A Mighty Fortress (60 page)

And eliminated in a fashion that’s going to give the rest of his “Reformist” . . . colleagues reason to reconsider their apostasy
. The intendant’s jaw tightened.
From Cahmmyng’s report, we can count on this Aimayl to do just that, and he doesn’t have any idea at all that
I
gave the order. For that matter, neither does Father Daishan
.

Unlike Aimayl, Father Daishan Zahcho knew exactly who Aidryn Waimyn was, since he’d worked directly for him for over six years. But Zahcho had excellent reason to believe Waimyn had gotten out of Manchyr with Bishop Executor Thomys, since Waimyn had specifically told Zahcho he was going to do exactly that. So even in the unlikely event that he and Aimayl were both taken by the authorities, Zahcho couldn’t lead those authorities back to Saint Zhustyn’s. And of all the Inquisitors who had been assigned to Corisande, Zahcho was the least likely to hesitate for a moment over the execution of an apostate priest.

I can’t pretend I’m sorry it had to be done,
the ex- intendant admitted,
and at least I had the right people in place to see to it
.

He finished Cahmmyng’s report, then found himself yawning hugely as he set it aside.

Enough! I’m going to start making mistakes out of simple fatigue if I keep this up. Time to get some sleep
. He yawned again.
Tomorrow’s another day
.

For some of us, at least
.

Gray Lizard Square,

Sir Koryn Gharvai’s Townhouse,

and

Priory of Saint Zhustyn,

City of Manchyr,

Princedom of Corisande

Asharp, stabbing gesture brought Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s escort to an abrupt, clattering halt on the cobblestones. The anger in Gahrvai’s overly controlled, clenched- fist hand signal was highly unusual. There were men in his escort who’d been with him at the Battle of Haryl’s Crossing and served with him throughout the Talbor Pass campaign. They’d seen him in the midst of battle, seen him visiting his wounded and comforting his dying, even seen him riding out to surrender his army to Cayleb of Charis. They’d seen him angry, seen him worried, seen him grieving, seen him bitterly determined.

They’d never seen him like this.

The escort reined in its horses more like anxious children, creeping about in the shadow of a father’s poorly understood anger, than like the elite, picked troops they actually were. They looked around the buildings surrounding Gray Lizard Square, washed with early morning sunlight under a deep blue sky. The air was crisp and cool, warning of heat still to come, yet even more pleasant because its present coolness must be so fleeting. Windows, gay awnings, and the booths and kiosks of the Gray Lizard Market, normally one of the largest and busiest in the city, gleamed in the golden wash of the sun.

Those booths and kiosks were empty, though. The people who should have crowded the square, bargaining and chaffering, stood hushed, crowded back around its edges, held there by grim- faced armsmen of the City Guard. The stillness and silence of that crowd of people was profound, so absolute that the faint yet clear whistle of wyverns high overhead sounded almost shocking.

Gahrvai dismounted. Yairman Uhlstyn, his personal armsman, swung down from the saddle beside him, but a chopping hand warned Uhlstyn that even his presence was not welcome this day. He clearly didn’t like it, but the dark- haired armsman had served the Gahrvai family since he was fifteen, and he’d been assigned to Sir Koryn since the general had been a boy. He probably knew Sir Koryn’s moods better than any other living man, and so he simply accepted the order, took his master’s reins, and stood watching as Gahrvai strode across to the red- stained white sheet.

I’d not like to be the ones behind this
. Uhlstyn’s thoughts were harsh with anger of his own.
I’ve served the General and his father, man and boy, and I’ve never seen either of them like this. He’ll find whoever did this, and when he does
....

Sir Koryn Gahrvai walked across the cobbles like a man marching into battle, feeling the stillness around him, acutely aware of the contrast between the cool morning air and the white- hot fury roiling inside him. He forced his face into a mask of calm, but that mask was a lie, for there was no calm in him.

Slowly, Koryn. Slowly,
he reminded himself.
Remember all those watching eyes. Remember you’re a general, the Regency Council’s personal representative, not just a man. Remember
.

He reached the red- splotched sheet. A priest knelt beside it, a fair- haired man, going to gray, with a full beard. He wore the green habit and caduceus of a brother of the Order of Pasquale, and his priest’s cap bore the green cockade of an upper- priest.

The clergyman looked up as Gahrvai reached him, and the general saw the tears in the older man’s gray eyes, yet the priest’s expression was composed, almost serene.

“Father.” Gahrvai knew his single- word greeting had come out harsher than he’d intended, and he tried to make his brief bow of greeting less curt. He rather doubted he’d succeeded.

“General,” the priest returned. He reached out and laid one gentle hand on the sheet. “I’m sorry you’ve been called here for this,” he said.

“So am I, Father.” Gahrvai inhaled deeply. “Forgive me,” he said then. “I’m afraid I’m feeling just a bit
angry
this morning, but that’s a poor excuse for discourtesy. You are—?”

“Father Zhaif Laityr. I’m the rector at Holy Archangels Triumphant.” The priest twitched his head at the stone spire of a church at the nearer end of the square, and his expression tightened. “I’m reasonably sure they left him here at least partly as a message to me,” he said.

Gahrvai’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but then he nodded in understanding as he recognized Laityr’s name. Sir Charlz Doyal, who’d commanded his artillery at the beginning of the Talbor Pass campaign, was now his chief of staff. In addition, Doyal fulfilled the role of Gahrvai’s chief intelligence analyst, and the words of his reports on the growing Reformist movement here in Manchyr replayed themselves in Gahrvai’s memory.

Yes. The bastards who did this would want to make sure Laityr gets the “message,”
he thought.

“I’m afraid you’re probably right about that, Father,” he said out loud. “On the other hand, I imagine they intended this as a ‘message’ for
all
of us.” He bared his teeth for an instant. “And when we figure out who they are, I’m going to have a little
message
for them, as well.”

“Pasquale is an Archangel of healing, General,” Laityr said, looking back down at the sheet- covered form. “Just this once, though, I think, he’ll forgive me for wishing you every success.” His hand moved on the sheet, stroking it, and he shook his head. “They didn’t have to do
this
to him.” His voice was so low even Gahrvai could scarcely hear him. “They didn’t
have
to do it; they
wanted
to do it.”

“I think you’re right about that, too, Father,” Gahrvai replied, equally quietly. Laityr looked back up at him, and he shrugged very slightly. “So far, I’ve seen very little hatred out of the Church of Charis, or your own Reformists. I’ve seen quite a lot coming out of the Temple Loyalists, though.”

“As have I,” Laityr acknowledged. “And it’s in my mind that one reason they did this is to ignite that hate among us, as well.” He looked back down at the covered body. “Tymahn never hated anyone, except perhaps for those corrupt men in Zion, and no one could ever listen to him preach without realizing that. I think that’s why he was so effective. And that’s why the Loyalists want us to hate as hotly as they do. They want us to lash out at them—to let our own anger fuel the conflict between us, drive the breach still wider and deeper. Let our intemperance justify their own.”

“You may be right about that, Father,” Gahrvai said grimly. “And as a son of Mother Church, I hope you and the other priests who have spoken out can resist that hatred, that anger. But I represent the
secular
authorities, and it’s not my job to forgive things like this.”

“No. No, I suppose it’s not.”

Laityr looked down for a few more moments, then rose. From the stiffness of his movement, Gahrvai suspected he’d been kneeling there on those unyielding cobblestones since the body was first discovered, and the general reached out a steadying hand. The older man took it gratefully, then shook himself and nodded once again in the direction of his church.

“I know we had to leave him here until you could examine the scene yourself, General. I understand that. But his wife is in the rectory there, with my house keeper. I offered to stay with her, but she insisted I stay with Tymahn, instead. It was all I could do to talk her into letting me keep him company until you arrived, instead of her. I don’t think I’d have succeeded if she were in any state to think clearly or argue. Now, though . . .” Laityr shook his head. “Please, General. I... don’t want her to see him. Not like this.”

“I understand.” Gahrvai met the priest’s eyes levelly. “When you go back to her, tell her we have to take the body for our own healers to examine for their reports. Keep her there, until we’ve gone. Tell her it’s my request, as part of the investigation. I’ll have my people do what they can before we release the body to her.” His lips tightened. “From the preliminary reports, I don’t expect to be able to do a lot. But if you could have clothing for him delivered to my headquarters, I’ll have him decently dressed when the healers are finished. Hopefully that should hide the worst of it, at least.”

“Thank you, General.” The priest laid one hand on Gahrvai’s forearm and squeezed lightly. “I’m afraid she already knows from my reaction that it’s ugly, but there’s a difference between that and actually having to see what those butchers did.”

Laityr’s voice thickened on the last phrase, and he squeezed Gahrvai’s forearm again. Then he cleared his throat a bit noisily.

“I’ve already said my farewells,” he said softly. “And I’ve already asked God if Tymahn can wait a little, until the rest of us catch up. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dear friend’s widow to comfort.”

“Of course, Father,” Gahrvai said gently. He bowed again, more deeply, and Laityr sketched the sign of Langhorne’s Scepter, then turned and walked slowly towards his church and the rectory next door.

Gahrvai watched him go, reading the combined outrage, grief, and determination in the set of the priest’s shoulders. There was a courage in Laityr’s steady stride, as well. One Gahrvai envied. For himself, he would rather have faced a charge of heavy cavalry—or even a line of Charisian riflemen—than what Laityr was about to face. He wondered for a moment exactly what that said about the difference between physical courage and moral courage. Then he drew another deep breath, went down on one knee, reached for a corner of the sheet, and steeled himself for what he was about to see.

Much later that evening, Gahrvai sat behind the desk in his town house study. He was alone, with no watching eyes, and so he permitted his expression to show the bitter anger and frustration no one else was ever allowed to see.

He leaned back in his expensive swivel chair, rubbing his eyes. They felt dry and scratchy, partly from fatigue, but mostly, he suspected, from how much reading he’d been doing lately. The reports were piling up, and he didn’t much care for the trends he saw developing.

The savagery of Father Tymahn’s murder—and Gahrvai’s healers confirmed that the priest had probably not actually died until close to the very end of the cata log of atrocities and mutilations which had been visited upon him—dwarfed anything else which had yet happened, yet attacks on the Church of Charis’ clergy and laity were slowly but steadily mounting. The majority were still relatively minor—fistfights, vandalized homes and property, anonymous threats nailed to church doors or wrapped around stones thrown through windows.