Page 25 of By Schism Rent Asunder

  "Then what should I do instead?" Merlin felt certain Cayleb would not have let any of his other advisers hear that particular note of frustration and semi-despair. "Go ahead and take Bynzhamyn's advice and start arresting people on suspicion? Crack down on anyone who disagrees with me? Prove I'm some sort of tyrant, intent on usurping the Church's rightful authority for purely selfish reasons of my own?"

  "I didn't say that, either," Merlin replied gently. "I only said there are lim­its, which is true. And the corollary of that, whether we like it or not, is that we simply can't protect everyone. You just said it yourself, Cayleb. There are going to be more incidents like tonight and, eventually, people are going to get killed when they happen. You're going to have to accept that. And you're go­ing to have to decide whether or not trying to limit the damage justifies re­sorting to repression, after all."

  "I don't want to. As God is my witness, I don't want to."

  "Which probably says good things about you as a person. And, in my opinion, for what it's worth, it says good things about you as a king, as well-Justice isn't something to be lightly bartered away, Cayleb, and the faith your subjects have in your own and your family's sense of justice is one of the greatest legacies your father left you. I can't say you'll never reach a time when you have no option but to arrest first and figure out what to do second, but I will say that I think you have to avoid it for as long as you can without compromising your safety, or the safety of the Kingdom as a whole. And that's going to be a judgment call—one you'll have to make."

  "Oh, thanks," Cayleb said with a sardonic smile.

  "Well, you are the king. I'm only a lowly bodyguard."

  "Of course you are, Master Traynyr."

  Merlin chuckled just a bit sadly as he remembered the first time King Haarahld had used that title for him. And, in all fairness, there were times he did feel like a puppetmaster. The problem was that he could never forget his "puppets" were flesh and blood, or that they had minds, wills, and destinies of their own.

  And that, in the end, they all have the right to make up their own minds, he re­minded himself. Don't you ever forget that, Merlin Athrawes, or Nimue Alban, or whoever you really are.

  "I did see to it that Dr. Mahklyn got bedded down here in the Palace to­night," he said aloud after a moment. "With your permission, I think it might not be a bad idea to offer quarters here to his daughter and his son-in-law, as well. At least until we're confident that the people who set the College on fire tonight really didn't know he was in his office."

  "So you do think there's at least a possibility they were deliberately trying to kill him?"

  "Of course there's a possibility of it, Cayleb. I just don't think the people behind this could have known he was sitting there like a wyvern on the pond, and if they didn't know he was there, they couldn't exactly have set out delib­erately to kill him. I'm not saying they would have shed any tears if they'd managed to catch him in their little sausage roast, because I'm damned sure they wouldn't have. I'm only saying I don't think they set out to do that on pur­pose. This time."

  "I hope you're right about that. And while we're on the little matter of things I hope, is Dr. Mahklyn likely to be doing any mental sums about your . . . opportune arrival and peculiar abilities, shall we say?"

  "Oh, I think you can count on it, after he's had a chance to get his brain put back into order. That's a very, very bright man, Cayleb. I don't think his brain ever really shuts down, and sooner or later—probably sooner—he's go­ing to want to know how I got there, how I got onto the roof, and how we got down the outside of the building."

  "And is there any disconcerting evidence I need to worry about conceal­ing? Any more krakens with harpoons driven completely through them, for instance?"

  "I don't think you need to worry about that this time around," Merlin said reassuringly. "The walls were already coming down before I left, and the Fire Brigade's planning on demolishing the rest of them as soon as the embers cool enough. I'm fairly sure that any . . . peculiarities I might have left behind have been thoroughly consumed by the fire, and if they haven't, they'll be gone when the demolition's done."

  "Well, that's a relief, at least. Now all we have to do is worry about how we fob off one of the smartest men in Charis, who also happens to be the head of the Royal College, whose full-blooded support, I remind you, we're going to need in the not so distant future. Any suggestions on how to go about doing that, Merlin?"

  "Actually, I do have a suggestion."

  "Spit it out, then!"

  "I don't think you should try to fob him off at all," Merlin said seriously. "We're both in agreement that he's an extraordinarily smart fellow. Probably smarter than either of us, when you get right down to it. So, the odds are he's going to figure out a lot of it on his own over the next several five-days. I think we should just go ahead and tell him."

  "Tell him what? How much? After all," Cayleb observed wryly, "it's not as if you've told me everything."

  "I know." Merlin's expression was apologetic, and he shook his head. "And I promise, I really will tell you as much as I can as soon as I can. But as far as Dr. Mahklyn is concerned, I think we need to tell him at least as much as Rayjhis and Bynzhamyn know. Probably as much as Ahrnahld and the rest of your personal detail know. And, eventually, I'd like him to know as much as you know, if it turns out that he's . . . philosophically flexible enough to handle it."

  " 'Philosophically flexible,' " Cayleb repeated with an almost dreamy ex­pression. "Now there's a handy term for it. You have a way with words, I see, Seijin Merlin."

  "One tries, Your Majesty. One tries."

  .III.

  Archbishop's Palace,

  City of Tellesberg,

  Kingdom of Charis

  Archbishop Maikel Staynair listened to the soft hum of the cat-lizard in his lap as he stroked the short, silky white plush of its fur. The cat-lizard lay on his back with all six feet in the air, and his golden eyes were half-slitted in shameless bliss as the archbishop's long fingers caressed his belly fur.

  "Like that, do you, Ahrdyn?" Staynair chuckled.

  The cat-lizard didn't deign to acknowledge his remark. Cat-lizards, after all, as every cat-lizard obviously knew, were the true masters of creation. Hu­man beings existed for the sole purposes of feeding them, opening doors for them, and—above all else—petting them. At this particular moment, the world was in its proper place, so far as Ahrdyn was concerned.

  The archbishop smiled at the thought. He'd been Ahrdyn's pet (and there was no point thinking of the relationship in any other terms) for almost ten years now, since shortly after his wife's death. At the time he'd acquired Ahr­dyn, he'd thought the cat-lizard was female. Even cat-lizards found it difficult to tell males from females until they were a couple of years old, and he'd named his new pet after his wife. By the time he'd realized his mistake, Ahr­dyn had settled into his name and would undoubtedly have refused, with all the monumental stubbornness of his breed, to answer to anything else.

  Fortunately, Ahrdyn Staynair had been a woman of rare humor, and Stay­nair had no doubt she was amused by the mix-up. Certainly her daughter, who now shared her name with the cat-lizard, was. The furry Ahrdyn had been her gift to her lonely father. She, too, had assumed he was female, and she knew enough of cat-lizards to refuse to waste time trying to change this one's mind. So did Staynair's son-in-law, Sir Lairync Kestair, although he had been heard to remark—mostly when his wife was absent—that Ahrdyn the cat-lizard was far less stubborn than his two-legged namesake. And that both of them were less stubborn than any one of Staynair's four grandchildren.

  The archbishop's smile softened at the memory, but then it faded into a pensive frown as thoughts of his own grandchildren reminded him of the enormous threat looming over the entire Kingdom of Charis and all of its children. Those grandchildren were hostages to fortune, and whenever he thought about them, he understood exactly why some men dared not raise their hands against the Church's corruption
.

  But it's also the reason other men can't refuse to raise their hands, he thought. And neither Ahrdyn nor Lairync has ever questioned my decision.

  Knuckles rapped discreetly on his door, and Staynair stirred in his chair. Ahrdyn's eyes opened fully as his mattress shifted under him, and the arch­bishop picked him up.

  "Time for work, I'm afraid," he said. The cat-lizard yawned, showing off 'its pink, forked tongue, then gave his cheek a quick, affectionate lick.

  "Bribery will get you nothing, you furry little fiend," Staynair told him, then lowered him to the floor. Ahrdyn flowed down and padded off towards the basket in one corner, and Staynair cleared his throat.

  "Enter!" he called, and watched thoughtfully as the two unlikely visitors Were escorted into his office in the Archbishop's Palace.

  The two men were studies in physical contrast in many ways, and other differences went far deeper. Yet the two of them had requested a joint meeting with Staynair, which suggested several interesting possibilities.

  None of which, he reminded himself, is likely to be accurate, given how little in-formation you have upon which to base any of them.

  Bishop Executor Zherald Ahdymsyn was well past middle age, and prior to the recent . . . unpleasantness, he'd had a solid, well-fed look. In fact, he'd always enjoyed the comforts of a good table, and he'd been carrying a bit more weight than the Order of Pasquale's healer-priests would have approved. He'd been very careful of his physical appearance, as well. He'd been aware that looking the part of a bishop executor was a significant advantage, and his grooming had always been impeccable. Now, although he was still attired in the white cassock of his episcopal rank, he was leaner, and there was an odd fragility to his movements. It wasn't precisely that he'd aged, but rather that he had been forced to cope with something totally unexpected and, in the pro­cess, had discovered that the world was not in fact the neat, well-organized, controlled place he'd thought it was.

  The man with him, Father Paityr Wylsynn, was much younger, no more than a dozen years, at most, older than King Cayleb himself. Ahdym­syn's hair was dark, where the silver of age had not overtaken it, but Wylsynn's was a curly shade of red which was as rare as his gray, northern eyes here in Charis. Where Ahdymsyn was almost as tall as Staynair, Wylsynn was a head shorter than the archbishop, and where Ahdymsyn moved with that strangely fragile air, Wylsynn was as poised and energetic as he'd ever been.

  They were accompanied by two armsmen in the orange and white of the Archbishop's Guard. The armsmen in question walked a respectful pace be­hind the visitors, yet their presence was not the simple ceremonial act of re­spect it might have been. Especially not now, after the assassination attempt had come so close to success. Staynair's armsmen and guardians were in no mood to take additional chances where his safety was concerned, and the archbishop felt confident both his visitors were aware of that.

  Ahdymsyn and Wylsynn stopped in front of his desk, and he rose to greet them.

  "Bishop Executor," he said, inclining his head very slightly to Ahdymsyn, and then looked at Wylsynn. "Father."

  He did not offer his ring to be kissed.

  "Archbishop," Ahdymsyn replied for both of them.

  Staynair's eyebrows didn't arch, and he managed to keep any sign of sur­prise from touching his expression. It wasn't easy. Granting him that title, even in a private interview, would have serious consequences for Ahdymsyn if word of it ever reached the Temple.

  "Please, be seated," Staynair invited, waving at the chairs in front of the desk behind which Ahdymsyn had once sat as Erayk Dynnys' deputy here in Charis.

  Staynair had appeared before that desk more than once to be "counseled"—and reprimanded—by Ahdymsyn, and the bishop executor's aware­ness of the change in their respective fortunes showed in the other man's slight, ironic smile. Father Paityr, on the other hand, simply sat, with a com­posure and something very close to serenity which seemed almost unaware of the earthquake upheaval the Church of Charis had undergone since his last visit to this office.

  Staynair gazed at them for a moment, then nodded to the armsmen. They hesitated a moment, eyes unhappy, and the archbishop raised both hands and made shooing motions at them until they finally gave up and withdrew from the office, closing the door silently behind them.

  "I must confess," the archbishop continued, resuming his own seat as the door closed, "that I was somewhat surprised when the two of you requested this meeting. Your message made it clear you had some fundamental point which both of you wished to discuss with me, but it was curiously silent as to exactly what that point might be."

  His tone made the last sentence a question, and he raised his eyebrows politely. Ahdymsyn glanced at Wylsynn, then drew a deep breath, reached into a cassock pocket, and extracted a folded piece of paper.

  "I don't doubt you were surprised . . . Your Eminence," he said, and this time Staynair allowed his eyes to narrow at the bishop executor's chosen mode of address. Ahdymsyn obviously saw it, because he smiled slightly and shook his head.

  "At first, as I sat in my comfortable, if involuntary, quarters in Tellesberg Palace, Your Eminence, I had no intention of granting even the least appear­ance of acquiescence to your patent usurpation of Archbishop Erayk's legitimate authority here in Charis. Of course, at the time I became King Cayleb's. . . guest, I had no more idea than anyone else in the Kingdom as to why and how such a massive attack had been launched against it. It's become rather clearer since then that the 'Knights of the Temple Lands' must have put their 'allies' into motion against Charis well before Archbishop Erayk could have reached Zion with any formal report of his last pastoral visit."

  He paused, and Staynair cocked his head.

  "Is there a reason the timing of their actions should affect your attitude towards—what was it you called it?—my 'patent usurpation of Archbishop Erayk's legitimate authority'?"

  "In itself, no." Ahdymsyn's half smile guttered and went out. "It did play a part, however. Your Eminence, I won't pretend that many of my decisions when I sat in the chair in which you now sit weren't motivated by. . . pragmatic concerns, let us say, as much as, and even more than, by spiritual or doctrinal concerns. Despite that, however, I trust you'll believe me when I say I never for a moment considered any of the actions and innovations here in Charis disturbing though some of them may have been, as rising to a level which would require or justify the apparent choice of solutions of the 'Knights of the Temple Lands."

  "I do believe that," Staynair said quietly, and it was true. He'd never con­sidered Ahdymsyn an evil man, although in some ways the very banality of his venal motivations had been almost worse.

  "I'm sure you also realize," Ahdymsyn continued, "that Father Paityr's report to the Inquisition emphasized his own belief that none of the innova­tions upon which he'd been asked to rule constituted violations of the Pro­scriptions of Jwo-jeng. I believe he was even more shocked by the attack launched against Charis than I was."

  Staynair glanced at Wylsynn, and the young upper-priest looked back levelly. No doubt Wylsynn had been more surprised than Ahdymsyn, Stay­nair thought. Unlike the bishop executor, there'd never been any question of the sincerity and depth of Paityr Wylsynn's personal faith. He had to be aware of the frequently sordid considerations which underlay the official pro­nouncements of the Council of Vicars and the policies of the Group of Four, but Staynair had no doubt at all that the young priest had been both shocked and horrified by the Group of Four's proposed solution to the "Charisian problem."

  "Despite that," Ahdymsyn went on, "both of us found ourselves in rather uncomfortable positions. Mind you, Your Eminence, no one offered to abuse or mistreat us in any way. Indeed, I doubt two prisoners have ever been more comfortably housed in the history of Safehold, although one or two of the guardsmen were undeniably a bit. . . testy after those lunatics tried to mur­der you right here in the Cathedral." Ahdymsyn shook his head, as if he could not believe, even now, that someone had tried to assasinate an arc
hbishop— any archbishop—in his own cathedral. "Still, there was no question in our minds that we were in fact prisoners, however courteous everyone was in pretending otherwise."

  "I can well understand that," Staynair replied. "In fact, that's precisely what you have been, and for several reasons. First, because of your positions in the Church hierarchy here in Charis, of course. Secondly, because there would have been so many reasons—many of them quite valid, even in King Cayleb's eyes—for you to have actively opposed our actions here of late. That opposition would have been inevitable, and, quite candidly, both of you, for different rea­sons, perhaps, would have carried considerable weight with some of our local clergy. And, third, to be completely frank, and whether you find this easy to be­lieve or not, it's constituted an attempt to protect you, as well. To make it clear even to the Group of Four that you had had no part in those same actions."

  Despite his own open acknowledgment of what the Grand Inquisitor and his colleagues had intended for Charis, the skin around Ahdymsyn's eyes seemed to tighten briefly as Staynair used the term "Group of Four." He made no protest against the archbishop's choice of words, however.

  "No one ever explained that particular aspect of it to us, Your Eminence. Nonetheless, I was aware of it. And to match frankness for frankness, I was none too confident it would do any good, in my own case, at least. It's the tra­dition in your own navy, I believe, that a captain is responsible for whatever happens aboard his ship. The Council of Vicars will—quite rightly, to be fair—hold me at least partly accountable for what's transpired here.

  "Despite that, it was always my intention to disassociate myself from your Kingdom's defiance of Mother Church. I could scarcely hold your legit­imate self-defense against unprovoked attack against you, but in rejecting the authority even of the Grand Vicar, I felt you'd gone too far. Not simply in doctrinal terms, but in terms of the inevitable consequences not simply for Charis, but for all of Safehold.