A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  Hahskans’ stomach muscles were a solid lump of curdled lead as he heard the formal words of condemnation. They came as no surprise—not after what had already passed—yet he discovered that actually hearing them carried a terror, a sense of finality, he hadn’t anticipated even now. Perhaps, a corner of his mind suggested, that was because he hadn’t realized he could feel any more terrified than he’d already felt.

  Yet there was more than simple fear, more than panic. There was an awareness that the moment had come for him to repay all the joys God had granted him. He watched the scar- faced man slowly, mockingly, drawing his knife once again, and despite his fear, he breathed a silent prayer of thanks. He never doubted that what was about to happen would be worse—far worse—than anything he could truly have imagined, but at least his captors lacked the full array of implements of torture The Book of Schueler prescribed for Mother Church’s enemies. What ever happened to him, he would be spared the full horror the Inquisition had inflicted upon Erayk Dynnys. And as he watched that knife being drawn, even as a hand jerked his head back once more and another hand ripped his cassock down around his waist, he prayed that he would find the same courage, the same faith, Dynnys had found.

  Merlin Athrawes’ eyes snapped open.

  Nimue Alban had always slept deeply, restfully. She’d never really liked waking up, and the process of getting her brain stirred into full wakefulness had usually taken at least a minute or two. Merlin wasn’t like that. For him, the shift between “sleeping” as Cayleb had demanded that he do each night and coming totally awake was as abrupt as turning a switch.

  Which, after all, was exactly what happened.

  So when those sapphire eyes opened, he was fully aware of his surroundings, of the hour. Which meant he was also fully aware that his internal clock should not have awakened him for another hour and twelve minutes.

  “Lieutenant Commander Alban.”

  Merlin’s eyes, faithful to the involuntary reflexes of their human prototype, widened in surprise as the voice spoke silently in his electronic brain.

  “Owl?”he blurted, so astonished he actually spoke out loud. “Is that you, Owl?” he went on, thus (he realized an instant later) confirming his astonishment, since there was no way he could have failed to recognize the distant AI’s voice. At least he’d managed to subvocalize this time, though. A not insignifi-cant consideration, given that his guest bedchamber’s walls here in Duke East-share’s Maikelberg headquarters were scarcely anything one could have called soundproof.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Commander Alban,” the computer confirmed. “What is it?” Merlin demanded, widened eyes narrowing once more in speculation.

  “A situation not covered by my instructions has arisen and I require your direction to resolve it, Lieutenant Commander Alban.”

  “In what way?” Merlin’s voice was taut. This was the first time the AI had initiated contact with him without specific instructions to do so. As such, it was evidence that the fully realized self- awareness the manual had promised Owl would gradually develop might actually be starting to turn up. But the fact that the computer had awakened him suggested that what ever had impelled him to reveal his developing capabilities wasn’t going to come under the heading of good news.

  “I have just receipted a routine upload from SNARC remote Charlie-Bravo- Seven- Niner- One- Three,” Owl replied to his question. “Analysis of its content suggests you would wish it called to your attention.”

  “What kind of content?” Merlin asked. The two- letter initial designator for the SNARC indicated that it was one of the Corisandian recon platforms, but although his own memory was as perfect as Owl’s, these days, he hadn’t attempted to “remember” the full designation on any of them.

  “The subject Hahskans, Father Tymahn, has been abducted,” Owl said. “What?” Merlin sat bolt upright on his bed. “The subject Hahskans, Father Tymahn, has been abducted,” Owl repeated, and developing self- awareness or no, the AI’s electronic voice sounded far too calm. Disinterested.

  “When?” Merlin demanded, swinging his body around to put his feet on the floor and already reaching for his clothes.

  “He was abducted approximately five hours, nineteen minutes, and thirty-one seconds ago, Lieutenant Commander,” Owl responded.

  “And you’re only telling me about it now?” Merlin knew the question was unfair even as he asked it. The fact that Owl had decided on his own to mention it at all was the next best thing to a miracle, yet even so—

  “I had no specific instructions to monitor for abductions, Lieutenant Commander,” Owl told him calmly. “Absent such instructions, my filters did not call the event immediately to my attention. I discovered the situation only as the result of a routine data dump from Charlie- Bravo- Seven- Niner- One- Three. When I downloaded the data I immediately contacted you.”

  Merlin stood, dragging on his breeches and reaching for his tunic. “What’s Hahskans’ current situation? Give me a real- time from the SNARC!”

  “Of course, Lieutenant Commander.”

  The AI obeyed the instruction almost instantly, and Merlin Athrawes grunted in shock as the imagery appeared suddenly in his electronic brain.

  Dear God,a stunned corner of his mind thought numbly. Dear God!

  He flinched as the SNARC’s audio sensors faithfully filled his senses with a throat- tearing scream. The bloody horror of the scene hammered in on him, and that same numb, distant corner of his mind knew that if he’d still been a being of flesh and blood his stomach would have heaved in automatic protest.

  It froze him, that horror, and he’d seen horror enough for a dozen normal lifetimes by now. He started to order Owl to ready the recon skimmer, but the order died ungiven. He was almost three thousand miles from Manchyr. It would take him forty minutes to make the flight, even at Mach five, and another fifteen minutes just to get the recon skimmer here and himself aboard it. For that matter, however cautious he might be, there was always the possibility someone might spot the skimmer picking him up. From the hideous damage which had already been inflicted upon the priest, there was no way Hahskans would survive long enough for Merlin to get there. And given the limitations of Safeholdian medicine, his brutal wounds were undoubtedly already mortal.

  Even if Merlin chose to risk betraying his own “demonic” capabilities, Tymahn Hahskans was already a dead man.

  And, God help me, the sooner he dies, the better,Merlin thought sickly.

  He sank back down on the bed, sapphire eyes blind as the sights and sounds ripped through his direct feed from the SNARC. He should shut it down, he told himself. There was nothing he could do, not now. It was too late. And there was no need—no reason—for him to subject himself to the horror of Hahskans’ death.

  But there was a need, and a reason. He understood Adorai Dynnys now, better than he ever had before. Understood why she hadn’t been able to turn away, refuse to witness what the Inquisition had done to her husband.

  Someone had to know. Someone had to bear witness.

  And, he told himself grimly, someone had to remember.

  .X.

  Priory of Saint Zhustyn,

  City of Manchyr,

  Princedom of Corisande

  Aidryn Waimyn leaned back in his chair and rubbed weary eyes. The messages and reports in front of him were beginning to blur when he tried to read them, and common sense was trying to insist it was time he took himself off to bed. He could still get a couple of hours sleep before dawn, and Lang-horne knew he needed them.

  There never seemed to be enough hours in a day. That was true for any intendant, even when he operated openly from his office in his archbishop’s palace. When he was forced to discharge his duties from hiding, skulking about lest the very secular authorities who were supposed to obey his instructions find him and drag him before an apostate “archbishop,” the situation could only get worse.

  Still,he reflected wryly, lowering his hand, there are at least some compensating factors, aren’t th
ere? The loss of the semaphore, for example. He snorted. I may have to worry about little things like the damnation of lost souls, being captured and tried for treason, being executed—minor concerns like that. But at least the damned message traffic’s been cut way down!

  His lips twitched at his own feeble attempt at humor, yet there was more than a little truth to it. He was as secure here at Saint Zhustyn’s as he could have been anywhere in conquered Corisande, and the truth was that he had little fear of being betrayed to the authorities. That wasn’t quite the same thing as no fear, yet it came close. And as the resistance movement spread here in the city, his feelers and information channels continued to spread and grow with it. Yet even though that meant a steadily increasing flow of messages and reports, his lost access to Mother Church’s semaphore stations had completely cut him off from events in the rest of the princedom.

  The handful of dispatches which had reached him here from Bishop Executor Thomys Shylair, smuggled in by trusted couriers, were both short and cryptic. Compared to the smooth, almost instant communication he’d been accustomed to before the Charisian invasion, it was like being rendered deaf and blind. He didn’t like it at all, and he especially didn’t like it because of how little he knew about what was truly happening outside Manchyr.

  What you mean,he told himself, is that you worry about it because you don’t really trust Bishop Thomys’ ability to manage something like this. He’s not the sharpest bishop you’ve ever served, is he? But at least he’s determined to do s omething, instead of selling himself to the Charisians, and that’s nothing to sneeze at, Aidryn!

  Indeed it wasn’t, and to be fair to the deposed bishop executor, the contacts he’d apparently established with people like Earl Storm Keep, Earl Deep Hollow, and Baron Larchros sounded far more promising than Waimyn would have anticipated even a few months earlier. Of course, Waimyn didn’t have any real details on just how Bishop Executor Thomys and his secular allies were coming, or exactly what it was they had in mind, and he’d been excruciatingly careful not to record a single word about them in writing, even here. It didn’t really matter, though. His own instructions had come from the Grand Inquisitor himself, issued as a precaution well before the Charisian invasion. Shylair knew—roughly—what those instructions were, and Waimyn didn’t doubt he was factoring that knowledge into his and his new allies’ plans, but what ever they might be up to didn’t change Waimyn’s mission.

  And Vicar Zhaspahr was right,the intendant reminded himself yet again. What happens up north is important, maybe even critical, but what happens right here in Manchyr is even more important. It’s not just the capital, it’s the biggest city in the entire Princedom, and every other city and town is watching to see what happens here. If this “Regency Council” and Cayleb’s “Viceroy General” can’t maintain their control here, then the rest of the Princedom’s going to be a lot more willing to challenge them.

  He sat forward once again, and reached for the next report. In some ways, he hated writing any of this down, even though he was careful to use codenames known only to him to identify most of his agents. Written records weren’t the safest thing for a conspirator to keep lying around, but without them, he would quickly have lost the ability to keep track of his own operations. It was a matter of striking the best balance he could between security and efficiency.

  He frowned as he read through the memo which had worked its way to the top of the current pile. It was from Ahlbair Cahmmyng, and Aidryn Waimyn was very much in two minds where Cahmmyng was concerned. The man was undoubtedly capable, and he’d proved extraordinarily useful in the past. Unfortunately, one reason he’d proved so useful was that so far as Waimyn could tell, he was completely untrammeled by anything remotely like a scruple. He was, quite simply, a professional assassin. One of the best assassins money could buy... which was the very reason Waimyn was ambivalent where he was concerned. Money had bought him Cahmmyng’s ser vices; it was always possible that more money, from another source, would buy Cahmmyng’s betrayal.

  And if Ahlbair Cahmmyng chose to betray Waimyn, the consequences could be catastrophic, since only Cahmmyng knew the true identity of the man who’d actually bought and paid for Prince Hektor’s assassination.

  Waimyn had considered having Cahmmyng quietly eliminated. In fact, he’d considered it quite often, but he never had. First, because Cahmmyng continued to prove so useful and energetic. Indeed, Waimyn was tempted to conclude that Cahmmyng cherished a genuine (if somewhat anemic) devotion to Mother Church, although the intendant wouldn’t have been prepared to wager any enormous sum on the probability. But the second reason Waimyn had so far refrained from arranging the assassin’s permanent disappearance was the suspicion that Cahmmyng had made his own arrangements to protect himself. It would have been just like the man to tuck away evidence linking Waimyn—and, by extension, the Grand Inquisitor himself—to Hektor’s murder. Waimyn could think of several ways Cahmmyng could have arranged things so that any such evidence would find its way into the hands of the occupation if he himself should suffer a mischief. And the intendant was certain Cahmmyng was more than sufficiently inventive to have come up with quite a few approaches which hadn’t even occurred to him.

  On the other hand, the fact that he was involved in Hektor’s assassination cuts both ways,the intendant thought. He can’t afford for me to be taken and forced to talk any more than I can afford for him to be taken. So the two of us have an excellent reason to look after one another, don’t we? And that, ironically, makes him the most reliable agent I have.

  And there were certain advantages to relying on a professional. What ever his other faults, Cahmmyng was scarcely going to be betrayed into a fatal misstep by zealotry, and that was more than could be said for some of Waimyn’s more recently recruited agents. People like Paitryk Hainree had plenty of enthusiasm, fueled all too often by bitter resentment and hatred. But that same enthusiasm could make them hard to control, which was the main reason Waimyn had been so careful to maintain his own anonymity where they were concerned. Hainree was one of the few exceptions to the rule, but he also thought the intendant had long since “escaped” from the city. That was one of the reasons Waimyn had put Cahmmyng in charge of managing his contacts with Hainree’s group.

  It was also one of the reasons he’d decided to trust Cahmmyng to decide who to use for the current operation. The intendant had selected the Inquisitor to be entrusted with the mission, but he’d left it to Cahmmyng to choose who would provide what the assassin called “the muscle” to actually accomplish it. Cahmmyng was far more familiar with the individual agents he’d recruited—with their capabilities and their personalities and motivations—than Waimyn was. And Waimyn was confident Cahmmyng had used every one of his considerable talents to make sure none of those agents were in a position to lead the authorities back to him. Which, in turn, meant they weren’t in a position to lead those same authorities back to Waimyn, either.

  And that’s not a minor consideration wherethis one is concerned, the intendant reflected grimly.

  The truth was that at least a tiny part of him regretted having ordered Father Tymahn’s kidnapping and execution. Of course, it was only a tiny part, given how utterly the priest’s own actions had condemned him. He was scarcely the only member of the clergy to have damned himself by deserting to the “Church of Charis,” yet despite his relatively junior ecclesiastic rank, he’d emerged as a clear leader of the “Reformist” traitors here in Corisande. For himself, Waimyn had frequently enjoyed Father Tymahn’s sermons, back before the Charisian invasion. The priest had always been an inspired preacher, with a genuine gift for reaching his congregation—for reaching out beyond his own congregation, in fact. Even before the invasion, on the other hand, Waimyn had been aware of how Hahskans chafed under Bishop Executor Thomys’ discipline. Indeed, his righ teous indignation, his burning desire to denounce the “corrupters” in the Temple, had brought him to the Inquisition’s attention more than once. He’d found h
imself in Waimyn’s office on several occasions, and Waimyn doubted Hahskans could have been in any doubt about how Corisande’s intendant felt about his arrogance in daring to judge the actions of the vicarate. Only the fact that he’d discharged all his other priestly duties so well—and been wise enough to keep his mouth shut about those private concerns of his—had prevented him from being removed from Saint Kathryn’s on at least two occasions.

  So Waimyn had been less than surprised when Hahskans betrayed his vows to Mother Church and gave his allegiance to the Charis- spawned abomination. What had surprised him, however, was the vigor and the eloquence Hahskans had brought to his betrayal . . . and how effective a traitor he’d proven. He’d become the core of the small but steadily growing clique of churchmen who’d labeled themselves “Reformists” and openly attacked Mother Church at every step. That was bad enough. Even worse, however, was the way in which those “Reformists” were concentrated here in Manchyr. Their churches, by and large, ministered to the city’s common folk, and that made them dangerous. By legit- imizing the Church of Charis among the capital’s commoners, they lent legitimacy to the Empire of Charis, as well, and the people who were listening to them were the very people Waimyn needed to reach if he was going to effectively challenge the occupation’s control of the capital.

  Despite his own bitter fury at Hahskans’ actions, Waimyn had never believed the priest had betrayed his vows out of personal ambition or greed. No, it was even worse than that, unfortunately. Ambition might have been worked with, and greed might have been appealed to. But the arrogance of self- justified indignation, the sheer effrontery of a man who could set his own faith—his own isolated interpretation of the Writ— against the might and the majesty of God’s own Church, those were something else again. Hahskans didn’t give a damn about personal power, or wealth, or luxury; that was precisely what had made him so effective—so dangerous. Yet however he might dress it up for his congregation’s consumption, however skillfully he might twist the Writ to make it seem to support his own apostasy, and however the first breach in his own faith might have pierced the defenses of his soul, the man had given himself wholly over into Shan- wei’s ser vice now. He had turned his back upon God and the vicarate, and that was why Waimyn could scarcely pretend he felt any true regret at having ordered that the traitor be eliminated.