A Mighty Fortress (96 page)

It was obvious, however little the bishop executor cared to admit it, that not simply the city of Manchyr but the entire duchy was largely lost. Aidryn’s order for Hahskans’ execution had backfired badly. Shylair was astounded that the fully justified death of a single apostate priest could have spawned such seething anger and outrage. It was as if the citizens of Manchyr had deliberately chosen not to understand the depravity of Hahskans’ attack upon Mother Church. As if they’d actually
sympathized
with him, simply because he was capable of occasional bursts of eloquence in the service of God’s enemies.

Yet it would have been foolish to underestimate the strength of that furious anger... or the severity of its consequences. Staynair certainly hadn’t. His very first sermon from the stolen pulpit of Manchyr Cathedral had capitalized upon that anger as he’d set forth his attempts to justify his own betrayal of Mother Church and the creation of the “Church of Charis.” Nothing
could
possibly justify such an abortion, yet angry minds were not reasonable ones, and Staynair’s sermons had fallen upon fertile ground. Even many of those who continued to bitterly resent the Empire of Charis were weakening in their opposition to the “
Church
of Charis.” For that matter, any residual anger in the capital over the fashion in which Aidryn Waimyn and the other slain priests had been martyred was increasingly directed towards the
secular
authorities, rather than Staynair . . . or Gairlyng. Any idiot ought to recognize that neither the Regency Council nor Viceroy General Chermyn would have dared act in such a fashion except at the direct orders of the Church to which they had given their allegiance. Yet a dangerous degree of separation between the Charisian church and the Charisian crown had crept into the minds of all too many. And Staynair’s other sermons, with their emphasis on “freedom of conscience,” their renunciation of the Question and the Punishment of Schueler, their specific guarantees that “Temple Loyalists” who abided by the law might continue to worship using the liturgy and even the priests they chose, had won him still more support. Even worse, perhaps, it was winning him
toleration
even among those who thought they were remaining loyal to Mother Church. There were reports that even many of the “Temple Loyalists” had come to respect him—even if grudgingly—for his “integrity.”

That erosion of faith was what most worried Shylair, yet he knew his secular allies—like Craggy Hill—were just as worried by the fact that despite the separation some still drew between empire and church, the acceptance of the “Church of Charis” was slowly but steadily eroding resistance to the empire, as well. Primary loyalty to Prince Daivyn clearly remained high, many Corisandians continued to distinguish between their exiled prince and the Regency Council acting in his name, and the people of Corisande were a long, long way from forgiving Cayleb for Prince Hektor’s murder. Yet there was a vast difference between rejecting the current regime’s legitimacy and actively
resisting
it. That was where the overflow of the creeping acceptance of the “Church of Charis” was gradually eating away at the foundations of the resistance’s secular support.

And, just to make things worse, the capital’s population seemed to have come to the conclusion that the resistance—their
liberators
— were the true enemy. Intellectually, Shylair could grasp the crude physical factors involved in that process, yet he was constitutionally incapable of truly sympathizing with anyone who could entertain such a bizarre notion. It involved such a profound rejection of God’s will in favor of such purely selfish, material considerations of this world that he literally
could not
understand it.

Yet whether he could understand it or not, he’d still been forced to admit its existence and factor it into his own increasingly depressing thinking.

Under Charisian protection, trade was beginning to flourish once more in southeastern Corisande. Goods were flooding the ports, businesses were open, Prince Hektor’s tariffs and import duties (many of which had been heavily increased as he prepared to resist the Charisian invasion) had been slashed, and Charisian investors were clearly on the lookout for opportunities. The capital’s economy had not yet recovered to pre-invasion levels, but it was approaching them quickly, and at a rate which suggested it would soon
exceed
them.

At the same time, the devastating blow Gahrvai had dealt to Waimyn’s organization had brought all coordinated, centrally managed resistance to an end. A handful of his people might have escaped, but they were too scattered, driven too deeply into hiding, to accomplish much. That had brought the “spontaneous incidents” Waimyn had been carefully nursing to a sudden, knee-buckling halt. What was left were far more often than not outbreaks of pure thuggery, however little Shylair liked admitting that. They were no longer carefully targeted. Indeed, they were so
poorly
targeted they were virtually random, almost as likely to inflict damage on Temple Loyalists as on the traitors. That was turning a steady trickle of those Temple Loyalists against the people responsible for their own losses. And those responsible for it were also being dealt with ruthlessly by the authorities. Which meant those attempting to resist the occupation were increasingly seen as the source of violence and destruction, while those
supporting
the occupation were seen as the citizenry’s
protection
from acts of violence.

It would have taken a Bédardist to explain
that
chain of logic to Shylair. Surely anyone ought to be able to understand that it was the occupiers’ presence which was
provoking
the violent response. That being the case, what twisted chain of reasoning could possibly give them credit for
suppressing
the violence rather than assigning them the blame for having
caused
it in the first place?

Yet however bizarre he might find the thought, he couldn’t deny that it was happening. And, even more discouragingly, the Regency Council was actually garnering an increasing degree of respect, even among the capital’s Temple Loyalists, for its “restraint.” No one was simply being arrested and tossed into prison “just in case.” Gahrvai’s guardsmen weren’t particularly gentle with those who resisted arrest, but anyone who was arrested was also charged. And no one who’d been charged was punished without a trial. And while they were in prison awaiting trial, they were permitted access to Temple Loyalist clergy and to family members . . . which just happened to knock any rumors about prisoners being secretly tortured neatly on the head.

There’d been quite a few executions, and everyone in Manchyr knew there were going to be more, but the Regency Council had been scrupulous about maintaining at least the semblance of justice.

It had become depressingly clear that there would be no general uprising—not on the scale they needed—in the southeast. There would still be some support, some knots of resistance, and it was probable a substantial portion of the people would exhibit at least
passive
resistance when the moment came. But none of that could disguise the fact that when they finally launched their own uprising, beginning here in the north, they would be initiating not a general insurrection, but a
civil war
, right here in Corisande, between those willing to lick the Charisian hand and those still loyal to Mother Church and Prince Daivyn.

And every day only tilts the odds a little more against us,
Shylair thought bitterly.
Anvil Rock and Tartarian are already moving to expand their tidy little citadel down there in the southeast, and from the sounds of things, Baron Black Cliff is about to sign
his
soul away and publicly support them
.

He shook free of his depressing reflections and nodded to Craggy Hill. “I think ‘disappointing’ would be one way to describe those reports, My Lord, yes,” he said dryly.

“Well, I have a bit of news which is considerably more encouraging, I think,” the earl told him. “It doesn’t have anything to do with anything going on down there in the south, I’m afraid. But Zebediah has finally stopped dancing around.”

“He has?” Shylair sat up straighter, expression suddenly intent, and Craggy Hill smiled. It was not, the prelate thought, an especially pleasant expression.

“Oh, he has, Your Eminence. In fact, I think the dance may have come to more of a complete halt than he realizes.”

“In what way?”

“He’s been very careful to communicate only verbally, by way of personal representatives he trusts,” Craggy Hill said. “Oh, I’ve been in correspondence with him, but none of our letters have contained anything incriminating. We’ve both had excellent reasons to avoid
that
.”

The earl grimaced, and Shylair snorted. Treachery came as naturally as breathing to Tohmys Symmyns, Grand Duke of Zebediah. If Craggy Hill had been so incautious as to include any open reference to “treason” in a letter to Zebediah, the grand duke would have sold it to Cayleb and Sharleyan the moment it offered him any advantage.

“But,” the earl continued, “he’s finally committed to a definite schedule for supplying us with the new rifled muskets. And he’s said as much in writing.”

“You’re joking!”

“Oh, no.” Craggy Hill’s smile was thinner than ever. “Of course, he didn’t realize he was committing that to
me.
His correspondence to me is still the very soul of discretion, but he’s had to be a bit more . . . frank in his instructions to those envoys of his. I’ve been aware of that for some time, and I’m afraid his current envoy was brutally set upon and robbed last night.”

The earl clasped his hands in front of him and raised his eyes piously towards heaven for a moment.

“Obviously, I’m investigating, and the envoy—who suffered only minor injuries and the loss of all of his jewels and money—is torn between mentioning the fact that his stolen money belt contained his most recent instructions and hoping to Shan- wei we never catch up with the thieves in question.”

“You think he truly doesn’t realize you already have it—which you clearly do, My Lord?” Shylair asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh, he has to recognize it as a possibility, Your Eminence. But it was a very
convincing
robbery, if I do say so myself. And the thieves were clearly planning to cut his throat to make sure there were no witnesses when he managed to ‘escape,’ which should make him at least a little doubtful about my involvement. He knows I have to know that if I’d had him
killed,
Zebediah would instantly have smelled a spider- rat and backed away. What he
doesn’t
know is that I knew—or, rather, strongly suspected—he had those instructions on his person. I don’t think he realized my agents had been able to identify the factor here in Vahlainah who’s been passing Zebediah’s mail back and forth. So he doesn’t know the ‘thieves’ followed from picking up his latest dispatch. As a matter of fact, I’m not positive he’d had time to read it himself, although from some of the things he’s said it’s pretty evident he’s at least generally aware of its contents. Given all that, there’s got to be a huge question mark in his mind where the possibility of my involvement is concerned, but he can’t be certain either way. So he’s probably hoping it really was thieves who’ll be interested only in his money and jewels and simply throw the correspondence away. Or, failing that, that they’ll be bright enough to realize just how dangerous it is and burn it before it can get them killed. The
last
thing he wants is for my guardsmen to lay the thieves by the heels, find Zebediah’s letter to him, and hand it over to me.

“But the critical point is that even if Zebediah thinks I arranged it, even if he decides he wants to back away, he can’t now. I have a letter in his own hand, telling his envoy to tell ‘our friends in Corisande’ he’s prepared to supply weapons for the purpose of resisting the Charisian occupation. Specifically, with rifled muskets diverted from the Imperial Army in Chisholm. Neither I nor anyone else in Corisande is identified in the letter, but
his
intentions are spelled out quite clearly, over his own signature.”

The bishop executor decided he could easily have shaved with Craggy Hill’s smile, and he felt himself smiling back.

“That letter’s going into my personal strongbox, Your Eminence,” the earl said in a tone of intense satisfaction. “And if Zebediah should happen to prove . . . difficult, I can always gently inform him that I have it. And, of course, that should he
continue
to prove difficult, it just might find its way into Gahrvai’s—or Chermyn’s—hands.”

Shylair leaned back in his chair once more, and his smile faded into a more sober expression of gratitude.

Thank you, God,
he thought.
Forgive me for having doubted, for having permittedmyself to feel despair. The
Writ
says You will deliver Your enemies to justice, using even the hand of the ungodly themselves. I can scarcely pretend the Grand Duke is a godly man, but You’ve given him into our hands, and in the end, we
will
use that to bring Your enemies to justice
.

He closed his eyes briefly, as he made that promise. But even if he’d kept them open, he would never have noticed the tiny remote, perched upon his ceiling, which had just transmitted every word of his conversation with Craggy Hill to a far distant artificial intelligence named Owl.