A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  Which, manifestly, it was not.

  He walked back across the glass- crunching carpet and sat back down behind his desk, laying the paper- wrapped rock on the blotter in front of him. He gazed down at it for several seconds, then used a penknife to cut the twine and unwrapped it.

  The paper was an envelope, he realized, and his own name was written on the outside. He wasn’t particularly surprised by the fact that, to the best of his knowledge, he’d never before seen the handwriting, but he felt a tingle of odd excitement as he weighed the envelope in his fingers and realized it must contain several sheets of paper. He had no idea why his unknown correspondent had chosen to deliver his mail in so unconventional a fashion, but he doubted that it would have taken more than a single sheet to express even the most passionate of death threats, which suggested this must be something quite different from what he’d initially assumed it must be.

  He used the same penknife to slit the envelope and extracted its contents. There were eight sheets of paper—thin and expensive, covered with closely spaced lines written in the same neat, precise hand as the address on the outside of the envelope. He laid them on the blotter and adjusted his desk lamp, then bent over the letter curiously.

  “Open! Open in the name of the Crown and Holy Mother Church!”

  The stentorian bellow was punctuated by a sudden, deafening crash as sixteen men carrying a ten- foot, iron- headed ram slammed it into the closed gate. Whoever had issued the demand clearly wasn’t waiting for a response.

  “What?!” another voice cried in obvious confusion. “What d’you think you’re doing!? This is a house of God!”

  The monk assigned as the night gatekeeper dashed out of his little gate-side cubicle, wringing his hands, running for the priory’s gate even as the ram crashed into it a second time. He’d almost reached the closed portal when both halves of the gate flew abruptly open. A piece of shattered gate bar hit him in the shoulder, knocking him off his feet, and then he grunted in anguish as a large, heavy boot slammed down on his chest. He started to shout some protest, then froze abruptly, mouth half- open, as he found himself looking up at the point of a very sharp, very steady bayonet perhaps eighteen inches from his nose.

  It wasn’t alone, that boot on his chest. In fact, it was only one of scores of boots as an entire company of grim- faced infantrymen stormed through the gate. More bayonets glittered, voices shouted harsh commands, and more doorways slammed open as musket butts and shoulders crashed into them.

  More of the priory’s brethren came tumbling out of their cells, blinking in confusion, shouting questions. They got precious few answers. Instead, their eyes went wide in disbelief as impious hands seized them, spun them around, slammed them face- first into stone walls and columns. None of them had ever imagined such a brutal, direct assault upon monks of Mother Church, and especially not upon brothers of the Order of Schueler. Sheer, stupefied shock at such incredible impiety possessed them. They were the Inquisitors of Mother Church, the guardians and keepers of her law. How dared someone violate the sanctity of one of their priories?! Here and there, one or two started to struggle, to resist, only to cry out as waiting musket butts hammered them to their knees.

  “How dare y—?!” one of them shouted, starting back to his feet, only to break off with a choked scream as a musket’s brass buttplate crashed into his mouth this time, not his shoulder. He went down, spitting teeth and blood, and only the quick shout of a sergeant kept that musket from hammering down on the back of his skull with lethal force.

  More hands yanked the disbelieving Schuelerites’ arms behind them, rough- toothed rope bound wrists tightly, and then they were dragged—none too gently—back into the priory’s courtyard. Hard- eyed soldiers slammed them down on their knees, and they found themselves kneeling on the cobblestones, surrounded by bayonets that gleamed faintly but murderously in the moonlight while they stared up fearfully, numbed brains fighting to comprehend what was happening.

  Sir Koryn Gahrvai left that to the infantry company’s experienced noncoms. His own headquarters lay just outside Saint Kathryn’s Parish, and Father Tymahn had been just as popular with many of his troops as with the majority of people who’d ever heard him preach. Even the ones who hadn’t fully agreed with him had respected him, and his sermons had been energetically discussed by Gharvai’s headquarters company. After what had happened to him, the general rather suspected those noncoms were going to find it more difficult to restrain their men than to motivate them, and he had other matters to attend to.

  His boot heels rang on the stone floor as he marched purposefully down the corridor with Yairman Uhlstyn and Captain Frahnklyn Naiklos, the company’s commander, at his heels. They were accompanied by one of Naiklos’ squads, and Uhlstyn and two of the squad’s troopers carried sledgehammers, not muskets.

  Gahrvai turned a corner, then looked down, consulting a handwritten sheet of paper.

  “There,” he said flatly, pointing at a wall mosaic. “Stand back, Sir,” Uhlstyn replied grimly, then nodded to one of the sledgehammer- equipped soldiers. “Over there, Zhock,” he said, twitching his head, and the soldier nodded back. He and Uhlstyn stood side by side, facing the mosaic’s peaceful pastoral scene, and then the hammers swung in almost perfect unison.

  The iron heads crunched into the mosaic, shattering tiles. The sound of breaking stone filled the corridor, and through it, Gahrvai could dimly hear voices from the streets beyond the priory’s walls. Saint Zhustyn’s was one of the oldest, largest priories inside the city of Manchyr proper, located in a well-to- do neighborhood less than ten blocks from Manchyr Cathedral, and the brethren’s neighbors were clearly stunned and not a little frightened by the sudden eruption of midnight violence.

  Well, they’ll just have todeal with it, he thought harshly, watching the hammers rise once more. And it looks like we really did surprise the bastards, too. So maybe the rats I’m looking for are still in their holes. Or— his teeth flashed in a fierce, predatory grin— maybe they’re busy dashing down their escape tunnel. I’d almost prefer that, even if I’m not there to see their expressions when they run right into Charlz’s arms!

  The sledgehammers thudded into the wall again. More bits and pieces of mosaic flew, but there was another sound, as well. A hollow sound which didn’t sound quite right coming from one of the priory’s ancient, solid stone walls.

  The hammers swung a third time, and Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s grin grew broader—and more cruel—as holes suddenly appeared in what had been supposed to be a solid wall. Not dark holes battered into the masonry, either. No, these were illuminated from the other side, and he heard a voice saying something frantic as the hammers pounded into the wall again, and again, and again.

  The holes in the wall grew bigger, spreading, merging into one, and then an entire section of thin stone blocks tumbled away. Something exploded thunderously, a muzzle flash belched a choking cloud of powder smoke, and one of Naiklos’ infantryman cried out as a musket ball slammed into his left leg. Before Gahrvai could say a thing, one of the wounded man’s squad mates had his own musket at his shoulder, and a second shot hammered ears already cringing from the first one. Fresh smoke billowed, thick and vile- smelling, and someone shrieked from the other side of it.

  “In!” Captain Naiklos barked. “And remember, we want the bastards alive!”

  “Aye, Sir!” the squad’s sergeant acknowledged grimly. Then—“You heard the Cap’n! Hop it!”

  The squad’s unwounded members shouldered their way through the hole, the passage of their bodies widening it as they went. The room on the other side was as large as the precise directions from Gahrvai’s mysterious correspondent had indicated. And according to those same directions, it was also only the first of a half- dozen rooms which had been hidden by the priory’s original architect better than five centuries ago. Unlike some priories and monasteries or convents which had changed hands and religious affiliations more than once over the years, Saint Zhustyn’s had always been
a Schuelerite house, and Gahrvai found himself wondering how many other concealed rooms might have been tucked away in the order’s other religious houses and manors.

  No telling,he thought as he ducked his head to follow Uhlstyn and Naiklos through the hole in the wall. This is the first I’ve ever heard of any of them. For that matter, neither Archbishop Klairmant nor Bishop Kaisi had ever heard about anything like this. Or I don’t think they had, at any rate. He grimaced mentally. Damn. Now I’m starting to wonder if even the bishops I trust are holding back information I need!

  He heard raised voices—angry, threatening voices. They were coming from the next room, and he coughed on a fresh cloud of smoke as he stepped through the door into it. Not powder smoke, this time, he observed. Instead, it was the smoke of burning paper, and his eyes smarted as he saw the overturned brazier. Obviously, someone had been burning documents when his men arrived, and even as he watched, Uhlstyn was stamping out the last flickers of flame from the pile of paper he’d dumped on the floor.

  Two men, both in nightclothes, stood with their backs against a wall, pale faces strained as they faced the points of his soldiers’ bayonets. He recognized one of them without difficulty.

  “Father Aidryn Waimyn,” he said in a voice of stone, “I arrest you in the name of the Crown and of Mother Church, on the authority of Prince Daivyn’s Regency Council and Archbishop Klairmant, on charges of sedition, treason, and murder.”

  “You have no authority to arrest me!” Waimyn spat back. He was obviously shaken, and there seemed to be as much disbelief as anger in his expression. “You and your apostate masters have no authority over God’s true Church!”

  “Perhaps not,” Gahrvai replied in that same stony voice. “But they have enough authority for me, Priest. And I advise you to recall what happened to the Inquisitors of Ferayd.”

  Fear flickered behind the outrage and fury in Waimyn’s eyes, and Gahrvai smiled thinly.

  “More of my troops are calling on Master Aimayl even as we speak,” he told the ex- intendant. “And Master Hainree is being visited about now, as well.”

  Waimyn twitched visibly when he heard those names, and Gahrvai’s smile broadened without becoming a single degree warmer.

  “Somehow I suspect one of those fine gentlemen is going to confirm what we already know,” he said. “It won’t even take the sort of torture you’re so fond of. Which, in my personal opinion, is a great pity.” He looked deep into Waimyn’s eyes and saw the fear- flicker dancing higher. “There’s a part of me that regrets the fact that the Emperor and Empress and Archbishop Maikel have specifically renounced your own Book’s penalties for the murder of priests. On the other hand, it’s probably as well for the state of my own soul. I’d hate to find myself damned to the same coals as you, so I suppose I’ll just have to settle for a rope.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Waimyn got out.

  “I’m sure that’s what the Inquisitors at Ferayd thought, too,” Gahrvai observed. He examined the ex- intendant coldly for another moment, then turned to Naiklos.

  “Your men have done well here to night, Captain, and so have you,” he said. “Now I want all of these prisoners transported to Kahsimahr Prison.” He gave Waimyn another icy smile. “I understand they’re expected.”

  .XII.

  A Private Council Chamber,

  Imperial Palace,

  Cherayth,

  Kingdom of Chisholm

  Your Majesties.”

  Prince Nahrmahn of Emerald bowed as he stepped past the guardsmen outside the door in answer to the pre- breakfast summons. Cayleb and Sharleyan sat at a table beside one of the chamber’s windows. It was still dark, and the moonless, starless winter sky was cloudy enough no one should expect to see the sun even when it finally deigned to rise. The hour was a bit early, even for vigorous, youthful monarchs, Nahrmahn reflected. It was somewhat more than “a bit early” for him, on the other hand, given that he preferred a rather more leisurely schedule, and he hadn’t really expected to be summoned to a conference even before breakfast.

  The chamber had been fitted with one of the Howsmyn foundries’ new cast-iron stoves, its chimney ducted into the flue of an enormous but old- fashioned and rather less efficient fireplace, and it was actually comfortably warm, even by Nahrmahn’s semi- tropical Emeraldian standards. A tall, steaming carafe of hot chocolate sat beside an equally steaming pot of tea, and both were accompanied by cups, plates, and a tray well provided with scones and muffins. Before his arrival here in Cherayth, Nahrmahn had never encountered the scones, laced with nuts and sweetbriar berries, but they were a local specialty and he approved of them enthusiastically. Especially when they were still hot from the oven and there was plenty of fresh butter available.

  He brightened visibly as he saw them, and not simply because he hadn’t eaten yet. That was rather central to his reaction, but there were other factors. Specifically, since he and Ohlyvya had acquired their own coms and access to Owl’s computer files, his wife had begun to fuss over his eating habits. Nahrmahn himself had spent many hours now poring over those same files with delight, yet he’d been interested in significantly different portions of them. He supposed he was glad they had access to information which told them the truth about health issues the Holy Writ had demoted to rote obedience to “religious law,” but he could have wished that information had not contained words like “cholesterol” and “arteriosclerosis.” It had been quite bad enough, in his opinion, when Pasqualate- trained healers had fussed at him about what he ate without any knowledge of the actual reasons behind Pasquale’s dietary suggestions.

  He smiled at the thought, but then his smile faded as he saw the emperor’s and empress’ expressions.

  “Good morning, Nahrmahn,” Sharleyan replied to his greeting. Her voice was courteous, but there was something hard, angry, about her tone. What ever it was, though, at least it didn’t appear to be directed at him, for which the prince was grateful. “Please, join us.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Nahrmahn crossed to the indicated chair, facing Cayleb and Sharleyan across the table and looking out through the window behind them. He sat, and Sharleyan poured hot chocolate and handed it to him. He accepted the cup with a murmured thanks, sipped, then set it on the table before him, folding his hands around it, while he considered possible reasons for his unanticipated summons. His first thought had been that it had something to do with Merlin’s mission to Maikelberg, but he’d watched the “imagery” of Merlin’s conversation with Duke Eastshare himself. It didn’t seem likely anything had gone wrong there, yet if not that, then—?

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said, looking at Sharleyan, “but from your tone, something’s happened of which I’m not aware.”

  His own tone and raised eyebrows made the statement a question, and Cayleb gave a harsh, ugly little bark of a laugh. Nahrmahn transferred his attention to the emperor and cocked his head.

  “You might say that,” Cayleb said. “When I woke up this morning, I touched base with Owl. I usually do, and I usually have a couple of things I’ve got him keeping track of—specific things I’m particularly interested in.” He shrugged. “Most of them, frankly, aren’t particularly earthshaking. You might even call them purely selfish. Things like the baseball scores and standings back in Old Charis, for example. Or keeping track of Hektor and Destiny. That sort of thing.”

  He paused, and Nahrmahn nodded in understanding. “Well, one of the things I’ve had him keeping track of was Father Tymahn’s sermons down in Manchyr. Not so much because of their political implications, but because I’ve enjoyed them so much on a personal level. So this morning I asked him how Father Tymahn was coming on this Wednesday’s sermon.” The emperor’s face tightened, and his voice went harsh and flat. “Unfortunately, he won’t be preaching this five- day after all. Those bastards of Waimyn’s murdered him night before last. As a matter of fact, they tortured him to death and then dumped his naked body in Gray Lizard Square
yesterday morning.”

  Nahrmahn stiffened, and his eyes darted to Sharleyan. He understood the rage glittering in her eyes now. The empress had been looking forward to the day she would finally get to meet the priest who had emerged as the spiritual leader of the Corisandian Reformists. He knew how much she’d come to respect Hahskans, and he suspected that the priest’s murder, especially at Waimyn’s direct orders, must resonate with the memory of how so many of her own guardsmen had been killed as the result of another high churchman’s plans to murder her.

  “Owl is positive Waimyn personally ordered it, Your Grace?” He asked in as neutral tone as he could manage, choosing to direct the question to Cayleb, and the emperor made a sound midway between a growl and a snarl.

  “Oh, he’s positive, all right. The bastard passed the order through Hainree to Aimayl.”

  “I see.” Nahrmahn’s expression was simply thoughtful, but something harder and colder glittered at the backs of his habitually mild brown eyes. “I must admit I’m a bit surprised by his decision to escalate matters this way,” the rotund prince continued after a moment. “I realize his communications with Bishop Executor Thomys and the ‘Northern Conspiracy’ are roundabout and limited, but surely he must be aware their plans are far too incomplete for any sort of direct confrontation with the Regency Council and General Chermyn.”

  “Obviously we’ve all believed that,” Sharleyan said. Now that Nahrmahn knew what had happened, he recognized that cold, hard tone as an echo of the hard- won self- discipline a child queen had learned so long ago. It was painfully evident that it required quite a lot of that self- discipline to control the rage deep inside her.

  “What ever we believed, though,” she continued, “we were wrong.”

  “I don’t think that’s exactly what happened,” Cayleb said. She looked at him, her eyes considerably colder and flatter than usual, and he shook his head. “What I mean is that I think he’s perfectly well aware the Bishop Executor and his secular cronies aren’t ready to move yet, and we know he’s been trying to coordinate things in Manchyr to bring the city to a boil gradually. To touch off the fuse at the moment the Northern Conspiracy is ready. That suggests to me that something must have happened to change his plans.”