At the Sign of Triumph by David Weber
The heretics were out of the box, he thought grimly. Hanth wouldn’t be sending any massive thrusts down any of those muddy farm roads, but he didn’t need to. Sheldyn’s present position at Zhonesberg was more than fifty miles south of the canal. There was no way General Rychtyr could hold a continuous front all the way from there to the canal with the sort of fortified positions needed to stop a determined heretic attack. The labor to build a line of entrenchments that long, even in this weather, might have been found, but he had too few troops to man something that enormous even if it had been available.
He’d fallen back thirty-five miles west of Fyrayth to his next main position, the fortified line of redoubts and entrenchments between the villages of Maiyrs Farm, north of the canal, and Stahdyrd’s Farm, forty miles north of Zhonesberg, but that was the widest front he could hold in strength, and if even relatively light forces got loose in his rear, reached the canal and high road behind him.…
The terrain north of Maiyrs Farm was almost as bad as that east of Fyrayth, which gave his left flank a certain degree of security; at least there should be time to pull his left back if Hanth came slogging through the muck and mud to turn it. But the “road net” south and southeast of Stahdyrd’s Farm was too widely spread for that. Instead, he’d fortified the towns and major farms and garrisoned them in company and regimental strength. No one thought those garrisons could stop any serious attacks, but what they could do was to slow the heretics down, impose enough of a road block Hanth would be forced to bring up the weight for those attracks—which would use up precious time—and warn General Rychtyr if his right was seriously threatened.
“How did they take the Switch so quickly?” he demanded.
“I don’t know for sure, Sir,” the swaying courier said hoarsely. “We saw signal rockets, then heard portable angle-gun fire.” He shrugged helplessly. “Couldn’t see or hear anything more than that through the rain before Colonel Hyndyrsyn sent me off to warn you, Colonel.”
Sheldyn wanted to glare at the youngster, but it certainly wasn’t his fault!
“What about—?” he began, then cut himself off.
No doubt Hyndrysyn’s dispatch would tell him what in Shan-wei’s name was happening … assuming the other colonel knew. But Hyndyrsyn’s position was held by barely half the strength which had been assigned to Tyrnyr. It was little more than an observation post and communication point. It was unlikely to stop anything that could punch Tyrnyr out of the way so quickly.
“Find this man something hot to eat,” he said curtly to his aides, moving closer to the lantern hanging from the hut’s roof. “And find me some messengers. Three, at least.”
“Yes, Sir!” someone responded, but Sheldyn was too busy slitting open the dispatch to notice who it was.
.XII.
The Temple,
City of Zion,
The Temple Lands,
and
Charisian Embassy,
Siddar City,
Republic of Siddarmark.
Zhaspahr Clyntahn snorted like an overweight doomwhale as the quiet chime sounded through his bedchamber. He rolled onto his side, pulling a pillow over his head, and the wide, comfortable bed surged under his weight. His current mistress stirred sleepily and rolled up against his back, wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling the back of his neck while her breasts pushed against his shoulder blades, and he smiled a half-awake smile.
But then the chime sounded again, louder and clearer. He shook himself and his eyes opened. One hand reached out and pawed at the dimly glowing circle on the bedside table and he squinted irritably at the clock. Its face was clearly visible in the mystic nightlight shining up from the tabletop in answer to his touch, and his face tightened with annoyance.
The woman—the girl, really—behind him clung tightly, urging him to turn towards her, but the chime sounded a third time, louder still, and he muttered a curse, threw back the light cover, and disentangled himself from her. He stooped to pick up the robe he’d discarded a few hours earlier and shrugged into it, tying the sash, then stomped towards the chamber door, waving one hand to bring up the overhead lights.
The door slid open at a touch on the plate set into its frame, and he glared at Brother Hahl Myndaiz, the nervous-looking Schuelerite monk who’d been his valet for the last six years.
“What?” he snarled.
“Your Grace, I apologize for disturbing you,” Brother Hahl said so quickly the words seemed to stumble over one another. “I wouldn’t have, I assure you, but Archbishop Wyllym is here.”
“Here?” Clyntahn’s eyebrows rose and surprise leached some of the anger out of his expression. “At this hour?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” The monk bowed, clearly hoping his vicar’s ire had been assuaged … or directed at another target, at least. “He’s waiting in your study.”
“I see.” Clyntahn stood for a moment, rubbing the stubble on his bristly jowls, then made the sound of an irate boar. “Well, if he’s going to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night, then he can go on waiting for a few minutes. I need a shave and a fresh cassock. Now.”
“At once, Your Grace!”
* * *
Archbishop Wyllym Rayno came to his feet, turning towards the study door as it slid open. The Grand Inquisitor strode through it, immaculately groomed, carrying the fresh scent of shaving soap and expensive cologne with him, and his expression was not one of unalloyed happiness.
“Your Grace,” Rayno bent to kiss the brusquely extended ring, then straightened, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his cassock.
“Wyllym.” Clyntahn twitched his head in a curt nod and stalked past the archbishop to settle into the luxurious chair behind his study desk. He tilted it back, surveying the Inquisition’s adjutant with a sour expression. “You do realize I’d been in bed for less than three hours—and gotten considerably less sleep than that—before you dragged me back out of it, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t aware of the exact time you retired, Your Grace, but, yes, I realized I’d be disturbing your sleep. For that, I apologize. However, I was convinced you’d want to hear my news as soon as possible.”
“I find it difficult to think of anything short of a direct demonic visitation here in Zion that’d be so important it couldn’t wait a few more hours,” Clyntahn said acidly, but then his expression eased … a bit. “On the other hand, I doubt you’d be willing to piss me off this much over something you didn’t think really was important. That being said,” he smiled thinly, “why don’t you just trot it out and find out if I agree with you?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Rayno bowed again, briefly, then straightened. “Your Grace,” he said, “we’ve taken one of the so-called Fist of God’s senior agents alive.”
Clyntahn’s chair shot upright and he leaned forward across the desk, eyes blazing with fierce, sudden fire.
“How? Where?” he demanded.
“Your Grace, I’ve always said that eventually the terrorists would make a mistake or we’d get lucky. In this case, I think it was mostly that God and Schueler decided to give us that luck. It was a routine visit by a parish agent inquisitor—Father Mairydyth Tymyns; he’s distinguished himself in his pursuit of the heretic and the disaffected several times already—to collect and question the cousin of a seditionist we’d taken into custody some days ago.” He shrugged. “The cousin we’d arrested had already been judged and condemned to the Punishment in closed tribunal, and it seemed likely from Father Mairydyth’s interrogation of her father that the rest of her family was involved. When Father Mairydyth went by the second woman’s place of employment, however, he observed that her supervisor appeared to be very concerned about the interest the Inquisition was taking in her. And when the cousin was informed she was being taken into custody, she obviously expected—or hoped, at least—that her supervisor could do something to prevent that from happening. At that point, Father Mairydyth judged it best to bring the supervisor along for examination, as w
“She betrayed herself?”
“Yes, Your Grace. It was a woman.”
“And just how did she betray herself?” Clyntahn asked intently, his eyes narrow.
“She attempted to take her own life, Your Grace. That would have been enough to make us suspect a possible connection to the terrorists, regardless of the means she used. In this case, however, she used poison—and Father Mairydyth’s report strongly commends Brother Zherom, one of our monks, for reacting quickly enough to catch her wrist before she got the poison into her mouth. Examination proved that it was identical to the poison capsules we’ve found on the bodies of several dead terrorists.” Rayno shrugged again. “Under the circumstances, there can be little doubt she truly is an agent of the ‘Fist of God,’ and it seems likely that the family which was already under suspicion is also associated, perhaps less directly, with the terrorists.”
“Yes, that would follow, wouldn’t it?” Clyntahn murmured.
“Almost certainly, Your Grace. And there’s another bit of evidence that, I think, makes the connection to the terrorists crystal-clear.” Clyntahn sat back in his chair a bit once more, raising his eyebrows in question, and Rayno smiled coldly. “I regret that I don’t have the capture of two positively identified terrorists to announce to you,” he said, “but clearly this was a well-hidden cell of their organization. The proprietor of the milliner’s in which both of the prisoners were employed successfully poisoned herself while Father Mairydyth and his guardsmen were breaking in the door to her apartment above the shop.”
“Excellent, Wyllym,” Clyntahn murmured. “Excellent! I’d’ve been far happier to take two of them, too, but that does pretty definitely confirm what they were, doesn’t it? I assume the premises have been thoroughly searched for any additional incriminating evidence?”
“That search is underway at this very moment, Your Grace.” Rayno inclined his head. “Given how elusive these people have been for so long, I’m not as sanguine as I might wish to be about the likelihood of our discovering any such evidence, but they clearly didn’t have time to destroy anything. If they had ciphers, codes, or any sort of written records, we will find them. And, in the meantime, I’ve instructed Bishop Zakryah—the shop is in Sondheimsborough, Your Grace—to make certain his agents inquisitor on-site are as visible as possible while they conduct the search.”
“Is that wise?” Clyntahn frowned. “Won’t informing the terrorists that we’ve taken at least one of them alive throw away any advantage of surprise?”
“It seems unlikely they wouldn’t have become aware of that very soon,” Rayno replied. “It’s become painfully obvious that their organization is very tightly knit. They’re certain to realize something’s happened to this cell, and given the absolute importance of gaining full information from the terrorist we’ve taken, our interrogators will have to show extraordinary restraint. Frankly, from preliminary reports, I think it’s unlikely she’ll break quickly. Accursed and foolish though they may be, these terrorists are clearly fanatic in their devotion to their false cause, and this woman seems determined to protect her accomplices as long as possible. That being the case, I very much fear they’ll have sufficient warning—and time—to take whatever precautions they can against the information we may obtain before we get it out of her. So I judged it more useful to make the arrests as public as possible, both as an example to any other seditionists who might be tempted to emulate the ‘Fist of God’ and as a step which might conceivably panic them into taking some action in response that could expose them to additional damage.”
“I see.” Clyntahn nodded slowly, his eyes slitted in thought. “I’m not certain I agree with you entirely,” he continued after a moment, “but your analysis seems basically sound.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. And I’ve also,” Rayno flashed another of those cold razors of a smile, “officially announced that the shop’s proprietress was also taken. I saw no reason to inform the terrorists she was dead at the time.” The smile grew even thinner and colder. “If they think we have two information sources, the pressure on them will be even greater. And for the same reason, I’ve instructed the interrogators to allow the prisoner we do have to believe her friend is also in our custody.”
“Very sound thinking,” Clyntahn approved.
The Inquisition had learned long ago how to use a prisoner’s concern for another against him or her, and the suggestion that someone else was already providing the information the Inquisition sought was often even more useful. Even the most obdurate enemy of God might break and yield answers to end the pain if he believed he was simply confirming something the Inquisition already knew. Why suffer the agony of the Question to protect information someone else had already divulged?
“Where have you sent her?” he asked after a moment.
“To St. Thyrmyn, Your Grace,” Rayno replied, and Clyntahn nodded in fresh approval.
St. Thyrmyn Prison wasn’t the closest facility to the Temple itself, but it belonged solely to the Inquisition. No one outside the Inquisition knew who’d disappeared into its cells … or what had happened to them after they did. It was also the site at which the Inquisition trained its most skilled interrogators, and the prison’s permanent staff had been assigned to St. Thyrmyn only after proving their reliability and zeal in other duties. Bishop Inquisitor Bahltahzyr Vekko, St. Thyrmyn’s senior prelate, had been an inquisitor for over half a century, and under his command, the prison’s inquisitors had an outstanding record for convincing even the most recalcitrant to repent, confess, and seek absolution.
“Very good,” Clyntahn said now, “but you’re absolutely right that we have to get the fullest information possible out of this murderess.” His expression hardened. “Thoroughness is far more important than speed in this instance, and I want every single thing she knows—all of it, Wyllym! Sift her to the bone, do you understand me?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Rayno bowed more profoundly.
“And tell Bishop Bahltahzyr to see to it that whoever he assigns to her interrogation understands that it’s essential we get that information, including a public admission—in her own words in open court, mind you, Wyllym; not simply in writing!—that she and her accursed terrorists consort with demons. And it’s essential—essential—she undergo the full, public infliction of the Punishment in the Plaza of Martyrs itself. This one has to be made an example! And even if that weren’t true, her crimes and the crimes of her … associates merit the full, utter stringency of the Punishment.”
His eyes were ugly, and Rayno nodded once more.
“Emphasize that to Bahltahzyr, Wyllym. Make it very clear! If this prisoner dies under the Question, the repercussions for whoever was in charge of her interrogation will be severe.”
* * *
“They’re gorgeous babies, Irys,” Sharleyan Ahrmahk said over the com from her Tellesberg bedchamber. “And so much more willing to sleep through the night than Alahnah was at their age!”
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” Irys said fondly, looking down in the early morning sunlight at the twin babies sleeping in the bassinet beside her bed in Manchyr Palace. “And they’d darned well better be,” she added with a smile, “considering how hard I had to work for them!”
“I agree it’s an unfair distribution of labor,” Cayleb put in, gently swirling the amber whiskey in his glass in his study in the Charisian Embassy. “Still, let’s not completely overlook the male contribution to your handiwork, Irys.”
“Oh, of course not, Father,” Irys said demurely, hazel eyes glinting wickedly, and Cayleb snorted. But he also smiled.
“I know you meant it as a joke,” he told her, “and there was a time I would have flatly denied it could be possible, but I can’t tell you how happy I am that you really are technically my daughter-in-law these days.
Irys’ expression softened.
“Believe me, Cayleb, you couldn’t possibly have found the
“That’s because you’re an extraordinarily wise young woman,” Phylyp Ahzgood told her gently. The Earl of Coris was alone in his office, working away steadily at the paperwork flowing across his desk even at so late an hour. “Really, you remind me more of your mother every day, and she was one of the wisest women I ever knew. I don’t know how your father would feel about it, of course—not for certain. I know he’d want you to be happy, though, and I think he might be more … flexible about that than either of us would have believed, given what happened to him” The earl’s mouth tightened. “After the way Clyntahn and those other pigs in Zion betrayed and murdered him and young Hektor, I strongly suspect that wherever he is, he’s cheering Charis on every step of the way! Of course, it might still have been a bit much to expect him to be enthusiastic over your marriage.” The tight lips relaxed into a small, think smile of memory. “He was a stubborn man. But I know Princess Raichynda would absolutely approve of young Hektor. And—” his taut mouth softened into a smile “—especially of her namesake and her brother!”
“I don’t know about that, either—about Father, I mean,” Irys said. “I know you’re right that he’d want me to be happy, whatever else, but calling him ‘stubborn’ is a bit like calling a Chisholmian winter ‘on the cool side.’”