by David Weber
“Exactly,” Laihu said, although he was careful to keep his voice even lower than it had been, low enough that Mahkbyth had to strain to pick it out of the background sound even though they were less than three feet apart. “Exactly.” The captain shook his head. “Too many personal scores are getting paid off, Ahrloh. I always knew there’d be things I wouldn’t much like doing, but believe me—you’re a hell of a lot better off as a civilian.” He looked moodily down into his mead. “Some mornings, it’s awfully hard to get up and report for duty.”
“I’m not surprised.” Mahkbyth reached out and patted him on the shoulder lightly. “There were days like that for me even before the Jihad, and I don’t see how it could’ve gotten anything but worse since the Jihad started. But it’s like the Writ says. There are going to be dark days as well as happy ones. What matters is how well we bear up on the dark ones.”
“I know.” Laihu threw back another swallow of the mead, then put down the empty tankard and gazed down into it. “And you’re right,” he said with the air of a man who’d come to an important decision. “I have had too much mead tonight. So, with your permission, Sergeant Mahkbyth, I believe I’ll invite Sergeant Preskyt to escort me back to barracks and pour me safely into bed.” He grimaced. “I’m pretty sure Shan-wei’s going to be using the inside of my skull for an anvil when I wake up in the morning.”
“Oh, probably won’t be that bad, Sir,” Preskyt said encouragingly as Laihu stood almost steadily. “I’ve seen you lots drunker than this,” the sergeant continued with a wink at Mahkbyth. “A little tomato juice, some raw egg, some tabasco sauce, and you’ll be right as rain by, oh, thirteen o’clock!”
“Your sympathy is always such a comfort to me, Sergeant.” Laihu patted Preskyt on the shoulder, then nodded to Mahkbyth.
“And on that note, I’ll bid you good night, Ahrloh. Was good seeing you. We’ll have to do this again.”
“Hopefully on a happier occasion,” Mahkbyth agreed, and watched the two of them weave their way across the crowded dining room and out into the late summer twilight.
He finished his own beer, tossed a handful of coins onto the table, nodded to the waitress, and followed them out the door. He turned and started along the street, ignoring the trams rattling by behind their draft dragons. Nights were short in Zion this late in summer, and he enjoyed walking. Besides, it was only a few blocks, and—
“Good evening, Chief Sergeant,” a voice said behind him, and he stopped. He hesitated for just a moment, then turned to face the officer standing behind him. The officer in the uniform of the Temple Guard but with the flame and sword of the Inquisition on his shoulder flash.
“Evening, Captain,” he replied, then corrected himself. “Major, I mean. Sorry, I’d heard about the promotion, just forgot it.”
“Not surprising when you’ve been out of the Guard so long, Chief Sergeant,” the other man said with an easy smile. “What’s it been? Fifteen years now? Sixteen?”
“More like twenty-five, Sir. Since about three months after Dahnyld died.”
“That long?” The major shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like it could have been. I heard about your wife’s death, though. I’m sorry you lost her … and I wish the Guard had figured out who was responsible for that. And for your boy.”
“So do I,” Mahkbyth said levelly.
They stood silently for a moment, then the major shrugged.
“Could I ask where you’re headed?”
“Home.” It was Mahkbyth’s turn to shrug. “I’ve got a cat-lizard who’s probably wondering where the Shan-wei I am right now.” He smiled crookedly. “You know how cat-lizards are.”
“Always refused to be owned by one of them, myself,” the major replied with an answering smile. “But I’d sort of hoped you were headed by your shop. A friend of mine tells me you’ve got the best selection of whiskeys in Zion.”
“I don’t know if it’s the best, but it’s certainly one of the best, if I do say so myself. We’re closed right now, but if you’d like to come by tomorrow, I’ll be happy to prove that.”
“I’ve got the duty all next five-day,” the major said. “And your shop’s sort of on the way home, isn’t it?”
Mahkbyth frowned. Something about this conversation was making his antennae tingle, but there was no point lying. Especially to an officer assigned to the Inquisition who obviously already knew the answer to his own question.
“About a half-block out of the way, Sir,” he said.
“Well, I don’t want to sound like I’m wheedling, but I really would appreciate it if you could open up just long enough to sell me a couple of bottles. I’ve got some serious entertaining to do, and I’m afraid the liquor cabinet’s bare just now. And at least one of the friends I have coming over has some … sophisticated tastes. I’ve already tried three other shops here in Zion without finding his preferred blend.”
Mahkbyth managed not to frown. He really didn’t want to open his shop, and especially not on such short notice for an officer who’d been seconded to the Inquisition. By the same token, pissing off someone with the sort of connections the major had could be dangerous. More to the point, people might start wondering why he’d been stupid enough to risk pissing him off.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir,” he said after only the briefest of hesitations. “Of course, if you’ve been to that many other shops, it’s likely I don’t have it in stock either.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry to say quite a few labels have been in short supply since the Jihad began.”
“Oh, trust me!” The major rolled his eyes. “I’m only too well aware of that, Chief Sergeant!”
“What are you looking for, exactly, Sir?” Mahkbyth asked pleasantly. If it was as rare as the major was implying, he could always deny he had it in stock, either. For that matter, he thought with a smile, he might even be telling the truth! “I’m assuming it’s one I’ve at least heard of!”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure you have,” the major said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m looking for Seijin Kohdy’s Premium Blend, Chief Sergeant. Do you think you could find me a bottle?”
.II.
Tellesberg Palace,
City of Tellesberg,
and
The Delthak Works,
Earldom of Hanth High Rock,
Kingdom of Old Charis,
Empire of Charis,
and
Charisian Embassy,
Siddar City,
Republic of Siddarmark.
“I have to say, I never really thought I’d see something like this,” Sharleyan Ahrmahk said.
She and Maikel Staynair sat in a sunny council chamber with Trahvys Ohlsyn, the Earl of Pine Hollow and the Kingdom of Old Charis’ first councilor, and Bynzhamyn Raice, Baron Wave Thunder, the Empire of Charis’ senior spymaster. Or, rather, the Empire of Charis’ senior breathing spymaster.
“I rather doubt Trynair saw it coming, either,” the electronic personality who was the empire’s true spymaster said dryly over their com earplugs. “There’s a certain poetic justice to it, though, I suppose.”
“I don’t think there’s enough poetry in my soul to appreciate it properly, Nahrmahn,” Ehdwyrd Howsmyn, the Duke of Delthak, put in from his office at the Delthak Works and looked at the red-haired upper-priest sitting across his desk from him.
“Mine either,” Paityr Wylsynn agreed, his eyes dark. “I’m ashamed to say there’s a vengeful part of me that feels nothing but satisfaction after what happened to Father and Uncle Hauwerd and all their friends. But that’s an ugly part I try not to listen to very often, and the rest of me.…”
His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, looking down into the tumbler of Glynfych in his hand.
“I didn’t mean to sound flippant, Paityr,” Nahrmahn said. “But I’m afraid my vengeful side’s better developed than yours is. And it may be petty of me, but I tend to carry a fairly personal grudge against people whose allies have me murdered.”
“Th
at would tend to give someone an interesting perspective,” Cayleb Ahrmahk observed from the dining room attached to his quarters in the Charisian Embassy. He and Merlin Athrawes and Nynian Rychtyr had just finished breakfast, and he grimaced. “On the other hand, Paityr has a point. That’s an ugly, ugly way to die.”
“I don’t want to appear insensitive, but dead is dead, and none of the four of them could have gotten that way soon enough to satisfy me,” Nynian said grimly. “As for being surprised, I’d always figured Trynair was the one most likely to be the first to get thrown off the ice floe to check for krakens.” She shrugged. “His problem was that he was always the smartest one in the room, even when he wasn’t. I don’t know for sure what he really did to piss Clyntahn off, but he should’ve borne in mind that his area of expertise hasn’t been in much demand since the jihad started. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that at least half the reason he went to the Punishment was to help Clyntahn make a point to Maigwair and Duchairn. They have skills he still needs, so why not use someone he doesn’t need as what the Inquisition likes to call ‘a teaching moment’?”
Her eyes were very dark, her expression cold, and Merlin regarded her thoughtfully as he nodded.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you’re right about that, love,” he said. “I know you’re right about the way Clyntahn’s mind works, anyway. And you definitely know all the players involved better than any of the rest of us do. But that does leave an interesting question. What inspired him to arrange a ‘teaching moment’ at this particular time?”
“I can’t answer that, but I’d bet my ruby eardrops it has a little something to do with what Kynt, Eastshare, and the others are doing to the Temple’s armies.” Nynian took a sip of chocolate. “Clyntahn’s got to be getting desperate, and he’s the sort who works out his fears by killing other people. If I had to guess, Trynair was probably stupid enough to suggest negotiating with us. Either that or one of the two Clyntahn figures he still needs said something he needed to discourage by killing someone else.”
“You don’t think Clyntahn would support negotiations even if they were nothing but a ploy to win time, Nynian?” Nahrmahn asked.
“I doubt he’d even consider it,” Maikel Staynair responded before Nynian could. He shook his head, his expression grim. “After all this bloodshed, he has to know he, personally, won’t survive defeat, no matter what else happens. As Cayleb would say, that’s so not going to happen. And even if he didn’t realize we’d demand that as a matter of justice, he knows perfectly well that in our shoes, he’d demand it out of vengeance. He’s not going to do anything that could open the door to that result.”
“I think you’re exactly right, Maikel,” Nynian agreed. “And I’d add that he’d see a willingness to negotiate, whether it was genuine or not, as a fatal sign of weakness. He’d believe that as soon as word got out, any remaining support for the jihad would evaporate. After all, if the Temple’s willing to negotiate, then clearly this hasn’t really been a life-or-death grapple between God and Shan-wei from the beginning. God doesn’t negotiate with the Mother of Lies. If the Group of Four—well, Group of Three, now—is willing to negotiate, then they’re effectively declaring that we’ve been right all along. This has been a war against mortal men claiming to speak for God, and now that they’re losing, they’re trying to salvage whatever they can of their own positions and power.”
“That’s pretty much what I’ve been thinking, too,” Wave Thunder put in. “Especially the bit about its validating our position that we’ve been fighting against men who have perverted God’s will. Clyntahn’s about as arrogant as they come, but he’s smart enough to recognize that.”
“Don’t overlook the possibility that his own beliefs could be involved in this,” Ohlyvya Baytz said. Her image sat on the terrace of Eraystor Palace—or, rather, of its electronic doppelgänger in the VR computer in Nimue’s Cave—beside her husband. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged.
“We’ve never been able to really decide how much of him is corrupt cynicism and how much is genuine zealotry,” she reminded him. “For that matter, I very much doubt he could separate them. But we’ve always known he’s been driven at least partly by a genuine commitment to his own twisted vision of what God’s like, and I think it’s entirely possible—probable, really—that he’s retreating into—what was it you called it the other day, Merlin? A ‘bunker mentality,’ wasn’t it?”
“It was indeed.” Merlin tipped back in his chair and folded his arms, his expression thoughtful. “And I think you’ve got a point. Clyntahn’s not the sort who could ever really believe in the possibility that he’d fail. It’s just not in his makeup. But now the proof that he has failed is there for everyone to see, even him. So it’s actually pretty likely he’d insist that God and the Archangels will come swooping in to the rescue, no matter what happens. But for that to happen, he and the others have to prove they’re worthy of divine intervention, and that means fighting to the last drop of everyone else’s blood.”
“That’s what I was afraid you were all going to say,” Nahrmahn sighed. “Because the way I’ve been reading this, it’s not a good sign from our perspective. If he’s able to send Trynair to the Punishment, then he’s obviously in total control, and that means he really is going to fight ‘to the last drop of everyone else’s blood’ rather than let even a scrap of rationality to creep into the Temple’s position.”
“I hate to say this,” Pine Hollow said slowly, “but is that really a bad thing from our perspective?”
The others all looked at him, and he waved one hand, his expression troubled.
“From the perspective of ending this damned war without killing any more people than we have to, it’s a terrible thing,” he said. “I know that. But the truth is that from our perspective, the inner circle’s perspective, this war isn’t really about reforming the Church. It’s about overthrowing the Church, about breaking the Writ and the Proscriptions, and hopefully doing it before any millennial visitors drop in on us. If Clyntahn’s willing to continue the fight until we drag him out of his last lizardhole by the scruff of his neck, we’ll be in a far better position to impose terms that break the Church’s moral authority once and for all. He’s already done a pretty damned good job of undermining that authority; now he may be giving us a chance to complete its destruction.”
“Something to that,” Cayleb said after a moment, and sighed. “In fact, I should probably admit I’ve been thinking pretty much the same thing. It’s just that I’m so sick of all the blood, all the dying.”
“We all are, sweetheart,” his wife said gently. “But that doesn’t make Trahvys wrong.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Nynian agreed. “On the other hand, Zion’s turning into a snake pit right now. There’s no way to predict how Trynair’s Punishment will affect that, but I doubt it’s done anything to tamp down the tension. Between what’s happening at the front, Trynair’s execution, Helm Cleaver, and those broadsheets of Owl’s, there’s an awful lot of pressure building in the city. Right this minute, it looks like the Inquisition’s in total control, but the truth is, there’s no such thing as ‘total control.’ I’d say there’s a possibility—probably remote, at the moment, but still there—of a genuine insurrection if Clyntahn and his inquisitors push it too far. And if that happens, all bets are off.”
.III.
Earl Rainbow Waters’ Headquarters,
City of Chyzwail,
West Wing Lake,
Tarikah Province,
Republic of Siddarmark.
“You sent for me, Uncle?”
Taychau Daiyang looked up from the endless stream of reports and rubbed his eyes as Baron Wind Song entered his office. That office had once belonged to the Mayor of Chyzwail, but the mayor didn’t need it anymore … and Earl Rainbow Waters did.
“Yes, I did,” he said, and pointed at the chair beside his desk. “Sit.”
Wind Song obeyed, and if his expression was calm, his eye
s were worried. The silver streaks in his uncle’s dark hair had grown far broader, and although he remained immaculately groomed, his eyes were red rimmed from too little sleep and too much reading, too much poring over maps and orders of battle. He’d always been a physically robust man, but his hands had developed a tremor. It was still a tiny thing, one only the eyes of someone who knew him very well might have noticed, but Wind Song did know him.
“I’ve been reading our dispatches from home,” Rainbow Waters said after a moment. “And from Zion.” Their eyes met, and the earl shrugged ever so slightly. “It seems matters are coming to a head—here at the front, I mean, of course.”
“Of course,” his nephew agreed.
“I’m not certain everyone back in Zion and Shang-mi fully understands the gravity of our position here,” Rainbow Waters continued after a moment. “Oh, they clearly understand that Green Valley and Klymynt are pressing us hard here in Tarikah, but I’ve just received a report that Eastshare’s mounted infantry have occupied Bauskum. Charisian mounted patrols have been spotted by our Ferey River pickets as well, and there are reports his scout snipers are reconnoitering around Rainyr’s Hollow.”
Wind Song’s face tightened. Rainyr’s Hollow was a small farming town—a ghost town, now, like every other village and town in this part of Tarikah—barely a hundred miles by road from the Sairmeet-Gleesyn High Road. For that matter, it was little more than a hundred and fifty air-miles from Chyzwail. Once upon a time, a hundred and fifty miles would have offered a comfortable degree of security, but Charisian mounted infantry, balloons, mobile field artillery, and infantry angle-guns had changed that.
“We can’t say which way his main body will advance, but from all reports, Bishop Militant Lainyl will be forced to surrender at Mercyr any day now. Coupled with Eastshare’s activity, that strongly suggests it will be Golden Tree’s turn at Sairmeet next. He’s already under heavy pressure from Stohnar from the east. If Eastshare swings in behind him as he did to Brygham at Mercyr, the consequences would be … unfortunate.”