by David Weber
It also meant they were becoming increasingly strapped for competent galleon captains. Dunkyn Maylyr was a case in point. He was an experienced naval officer, who'd commanded his own ship for over five years, but he was a galley captain. He thought like a galley captain, and although he was in the process of becoming an enthusiastic recruit to the concept Merlin had described as "peace through superior firepower," he didn't have very much experience yet in commanding a galleon. Still, he was working hard, and they'd managed to quietly recruit several merchant skippers with previous naval experience. They had plenty of experience managing galleons; it was their naval skills which had gotten rusty.
At least Staynair's unyielding concentration on merciless gun drill had paid off. He'd insisted, with Cayleb's strong support, on training every member of every one of his original gun crews as a fully qualified gun captain. As a result, they'd been able to provide each ship with a nucleus of trained gun captains as it commissioned, and the Royal Charisian Navy's current gunnery standards were on a totally different plane from anyone else's.
Now if we only had more guns for them to shoot with, he thought sardonically.
"At least Erayk seems to be trying to keep the lid on the pot," he said to Cayleb after a moment.
"I know." Cayleb grimaced. "I'd call the man a toad, if it wouldn't be an insult to all toads. Still, at the moment his own motives are pushing him to do what we want. And Father Paityr's position hasn't hurt anything. All we can do now is wait and see. But if the Council only listens to him for a couple of more months, I'm pretty sure we'll have that break until next year. At which point," the crown prince's smile was not a pleasant expression, "we'll have enough galleons in commission to make them very unhappy."
III
Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair's Suite,
The Temple
Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair spooned up the last bit of his dessert custard and swallowed it with a sigh of pleasure. A mouthful of water cleansed his palette, and he sat back from the table sipping his wine with a feeling of profound satisfaction.
The August day had been warm, the reports from his bailiffs all indicated his manors were likely to enjoy bumper harvests, and the year's tithing was almost an entire month ahead of schedule. It had been his turn to host the Group of Four's once-a-five-day working supper, and for once, he'd looked forward to it without worrying that anything would affect his digestion afterward.
He'd taken extra pains with this five-day's supper, and his chef had done him proud. Everyone except Clyntahn had obviously reached the point of repletion, and the only flaw in his own pleasure was the reflection that next five-day it would be Magwair's turn to feed them. And Magwair's idea of properly cooked vegetables required them to be boiled into an unappetizing pulp.
"Well," he said in his role as host, "I suppose it's time we got to business." He took another sip of wine. "Personally, I have to say I'm rather relieved by the tenor of Dynnys' dispatches."
"You are, are you?" Clyntahn half-grunted. He leaned forward and helped himself to one of the unclaimed rolls, spreading it liberally with butter and stuffing half of it into his mouth in a single bite.
"I have to agree with Zahmsyn, Zhaspyr," Duchairn said mildly. "I know you're not particularly fond of the entire Wylsynn family, but according to Dynnys, Father Paityr went back and reconsidered his original findings very carefully. He continues to insist there's no violation of the Proscriptions. To me, that strongly suggests the reports we've been getting—a lot of them from enemies of Charis, I think it should be noted—truly are exaggerated."
"I see." Clyntahn's response was indistinct. He swallowed the mouthful of bread, washing it down with a hefty gulp of Trynair's expensive wine, and shook his head.
"I might be willing to agree with you, Rhobair," he said then. "If, of course, our good Archbishop had told us the truth in his dispatches."
"What?" Trynair sat up straighter, aware Duchairn and Magwair had done the same thing, and looked demandingly at the Grand Inquisitor. "What do you mean, Zhaspyr?"
"I mean I've never trusted that little snot Wylsynn as far as I could spit," Clyntahn replied. "And I had my doubts about Dynnys' reliability, if it came right down to it. So, unbeknownst to our beloved Archbishop of Charis, his new secretary, Father Symyn, is an agent of the Inquisition. And his report covers a few things Dynnys inexplicably . . . overlooked."
The Inquisitor's smile was ugly, his eyes bright, and Trynair felt his stomach clench. Clyntahn's hatred for Charis had been bad enough before Paityr Wylsynn was assigned as its intendant. Since then, it had grown even more virulent, but he hadn't mentioned to any of the rest of the Group of Four that he intended to plant one of his own agents on Dynnys. Then again, his office gave him the authority to place agents and investigators anywhere he chose, any time he chose, and Trynair suddenly found himself wondering just how many others he had scattered about. And just whom they were keeping watch on.
Which was all somewhat beside the point at the moment, he supposed.
"Should we gather from what you've just said that your agent—Father Symyn, was it?—disagrees with Dynnys' appraisal of the situation?" he asked.
"Oh, yes, I think you could gather that," Clyntahn said sarcastically.
He finished the wine in his glass picked up the bottle, and poured another glassful, then leaned back in his chair with an expression which mingled triumph, hatred, and genuine worry.
"According to Father Symyn's observations and quiet investigation, Wylsynn's 'reconsideration' of his original findings was limited to a single interview with Haarahld and Cayleb. One at which, I might add, Maikel Staynair was also present . . . having been invited by our dear Father Paityr.
"Not only that, Archbishop Erayk somehow neglected to mention to us that this same Maikel Staynair has been preaching sedition from Tellesberg Cathedral itself."
"That's a rather serious charge, Zhaspyr," Duchairn observed, after a moment or two, into the sudden silence around the table.
"Staynair should never have been confirmed as Bishop of Tellesberg in the first place," Clyntahn half-snapped. "That position's far too important to be left in the hands of a Charisian. But," he waggled one hand, showing his teeth in a caricature of a smile, and his eyes were ugly, "that's all water under the bridge, I suppose. Except that Staynair's been preaching sermons about the fallibility of the Inquisition's judgment."
"Forgive me, Zhaspyr," Trynair said, "but I find that a bit difficult to believe. Surely, Bishop Zherald would have reported any such sermons! And whatever your opinion of young Wylsynn, I can't believe he would have allowed such a challenge to Mother Church's authority to pass unreported."
"Oh, you can't, can't you?" Clyntahn's laugh was as ugly as his eyes. "Well, Father Symyn was able to absolutely confirm that Ahdymsyn sent for Staynair following one of his heretical sermons and gave him a royal tongue-lashing. So obviously Dynnys' bishop executor was aware of the problem. And Dynnys had his own little discussion with Staynair, one Father Symyn was present for. Neither Dynnys nor Staynair came right out and admitted what was going on, but it was obvious Dynnys was warning him to keep his mouth shut . . . and that Staynair wasn't what you might call penitent, either. But Dynnys certainly didn't report anything about his need to 'counsel' Staynair to me. And I think you'll all agree it's significant that neither he nor Wylsynn has reported a word about it to us even now."
Trynair frowned. Even allowing for Clyntahn's hatred for all things Charisian, he had a point.
"There's another possible aspect to all of this," Magwair said after a moment, and all eyes turned to him.
"What sort of 'aspect,' Allayn?" Duchairn asked.
"I've received a handful of reports about the Charisian Navy." The Temple's captain general shrugged. "Most of them are coming out of Emerald and Corisande, so I've tended to discount them somewhat. But in light of what Zhaspyr's just said, and particularly in light of the possibility that Wylsynn's been less scrupulous in the discharge of his duties than we'd
thought, perhaps I shouldn't have been so quick to do that."
"What sort of reports?" Trynair managed to keep his tone short of an impatient demand, but it wasn't easy.
"Apparently the Charisians have undertaken some major changes in their navy," Magwair replied. "Details are sketchy, but they all agree that in addition to these new rigging plans of theirs, and this new 'cotton gin,' and all of the other . . . innovations they've introduced, they've obviously done something we don't know about where their navy is concerned. It's the only explanation for how secretive they're being, or, for that matter, for why they should suddenly be building galleons instead of galleys."
There were several moments of intense silence, and then Clyntahn belched. The sound was startling, and Trynair twitched in surprise.
"So," the Grand Inquisitor said, without bothering to apologize, "what do we have here? We have a bishop who's preaching sedition. We have this huge spate of changes and new techniques. We have a kingdom in the process of some sort of secret military buildup. We have a king whose family has a tradition of defiance towards Mother Church, and whose own policies have scarcely been accommodating to her just demands. We have a bishop who's preaching heresy and sedition from his own cathedral. We have an archbishop who's concealing information from us—probably just to cover his own arse, although I wouldn't be prepared to bet my soul on that. And we have a so-called intendant who hasn't reported any of this to us. What does that sound like to the rest of you?"
"Not good," Magwair grunted. Duchairn and Trynair said nothing, but Clyntahn's venomous summation had shaken them, as well.
"I'm still not convinced the situation is quite that bad," Duchairn said after several seconds. "Still, I'm certainly willing to concede that I'm not as confident of that as I was a few minutes ago. Assuming all of your assumptions are correct, Zhaspyr, what do we do about it?"
"If Staynair's truly preaching sedition, and if neither Ahdymsyn nor Dynnys has reported it to us, I see no option but to summon him—and them—to appear before a proper tribunal," Trynair said.
"And that young whippersnapper Wylsynn, as well," Magwair growled, but Clyntahn shook his head.
"I'm not sure that's the wisest course," he said, and all three of his colleagues looked at him in disbelief.
"Oh, I'm not saying they shouldn't all face the Inquisition, eventually. Or that they shouldn't suffer the full penalty for their actions. But if we summon Staynair to the Temple and he refuses the summons, what happens?"
"He can't refuse the summons," Duchairn protested. "The entire matter comes under the authority of the Church's justice."
"And if Haarahld, who's already defied the Church's obvious desires by insisting this man be made Bishop of Tellesberg in the first place, intervenes and prevents the Church courts in Charis from remanding Staynair to the Temple?"
"Surely he's not prepared to go that far," Trynair argued, yet he heard a certain lack of certitude in his own voice.
"He's making preparations for something," Clyntahn pointed out. "And don't forget how many of the clergy in Charis are native Charisians. I've argued for years that we should have assigned more non-Charisians to that pesthole, but would anyone listen? No. And now what do we have? Barely the tenth part—if that much—of the clergy is from outside Haarahld's kingdom. If he should choose to defy Mother Church, at least a sizable minority of those Charisians are likely to support him. And then what do we have?"
A fresh, even more profound, silence descended upon the dining room.
It was amazing, Trynair thought, how swiftly his own mood had gone from one of pleasant content to something very, very different. But if Clyntahn was correct, if his worst-case assumptions proved accurate, they would be looking at a nightmare the Church had never confronted before: the armed resistance of an entire kingdom to God's will. And if that resistance prospered, or even if it simply took some time to quell—which was scarcely unlikely, given Charis' sheer physical distance from the Temple and the Temple Lands—its example might well spread.
The Chancellor shuddered at the thought of what might happen if Siddarmark, for example, were to fall prey to the same madness. And if Charis were allowed to continue its military expansion—an expansion which, it now seemed, might be violating the Proscriptions after all—it might well seize Emerald, Corisande, and even Chisholm by force of arms before the Church could mobilize against it in sufficient strength. And if that happened . . .
"So how do we avoid all of that, Zhaspyr?" he asked finally, and Clyntahn shrugged.
"I think the answer to that is fairly simple, really."
His colleagues' surprise was obvious, and he chuckled, the sound harsh, almost hungry.
"Of course it is. Zahmsyn, you yourself started putting the pieces into place to support Hektor if it proved necessary. Well, I submit that it has proven necessary. I think our simplest, safest, and best course is to go ahead and support Hektor and Nahrmahn, but as the Knights of the Temple Lands, not the Council of Vicars. Bahrmyn's in Manchyr on his own pastoral visit right this minute, so tell him to . . . speak frankly with Hektor. Then bring in Dohlar and Tarot—and Chisholm, for that matter—but Mother Church stays out of it. The Temple Lands can support our friends—just forgiving Rahnyld the interest on all the loan payments he still owes the Treasury would be more than enough to buy his support—but the Church and the Inquisition will have nothing to do with it. Until, of course, Haarahld's been defeated."
"And then?" Trynair asked, trying to ignore the queasiness stirring in the pit of his stomach.
"I think we can count on Hektor and Nahrmahn to wreak sufficient havoc on Charis. If necessary, we can . . . encourage them just a bit. But by the time Tellesberg and most of their other major towns and cities have been burned, and their precious merchant fleet's been destroyed, what's left of Charis will be destitute, desperate for aid. At which point, Mother Church's loving arms will reach out to her distressed children. The Treasury will pour gold into rebuilding their shattered homes, and in the process, the Office of Inquisition will be perfectly placed to purge the unreliable elements of the priesthood."
He smiled with cold, vicious satisfaction.
"In short, I believe we're in a position to solve the Charisian problem for generations to come, my friends."
SEPTEMBER, YEAR OF GOD 891
I
Royal Palace,
Manchyr, Corisande
Prince Hektor of Corisande watched with carefully hidden anxiety as Borys Bahrmyn, the Archbishop of Corisande, strode past the throne room guards and paced gravely down the runner of carpet towards his throne. The guards watched him pass with carefully expressionless faces, although the stiff set of their spines showed how little they cared for their instructions, then closed the throne room doors behind him . . . from the other side.
The ragged ends of a late-winter thunderstorm had cleared earlier in the day, and sunlight through the stained glass windows threw flowing patterns across the floor. The gems on the archbishop's formal priest's cap sparkled whenever he stepped through one of those pools of light, and his expression was solemn.
Bahrmyn reached the foot of the dais and bowed his head gravely. Then he straightened, and Hektor inclined his own head in a gesture of respect.
"I must admit, Your Eminence," he said, "that I was a bit startled, and more than a little apprehensive, when I received your message."
"I apologize for that, Your Highness," Bahrmyn said. "Only the most pressing circumstances would have led me to request an audience on such short notice."
"I realize that. Which explains my apprehension," Hektor replied, showing his teeth in a slightly tight smile, although "request" was a pale choice of verb. The archbishop's message had been a none too thinly veiled peremptory demand for an immediate—and completely private—meeting.
Had he been anyone else, Hektor would have told him, none too politely, what he could do with his "request." Since he was who he was, however, the prince had had no choice but to comply. W
hich explained his guardsmen's unhappiness.
And his own.
"The world knows that you are your own first councillor, Your Highness." Bahrmyn produced a small smile of his own. "Were you not, I would undoubtedly have made whoever served you in that capacity . . . apprehensive instead of yourself."
"An excellent point, Your Eminence. Perhaps I should consider changing my arrangements."
Bahrmyn chuckled dutifully, and Hektor drew a deep breath.
"Nonetheless, Your Eminence, you did request the audience, and you're here now. So, how may the League of Corisande assist Mother Church?"
"Actually, Your Highness," Bahrmyn said slowly, "I'm not really here in Mother Church's name this morning." Hektor's eyes widened in surprise, and the archbishop shrugged slightly. "I am here on behalf of Chancellor Trynair, but not in his capacity as Vicar Zahmsyn."
Hektor's widened eyes narrowed in sudden speculation as he recognized Bahrmyn's distinction. As Chancellor, Trynair might speak officially for the Council of Vicars, or for the Knights of the Temple Lands; as Vicar Zahmsyn, he could speak only for the Church. Which put an abruptly different face on Bahrmyn's "request" for a completely private audience.