At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  Green Tree Island had long been a place of refuge, and many a would-be refugee had paid a steep price to reach it. The Straits of Queiroz, which separated it from the Harchongese province of the same name, were almost two hundred miles wide. That was enough to pose a formidable challenge, and over the centuries, hundreds—probably thousands—of Harchongese serfs and their children had drowned trying to cross it. But other thousands had succeeded, fleeing the Empire’s repressive regime, and they and their descendants had emerged with the kind of stubborn independence that sort of test engendered. They were, he thought, quite possibly the only people he’d ever met who were even stubborner—in their own very Harchongese way—than Zhasyn Cahnyr’s Glacierhearters. The flow had eased considerably over the last century or so, as the institution of serfdom had lost much of its rigor in South Harchong. But there’d still been a steady trickle, including hundreds of serfs who’d somehow made their way south from North Harchong, where the institution remained at least as harsh as it ever had been. No one knew exactly how the story of Green Tree had made its way into the folklore of those brutalized serfs, but somehow it had, and as the jihad’s intensity grew and worsened, the refugee volume had begun growing again.

  The authorities in Queiroz Province were just as happy to funnel every refugee they could straight through to Green Tree, even though they were fully aware that many of them had fled the land to which they were legally bound in perpetuity. For that matter, they were equally well aware that a very high percentage of the male refugees were fleeing—with their families in many cases; by themselves in most—involuntary service with the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels.

  In Cyfiawnder’s opinion, that said some really interesting things about the provincial governor and his staff. South Harchong had never been especially sympathetic to its northern compatriots’ savage abuse of its serfs. Indeed, quite a few of its more powerful merchant and banking families were quietly agitating to have the institution completely abolished, at least in the southern half of the Empire. But serfdom remained the official law of the land and powerful North Harchongese nobles were vociferous in their demands that any escaped serfs be seized and “repatriated” … where they were inevitably turned into object lessons for the benefit of their fellow serfs, and Cyfiawnder made another mental note to have Nahrmahn and Owl take a closer look at Queiroz’s internal dynamics. If its administrators were prepared to turn that blind an eye to that sort of traffic, who knew what else they might be prepared to ignore?

  More to the immediate point, however, the Sisters of Saint Kohdy had infiltrated—or, more accurately, co-opted—St. Kahrmyncetah’s Abbey over two hundred years ago. Not because they’d seen any tactical or strategic advantage in it, but because one of their number who was also a Pasqualate had been assigned as the abbey’s mother superior and been allowed to select a half-dozen assistants to accompany her to her new posting. She’d seen no reason not to take advantage of the opportunity, and the Sisterhood had effectively controlled the abbey ever since. When the plan to rescue Earl Thirsk’s family had first been discussed, Aivah Pahrsahn had been quick to suggest that St. Kahrmyncetah’s would be a perfect place to hide them away. After all, they’d hardly be the first refugees she’d hidden there. And not only was the abbey isolated, the sparsely settled island’s inhabitants provided a defense in depth against any outsider.

  Like all Pasqualate abbeys and monasteries, St. Kahrmyncetah’s was as much hospital as house of worship, and the sisters had cared for the islanders for centuries. They midwifed their births, nursed them and their children through illnesses, and buried them in Mother Church, and the islanders repaid their care with a fierce devotion. The fact that St. Kahrmyncetah’s sisters’ version of the Church of God Awaiting was more “humanist”—and far, far gentler—than the one in which the islanders or their parents and grandparents had been reared didn’t hurt one bit, either. Nor did the fact that they remembered the oppression they’d fled, which meant any outsider would meet an automatic conspiracy of silence if he started asking questions about anyone on Green Tree, much less about the sisters.

  Given how vital it was to prevent Zhaspahr Clyntahn from ever suspecting that Thirsk’s daughters and grandchildren were alive, concealment was the order of the day. And hiding them someplace they could live almost normal lives, confident no one would recognize them or report them to the Inquisition, had been almost equally important in the inner circle’s eyes. Cayleb and Sharleyan truly had no intention of holding their safety over Earl Thirsk’s head, and sending them to St. Kahrmyncetah’s—where their only “guards” were nuns sworn to a healing order—had struck them as the best way to make that point to Stefyny and her sisters and, especially, to their children, as well.

  And it’s not as if they’re completely unprotected, either, he reminded himself.

  Concealment was their best defense, and the only one that would keep the earl himself alive, but Ahbnair Truskyt, St. Kahrmyncetah’s chief gardener and handyman, was more than he seemed. As a member of Helm Cleaver who’d attracted the Inquisition’s attention just a bit too closely, he’d found it expedient to emigrate from the Temple Lands when he was much younger, and Nynian Rychtyr had sent him here almost twenty years ago. He’d overseen the abbey’s physical security ever since, and Zhustyn Kyndyrmyn, his “assistant gardener” had once been a sergeant in the Temple Guard.

  Unfortunately for the Temple Guard, Kyndyrmyn had become thoroughly disgusted by some of the things the Guard had been called upon to do in the Inquisition’s service. The true turning point for him had come when he’d been required to falsify the report of his investigation into the death of young Dahnyld Mahkbyth on the direct orders of Wyllym Rayno. He and Sergeant Ahrloh Mahkbyth had been friends for over seven years at the time, and he’d longed to tell Ahrloh the truth about how his little boy had died. He’d known Ahrloh too well, though, and Zhulyet Mahkbyth had needed her husband alive. So Kyndyrmyn had kept his mouth shut, but his rage had slowly, slowly eaten him up inside, and hard though he’d tried to hide it, that festering anger had been evident to his platoon commander. Indeed, that anger—though the lieutenant hadn’t known its source—had led him to ask his battalion CO to have a word with the sergeant, see if he could get Kyndyrmyn to open up before whatever demon was riding him destroyed him. And that battalion CO had been a young auxiliary bishop, not yet a vicar, named Hauwerd Wylsynn.

  Hauwerd had always been the sort of officer who attracted the trust and loyalty of men under his command, and he’d been a Wylsynn. That combination had been enough to convince Kyndyrmyn to open up, and that was how Hauwerd and Samyl’s circle of reformers first learned the truth about the carriage accident and Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s intervention to suppress the investigation into it. Kyndyrmyn had been astonished by Hauwerd’s reaction to his bitter charges of corruption at the Inquisition’s highest levels, and even more when Hauwerd asked him to write up an accurate version of his report for the files the reformers were assembling in hopes of someday bringing Clyntahn down.

  That had never happened, unfortunately, but the same reports had drawn Nynian Rychtyr’s attention to the sergeant, and he’d been quietly recruited for Helm Cleaver … which was probably the only reason he was still alive. When Clyntahn purged the Wylsynns, Nynian had whisked Kyndyrmyn and half a dozen other members of the Guard who’d been too close to Hauwerd out of Zion and sent them to places of safety. Three of them—four, counting Kyndyrmyn—had ended up at St. Kahrmyncetah’s, where they were safely out of sight and simultaneously provided Truskyt with a few trained soldiers.

  It’s not like they could stand off any sort of organized assault, Cyfiawnder acknowledged. They’re certainly able to look after Thirsk’s family, and especially to keep an eye on the kids, though. He shook his head, lips twitching on the brink of a smile. Their parents know to keep their heads down, but that’s a little harder to explain to kids, so I’m in favor of giving them all the babysitters—especially tough, competent babysitters
—we can find! And if it comes to anything more serious than that, I can trust Ahbnair and Zhustyn to at least get them all out from under long enough for one of the “mysterious seijins” to swoop in and get them the hell out of Dodge.

  Of course, the temptation to smile faded, if that ever happens, it’s probably going to mean Thirsk is dead. I never thought that would be a good idea, and judging from his conversation with Maik, it would be an even worse idea now! Besides, I like that man … and his family. And it’s about goddamned time I got to keep someone alive instead of killing them for a change!

  .II.

  City of Zion,

  The Temple Lands.

  “I don’t think you should go, Krys.” Alahnah Bahrns shook her head without ever looking up from her sketchpad, but her expression was worried. “Things are getting so … crazy. There’s no telling what might happen!”

  “Someone has to go,” Krystahl Bahrns said stubbornly. “You’re right—things are getting crazy, and somebody has to do something about it!”

  Alahnah looked up from the hat design she’d been sketching, and her brown eyes were somber. She looked across the table at her cousin and tapped the tabletop with the point of her pencil.

  “Maybe somebody has to do something,” the words came out in time with the tapping, “but it doesn’t have to be you, and Uncle Gahstahn’s already worried about you. Don’t you dare go and make it worse!”

  “I know Daddy’s worried, and I don’t like it. But he knows as well as I do that Mother Church needs all her sons and daughters to stand up for what’s right. He taught us that, Alahnah!”

  Her eyes held Alahnah’s until the other woman was forced to nod. Gahstahn Bahrns had become Alahnah’s second father after his younger brother, her own fisherman father, drowned in a Lake Pei gale. And he had, indeed, taught both his niece and his own daughter the devotion Mother Church and the Archangels deserved from all of their children. But that had been before the world went mad, and now was not the time to be drawing that madness’ attention to oneself.

  “Yes, he did, but you’re talking about criticizing the Inquisition, Krystahl. That’s never a good idea, and it’s a lot worse one right now.”

  “We’re not talking about criticizing the Inquisition,” her cousin replied. “We’re talking about asking for a little … moderation. And we’re going to be just as respectful as we possibly can in our petition. And Langhorne himself said in the Holy Writ that any of God’s children always have the right to petition Mother Church so long as they do so respectfully and reverently.”

  Alahnah bit her lip and looked back down at her sketch, smoothing one of the lines with the ball of her thumb to buy time while she considered what to say next. It felt odd to be the voice of caution, since Krystahl was five years older than she was and had always been the sober, sensible one when they were girls. But she also cared about things—she cared a lot—and once she had the bit between her teeth where that passion for justice was concerned she was hard to stop.

  But someone needed to talk some sense into her. Bédard knew Alahnah agreed that “moderation” was in short supply in Zion these days. But that was the entire point. The Inquisition had grown progressively sterner as the Jihad wore on, and over the past few months some of its agents inquisitor had started making sure their arrests were widely publicized. In fact, she thought grimly, they were deliberately making examples in an effort to quell any public discontent with the course of the Jihad, and Langhorne help anyone who sounded as if he blamed the Grand Inquisitor—or any other member of the vicarate—for how badly things were going.

  And then there were those whispered rumors about the arrests that weren’t made public. About people who just … disappeared.

  And that dreadful Fist of God isn’t making things one bit better, she thought fretfully. What do those people think they’re doing?! I don’t approve of everything that’s happening any more than Krys does, but that doesn’t give anyone the right to go around murdering consecrated priests and even vicars! No wonder the Inquisition’s getting so strict. I would too if I were the one who’s supposed to catch those terrorists!

  “Krys,” she said finally, “you’re right about what Langhorne said. But he never said a Jihad wouldn’t change things! With everything that’s going on, with how bad things are in Siddarmark if even half the reports are true,” her lip quivered briefly in remembered pain, but she made her gaze hold her cousin’s steadily, “don’t you think the Inquisition needs to be stricter? Needs to stay on top of the sorts of rumors and accusations that support the heretics?”

  “Last five-day, they arrested Sharyn Lywkys,” Krystahl said quietly, and Alahnah inhaled sharply.

  Sharyn Lywkys? That was … that was ridiculous! She and Krystahl had gone to school with Sharyn, they’d been friends since childhood. And if there was a single person in Zion who was more devout, more dedicated to God and the Archangels, than Sharyn, Alahnah didn’t know who it could possibly be.

  “It has to be a mistake. I mean, it just has to be!”

  “That’s my entire point. Lots of ‘mistakes’ seem to be getting made, and people are getting hurt. Innocent people.”

  “Well, what did they tell Madam Lywkys after Sharyn was arrested?”

  “Nothing.” Krystahl’s expression was grim, her hazel eyes dark.

  “Nothing?!”

  “She went to the parish office and asked about Sharyn, but the local agents inquisitor said they didn’t know anything about it. They promised they’d find out where she was, why she’d been arrested. But they haven’t yet, and her mother’s been back to the office twice since then. The last time she was there one of the lay brother agents inquisitor told her very quietly—she says he looked like he was afraid someone might overhear him—that she should go home and wait without making trouble that could have … consequences.”

  Alahnah swallowed hard. She’d heard the rumors that people were simply disappearing, but she knew now she hadn’t truly believed them. Not until this very moment. But as she looked into her cousin’s eyes, she knew it was true … and that was wrong. The Writ required the Inquisition to at least tell the family of anyone it took into custody where he or she was and why they’d been arrested, no matter what that person might have been accused of doing.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she admitted after a long, tense moment. “But if they could arrest someone like Sharyn—if they could make that kind of mistake—then they could arrest you, too, Krys!”

  “I haven’t done anything against the Writ, and I’m not going to,” Krystahl fired back, her head tilted at a stubborn angle Alahnah knew only too well. “Sebahstean and I checked Scripture very carefully before we decided to organize the petition drive. We’ve fulfilled every requirement, and it’s not like we’re going to be issuing any demands or anything! Besides, everyone says Vicar Rhobair’s a good man. Down at the shelters, they’re starting to call him ‘Saint Rhobair,’ for goodness sake! He won’t let anything bad happen to us if we only ask him reverently and respectfully to … to look into what’s been happening.”

  Alahnah bit her lip, her eyes more worried than ever. It was true that Rhobair Duchairn was undoubtedly the most beloved and respected member of the entire vicarate here in Zion, and she never doubted that he was the good man Krystahl had just called him. For that matter, his position as Mother Church’s Treasurer was the third most powerful in the entire Church hierarchy. But there were those rumors …

  Alahnah was always very careful never to use the term “Group of Four” to anyone under any circumstances, but she knew what it referred to. And if it really existed—and she thought it did—then Vicar Rhobair was only one member of it … and not the one in charge of the Inquisition.

  “I think it’s a mistake, Krys,” she said. “And with all due respect, Sebahstean’s not exactly the most … cautious person we know. For that matter, you know how he tends to obsess over things like rules. Remember when he and I used to play chess all the time! Uncl
e Gahstahn didn’t call him the ‘local law master’ because he was reasonable about things, you know!”

  “I read the same passages he did, and ‘local law master’ or not, he’s right this time.”

  “You’re going to do this, whatever I say, aren’t you?”

  “Somebody has to,” Krystahl repeated. “Mother Church ‘is a great beacon, God’s own lamp, set upon a mighty hill in Zion to be the reflector of His majesty and power, that she might give her Light to all the world and drive back the shadows of the Dark. Be sure that you keep the chimney of that lamp pure and holy, clean and unblemished, free of spot or stain.’” Alahnah’s heart sank as her cousin quoted the Archangel Bédard. “That’s what we’re doing, and that’s all we’re doing.” Krystahl’s spine straightened and she squared her shoulders with an odd mixture of devotion and defiance. “It’s all we’re doing … and it’s also the least we can do.”

  * * *

  “Do you have a minute, My Lord?”

  Zakryah Ohygyns looked up from the latest report and the ruby ring of his episcopal rank glittered as he beckoned with his right hand.

  “At the moment, I’d welcome a distraction,” he said wryly, pointing at a chair on the other side of his desk. “I know I officially have to sign off on all these reports, but do you think the Grand Inquisitor really needs to know how many copies of the Book of Sondheim we have in the borough library?”

  “Probably not,” Father Erek Blantyn said, but his smile was less amused than it might have been, and Ohygyns felt his stomach tighten in reflex reaction.