He’d been born and raised in the Episcopate of St. Cahnyr at the western end of Lake Pei and handpicked to serve as Ahbsahlahn Kharmych’s senior agent inquisitor in the Kingdom of Dohlar. He had the smooth accent and exquisite manners only to be expected from one of the Temple Lands’ great ecclesiastic dynasties and they’d served him well over the years. But now, as he smiled pleasantly at Khapahr, that smile somehow never reached his still, watchful blue eyes.
“Of course, Father,” the commander said courteously.
“Did you meet with Auxiliary Bishop Staiphan last night, Commander?”
“I did.”
“May I ask why?”
“I’m not sure I have the right to tell you that, Father,” Khapahr said, still courteously. “It was pursuant to my duties as Earl Thirsk’s senior aide.”
“I’m sure Earl Thirsk would permit you to answer my question, Commander.”
“My Lord?” Khapahr looked at the earl.
“You may answer Father Chermyn’s questions, Ahlvyn, unless you have reason to believe it would compromise sensitive military information.” Suzhymahga seemed to bristle ever so slightly, but Thirsk continued in the same measured tones. “If there is something you feel might compromise that sort of information, you and I can step out onto the sternwalk to discuss it before you share it with Father Chermyn.” He smiled briefly, fleetingly. “I doubt the Father is a serious security risk, and I’m sure a brief discussion would set both our minds at rest.”
“I appreciate the offer, My Lord, but I don’t think that will be necessary or advisable,” Khapahr said, then turned back to Suzhymahga. “Given what His Lordship’s just said, Father, I believe I can answer your question. Bishop Staiphan sent a note to my shore lodgings asking me to call upon him at my earliest convenience. When I did, he told me Father Ahbsahlahn wished to speak to him—that is, to the Bishop—and to Earl Thirsk this afternoon at the Archbishop’s palace. He knows I have primary responsibility for keeping His Lordship’s calendar, and he wanted to make sure time was cleared for the meeting.”