By Heresies Distressed (2 page)

The snow outside the Temple was deep for October, even for the city of Zion, and more fell steadily, thickly, only to be whipped into mad swirls by the bitter wind roaring in off Lake Pei. That wind piled thick slabs of broken lake ice on the bitterly cold shore, swept dancing snow demons through the streets, sculpted knife-edged snowdrifts against every obstruction, and chewed at any exposed skin with icy fangs. Throughout the city, its poorest inhabitants huddled close to any source of warmth they could find, but for far too many, there was precious little of that to be had, and parents shivered, watching the weather—and their children—with worry-puckered eyes as they thought about the endless five-days stretching out between them and the half-forgotten dream of springtime's warmth.

There was no cold inside the Temple, of course. Despite the soaring ceiling of its enormous dome, there weren't even any chilly breezes. The structure reared by the archangels themselves in the misty dawn of Creation maintained its perfect interior temperature with total disdain for what the merely mortal weather of the world might be inflicting upon its exterior.

The luxurious personal suites assigned to the members of the Council of Vicars were all magnificent beyond any mortal dream, but some were even more magnificent than others. The suite assigned to Grand Inquisitor Zhaspahr Clyntahn was a case in point. It was a corner apartment on the Temple's fifth floor. Two entire sides of its main sitting room and dining room were windows—the miraculous, unbreakable, almost totally invisible windows of the archangels' handiwork. Windows which were completely transparent from within, yet flashed back exterior sunlight like mirrored walls of finely burnished silver, and which were utterly impervious to the heat—or cold—which passed through and radiated from windows of mortal glass. Paintings and statuary, all chosen with a connoisseur's exquisite discernment, added their own luxurious beauty to the suite's interior, with its thick carpets, indirect, sourceless lighting, and perfect temperature.

It was far from the first time Archbishop Wyllym Rayno had visited the Grand Inquisitor's personal chambers. Rayno was the Archbishop of Chiang-wu in the Harchong Empire. He was also the Adjutant of the Order of Schueler, which made him Clyntahn's executive officer within the Office of Inquisition. As a result, Rayno was privy to far more of Clyntahn's innermost thought than anyone else, including his colleagues among the Group of Four, yet there were places inside Clyntahn where even Rayno had never been. Places the archbishop had never wanted to be.

“Come in, Wyllym—come in!” Clyntahn said expansively as the Temple Guardsman always stationed outside his chamber opened the door for Rayno.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Rayno murmured, stepping past the guardsman.

Clyntahn extended his ring of office, and Rayno bent to kiss it, then straightened and tucked his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his cassock. The remnants of a truly enormous meal lay strewn in ruins across the large dining table, and Rayno carefully avoided noticing that there had been two place settings. Most vicars practiced at least some discretion when it came to entertaining their mistresses within the Temple's sacred precincts. Everyone knew it happened anyway, yet there were standards to be maintained, appearances to be satisfied.

But Zhaspahr Clyntahn wasn't “most vicars.” He was the Grand Inquisitor, the keeper of Mother Church's conscience, and there were times when even Rayno, who had served him for decades, wondered exactly what passed through his mind. How the same man could be so zealous when it came to rooting out the sins of others even while he indulged his own.

Fair's fair, Wyllym
, the archbishop told himself.
He may be a zealot, and he's definitely self-indulgent, but at least he's not hypocritical among his peers. And he does draw a remarkably sharp line between sins which are merely venal and those which constitute mortal offenses in the eyes of Schueler and God. He can be as irritatingly sanctimonious as anyone you've ever seen, but you've never heard him condemning any of his fellow vicars for weaknesses of the flesh. Spiritual weaknesses, yes; he can be utterly ruthless where they're concerned, but he's remarkably . . . understanding where those perquisites of high office are concerned
.

He wondered who tonight's visitor might be. All of Clyntahn's appetites were huge, and he craved novelty. Indeed, few women could hold his attention for long, and once his interest in them waned, he tended to turn to another with sometimes startling abruptness, although he was never ungenerous when he transferred his interest to another.

Rayno, as the Inquisition's adjutant, was well aware that there were those within the Temple's hierarchy who disapproved—in some cases, strenuously, if quietly—of Clyntahn's addiction to the pleasures of the flesh. No one was likely to say so openly, of course, and Rayno had very quietly quashed a few reports of condemnatory comments before they ever reached the Grand Inquisitor's ears. Still, it was only natural for there to be a certain . . . unhappiness. Some of it could probably be put down to pure envy, although he was willing to concede that there was genuine disapproval of such sensuality behind much of it. Indeed, there had been times when Rayno had found himself feeling much the same sort of disapproval. But the archbishop had concluded long ago, even before Clyntahn was elevated to his present office, that all men had flaws, and that the greater the man, the deeper his flaws were likely to run. If Clyntahn restricted his particular faults to the pursuit of fleshly pleasure, surely that was far better than what Rayno had observed in the occasional Inquisitor who found himself using the cover of his high office to indulge his own taste for unnecessary cruelty.

“Thank you for coming so promptly, Wyllym,” Clyntahn continued as he ushered the archbishop to one of the Temple's incredibly comfortable chairs. He smiled as he settled Rayno and personally poured him a glass of wine. The Grand Inquisitor's normal table manners generally took second place—or even third—to the gusto he brought to food and wine, yet he could be an incredibly gracious and charming host when he chose to be. Nor was that charm false. It simply never occurred to him to extend it to anyone outside the circle of intimates he relied upon and fully trusted. Or, at least, trusted as much as he ever trusted anyone else.

“I realize your message didn't seem to indicate any immediate urgency, Your Grace. I had business in the Temple to attend to anyway, however, so it seemed best to respond to your summons promptly.”

“I only wish I had a dozen archbishops and bishops who were as reliable as you are,” Clyntahn told him. “Langhorne! I'd settle for six!”

Rayno smiled and inclined his head in a small bow, acknowledging the compliment. Then he sat back, nursing his wineglass in both hands while he gazed attentively at his superior.

Clyntahn was looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the swirling snow and wind. His expression was almost rapt as he contemplated the icy torrent of white for the better part of three minutes. Then, finally, he turned back to Rayno and leaned back in his own chair.

“Well!” he said, with the air of someone getting down to business at last. “I'm sure you've read all the reports about the seizures of Charisian merchant ships month before last.”

He arched one eyebrow slightly, and Rayno nodded.

“Good! I was certain you would have. And since you have, you're undoubtedly aware that there were certain . . . difficulties.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Rayno acknowledged as Clyntahn paused.

Of course the archbishop was aware that there'd been “difficulties.” Everyone in Zion was aware of that much! What had been supposed to be an orderly seizure of unarmed, or at least only lightly armed, merchant ships as the first step in closing all mainland ports against the all-pervasive Charisian merchant marine had turned into something else entirely. Not everywhere, perhaps, but what the Grand Inquisitor was pleased to call “difficulties” was something the Charisians were going to call a “massacre” when word of August's events in the Kingdom of Delferahk's port city of Ferayd reached them.

Actually
, Rayno corrected himself,
what they're undoubtedly
already
calling it, given the fact that at least some of their ships got away and most certainly sailed straight to Tellesberg
. The archbishop shuddered at the thought of what the schismatic Charisian propagandists were going to do with that many civilian casualties.
One thing's for sure
, he thought grimly,
they aren't going to
minimize
what happened
.

And that, Rayno realized, was what was truly on Clyntahn's mind. The Grand Inquisitor was speaking less of the fatalities involved than he was of the need to put the proper context on the part the Inquisition had played in the seizures. Few of those seizures had gone as badly awry as the ones in Delferahk—or not, at least, in the same way. Personally, Rayno found the implications of what had happened at Siddar City even more disturbing, in many ways. According to the Inquisition's agents there, everything had been proceeding far more smoothly than in Ferayd . . . right up to the moment, at least, when, for some unknown reason, every Charisian merchant ship had simultaneously decided to . . . expedite its departure. It was undoubtedly a mere coincidence that they'd decided to do that before Lord Protector Greyghor had gotten around to formally issuing the orders to implement the Church's instructions to seize them.

Of course it was.

There was no proof of who'd warned the Charisians, yet whoever it was, it had to have been someone deep in the Lord Protector's confidence. The only real question in Rayno's mind was whether the informant had acted solely on his own, or if Lord Protector Greyghor himself had made the decision to betray the Church's trust. Given the fact that his staff had somehow been unable to locate their inexplicably missing head of state and deliver Clyntahn's instructions to him for at least twelve hours, Rayno rather suspected that he wouldn't have cared for the answer to his own question if someone had provided it.

Whoever the traitor might have been, he hadn't acted entirely alone, no matter whose idea it had been. Siddar City wasn't the only Siddarmarkian port where every Charisian merchant ship had mysteriously departed mere hours before they were supposed to be sequestered by the Republic's authorities. The possibilities that suggested were far more unpalatable than a few score of dead Charisian sailors in Ferayd.

Not that we can expect everyone else on the Council—or even within the Order!—to see things that way
, Rayno thought grumpily. The name of Samyl Wylsynn came forcefully to mind, and the adjutant reminded himself barely in time not to grimace. Not that Clyntahn would have disagreed with his subordinate's unloving thoughts where Vicar Samyl was concerned. If he decided Rayno's expression indicated the archbishop's disapproval of the decision to close the mainland ports to Charis, however, it could have unfortunate consequences.

“Well,” Clyntahn said again, grasping the thread of the conversation once more, “as you and I have already discussed, it's essential that Mother Church put the true version of events into the hands of the faithful before any Charisian lies can take root there. I believe that may be especially important in this instance.”

“Of course, Your Grace. How may I be of assistance?”

“It's taken longer than I could have wished,” the Grand Inquisitor told him frankly, “but Trynair and Duchairn have just about agreed upon the text of a proclamation setting forth what happened, especially in Ferayd, and granting martyr's status to those murdered by the Charisians. It's still weaker than I would prefer. It stops short of declaring Holy War, for example. I suppose it does set the groundwork for the eventual declaration, but certain parties are still waffling. I think Duchairn actually entertains the belief—or the hope, at least—that this can all be patched up somehow. Deep inside, though, even he has to know he's wrong. It's gone too far. The Inquisition and Mother Church simply cannot allow this sort of direct challenge of God's will and His plan for the souls of men to pass unpunished. And the chastisement must be severe, Wyllym. Severe enough to prevent anyone else from even contemplating ever following in their footsteps.”

Rayno simply nodded. There was very little new in what Clyntahn had just said—aside from the confirmation that the proclamation the adjutant had expected for five-days was approaching readiness. On the other hand, as much as Clyntahn enjoyed explaining things, it was unlikely he'd recapped all that history without a specific purpose in mind.

“I have to confess that the thing which is preying most strongly upon my own mind just now, Wyllym, isn't those damnable Charisians' open defiance. Oh, obviously that's going to have to be dealt with, but at least Cayleb and Staynair were rash enough to come out into the open. They've declared their allegiance to the pernicious doctrines Shan-wei is using to split Mother Church, marked themselves for the Church's justice and God's vengeance. In the fullness of time, they'll receive that justice and vengeance in full measure, too.