How Firm a Foundation (35 page)

Be careful, Byrk
, she thought after the grandson
she’d raised.
Oh, be
careful,
my love! You’re too much like your grandfather. You try to hide it, but beneath that surface you show the world, you feel too deeply and there’s too much integrity for times like these. Forget you’re a Charisian and remember to be cautious. Be
Siddarmarkian
, please!

*   *   *

Thwap!

Sailys Trahskhat stiffened as the well-rotted apple smacked him squarely between
the shoulder blades and then oozed down his back in trickles of brown pulp and slime. His head whipped around, looking for the hand which had thrown it, but no guilty expression gave away the culprit. Indeed,
no one
seemed to be looking his way … which said a great deal.

His fists clenched at his side, but he managed—somehow—to keep the fury he felt out of his expression. It wasn’t the first
time something like that had happened. It wouldn’t be the last, either, he thought grimly. He was just lucky it had been an apple instead of a rock.

And at least this time the bastard didn’t
shout a
nything
, he thought.
Fucking coward! Brave enough when he doesn’t have to actually
face
someone, isn’t he?
Then he gave himself a mental shake.
Just as well, too. If he
had
said anything, pointed himself
out, I’d’ve had to do something about it, and Langhorne only knows where
that
would’ve ended!

He bent back to his task, hoisting another bag of Emeraldian cocoa beans onto his shoulder and rejoining the line of longshoremen carrying them into the waiting warehouse. It didn’t pay all that much, but it was better than the soup kitchens, and he was lucky to have the work. Enough people didn’t, and
in his calmer moments he realized that was part of the reason for the hostility he encountered every day. But still.…

“See who it was?” a voice asked quietly as he entered the warehouse’s dim cavern. He hefted his bag down on a pallet, then turned towards the speaker, and Franz Shumahn, his shift foreman, raised an eyebrow at him. Shumahn was Siddarmarkian, but he was also a decent man, and he
looked concerned.

“Nope.” Trahskhat shook his head and smiled, deliberately making light of it. “Just as well, I guess. Last thing we need is a riot down here on the docks just because some stupid bastard needed his head ripped off and shoved up his ass. Probably wouldn’t have done me any good with the Guard, either, now that I think about it.”

“Probably putting it lightly,” Shumahn acknowledged
with a chuckle. He seemed genuinely amused, but there was a note of warning in it, too, Trahskhat thought. Not that it was necessary.

“As long as they stick to
rotten
fruit, it’s not going to cost anything but another washing day for Myrahm,” Trahskhat said as philosophically as he could. “If they start throwing rocks, like they did at the fish market last five-day, though, it’s going to get
ugly, Franz.”

“I know.” Shumahn looked worried. “I’ll have a word with the boss. See if we can’t get a little more security down here. A couple of big bruisers with cudgels’d probably cut down on this shit a lot.”

Trahskhat nodded. It might. It might not, too. A lot would depend on whether the troublemakers thought the “big bruisers with the cudgels” were there to help Trahskhat or
them
.

It’s
not just about you, you know
, he reminded himself.
There’s other Charisians down here on the docks, too. And you’re lucky Shumahn’s thinking about getting someone down here to break the troublemakers’ heads instead of how much simpler it would be to just fire your ass!

“I’m asking Horahs and Wyllym to keep an eye out for the rest of this shift,” Shumahn added. “Anybody else tries something, they’ll
spot him. And if he works for us, his ass is history. The boss doesn’t like this kind of shit.”

“Thanks,” Trahskhat said with quiet sincerity, and headed back for the next crate.

The work was hard, often brutally so, and the job was a huge step down for a man who’d once been the Tellesberg Krakens’ starting first baseman. The pay was no more than two-thirds of what he’d have been making back
in Tellesberg even for the same work, either. Worse yet, it cost more to live here in Siddar City than it ever had back home. His wife, Myrahm, actually made more than he did, but she was a skilled weaver. The Charisian community living in Siddarmark had always been heavily represented in the textile trade, and she’d been fortunate enough to find a job working for fellow Charisians. He was pretty
sure her employers had embraced the Church of Charis, at least in private, but they were still good people, and he was glad Myrahm had found employment with them. He didn’t want to think about her having to face the kind of daily harassment
he
encountered down here on the docks.

It wasn’t fair, but the
Writ
had never promised life would be fair, only that God and the Archangels would be just
and compassionate at its end. That was enough for any man, when it came down to it. But it was hard. Hard when the rotten apples came flying from anonymous hands. Hard when he had to face his older son Mahrtyn and try to explain why so many people hated him simply for being Charisian. And especially hard when someone shouted “Heretic!” or “Blasphemer!” from the cover of darkness as they passed outside
the tiny apartment which was all he and Myrahm could afford, even here in the Quarter.

If they’d been heretics, they’d still be in Tellesberg, he thought grimly. Still with the neighbors they’d grown up with, not estranged from their own families. They’d come to Siddar City because they couldn’t be party to the schism, couldn’t stand by and watch while God’s own Church was torn apart. No, they
didn’t like everything about the current situation in Zion. In fact, in the privacy of his own mind, Sailys regarded Zhaspahr Clyntahn as an abomination, an indelible stain on the sanctity of Mother Church. But the
Writ
and
The Commentaries
made it abundantly clear that the Church was greater than those who served her. Their sins could not diminish her authority, nor could they absolve her children
from their obedience to her. They had the right to protest, to seek redress, when her servants fell short of their responsibilities. Indeed, they had a duty to
insist
her priesthood be worthy of their offices and the God they served. But that wasn’t the same thing as throwing defiance into the Grand Vicar’s own face! And it certainly wasn’t the same thing as setting up the judgment of a mere provincial
archbishop as superior to that of the Archangels themselves!

He felt the rage building in him again and forced himself to let go of it. It wasn’t his business to judge other men. It was his job to make sure he met his own responsibilities and didn’t help others avoid theirs. Those responsibilities included standing up for what he knew was right, and they included putting up with idiots who didn’t
understand, as well. As long as he did what
he
knew was right, he could leave final judgments to Langhorne and God.

He picked up another sack, settled it on his shoulder, and turned back towards the warehouse.

*   *   *

Fucking heretic
, Samyl Naigail thought bitterly.
Should’ve thrown a damned
rock.
Hell,
his lips drew back in an embittered snarl as he stood in the alley between the warehouses,
glaring out at the busy scene,
I should’ve thrown a fucking
knife!

Naigail was only seventeen, but he knew what was going on. He knew who was to blame. His father had been a sailmaker, and a good one, but never a
prosperous
one. That was the fucking Charisians’ fault, too. Bad enough when everyone had “known” Charisians built the best ships in the world, whether they really did or not. The shipbuilders
here in Siddar City had at least managed to keep their heads above water, and at least there’d been
some
work those days. But then the bastards had introduced their damned “schooner rig,” and things had gotten even worse. Everybody had to have one of the new damned ships, and if you didn’t know how the sails were cut, then you were just fucking out of luck as far as new orders went, weren’t you?
Besides, who could match the quality of the canvas coming out of Charis these days? And who could afford to
buy
the quality of canvas coming out of Charis?

Nobody, that was who! And as if
that
weren’t enough, then the goddamned heretics had to launch their fucking schism against Mother Church! Of course they’d driven the Grand Inquisitor into declaring an embargo against trade with them. What
else had they expected? But they’d had an answer for that, too, hadn’t they? Them and their buddies the fat, sand maggot bankers. Hell, half of
them
were Charisians, too, weren’t they? And they got their sodomite friends in the Lord Protector’s government to go along with it.

So now everyone was using Charisian ships, with Charisian crews, financed by Charisian money, and pretending they were
Siddarmarkian. Everybody knew better, but did it
matter?

No, of course it didn’t! Whatever the registration papers might say, they were Charisian ships, and the Charisian privateers knew it. So they got safe passage while everyone
else’s
shipping got wiped off the face of the ocean. The shippers and the warehouses and the longshoremen were still doing just fine, them and their fucking Charisian
friends. But the honest workers—the honest
Temple Loyalist
workers—who couldn’t find jobs as carpenters or sailmakers or chandlers or in the ropewalks,
they
were starving to death! Unless they wanted to go crawling to one of the soup kitchens, at least. But a man had his pride, and it wasn’t right. It wasn’t
right
for good, hardworking, believing Siddarmarkians to be thrown out of work and forced
to accept charity just to survive.

His father hadn’t been able to face it. They could say what they liked about accidents, but Samyl knew better. His father had always liked his beer, yes, but he’d never have gotten so drunk he staggered
accidentally
off the end of the wharf in the middle of winter and drowned, assuming he hadn’t frozen to death first. And he’d been careful to arrange an apprenticeship
with his older brother for Samyl first. No, it hadn’t been an accident. He’d made it
look
like one so Mother Church would agree to bury him in holy ground, and he’d done what he could to take care of his boy first. It wasn’t his fault Uncle Byrt’s sail loft had collapsed into bankruptcy as well.

Samyl felt the hot tide sweeping up inside him again, but he fought it down. This wasn’t the time.
Master Bahzkai and Father Saimyn were right about that. If they started actually attacking Charisians, really
hurting
the bastards the way they deserved, they were likely to actually generate some kind of sympathy for them. The very idea seemed impossible, but the city authorities were letting the damned heretics stay right here in Siddar City, weren’t they? If they were willing to whore themselves
out for Charisian gold to that extent, then who knew where they’d be willing to go in the end?

No, he thought, turning away and shoving his hands into his tunic pockets as he stamped angrily down the narrow, noisome alley, the time might come, but it hadn’t come yet. Father Saimyn promised God and the Archangels would smite the Charisians in the fullness of time, and for now—at least—Samyl Naigail
would wait to see that happen.

But if it didn’t, he wasn’t going to wait forever.

*   *   *

“Good evening, Madam Pahrsahn,” Tobys Suwyl said. He knew he sounded more than a little stuffy, but he couldn’t help it. Pahrsahn was just as charming, witty, beautiful, and wealthy as all her champions claimed, but he caught the stink of Reform from her.

“Good evening yourself, Master Suwyl,” Pahrsahn
replied, smiling at him and extending one slim hand. Appearances had to be maintained, and he bent over it, brushing it with his lips. “I hadn’t expected to see you tonight,” she continued as he straightened.

“When my wife heard Sharghati would be performing at your party, she simply had to be here,” he said.

“Ah.” Pahrsahn’s smile broadened and turned impish. “I’d rather hoped it would have
that effect,” she confided. “And I have to admit any excuse to listen to her sing was worthwhile.”

Suwyl nodded. And she was right. Ahlyssa Sharghati was the most highly sought-after soprano in all of Siddarmark. She’d traveled all the way to the Harchong Empire to study voice, and even the most sturdily Siddarmarkian critic had to acknowledge opera still attained its highest expression in the
Empire. She could command any venue—or fee—she chose, and the fact that this was the second party of Pahrsahn’s she’d graced said a great deal about the woman’s wealth.

Either that, or it may say some unappetizing things about Sharghati’s own religious leanings,
he thought, looking around the assembled guests.

“Well, I do hope you and your charming wife will enjoy yourselves this evening,” Pahrsahn
said to him. “In the meantime, however, I see the Seneschal’s wife has just come in. I’m afraid I’m going to have to meet my social obligations and greet her. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask one of my servants to see to it for you.”

She swept him a stylish half-curtsy with all the polished elegance only to be expected from someone who’d come from Zion itself. Then she
moved away, smiling and gracious, strewing conversational tidbits in her wake, and Suwyl watched her go with a sense of relief.

If he was going to be honest, his dislike for her stemmed far less from religious principles than from the threat she represented. Personally, Suwyl didn’t really care who ran the Temple. As far as he was concerned, that was God’s business, and God would get around to
straightening it out eventually if He wasn’t happy about it. In the meantime, however, one of Mother Church’s responsibilities was to see that people behaved themselves. And when people behaved themselves, there weren’t things like wars and violence. And when there weren’t things like wars and violence, simple bankers could engage in honest, gainful trade without having to worry about what the lunatics
on either side were going to tear down, burn to the ground, or blow up next.