by David Weber
Of course, those “contacts” of Mykylhny’s have to know Rayno’s keeping a very close eye on them, the treasurer reflected. That’s probably what Allayn meant about “aren’t telling him”—if they’ve got working brains, anyway! The question is what I tell him.…
“I think you’re right,” he said after a long moment. “And whatever it is, it scares the hell out of Zhaspahr.”
“Really?” Maigwair rubbed his chin. “I admit, I thought he looked a little … squirrely at our last meeting. I couldn’t decide whether it was because of whatever happened at St. Thyrmyn’s or the way Hanth’s driving Rychtyr back into Dohlar.” He shook his head. “He didn’t even gloat at me over how that ‘confirms the heretics’ are positioning themselves for their southern strategic shift.”
“I was a bit surprised by that myself,” Duchairn admitted. “On the other hand, however pleased he may be by the evidence that his ‘Rakurai’ brought us good information, he’s still unhappy as Shan-wei about the Dohlaran situation.” The treasurer shrugged. “On the one hand, he thinks it proves he was right; on the other, we’re still only in the early stages of the redeployment, and he’s afraid they’re going to succeed before we can get all the pieces moved around. I think he’s feeling some serious doubts about how … firmly committed to the Jihad, let’s say, Dohlar is. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t already taken Thirsk completely off the board, especially now that the Inquisition’s lost its … leverage with him. I expect he would’ve, if he wasn’t so worried about how the Dohlaran Navy might react. They’re not too happy about what happened to their commanding admiral’s family already, and only the ones too dumb to pour piss out of a boot haven’t figured out the real reason his daughters and grandchildren were being sent to Zion ‘for their own safety.’”
Both vicars grimaced in matching distaste.
“But Dohlar isn’t what has him running scared,” Duchairn continued. “I don’t know exactly what happened at St. Thyrmyn’s, but I do know you’re right that it must’ve been disastrous, whatever it was.”
“You know that?” Maigwair turned his head to look at his fellow vicar. “How?”
“I’m sure you’ve realized by now that I don’t keep Major Phandys around just because I’m so fond of him,” Duchairn replied a bit obliquely, his tone dry, and Maigwair snorted.
“I am still the Temple Guard’s official commanding officer,” he said. “And, as a matter of fact, I know exactly why Major Phandys was assigned to your detail, since I was the one who signed off on that assignment when Rayno ‘suggested’ it.” He actually looked embarrassed for a moment, then shrugged. “He doesn’t report directly to me anymore—hasn’t in quite a while, actually—but I don’t doubt for a moment that he’s still Zhaspahr’s dagger inside your staff, Rhobair. I trust you’re keeping that in mind?”
“Since my brain still functions, at least on odd-numbered days, yes, I am.” Duchairn’s tone was even drier than it had been. “On the other hand, every so often the Major can be worth having around.” Maigwair arched his eyebrows in polite disbelief, and Duchairn chuckled harshly. “Oh, not because he means to be! Although, to be fair,” he added judiciously, “I think he’s perfectly prepared to keep me in one piece against threats that don’t come out of the Inquisition. And against those sorts of threats, he’s actually a very competent fellow.”
Maigwair nodded, and Duchairn shrugged.
“Anyway, I’ve discovered I can use him as a sounding board in some ways. His poker face isn’t quite as good as he thinks it is, and his reactions to things I say sometimes offer me an insight into what Rayno’s been discussing with him. And every so often some little tidbit of information oozes out of him without his realizing it. And because it does, I know—or at least strongly suspect—something Zhaspahr hasn’t seen fit to share with us.”
“About what happened in the prison?” Maigwair asked intently.
“Not directly.” Duchairn shook his head. “But what Zhaspahr hasn’t told you or me—or even Zhasyn, for that matter—is that his agents inquisitor took a member of the ‘Fist of God’ alive a couple of five-days ago.”
“What?” Maigwair’s eyes widened. “Are you sure about that?”
“Almost positive,” Duchairn said firmly. “Of course, the Inquisition might be wrong about their suspicions, but that’s certainly who they thought they’d caught. It was that arrest in Sondheimsborough—the milliner and her staff.”
“Mistress Marzho?” Maigwair’s tone was equal parts incredulous and disgusted, and it was Duchairn’s turn to arch an inquiring eyebrow. “My wife’s been one of her clients for the last ten years.” The captain general shrugged. “That’s probably true of a quarter of the vicarate, for that matter! I’d assumed that was one reason Rayno’s publicized the arrests so energetically. I’m sure everyone on her client list is looking over his shoulder, peering into his closet, and going feverishly over all his correspondence for the last thirty years or so to see if there’s anything he needs to worry about. Langhorne knows she’ll denounce anyone Zhaspahr wants denounced in the end.” He shook his head, his eyes dark. “They always do … just like they always confess. And if they don’t, Rayno and his bastards will lie about it, just like they did about Manthyr.”
Duchairn nodded, although he was a bit surprised by Maigwair’s frankness—and, especially, the specific mention of what had happened to Gwylym Manthyr—even now. The fate of the Charisian prisoners Dohlar had surrendered to the Inquisition must rankle even more with the other vicar than he’d realized.
Well, whatever else he may be—or may have been—Allayn’s a soldier at heart and always has been. Of course that had to rankle. And you’ve already figured out he’s not as stupid as you always liked to think he was. Maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised that he’s ashamed when Mother Church tortures honorably surrendered prisoners to death … and the “heretics” don’t.
“That’s not why they were arrested,” he said softly.
“Oh, don’t tell me Mistress Marzho is a heretic!” Maigwair looked as if he wanted to spit on the office floor. “I’ve met the woman, Rhobair! If she’s a heretic, then I’m Harchongese!”
“I don’t know about the state of her soul, but according to a minor indiscretion on Major Phandys’ part—one which would probably get him toasted over a slow fire if Rayno knew about it—both she and her assistant were agents of the ‘Fist of God.’”
“That’s ridiculous!” Maigwair snapped, but his expression was suddenly more troubled, and Duchairn shrugged.
“I didn’t say the Inquisition was right about that; I only said that’s what they were arrested for. Of course, we both know Zhaspahr and Rayno aren’t exactly noted for granting anyone the benefit of the doubt these days, but I’m about as confident as I could be without a signed memo from Zhaspahr that that’s exactly what they thought they had on their hands. Apparently, there’s some actual corroborating evidence this time, too. Something about one of them trying to poison herself when the Inquisition turned up at the shop.”
“Langhorne,” Maigwair murmured, his eyes more troubled than ever, and Duchairn nodded slowly.
That’s right, Allayn. Think about it. I never met this Marzho, but you obviously thought she was a good and godly woman. So if she really was a member of the “terrorists” killing our fellow vicars, what does that say about the rest of them? Or, for that matter, for just how well—and where—that “rest of them” might be hidden?
“At any rate, Zhaspahr had both of them taken off to St. Thyrmyn’s, where he could be positive of his security. And, probably, be confident you and I wouldn’t get wind of his accomplishment until he was ready to spring it on us at a time and a place of his own choosing.”
“That’s exactly what he would do, isn’t it?” Maigwair granted sourly.
“Of course it is. But that’s why I’m sure something truly disastrous must’ve happened at the prison. He’s had them in custody for the better part of four five-days, and he hasn�
�t called us in to crow about it yet.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have anything to crow about yet,” Maigwair suggested.
“Allayn, if there was any connection at all between these women and anyone Zhaspahr’s put on his ‘needs killing’ list, we’d’ve heard about it by now. Do you really think anyone could spend that long under the Question without giving up something Zhaspahr could at least spin to suit his purposes?”
“No,” Maigwair shook his head, his expression grim. “No, of course not.”
“Well, he hasn’t released them, the Inquisition hasn’t publicly confirmed why they were arrested in the first place, and according to a couple of my lay brother clerks in the Treasury—we’re responsible for St. Thyrmyn’s operating expenses, so there’s some contact between my people and theirs—no one’s seen Bahltahzyr Vekko or that poisonous bastard Hahpyr in at least a five-day. When I heard that, I asked a few quiet questions of my own. Nothing heavy-handed, of course, but I ‘accidentally’ ran into Rayno day before yesterday and, while we were chatting, I mentioned that I needed the monthly spreadsheets from St. Thyrmyn’s for February and March. It’s a fairly large budget item, probably the Inquisition’s second or third single largest expense, and they frequently get behind on their accounting and need a little nudge, so it’s hardly the first time I’ve mentioned it to him. Usually, he rolls his eyes and promises to look into it, but it still takes a five-day or two to get me the numbers. This time he just brushed it off, though, so I offered to have my people contact Vekko’s staff directly. He didn’t like that idea at all. He didn’t say so, but Wyllym’s not quite as good at fooling me as he thinks he is, and he was just a bit too hearty about assuring me he’d personally see that I got the needed paperwork.”
He shrugged again.
“Given his reaction, Zhaspahr’s continued silence about one of his greatest triumphs, and Vekko and Hahpyr’s … non-appearance, I’m forced to conclude that something nasty must have happened to the prison. Something nasty enough Zhaspahr’s decided to keep it completely quiet. Oh, and by the way—the spreadsheets arrived in my offices that very afternoon, over Vekko’s signature. But, you know, Treasury’s very good at detecting forgeries.”
“It wasn’t his signature? That’s what you’re saying?”
“Not unless he’s taken to making both ‘k’s in his last name the same height. Since he hadn’t done that a single time in the last seventy years or so—I checked against an expense voucher in his file that goes all the way back to 856, as well as more recent examples of his signature—it seems unlikely he should suddenly change now. I spent five years in Treasury’s forgery division as an under-priest, you know. Or maybe you didn’t,” he acknowledged, recognizing the surprise in the other man’s expression. “It’s been quite a while, and no doubt I’m a little rusty, but I can still recognize a falsified signature when I see one. It’s not a big thing, but I’m positive someone else signed the documents with his name. Which, coupled with the fact that they arrived so promptly.…”
He shrugged, his eyes cold.
“Langhorne,” Maigwair said again, clasping his arms across his chest while he stared out the frosty window. “But what could have happened?” he murmured, as much to himself as to Duchairn. “I never met Hahpyr—I’d heard about him, of course—and I’m just as happy I haven’t. But I know Vekko. Always makes me feel like there’s fresh dog shit on the sole of my shoe when I’m in the same room with him, but he’s a tough old bastard, and unlike certain inquisitors you and I could name, he’s always seemed more concerned with the Inquisition’s mission than its powerbase. God knows I won’t miss either of them if something has happened to them, but what could cause both of them to suddenly disappear?”
“Now that, Allayn, is an excellent question. And while you’re pondering it, you might want to consider another minor point, too.”
“And what would that be?” Maigwair asked, regarding the other Vicar warily.
“The St. Thyrmyn’s crematorium’s been awfully busy the last few days,” Duchairn said very, very quietly. Maigwair’s nostrils flared, and it was Duchairn’s turn to turn away, gazing out the window. “You and I both know the Inquisition’s used that crematorium to dispose of a lot of … inconvenient mistakes over the years. One heap of ashes is very like another, after all. But it’s been operating steadily for almost a full five-day now, and my people at Treasury just got a supplemental invoice for an awful lot of fuel. One hell of a lot more than they’d need to get rid of two or three women who’d been arrested by mistake.”
“You’re suggesting everyone on the prison staff is dead?” Duchairn suspected Maigwair would have preferred to sound rather more incredulous than he did.
“I don’t know what happened any more than you do, Allayn. But something sure as hell did, and Zhaspahr’s not frothing at the mouth and demanding something be done about whatever it was, either. Instead, he and his pet viper are pulling out all the stops to sweep it under the rug. And whatever’s happened, it’s put the fear of Shan-wei into our good friend the Grand Inquisitor. I doubt it’ll keep him knocked off stride for very long—he’s a resilient, arrogant son-of-a-bitch who’s absolutely convinced things will work out the way he wants them to in the end, and I suspect a good Bédardist would find him a very interesting subject—but for right now, he’s had the shit scared out of him.”
“The question, of course,” the treasurer added with an almost whimsical smile, “is whether what’s scared the hell out of him should be scaring the hell out of you and me, too.”
.II.
Battery St. Thermyn,
Basset Island,
HMS Eraystor, 22;
HMS Destiny, 54;
and
HMS Hurricane, 60,
Saram Bay,
Province of Stene,
Harchong Empire.
“What’s that, Sir?”
Captain of Spears Thaidin Chinzhou looked up from the cup of tea cradled in his gloved hands at the question. Sergeant Yinkow Gaihin stood on the rampart, pointing out across Basset Channel. The early morning sun gilded Battery St. Thermyn in chill golden light, spilling down from a sky that was crystal-clear to the south and east but layered with steadily spreading, dramatic cloud coming down from the northwest. Chinzhou was a native of Stene Province, and he could almost smell the late-winter snow hiding in those clouds. It wouldn’t be that many more five-days before spring actually put in an appearance, but winter obviously wasn’t giving in without a fight.
He shook that thought aside, handed the teacup regretfully back to the private with the straw-wrapped demijohn of hot tea, and climbed the steps to Gaihin’s side.
“What’s what, Sergeant?”
He really tried not to sound testy, and Gaihin had been with him for the better part of a year now. He was also more than ten years older than his section commander, and he only twitched a shoulder apologetically and pointed again.
“That, Sir,” he said, and for the first time, the concern in his voice registered with the youthful captain of spears.
Chinzhou’s sun-dazzled eyes saw nothing for a moment and he stepped behind the sergeant, peering along the outstretched arm and pointing finger, shading his eyes with one hand. Still he saw nothing … but then he did, and his spine stiffened.
“That’s smoke, Sergeant,” he said very, very softly. “And it’s moving.”
* * *
A hand knocked sharply on the cabin door, and Admiral Caitahno Raisahndo looked up from his plate with a frown. He hated interruptions during breakfast. Especially during working breakfasts, which this one most assuredly was. The rumors about heretic shipping movements were enough to make anyone nervous … and especially the “anyone” who happened to have inherited command of the Western Squadron, the Kingdom of Dohlar’s sole remaining forward-deployed naval force in the Gulf of Dohlar. That squadron had been heavily reinforced since the Battle of the Kaudzhu Narrows, which was a good thing. But those rumors suggested the heretics had b
een reinforced even more heavily, and that could be a very bad thing.
Unfortunately, while the heretics’ spies and intelligence sources were clearly fiendishly—he tried very hard not to use the word “demonically” even in the privacy of his own thoughts—good, his own were … less good. All he had to go on were those rumors.
So far at least.
“Yes?” he called in response to the knock.
“Flag Lieutenant, Sir!” the sentry outside his day cabin announced, and Caitahno glanced at Commander Gahryth Kahmelka. Kahmelka was his chief of staff—and Raisahndo didn’t give much of a damn whether or not anyone approved of his adoption of the “heretical” Charisian term; it was too frigging useful a description and a function which had become self-evidently necessary—and the commander normally had a finger on the pulse of anything to do with the entire squadron. In this case, however, he only shrugged his own ignorance.
Fat lot of help that is, Raisandho thought, and raised his voice again.
“Enter!” he said, and a short, slender officer stepped into the cabin.
“Message from Captain Kharmahdy, Sir,” Lieutenant Ahrnahld Mahkmyn said, and extended an envelope.
“A written message?”
“Yes, Sir. It just came out from dockside in a boat.”
“I see.” Raisahndo accepted the envelope and looked at Kahmelka again, one eyebrow raised.
“No idea, Sir,” Kahmelka replied to the silent question. “Must be some reason he didn’t use signals, but damned if I can think of one.”
“Not one we’ll like, you mean,” Raisahndo said sourly, and Kahmelka’s answering snort was harsh. There’d been a lot of messages neither of them had liked in the months since the Kaudzhu Narrows action, and with Sir Dahrand Rohsail invalided home minus an arm and a leg, responsibility for dealing with those messages had devolved on one Caitahno Raisahndo.