A Mighty Fortress (75 page)

“I see. Of course,” he smiled thinly at her, “that does rather imply that you intend to maintain those ‘active operations against the Temple’ once you’re safely out of Zion yourself, now doesn’t it?”

“Oh, I think you can
rely
on that, Ahbraim,” she said very softly, and no one would ever have mistaken the tight flash of her white teeth for a smile. “I’m a very wealthy woman, you know,” she continued. “Even after giving up all of my affairs here in Zion, I’m still going to find myself quite well off. You’d be amazed—well,
you
might not be, but most people would—by the amounts I’ve got stashed away in accounts in Tellesberg or with the House of Qwentyn in Siddarmark. From what you and Adorai have both said, I think I can probably count on Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan to keep a roof over my head, too. In which case all of that money—and all of my mainland contacts—will be available to help me do my very best to make Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s life a living hell . . . and”— her dark eyes flashed with hungry fire—“as short as humanly possible.”

“Is that the last of it, Rhobair?” the Earl of Coris asked, watching as Rhobair Seablanket finished closing and strapping up one final trunk.

“It is, My Lord.” Seablanket rested one hand on the trunk as he turned to meet his employer’s gaze, and although his tone was as matter of fact as ever, it would’ve taken someone far stupider and less observant than Phylyp Ahzgood to miss the relief in his valet’s eyes.

“In that case, let’s get them down to
Hornet
.” Coris smiled without a great deal of humor, but with a degree of relief which was even greater than Seablanket’s. “Father Hahlys is expecting us, and I’d prefer not to disappoint him by being late.”

“No, My Lord,” Seablanket agreed fervently. “I’ll have them aboard within the hour.”

“Good, Rhobair. Good.”

Coris patted his valet on the shoulder, then turned and walked across to stand gazing out through his window across the city of Zion.

God, I can’t wait to get back across the lake!
He shook his head.
I thought on my way here that things couldn’t get a whole hell of a lot worse. How little did I know
...His own meetings with Zahmsyn Trynair and Zhaspahr Clyntahn had been bad enough. He’d come to the conclusion he’d actually underestimated Clyntahn’s cynicism . . . and ruthlessness. Frankly, he wouldn’t have believed Clyntahn
could
be even more ruthless and calculating than he’d initially assumed, but he’d learned better. And if he might somehow have managed to cling to any tiny fragment of an illusion in that regard, Clyntahn’s vicious purge of any opposition within the vicarate would have disabused him of it.

Coris folded his hands behind him, gripping them tightly together. He’d never actually met Samyl or Hauwerd Wylsynn, but he had met Vicar Chiyan Hysin, of the Harching Hysins, and anyone less like a ravening heretic who molested little girls would have been impossible to imagine. Yet those were the crimes of which Hysin stood accused . . . and to which, according to the “shocked and stunned” Inquisitors, he had already confessed.

There was no doubt in Coris’ mind that Hysin’s true crime—just like the true crime of everyone else who had been arrested, or killed resisting arrest, or simply died under mysterious circumstances, in the last three five- days—had been to oppose, or threaten to oppose, or even to remotely
seem
to oppose—the Group of Four. There did appear to be at least some genuine evidence of... clandestine activities on Hysin’s part. Coris had to admit that much. But even though he’d been unable to establish anything like the sort of intelligence network he could have put together elsewhere, under more favorable circumstances, he’d managed to get at least a few feelers threaded through the Temple and the city. And those feelers all agreed—quietly, cautiously, in whispers designed to avoid anyone else’s attention—that any “secret activities” on the part of Hysin and the rest of the vicars and prelates who’d been labeled the “Charisian Circle” had been directed at the Group of Four and the rampant abuses within the clergy, not designed to somehow betray the Temple and God into the hands of the apostate.

Of course that’s what they were doing,
the earl thought coldly.
The fools. Oh, the
fools!
How could they—?
He shook his head.
Be fair to them, Phylyp. Before this whole business with Charis exploded in everyone’s face, opposing Clyntahn was only insanely risky, not automatically suicidal. They didn’t just decide to start doing this the day before yesterday . . . and Clyntahn hasn’t been licking his chops in anticipation of this moment because he genuinely thinks they had any immediate plans to stage some sort of coup inside the vicarate, either. This is just a case of his killing two wyverns with a single stone . . . and enjoying the hell out of it when he does it
.

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his forehead against the icy windowpane in a brief, silent prayer for the men who were undoubtedly at that very moment undergoing the tortures of the damned at the Inquisition’s hands. The men who were going to face the same hideous death Erayk Dynnys had already faced . . . unless Clyntahn could come up with ones which were still worse.

And the men whose
families
had been arrested right along with them.
You’ve got to get back to Talkyra,
he told himself flatly, almost desperately.
You’ve
got
to get back to Irys and Daivyn
. He shook his head, eyes still closed.
If Clyntahn’s willing to do
this,
willing to arrest one- in- ten of the vicarate itself and condemn them to death just to secure his own position, then it’s for
damned
sure he’ll throw Daivyn away in a heartbeat
.

Coris shook his head. The only member of the Group of Four who’d seemed to give a genuine damn about Daivyn’s well- being had been Rhobair Duchairn. He’d met with the Treasurer only twice, yet he hadn’t
had
to meet with him even once. Those meetings—officially to discuss Daivyn’s financial needs and the proper amount of the Church subsidy to support his court in exile—had been arranged from Duchairn’s side, and it was obvious to Coris that it had been the vicar himself who had done the arranging specifically so that he and Coris might meet face to face.

The earl appreciated that, although he’d been careful about showing it. He was almost certain—but only
almost,
unfortunately—that Duchairn’s concern for Daivyn was sincere. It fitted with his own earlier assessments of Duchairn’s attitudes, at any rate, and the sorrow hiding behind the vicar’s eyes had looked genuine enough. There’d been no way to be positive about that, however, and it had always been possible Duchairn was simply testing Coris’ suitability as the Group of Four’s tool in a rather more subtle fashion than would have occurred to Clyntahn. Walking the tightrope between doing his best for Daivyn’s future interests and maintaining his own persona as a properly corruptible henchman hadn’t been the easiest thing Coris had ever done, although a lifelong career as a spy had helped.

But however real (or feigned) Duchairn’s concern might have been, there was no doubt at all where the
rest
of the Group of Four stood. Coris’ present ability to follow the news from Corisande was limited, especially at such a vast distance, yet his sources here in the Temple, fragmentary though they were, all suggested things weren’t going outstandingly well for the Temple’s interests in Corisande. The tone of his more recent conversations with Trynair suggested the same thing, as well. Although the Chancellor had done his best to downplay any concern he might personally be feeling, the situation in the capital, in particular, seemed to be tilting towards a genuine accommodation with Cayleb and Sharleyan—or with the Church of Charis, at least. And the moment Zhaspahr Clyntahn decided the Corisandian fire needed another kick, that another dastardly Charisian assassination might tilt Manchyr back the other way...
I’ve
got
to get back to Talkyra
.

She’s actually pulled it off,
Ahbraim Zhevons thought.
My God, she’s actually pulled it off!

Or, at least, she had so far, he reminded himself. It was still possible the wheels would come off, but as he’d watched the caravan of massive, snow lizard- drawn sleighs sliding over the icy high road, it had become obvious that his initial concerns about Ahnzhelyk Phonda’s safety had been just a trifle premature.

In many respects, the timing on Ahnzhelyk’s escape from Zion could hardly have been better. This late in the winter, with the roads and ground frozen iron-hard, it was actually easier to move heavy loads overland over snow and ice aboard properly designed sleighs (assuming the availability of draft animals like Safe-holdian snow lizards) than to move them aboard wheeled wagons during the fall or early winter... and
much
easier than it would be once the spring thaw began, in another month or so. In fact, in some ways it was easier even than it would have been in summer. And it was a damned good thing that was true, too. Despite the existence of scores of ware houses, granaries, and supply depots in Zion, by this point in the winter, the city was always in desperate need of resupply. Regular freight shipments were always bound into Zion and the Temple, except for the month or so each year when weather completely isolated the city. Now that the freeze had set hard enough and deep enough, the delivery tempo had been steadily increasing for several five- days, despite the winter storms which had recently howled their way across the northern Temple Lands.

And just as movement
into
the city had picked up, so had movement
out
of the city, including a large convoy from Bruhstair Freight Haulers. There was a fair amount of general merchandise in it, including several hundred bottles of fine brandies and whiskeys. Personally, Zhevons found the Chisholmian whiskeys superior to anything coming out of Zion, but there was no denying the prestige of the Zion and Temple distilleries. Whether they were actually the finest spirits available or not (which they definitely were
not,
in his humble opinion), they commanded exorbitant prices purely on the strength of their labels.

In addition to the spirits, however, there were also crates of books from Zion’s publishing houses, somewhere around a quarter- million marks’ worth of religious art, and a consignment of fine jewelry which was probably at least equally valuable. Most of the other freight consisted of relatively low- weight (though often quite bulky) items—like an impressive assortment of tapestries, fine carpets, and woven luxury goods from the Church’s flocks of sheep and mountain lizards—but even many of those were high- value commodities, and security was always a significant concern in cases like that. Which explained why so many of Bruhstair Freight Haulers’ sleighs were built around large, sturdy, thickly planked cargo boxes. They were almost as large, in some cases, as freight containers Nimue Alban had seen loaded aboard starships during her naval career. And, of course, they had been locked—and securely sealed—by gimlet- eyed customs agents before they ever departed Zion. Every item aboard them had been meticulously checked . . . according to the paperwork, at least. And, in fact, they had been checked just as thoroughly as they always were. Which was to say the customs agents had examined the manifests, found Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s bailiff listed as one of the shippers, and promptly sealed the sleighs’ cargo boxes just as officially as anyone could possibly have asked.

In their doubtless commendable zeal to speed Vicar Zhaspahr’s property on its way, however, a few small . . . irregularities appeared to have escaped their alert attention. Specifically, it would seem they’d failed to note that six of the larger sleighs were equipped, in addition to the carefully locked and sealed hatches through which their valuable cargoes had been loaded, with small, oddly unobtrusive
belly
hatches, as well. Cargo doors which, for some unknown (but undoubtedly sound) reason, had been designed so that they could be reached only by someone who actually got down on his hands and knees (or, for most adults, on his belly) and crawled under the sleighs, between the runners.