At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.IV.

Protector’s Arms Hotel

and

Aivah Pahrsahn’s Townhouse,

Siddar City,

Republic of Siddarmark.

“You’re late!”

The very attractive young woman smiled and pointed accusingly at the clock outside the restaurant’s entrance as the dark-haired colonel came through the street door into the hotel lobby vestibule.

“Nineteen-thirty, that’s what you said!” she continued. “I’ve been waiting here an entire twelve minutes, I’ll have you know.”

She elevated her nose with a distinctly audible sniff, and the colonel grinned at her.

“Considering the weather, you’re lucky it wasn’t at least a couple of hours,” he told her, stamping snow off his boots. He took off his heavy greatcoat, handed it to one of the bellmen, and crossed the lobby to wrap his arms around her. She snuggled against his chest and he pressed a kiss to the part in her hair.

“Miss me?” he asked in a much softer voice, and she snorted.

“If I had, the last thing I’d do would be to admit it! Can’t have you taking me for granted, you know.”

“Never!”

He laughed and tucked one arm around her and they started for the restaurant. The maître d’ was waiting for them with a broad smile.

“Should I assume our regular table’s available. Gyairmoh?” the colonel asked.

“Of course, Colonel Fhetukhav. It is Friday,” the maître d’ pointed out.

“Are we really that predictable?”

“Only to some of us, Sir.”

“Well, please make sure this gets into the hotel strongroom till I leave,” Fhetukhav said much more seriously, handing across his briefcase.

“Of course, Sir. I’ll take it myself. And in the meantime,” the maître d’ accepted the briefcase and snapped his fingers, and a waiter materialized out of thin air at his elbow, smiling just as broadly in greeting as he had, “Ahndrai will see you to your table and take your drink orders.”

“Your efficiency never ceases to amaze me, Gyairmoh.”

“The Protector’s Arms has a reputation to maintain, Sir,” the maître d’ said, and bowed gracefully as the waiter escorted them to their table.

* * *

Airah Sahbahtyno sat at his own table, watching through the diamond-paned glass wall which separated the restaurant from the lobby, as Gyairmoh Hahdgkyn crossed to the elevated, pulpit-like front desk. The good-looking young woman behind it looked up at his approach and shook her head with a smile as she saw the briefcase.

“I take it the Colonel’s arrived?”

“It’s Friday,” Hahdgkyn said with an answering twinkle.

“You know they’re discussing marriage?” the desk clerk asked.

“I think that would be wonderful.” Hahdgkyn’s expression was more sober than it had been. “They’re good people, Sairaih. And it would certainly be a happier ending than a lot of things have been in the last few years.”

“It certainly would,” she agreed, and reached out to accept the briefcase from him.

She stepped back through the open wicket gate to the massive, iron-strapped door of the hotel strongroom and used the key hanging from the chain around her neck to open the door. She stepped inside and slid the briefcase into one of the numbered heavy cabinets against the back wall, then closed and locked the cabinet door—also reinforced with iron—behind it. Then she closed the strongroom door, relocked it, as well, and returned to the desk, where she pulled a slip of paper from a pigeonhole, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and wrote in a quick, neat hand. She blew on the ink to dry it, then handed it to Hahdgkyn.

“Here’s his receipt,” she said, then spurted a little laugh as the maître d’ accepted it. “Not that he really needs one anymore. Charlz knows that briefcase as well as I do by now!”

“The light’s usually a little better when the Colonel collects it in the morning, though, I imagine.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” she agreed, and Hahdgkyn headed back to the restaurant to deliver the receipt.

Sahbahtyno watched him go, waited thirteen minutes by the clock—last time he’d waited only five, but the time before that he’d waited for thirty-three—then stood, folded his newspaper, signed the check lying beside his dessert plate, and ambled out of the restaurant. He crossed to the desk, and the clerk greeted him with a smile.

“Good evening, Master Sahbahtyno. How was dinner?”

“Excellent, as always,” Sahbahtyno replied with a matching smile. “Would you happen to have any mail for me, Sairaih?”

“I don’t believe we do tonight, actually,” she said. “Let me check.”

She ran her fingertip along the long row of wall mounted pigeonholes until it came to the one for Room 312, then turned back to him.

“I’m afraid not. Were you expecting something? I can have one of the bellboys run it up to your room when it arrives, if you are.”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “Just checking. There’s some routine paperwork en route from one of my suppliers, but nothing urgent. If anything does come this late, it’ll keep until tomorrow. No point sending one of the boys upstairs. Besides, I’m going to be turning in early tonight, I think.” He glanced out through the double-paned lobby windows as the snow driving along Lord Protector Ludovyc Avenue at a sharp angle and shivered theatrically. “I always sleep better on nights like this. I think listening to the wind howl on the other side of the wall makes the bed feel warmer.”

“It seems that way to me, sometimes, too,” she agreed. “Sleep well.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded pleasantly, turned from the desk, and headed across the lobby.

As one of the Republic’s capital’s premier hotels, the eight-floor Protector’s Arms boasted no less than three elevators, and he took the center one to the third floor, then strolled to his room, unlocked the door, and turned up the wick on the lit lamp housekeeping had left on the small table just inside it. A small, banked fire burned on the small grate—housekeeping always laid one for him promptly at sixteen o’clock, at the same time they lit the doorside lamp for him—and he closed the door behind himself and locked it. He crossed to the fireplace, setting the small lamp on the mantel while he poked up the fire and settled three or four lumps of fresh Glacierheart coal into the suddenly crackling flames. Then he lit a taper from the jar on the mantel and used it to light the larger lamp on the pleasant little sitting room’s table and the still larger one suspended from the coffered ceiling on a chain. The Protector’s Arms used only the finest first-quality kraken oil, and the lamps burned brightly and steadily as he settled into the armchair parked in front of the cheerfully dancing fire.

Despite his conversation with the desk clerk, he had no intention of sleeping. Not anytime soon, anyway. It would be—he pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it—another three hours or so before Sairaih Kwynlyn handed the desk over to Charlz Ohbyrlyn, her relief. And it would probably be at least another hour after that before Ohbyrlyn knocked ever so quietly at Sahbahtyno’s door.

He sat back in the chair, opened his personal copy of the Holy Writ, and resumed his study of the Book of Chihiro while he waited.

* * *

It was actually closer to five hours than four, but the knock came eventually.

Sahbahtyno marked his place, set the Writ on the table, and crossed quickly to open the door.

The man in the hall was at least ten years older than Sairaih, with brown hair and eyes, and his expression was nervous. It was also determined, however, and he held out a very large briefcase—almost large enough for a small suitcase, actually, and monogramed with the initials “ARS”—without a word. Sahbahtyno took it, the brown-haired man turned and walked quickly away, and the door closed and locked behind him.

Sahbahtyno moved with the smoothness of long practice as he opened the briefcase with his initials on it—the one which had been parked in the strongroom since the day before—and removed the considerably smaller briefcase which had been concealed within it He picked the locks securing the straps on the second briefcase, opened it, and gazed down into it, touching absolutely nothing for well over a minute while he carefully memorized how its contents were arranged. It would never do to put them back in a different order.

Finally he nodded to himself and extracted the neatly banded folders. He stacked them on the table, careful to maintain their order, and arranged a pad of paper and a pen at his elbow. Then he drew a deep breath, opened the first folder, and began to read.

Halfway down the first page, he paused, eyes widening. His gaze darted back up to the heading, rereading it carefully, and his nostrils flared as he reached for the pen and began jotting shorthand notes at a furious pace.

* * *

“Well, so far so good,” Merlin Athrawes murmured.

He and Nynian Rychtyr sat side-by-side on a comfortable, deeply upholstered couch in “Aivah Pahrsahn’s” luxurious townhouse. A carafe of hot chocolate sat on the small side table at Nynian’s end of the couch, but Merlin nursed an outsized mug of cherrybean tea. He hadn’t actually realized how much he’d missed Nimue Alban’s favorite hot beverage until he’d rediscovered it here in the Republic, and he wondered sometimes why it had taken him so long to reacquire Nimue’s addiction.

Probably because I’d spent so much time going cold turkey in Charis, he reflected. Wasn’t exactlty common there, and Seijin Merlin was already odd enough without adding that to the equation. And it’s not as if caffeine—or the lack thereof—has much effect on a PICA, either, so it wasn’t like I needed the stuff to stay awake the way Nimue did when she had the bridge watch.

“I told you and Cayleb that Sahbahtyno would be more useful alive than dead someday,” Nynian replied with a decided note of triumph.

“I still say it would’ve been more satisfying just to kill the bastard.”

“You see, that’s the difference between us,” Nynian told him with a twinkle. “You believe in brute force solutions, whereas I prefer more … subtle approaches. And unlike you, I understand that pleasure deferred is often much greater because of the wait. From where I sit, it’s far more satisfying to put Master Sahbahtyno to work for us. Just think about his reaction when we finally do arrest him and explain exactly how he’s been played!” She smiled seraphically. “The only thing better than that would be to find a way to send him home to report personally to Rayno and Clyntahn after they find out how we’ve used him but before he figures it out. I’m sure what they’d do to him would satisfy even someone as bloodthirsty as you and Cayleb!”

“Probably,” he conceded. “But we’re not giving up the opportunity to watch him hang right here in Siddar City when the time comes.” He shrugged, his sapphire eyes far bleaker than his almost whimsical tone. “Sometimes tradition is important, and if anybody ever damned well deserved to hang, it’s Sahbahtyno.”

“I can’t argue with you there,” Nynian acknowledged, her own tone rather more serious than it had been. “But, all jesting aside, this is exactly why I argued against arresting him when we first identified him.”

“And, as usual,” Merlin turned smiled warmly at her, “you were right. Have I ever mentioned that you have a habit of being that way?”

“From time to time,” she said, leaning closer to rest her head on his shoulder. “From time to time.”

He tucked an arm around her and sipped cherrybean, then snorted a laugh.

“What?” she asked without lifting her head from his shoulder, and he chuckled.

“I was just thinking about Mahrlys and Rahool,” he said. “I wonder if either of them ever expected this to turn out the way it looks like it’s going to?”

“You mean in front of an altar?” It was Nynian’s turn to chuckle warmly. “I doubt it, but it couldn’t happen to two nicer people!”

“No, it couldn’t. And I hope you don’t mind that Seijin Aibram will always have a warm spot in his heart for Mahrlys.”

“I’d be astonished if he didn’t. She wasn’t simply one of the most … accomplished young ladies in Madame Ahnzhelyk’s employ, she was also one of the sweetest. And the smartest. There was a reason—besides Aibram’s charming Silkiahan accent—that I suggested her for him that first night, you know. She always was one of my favorites.”

“And with good reason,” Merlin said with a fond smile. Then he sat back, sipping more cherrybean as the two of them watched the imagery from the SNARC remote on the ceiling of Airah Sahbahtyno’s hotel room.

Even with the advantages the SNARCs conferred, and even with such talented hunters as Nahrmahn Baytz and Nynian Rychtyr, it had taken over four months to find and identify Sahbahtyno. They’d known he had to be out there somewhere, and together with Owl, they’d been back over every second of imagery from every single one of the hundreds of remotes seeded throughout Siddar City until they finally found him.

I suppose I should feel at least a little remorse that we hanged Samyl Naigail for Trumyn’s murder, Merlin reflected. On the other hand, he was definitely right there in the middle of the riot, and they found plenty of imagery of what that little bastard did in the Charisian Quarter two years ago. The seijin’s mouth tightened ever so briefly as he remembered reviewing some of that imagery. Nobody in the universe ever deserved hanging more than he did. And the fact that we hanged him for it—and truly thought we were getting the guilty party, at the time—was probably a major factor in Sahbahtyno’s conclusion that no one suspected him at all.

It was painfully obvious that the Church’s sudden acquisition of the open hearth steel process must have come from the briefcase which had been stolen from Zhorj Trumyn after his murder in that “spontaneous riot” in Tanner’s Way. Unfortunately, there’d been far fewer remotes in Siddar City at the time, and that particular bit of violence had escaped their attention. Ultimately, that was probably for the best, though, because if they’d identified Sahbahtyno at the time, they would most certainly have executed him for it. And that, as Nynian had just pointed out, would have been a pity.

Or a waste, at least. Merlin couldn’t quite convince himself to view Sahbahtyno’s continued existence as a good thing, however useful he might have proved. In fact, he’d been all for bringing the bastard in and repairing the omission which had left him alive, and both Cayleb and Sharleyan had supported him strongly … until Nynian pointed out that after his success in acquiring the steelmaking information he must have absolutely established his reliability in the eyes of his masters in Zion.

Just leaving him in place while they studied his actions had told them a great deal about how Rayno and Clyntahn had reorganized their intelligence operations in light of Charis’ lethally effective counterintelligence. Sahbahtyno had very carefully avoided creating any sort of network, any web of sources that could be penetrated and tracked back to him, and that explained a great deal about how he’d evaded detection in the first place. It had limited the reach of his information gathering, despite the unanticipated treasure trove which had fallen into his lap when he’d launched the riot in which Trumyn died, but it had also made him almost totally invisible, even to Nahrmahn and Owl. And he really was very, very good at his work, with exactly the combination of skill, acute observation, cool calculation, discipline, patience, and dash of recklessness a first-rate intelligence agent required.

The Inquisition had done an excellent job in establishing his basic cover, as well. He’d set up as an upscale rug merchant with a well-heeled clientele, importing his goods from both Chisholm and Tarot, and he turned a tidy legitimate profit. In fact, his business produced more than enough income for him to afford a room someplace like the Protector’s Arms, and he clearly realized that the best place to hide was usually in plain sight. He’d made no effort to keep his activities—or, at least, the activities of his public persona—under wraps, and “furtive” was probably the last word anyone would have applied to him. After studying him for a few five-days, Nynian had realized he reminded her a great deal, in some ways, of Ahrloh Mahkbyth. She doubted he was as physically tough as the ex-Guardsman, and he definitely wanted to stay as far from any more “hands-on” work than he could possibly avoid. But he was perfectly willing to resort to violence when needed, as the Tanner’s Way riot demonstrated, and he was probably just as smart as he thought he was. That was saying quite a lot—self-deprecation wasn’t one of his outstanding qualities—and that suited her purposes just fine. A smart spy who didn’t realize he was being manipulated was a priceless asset, she’d explained. Especially if his superiors knew how smart he was. They’d be far more cautious about accepting information from a stupid spy, after all.

And smart people could be counted upon to do smart things. Which meant that if one understood their motives and approached them properly, it was actually easier to predict how they would react than it would have been with someone who wasn’t smart. That was a fundamental article of faith for her, and she’d set out to demonstrate its applicability in Airah Sahbahtyno’s case.

Mahrlys Fahrno truly had been one of Ahnzhelyk Phonda’s favorite courtesans in Zion, almost more daughter than an employee. She’d never been recruited by the Sisters of Saint Kohdy, but when Ahnzhelyk disappeared, she’d arranged independent routes by which each of her young ladies could escape Zion as well, if they chose. She hadn’t expected the Inqusition to become suddenly and deeply interested in Ahnzyhelyk’s past activities, but she hadn’t been able to rule out the possibility, and so she’d given each young woman her own avenue out of the city without ever mentioning that she’d done the same thing for all of them.

In the event, no one in the Inquisition even seemed to have noticed Ahnzhelyk’s disappearance, but the savagery of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s purge of the vicarate, following so closely on the closure of Madam Phonda’s establishment, had made it easy for Mahrlys to make her choice. Few of Ahnzhelyk’s competitors had been able—or willing—to provide the quality of client, the comfort, and—above all—the safety Ahnzhelyk had, and she’d personally known too many of the men Clyntahn had so brutally murdered. She’d known that whatever else they might have been, they definitely hadn’t been the monsters the Inquisition claimed they had. She hadn’t much thought about Reformism before that, but the shattering proof of the Group of Four’s corruption had clarified her thinking remarkably, and Zion had been no place for a new, fiercely devoted Reformist. Besides, she’d been born and raised in Silk Town. That meant she’d had no family in the Temple Lands to hold her there, and she’d arrived on the doorstep of Aivah Pahrsahn’s Siddar City townhouse less than three months later.

She wasn’t the only one of Madam Phonda’s ladies to flee the Temple Lands, and “Aivah” had quietly arranged comfortable livings for all of them. Those livings had meant none of them had to return to their previous careers, but Mahrlys had been different. She hadn’t come seeking simple safety; she’d come seeking a way to strike back at Clyntahn and the others, and if she still didn’t know about the Sisters of Saint Kohdy, she was as smart as she was beautiful. She’d quickly realized “Aivah” was deeply involved with the Reformist movement in Siddarmark, and it hadn’t taken her long to deduce that Ahnzhelyk must have been just as deeply involved in it in Zion without Mahrlys ever suspecting a thing. Coupled with her own bitter disillusionment about the Church—or the Group of Four, at least—that had been more than enough for her to volunteer to join Aivah’s efforts here in the capital.

She’d been very effective, too, especially after Aivah helped her establish herself in her old profession. Ahnzhelyk Phonda had never offered her guests in Zion anything so crude as simple prostitution. Her young ladies had been true companions, as well—highly decorative and skilled in the pleasures of the flesh, yes, but also intelligent, educated, and cultured, as accomplished in making witty conversation, critiquing the latest theatrical performance, discussing religion (in the days when that had been a safe topic), or enjoying a night at the opera, as they ever were in bed. It hadn’t taken someone who’d been tutored by Ahnzhelyk very long to establish herself as one of the most sought-after courtesans in Siddar City.

Once they’d identified Sahbahtyno, they’d moved Mahrlys into the Protector’s Arms. And once she’d been there for a few five-days, they’d arranged for Colonel Fhetukhav—a lonely widower, six years older than she, a logistics specialist on Daryus Parkair’s personal staff who’d come up through the Quartermaster’s Corps—to cross her orbit. Fhetukhav had been more than willing to play his part, especially after he set eyes on Mahrlys for the first time! And while he often took sensitive documents home to work on there, he was always scrupulous about securing them in the hotel’s strongroom on the two nights every five-day he spent with Mahrlys.

They were both intelligent, warmhearted people who believed deeply in what they were doing and why. Merlin hadn’t counted on it, but neither had he been surprised when their “cover” as lovers blossomed into a deep, genuine love for one another. He was happy for them, but he was even happier that Nynian—and Nahrmahn, who’d supported her strongly—had been right about Sahbahtyno. However careful he might have been to avoid any extended network that could be traced back to him, the temptation to spread his tendrils just a little wider had proved too much to resist when Nynian trolled Fhetukhav delicately under his nose. Especially given the fact that he’d long since realized that Charlz Ohbyrlyn, the Protector’s Arms’ senior night clerk, was an ardent Temple Loyalist. Ohbyrlyn had tried hard to conceal his personal fury at Greyghor Stohnar’s decision to ally the Republic with Charis, but Sahbahtyno was very, very good at reading people.

Which, now that Merlin thought about it, probably made the genuine affection between Mahrlys and Fhetukhav an even better thing.

Within a month of Fhetukhav’s first visit to the hotel, Sahbahtyno had been studying the contents of his briefcase whenever it was locked in the strongroom overnight. That didn’t happen very often; Nynian and Nahrmahn were far too skilled for anything that crude. But when it did happen, every bit of information, every document in the briefcase, was completely genuine. Some of that information must have been quite valuable to the Temple, although most of it had been things they’d been confident would have eventually reached Zion anyway through one of Rayno and Clyntahn’s other conduits. But coupled with Sahbahtyno’s original triumph with Trumyn’s notes, the fact that they’d never passed him one single piece of misinformation had probably turned him into Rayno’s gold standard as an intelligence source.

There were times I thought you’d spent all this effort building the perfect asset we’d never use, love, Merlin thought, looking down at the top of Nynian’s head with a smile. You were right, though, bless your devious little heart—better to have it available and never use it than to not have it available when we needed it. And when he reports we’re shifting so much of our available strength south to High Mount, Clyntahn—and Maigwair—will have to take the possibility very seriously, indeed.

Merlin Athrawes could live with leaving him un-hanged a little longer to accomplish that.

Especially since they still had more than enough evidence to hang him in the end, anyway.