By Heresies Distressed (27 page)

“I understand,” the man who'd asked the initial question said. “I still wish there were some way to avoid it, though.”

“So do we all,” Halcom replied. “So do we all.”

He sat silent for several seconds, then returned his attention to the priest.

“I take it you have his answer to our latest counterproposal?”

“I do. He believes what you've suggested should be practical, given conditions in both Charis and Chisholm. He's agreed to help push events in the necessary direction.”

“And is he making any plans of his own to consolidate things in the aftermath?” Halcom's eyes sharpened as he asked the question, and the other man shrugged.

“He says there's no point in trying to do so at this time. Or, rather, that it would be unduly risky to attempt to involve anyone
else
in his planning at this stage. As he says, his present base of support isn't especially strong, and he's not completely positive who among his apparent supporters might prove less than enthusiastic if they knew the full plan. So he intends to wait until the moment comes, then ‘play it by ear.' I think he entertains at least some hope of recruiting additional supporters when the Chisholmian delegation to this new Imperial Parliament arrives in Tellesberg. Even if he fails in that, or decides it's too risky to attempt after all, the fact that he's the only one in the Palace who will know ahead of time that anything is coming should allow him to capitalize upon it. That's what he says, at any rate, and I'm strongly inclined to agree he's telling us the truth about his plans and intentions.”

“Which tends to lend additional credence to your own comment about his motivations, doesn't it?” Halcom said a bit sadly.

“I suppose it does. On the other hand, don't forget that his objections, his stipulations, are completely sincere. That's my evaluation of them, at least. There are clear limits beyond which he's not prepared to go.”

The note of warning in the priest's voice was clear, and Halcom nodded.

“I realize that. And if I believed his analysis of the consequences of his own proposal was accurate, I'd be fully prepared to respect those limits. Unfortunately, he's wrong. What he wants to do is far too likely to come crashing down around his ears, and if it does, it will come crashing down on us and upon
our
task, as well. In fact, I believe that ultimately his idea is likely to make things worse by actually strengthening Sharleyan's hand in the fullness of time. Never forget, my sons, that this new Empress of ours is a formidable, intelligent, and determined woman. One who not only has enormous popular support in Chisholm, but who's been steadily winning the hearts and loyalty of all of Charis, as well. That's what makes her such a dangerous weapon in Cayleb's hand, and striking her
from
his hand is going to be far more difficult than our friend believes.”

“I . . . regret that,” the priest said softly. “As you said a moment ago, she isn't and never has been an
evil
woman, despite the horrible sin she's fallen into.”

“Evil seduces,” Halcom replied almost equally softly. “It cannot conquer by force of arms unless godly men allow it to do so, and if its mask were not so fair and so seductive, then Hell would be empty of all save Shan-wei herself. But Hell is not empty, my son, and however good Sharleyan's intentions may originally have been, however good she may still sincerely believe they
are
, she is fully in the service of Shan-wei now. And so, however likable she may be, no matter how physically or even spiritually attractive she may be, she is the enemy of God. And there can be no quarter, no compromise, with His enemies.”

The others nodded in solemn silence, and he redirected his attention to the priest once again.

“Very well. When you have the opportunity to speak to him once again, tell him it will take at least a short while to make the arrangements from our side. If he seems to be feeling impatient, point out to him that the difficulties involved in finding a secure and, if necessary, defensible location for our base after the actual strike are far from trivial. Tell him we'll complete our preparations as quickly as possible and inform him when everything is in place. And it might be as well to suggest to him that he begin thinking of ways to bring Saint Agtha's to the Empress' attention.”

“With all due respect, do we want to have him do that before our preparations are complete?” the priest asked.

“I think it will be better to lay the groundwork as far in advance as possible,” Halcom replied. “Given how complicated and busy her life must be at the moment, however many of Cayleb's advisers may still be available to assist her, it's unlikely she'd be able to free the time in her schedule to visit the convent before we could be prepared. Even if our friend is clumsier than I would expect about mentioning Saint Agtha to her, she isn't going to be able to go haring off on a moment's notice.”

The priest nodded, and Halcom inhaled deeply, pushed back his chair, and stood.

“In that case, my sons,” he said, raising his hand and signing the scepter, “go now, with God's blessing and in Langhorne's keeping. Remember the devotion and love due to God and the Archangels, and let the strength that love brings you strengthen and guide your hands, hearts, and minds as we give ourselves to the service of God and Mother Church against all enemies of the Light.”

“Well, this ought to be an interesting dog and dragon show,” a voice muttered quietly, and Vicar Samyl Wylsynn looked up as his brother settled into the chair beside him.

“Not, perhaps, the most tactful—or safe—thing to say,” Samyl replied even more quietly.

“Maybe not, but that doesn't make it inaccurate,” Hauwerd Wylsynn half-growled.

“No,” Samyl agreed.

“Well, then.” Hauwerd shrugged, and Samyl grimaced.

Actually, there was a sufficiently wide moat of empty chairs around the two Wylsynn brothers that the likelihood of anyone overhearing a private conversation between them was virtually nonexistent. On the other hand, Samyl hadn't survived this long by running unnecessary risks. Still, he understood his younger brother's profoundly mixed feelings as they waited, along with perhaps forty or fifty other vicars and senior archbishops, for the tribunal to convene.

How many years have we been collecting evidence of corruption—especially in the Office of Inquisition?
Samyl asked himself.
We must have enough of it to fill a dozen trunks by now!
Large
trunks. Yet with all those years, all that effort, we have yet to secure a serious indictment of anyone. And now
this.

There had been times when Samyl had been sorely tempted to abandon his quixotic quest. The chances of success, even if he somehow, someday, found himself stepping into the office Clyntahn and his successors had corrupted so thoroughly, were slim. He knew that. He'd always known it. And even if he somehow achieved that goal, it would be only to find himself battling literally generations of entrenched opposition and self-interest. Yet he was who he was, and the unending (and generally thankless) task of reforming the Church and purging it of its many abuses had become a Wylsynn legacy.

And a damned risky “legacy” it is, too!
he thought moodily.

He'd actually preferred charges against at least a dozen of his fellow Schuelerites over the years, whenever he could produce the necessary evidence without exposing the Circle's broader, covert, and far riskier activities. At least twice he'd had absolutely conclusive evidence that the Inquisitors in question had been using their office (and all the grisly threats associated with it) to extort money out of completely innocent men and women. And once he'd had
almost
absolutely conclusive evidence of murder. Yet the most severe punishment he'd ever managed to secure had been no more than a one-year suspension from the Order of Schueler . . . and that had been for one of the
extortionists
, not the murderer.

It sickened him that his own order, the order charged with preserving the sanctity of the Church's own soul, was even more corrupt than the other orders it was supposed to guide and police, yet there was no point in pretending that wasn't true. And the worst of it was that many of those corrupt inquisitors didn't even realize they
were
corrupt. They were part of a system far larger than themselves, performing their duties exactly the way they'd been taught to perform them by Zhaspahr Clyntahn and his immediate predecessors. The thought that they genuinely believed they were serving God's will was frightening, yet he'd long ago come to the conclusion that—for many of them—it was also true.

I sometimes wonder if even Clyntahn truly realizes how corrupt he is. In fact, I doubt he does. He doesn't see it as corruption at all, which is probably the most damnable thing about him. I think he genuinely sees no discrepancy between what
he
wants and the will of God. They're exactly the same thing, which is why he's justified in doing anything—anything at all—to achieve his own ends. Anything that maintains and strengthens the Church's authority (and his) is good and godly; anything that
threatens
the Church's authority (and his) is the work of Shan-wei herself. And no one else, except for the Circle, cares a damned thing about it as long as it keeps working for
them,
keeps squeezing out money and power and privilege for
them.

The truth was, although Samyl hadn't told anyone, even among his brothers of the Circle, that he actually
agreed
with Maikel Staynair and the Church of Charis. The Church of God Awaiting
was
hopelessly corrupt, trapped in the grip of men like Clyntahn and the rest of the Group of Four. Even if he could somehow topple Clyntahn and Trynair, there was no point deceiving himself into the belief that there weren't at least a score of other vicars prepared to step into the Group of Four's place and maintain “business as usual.” It was simply the way things were.

But there truly are good and godly men among the vicarate, as well
, he told himself stubbornly.
You
know
there are. That's the only reason you haven't given up and fled to someplace like Charis yourself
.

Perhaps so, but it was getting harder to cling to that belief. And the air of desperation, the sense of men willing to reach for any avenue of escape, which had permeated the Church at her highest level since the Charisians had bidden the Group of Four defiance was frightening. What had been merely dangerous before had become something far worse, and after the ghastly fate handed out to Erayk Dynnys, Samyl Wylsynn was under no illusion about that. Frightened men would turn savagely upon anyone who appeared to threaten their own safety, their own positions, and Zhaspahr Clyntahn was more than prepared to use that fear to support his own ends.

Perhaps it's time
, he thought. I
f the key wasn't given for a moment like this one then why
was
it given? Surely an internal threat to the Church is just as deadly as an
external
one?

Yet it wasn't the same thing, and he knew that as well as Hauwerd did. Perhaps the time was coming, but until it did—

Samyl Wylsynn's ruminations broke off abruptly as the members of the tribunal filed into the large chamber and seated themselves behind the enormous conference table. There were eight of them, but only one who really mattered, and Wylsynn's face tightened as Wyllym Rayno, the Archbishop of Chiang-wu and Adjutant of the Order of Schueler, leaned forward and rapped lightly on the small bell hanging in its stand before him.

The sweet, silvery notes floated through the chamber, and the quiet buzz of side conversations ended abruptly.

“This tribunal is now in session,” Rayno announced. “Let us pray.”

Heads bowed throughout the chamber, and Rayno raised his voice.

“O God, Creator of all men, maker of all things, designer and architect of all that has been, is now, or ever shall be, we come before You in awe and trembling. We beseech You to guide us in this, our solemn task to maintain the sanctity, the purity, and the truth of Your word and Your Church as handed down to us by the Archangel Langhorne on the very day of Creation itself. We thank and bless You for giving us that sacred instruction and guiding us in its preservation and teaching, and it is with a heavy heart we bring You the result of the deliberations and decisions to which Your Office of Inquisition has been called by recent events. Be with us, we beseech You, as we contend with the forces of Darkness in Your most holy name. In Langhorne's name we pray, amen.”

A chorus of answering “amens” rumbled back, but Samyl Wylsynn's was not among them. Nor was his brother's.

Rayno raised his head, waited for his listeners to settle themselves comfortably once again, then cleared his throat.

“I'm confident that everyone in this chamber is fully conversant with the events which led to the assembly of this tribunal,” he said. “Since that is the case, there seems little point in summarizing them yet again.”

One or two heads nodded among the audience, and Rayno looked over his shoulder at one of the aides assembled against the tapestry-covered wall behind the tribunal's members. The aide, a remarkably young-looking upper-priest of the Order of Schueler, promptly handed him a thick folder, and Rayno placed it on the conference table before him. He opened it and leafed through the first few sheets of paper for several seconds. Then he looked back up at the waiting clerics.

“This tribunal was impaneled to consider the circumstances surrounding the deaths of sixteen consecrated priests of the Order of Schueler,” he said. “There is no question about the causes of those deaths, or who was responsible for them, but certain charges leveled at the priests in question were so serious, so disturbing, that the Grand Inquisitor, with the Grand Vicar's strong agreement, felt a formal inquiry and investigation was mandatory.