At the Sign of Triumph by David Weber
There were a lot of reasons Father Erek might be un-amused by any number of things … and very few of those reasons were anything the Bishop Inquisitor of Sondheimsborough really wanted to hear about. Unfortunately, it was Father Erek’s job to bring exactly those sorts of things to Ohygyns’ attention.
The bishop inquisitor tried—really tried—not to hold that against him.
“Why do I suspect you’re here to tell me something I’d really rather you didn’t?” he asked now.
“Because I haven’t found anything to tell you about that you wanted to hear for the last year or so, My Lord? Or perhaps because you noticed this?”
He waved the folder he’d been carrying under his left arm.
“Probably.” Ohygyns sighed and pointed at the chair again. “I don’t suppose there’s any reason you have to be uncomfortable while you tell me. Sit.”
“Thank you, My Lord.”
Blantyn settled into the chair and laid the folder in his lap, then folded his hands on top of it. Ohygyns wasn’t surprised when he didn’t open it. Blantyn always brought the documents to support one of his briefings with him, just in case Ohygyns wanted to see them for himself, but he couldn’t remember the last time the priest had needed to refresh his own memory before presenting an absolutely accurate account of what those documents contained.
“What is it, Erek?” the bishop inquisitor asked now, his tone and his expression both much more serious than they had been.
“We have a new report on one of the seditionists we’ve been watching,” Blantyn said. “I think he’s moving into a more active phase. One active enough to bring him under Archbishop Wyllym’s Ascher Decree.”
Ohygyns’ jaw tightened. Wyllym Rayno, the Inquisition’s Adjutant, had recently issued a heavily revised Decrees of Schueler, the codified regulations and procedures of the Office of Inquisition, over the Grand Inquisitor’s signature. Ohygyns found himself in agreement with the vast majority of the revisions, although he regretted the stringency—the temporary stringency, he devoutly hoped—forced upon Mother Church by the heretics. If the schismatic Church of Charis wasn’t crushed, utterly and completely—if it survived in any form—the ultimate unity of Mother Church was doomed, and that could not be permitted.
But that didn’t mean Zakryah Ohygyns liked what the new Decrees required of him, and he especially disliked the Ascher Decree, named for the fallen Archangel Ascher, who held sway over the lies crafted to lure loyal children of God away from the truth. Obviously anyone who truly did lend himself to that sort of despicable deception and temptation had to be cut out of the body of the Faithful, but he didn’t like the way Archbishop Wyllym’s most recent decree lowered the threshold for exactly what constituted deliberate deceit.
“Who is it?” he asked levelly. “And have I already been briefed on whoever it is?”
“No, you haven’t been, My Lord,” Blantyn replied, answering his second question first. “As to who it is, it’s a young fellow named Sebahstean Graingyr. He’s a journeyman printer with a shop over on Ramsgate Square.”
“And what brought him to your attention in the first place?”
“We suspect he’s been producing broadsides critical of the Grand Inquisitor.” Blantyn’s face had become utterly expressionless, and Ohygyns felt his own expression smoothing into a similar mask. “There’s evidence—pretty strong evidence, actually—that he not only printed them but personally posted them in half a dozen places here in Sondheim.”
“Wonderful.” Ohygyns leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I assume you didn’t find anything linking him directly to the Fist of Kau-Yung?”
Blantyn winced very slightly as Ohygyns used the proscribed label for the terrorists stalking Mother Church’s prelates. It wasn’t a term the bishop inquisitor would have used with just anyone, but they had to call the organization something, and Ohygyns flatly refused to use its self-bestowed title and call it the Fist of God. Other Schuelerites constructed all sorts of awkward circumlocutions to avoid using either phrase, but Ohygyns was too direct for that. Plainspoken to a fault himself, he preferred subordinates who were the same.
“No, My Lord. There’s no evidence linking him directly to the terrorists. To be honest, the quality of the printing amply demonstrates there’s no direct link. The ones we’re certain came from his presses simply aren’t anywhere near as finely produced as the ones attributed to the Fist of God.” Blantyn used the term without flinching. “And to be fair to Master Graingyr, he’s never posted a single word in support of the heresy. In direct support, I mean, of course.”
Ohygyns grimaced at Blantyn’s qualification, but he understood it. So Graingyr was another of those who found Vicar Zhaspahr’s stringency difficult to stomach and he’d decided to do something about it. Well, in many ways, the bishop inquisitor couldn’t blame the people who felt that way. And, under normal circumstances, he would simply have had someone who did quietly brought in and counseled, probably with a fairly hefty penance attached, for criticizing the mortal custodian of God’s Holy Writ. Unfortunately, under those same normal circumstances, it would have been far easier to separate that mortal custodian—who, like any mortal, could be fallible—from the Holy Writ he preserved, which could never be fallible. When the entire basis of Mother Church’s authority was in question, when she was fighting a desperate war for her very survival, nothing could be allowed to undermine the integrity of the Writ … and her custody of it.
That was the entire point of Archbishop Wyllym’s Ascher Decree.
“What, precisely, has he done?”
“Up until the last five-day or so, he’s restricted himself to quoting scripture—especially from Bédard—that emphasizes the godly responsibility to show mercy wherever possible. It’s been pretty plain from context that he’s speaking directly about the new Decrees and the degree to which the Inquisition’s been required to become more … proactive. But yesterday one of our agents inquisitor brought in a broadside that’s almost certainly from Graingyr’s press, and it directly criticizes the Grand Inquisitor.”
“How are you sure it’s from his press? And what sort of criticism?”
“One of the ‘e’s in his type case appears to have a very distinctive flaw, My Lord. There are three other letters with less easily identifiable flaws, and two of them turned up in the same broadside.” Blantyn shook his head. “My people can positively say this broadside and the earlier ones we believe he posted were printed on the same press. Without actually seizing his type case, we can’t prove he’s the one who set them, but if we’re correct that he printed the originals here in the borough office files, then he printed this one, too.”
Blantyn paused until the bishop inquisitor nodded, then continued.
“As for the criticism, it’s not really what I’d consider blatant. He begins by suggesting the Inquisition may have been ‘betrayed into excessive severity’ by the ‘undeniable severity of the crisis Mother Church confronts.’ Then he quotes from the Book of Bédard—Bédard 8:20, to be exact—and suggests that the Inquisition has forgotten that ‘there is no quality more beloved to God than that of mercy.’” The priest shrugged. “To that point, he hasn’t strayed any farther into dangerous waters than he’s already been. But then he suggests that the Grand Inquisitor has ‘allowed his personal ire and anger’ to lead him into ‘intemperate actions’ and into forgetting Langhorne 3:27.”
Ohygyns’ nostrils flared as the words of the twenty-seventh verse of the third chapter of the Book of Langhorne ran through his mind. See that you fail not in this charge, for an accounting shall be demanded of you, and every sheep that is lost will weigh in the balance of your stewardship.
Under the circumstances, there couldn’t be much doubt what this Graingyr was implying.
“What else do we know about him?” he asked after a moment.
“We have a lay inquisitor inside his circle of acquaintance, My Lord. I wouldn’t call him the most reliable source we have,” Blantyn
“And does this lay inquisitor know what that wording is likely to include?”
“He thinks he does, My Lord,” Blantyn said in a tone that sounded very like a sigh. “If he’s right, then the petition in question will be directed not to Vicar Zhaspahr but to Vicar Rhobair and it will request Vicar Rhobair to ‘bring some solace’ to the families and loved ones of those ‘apparently arrested’ by the Inquisition. And it will request him to ‘lead the Inquisition into an exercise of that quality of mercy beloved of the Archangel Bédard.’”
Ohygyns’ face settled into stone. A mere bishop inquisitor wasn’t supposed to know about the complex, competing currents swirling at the very heart of the vicarate. He wasn’t supposed to know that there actually was a ‘Group of Four,’ for example, or that the Grand Inquisitor had ample reason to distrust the iron at Rhobair Duchairn’s core. For himself, Ohygyns understood exactly why the poor of Zion, in particular, had taken to calling Duchairn “the Good Shepherd.” For that matter, he couldn’t fault the vicar’s obvious determination to discharge his shepherd’s office among God’s sheep. But there was a time and place for everything, and at this moment, with the Jihad going so poorly and the Fist of Kau-Yung becoming ever more brazen, anything that suggested Duchairn and the Grand Inquisitor might be at odds could be deadly dangerous. And, he acknowledged unwillingly, if they truly were at odds, anything that strengthened Duchairn’s standing in the eyes of Zion’s citizens at Vicar Zhaspahr’s expense might be even more dangerous.
“Our lay inquisitor knows when this meeting is to take place?”
“Yes, My Lord. There are only ten or twelve of them, and they plan to meet at Graingyr’s Ramsgate Square shop.”
“In that case,” Ohygyns said unhappily, “I suppose we should do something about them.”
* * *
“—so I think we need to be as forceful as we can,” Gahlvyn Pahrkyns said, tapping his finger emphatically on the frame of the printing press.
“I don’t think ‘forceful’ is what we want to be where the Grand Inquisitor’s concerned,” Krystahl Bahrns objected. “He’s the one specifically charged to protect the Holy Writ and Mother Church. Even if we think the Inquisition’s being … too rigorous, he deserves to be addressed with the respect God and Langhorne would want us to show him.”
“I see your point, Krys,” Sebahstean Graingyr said. “On the other hand, I see Gahlvyn’s, too.” He frowned, his thin, scholar’s face intent. Then he held up his right hand, ink-smudged index finger extended. “I guess what we really need to be is as forceful as we can without showing any disrespect.”
“That’s likely to be a hard line to walk,” Krystahl argued. “I think we’d be far better served leaving the Grand Inquisitor—specifically—out of the petition entirely. We can ask Vicar Rhobair to investigate and intervene, assuming intervention’s in order, without ever directly attacking the Grand Inquisitor.”
“I’m not talking about attacking Vicar Zhaspahr, for Langhorne’s sake!” Pahrkyns said. “But people are disappearing, Krystahl. We don’t even know what’s happening to them! It’s being done in the name of the Inquisition, and Vicar Zhaspahr is the Grand Inquisitor. I don’t see how we can criticize the Inquisition without criticizing him, and if that’s the case, we ought to be forthright about it. Respectful, yes, but we can’t just pretend he doesn’t have anything to do with what his agents inquisitor are doing!”
“That’s my point,” Krystahl replied. “I don’t think we should be criticizing anybody. Not yet. Maybe, if Vicar Rhobair accepts our petition and nothing happens—maybe then actual criticism would be in order. But right now, what we ought to do is ask for explanations, ask to be told what’s happening and why, and humbly petition the Inquisition to temper necessary stringency with mercy.”
Graingyr and Pahrkyns looked at each other. It was evident the situation was already past that sort of request, as far as they were concerned. On the other hand, judging by expressions, at least half of the other eleven people crowded into the back of Graingyr’s shop agreed with Krystahl.
“If you’re afraid to be involved with anything that looks like it’s criticizing the Inquisition, you don’t have to help circulate the petition, Krys,” Pahrkyns pointed out.
“I’m not afraid to be involved.” Krystahl’s hazel eyes flashed. “Anyone who isn’t nervous about having his or her words misconstrued at a time like this obviously isn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, though. We’re here because we think the Inquisition’s turning too harsh, too repressive, in response to the threat of the heretics. It’s also possible we’re not in the best position to judge how much harshness is really necessary at this point, though. I think it would be more appropriate for us to ask Vicar Rhobair to explore that very question for us before we start openly condemning the Inquisition’s actions. And—” she added in a rather unwilling tone “—if the Inquisition is acting … capriciously, or without respect for the due process established in the Writ, the last thing we need to do is to turn that capriciousness in our direction until we have to.”
“There’s something to that, Gahlvyn,” Graingyr said. “In fact—”
The sudden crash of shattering glass cut the youthful printer off in mid-word. He started to whirl towards the workshop windows as the broken panes cascaded across the floor, but in the same instant both the back door leading to the service alley behind his shop and the door to the public area where he took orders crashed open. More than open: they flew off the hinges, smashed and broken by heavy iron-headed rams in the hands of a dozen Temple Guardsmen.
“Stand where you are!” a voice shouted, and Krystahl Bahrns paled as she recognized Father Charlz Saygohvya, the agent inquisitor who headed the Inquisition’s office in her own parish of Sondheimsborough. “You’re all under arrest in the name of Mother Church!”
“Shit!”
The single word burst from Gahlvyn Pahrkyns. He whipped around, then bolted towards the broken-in windows.
It was pointless, of course—a panic reaction, nothing more. The guardsmen who’d smashed those windows were waiting right outside them when he came scrambling through the opening, slicing both hands on the broken glass still in the frame. A heavily weighted truncheon smashed down across the back of his neck, and he crashed to the cobblestones face-first.
Krystahl’s hands rose to cover her mouth as icy wind sliced into the printing shop’s warmth, then she turned in place and found herself face-to-face with a thick-shouldered, dark-haired Schuelerite monk with the flame and sword emblem of the Inquisition on his cassock.
“Please,” she whispered. “We weren’t … we didn’t—”
“Be still, woman!” the monk snapped. “We know what you were doing!”
“But—”
“Be still, I said!” he barked, and the truncheon in his right hand slashed up in a flat, vicious arc. Krystahl Bahrns never saw it coming before it impacted savagely on her face, shattering her cheekbone and jaw and clubbing her to the floor, less than half-conscious.
“You’re all coming with us,” she heard Father Charlz’ voice saying, and then she faded into the darkness.
.III.
HMS Floodtide, 30,
Rahzhyr Bay,
Talisman Island,
Gulf of Dohlar.
Bosun’s pipes twittered, the side party snapped to attention, and a commodore’s streamer broke from HMS Floodtide’s mizzen peak as Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht climbed through the entry port to the ironclad’s deck. The entire ship’s company was drawn up in divisions on the broad deck, or manned the yards overhead, in clean, tidy uniforms, and the captain waiting for him at the side party’s head saluted
“Welcome aboard Floodtide, Sir Bruhstair,” the captain said, taking his right hand from his chest and extending it to clasp forearms.
“Thank you, Captain Tohmys,” Ahbaht responded gravely. “She looks like a beautiful ship.”
“I’m proud of her, Sir,” Kynt Tohmys agreed.
“I’m sure you are—and with good reason. For the moment, though, allow me to present Lieutenant Commander Kylmahn.” He gestured to the auburn-haired, green-eyed officer who’d followed him through the entry port. “My chief of staff,” the commodore added as Kylmahn and Tohmys exchanged salutes and then arm clasps.
“And this,” he indicated a considerably younger officer, “is Lieutenant Bairaht Hahlcahm, my flag lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant,” Tohmys acknowledged as the slender, dapper young lieutenant—who was only an inch or two taller than his commodore—came to attention and saluted.
“Captain Tohmys,” the lieutenant acknowledged in a pronounced working-class accent.
That accent might have seemed … out of place to some people’s ears, given his immaculately groomed appearance. Not to Tohmys’, though. The captain might be a Chisholmian, but he recognized the sound of Tellesberg’s docks when he heard it, and there were at least a score of “working-class” Tellesberg families who qualified for the newfangled term “millionaire.” And unlike most Mainland realms, where the newly rich worked hard to extirpate any vestige of their origins from speech and mannerism, Charisians saw things rather differently. They were just as adamant about their children’s educations, about acquiring the better things in life for spouse and family and learning how not to embarrass themselves in business discussions, but they were just as adamant about not forgetting where they’d come from. It was one of the things Mainlanders who persisted in regarding all Out Islanders as ignorant bumpkins most despised about Old Charis … and one of the things Tohmys most liked.