Hell's Foundations Quiver (78 page)

From the glitter in his eye, he still hadn't abandoned the possibility of Maigwair's involvement.

“In the meantime, however, I'm afraid the situation here in Zion's going from bad to worse, Zhaspahr,” Trynair said. It should have come out sharply and assertively; instead, it sounded querulous. Clyntahn looked at him, and the chancellor shrugged irritably. “I don't doubt the Inquisition will get to the bottom of it eventually. But I have semaphore queries coming in from secular rulers from Shang-mi to Gorath to Desnair the City. All they have so far are rumors from their ambassadors here in Zion, but it won't be long before … well, you know.”

Trynair's voice trailed off, and he shrugged unhappily as Clyntahn's glower turned into a glare. The broadsheets and leaflets Clyntahn and Rayno had never managed to get ahead of had appeared all over Zion within a day of the explosion. They'd listed the names not simply of the vicars and archbishops the Inquisition had officially admitted had died, but also of the senior aides who'd accompanied them, the Temple Guardsmen who'd been killed, and twenty-three names listed as agents inquisitor. Nor had they stopped there. They'd also included a message from something calling itself the “Fist of God” which claimed responsibility for Second Pasquale's … and listed another fourteen vicars, six archbishops, nine bishops, and eleven upper-priests it claimed to have killed over the last three years. Even worse, it listed the “crimes” for which they'd been executed, just as it did for the prelates who'd died in Second Pasquale's.

The damage to the Inquisition would be almost impossible to exaggerate, Duchairn thought. Not only had Clyntahn's aura of invincibility been shattered, but if the “Fist of God” was telling the truth—and Duchairn knew it was—the Grand Inquisitor had been caught lying, for it had announced that almost all the previous assassination victims had died of “natural causes.” With that glaring proof of dishonesty in front of everyone's eyes, Clyntahn's efforts to deny that the dead prelates had been guilty of the offenses leveled against them rang hollow, to say the very least.

A quiver had run through the bedrock of the Inquisition's foundations—proof of present weakness and promise of greater damage to come—and the fact that the united power of the Inquisition and the Temple Guard couldn't prevent the broadsheets and leaflets from circulating only underscored Clyntahn's ineffectuality.

“I don't pretend to know how the bastards behind that lying propaganda are managing to spread it all over the city,” Clyntahn growled, “but I'm not about to rule out the possibility of outright demonic activity. Notice that none of it's appeared here on the Temple's grounds. There's a reason for that, and I can only think of one. So I wouldn't go investing too much faith in its accuracy, if I were you, Zahmsyn.”

“I wasn't talking about any … disinformation here in Zion.” Trynair was obviously trying to pick his way through a field of verbal Kau-yungs. “I'm talking about inquiries from heads of state and first councilors coming back over the semaphore in response to messages from their ambassadors to the Temple. They want to know what's happening, and I need to know what to tell them.”

“Tell them Shan-wei is active in the world,” Clyntahn said flatly. “Tell them men who've sold their souls to her have every reason to murder true servants of God and then lie about their victims to justify their bloody actions.”

That, Duchairn thought, was an amazingly accurate self-portrait, although he doubted Clyntahn saw it that way. In fact, from his expression and his tone, the Grand Inquisitor might actually believe what he was saying.

“Remind them of
Chihiro
, Chapter Seven—the first verse!” Clyntahn snapped. “‘The service of Shan-wei is the service of lies. Why, therefore, should one expect truth in anything her servants might say or do?' And if that's not enough, tell them to read the
next
two verses!”

Trynair seemed to wilt before the fiery conviction in the Grand Inquisitor's voice, and Duchairn frowned as his own memory supplied the entire reference:

The service of Shan-wei is the service of lies. Why, therefore, should one expect truth in anything her servants might say or do
?
There is no truth in them, their mouths speak only deceit, and they will beguile the godly into damnation with convincing words and facts manufactured from falsehood and poison. Do not be deluded! He who opens his ears to the blandishments of the Mistress of Hell sets his own feet upon the path to her front door. Be they ever so reasonable, ever so plausible, yet still they are the daggers of the soul, and he who heeds them cuts himself off from God and the last hope of redemption
.

Was it truly possible for Zhaspahr Clyntahn to not realize that passage was the very mirror of his own soul? Or to believe the heads of state seeking guidance wouldn't see it that way? Yet what else did the Grand Inquisitor have? The assassins had proven they could reach into the heart of Zion and be as deadly as Clyntahn's Rakurai ever had been in Tellesberg or Cherayth or Manchyr. And unlike
Clyntahn's
killers, the “Fist of God” had killed anything but indiscriminately. They were executioners, not mass murderers, and how long did Clyntahn expect it to take for people to recognize that difference?

And this man is the guardian of Mother Church?
The Treasurer's thought was bitter with disgust.
We're to believe
he's
the keeper of her truth, her protector and champion—the man chosen by God to preserve her foundations against all the powers of Hell?

“As Allayn just said about the Army,” Clyntahn continued in a voice like crushed gravel, “Mother Church's cause has been hammered here in Zion, as surely as on any battlefield. But she's
Mother Church
, Langhorne's Bride, God's true daughter and servant! We who serve her are mortal. We can die.
We
can fail, but
she
cannot! And, as God and Langhorne are our witnesses from the very Day of Creation, she
will not
fail—not then, not now, not
ever
! So you tell anyone who has doubts, who takes counsel of his fears, who opens his ears to Shan-wei's lies and distortions, that the Archangel Schueler knows how to deal with traitors to God, and we of the Inquisition are Mother Church's servants in this world just as he and the threshing floor of Hell will be in the next.”

*   *   *

“Banister,” Ahrloh Mahkbyth said, “allow me to introduce you to Master Zhozuah Murphai.”

Byrtrym Zhansyn leaned on his cane, looking at the tall, fair-haired man with gray eyes. He was more than a little nervous about meeting a stranger—even one Mahkbyth vouched for—when he was officially dead. He'd actually been in the church less than fifteen minutes before the explosion, and his name was on the “Fist of God's” list of casualties. It was a perfect cover for his disappearance … as long as the Inquisition didn't discover the lie, and his left hand touched his pectoral scepter. He took a sort of grim reassurance from the poison capsule it contained. If he should fall into the hands of his erstwhile Inquisition colleagues, they'd make certain he truly was dead, but not until they'd wrung every single thing he'd ever known about the “Fist of God”—and organization called Helm Cleaver—from his screaming body.

“Don't worry,” Mahkbyth said, reaching out to clasp the priest's shoulder, and there was something about his eyes. They'd flickered with a dark, hungry light when Vicar Stauntyn Waimyan's death had been confirmed, but this was different. Now they glowed with dancing blue fire, alight with a joyous certainty Zhansyn hadn't seen in his old friend in far too long.

“Don't worry,” he repeated. “I should have offered to introduce you to
Seijin
Zhozuah, not Master Murphai, because he
is
a
seijin
, Byrtrym—as much and as true a
seijin
as Saint Kohdy himself.”

It was Zhansyn's eyes' turn to widen, and they darted back to the bearded man standing in the shadows of the warehouse space Mahkbyth leased.

“I'd planned to get you out the regular way,” Mahkbyth continued, “but then the
seijin
turned up. It's not the first time, either. Didn't you wonder how Arbalest got those explosive sticks to us? Seijin Zhozuah delivered them for her, and she sent him specifically to fetch you afterward.”

Zhansyn swallowed hard. His older sister Tyldah was a Sister of Saint Kohdy, as his Aunt Claudya had been. “Arbalest” had found it easy to recruit him straight out of seminary, and he was one of the very few men who'd ever read Saint Kohdy's diary. It was the truth in that diary which had sent him into the Inquisition as Helm Cleaver's spy, and now—at last—he found himself face-to-face with a true
seijin
.

“The
seijin
's brought his
hikousen
, Byrtrym. He's going to get you out of the Temple Lands. By this time tomorrow, you'll be reporting directly to Arbalest and
Seijin
Merlin.” Mahkbyth smiled, shaking the priest by the shoulder, and shook his head. “I
envy
you, Byrtrym, but at least I'm not the one who's going to have to keep his mouth shut about an actual trip in a
seijin
's
hikousen!
”

“Speaking of which,” Murphai said in a deep, pleasant voice, “I'd really like to take advantage of the darkness to get out of the city. So I'm afraid we're going to have to move right along, Father. I hope you've got everything packed.”

 

.XII.

HMS
Thunderer
, 30, Hahskyn River, Shwei Province, South Harchong Empire, and Village of Kyrnyth and Aivahnstyn, Cliff Peak Province, Republic of Siddarmark

“It's time,” Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht said.

His voice was flat, and Lieutenant Kylmahn turned quickly. He hadn't heard the captain come on deck, and he touched his chest in quick salute. Ahbaht returned it, but his expression was less than happy.

“Time for what, Sir?” Kylmahn asked, although he strongly suspected what his commanding officer was going to say.

“Time to turn around and get our arses back downriver,” Ahbaht confirmed, and snorted as he saw the combination of disappointment and relief which flashed across Kylmahn's expression and remembered an earlier conversation. “I know. The men're going to be pissed. Well, they aren't going to be any more pissed than I am,” he said. “Hopefully, they'll get over it, but whether they do or not, it's time we turned around, Daivyn.”

“I wish I could disagree with you, Sir,” Kylmahn said after a moment. “Unfortunately, I can't.” He shook his head. “We tried, Sir Bruhstair.”

“And the men've done us proud,” Ahbaht agreed in a marginally more cheerful tone. “Almost makes it worse, doesn't it?”

He looked up at the late-morning sun and then out across the Hahskyn River's brown water at the schooners moving steadily—if slowly—up it, directly against the current under oars. They were fitted to row on the berthdeck, which meant their guns—mounted on the weather deck—could be worked at need; that was the main reason they'd taken the lead. If opposition turned up, they had the maneuverability to deal with it, despite their lighter armaments and lack of armor, where the galleons would not. Ahead of them, launches and gigs spread out across the broad river, watchful in case the Harchongians felt adventurous enough to try any boat attacks but mostly busy with lead lines, running lines of soundings. Others had temporarily anchored themselves, marking shallows and mudbanks in place of the navigation buoys the Harchongians had removed once they realized the squadron was coming.

They were sixty miles from the coast, a third of the way to Symarkhan, but it was the twenty-fourth day of June, and by Ahbaht's estimate Admiral Hahlynd and his screw-galleys should reach Symarkhan no later than the twenty-seventh. And despite how hard his men were working, the wind—fitful and fluky at best—had veered around from the northeast to almost due east, almost directly into the squadron's teeth. The galleons' best speed against the current had been no more than a single knot even with a fair wind; now, it would be even lower, and they'd be forced to tack. That would have been risky enough in a well-buoyed river. Under the current conditions, it would be madness.

Despite all that, Ahbaht was tempted to continue. He and his men had invested too much effort in the attempt for him to feel any other way, especially given his own natural aggressiveness. Yet he'd always known everything depended on the weather—every seaman learned that lesson early—and that he would have no right to risk his valuable ships and the men for whose lives he was responsible if the weather turned
unfavorable
.

“Hoist the signal, Daivyn,” he said heavily.

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Kylmahn saluted rather more formally than usual and turned away to call for the signal midshipman of the watch.

*   *   *

“Well, that's a relief,” Baron Sarmouth said, thirty-four hundred miles west of the Hahskyn River and three hours earlier than the crew of HMS
Thunderer
. His flag lieutenant sat across the breakfast table from him, a cup of hot tea in his good hand, and Sarmouth grimaced. “I know exactly what Ahbaht's feeling just now, but I can't tell you how delighted I am that sanity governed in the end.”

Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk nodded in full agreement. If he'd been in Ahbaht's place, he knew, sanity would have had a harder time overruling his own desire to press on. Sarmouth, he suspected, would have made the same decision Ahbaht had. Indeed, he might have turned back sooner, not because there was a cowardly bone in his body—the baron was one of the most courageous men Hektor had ever known, although he'd come to realize Sarmouth didn't see himself that way—but because he calculated odds even more keenly than Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht had. In this case, though, both of them knew something Ahbaht didn't; Pawal Hahlynd was better than two days ahead of schedule, having expedited his movement in every way humanly possible.