At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  “So you are ‘reasonably confident’ of that now, I take it?” Mahkbyth tilted his head, his smile painfully tart, and Murphai snorted softly.

  “I may be a seijin, Ahrloh,” he said, using Mahkbyth’s given name rather than his Helm Cleaver codename, Barcor, “but I’m not omniscient. That said, I do have better sources than most, and none of them have seen any sign you’re being watched. And, frankly, you’re too big a fish to let you swim free in hopes you’d lead them to someone even more important. If Rayno or Wynchystair had a clue about who you really are, you’d’ve been arrested the instant you came back from that ‘business trip’ of yours. Which, I’d like to add, took one hell of a lot of guts.”

  “Maybe.” Mahkbyth shrugged. “It was the only way to be sure, and it’s not like I didn’t make my peace with the Archangels the day Arbalest recruited me. Oh, I’m not quite that blasé about it,” he added as Murphai raised one eyebrow, “and I’m not in a tearing hurry to make any personal reports in Heaven, either. But I decided then it was worth risking my life, and I haven’t changed my mind since. Mind you, I’d just as soon avoid the Question or the Punishment.”

  His expression wasn’t simply grim. It had turned cold and vicious with his last sentence, and he shifted his left hand slightly, catching the light on the opal-set golden ring he wore on it.

  “I don’t know how the bastards got to Bracelet and Castanet before they could poison themselves, but they’ll find it a right bitch to stop me.”

  “I’d just as soon it didn’t come to that, if that’s all right with you,” Murphai said. “Leaving aside the fact that Arbalest is very fond of you, we can’t really afford to lose you. Especially after the hit we’ve already taken.”

  “I passed the word as soon as I heard they’d been arrested,” Mahkbyth said heavily. “I didn’t have time to see whether or not everyone got it. For that matter, if any of us were under suspicion, talking to the others wouldn’t have been the very smartest thing we could’ve done.”

  “No, it wouldn’t have. And, as of last five-day, all but two of Bracelet’s cell have reached their safe houses in Tanshar. I’m pretty sure—” in fact, he knew for certain “—that those two are en route. They had farther to go, and the weather was against them.”

  “Thank Langhorne,” Mahkbyth half-whispered, closing his eyes briefly, and his shoulders sagged as if someone had just lifted an enormous weight from them.

  “You got them out in time, Ahrloh.” The seijin rested a hand on Mahkbyth’s shoulder.

  “And Bracelet and Castanet held out long enough for me to do that.” Mahkbyth’s voice was hoarse around the edges, and his eyes gleamed with unshed tears when he opened them again. “Langhorne and Bédard grant them peace and comfort.”

  “Amen,” Murphai said softly, and despite his own feelings where the “Archangels” were concerned, he was totally sincere.

  Silence lingered for a moment, and then the seijin cleared his throat.

  “We’ve heard some fairly incredible rumors about what happened here in Zion after they were arrested. We’re inclined to think there has to be at least some truth to them, but as to how much—?” He shook his head.

  “If they’re the same ones I’ve been hearing, ‘incredible’ is putting it mildly,” Mahkbyth told him.

  “Tell me what you’ve heard, and I’ll tell you what I’ve heard,” Murphai invited.

  “Well, for starters—”

  * * *

  In fact, Mahkbyth’s version of events was seriously inaccurate, Murphai decided. Or, rather, incomplete. He had the most essential part of it straight, but exactly how everyone inside St. Thyrmyn Prison had died was another matter. Murphai listened gravely, nodding occasionally, then inhaled deeply at the end.

  “Yes, they’re the same rumors,” he said then. “I can assure you, however, that it wasn’t Dialydd Mab or any of the other seijins marching through the prison dispensing justice. Not because we wouldn’t like to, you understand, but unless we’re prepared to confront the Inquisition openly here on the streets of Zion, we can’t be quite that … proactive. And I can also assure you it wasn’t Grimaldi attacking the Inquisition in Shan-wei’s name, either. Although,” he conceded thoughtfully, “that’s actually not a bad move on Rayno’s part.”

  “So you’re pretty sure he’s the one behind that particular story?”

  “I can’t say for certain, but it has the right smell to be something of his. And it’s more subtle than Clyntahn tends to be.” Murphai stroked his beard thoughtfully. “The first line of defense is to say nothing and deny that anything happened for as long as they possibly can. The second line of defense is to strengthen their own people’s spines by spreading the story among the Inquisition’s own that it was a demonic attack by Grimaldi against the champions of Mother Church. And they know damned well that version of it will ‘leak’ no matter how hard they stress the need to keep it confidential. Even inquisitors are human, and human tongues wag when you hand their owners a juicy enough story. And I’m fairly sure the third line of defense—and after the ‘truth’ about Grimaldi’s involvement’s had time to leak out and spread nicely—will be to inform all of Mother Church’s children here in Zion that the Inquisition kept what happened secret while it investigated thoroughly. After all, who better to determine the truth of a demonic act than the guardians of the Holy Writ?”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but do you really think he’s going to be able to sell that one?” Mahkbyth asked skeptically.

  “You’ve lived in Zion longer than I have,” Murphai pointed out. “How do you think the average Zionite would react?”

  Mahkbyth frowned thoughtfully for several seconds. Then the frown segued into a grimace.

  “You’re right,” he sighed. “Those who’re already inclined to doubt anything that comes out of Clyntahn’s mouth won’t believe it for a moment. There are more of those than there used to be, too, but they’re still a minority. And for those who don’t disbelieve anything simply because he said it, there’s going to be a real need to have some sort of explanation, especially with all the bad news leaking out in those mysterious broadsheets.” He eyed Murphai speculatively. “In fact, I’m a little curious about why they haven’t already reported the entire mystery. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Seijin Murphai?”

  “Me?” Murphai looked back innocently. “I haven’t been in Zion since the last time you and I spoke, Ahrloh.”

  “That’s not exactly an answer,” Mahkbyth observed. “On the other hand, it’s probably as close to one as I’m going to get, isn’t it?”

  “Probably,” Murphai agreed. “On the other hand, if I were the one posting those—which, of course, I’m not—I’d probably wait to spread the truth until I knew what the truth was. My understanding is that they’ve been so effective in large part because they’ve never contained anything that wasn’t both true and accurate.” The seijin shrugged. “With something as … fantastic as this, I’d think they’d need to be very sure of their facts—and probably of how the Inquisition plans on spinning things once the story comes out. For that matter, I wouldn’t be surprised—although you understand, of course, that I can’t say for certain—if whoever makes the call on their content isn’t experiencing the occasional mild glow of enjoyment while they think about how … unhappy Clyntahn and Rayno probably are while they wonder when it’s going to hit the broadsheets. I imagine it’s giving those two the odd sleepless night, don’t you?”

  Mahkbyth snorted a harsh chuckle of agreement. But then he stopped chuckling and stared out the shop windows into the street. Days were still short in Zion in May, even when the weather didn’t decide to roll in on the city, and the western side of the square was already deep in shadow.

  “Zhak will be back with my fish and chips soon,” he said. “He may be an informant for the Inquisition, but he’s a hard worker. Should I assume you’ll be dropping by the house tonight in your usual inconspicuous fashion to continue this
conversation?”

  “Probably,” Murphai said again. He turned casually to look out the windows at Mahkbyth’s side, alert for Myllyr’s return. “In the meantime, though, Arbalest didn’t send me just to check in with you. She’s got a mission for you.”

  “She does?” A sudden, bright light glowed in his blue eyes. “Rayno? Can I finally go after that sick son-of-a-bitch?!”

  “No, not Rayno.” Murphai shook his head regretfully.

  “With all due respect, Arbalest needs to let us take him down,” Mahkbyth said passionately. “There’s nothing we could do that would hurt Clyntahn worse—aside from killing the fat bastard himself—and we need to send a message to the entire Inquisition. They may be keeping a lid on what happened inside St. Thyrmyn, but every agent inquisitor, from the newest lay brother on the streets to the borough bishops inquisitor, knows they took two of us alive. That’s done a lot to undermine the … inevitability we’d acquired in their eyes.”

  “I can understand that, but it’s really not the first time you’ve lost people,” Murphai replied. “Are you sure you’re not being influenced by the fact that this is so personal for you? You knew Bracelet, and Castanet may not have known who Barcor was, but she knew Ahrloh Mahkbyth.”

  “Of course it’s personal. It’s all personal, or I’d never have joined Helm Cleaver in the first place! That doesn’t make me wrong, though. Tell Arbalest I need to take Rayno down and pin a note to his cassock telling the entire Inquisition it’s retaliation—and justice—for what he did to two of our sisters. Let the fucking Inquisition deal with that!”

  “I’d love to see it,” Murphai said frankly. “Unfortunately, I think Arbalest is right. We still need him where he is. It may not seem like it, but he’s actually a moderating influence. God only knows what Clyntahn would do if we took him off the board, but I’m willing to bet it would be a bloodbath.” The seijin’s lips twisted. “In some ways, that might not be a bad thing from the perspective of defeating the Group of Four. If he orders a purge as … promiscuous as the one he’d demand if the Fist of God eliminates Rayno—especially without Rayno to warn him against overreacting—it would have to further undermine the Inquisition’s legitimacy in the eyes of almost all Zionites. But think of the number of other Bracelets and Castanets we’d create along the way.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” Mahkbyth said unflinchingly. “But sooner or later, we’ll have to do it. And I’m serious when I say we need to hit the Inquisition back—hard—to undercut the boost their morale’s gotten out of this.”

  “Ultimately, what happened at St. Thyrmyn—even the rumors of what happened at St. Thyrmyn—will do all the undercutting you could want, Ahrloh,” Murphai pointed out. “But that’s not to say Arbalest doesn’t agree it’s time to ‘send a message’ to Clyntahn. She just doesn’t want that message to be named ‘Rayno.’ Not yet. She’s saving that one for a special occasion.”

  “So what ‘message’ does she have in mind?” Mahkbyth’s eyes had narrowed. “It must be fairly special to send you personally to arrange it.”

  “Oh, believe me, she didn’t have to send me for this one,” Murphai told him. “For this one, I volunteered. In fact, it was something of a toss-up for a while as to whether I’d get to deliver it or Merlin would.”

  “Really?” The light was back in Mahkbyth’s eyes—not quite as bright as it had been, but bright enough.

  “Oh, really,” Murphai said. “Apparently the Grand Inquisitor’s still rattled by whatever actually happened at St. Thyrmyn, and he’s decided he has to turn up the wick under everyone else. Just between you and me, I think he’s almost at the point of making examples at the very top. In fact, in my ideal outcome, he’d decide to make an example out of Rayno so we didn’t have to. It wouldn’t exactly break my heart to see the good Archbishop in the Plaza of Martyrs.”

  “I’ll bring the potato slices.”

  “That’s what I thought. But that’s not going to happen tomorrow. On the other hand, it seems the situation’s getting bad enough in the Border States that Inquisitor General Wylbyr’s been summoned to Zion for a personal ‘conference’ with Vicar Zhaspahr.”

  “Arbalest thinks Clyntahn’s going to send Edwyrds to the Punishment?” Mahkbyth sounded skeptical, and Murphai didn’t blame him.

  “Killing off the man he hand-picked to return Siddarmark to the fold would be a little demoralizing for the rank-and-file, I imagine,” Murphai acknowledged. “He may be a lot closer to that point than he was a month or so ago, but, no. I think it’s entirely possible he does plan to give the Inquisitor General a significant tongue lashing and send him back to ginger up his inquisitors in the Border States and Tarikah and Westmarch. Their enthusiasm seems to have waned under Dialydd’s tender ministrations.”

  The smiles they exchanged would have done any kraken proud.

  “That’s not what’s going to happen, though,” the seijin said then. “As it happens, we have a source which will give us Edwyrds’ itinerary. We’ll know exactly when, where, and how he’ll arrive in Zion, and when he does, Helm Cleaver will be waiting for him.”

  “We get to take down Edwyrds?” Mahkbyth repeated very carefully, like a man making sure he’d heard correctly.

  “You get to take down Edwyrds,” Murphai confirmed. “Not only that, Arbalest wants it done here—in Zion itself, not out in the Border States or in the Republic where Dialydd Mab would receive credit for it. No questions about who’s responsible for this kill, Ahrloh. And that note you wanted to leave pinned to Rayno’s cassock? I think it wouldn’t be … inappropriate to pin it to the Inquisitor General’s, instead.”

  .III.

  Lake City,

  Tarikah Province,

  Republic of Siddarmark.

  The silent, efficient servants removed the dessert dishes and Earl Rainbow Waters’ wine steward poured brandy into his and his nephew’s snifters with the careful attention the ritual required. Then he stood back, decanter at port arms, raising one eyebrow at his master. A slow, thoughtful wave of the tulip-shaped snifter under aristocratic nostrils, a nod of approval, and a flick of Rainbow Waters’ fingers indicated where he should set the brandy decanter—at the earl’s nephew’s elbow—and banished him to follow the other servants.

  The wine steward bowed himself out, and the earl smiled indulgently as Baron Wind Song pulled out his pipe and raised his own eyebrow.

  “Yes. Yes!” Rainbow Waters shook his head. “If you insist on destroying the palate of such an excellent brandy with tobacco, by all means do so.”

  “It doesn’t destroy the palate, Uncle,” the baron replied. “It enhances it.”

  Rainbow Waters snorted, because it was an old, familiar dance. And, while the earl would never have admitted it, even under torture, he rather enjoyed the scent of Wind Song’s tobacco.

  The baron did treat himself to a luxurious sip of his own brandy before he carefully filled the foamstone bowl. He tamped the tobacco, and then slipped a hand into his pocket for one of the “lighters” Harchongese artisans had begun to craft from the samples which had been captured from the heretics. Of course, the heretics’ version were plain, unadorned—undoubtedly stamped out on some clumsy machine by one of their uncouth mechanics with dirty fingernails somewhere in one of their smoky, smelly manufactories—whereas the Harchongese version was exquisitely adorned, crafted of the finest materials by highly paid artists of the most impeccable sensibilities in a studio with perfect lighting and (probably) a harpist playing softly to aid its master’s pursuit of his creative muse. Wind Song’s, for example, bore a traditional hunting motif in bas-relief, with a magnificent prong buck, its eyes crafted from tiny chips of ruby, rearing as it was surrounded by the baying hounds.

  And for the same cost and the same number of man-hours, the heretics would have produced at least two hundred of them, he reflected as he spun the wheel. The wick burst into flame and he lit his tobacco slowly and carefully. Of course, it would never do to point that out. God forbid anyo
ne back home should pay attention to Uncle Taychau’s pleas to forget about luxury and start thinking about survival!

  “So,” Rainbow Waters said as the younger man got his pipe properly alight and sat back in his chair, “what did you think of Bishop Merkyl’s explanation of the Inquisitor General’s travel plans, Nephew?”

  That was coming to the point rather quickly, Wind Song thought. And the fact that Rainbow Waters called him “nephew” suggested he wasn’t asking in his official capacity as the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels’ commanding officer. Or not solely in that capacity, at least.

  “I thought it was accurate in so far as it went, but probably … less than complete, Uncle,” he replied after a thoughtful moment. The small beckoning motion of Rainbow Waters’ left hand invited expansion, and he shrugged.

  “I’m sure the Grand Inquisitor truly does need to confer with him about the Inquisition’s affairs in the Republic. And, for that matter, in the Border States, now that he’s been given authority in that area, as well. And, strictly between the two of us, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Inquisitor General Wylbyr gets … quite an earful about the conduct of the inquisitors in Mother Church’s camps in the Republic. On several points.”

  Rainbow Waters snorted, then sipped his own brandy with an expression that mingled disgust, unhappiness, and a certain bitter amusement.

  Despite the best efforts of the inquisitors in charge of evacuating Mother Church’s holding camps, more than two-thirds of those camps had been seized—liberated—by the advancing heretics over the previous summer. And, also despite the best efforts of the inquisitors in charge, the truth about how those seizures had occurred had gotten out. The fact that so many of the Inquisition’s loyal servants had been less than zealous about obeying Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s orders to massacre the camps’ inmates rather than allow them to be freed had not been calculated to soothe the Grand Inquisitor’s feelings. True, much of that disobedience had been laid at the feet of the Army of God guard forces, but Rainbow Waters’ sources in Zion reported that at least a half-dozen senior inquisitors had been severely punished—to the level of the Punishment, in at least two cases—for their failures. Or, perhaps, for failing to conceal their failures.