Off Armageddon Reef (52 page)

“Do you know of any individual here in Charis who would oppose God's will for Safehold?” Wylsynn asked, and Merlin held his mental breath.

“I know of no one here in Charis who would act in opposition to the will of God,” Haarahld said. “I don't doubt there are some, for there are always those who prefer evil to good, but if they exist, I do not know who they may be, or where.”

Again, the verifier continued to glow.

“Do you, as an individual and a monarch, accept God's plan for Safehold's salvation?” Wylsynn asked, and this time Haarahld's face tightened, as if with a flicker of anger. But he replied in that same measured tone.

“I accept God's plan for this world, for my Kingdom, and for myself,” he said, and the verifier burned clear blue.

“Do you intend ill to any who do not intend ill to you?” Wylsynn asked very quietly, and Haarahld cocked his head slightly.

“Forgive me, Father,” he said across the blue glow of the verifier, “but that question would seem to me to go just a bit far afield.”

Wylsynn began to open his mouth, but the king shook his head before he could.

“Nonetheless,” Haarahld continued, “I'll answer it. You've extended your trust to me, and so I'll extend mine to you. In answer to your question, I intend ill to no man who does not intend ill to me or the subjects for whose lives and safety I am responsible.”

The verifier continued to glow, and Wylsynn bowed profoundly to the king and stepped back.

“I thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, and looked at Cayleb.

“Your Highness?” he said, and Cayleb stretched out his hand as fearlessly as his father had.

“You heard the King's answers to my questions, Your Highness,” Wylsynn said. “May I ask if you are in accord with his responses?”

“I am.”

“Do you share your father's beliefs on these matters?”

“I do.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Wylsynn said as the verifier continued to glow brightly. Then he looked at Merlin.

“In addition to his concern about allegations of violations of the Proscriptions, the Archbishop informed me there have been reports of malign influences in the King's councils. He named no specific names, but I would imagine any such rumors probably focus on
you
, Lieutenant Athrawes. You are, after all, a stranger, and there are persistent rumors that you're also a
seijin
. The Archbishop didn't specifically instruct me to investigate those rumors, but it would be of great value to me—and a relief to my own mind—if you would permit me to do so.”

Merlin looked back at him for several seconds, sensing the tension which suddenly ratcheted higher in Cayleb. Then he smiled crookedly and bowed to the upper-priest.

“I never anticipated anything quite like this, Father,” he said with perfect honesty. “But if I can be of service, of course you have my permission.”

He reached out his own hand, and settled it over the verifier. As he did, a small green icon glowed in the corner of his vision, and he drew a deep mental breath at the confirmation that the verifier was fully functional. Its circuitry and programming had detected the fact that he was a PICA operating in autonomous mode. It had no way to realize he was operating under hacked software, nor would it have had any way to report that fact to Wylsynn. But it had been designed to interface with a PICA's molycirc brain, as well as with a human one, and it had dropped automatically into the proper mode.

Which meant it would know if
he
lied to the upper-priest.

“Are you a
seijin
, Lieutenant?” Wylsynn asked.

“I have some, but by no means all, of the abilities
seijin
are reputed to have,” Merlin replied calmly, choosing his words with deadly care. “I acquired them after many years in the Mountains of Light, but none of my teachers or instructors ever actually called me a
seijin
.”

Wylsynn looked at the verifier's steady blue glow, then back up at Merlin's face.

“Why have you come to Charis?”

“For many reasons,” Merlin said. “Specifically, I came to this kingdom to place my services and my sword at its disposal because I admire and respect King Haarahld, and because I believe Charis offers men the best chance to live as God would truly have them live.”

“May I assume from your last answer that you believe in God's plan for Safehold?”

“Father,” Merlin said very steadily, “I believe in God, I believe God has a plan for all men, everywhere, and I believe it's the duty of every man and woman to stand and contend for light against the darkness.”

The verifier didn't even flicker, and Wylsynn's intent expression eased unexpectedly into a slight, crooked smile.

“I was going to ask you several more questions, Lieutenant,” he said, “but you seem to believe in comprehensive answers.”

“One tries, Father,” Merlin murmured, and he and the upper-priest bowed to one another as Wylsynn stepped back from the dais, carefully deactivated the verifier, and returned it to its place of concealment.

“I thank you, Your Majesty, Your Highness. And you, Lieutenant Athrawes. I believe I know now what I needed to know in order to respond to the Archbishop's concerns.”

“You're most welcome,” Haarahld replied, and Merlin wondered if the king's calm voice concealed as much relief as
he
felt.

“And now, Your Majesty, Your Eminence, I know you have many duties to attend to. With your permission, I'll leave you to them.”

“Of course, Father,” Haarahld said, and Bishop Maikel raised one hand in benediction.

“You've done well here today, Father,” the bishop said. “Would that all Mother Church's priests were as faithful, zealous, and careful in discharging their responsibilities. The blessings of God and the Archangels go with you.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence,” Wylsynn replied quietly. Then he bowed once again, and he was gone.

“Steeeeerike
three!
”

The capacity crowd in King Haarahld V Stadium roared its disapproval of the call, but the white-clad umpire behind the plate ignored the shouts coming his way. Umpires, after all, were the only branch of Mother Church's hierarchy who were
accustomed
to catcalls and vociferous disagreement.

Bishop Executor Zherald Ahdymsyn sometimes regretted that they were. It offended his sense of propriety for any of Mother Church's servants to be the subject of such abuse, although at least the Archangel Langhorne had been careful, when he established the
Writ
's commandments for the game, to reserve the office of umpire for the laity. It wasn't as if the crowd were booing a consecrated priest, after all. And this time around, even the most violently protesting fan probably understood that the umpire's call had been the correct one.

It would have been expecting a bit much out of them to
admit
it, though. The annual Kingdom Championship Series—yet again this year between the Tellesberg Krakens and their traditional, hated rivals, the Hairatha Dragons—was all tied up at three games each, and they were into the seventh inning of the deciding game with the Krakens trailing by two runs and the bases loaded, which made the second out on a called strike particularly painful.

The crowd noise subsided to its normal background surf, with only an occasional voice still shouting speculative comments on the quality of the umpire's vision, and the next batter advanced to the plate. A derisive cheer went up from the spectators as he stepped into the batter's box. Zhan Smolth was one of the most dominating pitchers in the league, especially in the post-season, and he was normally immensely popular. But like most pitchers, his batting performance was at best mediocre. Not only that, but he'd hit into an inning-ending double play in his last at-bat, and the home crowd clearly expected to be…disappointed by this one.

Which circumstances, Ahdymsyn thought, had made the preceding batter's strikeout even more excruciating for the spectators.

The bishop chuckled at the thought, then, as Smolth dug his cleats firmly in and tapped the plate with his bat, sat back in his comfortable, well-shaded seat in the box reserved for the Church's use in every major baseball stadium. Everyone else in the stadium was focused on the drama unfolding on the sun-drenched field, but Ahdymsyn's smile faded. He himself had other, more weighty matters on his mind.

In Haarahld V Stadium, the Church Box was located immediately to the right of the Royal Box. Zherald had only to turn his head to see King Haarahld and Crown Prince Cayleb watching the beautifully manicured field intently, and he frowned, ever so slightly, at the sight. It was a troubled frown, but it had nothing to do with the current game.

Zherald Ahdymsyn hadn't served as bishop executor for the Kingdom of Charis for so many years without gaining a certain sensitivity, even at this remove, to the political currents flowing about inside the Temple. No one actually told him anything about them in so many words, as a rule, but he'd had a lot of experience reading Archbishop Erayk's letters, and the latest set of dispatches had been even…franker than usual. It was apparent to Ahdymsyn that his temporal masters were unusually anxious over the reports they were receiving—not all from him—about Charis. That was never a good thing, and the freak accident which had prevented the archbishop from making his scheduled pastoral visit left his bishop executor responsible for dealing with it. Which, in Zherald Ahdymsyn's opinion was an even worse thing.

He chewed that unpalatable thought for a moment, then looked at the younger priest sitting beside him.

Father Paityr Wylsynn was a dark slash of purple amid the episcopal white and brown and green earth tones of the other bishops and priests filling the box. Competition for seating at the Kingdom Series was always ferocious, and technically, Wylsynn was considerably junior to some of the upper-priests of other ecclesiastical orders who'd failed to win places in the Church Box this year. But that didn't matter. As Mother Church's (and the Inquisition's) Intendant in Charis, the only member of the Charisian hierarchy
functionally
senior to the young, intense Schuelerite was Ahdymsyn himself.

Which made the bishop executor more than a little uneasy. Priests like Wylsynn often posed problems for their administrative superiors even under normal circumstances. Which, unless Ahdymsyn much missed his guess, these circumstances were not.

“Tell me, Father,” he said after a moment, “have you had any fresh thoughts on the matter we discussed Thursday?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Eminence?” Wylsynn turned his head to face the bishop. “I was concentrating on the field, and I'm afraid I didn't quite hear your question.”

“That's perfectly all right, Father.” Ahdymsyn smiled. “I simply asked if you'd had any additional thoughts on that matter we talked about the other day.”

“Oh.” Wylsynn cocked his head, his expression suddenly much more thoughtful, then shrugged ever so slightly.

“Not really, Your Eminence,” he said then. “I've pondered the Archbishop's latest despatches and instructions very carefully, and, as you know, I've personally interviewed the King and the Crown Prince in light of them. I've also exhaustively reviewed my original notes from my initial examination of all the new processes and devices. And, as I told you I would, I've spent quite a few hours in my chamber, praying earnestly over the matter. For the present, neither God nor the Archangels—” He touched the fingers of his right hand to his heart, then to his lips. “—have vouchsafed me any additional insight, however. I—”

“Strike one!” the umpire called as the Dragons' pitcher grooved a fastball right through the center of the strike zone. Smolth's late, awkward swing didn't even make contact, and several fans groaned only too audibly. Wylsynn was one of them, and then he blushed as he realized he'd allowed the game to distract him from the conversation with his ecclesiastical superior.

“I'm sorry, Your Eminence.” His sudden smile made him look even younger, almost boyish. “I know I'm a good northern boy from the Temple Lands, but I'm afraid the Krakens have seduced my allegiance away from the Slash Lizards.
Please
don't tell Father! He'd disinherit me, at the very least.”

“Don't worry about it, Father.” For all the somberness of his own thoughts and concerns, Ahdymsyn found himself smiling back. Despite the often ominous reputation of the Order of Schueler and Wylsynn's own frustrating insensitivity to the Temple's internal political dynamic, the intendant was a very likable young man. “Your secret is safe with me. But you were saying?”

“I believe I was going to say—before the umpire so rudely interrupted us—that despite all of my prayers and meditation, or perhaps because of them, I feel quite comfortable with my original judgment on these matters.”

“Then you remain unconcerned about any violations of the Proscriptions?”

“Your Eminence,” Wylsynn said gravely, “as a member of the Order, and as Mother Church's Intendant in Charis, I'm always concerned about possible violations of the Proscriptions. Indeed, the Order clearly recognizes the need to be particularly vigilant here in Charis, this far from the Temple, and I assure you I've attended to both the Grand Inquisitor's and the Archbishop's instructions in that regard most carefully. Nothing in any of the recent developments here in the Kingdom, however, has even approached the threshold of a Proscribed offense.”

“I realize this is properly the Schuelerites' sphere of responsibility, Father Paityr,” Ahdymsyn said. “And if it seemed I cherished any doubts about the zeal with which you discharge those responsibilities, that wasn't my intent.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I suppose it's just the sudden appearance of so many…innovations in such a short span of time which causes me some disquiet.”

And it would appear they're doing even worse than that for certain other people, now that word of them's gotten back to the Temple
, he thought.

“
Strike two!
”

The crowd's groans were louder as the ball smacked into the catcher's mitt. Not that anyone particularly blamed Smolth this time. The Dragons' pitcher knew what even a bloop single could do to the scoreboard, and he wasn't pitching Smolth the way he normally would have pitched to someone with Smolth's regular-season batting performance. That nasty, late-breaking slider would have tied almost any hitter up in knots.

“I can certainly understand why you might be feeling some concern, Your Eminence,” Wylsynn said, smiling and shaking his head wryly as he watched Smolth step out of the batter's box to reorganize his thoughts. Then the Schuelerite turned back to face Ahdymsyn squarely.

“As matter of fact,” he said rather more seriously, “I was quite taken aback by them myself, even here in Charis! While I've seen no evidence of demonic intervention during my years here, I must confess that the energy with which Charisians seek better ways to do things is often quite daunting, and this Royal College of theirs only makes it worse. I've had my own moments of doubt about them, and to have so many new ideas surfacing at once was something of a shock.

“Having said that, however, it seems apparent that all the innovations we've been considering over the past few months are actually no more than the application of already existing, approved techniques and practices in novel ways. Every one of those techniques and practices, in turn, was thoroughly tested by Mother Church before it received the Order's approval in the first place. And the
Writ
contains no injunctions against using approved practices for new ends, so long as those ends don't threaten God's plan.”

“I see.” Ahdymsyn considered the younger man for several seconds and wished he could ask the question he really wanted to ask.

With most other intendants, he probably could have, but Wylsynn had been shuffled off to Charis for a reason. For several of them, actually, including his obvious disapproval of the way in which Mother Church's senior prelates, even in his own order, allowed…pragmatism to color the decision-making process. His equally obvious disapproval of what he considered the “decadence” of the lifestyle embraced by those same senior prelates was just as pronounced, and his birth had made the possible consequences of his attitude potentially ominous.

The Wylsynn family had provided no less than six Grand Vicars. The last had been only two grand vicarates before, and one of them—Grand Vicar Evyrahard the Just—had been a fervent reformer of Temple “abuses” a hundred years earlier. His grand vicarate had lasted less than two years before he'd somehow mysteriously fallen from his balcony to his death, but it was still remembered with shudders of horror in the senior ranks of the episcopate. As Saint Evyrahard's direct heir—in more than one way—young Paityr might easily have become a major power in the Temple, if he'd chosen to play the game. And that would have posed an intolerable threat to too many cozy Temple relationships.

Fortunately, he was about as disinterested in politics as he could possibly have been, and those same family connections had preserved him from the worst consequences of his superiors' disapproval. On the other hand, given his family, his present rank as a mere upper-priest could well be construed as punishment for his tendency to make waves. As could his posting to Charis, for that matter.

But no man living could question Father Paityr Wylsynn's piety or intellectual prowess. Indeed, that was part of Ahdymsyn's problem. Wylsynn was far too fiercely focused on his order's duty to protect the Church's orthodoxy to waste time on things like the Temple's internal factions or the strife between them, and no one in his entire order was better informed on what that duty included. That might have as much to do with his assignment to Charis as any desire to get him out of Zion, but all those factors together combined to preclude any possibility of Ahdymsyn's discussing with him the potential consequences of so many Charisian innovations on the political calculations of the Temple.

Or the follow-on consequences for the career of one Bishop Executor Zherald.

“Would you say,” the bishop asked instead, “that Doctor Mahklyn's new ‘numerals' and this ‘abacus' device of his fall into that same category?”

“Which category, Your Eminence?” Wylsynn looked puzzled, and Ahdymsyn managed not to sigh.

“The category of resting upon approved practices, Father,” he said patiently.

“Forgive me, Your Eminence,” the Schuelerite replied, “but the question really doesn't arise. While I readily admit I'm less well versed in mathematics than many, it's obvious from my study of Doctor Mahklyn's work that it's going to be hugely beneficial. The merchants who are already adopting these new ‘numerals' of his have clearly demonstrated that much.

“Of course, as the
Writ
teaches, the mere fact that something appears to be beneficial in a worldly sense doesn't necessarily make it acceptable in the eyes of God. That was how Shan-wei tempted her original followers into evil and damnation, after all. But the Proscriptions say nothing, one way or the other, about ways to count or to record numbers. I assure you, after our previous conversations, I spent quite some time with my concordances, searching for any reference in the
Writ
or
The Insights
. I found none.

“The Proscriptions are concerned with unclean knowledge, the sort which opens doors to the kinds of temptation which lead men into Shan-wei's web. The Archangel Jwo-jeng is very specific on that point, as are
The Insights
, but the temptation lies in impiously seeking to profane that knowledge and power which are reserved for God and his angels. Within the sphere of knowledge appropriate to mortal men, the mere fact that a way of doing established tasks is more efficient and works better scarcely threatens men's souls with damnation. So long, at least, as none of the Proscriptions' thresholds are crossed.”