At the Sign of Triumph by David Weber
It was her turn to smile in mingled memory and regret.
“But you’re right about Mother,” she continued more briskly after a moment. “I think she’d adore Hektor, and not just because of his name! I only wish she could actually see the babies!”
“I expect she knows all about them,” Maikel Staynair put in. “Of course,” the Archbishop of Charis acknowledged with an impish smile of his own, “my vocation rather requires me to be optimistic on that point, I suppose.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Aivah Pahrsahn acknowledged dryly. She sat on the small couch in Cayleb’s study, shoulder to shoulder with Merlin Athrawes, each of them holding a glass of Seijin Kohdy’s Premium Blend. “But let me get my own vote in for Most Beautiful Baby of the Year, Irys. While I fully agree that Raichynda’s an absolutely adorable little girl, I’ve always had a weakness for handsome men, so I have to give my vote to young Hektor.”
“You’re a courageous woman to stake out an uncompromising position like that,” Cayleb told her with a laugh. “As a ruling monarch, one who recognizes the necessity of handling important diplomatic questions with exquisite tact and delicacy, I’m far too wise to be so impetuous! That’s why I officially decree that both of them are so beautiful it’s impossible to pick between them and the award has to be shared equally.”
“But only because Alahnah’s no longer in contention for Most Beautiful Baby of the Year, of course” Sharleyan said rather pointedly.
“Do I look like I just fell off the turnip wagon?” her husband demanded. “Of course that’s the only reason it’s not a three-way tie!”
Laughter murmured over the link. Then Cayleb straightened in his chair.
“Since it’s going to be at least another thirty or forty minutes before you can find some privacy in your cabin, Hektor,” he said to his adopted son, standing on Fleet Wing’s quarterdeck under the bright—if somewhat chilly—afternoon sun of the Gulf of Dohlar, “I propose that we save the rest of this well-deserved lovefest and general baby-slobbering until you can join us.”
Hektor snorted, then waved one hand dismissively as the helmsman looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s nothing, Henrai,” he told the seaman. “Just thinking about something His Majesty once said when he thought he was being clever. You know, his sense of humor’s almost—almost—half as good as he thinks it is.”
“Aye, Sir. Whatever you say,” the helmsman said, grinning at his captain’s dry tone, and returned his attention to the set of the schooner’s sails.
“Oh, well handled, Hektor!” Cayleb chuckled. But then his expression sobered and he set his whiskey glass on the desk in front of him. “In the meantime, though, I really do want to discuss where we are with Countess Cheshyr. I’m pleased with how well the plan to slip her additional armsmen ‘under the radar’ is working out. By the way, Merlin, I’ve decided that’s a very useful term. We just have to be careful not to use it with anyone else! But I’m still not happy about how focused Rock Coast is on slipping somebody onto her household staff. Sooner or later, either he’s going to succeed or he’s going to figure out that someone’s warning her every time he tries to put an agent inside Rydymak Keep. When that happens, I think someone like him is likely to try … more direct measures.”
“Not without profoundly pissing off his co-conspirators,” Merlin pointed out. “They’re not remotely ready to come out into the open yet, and assassinating Lady Karyl would risk doing exactly that. Especially if somebody’s warning her, since that would imply that someone—probably more of those nefarious, devious seijins—already has at least some suspicions about what they’re up to.”
“That’s true,” Sharleyan agreed. “On the other hand, Zhasyn Seafarer’s about as pigheaded, arrogant, and obstinate as a human being can be. If he thinks he won’t be able to get what he wants, he’s exactly the type to resort to smashing whatever he thinks is in his way and devil take the consequences.”
“Agreed,” Merlin began, “but—”
“Excuse me,” a new voice said over the link. “I hate to interrupt, but something urgent’s come up.”
“Urgent?” Cayleb asked sharply, recognizing an unusual sawtooth edge in Nahrmahn Baytz’ tone. “What kind of ‘urgent’?”
“Owl’s been monitoring our remote in Ahrloh Mahkbyth’s shop,” Nahrmahn said grimly. “What it’s picking up isn’t good.”
.XIII.
St. Thyrmyn Prison,
City of Zion,
The Temple Lands,
Charisian Embassy,
Siddar City,
Republic of Siddarmark,
and Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s Office,
The Temple,
The Temple Lands.
The cell was small, dark, and cold. There was no light, only a dim trickle of pallid illumination spilling through the small, barred grate in the massive timber door. There was no bed, no furniture of any sort, only a thin layer of damp straw in one corner. There wasn’t even a bucket or a chamber pot in which a prisoner might relieve herself.
She huddled in the corner, naked, crouching in the straw, her knees drawn up under her chin and her left arm—the only one that still worked—wrapped around them while she folded in upon herself. It was very quiet, but not completely so, and the distant sounds that came to her—their faintness somehow perfected and distilled by the stillness—were horrible. The sounds of screams, for the most part, torn from throats on the other side of heavy doors or so far down the chill, stone corridors of this terrible place that they were faint with distance. And then there were the closer sounds. The sound of a cracked, crazed voice babbling unceasing nonsense. Another voice, pleading helplessly—hopelessly—for someone to listen, to understand that its owner hadn’t done whatever it was he’d been accused of. A voice that knew no one was listening, knew no one cared, but couldn’t stop pleading anyway.
She knew where she was. Everyone in Sondheimsborough knew about St. Thyrmyn’s, although only the truly foolish spoke about it. She’d known exactly where they were taking her and Alahnah from the instant they dragged them out of the shop into the snow and threw them into the closed carriage, and the knowledge had filled her with terror.
Alahnah had wept pleadingly, her pale face soaked with tears, begging to know what had happened to her cousin and her uncle, but of course no one had told her. Zhorzhet hadn’t wept, despite her terror and the anguish pulsing in her crippled elbow. She’d refused to give her captors that satisfaction. And she hadn’t said a single word, either, despite the monk who’d sat behind her holding the leather strap which had been fastened about her throat, ready to choke any sign of resistance into unconsciousness.
They’d chained both of them as well, of course, although that had scarcely been necessary in Zhorzhet’s case. There’d been no way she could have fought them after the damage they’d already done to her right arm. Besides, they’d been armed and armored. She’d been neither, and even if she’d been able to fight, there was no way she could have provoked them into killing her. Not when the under-priest clearly knew exactly what sort of prize he’d stumbled upon.
Alahnah had moaned, shrinking in upon herself, seeming to collapse before Zhorzhet’s eyes, when the carriage door opened on the courtyard of St. Thyrmyn Prison. She’d shaken her head frantically, bits and pieces of terrified protest spurting from her, but the priest who’d arrested them had only flung her from the carriage. She’d landed on her knees with brutal force, crying out in pain, then sprawled forward on her face, unable even to catch herself with her hands chained behind her, and a waiting agent inquisitor in the black gloves of an interrogator had jerked her back to her feet by her hair.
“Please, no!” she’d moaned, blood oozing from a split lip as he hauled her high on her toes. “It’s a mistake! It’s all a mistake!”
“Of course it is,” the interrogator had sneered. “And I’m sure we’ll get it all sorted out soon enough.”
He’d dragged her away, and the arre
“Be very careful with this one, Zherom,” he’d said. “She has a great deal to tell us, and I’m looking forward to hearing all of it. Be sure you don’t let her … slip away before Father Bahzwail’s had the chance to make her acquaintance.”
“Oh, no worry there, Father Mairydyth,” the monk had assured him. “I’ll get her delivered safe enough.”
“I’m sure you will,” the priest had said with a cold, cruel smile. Then he’d climbed down from the carriage himself and strode briskly across the courtyard without a single backwards glance, a man who was clearly eager to report his success to his superiors.
The monk watched him go, then twisted the strap hard enough to make Zhorzhet choke, her eyes widening as he cut off her air.
“Up you get, you murderous bitch,” he’d hissed in her ear, his mouth so close she felt his hot breath. “There’s a hot corner of hell for such as you, and you might’s well start the trip there now.”
She’d twisted, choking, fighting involuntarily for air as he strangled her, and he’d pulled her to her feet by the strap, then dragged her down the steep carriage steps and into the prison. At least he’d been forced to let her breathe along the way, but that hadn’t been a kindness. Indeed, the kindest thing he could have done would have been to strangle her to death, and she knew it. But he hadn’t. He’d only dragged her along endless corridors until, finally, he’d turned her over to another interrogator—a thick-shouldered, hulking giant of a man with blunt, hard features and merciless eyes.
“I’ll take her, Brother Zherom,” he’d said, and his voice had seemed to come from some underground cavern. It wasn’t all that deep, but it was deadly cold, the voice of a man who no longer possessed any human emotions, and its emptiness was far more terrifying than any leering cruelty could have been.
“And welcome to her,” Brother Zherom had said, passing over the strap. Then he’d reached out, capturing Zhorzhet’s face between the thumb and fingers of his right hand, forcing her head around to face him, and he’d smiled.
“Don’t reckon I’ll be seeing you again … before the Punishment,” he’d told her. “Might, though. There’s more’n one way t’ question a heretic bitch.” He’d leaned forward and licked her forehead, slowly and gloatingly, then straightened. “Won’t be so pretty by the time you hit the fire.”
She’d only stared at him mutely, and he’d laughed, then tossed her head aside, turned, and walked away.
And then she’d been taken to her cell, but her new captor had paused at the door.
“You’re one of the priority prisoners,” he’d told her. “Understand you’ve already tried to kill yourself once.” He’d shaken his head and spat contemptuously on the stone floor. “Don’t know what your rush is. You’ll see Shan-wei soon enough! But we can’t have you trying again, and I’ve seen people hang themselves with things you’d never’ve thought they could.” He’d smiled coldly. “Don’t think you’ll be doing that, though.”
And then he’d stripped her naked, there in the cell doorway, before he’d removed her manacles and flung her into it, and she’d been wrong about his absence of emotion. There’d been more than enough leering cruelty in his eyes—in his groping hands—as he reduced her to fragile, naked vulnerability, and she’d never believed for a moment it was only to keep her from hanging herself with the hem of her chemise.
Then he’d laughed once, the door had crashed shut behind her, and he’d walked away, leaving her to the cold and the fear … and the despair.
* * *
“You sent for me, My Lord?”
Father Bahzwail Hahpyr crossed the office quickly and bent to kiss the ruby-set ring Bishop Inquisitor Bahltahzyr Vekko extended across his desk.
“Yes, I did. Be seated. I think you’ll be here a while.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
Hahpyr settled into his usual chair, his expression attentive. He and the bishop inquisitor were old colleagues, although he was little more than half Vekko’s age. He was broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes, and a thin purse-like slit of a mouth, whereas Vekko was in his late seventies, with a frail, ascetic appearance. The white-haired, gray-eyed prelate looked like everyone’s favorite grandfather with his full, snow-white beard. Until one looked deeply into those eyes of his and saw the curious … flatness lurking just below their surface like an opaque wall.
Bahltahzyr Vekko had been one of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s closest supporters for decades. Indeed, he’d been Clyntahn’s mentor back in the Grand Inquisitor’s seminary days. The student had long since outpaced the master, of course, yet he remained one of Clyntahn’s closest confidants, and he’d played a major role in shaping the Grand Inquisitor’s vision of Mother Church’s future. In his more honest moments, Vekko acknowledged to himself that he would have lacked the iron nerve to embrace Clyntahn’s strategy for achieving that vision, and he’d actually advised against his old protégé’s … proactive attitude towards the Out Islands. Then again, he’d often thought his own caution was a failing in a true son of Mother Church. A servant of God with the steely spine of a Zhaspahr Clyntahn came along far too rarely, and Vekko could only thank Schuler—and envy them—when they did.
He knew he himself would never have dared to goad the Out Islanders to deliberately provoke a jihad, and there were times, especially when news from the battlefront was bad, when that timorousness of his made it difficult to sleep, worrying about the future. He’d never said as much to Clyntahn, but he knew the Grand Inquisitor had never imagined tiny, distant Charis could possibly survive the initial attack. Neither had Vekko, for that matter, and the fact that it had surely demonstrated Clyntahn had been right from the start. It could never have happened if Shan-wei hadn’t been their secret mistress all along! And if there were times when his faith wavered, when it seemed the accursed weapons with which she’d gifted her minions must prove unstoppable, a little prayer always reassured him with the comforting knowledge that God would not permit Himself to be defeated. And the truth was that the ferocity of the Jihad—the stern measures required to meet its demands—had only further strengthened the Inquisition’s position. Once the Jihad ended in God’s inevitable victory, the Grand Inquisitor’s control of Mother Church—and all of God’s world—would be unbreakable.
Of course, first that victory had to be attained.
“I have a special charge for you, Father,” the bishop inquisitor said, sitting back in his chair. “Father Mairydyth’s brought us an unexpected prize.”
“Indeed, My Lord?”
Hahpyr raised his eyebrows—in question, not surprise. As St. Thyrmyn’s senior interrogator, he was accustomed to being handed “special charges,” and his record of success was unbroken. There was a reason he taught all of the senior courses in interrogation technique, and many of the Inquisition’s most successful agents interrogator had interned under him.
“Indeed.” Vekko nodded, his normally kindly expression stern. “The Grand Inquisitor’s made it clear that we need our best interrogator on this one. And you’ll have to be careful, mind you! If she dies under the Question, Vicar Zhaspahr will be … most unhappy. Is that understood?”
“Of course, My Lord,” Hahpyr murmured. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed a “special charge” to elude God’s searchers in death.
“Very well. I know I can trust your intelligence is much as your efficiency, Bahzwail, but I want to be very clear with you about the needs of this particular interrogation, because its outcome is particularly vital to the Jihad. This isn’t a simple heretic or seditionist—this is an outright rebel against God Himself, a true servant of Shan-wei and Kau-yung.”
“I understand, My Lord.”
“In that case, the first thing to consider—”
* * *
She never knew how much time had passed before the door opened again—abruptly, without warning—and far brighter light streamed in thro
The faceless shape stood gazing down at her, the golden ring of an upper-priest glittering on one hand, then stepped back.
“Bring her,” he said curtly, and two black-gloved inquisitors dragged her to her feet.
She thought about struggling. Every instinct cried out to fight desperately, but no resistance could help her now, and she refused to give them the satisfaction of beating her into submission. And so she walked between them, her head high, gazing directly in front of her and trying not to shiver in her nakedness.
It was a long walk … and it ended in a chamber filled with devices fit to fill the strongest heart with terror. She recognized many of them; others she had no name for, but it didn’t matter. She knew what they were for.
Her captors dragged her across to a heavy wooden chair. They slammed her down in it and strapped her wrists and ankles to its arms and heavy front legs. Then she coughed as another strap went around her throat, yanking her head back against the rough timber of the chair back.
“Leave us,” the upper-priest said, and his assistants sketched Langhorne’s scepter in silent salute and disappeared, still without speaking a single word.
She sat there, still staring straight in front of her, and he settled onto a stool, sitting to one side, out of her line of vision unless she turned her head to look at him. He said nothing. He only sat there—a silent, predatory, looming presence. The silence stretched out interminably, until she felt her good wrist beginning to turn against its strap, struggling involuntarily as the terrible tension piled slowly higher and higher within her. She tried to make her hand be still, but she couldn’t—she literally couldn’t—and she closed her eyes, lips moving in silent prayer.