By Heresies Distressed (7 page)

Eyebrows rose. It was abundantly clear that the legal maneuver Qwentyn was describing was no more than a paper transaction. And if that was clear to them, they felt confident it would be clear to others. The possibility that Zhaspahr Clyntahn would be . . . unhappy when he learned of it appeared significant, but it was obvious Qwentyn was, in fact, acting as the Lord Protector's messenger in this instance. And while it was undoubtedly true that the Grand Inquisitor's wrath and the disapproval of the “Knights of the Temple Lands” was not something to be lightly contemplated, it was also true that the Lord Protector was far closer to them. With winter closing in, it was even conceivable that some five-days would pass before anyone in Zion learned of this particular maneuver. And if—or when—Vicar Zhaspahr learned of it, the Church's longstanding policy of not pushing Siddarmark too hard would undoubtedly come into play. The most probable negative outcome would be a forced repudiation of the “lease-purchases,” and it was highly probable that the Republic's diplomats (and law masters) would be able to spin even that out for months. Months during which the official owners of the vessels in question would be making money hand-over-fist in markets where the general reduction in shipping would enforce scarcity and drive prices steadily upward.

And if the Lord Protector's administration was prepared to pursue
this
arrangement, who knew what
other
arrangements it might be prepared to sanction, as well?

Several eyes slid sideways, towards one of the guests, in particular. He was neither Charisian nor Siddarmarkian, and his tunic sleeve carried an embroidered crown surmounted by crossed keys. The crown in question was orange, not white, which meant he was a senior bailiff for a member of the Council of Vicars, and not some lowly archbishop or bishop. His presence had been unexpected, and more than one of the other guests waited to hear him denounce what Qwentyn had just said.

Instead, he simply frowned thoughtfully. If he felt the intensity of the regards directed at him, he gave no sign of it, but after a few moments, he nodded.

“As you say, Master Qwentyn, the consequences of the exclusion of Charisian-owned shipping have already been profound. And, like most of the people in this room, I'm responsible for serving the best interests of my patrons. Clearly, the upward surge in prices is making that significantly more difficult. I feel quite confident that my employers would wish me to explore every possible avenue by which those rising prices might be controlled. I think this lease-purchase arrangement of yours has a great deal to recommend itself as a means whereby the Grand Inquisitor's directives and intentions can be given effect without bringing about a total collapse of our maritime commerce or imposing disastrously high prices. In fact, it would seem to me that the purchasing approach you've chosen to follow is only one of several possible options. For example, had you considered—”

The atmosphere around the table shifted noticeably as the bailiff leaned forward, his eyes intent.
Business is business
. They could almost physically hear him saying that, although they all knew he would never, under any circumstances, admit that he had.

The arrangements they were discussing probably wouldn't last, yet they might very well hold up for quite some time. And if the Lord Protector remained as willing to pursue . . . innovative solutions as he clearly was at this moment, some fresh arrangement would undoubtedly be waiting in the wings when the Church finally got around to quashing this one.

Which suggested all sorts of interesting future possibilities. . . .

“Excuse me, My L—Sir,” the rather plainly dressed young man said.

The almost equally plainly dressed older man looked up with a chiding expression, but he permitted the self-correction to pass unremarked.

This time.

“Yes, Ahlvyn?” he said instead.

“There's a messenger from Tellesberg,” Ahlvyn Shumay told him.

“Really?” The older man, who tried very hard to remind himself that he was no longer Bishop Mylz Halcom—officially, at least—sat back in his chair and quirked an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sir. From . . . our friend in Tellesberg.”

Halcom's raised eyebrow smoothed magically. As a matter of fact, he'd discovered quite a few “friends” in Tellesberg—more, really, than he'd hoped for, after his hasty departure from his own see in Hanth Town. At this particular moment, however, there was only one of them for whose messages Shumay would have interrupted him. And if his aide sometimes had trouble breaking the habit of addressing Halcom as a bishop, he'd demonstrated a much greater ability to remember never to mention names unless he absolutely had to.

“I see.” Halcom gazed thoughtfully at Shumay for a handful of seconds, then shrugged very slightly. “Is there anything I need to do about it immediately, Ahlvyn?”

“As a matter of fact, no, Sir,” Shumay replied. “I just thought you'd like to know that he seems to have experienced no undue difficulty in making the arrangements you asked him to see to.”

“Thank you, Ahlvyn. That's very good news.”

“Of course, Sir,” Shumay murmured, and withdrew.

Halcom gazed after him for a moment, then turned back to the brown-bearded man in the white lamp-badged brown habit of an upper-priest in the Order of Bédard. That robe was girdled by the white rope belt which marked him as the head of a monastic community, a fact which had a great deal to do with Halcom's presence in this remarkably spartan office.

“Please excuse the interruption, Father Ahzwald,” he said. “I'm afraid I may have overly impressed Ahlvyn with the need to deliver messages promptly.”

“Please, My Lord.” Father Ahzwald shook his head. “Don't concern yourself. Father Ahlvyn has been with you in the dragon's mouth. If he thinks you need to know something, then I'm quite content to leave that decision in his hands.”

“Thank you,” Halcom said, managing not to frown as the other man used his ecclesiastic title.

Actually, he supposed, it didn't really matter that much in this case. Father Ahzwald Banahr was the head of the Priory of Saint Hamlyn, and the priory was located in the city of Sarayn, well over two hundred and fifty miles from Tellesberg. It was unlikely that Baron Wave Thunder, King—no,
Emperor
—Cayleb's spymaster, had infiltrated any of his agents into a relatively small priory that far from the capital. And particularly not into a priory of the same order which “Archbishop Maikel Staynair” called his own.

Still, good security was a matter of developing the proper habits, and as Banahr had just pointed out, Halcom had survived more than a few five-days in the dragon's mouth in Tellesberg, itself. And, once his business here in the Earldom of Rivermouth was completed, that was precisely where he'd be returning.

“Well,” he said, “to return to our earlier discussion, Father. I fully realize how eager you are to strike a blow in the name of God and His Church, but I'm very much afraid that, as I said, your value to His cause is much greater where you already are.”

“My Lord, with all due respect, neither I nor the brothers I've called to your attention are afraid of anything apostate heretics might do to us. And the fact that we're members of the same order from which the author of this abomination sprang gives us a special responsibility to do something about it. I really think—”

“Father,” Halcom interrupted, his tone as patient as he could make it, “we have the swordarms we need. We have a plentiful supply, actually, of good and godly men prepared to do God's will in opposing what you've so rightly described as an ‘abomination.' What we need more than anything else is a support network. A community of the faithful—of those the schismatics have so disdainfully labeled ‘Temple Loyalists'—prepared to gather supplies, stockpile weapons, offer shelter, serve as message conduits, pass funds as necessary. To be totally, brutally blunt, we need that sort of network much more than we need additional fighters.”

Father Ahzwald couldn't hide the disappointment in his expression, assuming he'd actually
tried
to hide it.

Well, that's just too bad
, Halcom thought,
because everything I just told him is the absolute, literal truth. Although I do hope we can instill at least a rudimentary sense of security into Father Ahzwald! I'm confident Wave Thunder isn't wasting time looking in his direction
yet,
but that can always change, especially once we start staging our operations through the monastic community
.

“I understand what you're saying, My Lord,” Banahr said after a moment. “And I suppose, if I'm honest, that I can't really argue with your logic. Still, I can't help feeling that a ‘fellow Bédardist' might well be able to get close enough to Staynair to settle the business.”

“It wasn't a case of failing to get close enough, Father,” Halcom responded, and his voice was much grimmer than it had been a few moments before. “Believe me, our brothers got close enough to do the job easily enough. Or they
would
have been close enough, if not for ‘
Seijin
Merlin.' ”

The bishop showed his teeth in an expression no one could ever possibly have confused with a smile.

“We owe the good
seijin
quite a debt,” he continued, recalling the reports of Emperor Cayleb's personal armsman standing balanced on the rail of the royal box in Tellesberg Cathedral, smoking pistols in hand, as he shot down the three volunteers who'd actually gotten close enough to physically lay hands on the apostate “archbishop.” “Without him, Staynair would be dead this very moment. The time will come when we settle with
him
, too, Father.”

“We've heard rumors about him, even here,” Banahr said, his expression troubled. “Some of the things he's supposed to have done sound . . . preposterous. Impossible.”

“Oh, I don't doubt that for a moment,” Halcom replied. “He's extraordinarily handy with a sword—and, obviously, with these ‘pistols' Cayleb and his cronies have invented—and he has an incredibly irritating knack for being in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.”

“Is it possible he has . . . assistance in managing that, My Lord?” Banahr asked in a very careful tone.

“Is he receiving demonic assistance, do you mean, Father?” Halcom asked in reply, and chuckled. “I suppose anything is possible, but I'm inclined to think the superstitious give him rather too much credit. Most of the ‘impossible' things he's supposed to have done are much more probably the products of overactive imaginations than of reality! Strangling krakens with his bare hands? Single-handedly slaughtering two hundred, or three hundred—or was it
five
hundred?—Corisandian sailors and Marines aboard
Royal Charis
?” The bishop shook his head. “Athrawes is definitely a
seijin
, Father, and it would appear that the ridiculous legends about the martial capabilities of
seijins
in general have a solid core of truth, after all. But sooner or later, he's going to arrive too late, or someone is going to manage to get a sword—or an arbalest bolt, or an arrow, or a bullet—through his guard, and that's going to be the end of
Seijin
Merlin.”

“I'm sure you're right, My Lord, but still. . . .”

Banahr let his voice trail off, and Halcom snorted.

“At the moment, Father, it clearly suits the purposes of Staynair, Cayleb, and their cronies to . . .
emphasize
, shall we say, Athrawes' abilities and accomplishments. After all, he's Cayleb's personal armsman. Encouraging people to think he's some sort of infallible superman is likely to discourage direct attempts on the Emperor's life. And having someone capable of ‘miraculously' intervening to save Cayleb, or Staynair, is another way for them to pretend God truly favors their apostasy. After all, would He have sent a protector like ‘
Seijin
Merlin' to look after Cayleb, to save Staynair from certain death, if He
didn't
favor them? So it's scarcely in their interests to downplay his accomplishments, is it?”

“I suppose not,” Banahr said a bit doubtfully, and Halcom suppressed a sigh. The prior's fixation on Captain Merlin Athrawes' apparently more-than-human capabilities actually only underscored what Halcom had just said. Many of those who supported Cayleb in his insane, arrogant challenge to the authority of God Himself saw in Athrawes the imprimatur of God's approval, instead. It was tempting to take advantage of the concern Banahr and others like him felt and label Athrawes a servant of demons—or even a demon, himself. In many ways, it might be an effective tool, especially among the more poorly educated and more credulous. But it had been over seven hundred years since anyone had last seen a true demon. Labeling Athrawes as one now would probably lose them as much support among the better educated and informed, and if they were going to successfully combat the schism, they couldn't afford to lose that support. Besides, the opportunity it would provide for the schismatic propagandists to mock the Temple Loyalists' “ridiculous claims” was something which had to be avoided.

Mind you, there are times I'm more than half-tempted to sign on to the same belief
, Halcom admitted.
For example, I have no intention of telling Banahr about the way Merlin “just happened” to turn up in the nick of time to save that bastard Mahklyn from the bonfire we'd arranged for him. But if he really were a demon, he'd have gotten there in time to save the
rest
of their precious Royal College, as well
. The bishop smiled mentally, thinking about the literally decades of records which had gone up in the flames.
They're never going to be able to put all of
that
back together again, and a
true
demon would have recognized that and gotten there a half hour or so sooner. And a true demon would have simply arranged to have our brothers arrested—or killed—before they ever got close enough to strike at Staynair, too. Killing them the way he actually did was certainly spectacular, but letting us get that close first only proved how deep—and committed—the opposition to their precious “Church of Charis” really is
.