By Heresies Distressed (51 page)

“I hope you're right,” Trynair said. “But whether you're right about that or not, if we're going to have to build yet
another
completely new navy, it's going to throw a major kink into our plans.”

“I believe I can safely say that that's a substantial understatement,” Clyntahn said dryly.

“And unless we do want to get rid of Allayn and try to find another Captain General we think we can trust, we're going to have to be careful about how we go about changing our building plans,” Trynair continued, his expression thoughtful as his brain got past the shock of Clyntahn's announcement and began grappling with its implications. “If we don't handle this properly, it's going to create a crisis in confidence among the rest of the vicarate where Allayn is concerned.”

“Frankly, that might not be the worst thing that could happen,” Clyntahn pointed out. “Except, as you say, that finding another Captain General we can trust, especially if we find ourselves being forced to drop Allayn under pressure from other vicars, isn't going to be simple. I'm pissed off with him about this, but I suppose it's only fair to point out in his defense that all of us had the same information, and I'm only just now figuring this out myself. Given the fact that Allayn is possibly a third as smart as you or I—I'm being generous here, you'll note—it's probably unfair of me to be
too
pissed off with him.”

“I think it might be best to have Allayn reach the same conclusions you have on the basis of reports from Ferayd,” Trynair said after a moment. “If we stress that no one else had realized all of this and point out that the Ferayd attack is the first one on which we've really received adequate reports, then perhaps we can convince everyone Allayn recognized the inherent weaknesses of galleys forced to fight galleons as soon as he had an opportunity to review a sufficiently detailed account.”

“I suppose that could work,” Clyntahn agreed a bit sourly. “Although I have to admit that I'm getting a bit tired of ‘admitting' things just to head off the damage when someone
else
starts screaming about them. Still, I think we're in a better position to control the spin on this one . . . assuming, of course, that no one else finds out about the reports Admiral Thirsk and Admiral White Ford sent Allayn after Rock Point and Crag Reach.”

Trynair grimaced and wished Clyntahn could have refrained from that last observation. Still, those reports had scarcely been broadly circulated. It wouldn't be that hard to discreetly “disappear” them.

“This is going to make things even worse where Corisande is concerned,” he said after a moment. “I've been assuming that if Hektor could only hold out until the spring ice melts up here, we could send a fleet to his support. One capable of at least fighting its way through with additional troops.”

“I think we can assume that
that's
not going to happen,” Clyntahn agreed.

“Well, that probably pretty much guarantees that Corisande's going to be lost to us, along with Chisholm and Emerald. Which, in turn, means this ‘Charisian Empire' of Cayleb's may actually come into existence.”

“For a while,” Clyntahn said grimly. “For a while.”

“Maybe only for a while, but if Corisande goes down, especially after Chisholm and Emerald have voluntarily joined Charis, and after Cayleb has burned Ferayd to the ground and hanged sixteen Inquisitors with apparently total impunity,
and
after we've announced we have to start building yet another new navy from the ground up, it's not going to do very much for morale. And if Hektor does the same thing Nahrmahn did, it's going to be even worse.”

“It won't be good, no,” Clyntahn said much more calmly than Trynair would have expected. “On the other hand, if it's going to happen, it's going to happen. Panicking about it ahead of time won't accomplish anything. Besides, you might be surprised.” He smiled unpleasantly. “I've been working on a little insurance plan. One I think will turn Hektor into an asset even if Corisande voluntarily surrenders to Charis.”

“Insurance plan? What
sort
of insurance plan?”

“Ah!” Clyntahn wagged an index finger chidingly. “I told you I'm still working on it. It's not what I'd call really finished yet, and even if it were, everyone likes his little surprises. I think you'll be impressed, but I'm not quite ready to share it yet.”

Trynair frowned at him, but Clyntahn only chuckled and reached for the wine bottle again.

It was considerably later that evening when Clyntahn strolled into his own suite in a pleasant glow.

Of the entire Group of Four, only Trynair's wine cellar really matched Clyntahn's own, and the Grand Inquisitor always enjoyed drinking someone else's wines and whiskeys more than he cared for sharing his own. Besides, Trynair's attempts to inveigle him into sharing his plans for cushioning the impact of Hektor's eventual defeat had amused him enormously, especially after the way in which he'd been forced to humiliate himself over Ferayd. And so he was in an expansive mood as he returned home.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” his valet said, bowing to him.

“Evening,” Clyntahn responded.

“I'm sorry, Your Grace, but you have a visitor,” the valet continued.

“A visitor? At this hour?” Clyntahn frowned, and the valet grimaced.

“I did point out the lateness of the hour, Your Grace, and inquire as to whether or not he could come back at a more convenient time. He informed me, however, that it was important he speak to you. He seemed quite insistent, in fact.”

“And who might this visitor be?”

“It's Archbishop Nyklas, Your Grace.”

Clyntahn's eyes narrowed. Nyklas Stantyn was the Archbishop of Hankey in the Desnairian Empire, but he was scarcely one of Clyntahn's intimates. In fact, the Grand Inquisitor had never thought too highly of the man's basic intelligence. Besides, Stantyn had been one of those who had favored Samyl Wylsynn in the contest between Wylsynn and Clyntahn for the Grand Inquisitor's office. Only vicars had been allowed to vote, of course, but the campaigning had been vigorous, and Stantyn had done quite a bit of Wylsynn's legwork. That was one reason he was still a mere archbishop instead of having been elevated to the vicarate, despite his well-connected birth and seniority.

“Did he say what's so important?”

“I'm afraid not, Your Grace. His Eminence informed me that it was a matter for your ears alone.”

“Indeed?” Clyntahn frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “I assume he's waiting in the library?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Very well. If what he has to say is so important, I suppose I'd best hear him out. And if it's for my ears only, I suppose you'd best leave us to it. If I need you, I'll ring.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The valet vanished with well-trained alacrity, and Clyntahn continued through to the library. Stantyn sat in a chair, gazing out into the snowy night, and Clyntahn's face smoothed into a mask of non-expression as he saw the archbishop's tense shoulders and noted the other man's nervously drumming fingers.

Stantyn twitched around from the window, then stood abruptly as he saw Clyntahn.

“Your Eminence,” Clyntahn said, stepping fully into the library and extending his ring. “What brings you here at such an hour?”

“I beg your pardon for disturbing you so late in the evening, Your Grace,” Stantyn said as he straightened from kissing the proffered ring. “I realize this is highly irregular, but I felt a great need to speak to you. Privately.”

The Desnairian's voice might have sounded calm to another's ears, but Clyntahn's were the ears of the Grand Inquisitor. People often tried to sound calm when they spoke to him—especially when what they actually felt was something very different. And this, he decided, was one such time.

“My door is always open to any child of God who feels the need to speak to me, Your Eminence. And if that's true for all children of God, how much more true must it be for my own brothers within the episcopate? Please, tell me how I can serve you.”

“Actually, Your Grace . . .” Stantyn's voice trailed off, and he looked like a man who abruptly wondered what he could possibly be doing. But Clyntahn was accustomed to that, as well.

“Come now, Your Eminence,” he said chidingly. “We both know you wouldn't be here at this late hour unless you'd felt it was essential that we speak. And I fear the office I hold has made me somewhat . . . sensitive to hesitance when I see it. It's too late for you to pretend you didn't feel compelled to come here.”

Stantyn looked at him, and his face seemed to crumple. Something happened inside him—something Clyntahn had seen more times than he could count.

“You're right, Your Grace,” the archbishop half-whispered. “I did feel compelled. I . . . I'm afraid. Too much is happening. The Grand Vicar's Address, what's happened in Ferayd, the Charisians' defiance . . . It's all changing the ground under our very feet, and what seemed so
clear
before isn't clear anymore.”

“Like what . . . Nyklas?” Clyntahn asked gently, and Stantyn inhaled deeply.

“For the last several years, Your Grace, I've . . . been involved with certain others here in the Temple. At first, and for a long time, I was certain I was doing the right thing. The others are all men I've known and respected for many, many years, and what they said seemed to make so much sense to me. But now, with this schism changing everything, I'm not sure anymore. I'm afraid that what seemed to make sense is something else entirely.”

He stared appealingly into Clyntahn's eyes, and it took all of the Grand Inquisitor's decades of experience to keep his own eyes gently sympathetic instead of narrowing them in sudden, intent speculation. He knew the steps to this dance entirely too well. What Stantyn wanted was the Inquisition's promise of immunity before he continued with whatever had driven him here. And the fact that an archbishop of his seniority thought he
needed
immunity suggested that whatever had brought him here was at least potentially of enormous importance.

“Sit back down, Nyklas,” Clyntahn said soothingly. “I know moments like this are always difficult. And I know it can be frightening to admit the possibility that one
may
have fallen into error. But Mother Church is God's loving servant. Even those who have fallen into error may always be received back into her welcoming arms if they realize their error and turn to her in a true spirit of contrition.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Stantyn's voice was barely audible, and for a moment Clyntahn thought the man was actually going to break into tears. “Thank you.”

“Now,” Clyntahn continued, settling into a chair of his own as Stantyn sat back down, “why don't you begin from the beginning?”

“It was several years ago,” Stantyn began. “Shortly after your own elevation to Grand Inquisitor, I was approached by Archbishop Zhasyn. I didn't know him as well as I knew many others within the episcopate, but I respected and admired him. When he invited me to discuss our shared duties as archbishops of Mother Church, I was both surprised and, I suppose, flattered. In the course of those discussions, however, he began to gently lead the conversation into the direction of Church politics, rather than the discussion of pastoral tasks with which we'd begun.”

The Desnairian paused, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, then met Clyntahn's compassionate eyes once more.

“Eventually, Your Grace, I learned Archbishop Zhasyn was a member of a larger group, a circle, here within the Temple. And that circle was concerned about what it saw as Church corruption. Its members were . . . unwilling to bring their concerns before the Office of Inquisition, and so they were amassing their own evidence. Exactly what they intended to do with that evidence was not immediately made clear to me, but Archbishop Zhasyn did make it plain that they wished to recruit me as another reformer, and he asked me to begin to take note of any evidences of corruption I might see. At that time—”

Clyntahn's expression never even flickered, and he leaned back, listening.