by David Weber
Unfortunately for them, the tough-minded, cantankerous veteran had been armed with a dagger and knew how to use one. The thugs had been street brawlers, not soldiers, and from everything Aryn had heard, he’d deliberately not killed anyone when he could have. But if he hadn’t killed them, he had put five of them into the local Pasqualate hospital, two of them in critical condition.
“All right,” he said after a moment. “I know he was here, I know he left, and I know I didn’t pass him on the way.”
“So where—?” Hahraimahn began, then stopped. “No,” he said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Aryn said. “Especially if it had already started to rain?” He raised one eyebrow at the bookseller, and Hahraimahn nodded unhappily. “You know how he is about his books. I’ll bet you he did take the shortcut.”
“Let me get my coat and a lantern,” Hahraimahn said grimly. “I’m coming with you.”
* * *
“Oh, Rychyrd!”
Rychyrd Tohmys floated up out of the depths as he recognized that voice. It was Aryn, but why did he sound that way? So … broken? He started to reach out, then jerked in agony as his arm tried to move.
“Lie still!” Aryn snapped. “Master Hahraimahn’s gone to find the Guard … and … and a healer.”
Healer? For who? Rychyrd blinked in puzzlement. Or, rather, he tried to blink. His right eye seemed glued shut—the eyelid refused to move at all—and a stab of panic went through his haziness as he realized he couldn’t see a thing through the left eye, either.
It’s only the dark, he told himself, feeling the rain pound down on him. It’s just because it’s dark. That’s all.
“I—” he began, then broke off, coughing to clear his throat. He realized he was spitting out blood, but that was nothing beside the tearing agony in his ribs when he coughed. He tried to curl into a ball around the pain, but he couldn’t. Partly because his brother’s hands were on his shoulders, holding him down, but mostly because it hurt too much.
And then the memory of the bull’s-eye lantern, the clubs and the iron knuckles, went back through him again, and he moaned in anguish.
“How … how bad?” he got out.
“I don’t know,” Aryn told him. “There’s not enough light. We’ll have to wait for the healer. But I know your right arm’s broken, and so is your nose.”
“Not … not me,” Rychyrd whispered. “Books. How … how bad … my books?”
Aryn’s jaw clenched. He’d lied when he said there wasn’t enough light. Hahraimahn had left his lantern, and the fact that Rychyrd didn’t even know that was terrifying. But his eyes burned—with tears, as much as rage—as he saw the shredded, torn pages scattered on the filthy, sodden alley’s floor. Knew whoever had done this had taken a special, sadistic delight in destroying his little brother’s most treasured possession.
“They’re fine, Rychyrd,” he said, his voice serene, his hands gentle on his brother’s shoulders. “They’re fine.”
.II.
Grand Vicar Rhobair’s Office, The Temple, City of Zion, The Temple Lands.
“I’m sure the Lord Protector wishes he hadn’t had to do quite so much dragon-trading, Your Holiness,” Vicar Bryahn Ohcahnyr said, “but from our initial reports, it looks like he and Chancellor Maidyn got pretty much everything they asked for.”
“Demanded, you mean, Bryahn,” Grand Vicar Rhobair corrected wryly, smiling across his enormous desk at the Treasurer of the Church of God Awaiting. That job had been Rhobair’s for far longer than he really cared to remember, and the tall, fair-haired and brown-eyed Ohcahnyr had been one of his senior subordinates during the Jihad.
“I don’t think anything as gentle as ‘asking’ could have produced this,” the Grand Vicar continued, his expression turning more somber. “Not with how quickly it’s going to start biting credit.”
“No,” Ohcahnyr agreed. “But we both know that’s exactly what the Republic needs to do, Holiness.” The treasurer shrugged. “The Pasqualates can make some medicines taste better than others, but it’s been my experience that the stronger the medicine, the worse it tastes.”
“And the more it’s needed,” Tymythy Symkyn added. The Grand Vicar glanced at him, and the chancellor twitched his head in Ohcahnyr’s direction. “You and Bryahn are right about how bad it’s going to taste, but maybe it will finally pull Siddarmark back from the brink. And there’s a limit to how long they can stagger along before they fall over the cliff if it doesn’t pull them back at least a bit.”
Rhobair nodded soberly, because his subordinates were right. As the man who’d been Mother Church’s treasurer, he was far from blind to the size and strength of the revenue stream available to even a vastly reduced Church of God Awaiting or of how that revenue’s reliability had helped the Church recover from her disastrous, overextended position at the end of the Jihad. The Republic’s revenues would have been less reliable and robust under any circumstances. Given the circumstances Greyghor Stohnar and Henrai Maidyn had actually faced, it was a not so minor miracle the entire Siddarmarkian banking system hadn’t simply collapsed.
“They’re not out of the woods yet,” he said, leaning back in his chair and linking the fingers of his hands behind his head.
He gazed at the mystic, ever-changing wall of his office with its panoramic view of the Zion waterfront. Unlike many similar walls here in the Temple, this one showed what was actually happening at the lakeside quays and wharves. Indeed, if he’d touched one of the god lights on his desk, he could actually have heard what was happening there. Another of the god lights would have caused the panorama to shift on a regular basis, sweeping through over two dozen other living, breathing murals, but the waterfront was his favorite. The ever-changing panorama of ships and small craft, the cargos being swayed over the sides of the ships, the living, breathing, endlessly stirring water.… All of those were parts of what drew him repeatedly to that particular view. But the real reason, what brought him back here whenever his soul most sorely needed refreshment, was the huge, new complex of shelters and hospitals he’d had built and named in loving memory of Father Zytan Kwill.
In another month or two, as Zion headed into fall and winter, those shelters would spread Mother Church’s protective arms about hundreds, even thousands, of her most vulnerable children. Last winter, less than two hundred Zionites had perished of cold and privation, despite the ferocity of its far northern climate. That was still two hundred too many, yet it was enormously better than the thousands in which those deaths had once been reckoned. He’d accomplished many things since ascending to the Throne of Langhorne, including ending the Jihad which had killed so many millions of God’s children. Yet the Zytan Kwill Center and the other, smaller shelters dotted strategically about the city were the single achievement that gave him the most simple pleasure and joy.
I’m sorry you didn’t live to see it, Father Zytan, he reflected now. On the other hand, I expect the name gave you a good laugh in Heaven.
His lips twitched in fond memory at the thought, and he turned his chair to face Ohcahnyr and Symkyn without bringing it upright.
“They’re not out of the woods yet,” he repeated, “and I’m not going to make any rash predictions. But I really do think that with only a little luck, they’ve actually turned the corner. And thank God and Langhorne! The last thing we needed was for Siddarmark to turn into its own version of Harchong.”
“Truer words were never spoken, Your Holiness,” Ohcahnyr replied. “Although this ‘Ahrmahk Plan’ does seem to be working in West Harchong.”
“Despite Zhyou-Zhwo’s best effort to drown it at birth,” Symkyn agreed grimly. “I don’t know what that man uses for a brain, and I don’t want to know what he uses for a soul!”
“As Grand Vicar, I shouldn’t say it, but I don’t know, either.” Rhobair grimaced. “And I don’t like the anti-Charis strand in his invective.” He shook his head and let his chairback come fully vertical. “It’s as if no one ever told him the Ji
had was over.”
“Because for some people it isn’t, Holiness.” Symkyn’s voice was gentle, and he raised one placating hand when Rhobair glanced at him. “I see more of the routine diplomatic correspondence than you do, Holiness. It’s my job to deal with it instead of just dumping it on your desk. And I’m not saying anyone wants to restart the Jihad tomorrow. But there are way too many people out there in positions of power who resent the Shan-wei out of the way it ended.” He shook his head. “I could wish more of them were at least like those of our less happy colleagues here in Zion who’re genuinely concerned over the state of humans’ souls. For most of them, though—?” He shrugged. “Most of them are like Zhyou-Zhwo or Emperor Mahrys. They don’t like the post-Jihad political and—especially—economic world, and they’re far more eager to use the Church of Charis as a pretext than they are driven by their deep and burning dedication to restore Mother Church.”
“You mean they’re just biding their time.” Rhobair’s tone was unhappy; it wasn’t surprised.
“Your Holiness,” Ohcahnyr said, “there’s a certain species of ruler who’s always ‘just biding his time.’ I admit Tymythy has to deal more directly with them than I do, but you know as well as we do that that particular species can always find a pretext when it decides the time has come.” He gave the Grand Vicar an almost gentle smile. “It’s not your fault, it’s not our fault, and God and the Archangels only expect us to do the best we poor mortals can, not to accomplish miracles.”
“You’re right, of course,” Rhobair sighed, then he brightened. “And despite the situation in Central Harchong, things are looking up overall. Not just in the ‘United Provinces,’ either. It looks like Rainbow Waters is going to make his protectorate stand up in East Harchong, too.”
“I could wish he was in a little better health, but, yes, it does, Your Holiness,” Symkyn agreed. “And while I hope the Earl will be with us for many years yet, I have to say Baron Wind Song seems every bit as capable. I don’t think he’s quite as intelligent as his uncle, but, then, who is?” He smiled quickly, fleetingly. “And every man who ever served in the Mighty Host seems as devoted to the Baron as to the Earl. And the Baron, Langhorne bless him, is even more devoted to him.”
“To quote Bryahn, ‘truer words were never spoken,’” Rhobair said, then snorted in amusement. Symkyn looked a question at him, and he shrugged. “I was just thinking that marrying Wind Song off to Gustyv Walkyr’s daughter would have been a master stroke on my part during the Jihad. I wish I could claim credit for it even now, but it never even would have occurred to me!”
“You’re not alone, Holiness,” Symkyn assured him. “It would have seemed too much like cradle robbing for most of us, even in an arranged dynastic marriage. She’s—what? Sixteen years younger than him?”
“More like fifteen years and one month,” Ohcahnyr said with the precision of a man who spent his life working with numbers. “I think that discrepancy bothered her mother more than it did her father, but Madam Walkyr’s come around since. Something to do with the grandchildren, I understand.”
“It sure wasn’t the title!” Rhobair retorted with a chuckle. “Wind Song’s estates had already been confiscated by then.” He gazed at the view of the harbor again for several seconds, then back at his vicars. “And the remarkable thing is how little that bothered him compared to the confidence he and his uncle were doing the right thing. I think that had a lot to do with Lady Sahmantha’s decision to marry him despite her mother’s reservations.”
“Probably,” Symkyn agreed. “But that same attitude is why I’m confident he’ll be not only able but willing to continue his uncle’s work if something happens to Rainbow Waters.”
Rhobair nodded. Rainbow Waters had always been a physically robust, active man, but the responsibilities of fighting the Jihad against the combined forces of Charis and Siddarmark had taken their toll even before he was exiled, his lands confiscated. His hair was entirely silver now, he moved more cautiously than he had, and he’d looked undeniably frail the last time he and Rhobair had spoken face-to-face.
Well, of course he did! You’re no spring wyvern yourself these days, especially after the Jihad, and he’s eight years older than you are. The man’s got a right to look a little worn, and whatever may be true physically, mentally he’s just as sharp as he ever was. Hopefully at least some of your subordinates think the same thing about you!
He chuckled again at the thought, and both the vicars looked at him.
“Just a thought about how well people wear … or don’t,” he told them, waving it away.
Then he pushed up out of his chair. Both of his guests stood, and he walked around the desk to escort them to the door.
“Your Holiness—” Symkyn started in a semi-scolding tone, then stopped as Rhobair cocked his head. “Never mind,” he said instead, and Rhobair smiled in gentle triumph.
He didn’t need Symkyn to remind him that none of his last half-dozen or so predecessors would have dreamed of escorting visitors from their offices. That was one precedent—one of many, really—Rhobair Duchairn had refused to continue. The Grand Vicar was God’s servant and, in a very real sense, the servant of his fellow vicars, as well. They’d forgotten that, and it was one of the many things God had used the Jihad to remind him of.
“You know, Holiness,” Ohcahnyr said as they crossed the enormous office, “Earl Rainbow Waters has saved a lot of lives, but he never could have done it without the backing and political support you and Vicar Allayn gave him. At the risk of sounding like I’m sucking up to you,” he smiled at Rhobair’s involuntary spurt of laughter, but his expression sobered quickly, “the only reason those people are still alive is because you insisted we support the Mighty Host in exile and then acted so quickly to provide the backing the Earl needed.”
“Mother Church did that—well, she and God. Not me,” Rhobair demurred. “And anything I may have done was only possible because of the kind of support you and Tymythy have given me. None of it would’ve happened or even been possible without you at Treasury, Allayn running the Army, and Tymythy keeping me as far away as possible from the diplomatic correspondence.”
“That’s all true enough, Holiness,” Ohcahnyr said, “but I think it’s fair to say you did have a tiny bit to do with it.”
“Well, maybe a tiny bit,” Rhobair allowed with a smile.
“I have to agree with Bryahn, Holiness,” Symkyn said. “Oh, and I just remembered something else I meant to tell you. And I hope you won’t think it’s ‘sucking up’ to you.”
“What?” Rhobair asked, cocking a suspicious eyebrow.
“Tifny asked me to tell you it’s official. We’re naming the baby Rhobair. Actually,” he rolled his eyes “we’re naming him Rhobair Tymythy Ahntahn Zhak Symkyn.”
“Langhorne!” Rhobair said with a far louder crack of laughter. “The poor boy’s less than a month old, Tymythy! That name’s longer than he is!”
“But he’ll grow into it, Holiness,” Symkyn said as they reached the office door and stepped out into the spacious antechamber. The bishop who served as Rhobair’s secretary rose, inclining his head respectfully but without the deep bow previous grand vicars would have received—and demanded. “Most of those names are from Tifny’s side of the family, anyway.”
“Except for the one you chose to flatter me, you mean?” Rhobair said.
“Well, of course, Your Holiness!” Symkyn said, and Rhobair reached out to rest his right hand on his shoulder, laughing even harder.
“Well, consider it a mat—”
He broke off in mid-word. His hand tightened on Symkyn’s shoulder like a claw. His left rose to his chest, clutching at his cassock as his eyes widened in shock. Then those eyes rolled up, his knees buckled, and the hand on Symkyn’s shoulder relaxed suddenly, its fingers completely flaccid, even as the vicar cried out in denial and reached out to catch him.
.III.
Vicar Tymythy Symkyn’s Office, The Temple, City of Zion, T
he Temple Lands.
“And so we charge you, Brothers in God, to gather here in Zion—”
Symkyn had to stop and clear his throat. It wasn’t the first time he’d done that in the last hour. He didn’t expect it to be the last before he was finished with this day’s crushing responsibilities, either, and Father Zhon Fyrdnand, his secretary, wept openly, dashing the tears away almost angrily with his left hand while his pen scratched obediently as he took down the dictated summons.
Symkyn wanted to tell Father Zhon it was all right. That this could wait. But it wasn’t all right, and it couldn’t wait. As Chancellor of the Church of God Awaiting, it was Symkyn’s responsibility to serve as caretaker in the Grand Vicar’s name until the Council of Vicars could assemble to nominate and elect Rhobair II’s successor.
And who could we possibly elect to truly succeed him? Symkyn closed his eyes briefly. He was only sixty-one, for Langhorne’s sake! We should have had him for at least another twenty years—maybe even long enough to get through Harchong and whatever’s happening in Siddarmark. And what’s happening right here in the Vicarate, for that matter! He was the glue holding the Reformists and the Moderates and the Conservatives together, God. Where are You going to find us someone else who could have done that? Someone who can complete the reconciliation—even right here in Mother Church, much less throughout Your world—that You’d called him to?
God didn’t answer, and Symkyn inhaled deeply. The Writ said God would always find the right man, but there were times he found that more difficult to believe than others. After all, God had permitted Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s reign as Grand Inquisitor.