How firm a foundation

SEPTEMBER, YEAR OF GOD 895

HMS Destiny, 54, Tarot Channel, and Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

“… and I have the honor to remain Your Majesties’ obedient servant,” Sir Dunkyn Yairley finished, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on a footstool, long, curve-stemmed pipe in hand, while he gazed out the opened stern windows at HMS Destiny ’s wake.

“… remain… Your Majesties’… obedient servant,” Trumyn Lywshai repeated softly, the nib of his pen scratching busily. He finished writing and looked up, one eyebrow raised.

“What does that leave us, Trumyn?” Yairley asked, turning his head to look at the secretary.

“I believe that’s actually just about everything, Sir,” Lywshai replied after contemplating the deckhead thoughtfully for a moment while he consulted his orderly memory. “I need to check the squadron’s medical lists to make sure that portion of your report is up-to-date, but I think we’ve actually covered everything at this point.”

“Remarkable,” Yairley said dryly. He took another puff from his pipe, then clamped it between his teeth, climbed out of his chair, and walked over to the stern window, resting both hands on the windowsill as he looked out across the sternwalk at the brilliant blue waters of the Tarot Channel.

“You know,” he said over his shoulder, never looking away from the water, “back when I was a mere captain, I made the sobering discovery that, contrary to the foolish and romantic belief of more junior officers, the Navy really sailed on paper, not water. Or that getting all of the paperwork done and the forms filled out and the returns properly-and accurately, damn their ink-stained little souls!-tallied was obviously more important than simply, oh, training your gunners or exercising aloft, at any rate.” He shook his head, taking the pipe from his mouth to tamp the tobacco with a thumb while he sighed mournfully. “Little did I realize how much more paperwork was lurking in my future the instant I allowed them to give me that damned streamer.”

Lywshai chuckled, and Yairley wheeled, putting his back to the windows and pointing an accusatory pipe stem at the younger man.

“Don’t you laugh, Master Secretary! I know who really invented all these reports and forms! You and the rest of your kind, that’s who. It’s all a plot to give employ to people like you! I’m sure if I examine the Writ hard enough I’ll find ‘bureaucrat’ listed somewhere as one of Shan-wei’s major demon familiars!”

“Alas, you’ve found us out, Sir.” Lywshai shook his head, expression sad. “And most of my colleagues thought simple sailors would never tumble to the truth! What gave us away? Was it the creation of the new numbers?”

“That was a clue,” Yairley said soberly, although his lips twitched as he spoke. “Obviously just another ploy to generate even more reports for the Admiralty and-especially!-the Office of Supply!”

“I warned the others we were reaching too far with that one, Sir,” Lywshai said mournfully.

“And well you should have,” Yairley said roundly. “In fact-”

He paused as someone knocked on his cabin door. A moment later, Sylvyst Raigly poked his head into the after cabin.

“Ensign-I mean, Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk-is here, Sir Dunkyn.”

“And why is he there,” Yairley inquired, pointing at the open door, “instead of here? ” He pointed at the rug covering the after cabin’s deck planking.

“Of course, Sir Dunkyn!” The steward smiled and beckoned to the young officer behind him. A moment later, Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk, his tunic bearing the single silver cuff star of a lieutenant, stepped into the cabin.

“I apologize for interrupting, Sir Dunkyn,” he said, “but the lookout’s just spotted Channel Point fine on the starboard bow. Captain Lathyk estimates we should round Cape Thol by dinnertime.”

“Excellent!” Yairley smiled, then looked back at Lywshai. “It would appear we’ve gotten on top of your nefarious correspondence just in time, Trumyn. If Captain Lathyk’s estimate is as reliable as usual, we should be anchored by this time tomorrow. Can you have fair copies of all those dratted reports ready for dispatch by then?”

“I believe so, Sir Dunkyn, although”-the secretary smiled at Aplyn-Ahrmahk-“I may have to requisition your flag lieutenant’s assistance to get it all done in time.”

“You may, eh?” Yairley snorted. “Well, in that case, put him in charge of writing up my expense report. With his handwriting, they’ll never figure out how much we actually spent!”

“I’m glad Hektor’s made it home in one piece again, even if we did miss his birthday,” Cayleb Ahrmahk said. He and his wife and daughter sat on their private terrace-still tyrannized by Princess Zhanayt’s accursed parrot-enjoying an unusually cool Tellesberg evening as they watched HMS Destiny through Owl’s SNARCs.

“He hasn’t quite made it home yet, love,” Sharleyan pointed out, and Cayleb snorted.

“You’re the one who keeps telling me that anywhere the Charisian flag flies is just as much Charisian territory as Tellesberg itself,” he pointed out. “In fact, for someone who had the bad taste to be born a Chisholmian, you’re almost rabid about the point! And given that Gorjah’s now a subject monarch of the Empire in good standing, Tarot is certainly Charisian territory. So there!”

He stuck out his tongue, and Sharleyan shook her head mournfully.

“It always amazes me what a soul of perfect tact and unfailing courtesy you are. Just remember Alahnah’s watching you. The example you set’s going to come home to haunt you in just a year or two. And if there’s any justice in the world, your daughter’s going to grow up to be a female version of you.”

“God, I hope not!” Cayleb shuddered in not entirely feigned dismay at the thought. “On the other hand, I’d probably deserve it. I remember Father’s most deadly parental curse was always ‘May you have children just like mine’!”

“Most parents feel that way, I suspect, Your Majesty,” another voice said in Cayleb’s earplug. “And, speaking as a parent with a little more experience than you or Her Grace have yet achieved, I can tell you you’re going to find out it always comes true. Of course, there are good points about that, too. Especially if you’ve had the wisdom to pick the right spouse to contribute to the mix.”

Sharleyan laughed and shook her head.

“Nahrmahn, don’t try to convince me you don’t dote on all of your children!” she accused.

“Of course I do,” the Emeraldian prince replied from his study in Eraystor. “You can’t expect me to simply go around admitting that, though. Especially not where they’re likely to hear it! I can see why Merlin was concerned about my discovering Machiavelli-although, to be fair, I’d already figured out most of it for myself, and the man’s cynicism about religion is almost worthy of Clyntahn himself-but there’s never a child born who wasn’t a natural Machiavelli where his parents were concerned. The last thing you need to do is give anyone as ruthless and self-centered as a child another handle to manipulate you!”

“That may be one of the most cynical things I’ve ever heard anyone say,” Cayleb observed mildly, and it was Nahrmahn’s turn to laugh.

“I didn’t say they weren’t lovable-or loving, for that matter-Your Majesty. I only said children are self-centered and ruthless, and they are. One of the harder tricks, I think, is hammering any other attitude into their brains. Worth it, in the end, but hard. I was luckier than I deserved to be with Felayz, and so far Nahrmahn Gareyt’s turning out pretty well, too, I think. Of course, that’s more Ohlyvya’s doing than mine; I’m afraid I’ve been too occupied as a scheming, conniving, ruthless practitioner of real politik to contribute to civilizing them the way I really should have. Still, they are good kids, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are,” Cayleb agreed with a smile. “And so is young Hektor, too. Although now that I think about it, he’s not as young as he was, is he?”

“Lieutenant His Grace the Duke of Darcos Sound,” Sharleyan repeated with a smile of her own. “I’m sure he never saw that coming when he sat for his midshipman’s exam!”

“No, he didn’t.” Cayleb’s smile faded as he recalled how Master Midshipman Aplyn had become a member of the Charisian royal family.

“I didn’t mean to bring up an unhappy memory, Cayleb,” Sharleyan said softly, and he shook his head quickly.

“We’ve both lost people we love, Sharley. And like Maikel always says, losing them is the price we pay for loving them in the first place. But sometimes we’re fortunate enough to find something good coming out of the loss, and that’s what Hektor is. I’d like to say I could take credit for raising a good ‘son,’ but his parents get the thanks for that. I’m just grateful he’s turning out as well as he is. Assuming we can keep him alive, of course.”

He and Sharleyan looked at one another, eyes momentarily dark with memories of the carnage of the Battle of Iythria’s opening phases.

“We can only try, Cayleb,” Nahrmahn said. “That would be easier for me to say if Nahrmahn Gareyt weren’t getting close to the age when I’m going to have to think about sending him off to sea. But it’s true, and I suspect we wouldn’t be doing any of them-or any of our subjects-any favors if we tried to keep them safely at home. You already knew what naval service was like because your father sent you off to see it firsthand, and that’s been incredibly valuable to all of us over the last few years. For that matter, the tradition that privilege has to be earned by service is one any ruler ought to learn early… and one I’m ashamed to admit I learned at a rather later point in life than you did. There’s a lot to be said for that Charisian tradition of yours, when you come down to it. I don’t want to see my son traumatized the way Hektor was at Darcos Sound, but I do want him to understand the reality of what war costs and what it’s really all about. And if he turns into half the young man your Hektor is, I’ll be proud to be his father.”

Cayleb and Sharleyan looked at each other again, and this time their eyes had softened and warmed. It wasn’t often, even now, that Nahrmahn Baytz let anyone far enough inside his armor to see the heart within it. There’d been a time when Cayleb would have been prepared to argue he didn’t have one to be seen, but not anymore.

“Well,” the emperor said more briskly, intentionally shifting the subject, “now that Hektor-and Admiral Yairley, of course-are this close to home, we’ll be able to start taking official cognizance of what happened at Iythria. Have you had any more thoughts on that, Nahrmahn?”

“Not really, Your Majesty.” There was an edge of amusement in Nahrmahn’s voice as he recognized Cayleb’s deliberate return to greater formality. Then his tone sobered. “The really interesting question is how Clyntahn and the rest of the Group of Four are going to react. Especially to Kholman’s and Jahras’ decision to… emigrate.”

“That is going to piss him off, isn’t it?” Cayleb’s smile was unpleasant. “Not that he has anyone but himself to blame for it.”

Sharleyan nodded in grim agreement. They still weren’t going to officially “know” about that until Rock Point himself reached home, since Destiny had been sent off as soon as she’d been able to step a replacement mainmast. Partly that was because Staynair wanted to get his initial dispatches home as quickly as possible, but it was also because Destiny- like the other ships in company with her-had damage that was going to take a dockyard to put right. Yairley’s flagship had been severely holed below the waterline before Saint Adulfo and Loyal Defender struck their colors and Master Mahgail and his carpenter’s mates hadn’t been able to find-or plug, at any rate-all of the leaks. Destiny ’s pumps were working for over twenty minutes in each watch to keep the slow flooding under control, and he’d wanted her in dockyard hands as quickly as possible, so he’d sent her off while Duke Kholman was still struggling with the harshness of the Imperial Charisian Navy’s terms.

In the end, the duke had decided against calling Domynyk Staynair’s bluff. That had probably been wise of him, since Domynyk hadn’t been bluffing. The high admiral’s patience with those who served the Group of Four had grown increasingly thin as reports of what was happening to Gwylym Manthyr and his people leaked out of Zion. Sharleyan knew Rock Point wouldn’t actually have burned his surrendered prisoners alive in their own ships (he was Maikel Staynair’s brother when all was said), but he would have bombarded however much of the city he’d had to to take out his assigned targets, which would have been quite bad enough.

Fortunately, he hadn’t had to. Kholman had bowed to the inevitable, ordered Iythria’s garrison to withdraw from the city, and allowed Rock Point’s Marines and Army battalions to land unopposed. In return, Rock Point had taken stringent precautions to minimize civilian casualties or injuries. There’d still been a couple of incidents with Temple Loyalists who’d attempted to ambush Charisian detachments. Desnairian casualties had been close to a hundred percent in those instances, although Rock Point’s shore commanders had kept their men under iron control to prevent things from getting out of hand.

They might have found it easier to maintain that kind of control because of the intense satisfaction their men took in the systematic destruction of anything in Iythria that could have contributed to the Desnairian war effort. Every gun had been loaded with quadruple charges and four or five round shot and fired until its tube split, then dumped into the harbor. Every battery emplacement and powder magazine had been blown up. The shipyards and sawmills and sail lofts and ropewalks which had built and rigged Baron Jahras’ galleons had been put to the torch. Thousands of tons of naval supplies-seasoned timbers, acres of canvas, hundreds of thousands of feet of cordage, endless barrels of turpentine, paint, pitch, varnish, linseed oil, oakum, thousands of bags of biscuit and tons of preserved meat and vegetables-had gone up in thick, choking columns of dense black smoke. Huge stocks of muskets, cutlasses, pikes, and pistols had been seized and lightered out to the waiting Charisian transport galleons. Several hundred thousand round shot had been loaded aboard barges and hulks, towed into deep water, and then sent to the bottom. All five of the cannon foundries around the city had been blown up, most of the waterfront warehouses had been burned to the ground, and every one of the surviving fortresses on the islands dotted about the Gulf had been thoroughly demolished. The millions upon millions of marks the Church of God Awaiting and the Desnairian Empire had invested in turning Iythria into one of the anchors of the Group of Four’s naval power had disappeared in those roaring flames and rivers of smoke, and Kholman had realized what that meant for him personally.

When Sir Domynyk Staynair landed his prisoners (without even attempting to secure the paroles he knew they would never be allowed to honor), the Duke of Kholman and every member of his immediate family had joined Baron Jahras aboard HMS Destroyer. Along with the rest of Staynair’s fleet, the fugitives were perhaps a five-day and a half behind Destiny.

“You know they’re never going to admit Kholman and his family were driven into seeking asylum because of Clyntahn’s vindictiveness,” Sharleyan said. “And it won’t matter what Kholman and Jahras have to say, either.”

“Not as far as the Group of Four ’s propaganda is concerned, no,” Cayleb agreed. “On the other hand, that’s not the only propaganda circulating in Haven.”

“No, Your Majesty,” Nahrmahn agreed cheerfully. “And I’ll bet Clyntahn’s frothing at the mouth trying to figure out where those ‘heretical printing presses’ are! To be honest, one of the things I most regret about Merlin’s inability to put SNARCs inside the Temple is the fact that I can’t actually watch his blood pressure rise when Rayno makes his reports on that front.”

All three of them laughed, but he had a point, Cayleb thought. The Inquisition was searching with grim determination for the printers distributing the propaganda broadsheets which somehow mysteriously kept circulating throughout the various mainland realms. Unfortunately for the Inquisition, while there truly were a handful of mainland Reformists running very small presses, the stealthed remotes which actually distributed the overwhelming majority of the offending broadsheets were just a bit hard to spot. Every day, the Inquisition ripped those broadsheets down from one wall or another in virtually every mainland city; every night Owl’s remotes put them back up on different walls in completely different neighborhoods.

And no one ever saw a thing.

The one place they were careful about not distributing propaganda like that was the Republic of Siddarmark. Siddarmark had by far the largest community of Charisian expatriates, and the situation there was becoming increasingly tense. No one in Charis wanted to add any additional sparks to such a potentially incendiary mixture. Which, unfortunately, didn’t prevent a growing number of people inside Siddarmark from distributing their own propaganda. Worse, the Reformist movement was steadily gathering strength in the Siddarmarkian church, and no one this side of God had any idea where that was going to lead!

“I’m sure those mysterious, shameless propagandists and vile enemies of Mother Church will capitalize on these defections,” Cayleb continued with a pious expression. “And I suspect that’s going to have a greater effect than Clyntahn or the Inquisition want to think about. But I’m more interested in what it’s going to do from our perspective.” His expression turned much more serious. “I know it sounds mushy-headed and softhearted, but I’ve always wanted Charis to be a genuine refuge, a place that welcomes people fleeing from intolerance or oppression or persecution. That’s got to be the real basis for everything we’re trying to build-the foundation for human freedom and human dignity-and to stand against something like the Church and someone like Clyntahn, that foundation has to be firm. It has to have roots sunk into bedrock, deep enough to weather any storm.

“And for that to really work, Charisians have to see themselves that way. Our people have to define themselves as welcoming refugees from persecution if we don’t want those refugees to become-what was that word Merlin used? Ghettoized. That was it. Unless we want those refugees to settle in isolated, undigested chunks instead of being integrated into the society and the church around them, we need to embrace them. And we need that foundation set now, before we have to start dealing with telling the entire world the truth about Langhorne and the other ‘Archangels.’ People like Madame Dynnys, or Father Paityr’s family, are a visible proof to everyone, including our own people, that that’s the way it works, the way we really think, at least here in Charis, by God! And for that matter, you and Gorjah are proof we’re even willing to welcome old enemies and actually integrate them into our own society and government if they’re willing to stand up beside us against people like the Group of Four, Nahrmahn. Now we’ve got a chance to do the same thing with Jahras and Kholman, and I damned well want to see it handled the right way!”

Sharleyan nodded, leaning closer to rest her head on his shoulder while they watched Alahnah scurrying around the terrace on hands and knees.

“We’re working on it, love,” she told him. “We’re working on it.” . II.

Gray Wyvern Avenue, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

It was a handsome freight wagon, if he did say so himself, Ainsail Dahnvahr thought. He’d spent a lot of effort on it, and the fact that he was a skilled carpenter and wagon-maker had played a prominent part in the planning for his part of Operation Rakurai. He was sure others among the Grand Inquisitor’s Rakurai had skills of their own which had been factored into Archbishop Wyllym’s planning and orders, although no one had ever told him that. He understood why that was, of course. What he didn’t know couldn’t be tortured out of him if he had the misfortune to be captured alive by the heretics.

To be fair-which he didn’t really want to do-he had to admit he’d seen no overt evidence the heretics hadn’t meant it when they promised not to torture their enemies, but what happened in the open wasn’t always the same as what happened in secret, and the heretics’ success in picking off every effort to build some kind of effective organization against them certainly suggested they were forcing people to talk somehow. But however they were managing it, it wouldn’t do them any good if he didn’t have the information they wanted in the first place.

And it wasn’t going to matter a great deal longer one way or the other, he reminded himself.

“It’d be a lot simpler if we could just go ahead and unload the wagon, Master Gahztahn,” the wheelwright said, surveying the broken wheel and cracked axle. “Get the weight off of it, and we could jack it up a lot easier.”

“I know it would,” the man who called himself Hiraim Gahztahn agreed with a nod. “And if you see some place to park another wagon this size while we shift the load to it, I’m all for it!”

He waved his hands with an exasperated expression, and the wheelwright grimaced in acknowledgment. Gray Wyvern Avenue was one of the busiest streets in Tellesberg, a city famous for the density of its traffic. “Gahztahn” had been doing well to get his eight-wheeled articulated wagon dragged to the side of the street after the right front wheel broke. To accomplish even that much, he’d had to crowd up onto the sidewalk, and the foot traffic’s need to flow around it wasn’t doing a thing to ease the congestion. Now the hill dragon between the shafts stood patiently, head down while it rummaged through the feed bag hung from its head, ignoring the even more constricted traffic oozing past the obstruction. The City Guard had already made it clear they wanted this particular wagon fixed-quickly!-and out of the way before the traffic jam got any worse.

“Well,” the Charisian said now, turning with his hands on his hips to watch as his apprentice managed to squeeze their work wagon in behind “Gahztahn’s” stalled vehicle, “I reckon we’ll just have to do the best we can.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure how well it’s going to work if that axle’s as bad as it looks, but I think we’ve got a spare wheel we can change out at least long enough to tow you out of the middle of all this damned traffic.”

“Good!” Ainsail said, nodding enthusiastically, and rolled his eyes. “If I have one more irritated Guardsman wander by to ask me ‘How much longer do you think you’ll be?’ I think I’ll just go ahead and cut my throat right here.”

“Seems a mite drastic to me,” the wheelwright told him with a grin. “Still and all, you’re close enough to the Cathedral you could probably get in line with the Archangels pretty quick.”

He laughed, and Ainsail made himself laugh back, although there wasn’t anything funny about the blasphemous reference as far as he was concerned. And he noticed the heretic didn’t sign himself with the scepter when he mentioned the Archangels, either. Well, it was hardly a surprise.

He stepped back and watched the wheelwright and his assistant get to work. They were good, he admitted, as Charisian workmen tended to be, but they were in for a surprise. Well, two surprises, if he was going to be accurate, although they probably wouldn’t have time to appreciate the second one. But that spare wheel of theirs wasn’t going to fit. Ainsail had taken some pains to make sure no standard Charisian wheel hub was going to fit that axle, just as he’d very carefully arranged for the wheel to break precisely where-and when-it had. Fortunately no one had noticed the sharp rap with the hand sledge which had been required to knock out the wedge he’d fitted to keep the wheel rim properly tensioned against the steel tire until he reached exactly the right spot. Hopefully, the wheelwright wasn’t going to notice that the “break” was suspiciously straight edged and clean, either. Ainsail was a little worried about that, but only a little.

God wouldn’t have let him come this far only to fail at this point.

“You worry too much, Rayjhis,” Bishop Hainryk Waignair said teasingly. “If it weren’t the Gulf of Jahras, it would just be something else. Admit it! You’re a fussbudget! ”

The white-haired, clean-shaven Bishop of Tellesberg leaned forward to tap an index finger on Earl Gray Harbor’s chest, brown eyes gleaming with amused challenge. He and Gray Harbor had known one another almost as long as Gray Harbor had known Maikel Staynair, and Waignair, as the second-ranking prelate of the Church of Charis, often sat in for the archbishop on meetings of the Imperial Council when Staynair-as today-was otherwise occupied with the responsibilities of his own ecclesiastic office.

“I am not a ‘fussbudget,’” Gray Harbor said with immense dignity as the carriage moved steadily along the street. “I’m simply a conscientious, thoughtful, insightful-don’t forget insightful! – servant of the Crown. It’s my job to worry about things, just like it’s your job to reassure me that God is on our side.”

“ ‘ Insightful!’ ” Waignair snorted. “Is that what you call it?”

“When I don’t feel an even stronger term is appropriate, yes,” Gray Harbor said judiciously, and the bishop laughed.

“I guess there might be a little something to that,” he said, holding up the thumb and forefinger of his right hand perhaps a quarter of an inch apart. “A little something!” His eyes glinted at his old friend. “Still, with Domynyk in command and Seijin Merlin’s visions assuring us everything went well, can’t you find something better to worry about than the Gulf of Jahras?”

Gray Harbor considered for a moment, then shrugged.

“Of course I can. In fact, I think probably one reason I’m worrying about the Gulf is that we do know it worked out well.” Waignair looked perplexed, and Gray Harbor chuckled. “What I mean is that ‘worrying’ about something I know worked pretty much the way we had in mind distracts me from worrying about the other somethings out there that we don’t know are going to work out the way we have in mind. If you take my meaning.”

“You know, the frightening thing is that I do understand you,” Waignair said. “Probably says something unhealthy about my own mind.”

Gray Harbor chuckled again, louder, and the bishop shook his head at him. The truth was, of course, that both of them knew about the good news Gray Harbor was going to be able to announce in the next five-day or so. Waignair, as a member of the inner circle, had actually watched the battle through Owl’s remotes for several hours. He’d spent most of that time praying for the thousands of men who were being killed or maimed in that cauldron of smoke and fire and exploding ships, and he knew exactly what price Domynyk Staynair’s fleet had paid to purchase that victory. Gray Harbor hadn’t been able to watch personally, but the first councilor was an experienced naval officer, with firsthand experience of what that sort of carnage was like. And he’d long since grown accustomed to taking Merlin’s “visions” as demonstrated fact. He’d been planning how best to use the destruction of the Desnairian Navy ever since the battle had been fought, and he was looking forward to putting those plans into motion as soon as the news officially reached Tellesberg.

“The problem’s not with your mind, Hainryk,” Gray Harbor told him now. “The problem’s with-”

Ainsail stood on the narrow, constricted space of open sidewalk beside his wagon, between it and the building he’d managed to park alongside, and watched the traffic flow past while the wheelwright and his apprentice swore with feeling and inventiveness. They’d just discovered the non-standard dimensions of the wagon axle, and as soon as the two of them got done expressing their feelings, Ainsail was sure they’d get around to working out ways to deal with the problem.

Or they would have if they’d had time, he thought as he finally spotted the vehicle he’d been waiting for. It was a good thing he had made sure the repairs were going to be more time-consuming than the wheelwright had originally thought, since the carriage making its way slowly along the crowded street was substantially behind its regular schedule. And, as it drew closer, Ainsail felt his mouth tighten in disappointment. It was unaccompanied by the guardsmen in the orange-and-white livery of the archbishop who normally escorted it.

Why today? he demanded silently. Today, of all days! Would it have been too much to ask for the bastard to keep to his own-?

He cut that thought off quickly. The fact that God and Langhorne had seen fit to bring him this far, grant him the degree of success he’d achieved, was more than any man had a right to demand. He had no business complaining or berating God just because he hadn’t been given still more!

Forgive me, he prayed humbly as he opened the small, carefully concealed panel he’d built into the side of the wagon bed. It’s not my place to set my wisdom above Yours. I’m sure it’s all part of Your plan. Thank You for the opportunity to be part of Your work.

He reached into the hidden compartment and cocked the flintlock. Then his hand settled around the pistol grip and he stood, shoulders relaxed, watching with a calm tranquility he was a little surprised to realize was completely genuine, as the carriage rolled steadily closer.

“We’re going to have to go back to the shop, Master Gahztahn,” the wheelwright was saying. “It looks like we’ll need to-”

He went on talking, but Ainsail tuned him out. He nodded, pretending he was listening, but his attention was on another voice. His mother’s voice, reciting the catechism with a much younger Ainsail as he sat on her lap in her kitchen. And then there was Archbishop Wyllym’s voice, and other voices, all with him at this moment, bearing him up on their strength. He listened to them, embraced them, and as the carriage drew even with the wagon, Ainsail Dahnvahr smiled joyously and squeezed the trigger. . III.

Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis, and Cathedral Square, City of Eraystor, Princedom of Emerald

“I came as quickly as I could, Cayleb,” Maikel Staynair said as a stone-faced Edwyrd Seahamper escorted him into the royal couple’s private chambers. The archbishop crossed the room quickly and knelt beside Sharleyan, who sat hunched in a chair, clasping her daughter in her arms while tears ran down her cheeks.

Cayleb only nodded curtly as Staynair put a comforting arm around Sharleyan’s shoulders. There were no tears in his eyes, only fury, and the archbishop hid a stab of concern as he recognized his emperor’s rage.

There’s only so much provocation any man can take before he starts forgetting he’s not the kind of animal his opponents ar e, Staynair thought quietly. Please, Cayleb. Please! Step back from this. Draw a deep breath. Don’t lash out in some way you’ll regret in days to come .

“We should’ve taken more precautions,” the emperor grated. “We were too predictable. They knew where to find you and Rayjhis, Maikel. That’s what this is all about-the only reason they managed to pull it off. They knew where to find you because we let you use the same route every time you come to the palace.”

“Cayleb-” Staynair began, but Cayleb cut him off.

“No, it’s not your fault.” The emperor glared at him. “No, you didn’t tell your driver or your escort to take alternate routes, but neither did anyone else. Neither did Merlin and neither did I, and we damned well should have. Damn it to hell, Maikel! We know Clyntahn thinks assassination’s a perfectly acceptable tool. And unlike you, Nahrmahn,” he said to the distant Prince of Emerald, “he doesn’t give a spider-rat’s ass how many innocent bystanders he kills along the way. Hell, there aren’t any innocent bystanders! Either they’re fucking heretics who deserve whatever the hell they get, or else they’re noble martyrs to God’s plan! Either way, he can kill however the hell many of them he wants ‘in God’s name’ and feel nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done!”

Staynair winced. Not because he disagreed with a single thing Cayleb had just said, but because of the magma-like fury that filled every syllable.

“Cayleb-” he began again, only to be stopped by a choppy wave of the emperor’s hand. Cayleb turned away, fists clenched at his sides as he glared out a window and fought for self-control. His eyes didn’t see the peaceful garden outside his window; they were watching the imagery projected on his contact lenses as Merlin and a party of Imperial Guardsmen worked their way through the bloody wreckage of Gray Wyvern Avenue.

There must’ve been at least a ton of gunpowder in that wagon, he thought bitterly. Where the fuck did they get their hands on that? And how in hell did they get it into Tellesberg? And how did none of us spot them at it?

He already knew Merlin was going to blame himself for it, just as he blamed himself, but his brain, unlike his emotions, knew both of them would be wrong. They weren’t the only ones with access to Owl’s SNARCs, and responsibility for surveillance here in Old Charis lay primarily with Bynzhamyn Raice, with Prince Nahrmahn as his backup. Both of them were undoubtedly already savaging themselves over what had happened, but Cayleb knew exactly what their procedures were, the sort of information they had access to, and he couldn’t think of a single thing they could have done differently.

“What’s the latest death toll estimate?” he said out loud, his voice flat, never turning from the window.

“I don’t think anyone knows,” Staynair replied quietly. “Bynzhamyn is at Saint Marzhory’s. It’s chaos there, of course. And I ought to be there, not here.”

Cayleb turned his head just long enough to stab a single glance at the archbishop, then returned to the window again. There was no way in the universe he was going to allow Maikel Staynair outside the confines of Tellesberg Palace until they had a far better handle on what had just happened. Staynair looked at his rigid, unyielding spine for a long moment, then sighed.

“As I say, it’s chaos,” he continued. “So far, they’ve admitted over three dozen patients, and they’re sending the less badly hurt to some of the smaller hospitals. How many of the ones they’re keeping are going to live…”

He shrugged helplessly. Saint Marzhory’s Hospital was the main hospital of the Order of Pasquale in Tellesberg. Only six blocks from Tellesberg Palace, the savage attack had happened almost outside the enormous complex’s front door. That was the one mitigating aspect of this entire murderous day, because Saint Marzhory’s had the finest healers and the best surgeons in all of Old Charis. But despite all the medical knowledge and “healing liturgies” tucked away in The Book of Pasquale, Saint Marzhory’s was no trauma center. Those healers would do the best they could, but they were going to lose a heartbreaking percentage of the maimed and broken bodies which had inundated them.

“Merlin says they’ve already confirmed at least two hundred dead on-site,” Nahrmahn Baytz said from Eraystor. He and Princess Ohlyvya had been visiting his uncle Hanbyl, the Duke of Salomon, when the attack occurred. Now their carriage was on its way back to their palace, and Ohlyvya was pressed tightly against his side, her face resting on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to distract him by pestering him with questions at the moment,” the chubby little Emeraldian continued flatly, “so I don’t have a better count than that. I’m sure there are more bodies-or parts of them, anyway-waiting to be found, though. Midday on Gray Wyvern Avenue?” He barked a harsh, angry laugh that was more than half snarl. “We’re going to be lucky if the final count doesn’t top three hundred! And you’re right, Cayleb; they couldn’t have pulled this off if we hadn’t let ourselves get too predictable.”

“I don’t think that was the only reason they got away with it,” Sharleyan said, raising her head as she cuddled a silent, big-eyed Alahnah against her shoulder. The little girl didn’t have a clue what was going on, but she was obviously sensitive to the emotions of the adults around her.

“What do you mean?” Cayleb asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I mean our own confidence turned around and bit us in the ass, as Merlin might put it,” she said. “We know what an advantage we have with the SNARCs and with Owl to manage them for us. Oh, we also know things can leak through-like what happened in Manchyr, for example. But despite that, we know we still have better security than anyone else in the entire world. Right?”

“You’re saying we let ourselves be lulled into overconfidence.” Cayleb shrugged. “That’s the same reason we let ourselves get too predictable, Sharley.”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Or it’s not everything I’m saying, anyway.” Sharleyan drew a deep breath. “I guess what I really meant is that we know what an advantage we have, but sometimes we forget the other side’s figuring it out, too. They’re finding ways to work around it, and we didn’t expect them to.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Nahrmahn nodded as his carriage began making its way through the heavier traffic in Cherayth.

“Like they did with that misinformation about which way Harpahr was actually going to be sent with his fleet, you mean?” he asked.

“I think, yes,” she replied. “But this goes further than that.” She was obviously working her way through her own analysis as she spoke, and Cayleb folded his arms across his chest, watching her intently. “That was more… passive. Or defensive, perhaps. It was misinformation, as you said, Nahrmahn; this is something a lot more active. They managed to get whoever put that wagon in position into Tellesberg, and they managed to provide him with the gunpowder he needed, and we never saw a thing. Not a thing! How did they do that? How could they build an organization that could coordinate something like that without us seeing a thing?”

“They couldn’t,” Cayleb said slowly, and she nodded.

“Which is why I don’t think they did anything of the sort,” she said flatly. “I don’t know how, but God knows the Inquisition’s been managing spies and informants and agents provocateurs forever, and Clyntahn already proved in Manchyr that he could engineer the assassination of a reigning prince without anyone catching him at it! They managed to get this assassin and his weapon into position somehow, too, and the only way I can think of for them to’ve done that without our catching them at it is to organize it the same way they must have organized their misinformation gambit before the Markovian Sea.”

“They planned it and put it together inside the Temple, where we can’t get SNARCs in to snoop on them,” Nahrmahn said. “That’s what you’re saying. And because they’ve figured out our spies are better than theirs, even if they don’t have a clue why that’s true, they sent their man in unsupported.”

“Unsupported by anyone he had to contact here, anyway,” Sharleyan corrected. “I don’t think there’s any way anyone could have set this all up on his own after he was here. There had to be some spadework before they sent him in. But I’ll bet you any contact with anyone here in Tellesberg or Old Charis went through the Temple, not through anyone else here.”

“Limiting themselves to communications channels that go directly from one person back to the Temple and then from the Temple back to that one person?” Cayleb could have sounded dismissive, but he didn’t, and his expression was thoughtful. “How in hell could they pull that off?”

“That depends on how willing they’d be to use things like the semaphore system and ciphers,” Nahrmahn responded. “We’re still using it to communicate with Siddarmark and Silkiah. In fact, we’re allowing greater access to it than the Church ever did, so if they feel confident of their cipher system, they could be sending their correspondence back and forth that way easily enough. For that matter, we’re not the only people with messenger wyverns, Cayleb.” The Emeraldian shook his head. “That’d be slow and cumbersome and not very responsive, but they could have set up a system that would do the job without ever going near the sempahore.

“The key point isn’t how they get messages back and forth, though. It’s the point Sharley’s raised: the probability that they’re sending out solo operatives. Our ability to detect them depends in large part on Owl’s ability to recognize key words in conversation and direct our attention to the people who used them, or on our ability to identify one agent and then work outward until we’ve found all the members of his network. A single assassin, especially one who’s prepared or even eager to die in the attempt, the way this fellow certainly was, is going to be one hell of a lot harder to spot and stop.”

“That’s true,” Cayleb agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “On the other hand, a single assassin’s going to be able to do a lot less damage than a full-blown conspiracy if we can keep the bastard away from wagonloads of gunpowder. And nothing anyone’s brought up so far suggests how they got that big a load of explosives through our customs inspections. If they’re avoiding building or working with a large organization, then surely they wouldn’t have tried to bribe the inspectors, and I doubt they’d use smugglers if they’re worried about the potential for being betrayed to the authorities! So how-?”

He broke off suddenly, eyes narrowing in thought. Then he grunted angrily and slammed his right fist into his left palm.

“Hairatha,” he said flatly. “That’s what that damned explosion was about! They didn’t smuggle the gunpowder into Tellesberg from one of the mainland realms; they used our gunpowder!”

“Wait. Wait!” Nahrmahn objected. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Cayleb, but how do we jump from what just happened in Tellesberg to Hairatha?”

“I don’t know,” Cayleb admitted. “I don’t know, all right? But I’m right, I know I am! Call it a hunch, call it instinct, but that’s what happened. Somebody at Hairatha with the authority-or the access, at least-to doctor shipping manifests diverted gunpowder from our own powder mill. And they blew the damned place up to keep anyone from realizing they’d done it! To get rid of any paper trail that might have led back to them or to who they sent the powder to.” His expression was murderous. “My God, Hairatha shipped gunpowder in thousand-ton lots on a regular basis, Nahrmahn! We could have dozens of wagonloads of it sitting out there!”

“But how could they coordinate something like that without that organization you all seem to be agreeing they don’t have?” Staynair asked quietly.

“All they’d really need is what the intelligence organizations back on Old Terra used to call a ‘bagman.’” Nahrmahn’s tone was unhappy, as if he was unwillingly coming to the conclusion Cayleb might have a point. “If somebody did manage to divert a quantity of gunpowder from Hairatha to someone else in Old Charis-possibly somebody he’d never even met or contacted in any way himself, but whose address was supplied to him by a controller in Zion-then that person could have distributed it to a dozen other locations which had been set up exactly the same way. Or, for that matter, he could have kept it all in a single location and these lone assassins we’re hypothesizing about could have been given the address before they ever left Zion. I can’t begin to count the number of potential failure points in something like that, but all the ones I can think of would be much more likely to simply cause someone to not get to where he needed to be than to give the operation away to the other side. And look at it from Clyntahn’s perspective. What does he lose if it doesn’t work? But if it does work, he gets something like he just got today. He kills important members of Cayleb and Sharleyan’s government, and he does it very, very publicly. With lots of other bodies to go around. It’s a statement that even if the Group of Four can’t beat us at sea, they can still reach out into the very heart of Tellesberg and hurt us. Do you think for a moment that wouldn’t seem like a win-win situation for someone like him, Maikel?”

“But if you and Cayleb are right, how many other ‘lone assassins’ are out there?” Staynair’s expression was troubled.

“I have no idea,” Nahrmahn admitted frankly. He glared out the carriage window in frustration as it crossed into Cathedral Square, less than four blocks from the palace. “There could be scores of them, or this could have been the only one. Knowing Clyntahn, though, I doubt he’d have settled for one when he might have been able to get dozens into place. Why settle for a little bit of carnage when he could have a lot?”

“You’re probably right about that,” Cayleb said bitterly.

“And he’d want to underscore his ‘statement’ as strongly as possible, too,” Sharleyan added. Staynair and Cayleb looked at her, and she shrugged. “I think Nahrmahn’s right. He’s going to have been thinking in terms of as many attacks as he could contrive, within the limitations of whatever coordination system he had. And he’s going to want to concentrate them in terms of timing, too-get them in in the most focused window of time he can. He’s the kind who thinks in terms of hammer blows when he goes after his opponents’ morale.”

“Some kind of timetable?” Cayleb’s expression was suddenly strained once more. “You mean we’re probably looking at additional attacks scheduled to occur simultaneously?”

“Over a short period of time, anyway,” Sharleyan said, nodding unhappily. “There’s no way he could count on their being simultaneous, but they don’t have to be. Don’t forget the communications problem. We can talk back and forth instantaneously, but he doesn’t know that. As far as he’s concerned, word is going to have to spread before anyone can know to start taking precautions, and we can’t get warnings out any more rapidly than by semaphore. That means he only has to achieve approximate coordination, because he’d still be inside what Merlin calls our communications loop.”

“You may have a point,” Nahrmahn conceded. “On the other hand, I could see some advantages-from his perspective-to stretching things out, hitting us with a series of attacks to demonstrate we couldn’t stop him from getting through to us. So-”

He paused suddenly, staring out the window. Then “Stop the carriage!” he shouted. “Stop the carriage!”

The carriage came to a sudden halt, and the commander of its mounted escort wheeled his horse, trotting back towards it with a puzzled expression. He had no idea what was happening, but like most of Nahrmahn Baytz’ armsmen, he had a lively respect for the prince’s instincts.

“Out!” Nahrmahn said to Ohlyvya. “Out, now!”

She stared at him in confusion and a sudden sparkle of fear. She’d never seen his expression like that, but the crack of command in his voice had her moving before she even realized it. He pushed her towards the carriage’s left-hand door, already reaching out, turning the handle. She hesitated for a moment as the door swung open, then cried out in sudden panic as her husband put his shoulder into her back and literally heaved her out the door.

It was a three-foot drop to the paving, and Ohlyvya Baytz cried out again, this time in pain, as she landed off-balance and her ankle broke. But there was no time for her to think about that. Nahrmahn was already plunging out of the carriage behind her, pinning her down, covering her with his own body.

And that was when the wagon parked by the Cathedral Square exit closest to the palace-the wagon that wasn’t supposed to be there-exploded. . IV.

Royal Palace, City of Eraystor, Princedom of Emerald

“Leave us,” Ohlyvya Baytz said flatly, her expression terrible.

It was night outside the bedchamber’s window-a beautiful moonlit night, sprinkled with the stars that were God’s own jewels. A gentle breeze stirred the window drapes, night wyverns whistled sweetly, and the harsh, agonized breathing of the semi-conscious man in the bed filled her heart with grief.

“But, Your Highness-” the senior healer, a Pasqualate bishop, began.

“Leave us!” she snapped. The bishop looked at her, his expression worried, his eyes dark with sympathy, and she made herself draw a deep breath.

“Is there anything else you can do for him, My Lord Bishop?” she asked more quietly. “Can you save him?”

“No, Your Highness,” the bishop admitted, his voice sad but unflinching. “To be honest, I don’t understand how he’s lived this long. The best we can do is what we have, to ease his pain.”

“Then leave us,” she repeated a third time, tears welling in her eyes, her voice far softer than it had been. “This is my husband. He will die with his hand in mine in this room we have shared for twenty-seven years. And I will be alone with him, My Lord. I will bear him company, and I will witness his death, and if he speaks again before the end, what he says will be for my ears and no others. Now leave us, please. I have little time with him, and I refuse to lose any of it.”

The bishop looked at her for a moment longer, then bowed his head.

“As you wish, Your Highness,” he said softly. “Shall I send in Father Zhon?”

“No,” Princess Ohlyvya said, staring down at her husband’s face and holding his remaining hand in hers.

The bishop started to argue, then made himself stop. Father Zhon Trahlmahn, the royal household’s official confessor, was actually more of a tutor to Nahrmahn and Ohlyvya’s children than the keeper of the prince’s conscience. The prince, the bishop thought, had never been as observant a man as the Church might have wished. The bishop was a man of strong Reformist beliefs himself, and Prince Nahrmahn’s courage and willingness to speak in the cause of reforming Mother Church’s faults and healing her wounds had won his admiration and gratitude, yet he could wish that at this moment…

It wasn’t his decision, he reminded himself. It was Princess Ohlyvya’s. Father Zhon had already administered extreme unction, and presumably heard the prince’s confession, before the princess had sent him to comfort the children. But who would comfort her in this terrible hour, the bishop wondered. Who would hold her hand as she held her dying husband’s?

“Very well, Your Highness,” he said very quietly. “If you should decide you need me, send word.”

“Thank you, My Lord, but I think that will be unnecessary,” she told him with heartbreaking serenity. “I’m sure you’re needed by the other victims of this attack. Go, do what you can for them with my thanks and my blessing.”

The bishop bowed, then gathered up the lesser clergy with his eyes. The door closed behind them, and Ohlyvya leaned closer to the bed, resting her head on the pillow with her forehead touching Nahrmahn’s cheek.

“I’m here, love,” she said softly. “I’m here.”

His left eye was covered in a thick dressing, but his right eye opened. He blinked slowly, the tiny movement of his eyelid heavy with effort, then turned his head and looked at her.

“Ear… plug?” he got out, and Ohlyvya astonished herself with a soft, weeping laugh.

“Oh, Nahrmahn!” She cupped the uninjured side of his face with her free hand. “Oh, my love, who but you would worry about that at a time like this?!”

He said nothing, but there was a flicker of something almost like amusement under the pain and the drug clouds in his eye, and she shook her head.

“I don’t know what happened to your earplug,” she told him. “No one found anything when the healers examined you, anyway. Maybe they just had other things on their mind than looking in your ears. I don’t know.”

“Make… sure, later,” he whispered.

“I will,” she promised. “I will. Now hush, my love. Don’t worry about anything, not now.”

“Love… you,” he said. “Always have. Never… told you so… enough.”

“You think I didn’t know?” She smoothed hair from his brow. “I knew. I always knew. And you saved me today, Nahrmahn.” She managed a wavering smile. “I know you’ve never thought you were a properly heroic figure, but you were always hero enough for me. And never more than today.”

His answering smile was heartbreaking but his eye slipped slowly shut once more, and her grip on his hand tightened. Had he heard her? Did he understand? Her ankle was broken, the left side of her face was one enormous bruise, and it had taken fourteen stitches to close the gash on her left shoulder, but not a single member of their escort had survived. Neither had the coachmen. And if Nahrmahn hadn’t protected her with his own body, she would be dead or dying, too. It was important that he know that, and She heard a foot on the marble bedchamber floor behind her, and her head jerked up, her eyes flashing with sudden, grief-fueled fury as she wheeled.

“How dare you intrude-?!” she began, then stopped abruptly.

“I came as soon as I could, Ohlyvya,” Merlin Athrawes said. “I couldn’t risk it before dark, and getting away from Tellesberg under the circumstances…”

He shrugged, crossing to the bed, and sank to one knee beside her chair. He held out his arms to her, and she threw herself into them, weeping on his mailed shoulder as she’d refused to let anyone else see her weep.

“Take him to your cave, Merlin!” she sobbed. “Take him to your cave! Let Owl save him!”

“I can’t,” Merlin whispered into her ear, stroking her hair with a sinewy hand. “I can’t. There’s not enough time. We’d lose him before I ever got him there.”

“No!” She struggled against his embrace, striking his unyielding cuirass with her fists. It was as if his arrival had offered her the hope of a last-minute reprieve and the destruction of that hope was more than she could bear. “No!”

“Maybe, if I’d been able to get here sooner, then… maybe,” Merlin said, holding her with implacable strength. “But I couldn’t. And Owl’s been monitoring, Ohlyvya. I don’t think we would’ve been able to save him even if I had been able to get here sooner. It’s only the nanotech keeping him alive now, and it’s burning out, using itself up.”

“Then why are you here?” she demanded, furious in her sorrow. “Why are you even here? ”

“Because Sharleyan and Cayleb and I love you,” he said. “And because I can at least give you this.”

She stared at him as he put his hands on her shoulders and very gently settled her back into her chair before he stood once more. He reached into his belt pouch and extracted a lightweight headset of silvery wire and gently adjusted it on Nahrmahn’s head. Nothing happened for a moment, but then the eye which had closed opened once more.

“Merlin?” Nahrmahn’s voice was stronger than it had been, clearer, and Merlin nodded.

“More of your magic?” Nahrmahn asked.

“No more ‘magic’ than the rest of me, Nahrmahn,” Merlin told him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

“I guess… when you’re a thousand years old… you tend to… lose track of time,” Nahrmahn managed, and Ohlyvya laughed through her tears, covering her mouth with both hands.

“It’s not much,” Merlin told her, his sapphire eyes deeper and darker than the sea, “but it’s all I can do right now.”

“What-?”

“The headset will keep his mind clear, and I programmed it to shut down the pain centers.” Merlin managed a smile of his own. “I don’t think you have much time, Ohlyvya, but the time you do have will be clear… and it will be yours.”

He touched her face very gently, then looked back down at Nahrmahn.

“It’s been an interesting trip, Nahrmahn,” he said, laying his hand on the dying prince’s shoulder. “And it’s been a privilege working with you. Thank you for everything you’ve done. But now, I think I’ll leave you with your wife. God bless, Nahrmahn. Hopefully we’ll have a chance to talk again someday.”

He squeezed Nahrmahn’s shoulder and looked at Ohlyvya.

“I’ll be out in the garden, listening, if you should need me,” he said gently, and vanished back through the window by which he’d arrived.

Ohlyvya Baytz looked after him for a moment, tearful eyes shining with gratitude, and then she turned back to her husband and reached for his hand once more. . V.

Plaza of Martyrs, The Temple, City of Zion, The Temple Lands

“Rhobair, you have to come,” Zahmsyn Trynair said flatly.

“No, Zahmsyn. Actually, I don’t.”

Rhobair Duchairn looked steadily back at the Chancellor. Trynair’s expression was an odd mixture of anxiety, frustration, distaste for what he himself was saying, and anger, but the Treasurer’s face was calm, his eyes almost-not quite, but almost- tranquil.

“This is not a time to be suggesting there’s division between us, Rhobair,” Trynair said.

“Anybody who’s worrying about whether or not there’s ‘division’ between me and Zhaspahr Clyntahn on this issue has either already figured out there is one, or he’s such a drooling idiot he probably can’t put on his own shoes without assistance!” Duchairn replied. “And, frankly, if someone does realize I’m… at odds, let’s say, with Zhaspahr Clyntahn over this… this ritualized butchery of his, that’s fine with me. Even The Book of Schueler reserves the full Punishment for genuine, unrepentant heretics, Zhamsyn-not for people who simply happen to have pissed Zhaspahr off by having the audacity to survive when he ordered them to lie down and die!”

He’d been wrong, Trynair realized. Duchairn’s eyes weren’t tranquil; they were those of a man who didn’t care any longer. A chill went through the Chancellor as he realized that, and he felt something altogether too much like panic fluttering somewhere inside his chest.

“You told Zhaspahr-and me-you wouldn’t oppose him on this if we wouldn’t oppose you on the matters that were important to you,” he said carefully.

“And I have no intention, to my shame, of openly opposing him. There are, however, limits to the stains I’m prepared to accept upon my soul. This is one of them. You and I both know any ‘confessions’ of heresy or blasphemy or-God help us all!-Shan-wei worship were gotten out of those men only by torture, and eight in ten of them died rather than perjure themselves to suit Zhaspahr’s purposes. Do you truly have any concept at all of the courage it took to defy that kind of savagery?! They may be schismatics, but they are not blasphemers, idolaters, or demon-worshippers, and they damned well haven’t sacrificed any children to Shan-wei, and you know that as well as I do! So if my refusal to participate in his vengeance upon men whose only true crime was to defeat his unprovoked attack on their families and their homeland incenses him so completely that he chooses to make our breach public, so be it.”

“Rhobair, you can’t survive if that happens. If he openly turns against you, denounces you, you’ll go exactly the same way these Charisians are about to!”

“I could be in worse company,” Duchairn said flatly, his voice cold. “In fact, I’m inclined to think I couldn’t be in better company. Unfortunately, I’m no longer as certain as I once was that my eternal destination is going to be the same as theirs. I can only pray it will.”

Trynair’s blood ran cold. He’d known Duchairn was becoming ever more embittered, ever more sickened, by Clyntahn’s policies, but this was the harshest, most unyielding denunciation of the Grand Inquisitor Duchairn had dared to voice even to him. And if the Treasurer really pushed this, if it did result in an open break between him and the Grand Inquisitor, Trynair knew which of them would survive. In some ways, that might almost be a relief, yet with Duchairn gone, the Chancellor would be alone against Clyntahn with only the effective nonentity of Allayn Maigwair as a potential ally. Which meant…

“Don’t say things like that!” he pled, waving both hands in calming motions. “I know you’re angry, and I know this whole thing makes you sick at heart, but if you push Zhaspahr far enough and you go down, there’ll be nobody left to oppose him even slightly.” The Chancellor grimaced, his expression more than half-ashamed. “ I won’t be able to, and I know it. Not now.”

“He has rather saddled the whirlwind for all of us to ride, hasn’t he?” Duchairn said sardonically. “Why did we let him get away with it, do you think?” His eyes suddenly stabbed the Chancellor to the heart. “Because the notion of doing what we knew was right didn’t matter enough for us to bestir ourselves out of our luxurious little lives? Because we didn’t give a single good goddamn about our responsibilities to Mother Church? Was that the reason, Zahmsyn?”

“Don’t you dare try that with me!” Trynair snapped. “Maybe that was the reason, but you were right there in the middle of it with the rest of us, Rhobair! You could’ve said ‘Stop!’ anytime you wanted to. Maybe it wouldn’t have accomplished anything, but you could have at least made the attempt, and you didn’t, did you? You didn’t even try! So now you’ve rediscovered your conscience. Fine! I’m happy for you! But don’t you take your newfound piety and try to cram it down my throat! You’re so fucking proud of how noble you’ve become? Well, that’s fine. But if you think you’re going to shame me into standing beside you when Zhaspahr decides to have you put to the Question to ‘prove’ you’re just as heretical as Samyl Wylsynn ever was, you’ve got another think coming!”

“So you do have a little spine left,” Duchairn said with a thin, cold smile. “Pity it didn’t turn up earlier. And before you start in again, no, I’m not trying to pretend I wasn’t just as spineless and just as blind to the consequences as you were when Zhaspahr launched us on this little disaster. I’ve never pretended I wasn’t those things. The difference between us is that, yes, I am ashamed of myself, and there are limits to the additional complicity I’m willing to assume. And, frankly, I don’t really care if the thought of finding yourself all alone with Zhaspahr after I’m gone makes you feel threatened. I’m not looking for martyrdom, Zahmsyn. It might be better for my soul if I were, but I’m not prepared to go that far… yet, anyway. And I’m not going to have any public shouting matches with Zhaspahr. I undoubtedly should, but you and I both know it would be a futile gesture. So you just run along back to him and Allayn. The three of you go and eat your fried potato slices at the spectacle this afternoon. Drink your beer and enjoy the entertainment. But I’m not going to be there, because I’ve got something a lot more pressing to spend my time on. I’m sure that if Zhaspahr and that loathsome slime toad Rayno want to know where I am, they can ask Major Phandys. No doubt he’d be delighted to tell them. And if you want to tell him where I am, that’s fine with me too, because where I’ll be, Zahmsyn, is in the Temple praying for God’s forgiveness for not being out in that plaza denouncing Zhaspahr Clyntahn for the foul, sadistic murdering bastard he is!”

Rhobair Duchairn gave the Chancellor of the Church of God Awaiting one more cold, stony glare and slammed out of the office. Trynair stared after him, shocked and stunned by the power of the Treasurer’s denunciation, and listened to the boots of Duchairn’s “personal guard,” clattering down the hallway behind Major Khanstahnzo Phandys as the lot of them tried to keep up with the furiously striding Treasurer.

“Well, I see Zahmsyn has finally deigned to join us,” Zhaspahr Clyntahn said, watching from the central platform as the Chancellor slipped unobtrusively into the silent, watching ranks of the Church’s vicars. “Better late than never, I suppose. And where do you think our good friend Rhobair might be, Wyllym?”

“Somewhere else, Your Grace,” Wyllym Rayno replied with a sigh. “I’m afraid his absence is going to be remarked upon.”

“Of course it is.” Clyntahn spoke from the corner of his mouth, lips scarcely moving as he looked out across the packed approaches to the Plaza of Martyrs. “That’s why the bastard’s doing it!”

“I agree, Your Grace, but I trust we’re not going to make the mistake of underestimating him.”

“Underestimate Rhobair Duchairn? ” Clyntahn snorted. “That would be extraordinarily difficult to do, Wyllym! Oh, I’ll grant you he’s got more guts than Trynair, not to mention five or six times as much brains as Maigwair ever had. In fact, let’s be honest-if there’s one of the other three who’d ever have the courage and the willingness to speak out against the jihad, it would have to be Duchairn. But he’s not ready for an open break. And the truth is that whatever he may think, he never will be.”

“I’m… inclined to agree with you in most regards, Your Grace,” Rayno said, choosing his words with some care. “All the same, I can’t help thinking Vicar Rhobair has… changed a great deal over the last few years. I don’t think we can afford to overlook the possibility that he may change still further.”

“You mean grow big enough balls to consider an open confrontation with me?” Clyntahn asked calmly, turning to look directly at the Archbishop of Wu-shai for the first time. Rayno was obviously a bit nonplussed by the question, and the Grand Inquisitor chuckled coldly. “If it were just a matter of screwing up his nerve, he’d already have done it, Wyllym,” he said flatly. “Whatever I may think of him, I’m willing to admit he’s no coward. It’s not fear holding him back-not anymore, anyway. And I don’t need any spies to tell me he hates my guts, either. For that matter, I don’t need any Bedardists to tell me that somewhere down inside he’s come to hate himself, as well, for not ‘standing up to me,’ and that kind of hate can eat at a man until it finally drives him into doing something he’d never do otherwise. All of that’s true, but he’s still not going to push it to the point of an open break.”

“May I ask why you’re so certain of that, Your Grace?” Rayno asked cautiously.

“It’s very simple, really.” Clyntahn shrugged. “If he pushes me into having him… removed, there won’t be anyone left to argue with me. You think Trynair or Maigwair are going to draw any lines and dare me to step across them?” The Grand Inquisitor’s laugh was a short, contemptuous bark. “Not in a thousand years, Wyllym. Not in a thousand years! And Rhobair knows that. He knows all his precious projects, all his ‘kinder, gentler’ plans and pious aspirations, any possibility of ‘restraining my excesses,’ will go straight into the crapper with him, and he’s not going to let that happen. The way he sees it, the only chance he has for redemption is to do some good in the world to make up for all those years when he was just as committed as any of the rest of us to the practical side of maintaining Mother Church’s authority. He can’t do that if he’s dead, and that, more than any fear of the Question or the Punishment, is what’s going to stop him. He’ll always be able to find some way to rationalize not coming directly at me because it’s up to him to do whatever he can to minimize the ‘damage’ I’m doing.”

Rayno simply looked at him. For once, even the Schuelerite adjutant was at a loss for words, and Clyntahn chuckled again, more naturally.

“Rhobair, unfortunately, is one of those people who believe man actually has a better nature. He genuinely thinks he can appeal to that ‘kinder, gentler’ side he’s sure most everyone really has. He doesn’t recognize that the reason God gave Schueler authority to decree the discipline of Mother Church is that, thanks to Shan-wei, man has no better nature. Not any longer, anyway. God and Langhorne tried Rhobair’s idea of loving gentleness, of begging men to do the right thing, and mankind repaid them by embracing Shan-wei’s foulness. What? Rhobair thinks he’s greater than Holy Langhorne? Greater than God Himself? That mankind is going to suddenly discover a ‘better nature’ it hasn’t had since the very dawn of Creation just because he, the great Rhobair Duchairn, is determined to appeal to it?”

The Grand Inquisitor’s lips worked as if he wanted to spit on the ground, but he made himself draw a deep breath, nostrils flaring.

“Whatever may be going through his mind, he’s simply incapable of understanding that man won’t embrace God’s will and accept God’s authority without the iron rod of discipline. Humans have demonstrated again and again that unless they’re made to do what they know God wants them to do, they won’t do it. They have neither the wit, nor the will, nor the understanding to do it, and they’re too dull-witted even to recognize their own stupidity without us to make God’s will plain to them!

“That’s why Rhobair doesn’t understand the Inquisition’s job, its responsibilities-its duty. He’s not willing to admit what has to be done, so he pretends it doesn’t have to be. He’s willing to condemn us for doing it, as long as his hands are clean, and he genuinely believes we’re unnecessarily harsh. That we could renounce that iron rod if we were only willing to. Well, we can’t, unless we’re prepared to see everything Mother Church stands for go down in ruin, but that’s all right. Because as long as he believes he can continue to do things ‘behind the scenes’ to mitigate our ‘excesses,’ he’ll go right on preserving his ability to do them. He’ll make whatever compromises with his own soul he has to in order to accomplish that. And what that means, Wyllym, is that it would be almost impossible to drive him to a point where he decided he had nothing left to lose and came at us openly, because he’ll go right on clinging to that responsibility to do good to offset our ‘evil.’”

Rayno glanced away for a moment, looking up at the sky above Zion, touched with a colder, brighter autumn blue. The last blossoms had fallen from the elaborate gardens beyond the Plaza of Martyrs’ elaborate fountains, and fall color was creeping into the foliage. It would be winter again all too soon, and snow and ice would close in around the Temple once more. He thought about that, then looked back at his superior.

“I hope you’re right, Your Grace,” he said.

There was an unusual edge of doubt in his voice, however. Not disagreement, simply a note of… reservation. Clyntahn heard it, but he chose to let it pass. One of the things that made Rayno valuable to him was that the adjutant was perhaps the only person left who would argue with him if he thought Clyntahn was wrong.

“I am right,” the Grand Inquisitor said instead. “And if I’m not, I’ve got you and Major Phandys keeping an eye on him, don’t I? We’ll know if he starts to become a genuine threat. As for his absence this afternoon, I’ll let him have that much. It’s not as if anyone else is going to ignore today’s lesson, is it? Besides,” Clyntahn smiled suddenly, the smile of a slash lizard scenting blood, “it’s useful in its own way.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”

“Wyllym, Wyllym!” Clyntahn shook his head, still smiling. “Think about it. First, he’s such a convenient focus for anyone who might disagree with us. All we have to do is watch for anyone who seems inclined to suck up to him instead of to me and we’ll know where the real weak links are. And, second, Trynair and Maigwair are so busy trying to stay out of the line of fire between me and Rhobair that neither one of them is even going to consider doing something to make me think they’re choosing his side instead of mine. Oh, they may side with him over some purely technical issues, like how we balance the books and pay for the jihad, but not on anything fundamental. From that perspective, it’s far better to have him right where he is, driving them into our arms in their desperation to make it clear they’re not rushing into his.”

Rayno was still thinking about that when the bells began to ring.

Sir Gwylym Manthyr could hardly stay on his own feet, yet he wrapped his right arm around the man beside him, draping the other Charisian’s left arm across his own shoulders and somehow supporting the shambling, stumbling weight. The two of them staggered along, two more “penitents” in the rough, scratchy burlap robes that covered their savagely scarred, emaciated nakedness. For now, at least.

It was a beautiful day, Manthyr thought, listening to the magnificent, silver-throated bells of Zion as he looked around at the handful of his men who’d survived this long. There weren’t many. He didn’t have a definite count, but there couldn’t be more than thirty, and he was amazed the number was that high.

Tough, those Charisian seamen, he thought. Too tough and too stupid for their own good. The smart ones gave up and died. But that’s all right, because I’m not very smart either, I guess.

He knew every one of those thirty shambling, broken wrecks of human beings had been given the option: confess their heresy, admit their blasphemies and all of the hellish crimes to which they had set their hands in the service of their accursed emperor and empress, and they would face the garrotte, not the Punishment. Some of his men-a handful-had taken that offer, and Manthyr couldn’t find it in his heart to condemn them for it. As he’d told Lainsair Svairsmahn a seeming eternity ago, there was only so much any man could endure, and there was no shame in breaking under the savagery of the Question.

But if there was no shame in breaking, there was pride in not breaking, and his heart swelled as he looked around at those stumbling, crippled, tormented ruins and knew exactly what they’d already endured without yielding. As long as one of them- one of them-was still on his feet, still defiant, Sir Gwylym Manthyr would stand beside him at the very gates of Hell. They were his, and he was theirs, and he would not- could not-break faith with them.

They marched across the plaza, and he saw the heaps of wood, the charred wooden posts arranged on the marble flags-many of them cracked now with the heat of past fires-between the fountains and the Temple’s soaring colonnade. They marked where others of Clyntahn’s victims had already died, those posts, and he watched his men being separated from one another, dragged to those heaps of wood, chained to those grim, scorched posts. He watched inquisitors coating their bodies with pitch that would take the flame and cling to them even as it offered their flesh a brief, transitory protection that would make their dying even longer and harder. He saw leather gloves, knuckles reinforced with steel studs, striking anyone who didn’t move fast enough, who showed any trace of fight. They had to use those weighted fists quite often, he thought, watching, taking it all in. When it was his turn to appear before the Throne of God he wanted to be certain he had it all straight as he gave his testimony against the men who had twisted and perverted everything God stood for.

Then all of his men were chained, fastened atop their pyres, and there was only him. A pair of inquisitors started to drag him past his men, but he found the strength to shake off their hands and walk-slowly, but steadily, under his own power, making eye contact for one last time with every man he passed-towards the platform which had been reserved for him. The platform with the wheel and the rack, the white-hot irons waiting in their nests of glowing coals.

He longed for one final opportunity to defy the Inquisition, to speak for his men, to ridicule the charges against them, but they’d taken that from him when they cut out his tongue. He could still scream-they’d proven that to him-but they’d silenced his ability to deny the “confession” they were going to read and attribute to him. He’d held out, he’d never admitted or signed a single damned thing, but that wasn’t the story they were going to tell. He knew that. They’d explained it to him in smirking detail in a last-ditch effort to break him into actually signing, and it grieved him that he could never set the record straight. Not so much for himself, but because it meant he couldn’t speak out for his men, either.

It doesn’t matter, he thought as he climbed the steps to the platform, eyes hard with hate and defiance as they met Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s in person at last. Anybody who’d believe Clyntahn’s lies in the first place would never believe anything I said. And anyone who knows the truth about Clyntahn already knows what I would have said if I could. Those people, my Emperor and my Empress and my Navy, they know, and the time will come when they will avenge every one of my men .

He saw the torches, flames pale in the cool autumn sunlight, as the inquisitors strode towards his chained and helpless men, and his belly tightened. They were going to burn the others first, let him listen to their screams and watch their agonizing deaths, before it was his turn. It was the kind of “refinement” he’d come to expect out of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s Inquisition.

Two more inquisitors seized his arms, stretching them out, chaining them to the rack, and Zhaspahr Clyntahn stepped closer to him. The Grand Inquisitor’s face was studiously calm, set in stern lines of determination as he prepared to play out the final line of this carefully scripted farce.

“You have heard the judgment and sentence of holy Mother Church upon you for your blasphemy, your heresy, your wanton defiance of God and allegiance to Shan-wei, Gwylym Manthyr,” he said, his voice carrying clearly. “Have you anything to say before that sentence is carried out?”

Clyntahn’s eyes glittered with satisfaction as he asked the question he knew Manthyr couldn’t answer. There was no way for his victim to voice his defiance, demonstrate his rejection of the judgment and sentence which had been pronounced upon him, yet there was also no way for anyone in that watching crowd to know his voice had been taken from him before the question was even asked. They would see only the terrified heretic, too cowed by the onrushing approach of the eternal damnation he’d earned to say a single word.

Sir Gwylym Manthyr looked back at the gloating Grand Inquisitor as Clyntahn savored his triumph… and then he spat squarely into the vicar’s face. . VI.

Saint Bailair’s Church and Madam Aivah Pahrsahn’s Townhouse, Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark

“I don’t like it, Father,” Stahn Mahldan said unhappily as he knelt in the closed booth of the confessional. “I don’t like it at all. Where’s it coming from?”

“I don’t know, Brother,” Father Lharee Traighair, the rector of Saint Bailair’s Church, replied, although he wasn’t as sure of that as he would have liked.

“It’s all so… wrong,” Mahldan said, his eyes anxious, and Traighair smiled affectionately at him.

Brother Stahn was in his late fifties, thinning hair going steadily white, and there wasn’t a malicious bone in his entire body. There wasn’t an ambitious one, either, as far as Traighair could tell, which probably explained why Brother Stahn was still only a sexton of the Order of the Quill at his age. It certainly wasn’t because of lack of ability, faith, or industry!

A librarian by training and inclination alike, Mahldan was an absentminded, otherworldly sort who was always happiest puttering about in the histories he was responsible for maintaining and updating. He had a sharp, analytical brain, but one which was altogether too poorly suited for considering ugly truths outside the covers of his beloved histories. He was inclined to assume that since he wished ill to no one, no one could possibly wish ill to him, which, unfortunately, was no longer true even in the Republic, if it ever had been.

At least the old fellow’s had the sense to keep his feelings mostly to himself, Traighair thought. Or I hope to Langhorne he has, at any rate!

“I agree it’s wrong, Brother Stahn,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s also fairly inevitable, as well.” He shook his head, his expression sad. “Men who are afraid do ugly things. And one of the things they do first is to strike out at and try to destroy whatever frightens them.”

Mahldan nodded, although Traighair was pretty sure the sexton’s understanding was more intellectual than emotional. The priest wished he were a more inspired speaker, better able to explain what he saw so clearly, but he was a teacher more than a preacher, without the gift of language which God had given so generously to some other priests. He tried not to envy their greater gifts and to appreciate the ones he’d been given, but that was harder to do in times like these.

“All I can tell you, Brother, is that I urge you to go home. Go about your business and do your best to… well, keep your head down.” Traighair’s smile was fleeting. “I don’t know where the fellows you’re talking about are likely to go in the end, but I advise you to keep yourself out of their sights.”

“But they’re threatening people, Father!” Mahldan protested. “And they’re claiming it’s what God and Langhorne want them to do!”

“I understand that, Brother,” Traighair said as patiently as he could. “But there’s nothing you can do about it, and if you confront them, you only run the risk of pouring oil on the flames. Trust me, men who say the things you say they said aren’t going to respond well to reasonable argument!”

He gazed into the sexton’s eyes, willing Mahldan to simply take his word for it. He didn’t want to have to tell the gentle librarian that if he confronted the Temple Loyalist toughs he’d described he was only going to bring their violence down on his own head. And he didn’t want to have to explain that he was beginning to fear no amount of “reasonable argument” could head off what he was afraid was coming.

“Are you sure, Father?” Mahldan shook his head. “The Writ says we’re supposed to stand up for what we know is right and denounce what we know is wrong.”

“Yes, we are. And you have- to me,” Traighair said firmly. “You’ll just have to trust me when I say I’ll bring it to the attention of the proper ears. That’s my responsibility, not yours.”

Mahldan still looked unhappy and distressed, but he finally nodded.

“Good, Brother Stahn. Good!” Traighair patted the older man on the arm. “Now, about those ‘sins’ of yours.” He shook his head and smiled. “I believe I can safely say they’re all scarcely even venal, this time. So light a candle to the Holy Bedard, leave an extra silver in Pasquale’s Basket this Wednesday, and say ten ‘Hail Langhornes.’ Understood?”

“Yes, Father,” Mahldan agreed obediently, and the young priest stood and began escorting him down the nave.

“I know you’re worried,” he said quietly as they reached the front steps. “To be honest, so am I, because these are worrying times. But you’re a good man and, if you’ll forgive my saying so, a gentle one. I think you’ll best serve by lending your prayers to those of all good and God-fearing people. And”-he looked the sexton firmly in the eye-“by staying home, keeping out from underfoot, and not making things worse. Understand me?”

“Yes, Father.” Mahldan managed a wry smile and nodded again, more firmly.

“Good!” Traighair repeated. “Now, go home!”

He pointed like a stern grandfather, and the white-haired Mahldan laughed and obeyed the imperious gesture. The priest watched him until he turned the corner, then turned and walked briskly back into his church. It would be tight, but he had time to talk to those “proper ears” he’d promised Mahldan he’d speak to between now and afternoon mass if he hurried.

“I can see why Father Lharee was upset, Your Eminence,” Aivah Pahrsahn said.

She stood gazing out her windows at North Bay once more. The Navy of God galleons had long since departed for Hsing-wu’s Passage, and the blue water sparkled under the September sun, busy with the weathered, tan sails of Siddar City’s teeming commerce. It would be winter again soon enough, she thought, with icy snow, rain, and the bay the color of a polished steel blade. She wasn’t looking forward to that. In fact, there were several things she wasn’t looking forward to, and she was frankly surprised they’d held off this long.

“What worries me most is Father Lharee’s fear that he knows these men,” Zhasyn Cahnyr said unhappily.

“Surely that doesn’t come as a surprise, Your Eminence?” Aivah turned to face him, and her expression was a strange mix of compassion and exasperation. “Did you truly believe this was all purely spontaneous? Something just naturally bubbling up out of Siddarmark’s burning loyalty to Mother Church and the people currently controlling her policies?”

“I…” Cahnyr looked at her for a moment, then shrugged unhappily. “No, of course not,” he said. “I mean, in some ways I’d like to believe it’s purely out of loyalty to the Church, even if a mob mentality is a dangerous thing. Mobs can do horrible things, and I’ve seen it. But if Father Lharee is right, if these men Brother Stahn is talking about really do come out of Bishop Executor Baikyr’s or Father Zohannes’ offices, then we may be looking at something a lot worse than some kind of spontaneous vigilantism!”

“Of course we are,” Pahrsahn told him flatly. “And Father Lharee is right, Your Eminence. I already had the names of four of the men he’s talking about, and at least one of them works directly for Father Saimyn.”

Cahnyr looked at her sharply, and his expression tightened. Father Zohannes Pahtkovair, the Intendant of Siddar for the last sixteen months, was about as ardent as even a Schuelerite came. Cahnyr couldn’t be positive, but unless he was sadly mistaken, Pahtkovair had been handpicked by Zhaspahr Clyntahn for his current post specifically because of that ardency. The Inquisitor General would have made it his business to be certain he had a reliable intendant in a place like Old Province, the original heartland of the Republic of Siddarmark, under any circumstances. These days, with the upsurge in Reformist sympathies throughout the Republic, Clyntahn was going to be more focused on his intendants’ reliability than ever. Especially since Bishop Executor Baikyr Saikor was apparently at least a little more sympathetic to the Reformists than Archbishop Praidwyn Laicharn, his immediate superior. Of course, Saikor was also a bishop executor of the old school-a bureaucrat first and foremost, not someone likely to succumb to a sudden rush of piety. He’d follow his superiors’ instructions to the letter whatever his personal views might be. Still, it was obvious to Cahnyr that the bishop executor wasn’t going out of his way to stamp on peaceful, process-oriented Reformists, which probably explained why he’d been assigned a more… activist intendant last year.

Father Saimyn Airnhart, however, worried the Archbishop of Glacierheart even more than Pahtkovair. Zohannes Pahtkovair was zealous about keeping a close eye on the reliability of the local clergy, but Airnhart was even more zealous. Which undoubtedly explained why he’d been assigned as Pahtkovair’s immediate subordinate for what was euphemistically termed “special functions.” In effect, Airnhart was responsible for managing the Inquisition’s covert operations. Not information gathering, not observation, but active operations- offensive operations, one might better say-intended to identify, unmask, and destroy the enemies of God and Mother Church… no matter where or who they might be. And no matter what he had to do to accomplish his mission, which had to suit Airnhart just fine. As Schueler had written in the very first chapter of his book, after all, “Extremism in the pursuit of godliness can never be a sin.” Cahnyr wasn’t at all convinced Saimyn Airnhart had ever bothered to read any of the rest of The Book of Schueler.

“You really didn’t know, did you, Your Eminence?” Pahrsahn said quietly.

“About Airnhart?” Cahnyr pursed his lips and exhaled heavily, then shrugged. “I knew about him, of course. We’ve been… keeping an eye out for him. But I hadn’t realized Bishop Executor Baikyr was working that directly with him. Or vice versa.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure how directly involved the Bishop Executor actually is,” Pahrsahn said. “I know Pahtkovair has both his hands in the pie right up to the elbow, and Airnhart’s his chief kitchen assistant. On the other hand, I know where both of them are. I can keep an eye on them, and”-her voice turned grimmer, her eyes harder-“if I have to, I can put my hand on them anytime I need to, as well. I know you don’t want to hear that sort of thing, Your Eminence, but I’m afraid I’ve become rather addicted to that aphorism about the Archangels helping those who help themselves.”

She looked at Cahnyr, who nodded. She was right; he didn’t want to hear about “that sort of thing,” but what he wanted and what he needed were two different things.

“The thing that bothers me most about Father Lharee’s report,” Pahrsahn continued, “is what Brother Stahn had to say about Laiyan Bahzkai. He’s been turning into a really nasty piece of work, Your Eminence, and until today, I genuinely thought he was a ‘spontaneous’ bigot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bahzkai’s an… interesting fellow, Your Eminence. He’s a Temple Loyalist, but he’s also a Leveler. And he’s been getting more active as an organizer over the past several months. More visible and more vocal. And he’s been moving steadily further and further towards their violent wing ever since Clyntahn declared his embargo against Charisian trade.”

Cahnyr’s mouth tightened. He’d never heard Bahzkai’s name before, but he was more familiar with the Levelers than he wanted to be. In truth, he was more than a little sympathetic to at least three-quarters of their platform. He was less than convinced about the need for the complete and total destruction of capitalism, yet he was certainly willing to admit the system as it existed-especially in the Temple Lands, where senior churchmen used their privileged positions, entrenched corruption, and cronyism to amass staggering fortunes while squeezing out any competition-could and did create huge inequities. That was the main reason the Levelers had originated in the Temple Lands, and many Reformists were at least mildly sympathetic to the Levelers’ core arguments.

These days the Levelers were more active in the Republic of Siddarmark than anywhere else, however, which was precisely because the Republic’s level of tolerance was so much higher than that of most other mainland realms. As far as he was aware, they had virtually no representation in Charis, but that was understandable enough given the general Charisian enthusiasm for trade and individual self-betterment. Charisians liked capitalism-a lot-and they weren’t especially interested in hearing from people who disapproved of it.

It was ironic, perhaps, that the realm in which the movement operated most openly was the one where the inequalities against which it inveighed were least pronounced, but that didn’t make it something the Republic’s civil authorities embraced with open arms, either. In Cahnyr’s opinion, though, the Levelers’ position that all men and women were equally children of God and therefore should take equal care of one another was straight out of the Holy Writ. There was nothing the least objectionable about that! And the majority of Levelers advocated peaceful means of pursuing their platform, although strikes and work stoppages had a tendency to turn violent at the best of times, especially in places like the Temple Lands or quite a few of the Border States between them and the Republic. And God only knew what would happen to a batch of Levelers who tried “civil disobedience” someplace like the Harchong Empire!

A growing number of Levelers did advocate a more… proactive stance, however. What Pahrsahn had just called their “violent wing” was tired of peaceful remonstrance and petitions for redress. Its members had come increasingly to the view that no one would ever take them seriously until they convinced the rest of the world they were serious, and that would require violence. Personally, Cahnyr thought they were out of their minds if they believed they could reform society into genuine egalitarianism by killing anyone who disagreed with them, although he supposed that when the rest of the world was busy going insane anyway, they might be excused for thinking they saw an opportunity to implement some of their own reforms. But still…

“A Leveler working hand in glove with the Inquisition?” he said. “That sounds suitably bizarre!”

“They don’t usually find one another congenial company, do they?” Pahrsahn agreed. “That’s what bothers me about this. Bahzkai’s a printer and a pamphleteer, and he’s produced some fairly inflammatory stuff for several years now. The Republic’s authorities’ve known exactly who he was and where to find him, but however inflammatory he may have been, he was always careful to stay away from advocating any form of violence. Only that emphasis of his has been changing over the last year or so. Since shortly after Pahtkovair was assigned to the Siddar archbishopric, in fact. And he’s been focusing more and more of his complaints about the unfair, unequal distribution of wealth on the Empire of Charis and Charisians in general.”

“Not Reformists? Charisians?”

“Well, in some ways an anti-Charisian bias from somebody like a Leveler is understandable enough,” Pahrsahn pointed out. “If there’s any city in the entire world whose society is further from the Leveler ideal than Tellesberg’s, it could only be Shang-mi, and that’s heading in the opposite direction!”

Despite himself, Cahnyr chuckled at her disgusted expression. Shang-mi, the capital of the Harchong Empire, made Zion seem like a hotbed of reform!

“But Bahzkai’s been concentrating on how damned rich Charis is supposed to be getting out of this war,” Pahrsahn continued, her expression becoming much more somber once more, “what with ‘sucking the lifeblood’ out of ‘legitimate Siddarmarkian businesses’ because of the embargo and the way the trading houses are evading it. As nearly as I can tell, he buys into the theory that what this is really all about is greed and that Charis, rather than needing every single mark to pay for the navy it needs to survive, is deliberately siphoning the Republic’s wealth into its own purse out of sheer avarice. Its ‘indecently wealthy plutocrats’ are actively pushing a deliberately aggressive, militant foreign policy to promote the war in order to fill their purses with more of the deserving world’s marks. If it weren’t for their greed, this whole thing could’ve been settled ages ago by a simple appeal to the Grand Vicar’s justice.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Forgive me, Your Eminence, but it’s always seemed to me that the very first thing that happens with any zealot is that he removes his brain just in case any thoughts that might challenge his zealotry should happen to stray into it. Present company excepted, of course.”

“Ouch.” Cahnyr winced. “Do you really think of me as a zealot?”

“For certain definitions of the word, I certainly do,” Pahrsahn replied calmly. “On the other hand, I’m a zealot. For that matter, there’s zealotry and then there’s zealotry, and while I may be prejudiced by my own perspective, I don’t think of you as a fanatic zealot. Just a… zealous zealot.”

“Thank you for your exquisite tact, my dear.”

“Don’t mention it, Your Eminence.” She smiled at him, but then her expression sobered again. “Anyway, the reason Bahzkai came to my attention had less to do with his excoriation of the Empire of Charis than it did with his growing hostility towards Charisians in general. In particular, he’s been focusing on how Charisian refugees here in the Republic have been taking employment away from Siddarmarkians. He’s scarcely the only one doing that, as I’m sure you’re at least as well aware as I am, but he’s been a lot more organized about it than most of the loudmouths and hotheads. And now we have this suggestion that he’s associated with Airnhart somehow. And apparently he’s been accepting some printing jobs from people who’re putting up broadsheets attacking the Reformists, as well. I knew he wasn’t a huge admirer of the Reformists-which always struck me as a little odd, since the Reformists are a lot more sympathetic to the kind of world the Levelers want to build than someone like Clyntahn or Trynair could ever be-but it hadn’t occurred to me that Airnhart might be steering some of those printing jobs to him.”

“I don’t think I like where you’re going with this,” Cahnyr said slowly.

“Neither do I.”

She turned to look out the window once more, reaching up to slowly coil and uncoil a lock of hair around her right index finger while she thought. She stood that way for several minutes, then looked back over her shoulder at the fugitive archbishop.

“The Temple Loyalist rhetoric and invective against the Reformists have been growing steadily stronger, Your Eminence. We both know that. And in the last month and a half or so, I’ve been hearing more and more clearly vocalized anger against the Charisians, as well. The thing that’s occurring to me-and Father Lharee’s report isn’t the only reason I’m thinking this way, either-is that somebody may actually be deliberately orchestrating that growth in anger and invective. That particular nasty suspicion was already running through my brain, but if Bahzkai, who I know is involved in it, is working directly with Airnhart, I think we have to very seriously consider the possibility that this extends a lot further than I thought it did. I was operating on the assumption that it was primarily an urban phenomenon, something which was strongest in the cities where the Reformists and Charisians are most concentrated and political opinions are always likely to ferment more… energetically than in the countryside. But if the Inquisition’s the one stirring the pot, they may be nursing it along in places I hadn’t even considered yet.”

“You think this is some sort of Republic-wide… plot, for want of a better word?” Cahnyr could have wished his own tone was more incredulous. Pahrsahn’s slow nod of agreement didn’t make him feel any better, either. “That’s… well, I don’t want to call it preposterous, but it sounds awfully ambitious even for someone like Clyntahn.”

“Our illustrious Grand Inquisitor’s done something in the last three or four years to convince you he doesn’t think in ‘ambitious’ terms?” Pahrsahn asked just a bit derisively.

“Of course not. I just meant-”

“You meant that the Republic of Siddarmark is huge and that organizing anything like this as a workable proposition would be an enormous undertaking, especially in the middle of a war?”

“Well, yes. Pretty much.”

“At first sight I might be inclined to agree with you, Your Eminence,” she said very seriously, “but consider three things. First,” she held up her left fist, index finger extended, “the Inquisition, like Mother Church herself, is everywhere. And, two,” her second finger joined her index finger, “at this moment Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s concentrated more power in his hands than probably any other Grand Inquisitor in the history of Mother Church. And, third,” her ring finger joined the other two, “we are in the middle of a war, which means he and Rayno are in a position to argue convincingly that the Church is fighting for her very survival. Your Eminence, even priests who fundamentally disagree with many of the things Clyntahn’s doing right now are acquiescing because of the Church’s frightened, defensive mindset. And to be honest, the Charisians’ string of victories only makes that fear still stronger. Worse, Clyntahn’s made it abundantly clear what he’s willing to do to anyone he might even remotely consider an opponent or an enemy. So added to the fear for Mother Church’s survival we have the personal fear that anyone who gets in the Inquisition’s way is going to suffer for it-suffer severely.

“So we have the Inquisition’s feelers and tentacles threaded throughout not just the Republic but all of the mainland realms, and we have a Grand Inquisitor with a genuine iron fist and a taste for using it, and a priesthood-not just in the Inquisition, but everywhere in Mother Church-frightened by the combined challenge of the Church of Charis from without and the Reformists from within and frightened of that iron fist of his. Do you really think under those circumstances that someone like Zhaspahr Clyntahn and Wyllym Rayno wouldn’t see the potential to… destabilize a Republic of Siddarmark they’ve hated and distrusted literally for decades? I know the very thought is revolting, but try to put yourself inside their minds for a moment. From their perspective, would there really be any conceivable downside to tearing the entire Republic apart and simultaneously getting their hands around the throat of the Reformist movement here in Siddarmark?”

Zhasyn Cahnyr looked at her grim, lovely face for the better part of a minute and a half in silence. And then, slowly, he shook his head. . VII.

Lord Protector Stohnar’s Residence and the Charisian Embassy, Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark

“The temperature seems to be rising awfully sharply for September,” Greyghor Stohnar said sourly, looking around the handsome, inlaid table in the richly appointed library of the Lord Protector’s personal residence.

He could have held this meeting in his public office in the Lord Protector’s Palace off Constitution Square, but public offices were just that: public. Not even Henrai Maidyn’s agents could be sure there weren’t spies in his own staff, although it seemed unlikely. He was almost certain the Group of Four would have taken much more strenuous action against him long before now if Zhaspahr Clyntahn had managed to get a spy that close to him. On the other hand, he hadn’t survived this long by taking anything for granted.

“Temperatures tend to do that when someone starts blowing on the flames,” Maidyn said unhappily.

“You’re sure that’s what’s happening, then?” Lord Samyl Gahdarhd asked, his expression acutely unhappy. Maidyn looked back at him, and the Keeper of the Seal grimaced. “I realize you’re not in the habit of just casually dropping unsubstantiated rumors on us, Henrai, but if you’re right about what’s going on under the surface, we’re about to land in a sea of trouble.”

“Then I recommend we all learn how to swim,” Daryus Parkair, the Republic’s Seneschal, said harshly. Gahdarhd’s eyes moved to him, and Parkair shrugged. “Every one of my agents is reporting exactly the same thing Henrai’s are. Or, the ones I’m sure haven’t been suborned by Pahtkovair or Airnhart, anyway.” He showed his teeth briefly. “Frankly, there aren’t as many of those as I wish there were.”

Stohnar ran his right hand through his hair, his expression rather more harried than he ever allowed it to look in public. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t seen this coming for quite some time, he reminded himself. There was, however, a difference between anticipating something at some unspecified future date and actually seeing it rumbling towards you like Shan-wei’s salt grinder.

“All right,” he said after a moment, “I think we just answered the question of whether or not they’re up to something. So it seems to me that the ones still before us are how soon they intend to move, how widely they intend to move, and exactly how they plan on all of this coming down in the end.”

“I hope no one minds my pointing out that those are rather broad questions,” Gahdarhd observed dryly.

“I agree.” Maidyn nodded crisply and turned to the Lord Protector. “I don’t think we can answer any of them in any definitive sense. What does seem probable, though, is that they’ve been working on whatever they have in mind ever since Clyntahn sent us Pahtkovair. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve had contingency plans basically forever, and when Charis declined to lie down and die they decided to dust one off and update it to fit the new circumstances.

“I also think we can assume they’d really like for whatever they have in mind to happen before the snow starts flying. That would explain why their agitators are ratcheting the ‘temperature’ up right now-they’ve only got about another month or a month and a half before winter closes in.”

“You’re probably right, Henrai,” Parkair said, “but let’s not invest too much confidence in that timing. If we’re looking at some widespread operation directed at the Republic as a whole, then, yes, they’d probably prefer to have it out of the way before winter starts cutting down on their mobility. If what they’re planning is a more focused operation, something like seizing control of Siddar City and the government in a quick coup rather than some popular general uprising by our ‘outraged citizenry’-with no outside provocation at all, of course!-they might see winter weather as their ally. If they don’t succeed in the first rush, bad weather would make it more difficult for us to bring in reinforcements from outlying regions that decided to remain loyal to us.”

“A valid point,” Stohnar said. “On the other hand, we’re talking about Zhaspahr Clyntahn. He’s not the sort to think small, and we’ve got reports of the same sorts of propaganda and ‘spontaneous’ organizations from at least a dozen other cities and towns. To me, that suggests he’s thinking in terms of your ‘widespread operation,’ Daryus.”

“I think we have to assume he is, anyway,” Maidyn agreed. “We’ll be a lot better off planning against a bigger threat than we actually end up facing than underestimating the danger and getting our heads handed to us when the shit really starts flying.”

“Granted,” Parkair agreed, and Stohnar nodded.

“All right, we’ll think in terms of an execution date on their part sometime in the next two months. If it turns out we’ve got longer, so much the better.”

“Have we heard anything from Cahnyr or the lovely and devious Madam Pahrsahn?” Gahdarhd asked wryly, and Stohnar chuckled.

“Not directly, no. Then again, we’re officially trying to arrest Cahnyr-as soon as we can find him, of course-and Madam Pahrsahn doesn’t know-officially, at least-we’re even aware of her activities. That makes it just a tiny bit difficult for them to openly share information with us. On the other hand, I suspect at least some of Henrai’s informants are really part of Madam Pahrsahn’s network. I think she’s making sure we find out about certain things she’s discovered. What I’m a lot less sure of is whether or not she’s telling us everything she’s discovered.” The Lord Protector shook his head. “The lady has an agenda of her own, and while I’m prepared to welcome just about any ally if this turns out as badly as we’re afraid it could, I’m not about to assume she isn’t feeding us selected information. I don’t think she’d actually lie to us to get us to do what she wants, if only because she’s foresighted enough to realize how badly that could hurt her with us down the road, but I’m positive she wouldn’t be above… manipulating information in order to prod us into doing what she wants. Whatever it turns out that is.”

“The lady is a force to be reckoned with,” Parkair agreed. “She and my wife have become quite close, you know. I’ve warned Zhanaiah to be cautious, and you all know Zhany’s no fool, but she obviously approves of Madam Pahrsahn. She thinks she’s one of the smartest people she’s ever met, too.”

“That’s Tymahn and Owain Qwentyn’s view, as well,” Maidyn agreed.

“I know.” Parkair nodded. “But what the Qwentyns may not know is that Madam Pahrsahn’s purchasing agents-purchasing agents she seems to have been very careful to keep well away from the House of Qwentyn and her official, legal investments-have now taken possession of something over eight thousand rifled muskets. Which have all mysteriously disappeared since.”

“What?!” Gahdarhd stared at him, and the Seneschal chuckled sourly.

“Hahraimahn did tell us she was investing in rifles,” he pointed out. “And we told him -unofficially, of course-to go ahead and sell them to her as a way to finance some additional manufactory capacity without any investment on our part.” He shrugged. “Obviously I’d prefer to be doing the investing and stockpiling the weapons ourselves, but if there’s one thing Clyntahn’s agents have to be looking for it’s evidence we’re involving ourselves in some major rearmament program without mentioning it to Mother Church.”

“I understand all that,” the Keeper of the Seal said a bit impatiently. “I was part of the discussion, remember? But eight thousand rifles?!”

“It would appear Madam Pahrsahn had rather more to invest than we thought when we told Hahraimahn to sell her whatever she ordered,” Parkair said a bit whimsically. “I wonder what she would have done if he’d offered to make artillery for her?”

“What in hell, if you’ll pardon my language, does she plan to do with that many rifles?” Gahdarhd asked Stohnar, and the Lord Protector shrugged.

“Something Clyntahn won’t like, I hope. In the meantime, though, unless we want to take official cognizance of her and ask her if she’d be so kind as to hand them over to us, I think we need to plan on the basis of what we know we have and what we’re afraid Pahtkovair and Airnhart may have managed to make available on their side of the hill. Suggestions, anyone?”

“… the honor to be, et cetera, et cetera,” Sir Rayjhis Dragoner said, looking out across the city of Siddar, drowsing peacefully under a golden September afternoon sun. He sighed, then turned and stood with his back to the window, watching Wynai Thyrstyn’s busy pen jot down the last few words. “I’ll trust you to finish it up properly,” he said with a smile which was only slightly forced.

“Yes, Ambassador.” Wynai looked up with a smile of her own. It wasn’t much of a smile, but Dragoner was glad to see it anyway. She hadn’t smiled very often since losing not simply her brother but her favorite cousin, as well, in the Hairatha powder mill explosion. “I’m sure I can come up with a properly respectful closing.”

“I knew I could count on you. Zheryld was right about how useful you’ve been, and not just taking dictation and dealing with the correspondence. I’ve valued your input on a lot of issues, Wynai. You realize that, I hope?”

“I’ve tried to be useful, Sir Rayjhis,” she said with a small bob of her head, but the fleeting smile had disappeared again. “I only wish I thought it was really going to do some good.”

“All we can do is the best we can do.” Dragoner’s tone was firmer and more optimistic than he truly felt, and he was pretty sure Wynai knew it.

He truly was glad Zheryld Mahrys, his secretary of many years, had managed to find Madam Thyrstyn for him, and not just because she was a skilled stenographer and secretary. He could always use more people with that set of skills, but she was also smart, and it was that, coupled with the many years she’d lived here in the Republic, which made her truly valuable to him. She understood Siddarmarkians in ways he simply didn’t, despite how long he’d been posted as the Charisian ambassador to the Republic.

And you might as well admit it, Rayjhis, he told himself now, turning back to the window. You value her because she’s your window into the Charisian Temple Loyalists here in the city, too.

“Do you really think it’s as bad as some people seem to be saying, Sir Rayjhis?” she asked now, and he shrugged.

“I think it’s not as good as I wish it were,” he said. “Let’s just put it that way.” He shrugged again. “All we can do is warn people to be careful, to avoid provocations, and for any of them who can to return to Charis.”

“I’ve lived here almost half my entire life, Sir Rayjhis!” Wynai said with an unusual flash of fire. “I’m not going to just run away from my neighbors and my friends-and my family!-and all the rest of my life because some people are letting their mouths run away with them! ”

“I hope that’s all it is,” he said, turning back around to look at her. “You’ve seen the dispatches I’m sending home, though. You probably know more about what’s happening here in the capital than I do, when it comes down to it. And you know I’m trying hard not to be alarmist and make a bad situation worse. But I’d be derelict in my duties if I didn’t warn the Charisian community about the rumors we’re picking up.”

“Why did we ever have to start all this?” she asked, her eyes pained. “It’s all… all just crazy, Sir Rayjhis!”

“In some ways I agree with you,” he said heavily. In fact, he agreed with her in a lot more ways than he was prepared to admit. His personal balancing act as a loyal son of Mother Church and the ambassador of the heretical Empire of Charis had become nothing but more difficult as the Church moved steadily towards an official declaration of jihad. Over the last year, since that declaration had actually come, it had gotten even harder, and deep inside himself he wondered what he was going to do if worse came to worst in the Republic. Only his overriding sense of duty to the House of Ahrmahk had kept him at his post this long, and he didn’t know if even that could have done the trick if he hadn’t seen so many indications Mother Church was striving to keep the Republic as close to neutral territory as it could. He’d had enough clear signs-signals that could only have come from Vicar Rhobair and Chancellor Trynair-that Mother Church actually wanted the embargo to continue “leaking” in Siddarmark’s case. That had been enough to keep him in his office, still able to serve both of the causes which were so dear to his heart. But if that balance was shifting, if Mother Church was changing her mind, what did he do then?

“In some ways I agree with you,” he repeated, “but we live when we live, and all any of us can do is pray for guidance to get through all this without trading away any more of our souls than we have to. And if we get an opportunity to do something which may make it even a little better-or at least less bad-than it would have been otherwise, then we give thanks on our knees.”

“Yes, Sir.” Wynai lowered her eyes, seeming a bit abashed at having spoken out, and he inhaled deeply.

“Go ahead and get clear copies of those written up,” he told her in a gentler tone. “And tell Zheryld we’re going to have a special dispatch bag for Tellesberg.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“And, Wynai, if you’d like to send any messages home to Charis, feel free to use the dispatch bag.” She looked up at him, and he smiled at her. “I know you don’t abuse the privilege, and at least this way they’ll get home a little quicker.”

“Thank you, Sir Rayjhis. I appreciate it.”

Wynai gathered up her notepad and her pen and headed down the hall to her own little cubbyhole of an office. The door closed quietly behind her, and Dragoner returned his attention to the window, looking across those sunlit roofs at North Bay’s sail-dotted azure water and thinking about the homeland which lay so far beyond it.

Wynai Thyrstyn closed her office door behind her and sat in the creaky, slightly rickety chair at her desk. She laid her shorthand notes on the blotter and stared down at them, thinking about them, wondering what she should do. Then she leaned back, closed her eyes, and covered her lids with her hands while she tried not to weep.

There were times she felt almost unbearably torn by guilt as she sat in Sir Rayjhis’ office, taking down his words, working on his correspondence, answering his questions about the Charisian and non-Charisian communities here in Siddar City. It was wrong of her to feel that way, she knew that. She wasn’t doing anything she shouldn’t be doing, and Sir Rayjhis was a good man, one who needed her help. She could see how he was aging before her, the way his hair was going progressively whiter, the lines carving themselves more and more deeply into his face. He’d revealed more of his own spiritual turmoil than he thought he had-she was pretty sure of that-and she wondered how much longer he could bear it. And how he was going to react when the inevitable happened.

And it was inevitable. She lowered her hands again, staring at the icon of the Archangel Langhorne hanging on the wall above her desk. God couldn’t permit any other outcome, but why did it have to be so hard? Why did so many people- good people, and there were good people, on both sides-have to die?

The tears came despite her efforts to stop them as she thought of her brother Trai and her cousin Urvyn. Sir Rayjhis had tried so hard to comfort her when the terrible news came, tried to tell her it had all been some horrible accident, but Wynai knew better. She couldn’t be certain, of course, but… she knew better. If only Urvyn had been able to see the truth the way she and Trai had! But he hadn’t, and they’d lost him to the heresy, and she’d still loved him so much, and, O Sweet Bedard, but it hurt so much to be so sure Trai had killed him… and himself.

Forgive him, she prayed now, staring at the image of the Archangel on the wall before her, not entirely certain if she were praying for her heretical cousin or the brother who’d violated divine law by taking his own life. But then she shook herself. God couldn’t possibly condemn Trai for giving up his life in His own service! Yet even so Forgive all of them, please! I know Urvyn and the others are wrong, I know it’s all so horribly wrong, but they’re not really evil. They’re doing what they think they have to do, what they think you and God want them to do. Do they really have to spend all of eternity paying for that?

The icon didn’t answer her, but she hadn’t really expected it to, and she drew a deep breath. A decisive breath.

She’d wanted to do more from the very beginning, but Trai had convinced her-no, be honest, he’d ordered her-not to. She remembered that first letter of his, the one which had filled her with mingled fear and elation. It was so like her big brother to take charge, to know exactly what to do, and she’d taken his warnings seriously. She’d never said a single word to anyone, not even her own priest and confessor, about the “personal letters” to her which she relayed to her husband’s aunt in Zion. The letters which went from there directly to the Office of the Inquisition… and the replies to which were transmitted to him in her own “personal letters.” She had no idea what information and what instructions had passed back and forth, because Trai had been very clear about that, as well. At his request, the Inquisition had sent him a code book by an entirely separate route-she didn’t know what it had been-and he and whoever he was actually writing to had buried their messages in the word puzzles and acrostics he and Wynai had shared regularly by mail ever since her marriage had taken her to the Republic so many years before.

But he’d been very specific in that first letter. She was to do nothing but relay letters. That was the most important thing she could possibly do, and she mustn’t do anything that could compromise her ability to perform that task. So she’d had no contact at all with the Inquisition here in Siddar. She’d spoken as calmly and reasonably as she could when the inevitable debates erupted between Temple Loyalists and adherents of the Church of Charis, avoiding anything which could have gotten her labeled an extremist by either side. And she’d never, not once, used her privileged position here inside the embassy to provide information to Mother Church.

In a lot of ways, she’d been grateful Trai’s instructions had precluded her from doing that. But Trai was gone now, and Urwyn, both of them sacrificed to the war impious man had declared upon God Himself, and that meant she was free. It would be a betrayal of Sir Rayjhis’ trust, and she regretted that deeply, yet she had no choice but to serve God and the Archangels in any way she could.

She drew another deep breath and began transcribing her notes in the beautiful, clear handwriting she’d been taught as a child in Tellesberg. She had the dispatch bag to catch, and she would. But this time, instead of destroying her original notes the way she always had before, she would take them with her when she left.

It was very quiet in the tiny office, with only the soft, purposeful scratching of her pen to break the silence. .

The Temple, City of Zion, The Temple Lands

“God damn them! God damn all of them!”

Zhaspahr Clyntahn threw the entire file across the sitting room of his luxurious personal suite. It hit the outer wall’s unbreakable transparent crystal with a thump and flew back, scattering pages across the thick, rich carpets, and the Grand Inquisitor snarled. His heavy-jowled face was purple with fury as he snatched up a priceless glass paperweight that was over three hundred years old and hurled it across the room, directly into a glass-fronted cabinet of crystal decanters. It struck with an ear-shattering crash and the sharp scent of expensive brandies and whiskeys as paperweight, glass, and bottles exploded in fragments.

Spectacular as it was, the destruction had no apparent effect on Clyntahn’s rage, and he bent and snatched up the bronze coffee table. It had to weigh a hundred pounds, Wyllym Rayno thought, but the Grand Inquisitor didn’t even seem to notice. He only hurled it after the paperweight with an explosive grunt of effort, demolishing the entire wet bar in a cascade of shattered snifters, goblets, liqueur bottles, and exquisite-and exquisitely expensive- cabinetry.

The Archbishop of Chiang-wu made himself as small and inconspicuous as he possibly could. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Clyntahn explode in all but incoherent fury, but it was never a pleasant experience. And he’d seldom seen the Grand Inquisitor this angry. In fact, it was entirely possible he’d never seen Clyntahn this angry.

Not even Zhaspahr Clyntahn in the grip of a monumental rage could throw something as heavy as that coffee table without consequences. He stumbled, nearly falling, and kept himself on his feet only by grabbing the back of a couch. He snarled, shoved himself back upright, and kicked the couch halfway across the room. It knocked over a display pedestal, and a marble bust of the Archangel Chihiro-carved from life by the second-century master Charkain-toppled to the floor in a crunching, face-first impact that sent fragments of white stone flying. He looked around, as if seeking something else expensive to destroy, then stomped out of the sitting room, kicking heirloom furniture out of his way, and Rayno heard more shattering sounds from the adjacent bedchamber.

Fortunately, Clyntahn hadn’t ordered the archbishop to accompany him, and Rayno breathed a quiet prayer of thanks as he tucked his hands into the sleeves of his cassock and prepared to wait out his superior’s rage.

From the sounds of things, it was going to take a while.

“All right,” Clyntahn said flatly, the better part of two hours later. “Give me the details.”

He and Rayno had withdrawn to the small conference room attached to the Grand Inquisitor’s suite. The door had opened at their approach and then closed silently behind them, cool air whispered through the overhead ducts, and the conference room’s soundproofing guaranteed that none of the white-faced servants creeping about while they dealt with the wreckage littering the wake of Clyntahn’s rage would hear a word they said.

Rayno considered pointing out that all “the details” he possessed had been contained in the file, but he didn’t consider it very hard. He’d quietly gathered up the file’s scattered contents and brought them with him, but reminding Clyntahn he’d cleaned up behind him probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

“I’m afraid there’s not a great deal to add to what I’ve already told you, Your Grace,” he said just a bit cautiously. “The destruction appears to be effectively total. Jahras’ entire fleet seems to have been sunk, burned, or taken. All the navy yard facilities were burned. The artillery foundries in and around Iythria were all destroyed, and the port’s batteries were blown up. As nearly as I can tell, Your Grace, the Imperial Desnairian Navy now consists solely of the twenty-one galleons in Desnair Bay. And, in all honesty, Your Grace, I’ll be astounded if the heretics don’t move against Desnair the City very soon now.” His mouth twisted. “They made it clear enough at Iythria that they’re not afraid to confront heavy fortifications or our galleons, and I don’t think there’s anything at Desnair that could stop them if Jahras couldn’t stop them at Iythria.”

“No?” Clyntahn glared at him, jowls tinged with just a hint of the purple which had suffused them earlier. “What about a fucking commander with at least a little guts? ” he snarled. “What about a goddamned navy that remembers it’s fucking fighting for God?! ”

Rayno started to reply, then paused. From the casualty reports he’d read (and which Clyntahn hadn’t gotten to before he’d launched off into his paroxysm of fury), the Desnairian Navy had fought-and died-hard before its final surrender. He thought about pointing out that of the ninety-plus ships with which Jahras had begun the action, the Charisians had kept only thirty-five or forty as prizes. The others had been so badly damaged Rock Point had ordered them burned. That didn’t strike him as the sort of damage a fleet that gave up easily suffered. And Jahras’ after battle report had pulled no punches about the devastating advantage the Charisians’ new ammunition had provided them.

No, there’d been nothing wrong with the fighting spirit of Iythria’s defenders. Not until after Jahras’ surrender, at least. But pointing that out would be… impolitic.

“I trust we have both of those things at Desnair the City, Your Grace,” he said instead. “It is the Empire’s capital city, after all, and the added motivation of fighting under Emperor Mahrys’ own eye should help to stiffen their spines, as well. I know!” He raised a hand quickly as Clyntahn’s eyes flashed. “The fact that they’re fighting under God’s eye should be motivation enough for any man. But you’ve always told me, Your Grace, that we have to allow for men’s inevitable weaknesses, the way their fallen nature leads them to fall short of their duty. I’ve dispatched instructions to Archbishop Ahdym and Bishop Executor Mahrtyn to do all in their power to strengthen the faith and determination of the capital’s defenders, and I’m sure they will. At the same time, though, if there are any purely secular… motivators we can apply, I’m in favor of using them, as well.”

The incipient glare in Clyntahn’s eyes eased slightly under Rayno’s reasonable tone. He continued to stare at the archbishop for a long, simmering moment, but then he shoved himself back in his chair with a choppy nod.

“Point taken,” he said, his own voice once again flat and controlled. “I want Jahras and Kholman, though. They’ve failed Mother Church- betrayed Mother Church-and they have to pay the price.”

“I agree entirely, Your Grace, and I’m already considering possible ways to see that they do. The fact that they’ve cravenly fled to Charis like the cowards they are is going to make it difficult, however.”

In fact, Rayno thought, Baron Jahras and Duke Kholman had displayed prudence, not cowardice, in removing themselves from Clyntahn’s reach. And unless he was mistaken, before their departure they’d done their best to report honestly and accurately-and warningly-on what they’d faced when the Charisian Navy came to call. Best not to make that point just yet, either, though.

“Our inability to operate with any degree of flexibility in Charis is going to work against us, as well,” he continued instead. “At the moment, I don’t think it would be possible to send in any of our agents to deal with them. Getting to them is going to require something like Operation Rakurai, and until we know exactly where the heretics are keeping them, even beginning to plan that kind of mission is going to be… impractical, I’m afraid.”

Clyntahn growled something under his breath, but he also gave another of those jerky nods. In fact, his color seemed to improve a little, and Rayno congratulated himself on having brought up Operation Rakurai. There’d been too little time for any reports to reach Zion yet, so it was impossible to say how well the Rakurai had fared. Clyntahn anticipated a high degree of effectiveness, however, and contemplating that seemed to take at least the worst edge off his fury over Iythria. Of course, if it turned out Operation Rakurai had been a failure, and not a success, his rage would simply return in redoubled force, but as the Writ said, sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.

“All right,” the Grand Inquisitor said again, after a moment. “I’ll accept that-for now. But I want every member of their families who didn’t flee with them. I want them here, in Zion, Wyllym. All of them, you understand me?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Rayno bowed slightly across the conference table. “In fact, I’d already anticipated your wishes. I’ve detailed a team of our most reliable inquisitors to oversee the process of taking them into custody.”

“Good,” Clyntahn grunted, then reached out and dragged the battered file away from Rayno.

He opened it, and the archbishop unobtrusively held his breath. This time, however, the Grand Inquisitor didn’t explode. His lips tightened and his brows lowered as he turned through the pages, yet he had himself back under control, and his eyes darted over the sentences of the various reports.

Clyntahn was a very fast reader. Even so, it took him the better part of twenty minutes to work through the file, during which Rayno sat quietly, his expression one of calm, attentive patience. Finally, the Grand Inquisitor finished, slapped the file shut again, and shoved it away from him.

“Well, that’s a fine pile of dragon shit,” he observed in something very like a calm voice. “Jahras was obviously trying to cover his own ass, but I notice his report’s dated before Kholman’s decision to just hand over the entire fucking city. That probably means there’s at least a trace of accuracy in it somewhere.”

“That was my own impression, Your Grace.”

“Well, if there is, we obviously need to push our own development of these ‘shells’ harder. Remind me to kick Allayn in the ass and find out how he’s coming.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Clyntahn sat silent for another two or three minutes, lips pursed, eyes focused on something only he could see. Then he stirred in his chair once more and refocused his attention on Rayno.

“You know, one of the things that occurs to me is that they went after Iythria, not Desnair the City. I know Jahras had a lot bigger fleet based there, so I suppose it makes sense for them to have gone after it, but Desnair’s only-what?-five hundred miles farther from Tarot than Iythria, and it’s the Desnairians’ capital. And let’s be honest, Wyllym-Desnair’s fortifications aren’t any tougher than Iythria’s were. So surely they had to have been at least tempted to go after the capital first. Think of what a fist in the eye that would have been!”

“I hadn’t really considered that aspect of it, Your Grace.”

Rayno considered adding that one reason he hadn’t was that Iythria had represented well over three-quarters of Desnair’s total shipbuilding capacity. And, for another, the Gulf of Jahras was-or had been, at least-far more important than Desnair Bay from any commercial perspective. With the Gulf under Charisian control, the Desnairian Empire’s internal economy had taken a significant blow which was going to have major consequences in the not so distant future. The psychological impact of an attack on Desnair the City might have been profound, but from a hard-boiled military and economic perspective, there was no comparison between that and the value of the attack the Charisians had actually executed.

And the defection of two of the Empire’s most prominent nobles-one of whom just happened to be the Navy Minister and the other of whom just happened to be the Navy’s commanding officer-is probably a fairly adequate “psychological” substitute for attacking the capital, he reflected sourly.

“Well, it’s obvious to me, ” Clyntahn emphasized the pronoun, “that they went after Iythria first because it’s closer to Silkiah and Siddarmark.”

Rayno managed not to blink. It had been painfully obvious for years that the Charisians had no intention of drawing the Church’s attention any more forcefully than it could avoid to the Silkiahan and Siddarmarkian evasion of the Grand Inquisitor’s embargo. Clearly, they’d wanted to do nothing to imperil that highly lucrative trade. In fact, as far as he could see, they’d probably decided to attack Iythria because of its military importance despite its proximity to Silkiah, rather than because of it.

“What do you think they’re trying to accomplish, Your Grace?” he asked cautiously.

“Oh, it’s obvious, Wyllym!” Clyntahn retorted impatiently. “From the moment Harpahr blundered straight into disaster last year, the heretics’ve seen the opportunity to completely neutralize Mother Church’s naval power in eastern waters. They’re probably planning on getting around to Desnair the City sometime soon, and then, eventually, they’ll go around the tip of Howard and demonstrate how gutless Thirsk is when the pressure’s really on.” His jaw tightened. “We’re going to have to seriously consider putting somebody from the Navy of God in command of all our naval forces, since it’s obvious our secular commanders aren’t up to the task. Of course, Harpahr didn’t exactly cover himself with glory, either, now did he?”

Rayno nodded silently, his mouth prudently shut, and Clyntahn grunted like an angry boar. Then he shook himself.

“But, back to my point. It’s obvious that now they’ve cleared all our naval power out of eastern waters, from the Sea of Justice to the Icewind Sea, they’ll take advantage of that to establish still closer economic ties with Siddarmark. Hell, there’s not even a frigging rowboat left now to see what they’re really sending in and out of that bastard Stohnar’s harbors, is there? We don’t have squat in the way of an eastern naval presence after this! You think somebody like Stohnar-or like Cayleb, for that matter-won’t take advantage of that? They’ve just blown the embargo completely out of their way, and trust me, that son-of-a-bitch Stohnar’s just waiting for the ‘Reformist’ movement in the Republic to get strong enough before he opens the door and invites in a military Charisian presence. He especially wants those new rifles and fieldpieces of theirs-think what the Siddarmarkian Army could do with those added to its arsenal! You think he doesn’t just lie awake at night drooling over the possibility?

“Of course he does, and the Charisians know it, too. That’s why they went after Iythria. Because it’s closer to Siddarmark-and to Silkiah, of course-and it’s going to have more impact in Siddarmark. They could care less what the effect in Desnair is! They want to show the Republic that they can go anywhere the hell they want and do anything the hell they choose to encourage the ‘Reformists’ to turn against Mother Church openly and to reassure Stohnar that they can assist him militarily when he seizes the opportunity to finally bury his dagger in Mother Church’s back.”

Rayno started to reply, then stopped and considered. He wasn’t at all sure he shared the logic process which had led the Grand Inquisitor to his conclusion, and he was even less confident that the possibility of a direct military alliance with Siddarmark had played any part in the Charisian decision to attack Iythria. As far as he could see, that had been purely an example of their going after the most immediately valuable-and most immediately threatening-military objective they could strike.

Yet none of that meant their triumph wasn’t going to have exactly the effect Clyntahn had just described. Not instantly, perhaps, but in the fullness of time. And while Rayno had always been less than convinced that Greyghor Stohnar was simply biding his time until the moment was ripe to move against the Border States and the Temple Lands, that had been when the entire world wasn’t already at war. Not only that, it had been before the Inquisition began preparing the Sword of Schueler against the Republic. Unless the Lord Protector was far, far stupider than Rayno could bring himself to believe, Stohnar had to have become at least partially aware of the Sword. It was unlikely he realized everything Clyntahn and Rayno had in mind, and even if he did, it was even less likely he’d be able to survive. But he was almost certainly picking up at least some warning signs, and if he did decide what had happened at Iythria strengthened his hand-and especially if it encouraged the Siddarmarkian Reformists-he probably would begin cautiously exploring options with Charis.

“I see your thinking now, Your Grace,” he said. “Of course, it’s unlikely Stohnar will be able to act on the opportunity before the Sword strikes.”

“I know that’s the plan,” Clyntahn said. “And hopefully, Rakurai’s going to have knocked the bastard Charisians back on their heels, at least for a little bit, too. But they surprised us with this one, Wyllym. Let’s not pretend they didn’t. And everything we’re hearing suggests the ‘Reformists’ are gaining ground steadily in Siddarmark. At least some of those bastards are likely to come out openly in support of Stohnar when the coin finally drops. For that matter, they’re gaining ground in other places, too.”

He glowered at Rayno across the table, and the archbishop nodded. Despite what the Church was reporting, the truth-which had a nasty tendency of leaking out through the producers of those accursed anti-Church broadsheets the Inquisition still couldn’t run to ground-was that the Church of Charis wasn’t being “heroically and defiantly resisted” in the “conquered territories.”

That was to be expected in Old Charis itself, and probably to some extent in Emerald, as well, if only due to the princedom’s proximity to the original source of the contagion. Yet the truth was that Chisholm, which definitely wasn’t right next door to Old Charis, had reacted with appalling calmness to its renegade queen’s decision to actually marry the heretic King of Charis. Still worse, in some ways, Zebediah had done the same. In fact, from all reports, Zebediah was actively embracing the Charisian Empire, and if that meant accepting the Church of Charis as well, its subjects seemed perfectly willing to do that, too. No doubt that was largely an inevitable reaction to how cordially hated Tohmys Symmyns had been, but that wasn’t keeping it from happening. And, worst of all…

“You’re thinking about Corisande, Your Grace?”

“I’m thinking about everywhere the goddamned Charisians go,” Clyntahn said sourly, “but, yes, Corisande was the other major ulcer I had in mind. I know our reports from Manchyr are always out of date by the time they get here, and I know you’ve been trying to put the best face on the ones we do get,” he shot Rayno a moderately frigid look, “but the goddamned ‘Reformists’ are obviously gaining ground in Corisande. And the dog-and-lizard show that bitch Sharleyan put on when she was down there’s only pushing that process along. The damned Corisandians are going over to Charis, just like the Chisholmians and the Zebediahans, and you know it, Wyllym.”

Unfortunately, Rayno did know it. And he had been trying to “put the best face on” his reports from Corisande, for that matter. It would have been nice if there’d been some actual good news in any of them, though.

It seemed evident to him (although even now he didn’t propose to point it out to Clyntahn) that there’d always been a much greater Reformist sentiment in Corisande than anyone in Zion had realized. That sentiment hadn’t extended-initially, at least-to actually embracing schism and heresy, yet it had been there. And it had grown only stronger after Clyntahn broke the Reformist Circle in Zion itself. Rayno understood why the Grand Inquisitor had done it, yet there was no point pretending Corisande-insulated from the object lesson by all of the salt water between it and the mainland-hadn’t reacted with revulsion and anger. That had helped push more Corisandians into the arms of the Church of Charis, and the careful way in which Cayleb and Sharleyan had handled their occupation, coupled with Sharleyan’s display of mercy in pardoning so many who’d been convicted of treason, had drastically undermined the purely secular anger evoked by Hektor’s murder. Especially when she’d gone right on displaying mercy after she’d so nearly been killed on her throne! For that matter, the original outrage engendered by Hektor’s assassination had begun to fade even before Northern Conspiracy’s leaders had been arrested, far less convicted.

So, yes, the “damned Corisandians” were going over to Charis.

“The other thing we have to face here, Wyllym,” Clyntahn continued flatly, “is that we’re getting our ass kicked every time we go up against the Charisians at sea. Don’t think anybody inclined to consider heresy’s missing that point, either. Hopefully, the Rakurai are going to have demonstrated by now that we’re not powerless when it comes to striking back, but the military momentum’s clearly on the heretics’ side for right now, and that’s giving them the impetus where morale’s concerned, as well. We need to grab that momentum back, regain the upper hand psychologically, the way we had it after we snuffed out the Wylsynns’ conspiracy. Finally getting around to Punishing those bastards Thirsk captured was a start. Rakurai’s going to be another step on the same journey, too, and the Sword’s going to be a huge stride in the right direction. But I want to hit them in as many places as possible. I think it’s time to poke up the fire in Corisande.”

“Prince Daivyn?” Rayno asked, tilting his head while he considered options and possibilities.

“Exactly. And I want it to coincide with the Sword. I want those bastards in Tellesberg to take as many good, heavy kicks in the balls, from as many directions as we can manage, in the shortest time period possible.”

“If you actually want to coordinate the two operations, Your Grace, we’re going to have to tinker with the timing.”

“What do you mean, ‘tinker’?”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. That was the wrong word. I should have said we’re going to have to consider the timing carefully. If we hold to our current planning and send in a team of ‘Charisian’ assassins, it’s going to take at least a few five-days-possibly an entire month-to get them into position in Delferahk, so the question becomes how closely we want the assassination to coincide with the Sword. Do we want to delay events in Siddarmark in order to coordinate them with the assassination, or do we want to move as quickly as possible in Siddarmark and settle for approximate coordination between the Sword and the assassination?”

“I want them to happen as close to simultaneously as possible,” Clyntahn said after a moment’s thought. “I want Cayleb and Sharleyan to know we timed them to happen that way.” He smiled unpleasantly. “After all, they’re going to know they didn’t kill Daivyn, no matter what happens. So let’s just underscore the statement for them and see how they like that!”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Rayno bowed across the table again. “I’ll get started on that immediately.”

Queen Frayla Avenue, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

“I have a priority alert, Lieutenant Commander Alban.”

Merlin Athrawes’ head snapped up as Owl’s voice spoke calmly over his built-in com. He stood in the window of his palace bedchamber, looking out into the steadily gathering twilight, and his expression was grim. Tellesberg-even Tellesberg, the city which never slept, which was never quiet-seemed hushed and somber. Lanterns and lamps were already beginning to illuminate the oncoming night, and his enhanced vision could see the longshoremen and the ships still loading and unloading cargo along the waterfront. But the city’s tempo had clearly dropped, and people went about their business more quietly than usual, with a degree of fearfulness which grieved his heart.

The Gray Wyvern Avenue attack wasn’t the only one Tellesberg had endured, although it had been the most costly of them all.

Another wagon loaded with explosives had been intercepted as it rolled through the gates of the Tellesberg dockyard. In the wake of Gray Wyvern Avenue, an alert Marine sentry had taken it upon himself to question all incoming deliveries unless the driver was known to him personally. His initiative had irritated the dockyard authorities immensely, since it had resulted in confusion and delays in the dockyard’s always bustling movement of supplies and deliveries. In fact, his company commander had dispatched a sergeant with orders for him to cease and desist. Fortunately, the sergeant hadn’t arrived yet when the officious sentry stopped an articulated freight wagon almost as large as the one used in Gray Wyvern Square. Unfortunately, that wagon driver had arranged one of the flintlock pistol-based detonators where he could reach it from his high box seat.

The explosion had killed another fifty-six people, including the sentry, and wounded over a hundred more, but it would have been far worse if the driver had managed to reach his intended destination.

Two more, similar explosions had racked Tellesberg in the next twelve hours. Fortunately, they’d been smaller, but they’d created something entirely too much like panic for Merlin’s taste. They’d also led to the declaration of martial law and a decree freezing all wagon traffic until the authorities could put some sort of security system into place.

The attackers’ tactics had been shrewdly chosen to hit Tellesberg where it was most vulnerable, Merlin thought grimly. Not only had they targeted the leaders of the Empire’s government-what had happened to Gray Harbor, Waignair, and Nahrmahn was proof enough of that-but Tellesberg’s commerce was its very life’s blood. The city’s coat of arms, quartered with galleon and freight wagon, was nothing but accurate in that regard, and the grating, rumbling roar of those heavy wagons was both the bane of Tellesberg’s repose and the source of a perverse pride.

Now those wagons had become a source of fear, not civic pride, for who knew which of them might be yet another bomb rolling towards its destination?

Cayleb and Sharleyan had seen no option but to impose unprecedented controls on the movement of freight through the city. No system could be perfect, but they’d moved quickly to begin issuing permits and licenses which were to be carried at all times and displayed upon demand. Moreover, every cargo load would now have to be documented, with a detailed bill of lading that would be inspected before it was allowed into the waterfront area or access to any cathedral, church, or public building.

Fortunately, the majority of the capital’s freight was moved by professional drayage firms, all of which were already required to be bonded and inspected twice a year. Given those records’ existence, they’d been able to move far more rapidly than someone like Clyntahn probably would have expected, and at least limited wagon traffic had been allowed to resume within two days of the initial attack. The smaller independents, who hadn’t been in the records, were another matter, and some of them were suffering severe economic hardship while they tried to get the documentation and licensing which had never before been required. Baron Ironhill, aware both of the hardship for them and the consequences for the city’s economic sector in general, had already set aside a fund to help reimburse some of those independent drayers’ losses.

Even under the best circumstances, however, all the new inspections and regulations and licenses had begun imposing a significant drag on the Tellesberg economy. The cost of stationing City Guardsmen and Marines to do the inspecting was going to be a non-trivial budget item, as well. Yet even worse was the pervasive apprehension, the fear that yet another attack was inevitable. Tellesbergers refused to be cowed, and their anger at the indiscriminate slaughter of men, women, and children far eclipsed their fear, yet that fear was there, and Merlin was sadly certain it wasn’t going away anytime soon.

“What sort of priority alert?” he asked Owl tersely now.

“A wagon has just entered one of the primary surveillance zones,” the AI replied in that same calm tone. “As per your standing instructions, I have placed a parasite sensor in the wagon bed. It confirms the presence of high concentrations of gunpowder.”

Tailahr Ahndairs suppressed a highly inappropriate urge to swear as he turned the wagon down Queen Frayla Avenue and one wheel bumped jarringly over the cut-granite curb between the roadway and the sidewalk.

He’d been selected for his mission because of his religious fervor and his Charisian accent, both of which were completely genuine. Unfortunately, he was a tinker by trade, not a drayman, and there’d been less time to teach him the rudiments of managing a heavy freight wagon than he might have wished. The traffic in Tellesberg was also far, far heavier than he’d ever really anticipated, which only made things worse, but at least there were some advantages to the controls on movement the heretics had slapped down. Operation Rakurai’s planners hadn’t counted on their being able to do that as quickly as they had, and Tailahr was unhappily aware that he had neither permit nor license. If he was stopped, there was no way he could pretend to be anything but what he was. On the other hand, there was far less traffic than there had been, so even if he had no license, he also had fewer other wagons to contend with and-hopefully-his own poor driving would be less of a problem.

It had been so far, at least, and he didn’t have much farther to go.

He looked along the street ahead of him. Quite a few heads turned, eyes watching him warily as he rumbled past, and he exulted inside at that proof the heretics had been hurt. They were afraid now, and well they should be! It bemused him that they should go through their lives showing so little concern for the eternity of punishment their actions were storing up in Shan-wei’s hell, yet react so strongly-exactly as Archbishop Wyllym and Vicar Zhaspahr had predicted they would-to a threat to their merely mortal, transitory bodies. He didn’t-couldn’t-understand that sort of thinking, but he didn’t have to understand to recognize the effect, and he smiled grimly at the proof of what he and his fellows had already accomplished.

Lights were beginning to glow in the establishments around him. Most of them were shops or eateries, and he saw couples and families gathering around the tables of the open-air cafes in the comfort of the cool, breezy evening. The traffic around him was primarily pedestrian, with a smattering of private vehicles and an occasional dragon-drawn streetcar. There were very few freight wagons in the area, however, which made Tailahr’s wagon stand out even more. That was also the reason his wagon was so much smaller than the others had been, because there was nothing here to justify the presence of one of the huge, articulated vehicles. The fact that he only had to manage a simple pair of draft horses instead of one of the dragons was an additional plus, but mostly it was because he needed to appear as unthreatening as possible until the moment came. He was simply one more driver, obviously there to drop off deliveries of fresh vegetables for the restaurants, and he reminded himself to smile and wave reassuringly at the pedestrians who stopped as they saw him passing.

Ahead of him, on the left, he saw the sentry box and the Imperial Charisian Marines standing guard at the open wrought-iron gate of his target. He wasn’t going to be able to get as close as he would have liked, but that had been factored into his plan. His wagon wasn’t loaded just with gunpowder; it had been packed with bits and pieces of scrap iron, old nails, cobblestones, and anything else he could find to use as projectiles. When he set off the charge, it would turn the vehicle into an enormous shotgun, hurling its improvised grapeshot for hundreds of yards-inaccurately, but with lethal power.

He felt the tension coiling tighter at his center as the moment approached. To be chosen for this particular attack had been an enormous honor. His chances of successfully killing his primary target were probably less than even, given how far from the building he’d be when he detonated his weapon, but he could always hope. And according to their best information, the apostate traitor’s office faced on the street and he normally worked far later into the night than this. So there was at least a chance, and even if he missed Wylsynn, he’d get scores of the bastard’s assistants. He was about to strike a devastating blow at the center of all those accursed perversions of the Proscriptions, and that Tailahr’s thoughts broke off abruptly as a man materialized out of nowhere. One instant he wasn’t there; the next he was reaching up, catching the driver’s seat’s grab rail, and vaulting up beside Tailahr with impossible, fluid speed.

Tailahr flinched away, instantly and automatically, instead of immediately reaching for the cocked and ready pistol grip concealed in the seat beside him, and before he could even begin to recover, a hand moving with blurring speed had caught his left wrist. He screamed as that same hand effortlessly twisted his arm up until the back of his wrist pressed his shoulder blades; then another demonically strong hand gripped the nape of his neck, and Tailahr screamed again as his captor stood upright on the wagon seat, dragging him with him.

Even through the pain in his arm and shoulder, the anguish of the iron vise locked around the back of his neck, Tailahr’s eyes bulged in disbelief as he realized the man who’d leapt into the wagon with him was actually holding him at arm’s length with his toes an inch in the air. Then, without even a grunt of effort, the monster who’d sprung upon him leapt effortlessly down from the high seat.

Tailahr’s scream was a shriek this time. Something crunched noisily and agonizingly in his shoulder socket, sending lightning bolts exploding through his entire body, as they hit the ground and his hand was wrenched abruptly even higher. And then the hand on his neck was driving him down. He found himself flat on the paving stones, his useless left arm thumping down beside him with a fresh stab of agony, as if it belonged to someone else, and a knee slammed painfully into his spine while his right arm was captured and twisted up behind him as casually as the other one had been.

Voices were beginning to shout in alarm, and he heard the clatter of boots as at least one of the Marine sentries ran towards them, shouting a challenge, but he managed somehow to turn his head. He looked up, and his entire body jerked in disbelief and terror as he saw the sapphire eyes, gleaming in the glow of his own wagon’s driving lights, and recognized the livery of the Imperial Guard.

“I think you and I have a lot to talk about,” Captain Merlin Athrawes told him coldly.