by David Weber
Trynair’s eyes widened at Duchairn’s cold, biting contempt. He gazed at the other vicar for a long moment, then his own eyes fell and he stood looking at Duchairn’s desktop until, finally, he raised his eyes once again.
“It’s not that simple, Rhobair, and you know it,” he said. “On the contrary, it’s exactly that simple,” Duchairn responded. “You may argue that there are other factors involved, other considerations, but that doesn’t make a single question I just asked you any less valid or less pertinent. You can lie to yourself about that if you want, but I won’t. Not anymore.”
“Don’t you understand how Zhaspahr’s going to react if you start saying things like that to someone else?” Trynair’s eyes were almost pleading. “If he even thinks you’re trying to inspire some sort of resistance to the Inquisition....”
The Chancellor’s voice trailed off, and Duchairn shrugged. “To my own shame,” he said flatly, “I’m doing nothing of the sort. I’m keeping my mouth shut . . . and may God forgive me for it. Because, believe me, Zahmsyn, if I thought for one single moment that I could inspire some effective resistance—that I could stop this . . . this atrocity, I would do it. I would do it if I knew I would die tomorrow myself for the doing.”
He met Trynair’s gaze flatly, unflinchingly, and tension hummed between them, singing in the depths of the office’s silence.
Something deep inside Zahmsyn Trynair quailed before Duchairn’s unwavering eyes. Something which had once believed it, too, was a true vocation to serve God’s will.
He’d always thought that, in many ways, Rhobair Duchairn was the weakest of the Group of Four. Far smarter—and more principled—than Allayn Maigwair, perhaps, but ultimately flawed. Unwilling to face what had to be done in the ser vice of maintaining Mother Church’s authority. He was the sort of man prepared to look the other way, to acquiesce when someone else was willing to do what must be done, so long as it was not required of him.
Most of the Chancellor still thought that. But not all of him . . . not that something in himself which had once believed.
Maybe heis still like that, he thought. Maybe all this “regenerated faith” of his is only another way to avoid doing the unpleasant things. But I don’t think it is. Not really. If that were all it was, he wouldn’t antagonize Zhaspahr this way. And he sure as Shan- wei wouldn’t antagonize me when I’m the only potential ally against Zhaspahr he can possibly hope to find!
“If Zhaspahr ever hears you say something like that,” Trynair heard his own voice saying almost conversationally, “the fact that you’re a member of the ‘Group of Four’ won’t save you. You do realize that, don’t you? That you might as well go ahead and oppose him openly?”
“I could find myself in far worse company,” Duchairn replied levelly. “But not in any deader company.”
“Probably not. Which is why you’re the only one I’ve said it to. Of course, you can always go and tell him what I said, couldn’t you? On the other hand, if you do that, and he does to me what he’s already done to so many other men and women we’ve known all our lives, then you’ll be all alone with him and Allayn, won’t you? How long do you think you’ll last—especially when you’re the one the Grand Vicar listens to, the only person with a source of authority which might rival that of the Inquisition—once he starts worrying about traitors in our own ranks?”
Trynair felt his jaw trying to drop. He restrained the impulse with the experience of de cades of political infighting, yet the acuity of what Duchairn had just said shocked him.
And he’s right, damn him. Ican’t afford to have Zhaspahr thinking that way. And I can’t afford to let Rhobair go down, either. Because as long as he’s still here, I can always divert Zhaspahr into going after him if I have to. Once he’s gone. ...“All right. I won’t deny—I can’t deny—your point,” Trynair admitted out loud. “I don’t want to be the only potential voice of opposition, now that he’s got the bit between his teeth. But that’s not going to keep you alive and in one piece if you antagonize him badly enough. I may have selfish reasons to not want to see . . . anything happen to you. But it won’t do you any good if I go down with you, either, and I’m not willing to do that.”
It was Duchairn’s turn to gaze thoughtfully at Trynair. That was the frankest admission he’d ever heard out of the Chancellor.
“Tell me, Zahmsyn,” the Church Treasurer said finally, “do you really believe any of the testimony being presented? Be honest—with me, at least. You know how the Inquisition goes about extracting ‘confessions,’ so tell me. Do you think Samyl and Hauwerd Wylsynn— Samyl and Hauwerd, of all people—were molesting children? That they were practicing Shan- wei worship, right here in the Temple? That they were in treasonous communication with the Church of Charis? That they were planning to cooperate with the Charisians, recognize the ‘legitimacy’ of the schism in return for Charis’ support in putting one of them on the Grand Vicar’s throne here in the Temple?”
Trynair looked away. He stood staring unseeing at the wall mosaics for almost a full minute, then drew a deep breath and looked back at Duchairn.
“No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t believe that. But I do believe they were conspiring against Zhaspahr. And, by extension, that means against you and me, as well. You may be sufficiently confident in your faith to take something like that calmly. I’m not. I’ll admit it—I’m not. But it’s not just my own security, my own power and comfort I’m thinking about, either. Whether they were planning to conspire with the Charisians or not is really beside the point, in at least one way. If they’d succeeded in bringing down Zhaspahr, it would have created a huge power vacuum in the Temple and the vicarate. God only knows how that would have worked out, what it would have meant for Mother Church’s cohesiveness at this moment. But even worse, they might have tried to bring him down... and failed.
“You think what’s happening now is terrible? Well, I can’t really disagree. But how much worse would it be if they’d managed to provoke a genuine revolt against Zhaspahr? Managed to stir up enough of the vicarate to support them? Managed to fracture Mother Church—fracture Mother Church’s vicars, with all of the implications that would have for the faith and support of the ordinary people? Do you think that wouldn’t have opened the door wide to the Charisians, whether that was what they wanted or not? And do you think, for one moment, that Rayno and Zhaspahr’s other handpicked appointments in the Inquisition and the Schuelerite hierarchies wouldn’t have stayed loyal to him? What do you think would have happened if the Wylsynns had created a genuine civil war inside Mother Church’s most senior vicars? You think the cost wouldn’t have been immensely worse even than what we’re already seeing?”
“I’ve thought about that,” Duchairn admitted. “I’m not sure it could be ‘im mensely worse.’ For that matter, I’m not sure it could be worse, at all. But I can’t know that it wouldn’t be, either. And I have to admit that at this moment, I don’t see anybody who could possibly stand up to the Inquisition and the hysteria Zhaspahr’s created. Without something, anything, with a realistic hope of actually stopping him—and we both know he’d have to be stopped by force at this point— trying to stop him would only make things worse. I know that. Which is the reason I haven’t tried. The reason I’m not planning on trying.”
“But—” Trynair began. “I won’t try to stop him, but I’m not going to give him the imprimatur of my support, either. Maybe it’s sanctimonious, but I’m not going to attend these ghastly murder fests of his. I’m not going to sign any warrants of execution. Not going to approve the murders of any children or give him one single ounce of cover or justification he can’t create for himself. He’s the Grand Inquisitor. Can you even begin to count the number of times he’s told us that? All right, let him be the Grand Inquisitor. Let him take the responsibility—and claim the credit, if there is any—for defeating this vile effort to betray Mother Church to her enemies.”
Duchairn’s irony was withering, and Trynair frowned. “Wh
at are you saying you’re going to do, then, Rhobair?” he asked after a moment. “If you’re not going to oppose him, and you’re not going to support him . . . what? Are you planning on retiring to a monastery somewhere?”
“Oh, I’ve considered it,” Duchairn said very, very softly. “Believe me, Zahmsyn, you cannot imagine how I’ve considered doing exactly that. But I can’t. It would be running away, hiding from my own responsibilities.”
“Then tell me what you are going to do!” Trynair snapped, and his tone was so exasperated that Duchairn surprised them both with a twisted ghost of a smile.
“All right, I will.” He let his chair come forward again, folding his arms before him on the desk, leaning over them while he gazed up at Trynair. “I’m going to do my job as Mother Church’s Treasurer. I’m going to maintain her fiscal health—as well as I can, in the face of how much this insane war is costing. And somehow, at the same time, I’m going to see to it that the Bédardists, and the Pasqualates, and the other charitable orders actually get the funding and support they’re supposed to have. I’m going to see to it, next winter, that there are soup kitchens all over Zion, Zahmsyn. I’m going to throw up barracks for the poor to survive the snow and the ice outside our front door. I’m going to build hospitals to care for all of the maimed this war is going to produce, and orphanages to care for all of the orphans it’s going to leave. I am finally going to use my position as a vicar of the Church of God Awaiting to do exactly what Maikel Staynair and Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk have accused us—rightly—of not doing.”
Trynair stared at him. Then he gave a sharp, barking crack of laughter. “What’s this, Rhobair? Trying to buy the Archangels’ forgiveness? Is this your bribe? What you’re promising God as compensation for your failure to oppose Zhaspahr’s ‘excesses’ openly?”
“In some ways, yes,” Duchairn said unflinchingly. “That’s one way to put it. Another way to put it would be that I’m going to accomplish all I can despite Zhaspahr’s ‘excesses,’ though, wouldn’t it? And since it would be so . . . inexpedient for you to allow me to disappear from the equation, you have my permission to present it to Zhaspahr in exactly those terms. Consider it my own personal bargain with Shan- wei.”
“What do you mean?” Trynair frowned, and Duchairn’s eyes glittered. “I thought it was clear enough.” He leaned back again, crossing his legs. “Go ahead, tell Zhaspahr you and I talked about this. Tell him I can’t support his decisions as Grand Inquisitor, but I recognize that they are his decisions as Grand Inquisitor. That I won’t openly oppose him, but that in return, he won’t stand in my way of seeing to it that the charitable orders—which come under the general control of the Exchequer, anyway—receive the support they require. Tell him you think it’s my way of buying off my own conscience. Langhorne, you might even be right! But I also suggest you remind him about the dragon drover who found out he needed a carrot to go with the stick. He can leave all that saccharine fawning, all that slobbering concern ‘for the masses,’ to me. Let me handle it—God knows I’ll be better at it than he ever would! And as long as I’m still a member of the ‘Group of Four,’ it will be the ‘Group of Four’— including Zhaspahr—who get the credit. He’s proven he can terrorize people into obedience. Now all he has to do is let me buy their obedience, as well, and he’ll be happy, I’ll be . . . satisfied, and the end result will be to strengthen his position, not weaken it.”
Trynair frowned, once again taken by surprise by Duchairn’s political perspicacity. That was precisely the right way to present the Treasurer’s argument to the Grand Inquisitor. Not only that, it actually made sense.
He considered the other man narrowly, wondering exactly what had changed inside Rhobair Duchairn. There was something, he could sense it, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. It wasn’t that any of the Treasurer’s reborn faith had disappeared. Not that he was suddenly comfortable with Clyntahn’s brutality. Not even that he’d made his peace with it. It was something... else.
Maybe it’s just that Zhaspahr’s finallyproven he can’t be controlled. Maybe it’s just a dose of realism, acceptance tempering all that idealism of his. And maybe it isn’t, either. Maybe it’s something else entirely. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong about the best way to sell it to Zhaspahr. And there’s no way he’s wrong about the importance of finding some motivator besides simple terror, either! That’s always been Zhaspahr’s blind spot. If I can only convince him to let Rhobair be our . . . our kinder, gentler face, then maybe I can actually undo some of the damage he’s busy doing.
He gazed into Duchairn’s eyes once more, then, finally, he shrugged. “All right, Rhobair. If my brokering some kind of deal between you and Zhaspahr will satisfy you, if you’ll give Zhaspahr your assurance you’ll leave inquisitorial matters up to the Inquisition if he’ll give you free rein where your charitable activities are concerned, I’ll try. And I think I’ll probably succeed . . . as long as you’re serious about this. But don’t lie to me. If this will satisfy you, I’ll do my damnedest to sell it to Zhaspahr. But if I ever find out later that you aren’t prepared to live up to your end of the . . . understanding, I’ll wash my hands of what ever finally becomes of you. Is that understood?”
“Of course it is,” Duchairn said, and surprised Trynair yet again—this time with an oddly gentle smile. “You know, in many ways, Zhaspahr’s always been his own worst enemy. And one reason is that he’s forgotten—and I have to admit, I’d forgotten the same thing—that sometimes kindness, gentleness, is just as strong a weapon as any terror or punishment. Of course, it’s not the sort of weapon he’s constitutionally suited to wielding, I suppose. So I’m sure it will be best for us—for all of us—if he lets me take care of it for him.”
.III.
Father Paityr Wylsynn’s Office,
Gold Mark Street,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Old Charis
Father Paityr Wylsynn stared sightlessly out his office windows.
The Tellesberg sun was bright, shining down on the broad street beyond the deep, green shade of the trees growing around the ex- Exchequer building in which that office was housed. It was late morning, and, as always, Tellesberg was a bustling stir of energy. Wylsynn’s office was far enough from the harbor and the ware house district which served it for the local traffic to be relatively free of the heavy freight wagons which spent so much time rumbling through much of the rest of the city. This was primarily a financial district, home to bankers and law masters, stock traders and counting houses, and aside from the regularly scheduled lizard- drawn trolleys, most of the traffic here consisted of pedestrians interspersed with only an occasional carriage or horse man. A few sidewalk vendors were spotted about, their carts and small wagons shaded by colorful awnings. Most of them were food sellers, serving the office workers employed in the vicinity, and an occasional tantalizing wisp of aroma drifted through his open windows.
Wylsynn didn’t notice. Not any more than he noticed the contrast between brilliant sunlight and dark shade, or than he heard the vendors’ raised voices, or actually saw the passing pedestrians. No. His attention was elsewhere, focused on the remembered words of the letter which lay folded on the desk before him.
So it’s finally happened.He felt a fresh burning sensation at the backs of his blue eyes. After all these years.
He didn’t know how the letter had reached him. Oh, he was sure he could have tracked it back through at least the last two or three sets of hands, but after that, it would have disappeared untraceably into the anonymity its sender had required, and he was glad it was so.
He leaned his head against the tall back of his chair, closing his eyes, and remembered every step of the journey which had carried him to this office, on this street. He remembered his own realization that he had a true vocation as a priest. He remembered choosing to follow his father into the Order of Schueler because that was what Wylsynns did, and because he shared his father’s commitment to reform
ing what that order had become. And he remembered the day his father had urged him to take the position as Archbishop Erayk Dynnys’ intendant.
“Clyntahn’s becoming obsessed with the Charisians,” his father had told him somberly, a vicar speaking to a young priest he trusted as much as a father speaking to a son. “They desperately need an honest intendant, someone who’ll apply the Proscriptions fairly and not pander to Clyntahn’s paranoia. And, frankly,” the father had come to the fore, “I want you out of Zion. I don’t like the direction things are heading, and you’ve already made yourself just a bit too visible for my peace of mind.”
Paityr had felt his eyebrows rising, and his father had snorted harshly. “Oh, I know. I know! The pot and the kettle and all that. But at least I’m a senior vicar, not a mere upper- priest! Besides—”
He’d started to say something else, then stopped and simply shaken his head. But Paityr had understood what his father hadn’t said, as well. If Samyl Wylsynn didn’t “like the direction things were heading,” then at least part of the reason he wanted Paityr in Tellesberg was to get him as close to out of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s reach as was physically possible.
In the long run, it probably wouldn’t make any difference. When it came down to it, no place on Safehold was truly beyond Clyntahn’s reach, for the Grand Inquisitor’s reach was that of Mother Church herself. But Paityr had understood the logic, and however little he’d liked the thought of “deserting” his father and the rest of Samyl Wylsynn’s circle of reformers, he’d realized his father was also right about the Charisians’ need for an honest intendant. And honest intendants, unfortunately, were an ever- scarcer commodity.