A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  And that, unfortunately, neatly underscored the differences between him and them . . . and the dangers yawning about him because of those differences.

  He paused, looking out the windows which formed one entire side of the hallway. The snow had stopped shortly after dawn, and brilliant sunlight sparkled and bounced from the new, deeper layers of trackless white which had blanketed the Temple’s grounds. The mystic, unbreakable, perfectly insulated crystal of the windows muted the snow glare, however, and the icy vista’s pristine purity made him acutely aware of the warm air moving gently about him.

  And made him think about all the people outside the Temple, especially the city of Zion’s many poor, who were anything but warm and comfortable this freezing cold morning, as well. That was yet another thought he was unprepared to share with his erstwhile colleagues in the Group of Four. Not because they didn’t already realize it would have occurred to him, but because it would have done no good and might do quite a lot of harm.

  Zahmsyn Trynair would simply have looked at him with a certain impatient incomprehension. If the Church of God Awaiting’s Chancellor ever thought of Zion’s poor at all, it was undoubtedly to remember the passage from The Book of Langhorne in which the Archangel had warned that they would have the poor with them always. If that had been good enough for Langhorne, it was good enough for Trynair.

  Allayn Maigwair, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t even notice that Duchairn had mentioned them. These days, especially, all of the Church’s Captain General’s thoughts and efforts were fully concentrated on building up the fleet needed to crush the upstart Empire of Charis once and for all. The fact that he’d started out building the wrong fleet, and that Duchairn’s Trea sury had disbursed a staggering sum to pay for hundreds of galleys which were effectively useless, lent a certain emphasis to his concentration, no doubt. Of course, Maigwair had never been overburdened with intellect in the first place. Concentrating the entire, scant store of it he possessed shouldn’t require all that great an effort. He should have been able to spare at least a little thought for the men and women and children—especially the children—for whom every vicar was supposed to be responsible.

  And then there was Clyntahn. The Grand Inquisitor. The one member of the Group of Four who would have regarded Duchairn’s concern over the poor with neither incomprehension nor indifference. Duchairn sometimes wished he himself had felt called to the Order of Bédard instead of the Order of Chihiro. He was pretty sure any Bédardist who wasn’t terrified of the Grand Inquisitor would have unhesitatingly diagnosed him as a paranoiac, and one whose paranoia was growing steadily deeper, as well. Of course, finding any Bédardist who was insane enough not to be terrified of Clyntahn would probably have been an impossible task. Still, Duchairn would have liked to have something besides his own layman’s opinion—where matters of the mind were concerned, at least—to go on.

  Not that it mattered a great deal. He didn’t need a formal diagnosis to know Clyntahn would have taken any comment about the Writ’s injunction to care for the poor and the least fortunate of God’s children as a criticism of the Church’s record in that regard. As a matter of fact, he would have been perfectly correct if he’d done so, too, Duchairn admitted. But at this particular moment, when Zhaspahr Clyntahn had divided the entire world into just three categories—those who were his allies, those who had an at least fleeting value as tools, and those who must be exterminated without mercy—suggesting that any aspect of the Church’s stewardship might be found wanting was dangerous.

  Duchairn had discovered there were times when he really didn’t care about that. When his anger, his outrage, the pain stemming from his refound faith’s recognition of his own blood guilt, actually drove him to seek confrontation with Clyntahn. When he found himself almost yearning for destruction, even martyrdom, with all that would entail, as some sort of expiation for his own life. For his own acceptance of the vicarate’s corruption. His own lifelong eagerness to profit by that corruption. For the fact that he’d stood there and not simply accepted Clyntahn’s proposal to destroy the Kingdom of Charis utterly but actually acquiesced in it. Helped to arrange it.

  Duchairn made himself resume his progress towards his waiting underlings, but his eyes were as bleak as the snow beyond the hallway’s windows as he once more admitted his guilt to himself. He wouldn’t pretend he wasn’t terrified of what Clyntahn would have done to him if it had come to an open confrontation. That he didn’t know precisely how savage an example Clyntahn would make of any member of the Group of Four who seemed to have turned against him. Yet it wasn’t that fear which drove him to bite his tongue, keep his furious denunciation of Clyntahn’s vileness lodged behind his clenched teeth. No, it was quite a different fear that kept him silent: the fear that if he allowed himself to be too easily destroyed he would commit the still more grievous sin of dying without at least trying to undo the terrible, terrible damage he had helped to unleash upon God’s own world.

  Not that I’ve figured out how to go about undoing any of it yet,he admitted desolately. Maybe that’s part of my penance? Is it part of my punishment to be forced to watch things getting worse and worse without seeing any way to make them better again? But the Writ says God will always find a way, whether man can or not. So maybe what He really wants me to do is to stop trying so hard, stop being so arrogant as to think I can somehow fix a disaster on a worldwide scale. Maybe He wants me to finally accept that I need to let Him show me what to do, and then—

  Rhobair Duchairn’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted as he walked full tilt into a wall someone had inconsiderately left in the exact center of the hallway.

  That was what it felt like, at any rate, although the wall’s sudden “Oof!” suggested it might not actually have been the solid granite obstruction it appeared to be.

  He staggered backwards, almost falling. In fact, he would have fallen if someone’s hands hadn’t caught him by the upper arms and held him upright. He shook his head, cold- clogged ears ringing, and his eyes widened as they refocused on the face of the man he’d run into.

  Duchairn was not a short man, but neither was he a giant. In fact, he’d always been on the slender side, and his had been a decidedly sedentary life for the last twenty or thirty years. The man with whom he’d just collided was half a head taller than he, broad- shouldered and powerfully built, and he’d obviously spent the last several years of his own life exercising to maintain the physical toughness he’d enjoyed as a senior officer of the Temple Guard. He must outweigh Duchairn by a good forty or fifty pounds, and very little of that weight advantage was fat.

  And he also happened to be named Hauwerd Wylsynn.

  Duchairn found himself temporarily paralyzed, staring into eyes of Wylsynn gray. They were hard, those eyes, with polished, quartz- like purpose. The eyes of a man who, unlike Rhobair Duchairn, had never compromised with the Temple’s corruption. Of a man who had every reason to fear Zhaspahr Clyntahn... and no reason at all to fear God.

  “You want to be a bit more careful, Rhobair,” Wylsynn said, setting him fully back on his feet before he released his grip on Duchairn’s arms. He patted the smaller man almost gently, as if to be certain there was no breakage, and his smile was thin. “You might do yourself a mischief running into people like that. Life’s too short to take that sort of chance, don’t you think?”

  Wylsynn cocked his head slightly with the question, and Duchairn felt an icicle run through his veins. There was something about Wylsynn’s tone, something about the glitter of those hard eyes.

  He knows,Duchairn thought. He knows I warned his brother. And, God help me, he knows Clyntahn is going to kill both of them. And that I don’t have the courage to try to stop him.

  The Church’s Treasurer felt his mouth open without having the least notion of what was going to come out of it, but then Wylsynn shook his head. It was a quick gesture, one that stopped what ever Duchairn might have been about to say cold.

  “Of course it is,” th
e doomed man said. “Too short, I mean. There are too many things we all need to do to just throw away the time to do them in. Doesn’t the Writ say God sets the course for every man to run?”

  “Yes,” Duchairn heard himself say. “Yes, it does.”

  “Well, then I don’t imagine He’s through with any of us until we’ve finished running it. So be more careful.” He actually smiled faintly, wagging an index finger under Duchairn’s nose. “Watch where you’re walking, or else you won’t have time to do all the running God has in mind for you.”

  It took every ounce of Duchairn’s self- control to clamp his mouth on what he wanted to say. He looked into those gray eyes, and he didn’t really trust himself to speak at all when he realized what was truly looking back at him out of them. Wylsynn only smiled at him again, gently this time, and gave him another pat, then turned and walked away.

  “The Earl of Coris, Your Holiness,” the upper- priest said as he bowed Phylyp Ahzgood into the small, private meeting chamber.

  It wasn’t very much of a bow, Coris reflected. Then again, the upper- priest was assigned to the Chancellor’s office. He probably saw dukes by the dozen and earls by the score, and God only knew how many bevies of mere barons he might encounter every year. Not to mention the fact that most of the dukes and earls who crossed his path weren’t dispossessed exiles living on someone else’s charity.

  “So I see,” a voice replied. “Come in, My Lord.”

  Coris obeyed the summons and found himself facing a tallish, lean man with an angular face, a closely trimmed beard, and deep, intelligent eyes. He wore the orange cassock of a vicar, and he matched the description of Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair quite well.

  Trynair extended his hand, and Coris bent to kiss the sapphire ring, then straightened.

  “Your Holiness,” he acknowledged. “We appreciate the promptness with which you’ve responded to our summons, My Lord, especially at this time of the year,” Trynair said. His smile never touched his eyes. “Would that all of Mother Church’s sons were so mindful of their duty to her.”

  “I won’t pretend it wasn’t an arduous journey, Your Holiness.” Coris allowed himself a slight, wry smile of his own. “But as a boy, I was always taught that when Mother Church calls, her sons answer. And it was also interesting, especially the voyage across Lake Pei, while the opportunity to finally visit the Temple is an added blessing.”

  “Good.”

  The single, perfunctory word came not from Trynair, but from the shorter, portly, silver- haired, heavy- jowled vicar who hadn’t bothered to rise when Coris entered. There was no doubt about his identity, either, the earl thought, although he was just a bit surprised to realize Zhaspahr Clyntahn matched so completely the descriptions he’d received. Right down to the spots spilled food had left on his cassock.

  There ought to be a rule thatreal villains aren’t allowed to look like ste reo typical villains, Coris thought, and felt a tiny shiver run through him as he realized how he’d just allowed himself to describe Clyntahn. It wasn’t really a surprise; he’d been headed in that direction for years, after all. Yet there was an odd sense of commitment to the moment, as if he’d crossed some irrevocable bridge, even if he was the only one who realized he had.

  And you’d damned well better make sure youstay the only one who realizes you have, Phylyp! he told himself.

  From Clyntahn’s expression, he didn’t much care what might be going through Coris’ mind at the moment. Nor did he appear to feel tempted to expend any courtesy on their visitor. Where Trynair’s eyes held the cool dispassion of a chess master, Clyntahn’s glowed with the fervor of a zealot. A fervor which confirmed Coris’ long- standing opinion that Clyntahn was, by far, the more dangerous of the two.

  “Please be seated, My Lord,” Trynair invited, indicating the single chair on Coris’ side of the meeting- room table.

  It was the simplest chair Coris had yet seen inside the Temple—a straight-backed, apparently unpadded, utilitarian piece of furniture. It was certainly a far cry from the throne- like chairs in which Trynair and Clyntahn were ensconced, yet when he settled onto it, he almost jumped back to his feet in astonishment as what had appeared to be a simple wooden surface seemed to shift under him. It moved— flowed—and he couldn’t keep his eyes from widening as the chair shaped itself perfectly to the configuration of his body.

  He looked up to see Trynair regarding him speculatively, and made himself smile at the Chancellor. It was an expression which blended an admission of surprise with a sizable dollop of boyish enjoyment, and Trynair allowed himself the small chuckle of a host who has successfully surprised a guest.

  Clyntahn—predictably, probably—seemed completely oblivious to the small moment, Coris noted.

  Best not to assume anything of the sort, Phylyp,he told himself. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Clyntahn’s long since figured out just how useful it can be to have potential opponents underestimate one’s powers of observation. The only thing in the world more dangerous than a fool, especially when it comes to the “great game,” is a smart man you’ve assumed is stupid. Nahrmahn should certainly have taught you that much!

  “Well,” Trynair began briskly after a moment, “now that you’re here, My Lord, I suppose we ought to get right down to business. As you know, I have, as Mother Church’s Chancellor, and acting on Grand Vicar Erek’s specific instructions, formally recognized young Prince Daivyn as the rightful ruler of Corisande. Given his tender years, it struck us as unnecessary to bring him all the way to the Temple to discuss his future with him. You, on the other hand, are his legal guardian. Since we do not—and never will—recognize that travesty of a ‘Regency Council’ Cayleb and Sharleyan have foisted upon God, we also regard you as the closest thing Daivyn has at this time to a true regent.”

  He paused, as if inviting comment, but Coris wasn’t about to rush into that particular snare. He contented himself with a slow nod of understanding and an attentive expression, instead.

  “In light of the circumstances,” the Chancellor resumed a few seconds later, “we think it’s essential to... regularize Daivyn’s position. While he would appear to be safe enough for the moment under the protection of King Zhames, especially given the fact Delferahk is already at war with the apostates, there are certain aspects of his situation which we feel require formal clarification.”

  He paused once more, and this time it was obvious he intended to stay paused until Coris responded.

  “ ‘Formal clarification,’ Your Holiness?” the earl obediently repeated. “May I ask what sort of clarification?”

  “Oh, come now, My Lord!” Clyntahn entered the discussion, waving one hand in a dismissive gesture. “You were Prince Hektor’s spymaster. You know how the game is played, if anyone does!”

  “Your Holiness,” Coris replied, choosing his words more carefully than he’d ever chosen words in his life before, “you’re right. I was Prince Hektor’s spymaster. But, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, my perspective from a single princedom that far from the Temple couldn’t possibly be the same as your perspective from right here, at the heart of all of Mother Church’s concerns and at the focus of all of the avenues of information Mother Church possesses. I’ll admit I’ve spent a lot of time trying to analyze the information I do have in an effort to anticipate what it is you and the Chancellor have called me here to explain. I’m not foolish enough, however, to assume for a moment that I have enough information to make any sort of truly informed deductions. I can think of several aspects of Prince Daivyn’s current situation which might require ‘clarification,’ but without a better understanding of precisely how Prince Daivyn—and I, of course—can best serve Mother Church, I truly don’t know how you and Vicar Zahmsyn may wish to proceed.”

  Trynair’s eyes had flickered with what might have been irritation when Clyntahn spoke up. Now the Chancellor sat back in his own chair, folding his hands together on the table before him, his expression thoughtful. Clyntahn, on the other hand, ga
ve Coris an oddly triumphant little smile, as if the earl’s response had passed some sort of test.

  “We’re naturally relieved to learn you’ve been thinking about how best Daivyn—and you yourself—can serve Mother Church,” the Grand Inquisitor said, and the emphasis on the word “you” was as unmistakable as the glow in his eyes. “I feel confident we’ll be able to rely as fully upon your intelligence and diligence as Prince Hektor ever did.”

  “And we’d damned wellbetter be able to,” eh, Your Holiness? Is that it? Coris thought trenchantly. However intelligent Clyntahn might actually be, he was dangerously transparent in at least some ways. Of course, when a man controlled all the levers of power that came together in the office of the Grand Inquisitor, he could probably afford a certain degree of transparency, at least when it suited his own purposes to come straight to the point.

  “I’ll certainly do my very best to justify your confidence, Your Holiness,” he said out loud.

  “Then I hope you’ll understand that what I’m about to say reflects no lack of confidence in you personally, My Lord,” Trynair said. Coris looked back at him, and the Chancellor shrugged very slightly. “Under the circumstances, the Grand Vicar deems it best to formally vest authority as Prince Daivyn’s regent in the vicarate, rather than in any secular noble. His father was martyred by the champions of apostasy and impious heresy. The Grand Vicar believes it is incumbent upon Mother Church to openly—and expressly—extend her protection to Prince Hektor’s heir.”