A Mighty Fortress (70 page)

It was odd, he thought, turning away from the mirror. He still thought of himself as “Merlin,” rather than as Nimue or Ahbraim. Probably because that was who he’d been for the last few years. Or, possibly, because he’d finally accepted that Nimue was dead and he was someone else, entirely. Or, possibly again, simply because he needed a single identity upon which to hang his sense of personhood if he wasn’t going to go completely off the deep end. Which might also explain that little glitch about the lips.

Well, no one’s going to notice anyway, even if they’ve seen both Ahbraim and Merlin,
he told himself.
Not once Merlin regrows his mustache and his beard, at any rate
.

He looked out the window of his hotel room. It was snowing again. It did a lot of that here in Zion, and he wondered once more if the “Archangels’ ” choice of the city’s site had been made solely to make the “mystically maintained” internal comfort of the Temple even more impressive to those who beheld it. More probably, though, he’d decided, the original decision to put the colony’s planetary HQ in this particular spot had been made because the climate was so bad it was likely to discourage the low- tech colonists and their descendants from settling in the area. Back before the destruction of the Alexandria Enclave (and Commodore Pei’s retaliatory attack on Langhorne and Bédard), there’d
been
no Temple. Merlin had come to suspect that Lang-horne and Bédard had seen the site of their headquarters as something along the lines of a barely accessible Mount Olympus—somewhere beyond the normal reach of mere mortals, yet with sufficient proximity to those mortals’ world to provide a sense of Archangels hovering permanently just over the horizon. The climate wouldn’t have been a problem for
them,
after all, and the “fabulous palaces of the Archangels” would have helped bolster the command crew’s divine status for any colonists who did visit here.

He had no proof of that, of course. On the other hand, a couple of references in Commodore Pei’s download had hinted at that sort of thinking, and it was entirely probable that Chihiro and Schueler (who’d apparently emerged as the “Archangels’ ” leaders after Commodore Pei’s vest- pocket nuke destroyed the original HQ) had followed the same line of thought. And it was also distinctly probable that they’d deliberately rebuilt on the same spot to emphasize the victory of “the powers of Light” over “Shan- wei’s Dark legions from Hell,” as well. Just as they’d built the entire Temple as a tangible reminder of the “Archangels’ ” power.

It would’ve made sense, in a way
, Merlin thought again, watching snowflakes dance on the sharp- edged, steadily rising wind.
After so many of Langhorne’s people went up in the Commodore’s fireball, they’d need something to remind the colonists the “Archangels” had won after all. Might’ve been a bit hard to convince everyone of that, given the casualties they’d taken, without something pretty drastic to drive the point home
.

What ever the logic behind it, it was a thoroughly miserable place to put the planet Safehold’s biggest city—in the winter, at least. In the summer, it was quite a different matter. On the other hand, “summer” in Zion was a fleeting experience. One that wouldn’t be around again for quite some time, which had unfortunate implications for “Ahbraim’s” immediate future plans.

As he’d told Maikel Staynair, he’d kept a surreptitious eye on Ahnzhelyk Phonda ever since Adorai Dynnys’ astounding revelations had suggested just how much more Ahnzhelyk was than Merlin had originally assumed. He’d taken extraordinary precautions, using remotes that recorded their data and were then physically retrieved, rather than transmitting—however stealthily—to his orbital communications arrays. That had bottlenecked his surveillance badly, but it had also provided an additional level of security which, given those power sources under the Temple, had seemed highly advisable.

It had also, unfortunately, made it impossible for him—or Owl—to reposition those remotes “on- the- fly” the way they could elsewhere. In Zion, he couldn’t move his pickups to in dependently track individuals the way he could anywhere else on the planet, which meant he had far less complete information than he could wish he had. Despite that, however, he’d realized over the last five- day that Ahnzhelyk had been at her dangerous game even longer than he’d assumed after Adorai’s revelations. In fact, he’d come to the conclusion that Ahnzhelyk had probably contacted Samyl Wylsynn, rather than the reverse.

Merlin had resisted that possibility when he first became aware of it. Not because of any doubts about Ahnzhelyk’s capabilities, but because she’d obviously been “only” the communications relay for Wylsynn’s organization. Given what Merlin had seen of young Paityr Wylsynn in Charis, and what he’d been able to glean from what his Tellesberg remotes had been able to examine—once Staynair had agreed to permit it—of the documents Adorai had delivered to the archbishop, it was apparent that the Wylsynn family’s involvement in efforts to reform the Vicarate had been a multigenerational affair. On that basis, it had been obvious Samyl must have recruited Ahnzhelyk.

But that isn’t what happened at all,
he mused.
Unless I’m mistaken, what
really
happened is that Ahnzhelyk became aware of his organization and put
herself
at his ser vice to manage his communications. But she had her
own organization
, already up and running, before she ever contacted him, and she never combined the two. That’s why she was able to get Adorai and her boys out of the Temple Lands so smoothly. And it’s how she managed to “disappear” Lysbet Wylsynn and the others
.

They were still quite a lot of things about Ahnzhelyk Phonda that he
hadn’t
figured out. Of course, the fact that
he
couldn’t figure them out, even with all of the advantages he enjoyed—even here in Zion, despite his limitations compared to other realms—probably helped explain how she’d managed to avoid the Inquisition’s notice for so long. It also meant he had absolutely no idea how she’d contacted the other five families she’d hidden away right here in Zion. The one thing he
had
decided upon, where that was concerned, was that, once more, she was the one who’d done the contacting.

He’d finally managed to locate Lysbet and Tohmys Wylsynn, and studying the take from the bugs he’d planted on Lysbet, he’d realized Samyl Wylsynn must have seen what was coming but been unwilling—or unable—to inform the rest of the Circle. Merlin found it difficult to conceive of what could have kept a man of Wylsynn’s obvious integrity from passing that information on, but he was fairly confident that was what had happened. Yet it was equally apparent that
Ahnzhelyk
had been aware of it. From all indications, it was she who’d initiated her original contact with the other families and who’d smuggled them into hiding without ever discussing it with their husbands and fathers.

Those poor bastards are probably wondering whether their wives and children have managed to evade Clyntahn—so far, at least—or whether the bastard has them in custody somewhere already,
Merlin thought grimly.
God, I hadn’t realized how sadistic he really is. If the Circle—or Wylsynn, at least—has seen this coming for as long as I think, then that sick, twisted son- of- a-bitch has been watching them squirm for
months
. And from everything I’ve been able to see, he’s been enjoying the hell out of it
.

Zhaspahr Clyntahn had no idea how fortunate he was that he never left the Temple’s precincts. If he ever did—if he ever once strayed into an area where Merlin could get at him without risking triggering some unidentified sensor system or automated response in the Temple—he was a dead man. There was no question, no hesitation, about that on Merlin’s part.

But it also wasn’t something that was going to happen. Not anytime soon, at any rate. Not soon enough to save any of Clyntahn’s present list of victims. Merlin had been forced to accept that, and his focus now was on getting those family members—and as much of the rest of Ahnzhelyk’s organization, however large or small it was, as he could—out of the Temple Lands.

Which was rather the point of this evening’s visit, he reminded himself, and reached for Zhevons’ coat.

“Good evening, Ahbraim,” Ahnzhelyk Phonda said with a welcoming smile.

“Good evening, my dear!” Merlin bent over her hand once again, kissing it gallantly.
Maybe one reason I think of myself as “Merlin” instead of Nimue,
he thought,
is that Nimue was never interested in other women. Merlin, on the other hand . . .
He set that consideration aside once more, although he really wasn’t sure whether it was legitimately a case of Merlin being interested in “other women,” or of Merlin being interested in the “opposite sex” (whichever sex that happened to be at the moment), or of Merlin having discovered something about himself that Nimue had never suspected about
herself,
or simply of Merlin finding something else to worry about that wouldn’t have mattered to anyone else on the entire planet.

“I’m glad you could join us this evening,” Ahnzhelyk continued. “Although I’m afraid company’s going to be a bit sparse on a night like this.”

“I’m not surprised.” Merlin cocked his head, listening to the wind- howl keen around the eves of Ahnzhelyk’s town house.

The temperature outside was eight degrees below zero—eight
Fahrenheit
degrees below zero—and still falling. The wind was gusting to speeds of almost forty miles per hour, too, and Merlin was grimly aware that even as he stood in the comfortable warmth of Ahnzhelyk’s town house, men and women—yes,

and their children—were freezing to death, literally, outside it. He knew about the gardener’s shed on Ahnzhelyk’s grounds, and about the four poor families who had moved into it this winter. He knew how she’d weatherproofed it, the way she did every winter. How she’d made sure there was enough coal for the ceramic stove she’d had installed. And he knew how, despite her best efforts, the members of those families were huddled together, sharing body warmth as well as the life- giving heat of that stove. They would be cold, stiff, and miserable, and he doubted any of them would really sleep, as violently as they were shivering. Yet in the morning, unlike all too many of the poor huddled for warmth around the waste heat vents of the Temple’s environmental system, they’d be alive.

And she knows exactly what’s going on out there,
Merlin thought, looking at his hostess’ smiling face.
The same woman who’s gone to such lengths to give them the chance to survive, who’s organized Wylsynn’s communications and hidden those families of refugees somewhere here in Zion, is smiling and laughing as if she doesn’t have a care in the world
.

He felt his admiration click up another notch, and he tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow, and escorted her across the sitting room to one of the buffet tables. A servant offered him a plate piled high with choice delicacies—rolls of ham, thin slivers of rare beef, breast of wyvern and chicken, spider shrimp, olives, deviled eggs, pickles, cheese, bread.... There was enough food on the table to feed the people huddled in Ahnzhelyk’s gardener’s shed for at least a month, he reflected. And on any given morning, he knew, that was precisely where the “leftovers” from the previous evening’s buffet went. There and to one of the soup kitchens operated by the Order of Bédard.

And there’s another thing that pisses me off,
he reflected.
If any of the other original “Archangels” was Langhorne’s enabler, it was Bédard. And—I know it’s stupid, damn it!— but I’d really prefer for “her” order to be as sick and twisted as the Order of Schueler, and it’s not. Not anymore, anyway. Why can’t the original villains of the piece
still
be the villains?

“I believe Mahrlys has kept her schedule clear for you this evening, Ahbraim,” Ahnzhelyk told him with a smile, and he smiled back.

“Actually,” he said quietly, turning to survey the all but deserted sitting room, “charming as Mahrlys is, and as much as I’ve enjoyed her company, I came to speak with you to night.”

“Ah?” She cocked an eyebrow at him, and he smiled faintly. “I’m not sure,” his expression was that of a man exchanging inconsequential small talk with his beautiful hostess, “but I think time is running out.”

He met her eyes for a moment, then looked back out across the room. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.” She smiled up at him, obviously amused by what ever he’d just said, but her soft voice was ineffably sad. “I’d hoped I could get a few more people out,” she went on. “Unfortunately, I can’t. There’s no time.”

“No?” It was his turn to raise an eyebrow, and she shook her head. “I have a source inside the Inquisition. Clyntahn is moving tomorrow.”