by David Weber
He chewed that unpalatable thought for a moment, then looked at the younger priest sitting beside him.
Father Paityr Wylsynn was a dark slash of purple amid the episcopal white and brown and green earth tones of the other bishops and priests filling the box. Competition for seating at the Kingdom Series was always ferocious, and technically, Wylsynn was considerably junior to some of the upper-priests of other ecclesiastical orders who'd failed to win places in the Church Box this year. But that didn't matter. As Mother Church's (and the Inquisition's) Intendant in Charis, the only member of the Charisian hierarchy functionally senior to the young, intense Schuelerite was Ahdymsyn himself.
Which made the bishop executor more than a little uneasy. Priests like Wylsynn often posed problems for their administrative superiors even under normal circumstances. Which, unless Ahdymsyn much missed his guess, these circumstances were not.
"Tell me, Father," he said after a moment, "have you had any fresh thoughts on the matter we discussed Thursday?"
"I beg your pardon, Your Eminence?" Wylsynn turned his head to face the bishop. "I was concentrating on the field, and I'm afraid I didn't quite hear your question."
"That's perfectly all right, Father." Ahdymsyn smiled. "I simply asked if you'd had any additional thoughts on that matter we talked about the other day."
"Oh." Wylsynn cocked his head, his expression suddenly much more thoughtful, then shrugged ever so slightly.
"Not really, Your Eminence," he said then. "I've pondered the Archbishop's latest despatches and instructions very carefully, and, as you know, I've personally interviewed the King and the Crown Prince in light of them. I've also exhaustively reviewed my original notes from my initial examination of all the new processes and devices. And, as I told you I would, I've spent quite a few hours in my chamber, praying earnestly over the matter. For the present, neither God nor the Archangels—" He touched the fingers of his right hand to his heart, then to his lips. "—have vouchsafed me any additional insight, however. I—"
"Strike one!" the umpire called as the Dragons' pitcher grooved a fastball right through the center of the strike zone. Smolth's late, awkward swing didn't even make contact, and several fans groaned only too audibly. Wylsynn was one of them, and then he blushed as he realized he'd allowed the game to distract him from the conversation with his ecclesiastical superior.
"I'm sorry, Your Eminence." His sudden smile made him look even younger, almost boyish. "I know I'm a good northern boy from the Temple Lands, but I'm afraid the Krakens have seduced my allegiance away from the Slash Lizards. Please don't tell Father! He'd disinherit me, at the very least."
"Don't worry about it, Father." For all the somberness of his own thoughts and concerns, Ahdymsyn found himself smiling back. Despite the often ominous reputation of the Order of Schueler and Wylsynn's own frustrating insensitivity to the Temple's internal political dynamic, the intendant was a very likable young man. "Your secret is safe with me. But you were saying?"
"I believe I was going to say—before the umpire so rudely interrupted us—that despite all of my prayers and meditation, or perhaps because of them, I feel quite comfortable with my original judgment on these matters."
"Then you remain unconcerned about any violations of the Proscriptions?"
"Your Eminence," Wylsynn said gravely, "as a member of the Order, and as Mother Church's Intendant in Charis, I'm always concerned about possible violations of the Proscriptions. Indeed, the Order clearly recognizes the need to be particularly vigilant here in Charis, this far from the Temple, and I assure you I've attended to both the Grand Inquisitor's and the Archbishop's instructions in that regard most carefully. Nothing in any of the recent developments here in the Kingdom, however, has even approached the threshold of a Proscribed offense."
"I realize this is properly the Schuelerites' sphere of responsibility, Father Paityr," Ahdymsyn said. "And if it seemed I cherished any doubts about the zeal with which you discharge those responsibilities, that wasn't my intent." He frowned thoughtfully. "I suppose it's just the sudden appearance of so many . . . innovations in such a short span of time which causes me some disquiet."
And it would appear they're doing even worse than that for certain other people, now that word of them's gotten back to the Temple, he thought.
"Strike two!"
The crowd's groans were louder as the ball smacked into the catcher's mitt. Not that anyone particularly blamed Smolth this time. The Dragons' pitcher knew what even a bloop single could do to the scoreboard, and he wasn't pitching Smolth the way he normally would have pitched to someone with Smolth's regular-season batting performance. That nasty, late-breaking slider would have tied almost any hitter up in knots.
"I can certainly understand why you might be feeling some concern, Your Eminence," Wylsynn said, smiling and shaking his head wryly as he watched Smolth step out of the batter's box to reorganize his thoughts. Then the Schuelerite turned back to face Ahdymsyn squarely.
"As matter of fact," he said rather more seriously, "I was quite taken aback by them myself, even here in Charis! While I've seen no evidence of demonic intervention during my years here, I must confess that the energy with which Charisians seek better ways to do things is often quite daunting, and this Royal College of theirs only makes it worse. I've had my own moments of doubt about them, and to have so many new ideas surfacing at once was something of a shock.
"Having said that, however, it seems apparent that all the innovations we've been considering over the past few months are actually no more than the application of already existing, approved techniques and practices in novel ways. Every one of those techniques and practices, in turn, was thoroughly tested by Mother Church before it received the Order's approval in the first place. And the Writ contains no injunctions against using approved practices for new ends, so long as those ends don't threaten God's plan."
"I see." Ahdymsyn considered the younger man for several seconds and wished he could ask the question he really wanted to ask.
With most other intendants, he probably could have, but Wylsynn had been shuffled off to Charis for a reason. For several of them, actually, including his obvious disapproval of the way in which Mother Church's senior prelates, even in his own order, allowed . . . pragmatism to color the decision-making process. His equally obvious disapproval of what he considered the "decadence" of the lifestyle embraced by those same senior prelates was just as pronounced, and his birth had made the possible consequences of his attitude potentially ominous.
The Wylsynn family had provided no less than six Grand Vicars. The last had been only two grand vicarates before, and one of them—Grand Vicar Evyrahard the Just—had been a fervent reformer of Temple "abuses" a hundred years earlier. His grand vicarate had lasted less than two years before he'd somehow mysteriously fallen from his balcony to his death, but it was still remembered with shudders of horror in the senior ranks of the episcopate. As Saint Evyrahard's direct heir—in more than one way—young Paityr might easily have become a major power in the Temple, if he'd chosen to play the game. And that would have posed an intolerable threat to too many cozy Temple relationships.
Fortunately, he was about as disinterested in politics as he could possibly have been, and those same family connections had preserved him from the worst consequences of his superiors' disapproval. On the other hand, given his family, his present rank as a mere upper-priest could well be construed as punishment for his tendency to make waves. As could his posting to Charis, for that matter.
But no man living could question Father Paityr Wylsynn's piety or intellectual prowess. Indeed, that was part of Ahdymsyn's problem. Wylsynn was far too fiercely focused on his order's duty to protect the Church's orthodoxy to waste time on things like the Temple's internal factions or the strife between them, and no one in his entire order was better informed on what that duty included. That might have as much to do with his assignment to Charis as any desire to get him out of Zion, but all those factors tog
ether combined to preclude any possibility of Ahdymsyn's discussing with him the potential consequences of so many Charisian innovations on the political calculations of the Temple.
Or the follow-on consequences for the career of one Bishop Executor Zherald.
"Would you say," the bishop asked instead, "that Doctor Mahklyn's new 'numerals' and this 'abacus' device of his fall into that same category?"
"Which category, Your Eminence?" Wylsynn looked puzzled, and Ahdymsyn managed not to sigh.
"The category of resting upon approved practices, Father," he said patiently.
"Forgive me, Your Eminence," the Schuelerite replied, "but the question really doesn't arise. While I readily admit I'm less well versed in mathematics than many, it's obvious from my study of Doctor Mahklyn's work that it's going to be hugely beneficial. The merchants who are already adopting these new 'numerals' of his have clearly demonstrated that much.
"Of course, as the Writ teaches, the mere fact that something appears to be beneficial in a worldly sense doesn't necessarily make it acceptable in the eyes of God. That was how Shan-wei tempted her original followers into evil and damnation, after all. But the Proscriptions say nothing, one way or the other, about ways to count or to record numbers. I assure you, after our previous conversations, I spent quite some time with my concordances, searching for any reference in the Writ or The Insights. I found none.
"The Proscriptions are concerned with unclean knowledge, the sort which opens doors to the kinds of temptation which lead men into Shan-wei's web. The Archangel Jwo-jeng is very specific on that point, as are The Insights, but the temptation lies in impiously seeking to profane that knowledge and power which are reserved for God and his angels. Within the sphere of knowledge appropriate to mortal men, the mere fact that a way of doing established tasks is more efficient and works better scarcely threatens men's souls with damnation. So long, at least, as none of the Proscriptions' thresholds are crossed."
"I see," Ahdymsyn repeated, although he was well aware that Wylsynn's views were not universally shared, even in the Order of Schueler. On the other hand, there was something about Wylsynn's voice, or perhaps it was his eyes. The young intendant's replies came quickly and easily, with the confidence of one who had, indeed, spent many hours reflecting upon them. But there was also an edge of . . . challenge. Not defiance, and not disrespect. Never that. Yet Ahdymsyn had the sinking sensation that the young man had made his decision in the full understanding that it was not the one his Archibishop or possibly even the Council itself wanted.
The bishop executor watched Smolth step back into the box and resume his batting stance, waiting while the pitcher and catcher tried to get together on what they wanted to do next. Although, Ahdymsyn thought, the decision shouldn't have been that complex. With two outs already and a count of two strikes and no balls, Smolth had to be feeling defensive, and the Dragons had three free pitches with which to work. Everyone in the stadium had to know it was time for something unhittable, well out of the strike zone, that they might possibly entice him into chasing for the strikeout.
Apparently the man on the pitcher's mound was the only person in Tellesberg who didn't realize that, the bishop observed sardonically. He watched the pitcher shake off sign after sign from the catcher, then glanced back at Wylsynn.
"Then I suppose that's all that needs to be said, Father," he said. "May I assume your own report on these matters will be completed within the next day or two? I have a dispatch vessel about ready to depart for Clahnyr. If your report will be available, I can hold her in port long enough to include it with my own correspondence to Archbishop Erayk."
"I can have it to you by tomorrow afternoon, Your Eminence."
"Excellent, Father. I'll look forward to reading it myself, and—"
CRACK!
The sudden sharp sound of wood meeting leather stunned the crowd into an instant of silence. The Dragons' pitcher had finally made his pitch selection, and it was a nasty one. In fact, the ball had been almost in the dirt and at least ten inches off the plate. But somehow the Krakens' pitcher had actually made contact. And not just "contact." His lunging swing looked impossibly awkward, yet it lifted the ball out of the infield, just out of reach of the leaping second baseman, and put it on the centerfield grass. It landed with a wicked spin, then seemed to hit something which imparted a nasty hop that sent it bounding past the diving centerfielder. It shot by him, no more than a foot beyond his desperately stabbing glove, and with the bases loaded and two strikes, the runners had been off the instant Smolth made contact.
The crowd's disbelieving roar of delight was ear-stunning, and even Zherald came to his feet as the ball rolled almost all the way to the centerfield wall before the Dragons' rightfielder managed to chase it down and scoop it up. The first Kraken had already crossed the plate by the time he got his throw off, and he threw it over the cutoff man's head. Given the distance it had to cover and how quickly he managed to get it off, it wasn't that bad a throw. But it wasn't a good one, either. It pulled the catcher a quarter of the way up the first-base line, well off of home plate, and he fumbled the catch slightly as the second Kraken crossed home with the tying run.
The Dragons' pitcher had charged in to cover the plate, but he'd started late, as if he couldn't believe Smolth had actually hit the ball. He arrived just after the second runner, but he was still in the process of turning towards the catcher, who was still juggling the ball and trying to set himself for a throw, when the third Kraken came thundering down the third-base line, all the way from first. The catcher finally got his throw off—a bullet, perfectly delivered to the plate—but the pitcher wasn't even looking in the runner's direction when the Kraken charged straight into him, knocked him over, and touched home base with the go-ahead run. The ball squirted away from the bowled-over pitcher, and Smolth—running harder than he ever had in his life before—found himself on third base, panting for breath, while the stadium went crazy.
"Well," Ahdymsyn said with a chuckle several minutes later, as the tumult died and he resumed his own seat, "it seems miracles do happen, don't they, Father?"
"Of course they do, Your Eminence!"
Wylsynn's tone pulled Ahdymsyn's eyes to his face. The youthful priest seemed startled by the levity of the bishop's observation. No, Ahdymsyn thought, not "startled." Disapproving, perhaps, although that wasn't exactly the right word either. Maybe the one he wanted was "disappointed."
Whatever, I need to remember it, Ahdymsyn told himself. He's not here just to get him out from underfoot in the Temple. And he's not interested in . . . administrative compromises. I hope that doesn't turn into a problem.
"Yes, they do, Father," the bishop executor agreed, his own voice and expression more serious. "Indeed they do."
* * *
Zhaspahr Maysahn sat several hundred seats away from Bishop Zherald and Father Paityr. Like many individuals and firms which did business in Tellesberg, the small shipping house which he ostensibly owned held season tickets to the Krakens' games. His seat wasn't as good as those in the Royal Box or the Church Box, but it was almost directly behind third, and he shook his head in disbelief as Smolth wound up on that base.
"That's going to hurt," Zhames Makferzahn observed cheerfully from the seat beside him, and Maysahn glowered at him.
"It's only the seventh inning," he growled, and Makferzahn chuckled.
"Of course it is," he said soothingly, and rubbed his thumb and index finger together.
Maysahn managed to retain a suitably defiant expression, but he was afraid Makferzahn was right. The Dragons' devastating offensive lineup had made them the odds-on favorite to take the Series this year. Even the Tellesberg bet-takers had agreed on that one, however disgruntled they might have been by the notion. But Makferzahn had argued—and been willing to bet—that the Krakens' pitching, which had been very strong down the stretch, would carry the home team to victory. Maysahn had covered that bet, at two-to-one odds, and he was beginning to suspect that in
this respect, at least, his new subordinate's judgment had been better than his own.
And it was like Makferzahn to have backed his judgment to the tune of several Charisian marks, despite the relatively brief time he'd been here. He'd arrived in Tellesberg as Oskahr Mhulvayn's replacement less than a month ago, but he'd gotten a quick grasp of much more than the way kingdom's baseball teams matched up. It was already obvious he was at least as capable as his predecessor. He was also self-confident and even more industrious . . . and, undoubtedly, ambitious, as well. Best of all, he was clearly not on Baron Wave Thunder's list of suspected foreign agents.
All of those—except, possibly, the ambition—were good things from Maysahn's perspective. Unfortunately, Makferzahn was still in the very early stages of assembling his own intelligence sources. Maysahn had considered putting his new subordinate into contact with some of the senior members of Mhulvayn's old web as a way to speed the process, but he'd rejected the temptation firmly.
It seemed unlikely Wave Thunder had managed to identify many of Mhulvayn's agents, despite the baron's obvious suspicion of Mhulvayn himself, since not one of them had been arrested. It was also possible, however, that Wave Thunder knew exactly who'd been working for Mhulvayn and had left them unmolested in hopes that Mhulvayn's replacement would identify himself by contacting them. But given the fact that Nahrmahn of Emerald's web of spies had been totally gutted, as far as Maysahn could tell, Maysahn's own organization had become the only window Prince Hektor and his allies had in Charis. Under those circumstances, he'd decided, it was far better to take a little longer getting Makferzahn fully up to speed than to risk walking into a Wave Thunder trap and losing that window, as well.