A Mighty Fortress (18 page)

“Speaking as a member of the Imperial Council, and as the Archbishop of Charis, and as Cayleb’s and Sharleyan’s adviser, there’s absolutely no question in my mind that I should already have handed all of this information over and told you and them exactly where it came from, Bynzhamyn,” Staynair continued. “But speaking as Father Maikel—as a
priest
— I cannot violate the sanctity of the confession. I
won’t
. The Church of God Awaiting may be a lie, but God isn’t, and neither is the faith of the person who trusted me in this matter.”

Wave Thunder had started to open his mouth to argue. Now he closed it again as he recognized the unyielding armor of Maikel Staynair’s faith and integrity. Speaking purely for himself, Bynzhamyn Raice had found he was considerably less confident of the existence of God following his discovery of the truth about the Church of God Awaiting. He wasn’t comfortable admitting that, even to himself, yet there was that nagging suspicion—possibly a product of his spymaster’s necessary cynicism—that if one religion could have been deliberately fabricated, then all of them might have been. He was too intellectually self-honest to deny that doubt to himself, but it didn’t keep him up at night, unable to sleep, either. Whether God existed or not, the Empire of Charis was still locked in a death struggle with the Group of Four, and laying itself open to charges of atheism (a word Wave Thunder had never even heard of until he gained access to Owl’s computer records) would only hand someone like Clyntahn a deadly weapon.

But what ever doubts he might find himself entertaining, he knew there was no doubt at all in Maikel Staynair. The archbishop was as far removed from a fanatic as a human being could possibly be. Wave Thunder was pretty sure Staynair was aware of his own doubts, but he was even more confident that if the archbishop
was
aware of them, he would never condemn the baron for them. That simply wasn’t the way Staynair worked, and Wave Thunder had found himself hoping that the God Maikel Staynair believed in—the God who could
produce
a man like Maikel Staynair—
did
exist. But if Staynair had given his word as a priest, then he would die before he broke it.

Which, when you come down to it, is the real difference between him and someone like Clyntahn, isn’t it?
Wave Thunder thought.
Clyntahn believes in the
Church
. In the
power
of the Church, not of God, despite the fact that no one has ever shown him a scrap of evidence to cast doubt on God’s existence. Maikel
knows
the Church is a lie . . . but his faith in God has never wavered for a moment
.

“All right, Maikel,” he said quietly. “I understand your thinking. And I respect it. But if you deliver this evidence to me, then it’s going to be my duty to make use of it. Or, at least, to examine it all very carefully. You know how much insight we got into the Church and the Inquisition from the files Domynyk captured in Ferayd. From what you’re saying,
these
documents could tell us a hell of a lot more—if you’ll excuse the language—than they did.”

“I realize that. It’s one of the reasons I hesitated so long about giving them to you. I even considered leaving them here to be delivered to you only in the event that something
did
happen to me, along with a cover letter explaining what they were. In the end, though, I decided I needed to explain to you in person, and I decided that for many of the same reasons I decided to leave it with you and not Hainryk. Hainryk is my brother in God and one of my dearest friends, and he has the courage of a great dragon, yet his deepest and truest joy lies in his priesthood, in ministering to the needs of his flock. That’s a great deal of what made him such a perfect choice as the Bishop of Tellesberg—well, to be honest, that and the fact that I knew I could place complete trust in his loyalty. But if I left this with him, it would put him in a most uncomfortable position. I
think
he would recognize the same issues I recognize, yet I can’t be certain of that, and I refuse to put him in the position of carrying out binding instructions from me which might violate his conscience as a priest.

“From a more practical perspective, he truly detests politics—even Church politics, though he knows he has to be aware of them. Secular politics, diplomacy, and strategy are things he would far rather leave in other hands, however. Which means he’s far less well informed and aware of the . . . imperial realities, shall we say, than you or I. He would definitely not be the best person to be evaluating the information in these files for its possible significance and value to the Empire.

“You, on the other hand, have a very keenly developed sense for all of those things. If there’s a single person in all of Old Charis who could more accurately judge the value of this material, I have no idea who he might be. Which is why I decided to leave it with you... and to make you aware of the reasons I can’t tell you exactly where they came from, or who delivered them to us. I trust your discretion, and I know you’ll handle them with extraordinary care. And”— Staynair looked levelly into Wave Thunder’s eyes—“I know you won’t tell a soul where
you
got them until and unless I give you permission to do so.”

The baron wanted to argue, but he recognized an exercise in futility when he saw it. And the fact that Staynair trusted him enough to hand him something like this meant it was unthinkable that he should violate that trust.

“All right,” he said again. “You have my word, in that regard. But on one condition, Maikel!”

“And that condition is?”

“If something
does
happen to you—God forbid—then I’ll do what seems best in my own judgment with this evidence.” Wave Thunder held Staynair’s eyes as levelly as the archbishop had just held his. “I’ll do my best to protect your source, whoever it is, and I’ll be as cautious as I can. But I won’t accept something like this without the understanding that my own duties and responsibilities will require me to decide what to do with it if
you’re
no longer around to make the call. Is that understood?”

“Of course,” Staynair said simply.

“Good.”

There were a few moments of silence, and then Wave Thunder snorted quietly.

“What?” the archbishop asked.

“Well, it just occurred to me to wonder if you’re planning on telling Cayleb and Sharleyan about this?”

“I’m not in any tearing rush to do so,” Staynair said wryly. “I’m sure they’d respect the responsibilities of my office. That’s not the same thing as saying they’d be
happy
about it, though. So, if it’s all right with you, I’m just going to let that sleeping dragon lie.”

“As a matter of fact,” Wave Thunder smiled crookedly, “I think that may be the best idea I’ve heard all night!”

Saint Kathryn’s Church,

Candlemaker Lane,

City of Manchyr,

Princedom of Corisande

There were rather more people than Father Tymahn Hahskans was accustomed to seeing in his church every Wednesday.

Saint Kathryn’s was always well attended, especially for late mass. And, he knew (although he did his best to avoid feelings of undue satisfaction), especially when
he
officiated at that ser vice, rather than the dawn mass he truly preferred. The
Writ
enjoined humility in all men. Father Tymahn strove diligently to remember that, yet he wasn’t always successful in that effort. He was as mortal and fallible as any man, and the number of guest members who attended when the schedule board outside Saint Kathryn’s announced that he would be preaching that Wednesday sometimes touched him with the sin of pride. He did his very best to put that unseemly emotion aside, yet it would have been dishonest to pretend he always managed it. Especially when one of his parishioners told him they’d heard one of his sermons being cited by a member of some other church.

Yet this morning, as he stood in front of the altar, just inside the sanctuary rail, listening to the choir at his back and looking out at the crowded pews and the standing- room- only crowd piled against Saint Kathryn’s outer wall, he felt more anxious than he’d felt in de cades. Not because he had any doubts about what he was going to say—although he didn’t expect this sermon to be wildly popular in all quarters of the city, to say the very least—but because he was finally going to
get
to say it. He’d been silenced often enough over the years, warned far more often than he cared to remember to keep his mouth shut on certain subjects and called on the carpet whenever he strayed too close to those limitations.

And now, when you’re finally in a position to speak from the heart at last, Tymahn, at least half of your audience is going to figure you’re a Shan- wei- damned traitor currying favor with the occupation!

He felt his face trying to grimace, but he smoothed the expression back out with the ease of long practice. At fifty- six, he’d held Saint Kathryn’s pulpit for over ten years. He was hardly some newly ordained under- priest, and he knew better than to demonstrate anything which could be misconstrued by even the most inventive as uncertainty or hesitation. Not in the pulpit. There, he spoke with God’s own voice, at least in theory. By and large, Hahskans had always felt confident God would give him the words he needed, yet he also had to admit there’d been times he’d found it difficult to hear God’s voice behind the Church’s message.

This time, at least, he didn’t have that particular problem. Of course, as the
Writ
itself warned in more than one passage, delivering God’s message wasn’t always the best way to make oneself popular with God’s
children
. Men had a tendency to decide God ought to be clever enough to agree with them . . . and to ignore anything He might have to say on a subject if it
didn’t
agree with them. In fact, sometimes the messenger was lucky if
all
they did was to ignore him.

At least Archbishop Klairmant and Bishop Kaisi had promised him their support if—when—things got ugly. That was quite a change from Bishop Executor Thomys’ attitude where this particular subject was concerned, although Hahskans wasn’t entirely clear yet on who was going to support
them
. The new archbishop and the new Bishop of Manchyr were making waves enough of their own, already, and he suspected there was going to be more than enough ugliness to go around before they all safely reached port once more.

Assuming they did.

Which was another thing the
Writ
had never promised would always happen, now that he thought about it.

The choir drew towards the end of the offeratory hymn and Hahskans raised his right hand and signed the Scepter of Langhorne.

“Lift up your hearts, my children.”

The liturgy’s familiar, beloved words rolled from his tongue as the organ’s final note followed the choir’s voices into silence. The simple injunction was quiet in that stillness, yet he felt its comfort strengthening his voice as it always did.

“We lift them up unto the Lord, and to the Archangels who are His servants.”

The massed answer rumbled back in unison, filling the ancient church, bouncing back down from the age- blackened beams overhead.

“Let us now give thanks unto the God Who made us, and unto Langhorne, who was, is, and always shall be His servant,” he said.

“It is meet and right so to do.”

All those extra voices gave the reply additional power, yet there was more to that strength than simple numbers. The formal response carried a fervency, spoke to a need, that went far beyond the ordinary comfort and fellowship of the mass. These were no longer simply the words of a well- worn, perhaps overly familiar liturgy. This time, today, in this church, the people behind that response knew themselves as God’s children in a world afloat upon the proverbial sea of troubles. They were frightened, and they turned—as always—to Mother Church and her clergy for comfort and guidance.

“It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty, that we should at all times and in all places give thanks unto You, O Lord, Creator and Builder of the Universe, Everlasting God. Therefore, with the Archangel Langhorne and the Archangel Bédard, and all the blessed company of Archangels, we laud and magnify Your glorious Name; evermore praising You and saying—”

“Holy, holy, holy,” the congregation gave back, their voices joining and enveloping his own in their merged majesty, “Lord God of hosts, heaven and earth are full of Your glory: Glory be to You, O Lord Most High. Amen.”

“Amen,” Hahskans finished quietly into the silence after those massed voices, and smiled as the tranquility of his vocation flowed through him yet again.

It’s all right,
he thought.
What ever happens, wherever it leads, it’s all right, as long as You go with me
.

“Be seated, my children,” he invited, and feet shuffled and clothing rustled throughout the church as those in the pews obeyed him. Those standing against the wall could not, although he sensed many of them leaning back against the solid stonework and ancient wooden paneling. And yet, in many ways, the congregation’s relaxation was purely physical. Only an easing of muscles and sinews so that minds and souls might concentrate even more fully on what was to come.

He smiled and crossed to the pulpit, where he opened the enormous copy of the
Holy Writ
waiting there. The massive volume was considerably older than Hahskans. In fact, it had been donated to Saint Kathryn’s in the memory of a deeply beloved mother and father by one of the parish’s few truly wealthy families three years before his own father had been born, and it had probably cost close to twice Hahskans’ annual stipend even then. It was one of Saint Kathryn’s treasures—no mass- printed copy, but a beautiful, hand- lettered edition, with illuminated capitals and gorgeous illustrations filling the margins and flowing down the gutters between columns of words. The scent of candle wax and incense was deeply ingrained into the jewel- set cover and the heavy, creamy, rich- textured pages. As he opened the book, that scent rose to Hahskans like the very perfume of God, and he drew it deep into his lungs before he looked back up at the waiting congregation.