By Schism Rent Asunder Read online

  Hektor grimaced again, but he also nodded.

  "While the Master of Artillery is working on that," Tartarian continued, "I've already started looking at ways to modify galleons to mount the new weapons. I don't think it's going to be as simple as just cutting ports in their sides, and I'm not prepared to even guess at this point how long it's going to take to actually refit a ship with them. We'll do the best we can, but we're not going to be able to build a fleet to meet Haarahld at sea in less than at least a year or two, Your Highness. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is."

  "Understood. I'm not any happier about the numbers than you are, Ad­miral, but we'll just have to do the best we can in the time we have. What I think that's going to mean, at least in the short term, is that as the new guns come from the foundry, they'll go first to our more critical shore batteries, and only then to new naval construction."

  "If I may, Your Highness, I'd prefer to modify that slightly," Tartarian said. "I agree that the shore batteries have to have immediate priority, but every gun we can put afloat to support the batteries will be well worth­while, as well. I'm of the opinion that we could probably build floating batteries—I'm talking about what would basically be nothing but big rafts, with bulwarks to protect their crews against small arms fire and light artillery—relatively quickly to help cover our critical harbors. And every galleon we can fit out with the new guns will be very valuable in terms of harbor defense."

  "I see."

  Hektor pursed his lips, considering the argument carefully, then shrugged.

  "You may well be correct, Admiral. I rather suspect that the point is going to be moot, initially at least, though. Once you begin producing galleons to put the guns aboard, we'll have to reconsider our priorities, of course."

  "Yes, Your Highness."

  "Which brings us to you, Lyndahr," Hektor continued, turning to his treasurer. "I'm fully aware that we don't begin to have the money to pay for an entirely new navy. On the other hand, buying a new navy will probably be cheaper than buying a new princedom. So I need you to be creative."

  "I understand, My Prince," Raimynd replied. "And I've been giving some thought to that very point. The problem is, there's simply not enough money in the treasury to begin to pay for an armaments program on this scale. Or perhaps I should say, there's simply not enough money in our treasury to pay for it."

  "Ah?" Hektor cocked an eyebrow, and Raimynd shrugged.

  "I believe, My Prince," he said in a rather delicate tone, "that the Knights of the Temple Lands aren't going to be . . . excessively pleased by the outcome of our recent campaign."

  "That's putting it mildly, I'm sure," Hektor said dryly.

  "I assumed that would be the case, My Prince. And it occurred to me that, under the circumstances, the Knights of the Temple Lands might recognize a certain commonality of interest with the Princedom, let us say. Indeed, I be­lieve it would be quite reasonable for us to request them to help defray the costs we've incurred in our common endeavor."

  Raimynd, Hektor reflected, should have been a diplomat rather than a coin-counter.

  "I agree with you," he said aloud. "Unfortunately, the Knights of the Temple Lands are some distance away. Even with the assistance of the sema­phore system and Church dispatch boats, it takes five-days to pass simple messages back and forth, much less gold or silver. And if Haarahld gets wind of actual shipments of bullion, I know precisely where his cruisers will be de­ployed."

  "You're correct, My Prince. However, Bishop Executor Thomys is right here in Manchyr. I believe that if you were to approach him properly, ex­plaining the exact nature of our need, you might be able to convince him to bolster our efforts."

  "In exactly what fashion?" Hektor asked.

  "I believe that if the Bishop Executor were willing, he could issue letters of credit against the Knights of the Temple Lands' treasury. We might have to discount their face value slightly, but it's more likely they'd circulate at full value, given the fact that everyone knows the Temple Lands' solvency is be­yond question. We could then issue our own letters of credit, secured by the Bishop Executor's, to finance our necessary armaments program."

  "And if the Bishop Executor is unwilling to commit the Knights of the Temple Lands?" Tartarian asked. Raimynd looked at him, and the admiral shrugged. "I agree with the logic of every single thing you've said, Sir Lyn­dahr. Unfortunately, the Bishop Executor may feel he lacks the authority to encumber the Knights of the Temple Lands' treasury. And, to be perfectly honest, if I were a foundry owner or a shipbuilder, I might find myself a little nervous about accepting a letter of credit on the Temple Lands which hadn't already been approved by the Knights of the Temple Lands themselves, if you take my meaning."

  "An understandable point," Hektor said. "But not, I think, an insur­mountable one. Lyndahr, I think this is a very good idea, one that needs to be pursued. And if Bishop Executor Thomys proves reluctant when we speak to him, I believe we should point out that while he can't legally commit the Knights of the Temple Lands, he does have the authority to commit the re­sources of the Archbishopric. He has the assets right here in Corisande to se­cure a large enough letter of credit to cover our first several months' expenses. By that time, we'll undoubtedly have heard back from the Knights of the Temple Lands themselves. I think they'll see the logic of your argument and approve the arrangement. If they don't, we'll simply have to come up with some alternative approach."

  "Yes, Your Highness." Raimynd dipped his head in a sort of half bow.

  "Very well," Hektor said, pushing back his chair, "I think that concludes everything we can profitably discuss this afternoon. I want reports—regular reports—on everything we've talked about. I realize our position is rather . . . unenviable, shall we say, at the moment." He showed his teeth in a tight grin. "However, if Haarahld will just take long enough munching up Emerald, I think we ought to be able to accomplish enough to at least give him a serious bellyache when he gets around to Corisande!"

  .III.

  Tellesberg Cathedral,

  City of Tellesberg,

  Kingdom of Charis

  It was very quiet in Tellesberg Cathedral.

  The enormous circular structure was packed, almost as crowded as it had been for King Haarahld's funeral mass, but the atmosphere was very dif­ferent from the one which had prevailed on that occasion. There was the same undertone of anger, of outrage and determination, but there was some­thing else, as well. Something which hovered like the sultry silence before a thunderstorm. A tension which had grown only more taut and sharper-clawed in the five-days since the old king's death.

  Captain Merlin Athrawes of the Charisian Royal Guard understood that tension. As he stood at the entrance to the royal box, watching over King Cayleb and his younger brother and sister, he knew exactly what that vast, not-quite-silent crowd was thinking, worrying about. What he wasn't prepared to hazard a guess about was how it was going to react when the long-anticipated moment finally arrived.

  Which, he thought dryly, it's going to do in about twenty-five seconds.

  As if his thought had summoned the reality, the cathedral's doors opened. There was no music, no choir, on this occasion, and the metallic "clack!" of the latch seemed to echo and re-echo through the stillness like a musket shot. The doors swung silently, smoothly, wide on their well-oiled, meticulously main­tained hinges, and a single scepter-bearer stepped through them. There was no thurifer; there were no candle-bearers. There was simply a procession— relatively small, for the main cathedral of an entire kingdom—of clergy in the full, glittering panoply of the vestments of the Church of God Awaiting.

  They moved through the stained-glass sunlight pouring through the cathedral's windows, and the stillness and silence seemed to intensify, spread­ing out from them like ripples of water. The tension ratcheted higher, and Captain Athrawes had to forcibly remind his right hand to stay away from the hilt of his katana.

  There were twenty clerics in that procession, led by a
single man who wore the white, orange-trimmed cassock of an archbishop under a magnifi­cently embroidered cope stiff with bullion thread and gems. The ruby-set golden crown which had replaced the simple bishop's coronet he had previ­ously worn in this cathedral proclaimed the same priestly rank as his cassock, and the ruby ring of his office flashed on his hand.

  The other nineteen men in the procession wore only marginally less ma­jestic copes over white, untrimmed cassocks, but instead of crowns or cor­nets, they wore the simple white-cockaded priests' caps of bishops in another prelate's cathedral. Their faces were less serene than their leader's. In fact, some of them looked even more tense, more worried, than the laymen wait­ing for their arrival.

  The procession moved steadily, smoothly, down the central aisle to the sanctuary, then unraveled into its component bishops. The man in the arch­bishop's cassock seated himself on the throne reserved for the Archangel Langhorne's steward in Charis, and voices murmured here and there through­out the cathedral as he sat. Captain Athrawes didn't know if the archbishop had heard them. If he had, he gave no sign of it as he waited while his bishops took their places in the ornate, and yet far humbler, chairs which had been arranged to flank his throne.

  Then the last bishop was seated, and the silence was absolute once more, brittle under its own weight and internal tension, as Archbishop Maikel Staynair looked out over the congregation.

  Archbishop Maikel was a tallish man, for a Safeholdian, with a magnifi­cent beard, a strong nose, and large, powerful hands. He was also the single human soul in that entire cathedral who actually looked calm. Who almost certainly was calm, Captain Athrawes thought, wondering how the man managed it. Even faith had to have its limits. Especially when Staynair's right to the crown and cassock which he wore, the throne in which he sat, had not been confirmed by the Church's Council of Vicars. Nor was there even the most remote hope that the vicars ever would confirm him in his new office.

  Which, of course, explained the tension which gripped the rest of the cathedral.

  Then, finally, Staynair spoke.

  "My children," his powerful, magnificently trained voice carried easily, helped by the cathedral's total, waiting silence, "we are well aware of how anx­ious, how worried and even frightened, many of you must be by the unprece­dented wave of change which has swept through Charis in the last few months."

  Something which not even Captain Athrawes' hearing could have quite called a sound swept through the listening parishioners as the archbishop's words recalled the invasion attempt which had cost them the life of a king. And as his use of the ecclesiastical "we" emphasized that he truly was speak­ing ex cathedra, formally proclaiming the official, legal, and binding doctrine and policy of his archbishopric.

  "Change is something which must be approached cautiously," Staynair continued, "and change, solely for the sake of change, must be avoided. Yet even Mother Church's Office of Inquisition has recognized in the past that there are times when change cannot be avoided. Grand Vicar Tomhys' writ of instruction, On Obedience and Faith, established almost five centuries ago that there are times when attempts to deny, or evade, the consequences of neces­sary change become in themselves sin.

  "This is such a time."

  The stillness when he paused was absolute. What had been a state of ten­sion had become a breathless, totally concentrated focus on Archbishop Maikel. One or two heads twitched, as if their owners were tempted to look up at the royal box, instead of at the archbishop, but no one did. Captain Athrawes suspected that it would have been physically impossible for anyone to actually look away from Staynair at this moment.

  "My children," the archbishop shook his head gently, his smile sad, "we fully realize that many of you are concerned, possibly even angered, by the vestments we wear, the priestly office to which we have been summoned. We cannot find it in our hearts to blame any of you for that. Nonetheless, we believe what is transpiring in Charis today is the will of God. That God Him­self has called us to this office. Not because of any special ability, eloquence, or grace which we might, as any mortal, possess, but because it is His will and intent to put His house here on Safehold, and in the hearts of His children— our hearts—into order.

  "This is a day of great grief and sorrow for all of us, but it must also be a day of renewal and rebirth. A day in which we—all of us, every man and woman among us—reaffirm that which is true and just and good and reclaim those things from those who would profane them. We must do that without succumbing to the temptations of power, without listening to the voice of self-interest, or tainting ourselves with hatred or a lust for revenge. We must act calmly, deliberately, with due respect and reverence for the offices and in­stitutions of Mother Church. But, above all, we must act."

  Every member of his audience hung upon the archbishop's every word, yet Captain Athrawes saw no lessening of their tension, no relief despite Staynair's calm, rational, almost soothing tones.

  "My children, we have, with King Cayleb's permission, approval, and support, brought before you today the text of our first official message to the Grand Vicar and to the Council of Vicars. We would not have it appear that we have hidden in the shadows, concealed from you any aspect of what we do here, and why. You are God's children. You have the right to know what those who have been entrusted with the responsibility of caring for your immortal souls have been called to do by the demands of those pastoral responsibilities."

  The archbishop held out his hand, and one of the other bishops rose. He crossed to the archbishop's throne and laid an ornately sealed and signed doc­ument in that waiting hand. Ribbons, wax, and metallic seals dangled from it, and the rustle of the thick, expensive parchment upon which it had been penned was loud in the stillness.

  Then he began to read.

  "To His Grace, Grand Vicar Erek, of his name the seventeenth, of his Of­fice the eighty-third, Steward and Servant of God and of the Archangel Lang­horne, who is, was, and will be God's deputy here on Safehold, from Archbishop Maikel Staynair, Shepherd of Charis, greetings in the name and brotherhood of God."

  The archbishop's reading voice was as powerful and well trained as his normal speaking tones. It was the sort of voice which could have taken the driest, least interesting of official documents and somehow made people real­ize those documents mattered.

  Not that it took any special talent to make that clear to these people on this day.

  "It is with the most bitter and profound regret," Staynair continued read­ing, "that we must inform Your Grace that recent events here in Charis have revealed to us a great evil which has infested God's Church."

  The air in the cathedral stirred, as if every single one of his listeners had inhaled abruptly and simultaneously.

  "The Church and Council of Vicars ordained by the Archangel Lang­horne in God's name have been corrupted," Staynair continued in that same calm, unflinching voice. "Offices, decisions, pardons, writs of approval and attestation, as well as writs of condemnation and anathematization, are sold and bartered for, and the very authority of God is twisted and abused for the ambition, arrogance, and cynicism of men who call themselves vicars of God. "We send to you with this message evidence attesting to and confirming that which we now tell you in our own words."

  He paused, very briefly, and then looked up, no longer reading, but recit­ing from memory as his eyes swept the strained, silent faces which filled that mighty cathedral.

  "We indict Zahmsyn Trynair, called a Vicar of God and Chancellor of the Church of God, and with him Allayn Maigwair, Rhobair Duchairn, and Zhaspahr Clyntahn, who also call themselves Vicars of God, for crimes against this Kingdom, this Archbishopric, Holy Mother Church, and God Himself We offer you proofs that they, acting in concert as the so-called 'Group of Four,' did, in fact, organize and direct the recent attack upon the people of Charis. That Zahmsyn Trynair, individually, and all of them, in concert, did, in fact, use their personas as 'Knights of the Temple Lands' to in­cite and command the Kings of Dohlar an
d Tarot, the Queen of Chisholm, and the Princes of Emerald and Corisande, to league together for the express purpose of utterly destroying this Kingdom with fire and the sword. That they misused, misdirected, and stole funds from Mother Church's own cof­fers to finance their plan to destroy Charis. That they, and others like them, have systematically and continuously abused their positions and their author­ity in the pursuit of personal power, wealth, prestige, and luxury.

  "We can no longer turn an ear which does not hear, nor an eye which does not see, upon this ongoing pattern of vile corruption. The high offices of Mother Church are neither the negotiable virtue of some street-corner strumpet nor the plunder of footpads and thieves to be disposed of to re­ceivers of stolen goods in dark rooms, hidden from all honest eyes. They are trusts from God, held in the service of God's children, yet in the hands of those vile men who have been permitted to poison God's own Church, they have become tools of oppression, abuse, and the casual ordering of mass murder.

  "We, the Archbishop of Charis, speaking of, for, and with the consent of our dread sovereign, King Cayleb II, can and will abide no further degra­dation of Mother Church. The Mother of all men and all women has be­come the Harlot of Shan-wei herself, for she has permitted all of the evils enumerated in this message and its accompanying proofs not simply to ex­ist, but to prosper. Accordingly, we can no longer hold ourselves, or our rulers, or the children of God in our care, slavishly obedient to the men who sell that harlot's favors to the highest bidder. We separate ourselves from them, and from you, and we cast you out, for you have permitted them to flourish like noxious weeds in the garden which God has entrusted to you.