A Mighty Fortress (44 page)

And I hope—pray—the others understand why we couldn’t warn them directly
.

In his own mind, Hauwerd had narrowed the suspects to no more than half a dozen. The problem was that he didn’t know which of those half dozen might have turned in for mant, betrayed them all to Clyntahn, revealed the existence—and membership—of the organization of Reformists. For that matter, he might have been wrong. The traitor might
not
be one of the people he was convinced it had to be. And they could warn none of the Circle’s members without warning all of them . . . including the traitor.

Had they done that, Clyntahn would have struck with instant, vicious power rather than waiting until what he judged to be the perfect moment. Waiting, Hauwerd was certain, so that he could savor the sweet bouquet of his coming triumph over the men who had dared to challenge his authority.

And so they’d said nothing, using the time while Clyntahn waited to do what little they could to mitigate the blow when he finally pounced. Getting all of the junior bishops and archbishops they could out of Zion where they might be safe. Alerting their network of correspondents and agents
outside
the innermost circle to quietly prepare the deepest boltholes they could contrive.

Thank God
I
never married
, Hauwerd thought.
Maybe that was another way I had less faith than Samyl, because I was never willing to trust God enough to give up those hostages to someone like Clyntahn
.

“I understand Coris arrived this evening,” he said out loud, and Samyl smiled faintly at his younger brother’s obvious effort to find something “safe” to talk about.

“Yes, so I heard,” he replied, and shook his head. “That must have been a nightmare of a journey this time of year.”

“I’m sure it was, but I doubt the thought particularly bothered Clyntahn or Trynair,” Hauwerd said sourly. “I suppose we should be grateful they didn’t insist he drag the boy along with him!”

“I’m sure they saw no need to.” Samyl shrugged. “He’s only a little boy, Hauwerd. For at least the next several years, Daivyn’s going to do what he’s told by his elders simply because that’s what he’s accustomed to doing. I imagine Clyntahn figures there’s plenty of time to... impress him with the realities of his position, let’s say, before he gets old enough to turn into a headstrong young prince.”

“Assuming he and Trynair are willing to let the boy grow up at all.” Hau -werd’s tone was harsh, bitter, yet it was less bitter than his eyes.

“Assuming that, yes,” Samyl was forced to concede. “I’ve prayed about it. Of course, I’d feel more optimistic if it didn’t seem so evident God has decided to let things work their own way out.”

Hauwerd’s jaw muscles tightened again as he fought down yet another stab of anger. Still, as Samyl had pointed out more than once, God wouldn’t have given man free will if He hadn’t expected him to use it. And that meant those who chose to do evil
could
do evil. Which automatically implied that other men—and even little boys—could and would suffer the consequences of those evil actions. No doubt it truly was all part of God’s great plan, but there were times—like now—when it seemed unnecessarily hard on the victims.

“Well, I hope Coris is as smart as I’ve always heard he is,” Hauwerd said after a moment. “That boy—and his sister—are going to need every edge they can find if they’re going to survive.”

This time, Samyl only nodded, his eyes softening briefly with affection. So like his brother, he thought, to be worrying about a little boy and a teenaged girl he’d never even met. That was the Temple Guardsman in him, the pugnacious, protective streak which had driven him to serve God first with a sword, and only later with his heart and mind. He was glad Hauwerd already knew how deeply he loved him, that neither of them had to say it at this time, in this place.

“And on that note,” Hauwerd said, glancing at the clock on the wall—the clock which, like every other clock in the Temple, always kept perfect, precisely synchronized time—and then climbing out of his chair, “I’m afraid I have to be going. I’ve got a couple of errands I need to take care of to night.”

“Anything I can help with?” Samyl asked, and Hauwerd snorted yet again, this time much more gently.

“You may not believe this, Samyl, but I’ve been buttoning my own shirt and tying my own shoes for, oh,
years
now.”

“Point taken.” Samyl chuckled softly. “And I know you have. So go see to your errands. Supper tomorrow night at your place?”

“It’s a date,” Hauwerd said, then nodded to his brother and left.

“Haaaaahhhhhh—chhheee www www!”

The sneeze seemed to have taken the top right off of Vicar Rhobair Duchairn’s head. Not even the Temple’s sacred, always comfortable precincts seemed capable of defeating the common cold. This was the third cold Duchairn had already entertained this winter, and this one looked like being worse than either of its pre de ces sors.

He paused long enough to get out his handkerchief and blow his nose—taking the opportunity to recover from the sneeze at the same time—then resumed his progress along the corridor. He was already late for the scheduled meeting, although timing wasn’t actually all that critical. He
was
the Church of God Awaiting’s Treasurer, after all.

The people waiting for him all reported to him, and it wasn’t as if they could start things without him. And it wasn’t as if he were really looking forward to the conference, for that matter. The Trea sury had been hemorrhaging money ever since the Kingdom of Charis smashed the initial attack upon it, and he didn’t see that situation getting better anytime soon. Especially not with the blow the Church’s cash flow had taken. Not only had the Kingdoms of Charis and Chisholm and the Princedoms of Emerald and Corisande—not to mention the Grand Duchy of Zebediah—abruptly stopped paying their tithes (which, in Charis’ case, had been very
large
tithes), but Charis’ relentless destruction of its enemies’ commerce had dealt severe damage to the economies of those enemies. And as their economies slowed, so did their ability to generate tithes. According to Duchairn’s latest estimates, the cash flow from the mainland kingdoms’ annual tithes had dropped by somewhere around ten percent . . . and total tithes, including those which should have been coming in from the lands now in rebellion against Mother Church, had fallen by over a third. It was fortunate the Church had so many other lucrative sources of income, but there was a limit to how much slack could be squeezed out of those other sources. For the first time in mortal memory, the Church of God Awaiting was spending money faster than it was taking money in, and that sort of thing couldn’t be sustained forever.

Which, unfortunately, certain of his colleagues seemed to find difficult to grasp.

His expression darkened as he thought about those other colleagues. Neither Trynair nor Clyntahn had mentioned to him that they intended to “interview” the Earl of Coris this morning. He was fairly confident he had sources neither of those two suspected he possessed, but he wasn’t going to risk revealing those sources’ existence by challenging his “colleagues” on something he wasn’t supposed to know anything about. He doubted either of them would have been prepared to make an issue out of it if he’d suddenly turned up for their “interview,” yet he was quite positive they’d deliberately timed things so it just
happened
to fall opposite his already- scheduled Trea sury meeting. Both of them, each for his own reasons, would have found Duchairn’s presence for the discussion they had in mind decidedly unwelcome.

And that, unfortunately, neatly underscored the differences between him and them . . . and the dangers yawning about him
because
of those differences.

He paused, looking out the windows which formed one entire side of the hallway. The snow had stopped shortly after dawn, and brilliant sunlight sparkled and bounced from the new, deeper layers of trackless white which had blanketed the Temple’s grounds. The mystic, unbreakable, perfectly insulated crystal of the windows muted the snow glare, however, and the icy vista’s pristine purity made him acutely aware of the warm air moving gently about him.

And made him think about all the people outside the Temple, especially the city of Zion’s many poor, who were anything but warm and comfortable this freezing cold morning, as well. That was yet another thought he was unprepared to share with his erstwhile colleagues in the Group of Four. Not because they didn’t already realize it would have occurred to him, but because it would have done no good and might do quite a lot of harm.

Zahmsyn Trynair would simply have looked at him with a certain impatient incomprehension. If the Church of God Awaiting’s Chancellor ever thought of Zion’s poor at all, it was undoubtedly to remember the passage from
The Book of Langhorne
in which the Archangel had warned that they would have the poor with them always. If that had been good enough for Langhorne, it was good enough for Trynair.

Allayn Maigwair, on the other hand, probably wouldn’t even notice that Duchairn had mentioned them. These days, especially, all of the Church’s Captain General’s thoughts and efforts were fully concentrated on building up the fleet needed to crush the upstart Empire of Charis once and for all. The fact that he’d started out building the
wrong
fleet, and that Duchairn’s Trea sury had disbursed a staggering sum to pay for hundreds of galleys which were effectively useless, lent a certain emphasis to his concentration, no doubt. Of course, Maigwair had never been overburdened with intellect in the first place. Concentrating the entire, scant store of it he possessed shouldn’t require all
that
great an effort. He should have been able to spare at least a little thought for the men and women and children—especially the children—for whom every vicar was supposed to be responsible.

And then there was Clyntahn. The Grand Inquisitor. The one member of the Group of Four who would have regarded Duchairn’s concern over the poor with neither incomprehension nor indifference. Duchairn sometimes wished he himself had felt called to the Order of Bédard instead of the Order of Chihiro. He was pretty sure any Bédardist who wasn’t terrified of the Grand Inquisitor would have unhesitatingly diagnosed him as a paranoiac, and one whose paranoia was growing steadily deeper, as well. Of course, finding any Bédardist who was insane enough
not
to be terrified of Clyntahn would probably have been an impossible task. Still, Duchairn would have liked to have something besides his own layman’s opinion—where matters of the mind were concerned, at least—to go on.

Not that it mattered a great deal. He didn’t need a formal diagnosis to know Clyntahn would have taken any comment about the
Writ
’s injunction to care for the poor and the least fortunate of God’s children as a criticism of the Church’s record in that regard. As a matter of fact, he would have been perfectly correct if he’d done so, too, Duchairn admitted. But at this particular moment, when Zhaspahr Clyntahn had divided the entire world into just three categories—those who were his allies, those who had an at least fleeting value as tools, and those who must be exterminated without mercy—suggesting that any aspect of the Church’s stewardship might be found wanting was dangerous.

Duchairn had discovered there were times when he really didn’t care about that. When his anger, his outrage, the pain stemming from his refound faith’s recognition of his own blood guilt, actually drove him to
seek
confrontation with Clyntahn. When he found himself almost yearning for destruction, even martyrdom, with all that would entail, as some sort of expiation for his own life. For his own acceptance of the vicarate’s corruption. His own lifelong eagerness to profit by that corruption. For the fact that he’d stood there and not simply accepted Clyntahn’s proposal to destroy the Kingdom of Charis utterly but actually
acquiesced
in it. Helped to arrange it.

Duchairn made himself resume his progress towards his waiting underlings, but his eyes were as bleak as the snow beyond the hallway’s windows as he once more admitted his guilt to himself. He wouldn’t pretend he wasn’t terrified of what Clyntahn would have done to him if it had come to an open confrontation. That he didn’t know precisely how savage an example Clyntahn would make of any member of the Group of Four who seemed to have turned against him. Yet it wasn’t
that
fear which drove him to bite his tongue, keep his furious denunciation of Clyntahn’s vileness lodged behind his clenched teeth. No, it was quite a different fear that kept him silent: the fear that if he allowed himself to be too easily destroyed he would commit the still more grievous sin of dying without at least trying to undo the terrible, terrible damage he had helped to unleash upon God’s own world.