By Schism Rent Asunder (23 page)

“Oh, I'm not going to take Nahrmahn lightly, I assure you. I suspect he's used that ‘fat, indolent hedonist' image to fool a lot of people. In fact, I think you're right; he did manage to fool even Father, at least to some extent. Which, trust me, was
not
an easy thing to do. But, as you just pointed out yourself, he's been reacting more defensively, at least as
he
sees it. And let's be fair here—he's right in our backyard. It's less than seven hundred and fifty miles, as the wyvern flies, from East Cape to Eraystor Bay, but it's over five
thousand
miles from East Cape to Manchyr, which means Nahrmahn has a legitimate interest—an
inevitable
legitimate interest—in the same area we're interested in. Hektor doesn't. Like you say, he's in this solely out of ambition and greed. He wants our carrying trade to increase his own military power, and what
he
has in mind is a Corisandian Empire stretching from Tarot to Chisholm.”

“Well, we certainly can't have a
Corisandian
Empire ‘stretching from Tarot to Chisholm,' can we?” Merlin murmured, and Cayleb laughed again, this time a bit less harshly.

“At least
my
ambitions stem from self-defense, Merlin! And if we're seriously contemplating holding off the Church—or the Group of Four, if there's any difference—we're going to need all the manpower and resources we can get our hands on. We certainly can't afford to leave the Church any powerful potential allies inside our defensive perimeter.”

“No, you can't do that,” Merlin agreed.

“Which brings us back to exactly what Hektor is up to. Have there been any significant changes?”

“No.” Merlin shook his head. “The only real change is that Bishop Executor Thomys has gotten off the fence and agreed to underwrite the first wave of letters of credit out of his own resources. Well, out of Archbishop Borys' resources, I suppose, if we're going to be sticklers for accuracy. But Thomys is right. There's no way the Archbishop won't back him up on this one, and Raimynd is right about the Group of Four. The
Church
may not openly fund Hektor, although I'm beginning to think they're more likely to come into the open officially than we'd thought they might be. But, whatever the Church does, the ‘Knights of the Temple Lands' are going to be perfectly ready to underwrite as many letters of credit as Hektor wants. Either Hektor wins, in which case every mark would be a mark well spent, from their perspective. Or else Hektor loses, in which case we conquer Corisande, and most of those letters of credit turn into waste paper and end up not costing them a hundredth-piece.”

“That does sound like them,” Cayleb said sourly, then turned back to the railing, leaning forward and propping his folded arms on it.

Night had finished falling while they were talking, and Tellesberg, like every other Safeholdian city, was miserably illuminated by the standards of Nimue Alban's birth world. The only sources of light were burning wood, wax, or oil, and most of the city was an indistinguishable dark mass. Only the waterfront area, where the longshoremen continued to labor frenetically by lantern light, was what might be called well lit.

“I don't like Hektor's resiliency,” the king said after a moment. “He and Tartarian are right about how big a bite Corisande is going to be. If it turns into a conventional land war, we could be tied down there for years, despite all our advantages. And if that happens, someone like Hektor is going to figure out how to duplicate almost all of those advantages, which will only make it even bloodier in the end.”

“You could always consider a diplomatic resolution,” Merlin pointed out. “He's working hard to build a matching navy, and his foundries are going to be going into full production on modern artillery any day now. But the truth is that Charis has such a commanding head start that, even with the Church's backing, he's not going to be able to build into a realistic threat for a long time. Especially not if we keep a close eye on him and you're prepared to prune back his naval strength if it starts to look threatening.”

“Forget it.” Cayleb snorted. “My house has a long memory for injuries and enemies, Merlin. I suspect Hektor has an even longer one. Besides, even if I wanted to bury the hatchet with him, he'd never believe it. Just as I'd never believe it about him. And I'm not about to leave him at my back, especially not with any modern navy at all, while the Group of Four works at convincing every major realm in Haven and Howard to come at us from the front! I might settle for letting him abdicate and … relocate him and his entire family. I'd hate forgoing the sight of his head on a pike outside his own palace, you understand, but I don't want to get bogged down in a quagmire in Corisande any more than the next person does, so if there's another way to get him out of the kitchen, I'll probably settle for it. But that's as far as I'm prepared to stretch my forgiveness. If that means risking the complications of a long war, then so be it. I'll take the chance of giving the Group of Four time before I leave Hektor or any of his get sitting on a throne behind me.”

The last sentence came out in the voice of a man swearing a solemn oath, and Merlin nodded. The truth was that he found himself strongly in agreement with Cayleb where Hektor was concerned.

“If that's what you want to do, Cayleb, then I think you're going to have to figure out how to move against him as quickly as you can,” he said. “If Sharleyan is thinking the way I think she's thinking, and if she's as decisive about your proposals as she usually is about decisions, then you'll probably find Chisholm even more ready than you are to move against Corisande. But Tartarian's also right. Even with Chisholm, I don't see any way you can project more than one overseas offensive at a time. Not if the offensives in question both involve
armies
, at any rate.”

“Which brings us back to Nahrmahn,” Cayleb agreed. He pursed his lips thoughtfully, then straightened.

“I know it would give Bynzhamyn apoplexy—
he
doesn't trust Nahrmahn as far as he can spit—but, to be honest, I'd far rather reach a diplomatic solution with
him
than with Hektor. If nothing else, he's close enough, and Emerald is small enough, we could almost certainly crush him if he decided to get adventuresome again.”

“Indeed?” This was the first time Merlin had heard Cayleb even mention the possibility of any sort of negotiated resolution where Emerald was concerned.

“Don't get me wrong,” Cayleb said more grimly. “I
do
plan to add Emerald to Charis. Nahrmahn may have been worried about that all along, but the truth is that from every perspective, especially the strategic one, we can't afford to leave Emerald independent. The only real question is how we go about changing that status. Given what Nahrmahn was just a party to, whether it was his idea or not, I'm perfectly willing to do it the hard way, if that's what it takes. On the other hand, I'm not
quite
as wedded to the notion of seeing his head on a pike as I am to seeing Hektor's head there.”

“From what I've seen of Nahrmahn's recent coversations, I'm not too sure he's aware of that fine distinction,” Merlin observed.

“Which doesn't bother me a bit at this point.” Cayleb smiled evilly. “The more concerned he is about his head now, the more likely he is to be … amenable to sweet reason when the time comes, shall we say? And I want him to clearly understand that all the winning military cards are in
my
hand, not his. If—and note that I say
if
, Merlin—I end up offering him any terms short of unconditional surrender and a scaffold with a view, it won't be a discussion between equals, and I intend for him to understand that. Clearly.”

Merlin simply nodded. This was a game Cayleb had learned at his father's shoulder, and Haarahld VII had been one of the most accomplished practitioners of … practical diplomacy Safehold had ever produced. Obviously, Cayleb intended to continue the tradition. In fact, his version of diplomacy appeared to be considerably brawnier and more bare-knuckled than his father's had been.

But if Haarahld had found himself in the position Cayleb's in, I think he'd be making a lot of the same decisions
, Merlin reflected.

“Be thinking about everything you've seen about what Nahrmahn and what's-his-name, Zhaztro, are up to,” Cayleb said. “Tomorrow morning, you and I are going to sit down with Bryahn, and I'm going to tell him I've decided to let him go calling on Nahrmahn, after all. Between the three of us, I'm sure we can come up with a suitable way to turn up the heat in Nahrmahn's kitchen.”

.VIII.

Erayk Dynnys' Cell and the Plaza of Martyrs,
The Temple of God,
City of Zion,
The Temple Lands

Erayk Dynnys used his silver-headed cane to lever himself to his feet as he rose from the kneeler before the simple icon of Langhorne. The knee which had been half-crippled since his fall a year and a half earlier had been giving him even more trouble, of late. Not, he reflected, looking out his narrow window, that it was going to be a problem much longer.

His lips twitched in what might almost have been a smile as he stepped back from the window and examined the small, spartan cell which had been his home for the past three and a half months. Its bare, undressed stone walls, narrow, barred windows, and thick, securely locked door were a far cry from the luxurious apartment he had enjoyed as the Archbishop of Charis, before his other, more serious fall. And yet …

He turned to the small desk under the single window and settled himself into the chair behind it. Ever since his imprisonment, the only reading material he had been permitted was a copy of the
Holy Writ
and the twelve thick volumes of
The Insights
.

He touched the golden scepter of Langhorne, embossed into the finely tooled leather cover of the
Writ
. He had not, he conceded, spent very much time reading that book over the last few decades.
Consulting
it when he required a specific passage for an episcopal decree, perhaps. Scanning for the scriptural basis for a pastoral message, or one of his infrequent sermons. But he hadn't truly
read
it since he'd gained the ruby ring of a bishop. It hadn't been
irrelevant
, exactly, but he'd studied it exhaustively in seminary, preached from it regularly as an under-priest. He'd already known what it contained, hadn't he? Of course he had! And the duties and responsibilities of a bishop, and even more of an archbishop, demanded too much daily attention. There'd been no time to read, and his priorities had been those of his office.

It made a fine excuse, didn't it, Erayk?
he asked himself as his fingertip stroked the scepter which was the emblem of the order to which he had belonged … until it cast him forth.
It's a pity you didn't spend more time with it. At least then you might have been a bit better prepared for this moment
.

And perhaps it wouldn't have made any difference after all, for the
Writ
and
The Insights
both assumed that those called to serve as shepherds in God's name would be worthy of their calling.

And Erayk Dynnys had not been.

I wonder what would happen if Clyntahn made all the Church's bishops and archbishops spend a few months alone with the
Writ
on a diet of bread and water?
he thought whimsically.
Probably not anything he'd like! He has enough trouble on his hands just with the Wylsynns without adding an entire flock of bishops who actually read the
Writ.

Well, it wasn't going to matter very much longer to Erayk Dynnys either way. All too soon, he would know what God had truly expected of him in his life. It would not, he was grimly certain, be an accounting he would enjoy hearing, for whatever it was God had expected of him, he had failed. Failed as all men must who presumed to claim to speak for God when, in fact, they had forgotten Him.

Dynnys had done what he could to amend his failures, since his fall from power, yet it was pitifully little against what he ought to have been doing for years. He knew that now. And he knew that even though the charges brought against him by the Grand Inquisitor were false in every particular, what was about to happen to all of Safehold was truly as much his fault as that of any other living man.

Much to his surprise, the only archbishop who had dared to visit him since his arrest had been Zhasyn Cahnyr, the lean, almost stringy Archbishop of Glacierheart. They'd detested one another cordially for years, and yet Cahnyr had been the only one of his fellows who had called upon him, daring the wrath of Clyntahn and the Group of Four to pray with Dynnys for the redemption of his soul.

It was odd. Cahnyr had been permitted to see him only half a dozen times, and he had been allowed to remain no longer than an hour on any occasion. And yet, Dynnys had found himself drawing immense comfort from those visits. Perhaps it had been because the archbishop was the only human being he'd seen since his imprisonment who had not been interrogating, threatening, or haranguing him. He'd simply been there, the only member of the Church's entire hierarchy prepared to discharge his priestly office by ministering to the soul of one of the Inquisition's prisoners.

His example had shamed Dynnys, and all the more so because of the contempt Dynnys had once felt for the pastoral “simplemindedness” of Cahnyr's approach to his episcopal duties.

I could've learned something from him, if I'd only bothered to listen. Well, I've still learned something, and as the
Writ
says, true knowledge and understanding never come too late for the profit of a man's soul
.