Page 14 of By Schism Rent Asunder

  You've got that much right, at least, Walkyr thought sourly.

  "It's not easy to convince yourself to cut your losses," he said out loud. "I know that, and it's especially true when someone's worked as long and hard as you did for Hanth. But what you've got to focus on now is coming back again someday. And you might want to think about this, too. I'm certain you'll be the first Charisian noble to reach Zion, the first native son to put your sword at Mother Church's service. When the time finally comes to replace all those traitorous, heretical nobles who've chosen to cast their lots with Cayleb and Staynair, you may well find yourself the most senior of all the available candi­dates. If that's the case, Hanth isn't all you'll receive as compensation for your losses and a richly deserved reward for your loyalty."

  Mahntayl nodded again, soberly, with an expression of truly noble deter­mination.

  "You're right, Styv. You're right." He reached out and clasped the other man's shoulder. He stood that way for several seconds, then exhaled a long breath.

  "You're right," he repeated, "and I won't forget it, if the time ever does come that I'm in a position to reward you properly, I promise. But in the meantime, I think I'm going below. Somehow"—he smiled humorlessly— "I'm not enjoying the scenery very much at the moment."

  * * * *

  "Goddamn that gutless bastard!" Mylz Halcom snarled as he watched South-wind's topsails shrinking out on the dark blue waters of the bay.

  He stood at an upper window of The Gray Ship, a none too prosperous tavern on the outskirts of Hanth Town. Its location and general air of dilapi­dation didn't do much to attract trade, but at least it was out of the way of most of the shooting he could still hear as the last of Tahdayo Mahntayl's mer­cenaries tried to get out of town. That was about the best he could say for it . . . and he couldn't say a lot more for his own state at the moment, if he was going to be honest. Very few people would have recognized the powerful Bishop Mylz if they'd seen him. His luxuriant, carefully trimmed beard had disappeared, the dramatic silver at his temples had been darkened by dye, and his exquisitely tailored cassock had been exchanged for the far simpler cloth­ing of an only moderately successful farmer, or perhaps a minor merchant.

  "Surely we've known for five-days that this was coming, My Lord," the much younger man standing with him observed. Father Ahlvyn Shumay looked even less like the Bishop of Margaret Bay's personal aide than Halcom looked like the bishop in question. "It's been obvious from the beginning that Mahntayl's only true loyalty is to himself"

  "And that's supposed to make me feel better?" Halcom growled. He swung away from the window, turning his back on the fleeing galleon, and faced Shumay squarely.

  "Not 'better,' My Lord." Shumay actually managed a smile. "But the Writ does remind us that it's best to face the truth head-on rather than deluding ourselves with wishful thinking, even on God's behalf"

  Halcom glared at him for a moment, but then the peppery little bishop's shoulders relaxed at least marginally, and he produced a grimace that held at least a hint of an answering smile.

  "Yes, it does say that," he acknowledged. "And I suppose I need to keep reminding myself that stripping away delusion is one of your best functions, even if it does make you an intolerable young whippersnapper on occasion."

  "I try, My Lord. To serve a useful function, that is—not to be intolerable."

  "I know you do, Ahlvyn." Halcom patted him lightly on the shoulder, then inhaled deeply, with the air of a man deliberately turning his thoughts away from anger and into some more productive endeavor.

  "At least the way Mahntayl's finally cut and run simplifies our own op­tions just a bit," he said. "Note that I didn't say it improves them; only that it simplifies them."

  "Forgive me, My Lord, but I'm afraid I don't see how anything is partic­ularly 'simple' these days."

  "Simpler isn't the same thing as simple." Halcom showed his teeth in a brief flash of a grin. "On the other hand, there's not much question that if Mahntayl isn't going to stand and fight, we can't either. Not here, not now."

  Shumay's eyes widened ever so slightly. Halcom's insistence that they could somehow build a fortress for the true Church here in his diocese had been as unyielding as stone. The fiery sermons he'd preached in Hanth Cathedral had focused on both their responsibility and their ability to do just that.

  "Oh, don't look so surprised," Halcom half scolded. "There was never really much hope of holding off Cayleb and that damned traitor Staynair. If I'd ever once admitted that, though, Mahntayl would have disappeared even sooner. And if there wasn't much hope of it, there was still at least a chance . . . as long as Mahntayl didn't run. But as you yourself just pointed out, there's no point deluding ourselves when reality hits us across the face. None of the other nobles in the diocese have the backbone to stand up to Cayleb, either— assuming any of them even wanted to in the first place. And, to be honest, most of them don't want to. For that matter, at least two-thirds of them prob­ably agree with him, the traitorous bastards. At the very least, they're going to take the easy way out and give him whatever he wants. Probably they figure that if—when—Mother Church crushes him in the end, they'll be able to claim they only gave in to force majeure, despite their deep and heartfelt op­position to his apostasy. Mahntayl was the only one of them who couldn't reach an accommodation with Cayleb, even if he'd wanted to . . . assuming someone could somehow give him a sufficient infusion of guts to get him to stand and fight. That's the real reason you and I have been anchored here in Hanth ever since Darcos Sound."

  "I. . . see, My Lord," Shumay said slowly, as he found his brain reorder­ing the events of the past few months, and what his bishop had had to say about them at the time, in light of Halcom's admission.

  "Don't misunderstand me, Ahlvyn." Halcom's face had hardened once again, this time with harsh determination. "There's no question in my mind, nor doubt in my heart, about what it is God, Langhorne, and Mother Church expect of us. The only questions are how we go about accomplishing our tasks. Obviously, Mahntayl's . . . departure strongly suggests that building any cen­ter of open resistance to this accursed 'Church of Charis' here around Mar­garet Bay isn't the way to do it. So the problem becomes what we do next."

  "And may I assume you have an answer to that in mind, My Lord?"

  "I had been thinking in terms of fleeing to Emerald," Halcom admitted. "Bishop Executor Wyllys could probably be counted upon to give us sanctu­ary, and I'm sure we could make ourselves useful to him in Emerald. But in the last few days, I've come to the conclusion that Emerald isn't our best des­tination, either."

  "May I ask why, My Lord?"

  "For two reasons, really. First, I'm none too certain the Bishop Executor is going to be in a position to offer anyone sanctuary for much longer." Hal­com grimaced. "That pusillanimous worm Walkyr's been right about at least one thing all along, and that's the fact that Nahrmahn isn't going to be able to hold Cayleb off for long. Worse, I'm very much afraid Nahrmahn's been making plans of his own where Mother Church is concerned."

  "Surely not, My Lord!"

  "And why shouldn't he have been?" Halcom snorted. "Certainly not be­cause you think he has some deep-seated moral fiber which is going to prevent him from seeing the same opportunities Cayleb's obviously seen! I've always suspected Nahrmahn was a lot brighter than he's chosen to encourage his en­emies to believe he is. That isn't necessarily the same thing as principled, un­fortunately, and a smart man without principles is dangerous. Very dangerous.

  "If Nahrmahn hopes to reach any sort of accommodation with Cayleb, however unlikely that might seem, he must realize Cayleb and Staynair are going to require him to join their open defiance of Mother Church. And if he's aware of that much, then he has to have made plans to . . . neutralize anything Bishop Executor Wyllys might try to do to stop him. And, to be perfectly hon­est, the fact that the Bishop Executor's most recent letters to me have all in­sisted nothing of the sort is happening only makes me even more anxious. With all du
e respect to the Bishop Executor, all his confidence suggests to me is that Nahrmahn's succeeded in keeping his own preparations completely out of sight. Which means they're likely to succeed, at least in the short term."

  Shumay regarded his superior with horror, and Halcom reached out and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  "Don't make the mistake of thinking Cayleb and Staynair are alone in their madness, Ahlvyn," he said gently. "Look at how quickly, and with how little resistance, the entire Kingdom's followed their blasphemous example. I'm not saying the rot's spread as widely and as deeply in Emerald as it obvi­ously has here in Charis, but the Charis Sea and Emerald Reach aren't broad enough to prevent the poison from reaching Emerald at all. And Nahrmahn's an even greater slave to worldly ambition than Cayleb. He's not going to be blind to the opportunity to make himself master of the Church in Emerald, whatever else happens. When you add that to all of the pressure he's going to be under from Cayleb and Charis, how can you expect anything but for him to strike at the legitimate authority of Mother Church whenever the moment seems most propitious to him?"

  "But if that's the case, My Lord," Shumay said, "then what hope do we have?"

  "We have something much better than mere hope, Ahlvyn. We have God Himself on our side. Or, rather, we're on His side. Whatever may happen in the short term, the final victory will be His. Any other outcome is impossible, so long as there are men who recognize their responsibility to Him and to His Church."

  Shumay looked at Halcom for several seconds. Then he nodded—slowly at first, and then harder, with more assurance.

  "You're right, of course, My Lord. Which brings us back to the question of exactly what we do do, since a retreat to Emerald seems much less attractive than it did before your explanation. Should we follow Mahntayl to Zion?"

  "No." Halcom shook his head. "I've given this a great deal of thought. In fact, that brings me to my second reason for deciding Emerald isn't our best destination. Where we need to be, Ahlvyn, is where God can make the best use of us, and that's right here in Charis. There are others who'll need us in the Kingdom, even—or perhaps especially—in Tellesberg itself. The ones Cayleb's and Staynair's creatures have labeled 'Temple Loyalists.' Those are the people we need to find. They're going to need all the encouragement they can get, and all the leadership they can find. More than that, they remain the true children of God in Charis, and as the good sheep they need—and deserve—shepherds worthy of their loyalty and faith."

  Shumay was nodding again, and Halcom raised one hand in a gesture of warning.

  "Make no mistake, Ahlvyn. This is another battle in the terrible war be­tween Langhorne and Shan-wei. None of us truly expected it to erupt once again so openly, certainly not in our own lifetimes, but it would be a failure of our faith to refuse to recognize it now that it's come upon us. And just as there were martyrs, even among the Archangels themselves, in the first war with Shan-wei, there will be martyrs in this one. When we venture into Tellesberg instead of sailing to Zion, we'll be stepping into the very jaws of the dragon, and it's entirely possible those jaws will close upon us."

  "I understand, My Lord." Shumay met the bishop's gaze levelly. "And I'm no more eager to die, even for God, than the next man. If that's what God's plan and Mother Church require of us, though, what better end could any man achieve?"

  .V.

  Madame Ahnzhelyk's,

  City of Zion,

  The Temple Lands

  Subtle perfume drifted on the air circulating through the sumptuously decorated and appointed apartment. The overhead fan, powered by a ser­vant in the basement who patiently and endlessly turned the crank at the far end of the pulleys and shafts, rotated almost soundlessly. The street outside was a broad avenue—well paved, spotlessly swept and washed each day, fronted by expensive homes, and scrupulously maintained. Birds and softly whistling wyverns perched in the ornamental pear trees in the wide islands of green marching down the center of that street, or fluttered around the feeders set out by the inhabitants of those expensive residences.

  Most of those residences were the Zion townhouses of minor branches of the great Church dynasties. Although it was definitely one of the fashionable neighborhoods, it was far enough from the Temple to be a merely "respectable" address, and more than a few of the townhouses had passed into other hands, either because the original owners' fortunes had improved enough for them to move up to more stylish quarters elsewhere, or because their fortunes had declined enough to force them to sell.

  Which was how this particular residence had passed many years ago into the possession of Madame Ahnzhelyk Phonda.

  There were those sticklers in the neighborhood who found Madame Ahnzhelyk's presence objectionable, but they were few, and as a rule they kept their opinions to themselves, for Madame Ahnzhelyk had friends. Powerful friends, many of whom remained . . . clients, even today.

  Still, she understood the virtue of discretion, as well, and her establish­ment offered that same discretion to her clientele, along with the services of her exquisitely beautiful and well-trained young ladies. Even those who de­plored her presence among them understood that establishments like hers were a necessary and inevitable part of the city of Zion, and unlike certain shabbier establishments, at least Madame Ahnzhelyk allowed no gaming or drunken brawls. Her clientele, after all, came only from the upper echelons of the Church's hierarchy.

  She was, almost certainly, one of the wealthiest women in the entire city. Indeed, she might be the wealthiest woman in terms of her own personal worth, rather than her position in one of the great Church families. There were persistent rumors that before she'd chosen her vocation and changed her name, she could have claimed membership in one of those families, al­though no one really believed it. Or was prepared to admit it, if they did.

  At forty-five, her own working days were behind her, although she re­tained the slender figure and much of the ravishing beauty which had made her so successful before she moved up into the managerial ranks. On the other hand, her phenomenal success had not depended solely upon physical beauty or bedroom athleticism, although she'd possessed both of those qual­ities in abundance. More importantly, though, Ahnzhelyk Phonda also pos­sessed a sharp, insightful intelligence married to a trenchant sense of humor, a keen sense of observation, a genuine sense of compassion, and the ability to hold her own in any discussion, no matter the subject, with wit and charm.

  Many a lonely bishop, archbishop, or even vicar had availed himself of her exquisite companionship over the years. Had she been the sort of woman who was inclined to dabble in politics, the many and varied Church secrets which had been confided to her over those same years would have made dev­astating weapons. That, however, was a dangerous game, and one Madame Ahnzhelyk had been far too wise to play.

  Besides, she thought broodingly, gazing out at the quiet neighborhood beyond her window, she'd had a better use for most of those secrets.

  "You sent for me, Madame?"

  She turned from the window in a graceful flutter of filmy skirts and whispering silk on satin skin. Despite her age, she continued to exude an aura of sensuality, a mature sense of her own passionate nature no youngster could have matched. She appeared incapable of moving gracelessly even if she'd wanted to, and a flicker of what might have been envy showed in the eyes of the plainly dressed servant woman in the doorway.

  "Yes, Ailysa," Madame Ahnzhelyk said. "Please, come in."

  Ahnzhelyk's courtesy, even with her servants, was natural and instinctive, but there was never any question who was the mistress and who the servant. Ailysa obeyed the polite command, carrying her sewing bag, and closed the door behind her.

  "I have several minor repairs, I'm afraid," Ahnzhelyk said, raising her voice very slightly as the door closed.

  "Of course, Madame."

  The door latched, and Madame Ahnzhelyk's expression changed. The calm, elegant air of superiority vanished, and her expressive eyes seemed to deepen and darken as she held out
her hands. Ailysa looked at her for a mo­ment, and then her own mouth tightened.

  "Yes," Ahnzhelyk said softly, taking the other woman's hands in her own and squeezing them tightly. "It's been confirmed. The day after tomorrow, one hour after dawn."

  Ailysa inhaled deeply, and her hands squeezed Ahnzhelyk's in reply.

  "We knew it had to come," she said quietly, and her voice had changed. The lower-class servant's accent had disappeared into the clear, almost liquid diction of one of the Temple Lands' most exclusive finishing schools, and some indefinable change in body posture mirrored the change.

  "I still hoped," Ahnzhelyk replied, her eyes glistening. "Surely, someone could have sought clemency for him!"

  "Who?" Ailysa's eyes were harder and drier than Ahnzhelyk's, but there was more anger in them, as well. "The Circle couldn't. Whatever I may have wanted, I always knew that, and why. And if they couldn't, then who else would have dared to? His own family—even his own brother!—either voted to confirm the sentence or abstained 'out of the lingering bonds of affection' between them." She looked as if she wanted to spit on the chamber's gleam­ing wooden floor. "Cowards. Cowards everyone of them!"

  Ahnzhelyk gripped her hands more tightly for a moment, then released them to put one arm around her.

  "It was the Grand Inquisitor," she said. "None of them dared to defy him, especially after what the Charisians did to the invasion fleet . . . and after Cayleb named Staynair as his successor and Staynair sent that dreadful letter to the Grand Vicar. The entire Council is terrified, whether they want to admit it or not, and Clyntahn's determined to feed them the blood they want."

  "Don't make excuses for them, Ahnzhelyk," Ailysa said softly. "Don't even make excuses for him."

  "He was never a bad man," Ahnzhelyk said.