Blade of Tyshalle

by Matthew Woodring Stover

  Over Damon's six-year tenure as Acting Ambassador, the Monastic Ball had become the premier diplomatic event of the Ankhanan social calendar. Damon himself was a stolid, pragmatic man, with little time for social niceties and no liking for parties at all, but the value of an event such as this could not be denied. The Monasteries formed a sovereign nation, but it was a nation without borders, one that spread across every known land. On this most neutral of all neutral ground, representatives of every government across the civilized world could meet and partake of each other's company without the interference of protocols of national precedence and the like.

  Here within his view stood two perfect examples: the Lipkan Ambassador traded slightly sodden jokes with his Paqulan counterpart, as they leaned on each other in drunken friendship despite the ongoing privateer raids between Paquli and the Lipkan Empire; and on the dance floor, the jel'Han of Kor in his outlandish gold-embroidered bearskin roared with laughter as Countess Maia of Kaarn lowered him into a very competent dip. Damon's normally expressionless face bent into a small grim smile of satisfaction; he reflected that he would never know how many wars and assassinations and diplomatic conflicts of all descriptions had been averted by parties just like this one.

  He had not sought this post, nor did he enjoy it but the job was his to do, and he could take some satisfaction in having done it well.

  Faintly through the music and laughter, Damon heard voices raised in anger. They seemed to be coming from beyond the ballroom, perhaps from the Gate Hall, outside the thrice-manheight doors, and were angry enough that they might signify violence. The friars who served as the embassy's security staff were all blooded veterans and experts in unarmed combat; they could stop any fight without unnecessary injury or insult to the participants, and so Damon was not overly concerned—until the orchestra fell silent in a chaotic tangle of flattening notes.

  A man in the gold-and-blue dress livery of the Eyes of God stood beside the conductor, gesturing emphatically. The ballroom poised momentarily in apprehensive silence.

  A white-robed junior friar had forced his way through the press, and now he bowed jerkily to Damon and spoke far too loudly, his breath-less words ringing in the quiet. "Master Damon—the Patriarch, he—the Eyes, the Grey Cats, they've arrested Hem, and lento, and, and, and Vice

  Ambassador t'Passe!"

  A bitterly cold shock went through Damon, and for a blank instant he could neither move nor speak.

  The ballroom burst into uproar as Ambassadors and delegates and en­tourages from every nation sought each other, gathering themselves into self-protective knots. The orchestra struck up the Imperial anthem, "King of Kings," and as the first strains entered the general roar, the ballroom doors swung back. Through them flooded hard-faced men in grey leather, swords in hand. Behind the leather-dad warriors walked a dozen Household Knights in their full blood-colored battle armor, escorting a small group of Eyes of God.

  In their midst limped the stocky, dark-clad figure of the Patriarch of Ankhana.

  Damon's paralysis broke. "Summon Master Dossaign to my office, boy. Tell him to get on the Artan Mirror to the Council of Brothers, with the word that we have been attacked, and the embassy has been occupied by Imperial forces."

  The young friar hesitated. "But I don't understand! How could even the Patriarch dare—?"

  "You need not understand," Damon snapped. "You need only obey. When the Master Speaker has sent the message, have him disconnect the Mirror and hide it, so that it is never seen by unworn eyes. Now go!"

  He jumped like a startled rat and scampered away.

  The Grey Cats fanned out through the crowd, their ready blades persuading all and sundry that the wisest course would be to wait silently, and watch, and hope that the Patriarch had not come for any of them.

  Damon caught the eyes of several nearby friars. They moved toward him, opening a path through the press. Damon stepped into the gap and waved to the orchestra, which now fell silent. In the breathless quiet, he met the colorless gaze of the Patriarch of Ankhana.

  The Patriarch was a man of somewhat less than average size; his face was pale and heavily scored by the burdens he bore. Damon was personally aware that the Patriarch never spent less than twelve hours a day laboring at the business of the Empire–and those twelve-hour days often extended to twenty. The hair that strayed from beneath his flat cap of soft black velvet was the same neutral, undefinable grey brown as his eyes—eyes that now gazed upon Damon with the same expressionless dispassion they had held in the days when the Patriarch had been the Duke of Public Order.

  That had been before the Assumption of Ma'elKoth; in the chaos that followed the Emperor's transfiguration, the Duke of Public Order had seized the reins of power, bullying the nobility into confirming him as the Steward of the Empire. Shortly after solidifying his Stewardship, the former Duke had proclaimed the Doctrine of elKothan Supremacy and had named himself the first Patriarch of the Church of the Beloved Children of Ma'elKoth.

  By acting always in the name of the Divine Ma'elKoth, the Patriarch had gathered to himself greater political power than the Emperor Himself had wielded; Damon privately considered that Toa-Sytell, former Duke, now Steward and Patriarch, was the most dangerous man alive.

  "Your Radiance; Damon said in a tone of flatly correct courtesy. He did not genuflect, or even offer the slightest incline of his head for a bow; he was the sovereign of this tiny nation bounded by the embassy wails, and he owed no obsequence to any invader. "I presume there is some explanation for this outrageous conduct. Your armed invasion of these premises, and your detention of Monastic citizens by threat of force, are acts of war."

  Toa-Sytell's only response was a slight preliminary compression of the lips.

  Damon drew himself up and said with clipped, ominous precision, "You are not the first ruler to delude himself into believing he had the power to violate Monastic sovereignty."

  "I apologize; the Patriarch said blandly. "No one has been harmed, and it was not the Empire's intention to give offense. The Empire does not invade. The Empire does not attack. Those detained will be released, once it can be established that they are Monastic citizens in truth, and not terrorist criminals engaged in high treason against the Empire: offenses against God Himself. The matter will be explained fully in Our formal apology to the Council of Brothers. Perhaps we could continue this discussion in your office, Excellency?"

  "Perhaps His Radiance could explain now, in the presence of all here," Damon said grimly, "how he could come to believe that one of my Vice-Ambassadors might not be a Monastic citizen?"

  The Patriarch did not so much as glance at the breathless crowd that hung upon his every word. "The woman calling herself t'Passe of Narnen Hill," he said imperturbably, "has associated herself with Cainists, and has herself been heard to espouse political views tantamount to Cainism."

  This brought gasps and indignant whispers from the assembly—the astonishing effrontery of this man, Patriarch or no—and a number of outraged and disbelieving looks directed both at the Patriarch and at his attending Grey Cats.

  Damon's face remained impassive, but inwardly he raged at his underling for her foolishly idealistic nature, and at himself for forbearing to beat that out of her. He said calmly, "This would be disturbing, if true—but only disturbing, not criminal. To the best of my knowledge, holding Cainist views does not constitute high treason."

  "The best of your knowledge," the Patriarch said, with a quiet exactitude that touched on subtle irony, "is sadly out of date."

  He let those words fall into the silence for a long, long moment.

  "On this, the Eve of Saint Berne, let it be known: There is no safety for the enemies of God. Traitors and terrorist criminals cannot take shelter behind diplomatic convention. When the welfare of the Beloved Children of Ma'elKoth is threatened, even Our well-known respect for Monastic dignity must give way. Monastic sovereignty is temporal; the power of Ma'elKoth eternal. Ma'elKoth is supreme!"

 
The Patriarch, the Household Knights and every Grey Cat struck their chests with closed fists, as though each drove a dagger into his own heart, and then opened their hands as though offering their hearts' blood to their Lord: the primary gesture of their faith.

  Toa-Sytell nodded briskly to Damon and limped beyond him toward the doors that led into the embassy's interior, rocking from side to side on his crippled leg. As he passed, he said softly, "Your office, Damon. Now." Four Household Knights trailed in his wake.

  Damon stood motionless for an endless second, his mind boiling; finally he pulled himself together enough to speak.

  "This matter," he said, not loudly but with a crisp, penetrating tone so that all could hear, "is between the Empire and the Monasteries, and shall be settled as such. Let it not interfere with your evening's entertainment." He waved to the conductor, and the orchestra struck up a sprightly reel. Without waiting to see if anyone would actually join the dance, Damon turned and followed the Patriarch.

  Before he left the ballroom, he signaled to six of the embassy's security staff. All six were Esoterics, each man a specialist in personal combat against an armored opponent. He had no illusions that he or his embassy could survive a violent encounter with the might of the Empire—but he intended to ensure that the Patriarch would not survive it either. If he could not settle this matter peacefully, it would be settled in blood.

  5

  Toa-Sytell eased his aching joints in the high-backed chair at Damon's enormous, scarred writing table in the Ambassador's office. One hand massaged his crippled knee, while with the other he held a snifter of fine Tinnaran brandy he'd found in a chest beside the table. He took a long, delightfully aromatic sip and gazed across the snifter's lip at Damon, a slight tilt of his head taking the place of a smile. "Are you certain you won't join me?"

  The Acting Ambassador only stared at him stonily.

  Toa-Sytell sighed. "Oh, unbend a little, Damon. I'm sorry for the show in the ballroom. That was only to make a point it's a tale that will spread far beyond the Empire's borders before the week is out, as was intended. Meanwhile, I'll let your people go, and the Church will pay whatever reparations the Council requires. All right? I will exonerate your underlings, and deliver a formal apology for the affront to your office—with the codicil that had your people been found to be Cainists, they would have received the same Imperial justice meted out to all enemies of God. But that's only a detail. Have a drink."

  Damon released a long breath, shaking his head, but he stepped over to the liquor cabinet, took a glass, and poured himself three fingers of Korish cactus whiskey. "I cannot say what the Council's response to this will be," he said, "but they have ever been open to reparations; they will want war no more than does the Empire."

  Toa-Sytell nodded approval and waved his snifter at the furnishings of the office: an expensive array of delicately carved hardwoods, in the light and airy open style that defined recent Ankhanan craftsmanship. "I see you still have Creele's furniture."

  Damon shrugged. "I am only Acting Ambassador. I have no authority to make changes."

  "Mmm, yes—no one really trusts you, do they? None of the Council factions has the power to get their own toady in here, and so they leave you in place: perhaps the only honest man in the Monastic diplomatic corps." Toa-Sytell found himself chuckling at the thought of an honest ambassador. "I've always admired you, do you know that?"

  His friendly tone had its effect: the tension began to drain out of Damon's face, and the Acting Ambassador lowered himself onto a lovely embroidered settee. The wariness was still there, but wariness was acceptable, so long as Damon was relaxed enough not to do something foolish—such as order those friars outside to attack the Household Knights who guarded the doorway. Toa-Sytell wondered in passing if Damon might be feeling as much disappointment as relief; the Ambassador had clearly nerved himself up for a noble martyrdom.

  "Honesty is not such a virtue," Damon said tiredly. He took a sip of his whiskey and went on. "I tell the truth because that is my nature. I don't incline to the lie. It's like the color of my hair, or my height: neither good nor bad. It simply is."

  "Mm, you just do what you do, is that it?" Toa-Sytell murmured, mildly amused. "That makes you sound like a bit of a Cainist yourself." Damon grunted, and shook his head. "I'm not political."

  "Neither are they, to hear them tell it. They're philosophical."

  Damon's mouth set into a grim line. "You should tell me why you've come here. I shouldn't think it's to discuss the finer points of Cainism."

  "Well, my friend, there you would be wrong," Toa-Sytell said. He drained his snifter and poured himself another drink before continuing. "Tomorrow is the Feast of Saint Berne. Assumption Day is only three months away, Damon. This will be the seventh Festival of the Assumption, by the will of Ma'elKoth."

  He lifted the glass to the small elKothan shrine that occupied one corner of the office and drank to his god. "It will be the single most important day of my Patriarchy. There are those, among the more gullible of Our Beloved Children, who expect Ma'elKoth Himself to return on that day."

  Damon nodded. "I've heard this tale."

  "It is only a tale," Toa-Sytell said. "The Ascended Ma'elKoth will not return in the body; He is transcendent, immanent, omnipresent. He has no need of a physical form. But the Empire, on the other hand—the Empire has a great need for a flawless Festival of the Assumption, do you understand? It is crucial symbolism of the doctrine of elKothan supremacy." Glass in hand, he made a gestural sketch of offering his heart's blood toward the shrine.

  "I begin to see," Damon said. "You expect that Cainists will attempt to interfere."

  "Of course they will," Toa-Sytell said wearily. "How can they not? The opportunity is too good to resist. To disrupt the Festival seems a small enough matter—but to make the Imperial Church appear weak and foolish threatens the very existence of the Empire."

  Once again, he drained his glass. He told himself he should not have another; he was so tired the brandy was already making his head swim. The room seemed to press in more closely around him, and the air became thicker, harder to breathe.

  "By the Festival, Cainism will be only a memory; whatever Cainists who survive will be too worried about living out the day to risk embarrassing the Imperial Church. I've been lax, Damon. I've let them go too far, and they have become bold. Now they must be crushed before they do us real harm."

  Damon's response was a grim stare. Toa-Sytell often surmised that the Ambassador had personal reservations about the value of the Empire in the pursuit of the Monasteries' overall goal of ensuring the permanent ascendance of humanity; he was consistently silent on the subject. The Council of Brothers openly supported the Empire as humankind's brightest hope. Damon's steadfast devotion to the Monasteries wouldn't let him publicly disagree with the Council, but his fundamental bedrock of honesty wouldn't let him pretend to agree—and so he never said anything at all.

  Toa-Sytell sighed and poured himself another brandy. It was unexpectedly relaxing, to sit here with a man who—though not quite a friend—was someone he had no need to manipulate, with whom he was not required to maintain his exhausting facade of Patriarchal infallibility. He decided that once he finished his business here, he would go straight back to the Colhari Palace and sleep until dawn. "Do you know," he said slowly, "that it was in this very room that I first met him? Caine. Right here."

  "I recall," Damon said grimly.

  "Of course, of course. You were here, weren't you?"

  Their eyes met, and they shared a glance that skated across the open expanse of carpet between them. Nearly seven years ago, they had stood in this room and watched Ambassador Creele lie on that carpet as the light slowly faded within his eyes: as his heart failed, after Caine had broken his neck.

  Toa-Sytell often wondered how the world might be different today, if he had done the wise thing that night ordered Caine shot down like the mad dog he so obviously was. "It's because of him that you have this
post," he mused. "You took the Acting Ambassadorship after he murdered Creele—"

  "Executed him," Damon said firmly.

  Toa-Sytell ignored the correction. "In fact, it's because of him that you still have it. When you testified on the murder before the Council, neither Creele's friends nor his enemies liked what you had to say. You ended up in the middle, with both sides against you—a precarious position, but you have proved to possess exceptional balance."

  "I told the truth," Damon said with a shrug; then he cocked his head curiously. "How do you know of my testimony? Proceedings of the Council of Brothers are—"

  "Secret, yes, yes," Toa-Sytell said, waving the question aside. "I simply find it a subject for curious contemplation, from time to time. Caine himself truly was the precise definition of evil, as he is named by the Church: an indiscriminate slaughterer who cared nothing for the lives he shattered in the pursuit of whatever happened to catch his fancy of the moment. He betrayed Our Lord, yet it was through his betrayal that Ma'elKoth was transfigured. He crippled me—shattered my knee beyond even magickal repair, so that I am reminded of him by the pain that wrenches my every step—yet gave me rulership of the Ankhanan Empire. He sparked riots that nearly burned the city to the ground, civil war—the First Succession War as well as the Second, in fact."

  Toa-Sytell's chest clutched with suddenly remembered grief; Tashinel and Jarrothe, his sons whom he had loved beyond all measure, his only children, had died in the First Succession War. He shook this aside—it was an old, familiar pain, flooding back now on a rising tide of alcohol—and went on. "Yet he also saved Ankhana at the Battle of Ceraeno. His murders were countless . . . but one cannot forget that he also did our land the very great favor of killing that madman Berne."

  "It's your Church that names Berne a saint," Damon pointed out.