At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.I.

St. Kylmahn’s Foundry,

City of Zion,

The Temple Lands.

At least it wasn’t snowing.

In fact, he thought as he stepped down from the carriage to St. Kylmahn’s Foundry’s paved courtyard, it was a beautiful morning. Cold, but crystal-clear, with a sky of polished lapis and only the merest hint of a breeze.

It was, in fact, the sort of day April sent to lull the citizens of Zion into the false hope that spring might be upon them soon.

No doubt there’s an allegory in that, he thought dryly, and turned to the commander of his mounted escort as the door to Brother Lynkyn Fultyn’s office opened and the bearded Chihirite stepped out into the cold. The lay brother’s breath rose in a cloud of steam, touched to gold, like a frail echo of the sacred fire which had crackled about the Archangels’ brows. Under other circumstances, Rhobair Duchairn would have preferred to walk, enjoying the sunlight and the opportunity to make personal contact with the people whose spiritual shepherd he was supposed to be, but Major Khanstahnzo Phandys, the commander of his personal bodyguard, had refused to permit it. In this instance, given some of the rumors floating about the Temple, Duchairn wasn’t at all certain the major didn’t have a point where his personal safety was concerned. On the other hand, he wasn’t supposed to know Wyllym Rayno had personally ordered Phandys to be certain Duchairn had as little contact with his sheep as was humanly possible. That was a new twist, and the Church’s treasurer suspected it might actually confirm some of the wilder “rumors” which had come his way.

He put that thought temporarily on hold and beckoned Phandys closer.

“Yes, Your Grace?” the major said, just as attentively as if he hadn’t been the Inquisition’s spy.

“We’ll probably be here at least an hour or two, Major. In fact, I think it’s entirely possible we’ll be here through lunch. I think you should see about getting your men under cover and arranging a meal for them if we do stay through midday. Should I speak to Brother Lynkyn about that?”

“Thank you, but no, Your Grace. That won’t be necessary. I’ll arrange a rotation to keep anyone from being out in the cold too long, and Brother Zhoel and I have worked out standing arrangements to feed the men if we’re here through mealtime.”

“Good,” Duchairn said, and walked across the courtyard to Fultyn, extending a gloved hand. The Chihiro bowed to kiss the vicar’s ring through the leather, but a wave of Duchairn’s other hand stopped him.

“Consider that all courtesies due my lordly rank have been duly offered and received, Brother,” he said with a breath-steamy smile. “We don’t need your lips getting frostbite!”

“It’s not cold enough for that, Your Grace.” Fultyn gave him an answering smile, but obeyed the injunction. “It is, however, cold enough that I’m sure you’d rather get into the warmth than stand out here talking,” the foundry’s director continued, and stepped to one side, beckoning the vicar through the door he’d just emerged from. “Vicar Allayn’s already here.”

“I saw his carriage.” Duchairn nodded at the other vehicle standing in the courtyard, its paired horses well rugged against the sunny cold. “Has he been here long?”

“Only twenty minutes or so, Your Grace.” Fultyn followed the vicar through the door into his office vestibule. “He and I have already discussed Earl Rainbow Waters’ request that we expedite manufacture of his land-bombs.”

Duchairn nodded again, more soberly this time. The Inquisition-prescribed term for the infernal device in question was certainly accurate, although he personally found the Army of God’s original name for it much more appropriate. They truly were the very spawn of Kau-yung, and the Order of Pasquale’s hospitals were all too crowded with men who’d lost limbs to them. Still, he wasn’t surprised Zhaspahr Clyntahn had opted to “discourage” the troops’ chosen label, especially when his own inquisitors had taken to calling the terrorists here in Zion “the Fist of Kau-Yung” … at least where they didn’t expect their words to get back to the Grand Inquisitor’s ears. And whatever he might think of them, he could scarcely fault Rainbow Waters for responding in kind to a weapon which was going to cost him so many men in the coming campaigns. And now that the Inquisition had signed off on the production of the Charisian-introduced “percussion caps,” at least Brother Lynkyn’s foundries could provide him with the things, whether they were called “land-bombs” or “Kau-yungs.”

“Will you be able to meet the quantities he’s requesting?” the treasurer asked, unbuttoning his heavy coat as they crossed the vestibule and entered the outer office. Fultyn’s clerks rose, bowing deeply to the vicar as he passed through, then diving back into their never-ending paperwork as soon as he waved them back onto their stools.

“Of course not.” Fultyn smiled crookedly. “He knew that when he submitted the request, Your Grace. I doubt we’ll be able to manufacture more than a third of the numbers he’s asking for—especially if we mean to get them to him in time for the beginning of the campaign.”

Duchairn snorted in understanding. Frankly, he doubted the Church could have paid for all of the land-bombs the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels’ commander desired, and he was pretty sure Rainbow Waters knew it. But he understood exactly why he’d asked for them anyway. By requesting three or four times as many as could possibly be manufactured and shipped in the available time, he established his own opinion of how production capabilities should be allocated. The earl and the treasurer had come to understand one another quite well, and in the process, Duchairn had picked up a few new wrinkles on how to manipulate a bureaucracy.

There truly were some skills in which Harchongians had no peers.

“Well, we’ll just have to come as close as we can,” he said as Fultyn reached past him to open the inner office’s door. He stepped through it, and Allayn Maigwair turned from the courtyard window from which he’d watched his arrival and extended a hand to his fellow vicar.

“Beautiful weather, isn’t it?” he said, and Duchairn nodded.

“I think it’s the best we’ve seen since the end of October,” he agreed, clasping forearms with Maigwair. “I hope no one’s stupid enough to think it’s the beginning of the spring thaw, though!”

“No one outside the Inquisition,” Maigwair said dryly. Duchairn’s eyes widened, and he flicked them sideways to Fultyn, still half a stride behind him and to one side, but Maigwair only grimaced. “Brother Fultyn’s not going to misunderstand me,” he said. “He knows I was simply referring to the Inquisition’s … impatience to resume operations as soon as the weather makes it humanly possible. Or, preferably, even sooner than that! Don’t you, Brother?”

“Of course I do, Your Grace,” Fultyn replied imperturbably … and exactly as if he truly meant it.

“I see.” Duchairn gave Maigwair’s forearm a tighter squeeze than usual, then stepped back to allow Fultyn to walk around him to the chair behind the desk. The Chihirite started past him, then paused as Maigwair raised a forestalling hand.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“I completely forgot that I wanted to ask Brother Sylvestrai and Master Bryairs to sit in on our discussion today, Brother.” The Church’s captain general smiled apologetically. “There are a couple of points about the new shells and their fuses I wanted their opinions on. Would it be too much trouble to ask you to invite them to join us?”

Fultyn’s eyebrows twitched, as if they’d begun rising in surprise. If they had, though, he stopped them immediately and nodded.

“Of course, Your Grace. I’m sure Brother Sylvestrai is in his office, but I believe Tahlbaht may be out on the manufacturing floor. I’ll probably have to hunt for him. I hope a ten-minute or so wait will be acceptable?”

“Ten minutes will be just fine, Brother. I’m sure Vicar Rhobair and I can find something to talk about until you get back.”

“With your permission, then, Your Graces,” Fultyn murmured, bowed, and withdrew from the office, closing the door behind him.

“He really is a remarkably perceptive fellow, isn’t he?” Maigwair said dryly as the door shut.

“Being disciplined by the Inquisition for questioning perceived wisdom when you’re only nineteen has that effect on people,” Duchairn replied, unwrapping his thick, soft muffler and slipping gratefully out of his coat in the office’s warmth. He hung the coat on Fultyn’s coat tree and turned back to Maigwair, smoothing his cassock.

“He’s about the farthest thing from an idiot you’re likely to meet, too,” he continued. “That means he’s staying as far away as possible from offering the Inquisition an excuse to ‘discipline’ him again … which isn’t all that easy, now that I think about it, given what he’s doing for the Jihad.” The treasurer’s lips twisted bitterly for a moment, then he shook himself and looked Maigwair in the eye. “Which brings me to why you’ve sent him off on an errand any one of his clerks could have discharged equally well. Should I assume it has something to do with St. Thyrmyn’s? Or, rather, with the obviously utterly baseless rumors about St. Thyrmyn’s which are currently swirling about the Temple’s rarefied heights?”

“You should, indeed,” Maigwair said grimly, and in a considerably lower voice. He twitched his head, inviting Duchairn to join him once again by the window … which happened to be the farthest point in the office from its door and whose frosty panes happened to let them see if anyone’s ear just happened to be pressed against them.

“Have you heard anything beyond rumors?” Duchairn asked, equally quietly, his shoulder less than two inches from his fellow vicar’s.

“No.” Maigwair shook his head. “But they’re so damnably persistent I’m positive there’s at least something to them. And Tobys agrees; he’s been making some very quiet inquiries of his own, and the very things his sources in the Inquisition aren’t telling him convinces him that something—something serious, Rhobair—went wrong at the prison.”

Duchairn nodded almost imperceptibly and pursed his lips, clearly considering what Maigwair had just said. Bishop Militant Tobys Mykylhny was probably Maigwair’s most trusted subordinate after Archbishop Militant Gustyv Walkyr, himself. Maigwair and Mykylhny had attended seminary together, although Maigwair had been two years ahead of him at the time. In fact, he’d been the younger man’s assigned mentor until his own consecration, and Mykylhny had been a senior officer in the Temple Guard before it gave up so many of its personnel to the newly formed Army of God. For the last several years, he’d functioned as the captain general’s senior intelligence officer. As such, he’d been forced to establish his own contacts in the Inquisition and create a working relationship with them which was at least civil. Duchairn never doubted that Wyllym Rayno was fully aware of who those contacts were, but the Inquisition’s adjutant clearly understood that Maigwair needed the ability to cross check at least some of what the Inquisition told him about Charisian capabilities. For that matter, Rayno—unlike Clyntahn—probably understood that Maigwair needed access to at least some of the information the Inquisition deliberately didn’t share with him.

Of course, those “contacts” of Mykylhny’s have to know Rayno’s keeping a very close eye on them, the treasurer reflected. That’s probably what Allayn meant about “aren’t telling him”—if they’ve got working brains, anyway! The question is what I tell him.…

“I think you’re right,” he said after a long moment. “And whatever it is, it scares the hell out of Zhaspahr.”

“Really?” Maigwair rubbed his chin. “I admit, I thought he looked a little … squirrely at our last meeting. I couldn’t decide whether it was because of whatever happened at St. Thyrmyn’s or the way Hanth’s driving Rychtyr back into Dohlar.” He shook his head. “He didn’t even gloat at me over how that ‘confirms the heretics’ are positioning themselves for their southern strategic shift.”

“I was a bit surprised by that myself,” Duchairn admitted. “On the other hand, however pleased he may be by the evidence that his ‘Rakurai’ brought us good information, he’s still unhappy as Shan-wei about the Dohlaran situation.” The treasurer shrugged. “On the one hand, he thinks it proves he was right; on the other, we’re still only in the early stages of the redeployment, and he’s afraid they’re going to succeed before we can get all the pieces moved around. I think he’s feeling some serious doubts about how … firmly committed to the Jihad, let’s say, Dohlar is. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t already taken Thirsk completely off the board, especially now that the Inquisition’s lost its … leverage with him. I expect he would’ve, if he wasn’t so worried about how the Dohlaran Navy might react. They’re not too happy about what happened to their commanding admiral’s family already, and only the ones too dumb to pour piss out of a boot haven’t figured out the real reason his daughters and grandchildren were being sent to Zion ‘for their own safety.’”

Both vicars grimaced in matching distaste.

“But Dohlar isn’t what has him running scared,” Duchairn continued. “I don’t know exactly what happened at St. Thyrmyn’s, but I do know you’re right that it must’ve been disastrous, whatever it was.”

“You know that?” Maigwair turned his head to look at his fellow vicar. “How?”

“I’m sure you’ve realized by now that I don’t keep Major Phandys around just because I’m so fond of him,” Duchairn replied a bit obliquely, his tone dry, and Maigwair snorted.

“I am still the Temple Guard’s official commanding officer,” he said. “And, as a matter of fact, I know exactly why Major Phandys was assigned to your detail, since I was the one who signed off on that assignment when Rayno ‘suggested’ it.” He actually looked embarrassed for a moment, then shrugged. “He doesn’t report directly to me anymore—hasn’t in quite a while, actually—but I don’t doubt for a moment that he’s still Zhaspahr’s dagger inside your staff, Rhobair. I trust you’re keeping that in mind?”

“Since my brain still functions, at least on odd-numbered days, yes, I am.” Duchairn’s tone was even drier than it had been. “On the other hand, every so often the Major can be worth having around.” Maigwair arched his eyebrows in polite disbelief, and Duchairn chuckled harshly. “Oh, not because he means to be! Although, to be fair,” he added judiciously, “I think he’s perfectly prepared to keep me in one piece against threats that don’t come out of the Inquisition. And against those sorts of threats, he’s actually a very competent fellow.”

Maigwair nodded, and Duchairn shrugged.

“Anyway, I’ve discovered I can use him as a sounding board in some ways. His poker face isn’t quite as good as he thinks it is, and his reactions to things I say sometimes offer me an insight into what Rayno’s been discussing with him. And every so often some little tidbit of information oozes out of him without his realizing it. And because it does, I know—or at least strongly suspect—something Zhaspahr hasn’t seen fit to share with us.”

“About what happened in the prison?” Maigwair asked intently.

“Not directly.” Duchairn shook his head. “But what Zhaspahr hasn’t told you or me—or even Zhasyn, for that matter—is that his agents inquisitor took a member of the ‘Fist of God’ alive a couple of five-days ago.”

“What?” Maigwair’s eyes widened. “Are you sure about that?”

“Almost positive,” Duchairn said firmly. “Of course, the Inquisition might be wrong about their suspicions, but that’s certainly who they thought they’d caught. It was that arrest in Sondheimsborough—the milliner and her staff.”

“Mistress Marzho?” Maigwair’s tone was equal parts incredulous and disgusted, and it was Duchairn’s turn to arch an inquiring eyebrow. “My wife’s been one of her clients for the last ten years.” The captain general shrugged. “That’s probably true of a quarter of the vicarate, for that matter! I’d assumed that was one reason Rayno’s publicized the arrests so energetically. I’m sure everyone on her client list is looking over his shoulder, peering into his closet, and going feverishly over all his correspondence for the last thirty years or so to see if there’s anything he needs to worry about. Langhorne knows she’ll denounce anyone Zhaspahr wants denounced in the end.” He shook his head, his eyes dark. “They always do … just like they always confess. And if they don’t, Rayno and his bastards will lie about it, just like they did about Manthyr.”

Duchairn nodded, although he was a bit surprised by Maigwair’s frankness—and, especially, the specific mention of what had happened to Gwylym Manthyr—even now. The fate of the Charisian prisoners Dohlar had surrendered to the Inquisition must rankle even more with the other vicar than he’d realized.

Well, whatever else he may be—or may have been—Allayn’s a soldier at heart and always has been. Of course that had to rankle. And you’ve already figured out he’s not as stupid as you always liked to think he was. Maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised that he’s ashamed when Mother Church tortures honorably surrendered prisoners to death … and the “heretics” don’t.

“That’s not why they were arrested,” he said softly.

“Oh, don’t tell me Mistress Marzho is a heretic!” Maigwair looked as if he wanted to spit on the office floor. “I’ve met the woman, Rhobair! If she’s a heretic, then I’m Harchongese!”

“I don’t know about the state of her soul, but according to a minor indiscretion on Major Phandys’ part—one which would probably get him toasted over a slow fire if Rayno knew about it—both she and her assistant were agents of the ‘Fist of God.’”

“That’s ridiculous!” Maigwair snapped, but his expression was suddenly more troubled, and Duchairn shrugged.

“I didn’t say the Inquisition was right about that; I only said that’s what they were arrested for. Of course, we both know Zhaspahr and Rayno aren’t exactly noted for granting anyone the benefit of the doubt these days, but I’m about as confident as I could be without a signed memo from Zhaspahr that that’s exactly what they thought they had on their hands. Apparently, there’s some actual corroborating evidence this time, too. Something about one of them trying to poison herself when the Inquisition turned up at the shop.”

“Langhorne,” Maigwair murmured, his eyes more troubled than ever, and Duchairn nodded slowly.

That’s right, Allayn. Think about it. I never met this Marzho, but you obviously thought she was a good and godly woman. So if she really was a member of the “terrorists” killing our fellow vicars, what does that say about the rest of them? Or, for that matter, for just how well—and where—that “rest of them” might be hidden?

“At any rate, Zhaspahr had both of them taken off to St. Thyrmyn’s, where he could be positive of his security. And, probably, be confident you and I wouldn’t get wind of his accomplishment until he was ready to spring it on us at a time and a place of his own choosing.”

“That’s exactly what he would do, isn’t it?” Maigwair granted sourly.

“Of course it is. But that’s why I’m sure something truly disastrous must’ve happened at the prison. He’s had them in custody for the better part of four five-days, and he hasn’t called us in to crow about it yet.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have anything to crow about yet,” Maigwair suggested.

“Allayn, if there was any connection at all between these women and anyone Zhaspahr’s put on his ‘needs killing’ list, we’d’ve heard about it by now. Do you really think anyone could spend that long under the Question without giving up something Zhaspahr could at least spin to suit his purposes?”

“No,” Maigwair shook his head, his expression grim. “No, of course not.”

“Well, he hasn’t released them, the Inquisition hasn’t publicly confirmed why they were arrested in the first place, and according to a couple of my lay brother clerks in the Treasury—we’re responsible for St. Thyrmyn’s operating expenses, so there’s some contact between my people and theirs—no one’s seen Bahltahzyr Vekko or that poisonous bastard Hahpyr in at least a five-day. When I heard that, I asked a few quiet questions of my own. Nothing heavy-handed, of course, but I ‘accidentally’ ran into Rayno day before yesterday and, while we were chatting, I mentioned that I needed the monthly spreadsheets from St. Thyrmyn’s for February and March. It’s a fairly large budget item, probably the Inquisition’s second or third single largest expense, and they frequently get behind on their accounting and need a little nudge, so it’s hardly the first time I’ve mentioned it to him. Usually, he rolls his eyes and promises to look into it, but it still takes a five-day or two to get me the numbers. This time he just brushed it off, though, so I offered to have my people contact Vekko’s staff directly. He didn’t like that idea at all. He didn’t say so, but Wyllym’s not quite as good at fooling me as he thinks he is, and he was just a bit too hearty about assuring me he’d personally see that I got the needed paperwork.”

He shrugged again.

“Given his reaction, Zhaspahr’s continued silence about one of his greatest triumphs, and Vekko and Hahpyr’s … non-appearance, I’m forced to conclude that something nasty must have happened to the prison. Something nasty enough Zhaspahr’s decided to keep it completely quiet. Oh, and by the way—the spreadsheets arrived in my offices that very afternoon, over Vekko’s signature. But, you know, Treasury’s very good at detecting forgeries.”

“It wasn’t his signature? That’s what you’re saying?”

“Not unless he’s taken to making both ‘k’s in his last name the same height. Since he hadn’t done that a single time in the last seventy years or so—I checked against an expense voucher in his file that goes all the way back to 856, as well as more recent examples of his signature—it seems unlikely he should suddenly change now. I spent five years in Treasury’s forgery division as an under-priest, you know. Or maybe you didn’t,” he acknowledged, recognizing the surprise in the other man’s expression. “It’s been quite a while, and no doubt I’m a little rusty, but I can still recognize a falsified signature when I see one. It’s not a big thing, but I’m positive someone else signed the documents with his name. Which, coupled with the fact that they arrived so promptly.…”

He shrugged, his eyes cold.

“Langhorne,” Maigwair said again, clasping his arms across his chest while he stared out the frosty window. “But what could have happened?” he murmured, as much to himself as to Duchairn. “I never met Hahpyr—I’d heard about him, of course—and I’m just as happy I haven’t. But I know Vekko. Always makes me feel like there’s fresh dog shit on the sole of my shoe when I’m in the same room with him, but he’s a tough old bastard, and unlike certain inquisitors you and I could name, he’s always seemed more concerned with the Inquisition’s mission than its powerbase. God knows I won’t miss either of them if something has happened to them, but what could cause both of them to suddenly disappear?”

“Now that, Allayn, is an excellent question. And while you’re pondering it, you might want to consider another minor point, too.”

“And what would that be?” Maigwair asked, regarding the other Vicar warily.

“The St. Thyrmyn’s crematorium’s been awfully busy the last few days,” Duchairn said very, very quietly. Maigwair’s nostrils flared, and it was Duchairn’s turn to turn away, gazing out the window. “You and I both know the Inquisition’s used that crematorium to dispose of a lot of … inconvenient mistakes over the years. One heap of ashes is very like another, after all. But it’s been operating steadily for almost a full five-day now, and my people at Treasury just got a supplemental invoice for an awful lot of fuel. One hell of a lot more than they’d need to get rid of two or three women who’d been arrested by mistake.”

“You’re suggesting everyone on the prison staff is dead?” Duchairn suspected Maigwair would have preferred to sound rather more incredulous than he did.

“I don’t know what happened any more than you do, Allayn. But something sure as hell did, and Zhaspahr’s not frothing at the mouth and demanding something be done about whatever it was, either. Instead, he and his pet viper are pulling out all the stops to sweep it under the rug. And whatever’s happened, it’s put the fear of Shan-wei into our good friend the Grand Inquisitor. I doubt it’ll keep him knocked off stride for very long—he’s a resilient, arrogant son-of-a-bitch who’s absolutely convinced things will work out the way he wants them to in the end, and I suspect a good Bédardist would find him a very interesting subject—but for right now, he’s had the shit scared out of him.”

“The question, of course,” the treasurer added with an almost whimsical smile, “is whether what’s scared the hell out of him should be scaring the hell out of you and me, too.”