A Mighty Fortress (38 page)

Fresh thunder rolled across the icy afternoon sea as the Charisian galleon, as merciless as the kraken emblem of the Ahrmahks flying from its mizzen yard, opened fire yet again.

Archbishop’s Palace,

City of Tairys,

Province of Glacierheart,

Republic of Siddarmark

It was the coldest winter Zhasyn Cahnyr could remember... in more than one way.

Cahnyr was a lean man, and God had wasted very little fat when He designed him. As a result, he usually felt the cold more badly than many others did, and he’d always thought his assignment to the Archbishopric of Glacierheart, in the mountains of Siddarmark, was evidence that God and the Archangels had a sense of humor.

Of late, that humor had seemed somewhat harder to find.

He stood gazing out of his office window on the second floor of his palace in the city of Tairys. It wasn’t much of a palace as the great lords of Mother Church usually reckoned such things. For that matter, Tairys, despite its unquestioned status as Glacierheart Province’s largest city, was actually little more than a largish town by the standards of wealthier, more populous provinces.

The people of Cahnyr’s archbishopric tended to be poor, hard working, and devout. Most of the limited wealth Glacierheart could boast came from the province’s mines—which, unfortunately, produced not gold, silver, sapphires, or rubies, but simply coal. Cahnyr had nothing against coal. In fact, in his opinion, it had far greater intrinsic value than any of those more pricey baubles, and Glacierheart’s coal was good, clean- burning anthracite. It was an... honest sort of product. The sort which could be set to purposes of which he was fairly confident God approved. One that provided homes with desperately needed warmth in the midst of winter ice and snow. One that at least a few foundry owners here in Siddarmark were beginning to experiment with, turning it into coke in emulation of the current Charisian practice.

Yet there were times when the archbishop could have wished for something a bit gaudier, a bit more in keeping with the vain desires of the world. One that would have provided his hardworking, industrious parishioners with a greater return. And one which did not, despite all the Order of Pasquale could do, send all too many of those parishioners to early graves with black lung.

Cahnyr’s mouth twitched at the familiar thought, and he shook his head.

Of course you wish that, Zhasyn,
he scolded himself, although the scold was on the mild side, its hard edges worn down by frequent repetition.
Any priest worth his cap and scepter wants his people to live longer, healthier, richer lives! But be grateful God at least gave them coal to mine and a way to get it to market
.

That thought drew his eyes to the Tairys Canal, frozen hard now, which connected the city to the Graywater River. The Graywater was navigable—for barge traffic, at least—for most of its four- hundred- mile length, although there were several spots where locks had been required. It linked Ice Lake, northwest of Tairys, with Glacierborn Lake, two hundred miles to the southwest. From there, the mighty Siddar River ran sixteen hundred miles, snaking through the final mountains of Glacierheart, then through the foothills of Shiloh Province, and into Old Province to the capital city of Siddar itself. Which meant barges of Glacierheart coal could be floated down the rivers all the way to Siddar, where it could be loaded aboard coasters and blue- water galleons for destinations all over the world.

Most of it was used right here in the Republic, either dropped off at one of the river ports as it passed, or carried clear to Siddar City before it was sold. Of the portion that wasn’t disposed of in any of those places, the majority was shipped up the East Haven coast as far as Hsing- wu’s Passage, then west, through the passage, to serve the insatiable winter appetite of the city of Zion. The fact that it could be sent by water the entire way made its delivery price competitive with overland sources, even when those sources were much closer to hand and even in far off Zion, and its quality made it highly prized by discerning customers. Most of its purchase price got soaked up by the merchants, shippers, and factors through whose hands it passed, of course. Very little of the final selling price found its way into the hands—the gnarled, callused, broken-nailed, coal- dust- ingrained hands—which had actually wrested it from the bowels of Glacierheart’s mountains. But it was enough, if only barely, and the people of Cahnyr’s archbishopric were grateful to get it. They were a provincial people, with only the most imperfect knowledge of the world beyond the craggy, snow- topped palisades of their mountain horizons, yet they knew they were better off than many other people on Safehold.

That was one of the things Cahnyr loved about them. Oh, he loved their piety, as well. Loved the pure joy in God which he heard in their choirs, saw in their faces. But as much as he loved those things, as much as he
treasured
them, it was their sturdy in de pen dence, their stubborn self- reliance, that truly resonated somewhere deep inside him. They had a sense of self- sufficient
integrity
. Always quick to help a neighbor, always generous even when their own purses were sadly pinched, there was something in them that demanded they stand upon their own two feet. They knew what it meant to earn their own livelihoods by the sweat of their brows, by backbreaking labor in the deep and dangerous mines. They entered the labor force early, and they left it late, and along the way, they learned to value themselves. To recognize that they had given good value and more for those livelihoods. That they had managed to put food on their families’ tables. That they had met their obligations, and that they were beholden to no one but themselves.

Clyntahn and Trynair and Rayno have never understood why I love these people so,
the archbishop thought now, his eyes sweeping the mist- shrouded, snow-covered mountains.
Their ideal is what Rayno gets in Harchong—serfs, beaten-down people who “know their place.”
Cahnyr’s face hardened.
They like knowing their “flocks” aren’t going to get uppity. Aren’t going to argue with their secular and temporal masters. Aren’t going to start thinking for themselves, wondering why it is that Mother Church is so incredibly wealthy and powerful while her children starve. Aren’t going to start demanding the princes of Mother Church remember that
they
serve
God...
and not the other way around
.

Cahnyr knew the vast majority of his fellow prelates had never understood why he insisted on making two lengthy pastoral visits to his archbishopric every year, instead of the one grudging flying visit per year most of them made. The fact that he voluntarily spent the winter in Glacierheart, away from the amenities of the Temple, the diversions of Zion, the political maneuvering and alliance building which were so central to the vicarate’s existence, had always amused them. Oh, one or two of them realized how he’d come to love the spectacular beauty, the cragginess of towering mountains, snowcaps, and dense evergreen forests. Waterfalls that tumbled for hundreds of feet through lacy banners of spray. The deep, icy cold lakes fed by the high mountain glaciers from which the province took its name. A few others—mostly men he’d known in seminary, when he’d been far younger—knew of his long- standing interest in geology, the way he’d always loved studying God’s handiwork in the bones of the world, his plea sure in spelunking, and the hushed cathedral stillness he’d found in deep caverns and caves.

Yet even the ones who knew about those sides of his nature, who could dimly grasp what a man like him might see in an archbishopric like his, still found his preference for Glacierheart and his lengthy visits to its uncouth, country-bumpkin inhabitants difficult to understand. It was so eccentric. So... quaint. They’d never understood the way he drew strength and sustenance from the faith which burned so brightly here in Glacierheart.

Nor had they ever understood that the people of Glacierheart—nobles (such as they were and what there were of them) and commoners alike—knew he genuinely cared about them. Those other archbishops, and those vicars, didn’t worry about such minor matters. Even the best of them, far too often, considered that they’d done their jobs and more by keeping tithes within survivable bounds, seeing to it that enough other priests were sent to their archbishoprics to keep their churches and their priories filled, making certain their bishop executors weren’t skimming too much off their parishioners. They were no longer village priests; God had called them to greater and more important duties in the administration of His Church, and there were plenty of other priests who could supply the pastoral care they no longer had time to give.

Which is precisely how this entire business in Charis managed to take all of them so completely by surprise,
Cahnyr thought grimly. He shook his head, eyes hard on the horizon—harder than the ice and snow upon which they gazed.
The idiots. The
fools!
They sneer at efforts to reform Mother Church because she’s working just fine . . . for them. For
their
families. For
their
power, and for
their
purses. And if she’s working for
them,
then, obviously, she must be working for everyone else. Or for everyone else who matters, at least. Because they’re right. They
aren’t
priests anymore . . . and they don’t even realize what an abomination in God’s eyes a bishop or a vicar becomes when he forgets that first, last, and always, he’s a pastor, a shepherd, a protector and teacher. When he gives up his priesthood in the name of power
.

He made himself step back from the anger. Made himself draw a deep breath, then gave himself a shake and turned away from the window. He crossed to the fireplace, opened the screen, and used the tongs to position a couple of fresh lumps of coal on the grate. He listened to the sudden, fierce crackling sound as the flame explored the surfaces of the new fuel and stood warming his hands for a few moments. Then he replaced the screen, walked back to his desk, and seated himself behind it.

He knew the real reason his anger against the corrupters of Mother Church turned so easily into a white- hot fury these days, crackling and roaring up like the flames on his grate. And he knew his anger was no longer the simple product of outrage. No, it was rather more pointed and much more . . . personal now.

He closed his eyes, traced the sign of the scepter across his chest, and murmured yet another brief, heartfelt prayer for his friends in Zion. For the other members of the Circle who he’d been forced to leave behind.

He wondered if Samyl Wylsynn had discovered the traitor’s identity. Had he uncovered the deadly weakness in the walls of the Circle’s fortress? Or was he still guessing? Still forced to keep his knowledge to himself lest Clyntahn realize he knew what was coming and strike even more quickly and more ruthlessly?

I shouldn’t say it, Lord,
the archbishop thought,
but thank You for sparing me Samyl’s burden. I ask You to be with him and protect him, and all of my brothers. If they can be saved, then I ask You to save them, because I love them, and because they are such
good
men and love You so dearly. Yet You are the Master Builder of all this world. You alone know the true plan of Your work. And so, in the end, what I ask most is that You will strengthen me in the days to come and help me to be obedient to what ever plan You have
.

He opened his eyes again, and leaned back in his chair. That chair was the one true luxury Cahnyr had permitted himself—the one extravagance. Although, to be fair, it would have been more accurate to say it was the one true extravagance he had allowed himself to
accept.
Eight years earlier, when Gharth Gorjah, his longtime personal secretary, had told him the people of the archbishopric wanted to buy him a special Midwinter gift and asked him for suggestions, Cahnyr had commented that he needed a new chair for his office because the old one (which was probably at least a year or two older than Father Gharth) was finally wearing out. Father Gharth had nodded and gone away, and the archbishop hadn’t thought very much about it. Not until he arrived for his regular winter pastoral visit—the long one, when he always spent at least two months here in Glacierheart—and found the chair waiting for him.

His parishioners had ordered it from Siddar City itself. It had cost—easily—the equivalent of a year’s income for a family of six, and it had been worth every mark of its exorbitant price. Cahnyr had discovered only later that Fraidmyn Tohmys, his valet, had provided his exact mea sure ments so that the craftsman who had built that chair could fit it exactly to him. It was in many ways an austere design, without the bullion- embroidered upholstery and gemset carvings others might have demanded, but that suited Cahnyr’s personality and tastes perfectly. And if no money had been wasted on ostentatious decoration, it was the most sinfully comfortable chair in which Zhasyn Cahnyr had ever sat.

At the moment, however, its comfort offered precious little comfort.

His lips twitched sourly as he realized what he’d just thought, but that didn’t make his current situation any more amusing, and the brief flash of humor faded quickly.

He’d been deeply touched when Wylsynn told him about his suspicions, about his growing certainty that the Circle had been compromised, betrayed to Clyntahn and the Inquisition. The fact that Samyl had trusted him enough to tell him, had known
he
wasn’t the traitor, had filled him with an odd sort of joy even as the terror of that treachery’s consequences flooded through him. And Samyl had been as blunt and forthright as ever.