By Heresies Distressed Read online

  Not that we can expect everyone else on the Council—or even within the Order!—to see things that way, Rayno thought grumpily. The name of Samyl Wylsynn came forcefully to mind, and the adjutant reminded himself barely in time not to grimace. Not that Clyntahn would have disagreed with his subordinate’s unloving thoughts where Vicar Samyl was concerned. If he decided Rayno’s expression indicated the archbishop’s disapproval of the decision to close the mainland ports to Charis, however, it could have unfortunate consequences.

  “Well,” Clyntahn said again, grasping the thread of the conversation once more, “as you and I have already discussed, it’s essential that Mother Church put the true version of events into the hands of the faithful before any Charisian lies can take root there. I believe that may be especially important in this instance.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. How may I be of assistance?”

  “It’s taken longer than I could have wished,” the Grand Inquisitor told him frankly, “but Trynair and Duchairn have just about agreed upon the text of a proclamation setting forth what happened, especially in Ferayd, and granting martyr’s status to those murdered by the Charisians. It’s still weaker than I would prefer. It stops short of declaring Holy War, for example. I suppose it does set the groundwork for the eventual declaration, but certain parties are still waffling. I think Duchairn actually entertains the belief—or the hope, at least—that this can all be patched up somehow. Deep inside, though, even he has to know he’s wrong. It’s gone too far. The Inquisition and Mother Church simply cannot allow this sort of direct challenge of God’s will and His plan for the souls of men to pass unpunished. And the chastisement must be severe, Wyllym. Severe enough to prevent anyone else from even contemplating ever following in their footsteps.”

  Rayno simply nodded. There was very little new in what Clyntahn had just said—aside from the confirmation that the proclamation the adjutant had expected for five-days was approaching readiness. On the other hand, as much as Clyntahn enjoyed explaining things, it was unlikely he’d recapped all that history without a specific purpose in mind.

  “I have to confess that the thing which is preying most strongly upon my own mind just now, Wyllym, isn’t those damnable Charisians’ open defiance. Oh, obviously that’s going to have to be dealt with, but at least Cayleb and Staynair were rash enough to come out into the open. They’ve declared their allegiance to the pernicious doctrines Shan-wei is using to split Mother Church, marked themselves for the Church’s justice and God’s vengeance. In the fullness of time, they’ll receive that justice and vengeance in full measure, too.

  “But what happened in Siddarmark . . . that’s another story entirely, Wyllym. Someone very highly placed in the Republic’s government must have alerted the Charisians. And while I’m fully aware of all the diplomatic niceties which prevent Zahmsyn from coming right out and taxing Greyghor with responsibility, there’s not much question in my mind as to who bears the responsibility. Even if he didn’t give the specific order himself—and I wouldn’t bet a mug of flat beer on that possibility!—it had to be someone very close to him, and there are no indications he’s even remotely close to identifying the culprit, much less punishing him. That sort of insidious rot, the kind that hides behind a façade of loyalty and reverence, is deadly dangerous. Left to itself, hiding in the shadows, the infection will only grow more and more corrupt until we find ourselves with a second, or a third, or even a fourth ‘Church of Charis’ on our hands.”

  “I understand, Your Grace,” Rayno murmured when the Grand Inquisitor paused once more. And the adjutant was beginning to understand, too. Had the “culprit” in question been found anywhere except in the inner circles of the Siddarmarkian government, Clyntahn wouldn’t simply have been concerned about any future “rot.” He would have been demanding the head of whoever had done it. Unfortunately, pressing Siddarmark too hard at this particular time was . . . contraindicated. The last thing the Church wanted was to engineer a marriage between Siddarmark’s pikemen and Cayleb of Charis’ navy.

  “Unfortunately,” Clyntahn continued, as if he’d been reading Rayno’s mind (which wasn’t something the adjutant was completely prepared to rule out as a possibility), “if Greyghor can’t—or won’t—identify the responsible party, there’s very little we can do about it from the outside. For now, at least.”

  “I take it from what you’ve just said that you’ve been working on a means to change that, Your Grace?”

  Rayno’s tone was merely politely inquisitive, and Clyntahn snorted a grunting laugh as the adjutant arched his eyebrows delicately.

  “Actually, I have,” he acknowledged, “and the fact that Siddarmark is so stubbornly attached to its ‘republican’ traditions is part of my thinking.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace?” This time Rayno cocked his head to the side and crossed his legs as he awaited the Grand Inquisitor’s explanation.

  “One of the things that makes Greyghor so damnably stiff-necked and defiant behind that mask of piety and obedience of his is his belief that the voting citizens of Siddarmark support his policies. And, to give Shan-wei her due, he’s pretty much been right about that. That’s one of the considerations which has prevented us from turning up the pressure on him the way we really ought to have done long ago. But I rather doubt that public opinion in Siddarmark is quite as firmly united in approval of this schism of Charis’ as Greyghor may think it is. And if, in fact, his precious voters disapprove of Charis and of the things he’s willing to do behind the scenes in support of the schismatics, then I suspect he’ll change his tune.”

  “That sounds eminently sensible to me, Your Grace,” Rayno said, nodding his head. “Exactly how do we . . . reshape that public opinion in our favor, though?”

  “Over the next few days,” Clyntahn said, his tone a bit oblique, his eyes once again straying to the white maelstrom of the October blizzard, “several of the Charisians seized when their vessels were impounded will be arriving here in Zion. Actually, they’ll be arriving here at the Temple itself.”

  “Indeed, Your Grace?”

  “Indeed,” Clyntahn confirmed. “They’ll be delivered directly to the Order—to you, Wyllym.” The Grand Inquisitor’s eyes snapped back from the windows, boring suddenly into Rayno’s. “I haven’t gone out of my way to mention their impending arrival to the Chancellor or to the Treasurer General. I see no need to disturb them with what are, after all, the Inquisition’s internal matters. Do you?”

  “Clearly not at this time, Your Grace,” Rayno replied, and Clyntahn smiled again, thinly.

  “That was my thinking, as well, Wyllym. What we need to do is to . . . interview these Charisians. Shan-wei is the Mother of Lies, of course. No doubt she’ll do her damnable best to protect these heretics lest they betray her by revealing her plans and perversions to the true children of God. But the Office of Inquisition knows how to strip away Shan-wei’s mask and reveal the truth behind it. That will be your task, Wyllym. I want you to take personal charge of their questioning. It’s essential that they confess what actually happened, admit their deliberate provocation of the civil authorities who were simply attempting to peaceably carry out their instructions from Mother Church and their own secular authorities. The world must see clearly where the true blood guilt lies, just as it must learn of the perverse practices and blasphemies which this so-called ‘Church of Charis’ has embraced and seeks to enforce upon all the children of God in the name of its own dark mistress. Not only does the redemption of these sinners’ own souls hang upon their full confession and repentance, but once the truth is revealed, it will have a powerful effect upon ‘public opinion’ everywhere . . . even in Siddarmark.”

  His eyes continued to bore into Rayno’s, and the adjutant drew a deep, steadying breath. The Grand Inquisitor was right about the necessity of confession and repentance if a soul which had strayed from the path of the archangels was ever to find true redemption. And the Inquisition was accustomed to its stern, often heartbreakin
g responsibilities. It understood that the true love of the sinner’s soul sometimes required that sinner’s body be dealt with harshly. It was sadly true that it was often difficult to break into that fortress of self-pride, arrogance, and defiance and lead the lost soul hiding within it back into the cleansing light of God’s love once again. But however difficult the task might be, it was one the Inquisition had learned to discharge long-ago.

  “How quickly do you need this accomplished, Your Grace?” he asked after a moment.

  “As soon as possible, but not instantly,” Clyntahn replied with a shrug. “Until my . . . colleagues are prepared to act openly, I doubt that a confession from Shan-wei herself would carry much weight with anyone who’s already prepared to believe the schismatics’ lies. And, to be perfectly frank, I expect that Duchairn, at least, is going to express all sorts of pious reservations and protests at the thought of the Inquisition’s doing what’s necessary in this case. So, for now, this needs to be done very quietly. Keep it within the Order and be sure that, even there, you rely only on brothers whose faith and fidelity we know are trustworthy. I need to be able to produce this testimony when the time comes, but in the meantime, we don’t need any well-intentioned weaklings who don’t understand that, in this case, too much kindness would be the worst cruelty of all, getting in the way and hampering our efforts.”

  “I agree with you, of course, Your Grace,” Rayno said. “However, I do have a . . . tactical reservation, let’s say.”

  “What sort of reservation, Wyllym?” Clyntahn’s eyes had narrowed slightly, but Rayno appeared not to notice as he continued in the same calm, merely thoughtful tone of voice.

  “Everything you’ve just said about controlling the time at which this testimony is made public strikes me as completely valid. But you and I are accustomed to dealing with the pragmatic, often unpleasant duties and responsibilities inherent in attempting to reclaim the fallen for Langhorne and God. If—when—we obtain the apostates’ confessions, some people are going to wonder why we didn’t make those confessions public immediately. Some of that questioning will be completely sincere and legitimate, from people outside the Office of Inquisition who simply don’t understand that sometimes saving the sinner is only the first step in combating a greater evil. But there will also be those, Your Grace, who seize upon any delay as an opportunity to discredit anything we may say. They’ll argue that the penitents were coerced, that their confessions aren’t reliable.”

  “No doubt you’re right,” Clyntahn agreed. “In fact, the same thought had occurred to me. But almost as soon as I thought about it, I realized I was worrying unduly.”

  “You were, Your Grace?”

  “Yes.” Clyntahn nodded. “I have no doubt that once you’ve managed to bring these people to the point of confession and repentance we’ll discover that many of the ‘Church of Charis’ perversions and abominations are even worse—horrifically worse, in some cases—than anything we could reasonably suspect from here. Undoubtedly, as the painstakingly thorough guardian of the truth I’ve always known you to be, you’ll insist on confirming as many as possible of those outrageous claims before making them public. It would never do to suggest such shocking possibilities if, in fact, it later turned out that the heretics had lied to you. So, obviously, until we have that confirmation, we couldn’t possibly justify presenting our findings to the Council of Vicars . . . or to the citizens of Siddarmark who mistakenly believe that Cayleb, Staynair, and the others must have at least some valid justifications on their side.”

  “I understand, Your Grace,” Rayno said, and he did.

  “Good, Wyllym. Excellent! I knew I could trust your diligence and discretion in this matter.”

  “You can, Your Grace. Definitely. I suppose the only remaining question I have is whether or not you want progress reports.”

  “Nothing written at this point, I think,” Clyntahn said after thinking for a moment. “Written memos have an unfortunate habit of being taken out of context, especially by people who choose to take them that way in order to suit their own purposes. Keep me informed, but verbally. When the time is right, I want to produce as many as possible of the heretics who have confessed. And, of course, I’ll want detailed, signed and witnessed written copies of their confessions, as well.”

  “I understand, Your Grace.” Rayno rose and bent to kiss Clyntahn’s ring of office once more. “With all due respect, Your Grace, I think perhaps I should return to my office. I need to do some personnel selection and make certain the brothers I choose fully understand your fears and concerns.”

  “I think that sounds like an excellent idea, Wyllym,” Clyntahn said, escorting the archbishop back towards his chamber’s door. “An excellent idea, indeed. And when you make your selections, remember that Shan-wei is cunning. If there should be a chink in the armor of one of your Inquisitors, never doubt she’ll find it and exploit it. This responsibility is too serious, the potential consequences are too great, to let that happen. Be sure that they’re fully protected in the armor of the Light and girded with the strength of will and purpose and faith to do that which must be done, however grievous the doing of it may seem. Our responsibility is to God, Wyllym. The approval or disapproval of mere mortal, fallible men cannot be allowed to sway us from the obligation to meet that dreadful responsibility, whatever it may demand of us. As Schueler taught and Langhorne himself confirmed, ‘Extremism in the pursuit of godliness can never be a sin.’ ”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Wyllym Rayno said quietly. “I’ll see to it that I—that all of us—remember that in the days to come.”

  NOVEMBER,

  YEAR OF GOD 892

  . I .

  City of Ferayd,

  Ferayd Sound

  Kingdom of Delferahk

  At least the Charisians were extending full military courtesies to their defeated enemies.

  The thought ran through the back of Sir Vyk Lakyr’s mind as he scaled the steep battens on the ship’s high side, then stepped through the entry port onto HMS Destroyer’s deck. The bosun’s pipes which had twittered painfully (and apparently endlessly) as he climbed fell blessedly silent, and the grave-faced young lieutenant waiting to greet him touched his right fist to his left shoulder in formal salute.

  “The Admiral extends his respects and asks you to join him in his day cabin, My Lord,” the lieutenant said.

  My, how polite, Lakyr thought, acutely conscious of the lack of weight where his sword should have hung by his side. Of course, he hadn’t seen that sword in the last two days. Not since he’d surrendered it to Admiral Rock Point’s senior Marine officer.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said aloud, and the lieutenant inclined his head in a slight bow, then turned to lead the way below.

  Lakyr tried not to gawk as they descended from the Charisian ship’s upper deck—the “spar deck,” they called it—to its gun deck. HMS Destroyer was huge, easily the largest ship he had ever been aboard, although at least one or two of its consorts anchored off what had once been the waterfront of the city of Ferayd looked larger than it was. What was even more impressive than its sheer size, however, was the number—and weight—of its guns. The short, stubby “carronades” on the spar deck had been bad enough; the monsters crouching on the gun deck were even worse. There had to be at least thirty of them, and he’d already seen the devastation their thirty-eight-pound round shot had wreaked upon the port’s defenses.

  Such as they were, and what there was of them, Lakyr thought.

  Sunlight streamed in through the open gun ports, illuminating what was almost certainly normally a gloomy cavern. Or perhaps not all that gloomy, he reflected, as he and the lieutenant passed through a brilliantly lit, rectangular pool of light, streaming down through the long, narrow grating of the spar deck main hatch. The smell of burned gunpowder hovered faintly about him, despite the meticulously clean deck, scrubbed bulkheads, and canvas windscoops rigged to ventilate the ship. The smell was barely there, hovering at the backs
of his nostrils, like something suspected more than actually experienced.

  Or perhaps it was the scent of a more mundane smoke, he reflected. After all, there was a large enough cloud of that hovering black and dense above the city he’d been charged to protect. Even though the breeze was blowing towards shore, not away from it, the smell of burning wood had accompanied him aboard Destroyer. Clinging to the folds of his own clothing, no doubt.

  They reached a closed door in a light bulkhead which was obviously designed to be taken down when the ship cleared for action. A uniformed Marine stood guard outside it with a bayoneted musket, and the lieutenant reached past him to rap sharply on the door with his knuckles.

  “Yes?” a deep voice responded.

  “Sir Vyk Lakyr is here, My Lord,” the lieutenant said.

  “Then please ask him to come in, Styvyn,” the deep voice replied.

  “Of course, My Lord,” the lieutenant replied, then opened the door and stepped courteously aside.

  “My Lord,” he murmured, and waved gracefully at the doorway.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” Lakyr replied, and stepped past him.

  Lakyr had expected to find his “host” waiting directly on the other side of that door, but his expectation was disappointed. The lieutenant followed him through the door, managing somehow—Lakyr was never certain afterward just how the young man accomplished it—to steer the visitor while still following a respectful half-pace behind him.

  Thus steered, Lakyr found himself leading the way across the cabin towards a second door. His eyes were busy, absorbing the furnishings about him: a woman’s portrait, smiling at any visitor as he entered; armchairs, a short sofa, a waxed and gleaming dining table with half a dozen chairs; a handsome ivory-faced clock ticking away; a polished wine rack made out of some dark, exotic tropical wood; a glass-fronted cabinet filled with crystal decanters and tulip-shaped glasses. They created a comfortable, welcoming space which only made the intrusion of the massive, carefully secured thirty-eight-pounder crouching with its muzzle touching a closed gun port an even greater contrast.