A Mighty Fortress (26 page)

He closed his mouth with an almost audible snap and made an angry, brushing- away gesture before he sat back—firmly—in his armchair. The office was very still and quiet for several seconds, until, finally, Gairlyng stirred behind his desk.

“If you’ll recall, My Lord,” he said, and his tone was oddly calm, almost mild, considering what had just passed between him and Ahdymsyn, “I said I had four primary reasons for accepting this office. I fully realize that what you were about to say, what you
stopped
yourself from saying because you realized how self- serving it would sound, is that you believe it was
Mother Church
who had Prince Hektor killed.”

Ahdymsyn seemed to stiffen in his chair, but Gairlyng met his gaze levelly, holding him in place.

“I do not believe Mother Church ordered Prince Hektor’s murder,” the Archbishop of Corisande said very, very quietly, his eyes never wavering from Ahdymsyn’s. “But neither do I believe it was Emperor Cayleb. And that, My Lord, is the
fourth
reason I accepted this office.”

“Because you believe that, from it, you’ll be in a position to help discover who did order it?” Ahdymsyn asked.

“Oh, no, My Lord.” Gairlyng shook his head, his expression grim, and made the confession he’d never intended to make when these two men walked into his office. “I said I don’t believe Mother Church had Prince Hektor killed. That, however, is because I’m morally certain in my own mind who did.” Ahdymsyn’s eyes widened, and Gairlyng smiled without humor. “I don’t believe it was Mother Church... but I do believe it was Mother Church’s
Grand Inquisitor,
” he said softly.

“You do?” Despite all of his formidable self- control, and all of his years of experience, Ahdymsyn couldn’t quite keep the surprise out of his voice, and Gairlyng’s thin smile grew ever so slightly wider without becoming a single degree warmer.

“Like you, My Lord, I can imagine nothing stupider Cayleb could possibly have done, and the young man I met here in Manchyr is anything but stupid. And when I consider all the other possible candidates, one name suggests itself inescapably to me. Unlike the vast majority of the people here in Corisande, I’ve actually met Vicar Zhaspahr. May I assume you’ve done the same?”

Ahdymsyn nodded, and Gairlyng shrugged.

“In that case, I’m sure you’ll understand when I say that if there is one man in Zion who is simultaneously more prepared than Zhaspahr Clyntahn to embrace expediency, more certain his own prejudices accurately reflect God’s will, and more confident his intellect far surpasses that of any other mortal man, I have no idea who he might be. Prince Hektor’s murder, his instant transformation from one more warring prince to a martyr of Mother Church, would strike Clyntahn as a maneuver with absolutely no disadvantages, and I’m as certain as I’m sitting here that he personally ordered the assassinations. I can’t prove it. Not yet. In fact, I think it’s probable no one will ever be able to
prove
it, and even if someday I could, it wouldn’t suddenly make the notion of being subordinated to Charisian control magically palatable to Corisandians. But knowing what I know of the man, believing what I believe about what he’s already done—and what that implies about what he’s prepared to do in the future—I had no choice but to oppose him. In that respect, at least, I’m as loyal a son of the Church of Charis as any man on the face of the world.”

Zherald Ahdymsyn sat back once more, regarding him for several silent moments, then shrugged.

“Your Eminence, that’s precisely the point at which I began my own spiritual journey, so I’m scarcely in a position to criticize you for doing the same thing. And as far as the Church of Charis is concerned, I think you’ll find Archbishop Maikel is perfectly prepared to accept that starting point in anyone, even if it should transpire that you never reach the same destination I have. The difference between him and Zhaspahr Clyntahn doesn’t have anything to do with their confidence they’ll someday reach God’s goals. Neither one of them is ever going to waver in that belief, that determination. The difference is that Clyntahn is prepared to do what ever he must to reach the goal he’s dictated to God, while Archbishop Maikel trusts God to reach what ever goal
He
desires. And”— the bishop’s eyes warmed—“if you can actually meet Archbishop Maikel, spend a five- day or two in his presence, and not discover that any Church he’s responsible for building is worthy of your wholehearted support, then you’ll be the first person
I’ve
met who can do that!”

Royal Palace,

City of Manchyr,

Princedom of Corisande

Sir Koryn Gahrvai sighed with relief as he entered the palace’s heat-shedding bulk and got out of the direct path of the sun’s ferocity. November was always warm in Manchyr, but this November seemed determined to set a new standard.

Which we don’t exactly need, on top of everything else,
he thought as he strode briskly down the hall.
Langhorne knows we’ve got enough other things generating “warmth” all over the damned princedom!

Indeed they did, and Gahrvai was—unfortunately—in a far better position to appreciate that minor fact than he might have preferred.

The guards standing outside the council chamber door came to attention at his approach, and he nodded back, acknowledging the military courtesy. He recognized both of them. They’d been part of his headquarters detachment before that . . . unpleasantness at Talbor Pass, which was the main reason they’d been chosen for their present duty. Just at the moment, the number of people he could trust behind him with a weapon was limited, to say the least, he thought as he passed through the garden door.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as his father looked up from a conversation with Earl Tartarian. “Alyk’s latest report arrived just as I was getting ready to leave my office.”

“Don’t worry about it,” his father said just a bit sourly. “You haven’t really missed much, since it’s not like we’ve managed to accomplish a whole hell of a lot so far today.”

Gahrvai wished the sourness in that response could have come as a surprise, but Sir Rysel Gahrvai, the Earl of Anvil Rock, had a lot to feel sour about. As the senior of the two designated co- regents for Prince Daivyn, he’d wound up head of the prince’s Regency Council, which had to be the most thankless task in the entire princedom. Well, probably aside from Sir
Koryn
Gahrvai’s new assignment, that was.

If there were six nobles in the entire Princedom who genuinely believed Anvil Rock hadn’t cut some sort of personal deal with Cayleb Ahrmahk, Gahrvai didn’t have a clue who they might be. Aside from Tartarian (who was probably as thoroughly detested these days as Anvil Rock himself), Gahrvai could think of exactly three of the deceased Prince Hektor’s councilors who genuinely believed Anvil Rock and Tartarian weren’t solely out for themselves.

Fortunately, Sir Raimynd Lyndahr, who continued to serve as the Keeper of the Purse, was one of those three. The other two—Edwair Garthin, the Earl of North Coast, and Trumyn Sowthmyn, the Earl of Airyth—had both agreed to serve on the Regency Council, as well (although with a marked lack of enthusiasm on North Coast’s part), because they’d realized someone had to do it. Archbishop Klairmant Gairlyng, whose position automatically made him a member of the Council, as well, appeared to agree with North Coast and Airyth where Anvil Rock and Tartarian were concerned, but he’d never been one of Hektor’s councilors. The Council’s final two members, the Duke of Margo and the Earl of Craggy Hill—neither of whom were present at the moment—
had
held positions on Hektor’s council . . . and shared the rest of the nobility’s general suspicion about Anvil Rock’s and Tartarian’s motives to the full.

Not having them here today isn’t going to make them any happier when they find out about this meeting, either,
Gahrvai thought as he walked across to his own place at the circular council table.
On the other hand, I can’t think of anything that
would
make them happy
.

Sir Bairmon Chahlmair, the Duke of Margo, was the Regency Council’s highest- ranking nobleman. He’d also been a distant—
very
distant—cousin of Prince Hektor, and it probably wasn’t too surprising that he resented having a mere earl as Daivyn’s regent instead of himself. Wahlys Hillkeeper, the Earl of Craggy Hill, on the other hand, was quite a different breed of kraken. It was entirely possible Margo nursed a few ambitions of his own, under the circumstances. Gahrvai didn’t think he did, but he well might, and not without at least some justification, given the current, irregular circumstances. Yet if there was an edge of doubt about him in Gahrvai’s mind, there was none at all about Craggy Hill. The earl’s ambition was far more poorly hidden than he obviously thought it was, despite the fact that, unlike Margo, he possessed not even a shred of a claim on the Crown.

The good news was that the two of them were outnumbered six- to- two whenever it came down to a vote. The bad news was that their very inability to influence the Council’s decisions had only driven them closer together. Worse, one of them—
at least
one of them—was leaking his own version of the Council’s deliberations to outside ears.

Which probably explains why Father didn’t make any particular effort to get the two of them here today,
Gahrvai reflected.

“Actually, Rysel, saying we haven’t accomplished
anything
today isn’t entirely fair,” Tartarian said in a rather milder tone.

“Oh, forgive me!” Anvil Rock rolled his eyes. “So far we’ve managed to agree on how big a stipend to set aside for Daivyn from his own income. Of course, we haven’t figured out how we’re going to
get
it to him, but I’m sure we’ll come up with something... eventually.”

“I realize you’re probably even more worn out with all of this than I am,” Tartarian said. “And I don’t blame you, either. But the truth is that we’ve at least managed to handle the correspondence from General Chermyn.”

“Handle?” Anvil Rock repeated. “Just exactly how did we ‘handle’ that, Taryl? If I recall correctly, it was more a matter of getting our marching orders than ‘handling’ anything.”

Obviously, Gahrvai thought, his father was in one of his moods. Not surprisingly.

“I’d scarcely call them ‘marching orders,’ ” Tartarian replied calmly. “And neither would you, if you weren’t so busy pitching a snit.”

Anvil Rock’s eyes opened wide. He started to shoot something back, then visibly made himself pause.

“All right,” he conceded grudgingly. “Fair enough. I’ll try to stop venting my spleen.”

“A
little
venting is perfectly all right with us, Rysel,” Lyndahr told him with a slight smile. “It’s not as if the rest of us don’t feel exactly the same way from time to time. Still, Taryl has a point. From my read, the Viceroy General”— it was clear to Gharvai that Lyndahr had used Chermyn’s official title deliberately—“is still doing his best to avoid stepping on us any harder than he has to.”

Anvil Rock looked as if he would have liked to dispute that analysis. Instead, he nodded.

“I have to admit he’s at least taking pains to be courteous,” he said. “And, truth to tell, I appreciate it. But the unfortunate fact, Raimynd, is that he’s not telling us anything we don’t know. And the even more unfortunate fact is that, at the moment, I don’t see a damned thing we can
do
about it!”

He looked around the table, as if inviting suggestions from his fellows. None, however, seemed to be forthcoming, and he snorted sourly.

“May I assume the Viceroy General was expressing his concern over the latest incidents?” Gahrvai asked after a moment, and his father nodded.

“That’s exactly what he was doing. And I don’t blame him, really. In fact, if
I
were in his position, I’d probably be doing more than just expressing concern by this point.”

Gahrvai nodded soberly. Given the white- hot tide of fury which had swept Corisande following Prince Hektor’s assassination, it wasn’t surprising the princedom seethed with resentment and hatred. Nor was it especially surprising that the resentment and hatred in question should spill over into public “demonstrations” which had a pronounced tendency to slide over into riots. Riots which seemed to be invariably punctuated by looting and arson, as well, if the City Guard or (more often than Gharvai liked) Chermyn’s Marines didn’t get them quenched almost immediately.

By an odd turn of fate, the people suffering most frequently from that arson tended to be merchants and shop keep ers, many of whom had been blamed for profiteering and price gouging once the Charisian blockade of Corisande had truly begun to bite. Gahrvai was certain quite a few long- standing, private scores (which had damn all to do with loyalty to the House of Daykin) were being settled under cover of those riots—and, for that matter, that some of that arson was intended to destroy records of just who owed what to whom—although he was in no position to prove anything of the sort. Yet, at least. But even if some of the motivation was somewhat less selfless than outraged patriotism and fury over Hektor’s assassination, there was no denying the genuine anger at Charis’ “foreign occupation” of Corisande which was boiling away at the bottom of it.

And, inevitable or not, understandable or not, the unrest that anger engendered had equally inevitable consequences of its own. The terms Emperor Cayleb had imposed were far less punitive than they could have been, especially in light of the de cades of hostility between Charis and Corisande. All the same, Gahrvai was certain they were more punitive than Cayleb would really have preferred. Unfortunately, the emperor had been able to read the writing on the wall as clearly as anyone else.