Clyntahn started to snarl a response, but then, miraculously, he stopped himself. He braced the heels of his hands on the edge of the massive table, instead, thrusting himself fully back into his chair, and his expression was as ugly as Rhobair Duchairn had ever seen.
“So what d’you suggest we do?” he demanded after a long, smoldering moment.
“I’m afraid I’m suggesting that allowing the terrorists to claim credit for Bishop Wylbyr’s murder along with the others—even if we absolutely agree that they didn’t actually have a thing to do with it—may be the lesser of two evils.”
“I won’t give them the satisfaction!”
“Zhaspahr, they’re going to claim it, anyway. Langhorne! They already have! And there are some people in the city whose faith is weak enough they’ll believe that claim whatever anyone else tells them. So what’s your alternative? Even if we tell everyone it was gunpowder in the boat’s magazine—and even if they believe us—they’re going to wonder how it came to explode at exactly the right moment for the terrorists, and how that sort of explosion could inflict that much damage. And if they start wondering that, Zhaspahr, and if they decide it wasn’t the terrorists, it’s only a very short step to assigning credit to … a more than mortal agency helping the terrorists. Do we want them thinking it was demonic intervention? Demons working directly with the terrorists this close to Zion—barely two miles from the Temple itself?!”
This time the silence was deathly still, and Duchairn breathed a short, silent prayer for his fellow vicar as Clyntahn stared at him with pure murder in his eyes. Yet Maigwair refused to back down, and as the silence stretched out, Duchairn realized his argument might actually be getting through.
Because it’s a very pointed argument, isn’t it, Zhaspahr? the treasurer thought. You don’t like it, and it scares the shit out of you, but Allayn’s got one hell of a point! Especially since this isn’t the first time a “more than mortal agency” seems to’ve acted right in the heart of Zion. Don’t want to admit that to anyone, do you?
Clyntahn resolutely refused to confirm what had happened at St. Thyrmyn Prison, even now and even to the other two members of the Group of Three. For that matter, the Inquisition refused to acknowledge that anything had happened there. By now, though, Duchairn and Maigwair had confirmed that every single individual in the prison had mysteriously and suddenly died—confirmed it through multiple, independent sources both of them trusted implicitly. Worse, garbled versions of the same event had spread throughout the city, despite the Inquisition’s best efforts to stop them.
And now this.
Duchairn hadn’t yet officially seen the manifesto from the Fist of God which had gone up all across the city, obviously through the same mysterious avenue as those heretical broadsheets Clyntahn had never been able to stop. He wasn’t about to suggest he had seen that manifesto—or breathe one single word about those broadsheets—to Clyntahn at this moment, either. But whether or not he had any official knowledge, he’d already seen a copy, and he knew exactly what it had said:
To the Grand Fornicator:
Greetings! We thank you for summoning Bishop Wylbyr home so that we might send him along with Bishop Zakryah, Father Mairydyth, Brother Zherohm, Father Charlz, Sister Tyldah, and Brother Hahnz to render a long overdue accounting for their actions before God and the Archangels. We doubt they took pleasure at the final rendering of their accounts, yet their debts were only a tiny fragment of yours.
The Inquisition has much for which to atone before the Throne of Langhorne. Most grievously of all, it must answer for its willingness to serve the human-shaped corruption which profanes the office of Grand Inquisitor. Mother Church’s rod of correction was never created to become the whore of an arrogant, egotistical fornicator who sets his personal, unholy ambition above the will of God Himself. You have seen fit to torture, starve, and murder countless children of God in the name of that ambition, turned the Holy Inquisition into your accomplice in the service of that arrogance, and, in the process, become the greatest butcher since the War Against the Fallen itself.
The Fist of God has sworn to stop you, and we will neither halt, nor rest, nor pause until you pay the last, full measure of your debt to God and the Archangels whose true will you defile and pervert with every breath you draw.
You have chosen to torture and kill those dear to us—our sisters Zhorzhet and Marzho. They are only two more deaths among the millions whose blood stains your hands, and their souls are already with God. But unlike those other, nameless dead, Zhorzhet and Marzho have champions. They have avengers. We will not defile ourselves before God by lending ourselves to torture out of hate and love of cruelty, as you do, but we will balance the scale of justice as Schueler and Langhorne require, and so we begin by taking from you Wylbyr Edwyrds and the others struck down this day. We take them in recompense not only for our sisters, but for the millions of innocents Edwyrds has murdered in the Republic of Siddarmark and in the Border States in your service. In your service—never God’s!
We begin with these names, but we will not end here. In the fullness of time, we will come for you, as well, murderer of innocence. And know this: there is no threat you can levy, no bribe you can offer, no plea you can utter which will turn us from our purpose … and there is no place you can hide from us. Whatever lies you may tell, you know, as we do—as the inquisitors of St. Thyrmyn Prison learned—whose side God is truly on, and the day will come when He delivers you into our hand, as well.
No wonder Clyntahn wanted so desperately to deny the Fist of God’s involvement in Edwyrds’ assassination! Yet Maigwair was right. Perhaps some would believe his denial … but many, many more would not. Not with the other deaths associated with it. And when they rejected the truth of one claim, then the truth of every single fresh lie would become suspect.
They couldn’t prevent that from happening in the long term, whatever they did. Not unless the Charisians and their allies suffered a major reverse—or something that could be spun as a major reverse—to offset the endless chain of disasters which had befallen the forces of Mother Church. The City of Zion—the entire Church—had sunk deeper and deeper into what Duchairn could describe only as a “fortress mentality.” More and more of Mother Church’s children were hunkering down, hunching their shoulders under the lash of one defeat after another. They might endure those lashes without admitting open despair, even to themselves. Might even continue to believe victory was possible. But they no longer believed it was inevitable. They expected more defeats, more reverses, and more and more of them were coming to the view that stopping the “heretics” short of Zion itself would require the direct intervention of God and the Archangels.
He and Maigwair realized that; Clyntahn chose to deny it, yet he, too, had to know the truth deep inside.
But he’ll never admit it, the treasurer thought sinkingly. Never. He can’t—he literally can’t—because he knows the Fist of God is telling him the exact truth in at least one respect. After all the death, all the destruction, all the torture and murder handed out by the Inquisition in Mother Church’s name, her defeat—no, our defeat—can end only in his death. However fiercely he may deny that to others, he can no longer deny it to himself, because his millions of victims demand nothing less. And for all the faith he professes in God, he can no more divorce his own survival from the survival of Mother Church than he could bodily ascend to Heaven from the Temple’s dome. Whatever he may say, the entire world ends with his death, and it would never occur to him in a million years to sacrifice himself for anyone else, no matter what the Writ says. And since that’s the case, he has nothing to lose … and no reason not to pull the rest of the world down with him.
“All right,” Clyntahn said finally, and his voice was like crushed glass. “It wasn’t the ‘Fist of God,’ Allayn. Whatever else they may have done, this couldn’t have been them. But in this case—in this case—you may have a point. Perhaps it will be better to allow the lying sons-of-bitches’ clai
m to stand rather than give any credence to the possibility that they’re receiving demonic aid here in God’s own city. But there’s a difference between allowing it to stand and confirming it! The Inquisition’s official position on the cause of Bishop Wylbyr’s death will be silence. We will neither confirm nor deny that it was an act of murder, and if we’re asked, in the fullness of time, we’ll say only that it’s impossible for us to know exactly how that explosion occurred. We’ll concede that it could—could—have been the work of the same impious, bloody-handed assassins who struck down so many other blameless sons and daughters of God this day. But we’ll also point out that it might have been the spontaneous, accidental explosion of the boat’s magazines, instead, and that all the evidence available to us suggests that that’s precisely what it was. If that’s not going far enough, then fuck you!”
The final sentence came out in a venomous hiss, and Duchairn drew a deep breath. If he’d ever doubted for a moment that Allayn Maigwair was already a dead man in Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s eyes, he would have doubted no longer. Yet the captain general only nodded, and his own expression was calm, almost serene.
“Yes, Zhaspahr,” he said, “that’s enough to allay most of my concerns, for the moment, at least. It’s not perfect, but that’s my point. There isn’t a perfect reponse for this one. For that matter, there’s not even a good one. But that answer will stand, at least for a time—hopefully, until the Mighty Host achieves a significant victory. When that happens, when the heretics suffer a clear, unambiguous defeat—which will be even more disheartening to them and more enheartening to the Faithful, after this string of reverses—the internal dynamic here in Zion will change and the man in the street won’t be so damned inclined to think some bit of news is accurate only if it’s bad news.”
The Grand Inquisitor snarled something unprintable, shoved himself violently up out of his chair, and stalked out of the conference chamber like a thunder cloud.
Maigwair and Duchairn gave him a few seconds to storm down the hall, then stood rather more sedately and followed him out the door. Neither wanted to be too close on his heels, nor was either of them foolish enough to say anything where other ears might hear. But neither of them needed to, because both of them knew what Maigwair had really said, underneath all the spin needed to buy even that grudging, disgusted acceptance from Clyntahn.
It wasn’t a matter of “until’ the Mighty Host achieved a “significant victory.” It was a matter of “if” … and the chance that Earl Rainbow Waters could produce one looked more and more threadbare with every passing five-day.
.II.
St. Haarahld’s Harbor,
White Rock Island,
The Dohlar Bank,
Gulf of Dohlar.
“I hate to interrupt breakfast, Father, but I think you’d better hear this.”
Sir Hahndyl Jyrohm looked up from his scrambled eggs and frowned. At seventy-six, he preferred not to have his creature comforts interfered with any more than he could possibly avoid, and his son Lainyl knew that better than most. On the other hand, Lainyl did know that, so it followed that he wouldn’t have burst into the breakfast parlor without a damned good reason.
The thought of the sort of “good reason” which might have brought his son calling was enough to kill Sir Hahndyl’s appetite rather abruptly.
“Hear what?” he asked.
“I’ve got Ahndru and Zhilbert Ashtyn waiting in my office. They say they’ve seen the heretics’ ironclads.” Sir Hahndyl’s face stiffened, and Lainyl nodded glumly. “They say they’ve seen all the heretics’ ironclads, Father. From the sound of things, they’re talking about that big bastard we’ve been hearing rumors about, not ‘just’ the ones operating out of Chelmport.”
“In your office, you say?” Sir Hahndyl was already pushing back his chair. “Have you sent word to the Major, too?”
“Of course I did … for all the good it’s going to do,” Lainyl said gloomily.
* * *
Major Samyl Truskyt climbed carefully down from the carriage and fitted his forearms into his crutches’ arm cuffs.
The sun shone brilliantly, although the air remained cool and morning fog still clung to the waters of St. Haarahld’s Harbor. That weren’t uncommon on the Dohlar Bank this time of year, at least on calm mornings, or so he’d been told. This was his first spring here on White Rock Island, but he was willing to take the locals’ word for that. And he’d seen enough of those fogs by now to know this one would be burning off within the next hour or so, assuming the breeze didn’t come up and disperse it first.
Truskyt was what his wife Mahtylda called—with less than total approbation—“a morning person.” She, most emphatically was not, but Truskyt loved the early morning, especially right after dawn, and once upon a time, he’d been a notable equestrian—the sort who treasured brisk canters through the dawn and who would never have taken a stuffy carriage on a glorious morning like this one. That had been before a heretic grapeshot removed both legs at the knees in the abortive assault on Thesmar, however. That had been a spider-ratfuck if he’d ever seen one, and he’d been more than a little bitter about the whole thing. Still was, for that matter, although he’d come to the conclusion that that worthless Desnarian piece of shit Harless might actually have done him a favor … of sorts, at any rate. At least he’d missed the even worse spider-ratfuck in the Kyplyngyr Forest.
Only one other officer and six enlisted men of his infantry company’s original two hundred and thirty had come home from the Kyplyngyr with General Alvarezh. So maybe Mahtylda had been right all along that the loss of his legs hadn’t been the worst thing that could have happened to him. He still had the occasional day when it was difficult to maintain his emotional detachment about the whole business, though. The fact that he routinely used a carriage now, instead of one of the horses he loved, normally made that even more difficult than usual, but that was scarcely front and center in his concerns this morning.
Sergeant Pahrkyns climbed down from his place beside the driver and ostentatiously didn’t hover while the major got his crutches squared away. Zhozaphat Pahrkyns had been with Truskyt for a long time. In fact, he’d been the major’s company sergeant, and he, too, had been seriously wounded at Thesmar—mostly because he’d been too busy dragging his commanding officer back to safety to stay out of the line of fire himself. At least he hadn’t completely lost any body parts, although he retained only limited use of his left arm, and Truskyt had managed to hang on to him while they both convalesced. Neither would’ve been much good in the field any longer, however. That was how Truskyt had wound up transferred to the artillery and assigned as the senior officer here on White Rock Island, and Pahrkyns was still with him as his battery sergeant major and self-appointed bodyguard. “Nursemaid” might have been nearer the mark, Truskyt often thought, not that either of them would ever have been so crass—or honest—as to use the word.
Neither of them had known a damned thing about artillery before the transfer, but they’d worked hard on making up their knowledge deficit since. They’d had time for that, as it happened, since their new post was scarcely one of the Kingdom of Dohlar’s most demanding assignments. But it still needed filling, the fishing wasn’t bad, and at least he’d be home for his and Mahtylda’s third child sometime in August. She tried not to be too obvious about her gratitude that she’d gotten him back more or less in one piece—and, he thought, with a fond smile, still … functional—and he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t glad, too.
And at least he could release an officer with two sound legs for service with the Army of the Seridahn. That was something.
He stumped up the crushed-shell walkway to the neatly whitewashed town hall. The town of St. Haarahld’s—more of a glorified village, really, in Truskyt’s opinion—had all a small town’s civic pride, and the town hall was actually on the ostentatious side for a community of barely three thousand souls. On the other hand, it also housed the White Rock Island office of the Fisherm
an’s Guild, and Lainyl Jyrohm was the guild master, as well as Mayor of St. Haarahld’s. Truskyt had never been able to figure out whether he’d become guild master because he’d been elected mayor, or if he’d been elected mayor because he was the guild master. In either case, the fact that his father was the largest landowner on the island—which, admittedly, wasn’t saying all that much; the entire island was barely eighty miles across at its broadest point and measured just under a hundred and fifty miles north-to-south—probably explained both offices. Although, to be fair, Lainyl had worked the fishing fleet for over ten years before his promotion to guild master and he was a hard-working, conscientious fellow who took both sets of duties seriously.
Pahrkyns stepped around the major and up the shallow steps to open the door, and Truskyt nodded his thanks as he climbed those steps more laboriously in his wake. Lainyl had just stepped out of his office to greet him, leaving the door partially open, as the two of them entered the vestibule. He produced a somewhat strained smile of welcome, and as Truskyt glanced past him through the door, he saw Sir Hahndyl and old Ahndru Ashtyn and his son Zhilbert waiting for them.
“Sorry to drag you out for something like this, Major,” Lainyl said.
“It’s what I’m here for.” Truskyt shrugged with a crooked smile. “Not too sure what either of us is supposed to do about it, though!”
“Aside from worrying like hell and passing the word on to someone on the mainland, I don’t know what we’re supposed to do, either,” Lainyl said frankly, then snorted. “On the other hand, you’re the official Army representative. That probably means I can get away with sliding the whole thing off on you!”
“Always nice to deal with a quick-thinking fellow,” Truskyt said dryly, swinging along on his crutches at Lainyl’s side. “With a mindset like that, you’d’ve gone far in the Army. Of course, you might want to think about the fact that as the official Army representative, I get to write the official reports. Sort of gives me the inside track on assigning responsibilities for the record.”