A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  “It did,” Merlin agreed. “Unfortunately, it was the only way I could think of to head off his pastoral visit, and we needed the time.”

  “That’s true enough,” Staynair acknowledged feelingly, and Merlin shrugged.

  “At any rate, as I say, I’ve been keeping my eye on her. And, to be honest, I’m getting more and more concerned about her safety.”

  “Concerned? Why? What’s happening?” Staynair asked quickly. “I’m not entirely certain,” Merlin admitted, “but she’s been making some unusual contacts. And she’s been doing some other... peculiar things. Among other things, she’s got several groups of people hidden away in different places scattered across Zion. I haven’t been able to identify most of them, but I do know who at least some of them are.”

  “Who?” Staynair asked when he paused. “They’re family groups. I’m sure of that much. And unless I’m badly mistaken, they’re the families of senior churchmen. Vicars and archbishops.”

  Brown eyes met eyes of sapphire, and Staynair’s chamber was very, very quiet for several breaths.

  “Those ‘reformers’ of Adorai’s,” Staynair said, then, very softly. “That’s what I think—what I’m afraid of.” Merlin shook his head. “The more I’ve seen of Ahnzhelyk, the more I’ve come to admire her. That’s a very capable lady, Your Eminence, and I’m sure she’s prepared her own escape route, even though I haven’t managed to catch her at it. That’s probably a good sign, not a bad one; if Owl and I haven’t stumbled across any clues, it seems unlikely the Inquisition would have. On the other hand, there’s no way to be sure of that, especially since I don’t dare insert remotes directly into the Temple. And however good her arrangements may be, the sheer number of people she’s trying to get out is going to work against her. I’m sure Clyntahn and Rayno are already trying to figure out where quite a few of those people have gotten to, and if there’s one thing Inquisitors are good at, it’s finding people.”

  “I see.”

  Staynair leaned back in his chair, his eyes worried, one hand playing with the pectoral scepter of his office. He sat that way for several seconds, then looked back up at Merlin.

  “Exactly where are you heading, Merlin?”

  “To Zion, I think,” Merlin replied.

  This time, Staynair’s eyes didn’t even flicker. He clearly didn’t like where this seemed to be bound, but it was equally clear he wasn’t surprised.

  “How?” he asked simply. “What I have in mind isn’t really all that complicated. A bit risky, perhaps, but not complicated.”

  “You fill me with dread,” Staynair said dryly, and Merlin chuckled. “Actually, what started me thinking about it was something Sharleyan said earlier this morning. She and Cayleb are planning on sending me to Corisande with you to keep an eye on you. As she pointed out to Cayleb, we can stay in communication now wherever I am, and it would actually make sense for Cayleb to send his personal armsman to protect the Archbishop of Charis. But if they can send me to Corisande and stay in touch, then I could send myself to Zion without dropping out of contact, as well.”

  “And just go strolling around the city? In your Imperial Guard uniform, no doubt?”

  “Not quite.” Merlin smiled slightly. “In fact, I can reconfigure my PICA, Your Eminence. There are limits to the amount of change I can crank in on things like height, but I can alter the color of my hair, the color of my eyes, my complexion.” He shrugged. “Trust me, I’m a true master of disguise. Or perhaps I should say mistress.”

  Staynair nodded. He’d seen file imagery of Nimue Alban now, and he had to admit that no one would ever have recognized her in Merlin Athrawes. There was an obvious—and certainly understandable—“family resemblance” between them, but Merlin was unmistakably a man.

  “I won’t pretend getting me and all the electronics tucked away inside me—not to mention my power plant—that close to the Temple doesn’t make me nervous,” Merlin continued, “but no one who sees or meets me is going to associate me with Merlin Athrawes. Not even if they later meet Merlin.”

  “All right, I can see that,” Staynair conceded. “Well, while I’m admitting things, I suppose I should also admit I’ll be pretty much playing things by ear once I get there.” Merlin shrugged. “It can’t be any other way. But I’ll have several advantages Ahnzhelyk doesn’t have, and I can always explain that I’m another seijin— a friend of Seijin Merlin’s who’s rallied around to help him out, for example. That should help account for some of those ‘advantages’ if I have to call on them in front of witnesses.”

  “And just exactly where is ‘Seijin Merlin’ going to be while all of this is going on?” Staynair shook his head. “You’re going to have to be gone at least several days—more probably for five- days.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I came to see you,” Merlin said. “I think we can probably cover at least a short absence on my part by using the stories about seijins. According to at least some of the tales, they need to ‘withdraw from the world’ to meditate from time to time. Seijin Merlin, on the other hand, has been continually ‘on- duty’ ever since he first arrived in Charis. No doubt he’s long overdue for that sort of withdrawal. Call it a ‘spiritual retreat.’ Given the fact that Cayleb and Sharleyan want to send me to Corisande with you, and that all they’re going to be doing themselves for the immediate future is to stay parked here in the palace with oodles of guardsmen to keep an eye on them for me, I think we could get away with explaining to anyone who asks that I’m taking this opportunity for the aforesaid spiritual retreat before you and I depart.”

  “I imagine we could do that,” Staynair agreed slowly, his eyes thoughtful. “The problem is that we have to convince Cayleb and Sharleyan to go along with all this.” Merlin’s lips twitched in something halfway between a smile and a grimace. “I don’t think either of them’s going to be happy with the notion, but I’m not about to set out on something like this without keeping them fully informed. We just, ah, had a little conversation about exactly that point, as a matter of fact.” His expression turned into a true smile for a moment, then smoothed. “However, I can’t tell them where I want to go and why without telling them about Ahnzhelyk, Your Eminence. And I can’t do that if it would violate your confidence and the sanctity of the confessional.”

  “I see,” Staynair said again.

  He sat for well over two minutes, thinking hard, then his eyes refocused on Merlin.

  “This is an awkward situation,” he said. “First, you’re already party to the information covered by the confessional seal. Technically, that means you don’t need my permission to share that information—information which came into your possession through no intentional violation of the confessional—with Cayleb and Sharleyan. For that matter, you’re not even a churchman, so the seal of the confessional wouldn’t apply to you in the first place. You and I both know that that’s simply a legalistic argument, though.”

  Merlin nodded silently, and Staynair drew a deep breath. “As Archbishop, I have the authority to release the seal of the confessional under certain clearly delineated circumstances. Frankly, I wouldn’t even consider violating it for most of the justifications the Church of God Awaiting recognizes, since they mostly have to do with turning people over to the Inquisition. However, even the Church of Langhorne recognizes that there are instances in which the immediate safety of others must be considered. That’s obviously true in this case! And, unfortunately, there’s no possible way for me to consult with Adorai and ask her permission in time to do any good. At the same time, I have to tell you that if it were not for the imminence of the threat to Madame Ahnzhelyk and the innocent people you say she’s trying to help escape, I wouldn’t even consider this. You understand that?”

  Merlin simply nodded once more, and Staynair sighed. “All right, Merlin. Given the situation, I’ll support you with Cayleb and Sharleyan.”

  .XIV.

  Madame Ahnzhelyk Phonda’s Townhouse,

  City of Zion,


  The Temple Lands

  Soft music drifted through the luxuriously appointed sitting room. Richly attired men, most in cotton silk and steel thistle silk cassocks, several in the orange of vicars, sat or stood around the room, holding wineglasses or snifters of brandy. Business was always good at Madame Ahnzhelyk’s, and never better than during the winter months, when the citizens of Zion turned inevitably to inside occupations. Young women—of all casts of complexion, but uniformly lovely—sat or stood with their guests, chatting easily, laughing. All of them were tastefully dressed, most with elegantly understated cosmetics. Anything less like the popular concept of prostitutes would have been difficult to imagine.

  Which was precisely why Madame Ahnzhelyk had always been so successful.

  No vulgarians among her young ladies! No common, or crude, or coarse conversation. No lowbrow humor. Madame Ahnzhelyk’s courtesans were all intelligent, lively, well educated. They were encouraged to read, to follow the latest news, to discuss any subject which might arise with combined wit and tact. They attracted only the very highest quality clients, and it was known throughout the Temple hierarchy that Madame Ahnzhelyk’s ladies were unfailingly discreet.

  Ahnzhelyk’s standards were high, but no higher than the ones she’d met during her own “working girl” days, and it was astounding how many members of the vicarate stood on... intimate terms with her, even today. Now she made her way across the room, pausing for a brief word here and there with those she knew particularly well. A graceful, caressing touch upon a shoulder. A chaste kiss on a cheek, for the more favored. A laughing smile, a jest, for others. No one looking at her could have guessed she felt the least concern about anything.

  Of course, one of the very first requirements of a successful courtesan was acting ability.

  Her head turned as she caught movement out of the corner of one eye, and then an eyebrow rose as a well- dressed man she’d never before seen entered the room.

  He was tall, clean- shaven, with hazel eyes. His brown hair was a bit longer than current Zion fashion dictated, pulled back in a simple ponytail confined by a jeweled clasp, and the heavy, snow- dusted overcoat he’d just handed to the porter was trimmed with a mountain slash lizard’s white winter pelt. A heavy golden chain around his neck, and equally golden rings on his well- manicured fingers, were additional indications of affluence, and Ahnzhelyk’s still lovely brow furrowed slightly in speculative interest.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured to her current conversational partner. “I believe I see someone I should be greeting, Your Eminence.”

  “Certainly, my dear,” the archbishop to whom she’d been speaking replied. “Thank you,” she said, smiling warmly at him.

  She drifted gracefully towards the newcomer, who was looking about him, not obtrusively but with obvious interest. He spotted her approach, and she smiled once again, more broadly, as she extended a slim hand.

  “Welcome,” she said simply. “Thank you,” he replied in a pleasant tenor voice. He lifted her hand gallantly to his lips, and kissed it. “I have the plea sure of addressing Madame Ahnzhelyk herself, I hope?” he asked.

  “Indeed you do, Sir,” she acknowledged. “And you are?”

  “Ahbraim Zhevons.” He bowed slightly, and she nodded. He spoke with a slight but recognizable Desnairian accent, she thought.

  “Are you a visitor to our city, Master Zhevons?”

  “Please, call me Ahbraim.” White teeth flashed in a charming smile, and his hazel eyes smiled at her, as well. “Indeed I am. Has my accent given me away? Do I sound too rustic?”

  “Oh, hardly rustic . . . Ahbraim!” Her silvery laugh was as charming as all the rest of her. “But I did seem to detect at least a little accent. Desnairian?”

  “Almost.” His smile turned just a bit impish. “Silkiahan, actually.”

  “Oh, forgive me!” Her laugh was a little louder, this time. Many citizens of the Grand Duchy of Silkiah resented being identified as Desnairians.

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” he assured her. “And if there were, it would be my plea sure to extend that forgiveness to someone as charming as yourself.”

  “You don’t seem to have been stinted on charm yourself, Ahbraim,” she observed.

  “My parents would like to think not, at any rate.”

  “May I ask what brings you to Zion at this time of year?” Ahnzhelyk grimaced delicately. “While I would never question the Archangels’ judgment, I’ve sometimes wondered what they were thinking to place the Temple somewhere with Zion’s winter climate!”

  “It does make travel to the city a bit arduous at this time of year,” he acknowledged with a slight shrug. “Unfortunately, business required my presence here. And however arduous the journey, the company waiting at the other end of the trip has certainly made it worthwhile.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Shall I introduce you to one of my young ladies?” Ahnzhelyk’s tone was as courteous and gracious as ever, yet somehow it contrived to make it perfectly clear that her own “working days” were behind her. Zhevons seemed amused by the implication.

  “I think that would be a very good idea,” he said. “I do trust, however, that we’ll have the opportunity for at least a little more conversation?”

  “Oh, I’m sure we will,” she assured him, taking his hand and tucking it into her own elbow with a proprietary air as she led him across the sitting room towards a stunningly attractive blue- eyed, golden- haired young woman.

  “Ahbraim, allow me to introduce Mahrlys,” Ahnzhelyk said. “Mahrlys, this is Ahbraim. He’s just arrived from Silkiah.”

  “Really?” Mahrlys gave Zhevons a dazzling smile. “Oh, I know why Madame introduced you to me, Ahbraim!”

  “So do I,” Zhevons replied as he recognized her own, considerably stronger accent. “Do I detect the accent of Silk Town itself?”

  “You do, indeed,” Ahnzhelyk assured him, passing his captive hand across to Mahrlys. “I thought you might find it comforting this far from home.”

  “Oh”—Zhevons smiled broadly—“I’m sure I’ll find it very comforting.”

  Several hours later, the sitting room was virtually deserted when Ahbraim Zhevons reentered it. Mahrlys Fahrno accompanied him, and the smile on her face was more than merely professional, Ahnzhelyk thought as they approached her. That was good. Mahrlys was one of her favorites, and she’d hoped the young woman would find Zhevons pleasant company. First impressions could always be misleading, however, and she was glad this one apparently had not been.

  “Are you leaving us, Ahbraim?”

  “I’m afraid I must,” he replied. “I have a meeting tomorrow morning to discuss one of the shipbuilding contracts. I need to be rested before I match wits with Vicar Rhobair’s minions.”

  “A very wise attitude!”

  “So I’ve been told.” He smiled at her. “Before I leave, however, I wondered if I might have a word in private?”

  “In private?” Her eyebrows arched. “I have a request to make . . . for a friend.”

  “I see.” Ahnzhelyk’s expression was only politely attentive, but mental ears pricked at something about her guest’s tone. It was very slight, what ever it was—almost more imagined than heard. Yet it was there. She was oddly certain of that.

  “Of course,” she invited after the very briefest of hesitations, and gestured gracefully at one of the small side rooms. “Will that be sufficiently private?”

  “Perfectly,” he assured her, and offered her his arm.

  They strolled across the all but deserted room, chatting easily, and Zhevons casually closed the smaller chamber’s door behind them. Then he turned to face Ahnzhelyk.

  “And now, Ahbraim,” she said, “about this ‘request’ of yours ...?”

  “It’s really quite simple,” he told her. “Adorai would appreciate your joining her in Charis.”

  Despite literally de cades of hard- won experience and discipline, Ahnzhelyk’s eyes flew wide. She stared at him for a fleeting instan
t, then paled as she realized how she had betrayed herself. One slim hand rose to her throat, and her fingers closed on a locket she wore about her neck on a silken riband.

  “Don’t,” Zhevons said gently. She stared at him, eyes huge, and he shook his head. “I don’t think Adorai would be very happy if you swallowed that cyanide tablet . . . Nynian.”

  She froze, scarcely breathing, and he smiled crookedly at her. “I know what you’re thinking, but think a bit harder. If Clyntahn and Rayno suspected you—if they knew enough to know the name your aunt and uncle gave you—they’d have no reason to entrap you. You’d already be in custody.”

  She gazed at him, color slowly creeping back into her face, but she didn’t take her hand from the locket.

  “That depends,” she said after another long pause, and her voice was astonishingly steady, under the circumstances. “I can think of a few scenarios in which tricking me into trusting you could be more useful—advantageous, at least—than simply arresting me and putting me to the Question.”

  “I’m sure you can.” He nodded. “At the same time, I think you know Clyntahn better than that. Rayno”— he shrugged slightly—“might be subtle enough to attempt something like that. But Clyntahn?” He shook his head. “Not in your case. Not if he began even to suspect all of the documentary evidence you sent to Adorai in Tellesberg. Or, for that matter, that you were the one who got her and the boys out of the Temple Lands in the first place.”

  Her eyes narrowed at the further evidence of how much he knew about her. And he’s right, she thought with an inner shiver she didn’t allow to touch her eyes. If that pig Clyntahn had any idea of how much damage I’ve done, I’d be screaming in one of the Inquisition’s “questioning chambers” this very instant. And I’d go on screaming for a very long time.

  “All right,” she said finally, although her fingers remained in contact with the locket. “I’ll assume you’re really from Adorai. There doesn’t”— she smiled very crookedly—“seem to be a great deal of point in pretending I don’t know what you’re talking about, at any rate. But why did she send you? Why now?”