By Schism Rent Asunder (31 page)

“If you really mean all of that,” the earl heard his own voice saying, “then I suppose you should probably send the most senior diplomat you can to open the negotiations. Someone highly enough placed in your confidence that Cayleb might actually believe anything he said for at least five seconds or so.”

“Really?” There was a most atypical warmth in Nahrmahn's smile. “Did you have anyone in mind, Trahvys?” he asked.

.XIII.

Tellesberg Cathedral
and
Royal Palace,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Charis

The organ began its majestic prelude, and the hundreds of people crammed into Tellesberg Cathedral rose to stand in their pews. The glorious notes sped through the incense-scented air on golden wings of sound, and then the choir burst into song.

The cathedral's doors swung open, and the familiar Wednesday morning procession of scepter-bearers, candle-bearers, and thurifers moved forward into the welcoming splendor of that majestic hymn. Acolytes and under-priests followed the procession's advance guard, and Archbishop Maikel Staynair followed behind them, in turn.

Merlin Athrawes watched from his post in the royal box, twenty feet above the cathedral's floor, with familiar mixed feelings. The Church was so much a part of every Safeholdian's life that moments like this were inescapable, and sheer immersion seemed to be wearing away at least some of his original outrage.

But only
some
of it
, he told himself.
Only some of it
.

The procession moved steadily, majestically forward, and the archbishop moved at its heart. But Maikel Staynair's idea of a proper procession wasn't quite like that of other archbishops, and Merlin smiled as Staynair paused to lay one hand on the curly-haired head of a little girl in blessing as her father held her up.

Other hands reached out to touch the archbishop as he passed, and other children's heads awaited his blessing. Those sophisticated other archbishops would undoubtedly have looked down upon Staynair's “simpleminded” pastoral abandonment of an archbishop's proper dignity. Then again, those sophisticated other archbishops would never have been the focus of the intensely personal love and trust Maikel Staynair evoked from the people of
his
archbishopric. Of course, there were—

Merlin Athrawes' thoughts broke off with guillotine suddenness as purposeful movement swirled abruptly in the cathedral's nave.

*   *   *

Archbishop Maikel laid his hand on another youngster's head, murmuring a word of blessing. He knew his frequent stops provoked generally tolerant exasperation among his acolytes and assisting clergy. On the other hand, they knew better than to protest, of course, even if it did make the proper choreography of the Church's ironclad liturgy a bit more difficult. There were some responsibilities—and joys—of any priest's calling which Maikel Staynair refused to sacrifice to the “dignity” of his ecclesiastic office.

He turned back to the procession, bowing his head while one corner of his mind once more reviewed the day's sermon. It was time he began emphasizing that—

The sudden coalescence of movement took him as much by surprise as it did anyone else in the cathedral. His head snapped back up as someone's hands closed upon his arms. The two men who had abruptly forced their way into the procession jerked him around, turning him to one side, and he was far too astonished to offer any sort of resistance. No one
ever
laid hands upon the clergy of Mother Church. The action was so totally unheard of that every worshipper in the cathedral was just as astounded as Staynair. Only those closest to him could actually see what was happening, but the abrupt interruption of the procession turned heads, snapped eyes around.

The archbishop's mind worked more rapidly than most, yet he was only beginning to realize what was happening when he saw the dagger in the third man's hand. The dagger which, in defiance of every tradition of the Church of God Awaiting, had been brought into the cathedral concealed under an assassin's tunic.

“In the name of the
true
Church!” the assassin shouted, and the dagger started forward.

*   *   *

Cayleb Ahrmahk's mind also worked more rapidly than most. The king came to his feet, one hand reaching out in futile protest as the dagger flashed.

“
Maikel!
” he cried, then flinched back as a cannon fired less than six inches from his ear.

That was what it felt like, at any rate. Cayleb lurched away from the concussive impact hammering at his eardrum, and it fired again.

*   *   *

Maikel Staynair felt no fear as the dagger drove towards him. There wasn't really enough time for that, not enough time for his mind to realize what was happening and inform the rest of him that he was about to die. His stomach muscles had just begun to clench in a useless, fragile defensive reaction when, abruptly, the assassin's head disintegrated. The heavy bullet continued onward, thankfully missing anyone else as it splintered one of the pews, and a gory fan of blood, brain tissue, and splinters of bone sprayed across the pew's occupants.

The sound of the pistol shot interrupted the organ music and the choir as if it were the organist who'd been shot. The magnificent interplay of music and voices chopped off in a welter of beginning screams and shouts of confusion. Most of those in the cathedral still had no notion that anything was happening to the archbishop. Instead of looking in Staynair's direction, heads popped around as all eyes flew to the royal box and the tall, blue-eyed Royal Guardsman who'd vaulted onto the box's palm-wide, raised railing.

He balanced there, impossibly steady on his precarious perch, his right hand shrouded in a thick, choking cloud of powder smoke, and then the pistol's
second
barrel fired.

*   *   *

Staynair's eyes closed in automatic reflex as his would-be killer's blood spattered across his face and white, magnificently embroidered vestments. His brain was finally beginning to realize what was happening, and his muscles tensed as he prepared to yank away from the hands which had seized him.

Before he could move, a second thunderclap exploded through the cathedral, and he heard a choked-off scream as the man holding his right arm released him abruptly.

*   *   *

The heavy pistol in Merlin's right hand bucked with his second shot.

He'd had no option but to go for the head shot the first time he fired. He'd
had
to put the dagger wielder out of action permanently and instantly, despite the very real danger that the heavy bullet would continue onward to kill or wound some innocent bystander. Neither of Staynair's other assailants had so far produced a weapon, however, and he'd dropped the glowing dot of the aim point projected across his vision onto the second man's back. The bullet smashed into his target's spine and drove downward through his torso at the sharp angle imposed by Merlin's elevated firing position. The resistance of bone and human tissue slowed the big, mushrooming projectile, and his target released Staynair, staggered half a stride forward, and went down.

Merlin's left hand came up, holding the second pistol. The cloud of gun smoke spewed out by the two shots he'd already fired hung in front of him. It would have been all but totally blinding to a human being, but Merlin Athrawes wasn't a human being.
His
eyes saw through the smoke with perfect clarity as he balanced on the royal box's rail, and his left hand was as inhumanly rock-steady as his right.

His aim point tracked across onto the remaining attacker.
This
one, he wanted alive. A leg shot ought to do the job, he thought grimly, then swore mentally as the final assailant produced a dagger of his own. The other members of the procession had finally realized what was happening. Two of them turned to grapple with the third man, but they weren't going to have time. The attacker's left hand was still clamped on to Staynair's left arm as the dagger rose, and no one could possibly reach him before that blade came down once more.

*   *   *

Staynair felt the grip on his right arm disappear and shifted his weight, preparing to yank away from the grip on his
left
arm. But then there was a
third
explosion, and abruptly there were no more hands upon him.

*   *   *

Merlin began to vault over the railing to the floor below, then paused.

Let's not do anything outright impossible in front of this many witnesses unless we really
have
to
, he told himself.

The little voice in his brain seemed preposterously calm to him, but it made sense, and he slid the still-smoking pistol in his right hand into its holster. Then he crouched, gripping the box railing in his right hand, and lowered himself over the edge. He let his fingers slide down a smooth, waxed upright until his feet were only five or six feet above the cathedral's marble floor, then let himself drop with cat-like grace.

He landed on the seat of a pew which had magically cleared itself when its occupants saw him coming. They shrank back, staring at him, eyes huge, as he descended out of the hovering cloud of powder smoke, and he nodded courteously back to them.

“Excuse me,” he said politely, and stepped out into the nave.

The cathedral was filled with shouts of confusion—confusion that was tinged with gathering anger as people began to realize what had happened—but Merlin ignored the background bedlam as he made his way up the nave.

His uniform would have been enough to clear a path for him under most circumstances. Under
these
circumstances, the pistol still in his left hand, one hammer still cocked while smoke still plumed from the fired barrel, was even more effective, and he reached Staynair's side quickly.

The archbishop was down on one knee, ignoring the under-priest trying to urge him back to his feet as he turned the second of his assailants up on his side. As Merlin watched, Staynair felt the side of the fallen man's throat, obviously searching for a pulse. He didn't find one, of course, and he shook his head slowly, heavily, and reached up to close the corpse's staring, surprised-looking eyes.

“Are you all right, Your Eminence?” Merlin demanded, and Staynair looked up at him with an expression of regret.

“Yes.” His voice was a little shaky. Merlin had never heard that particular note in it before, but under the circumstances, he supposed it was reasonable that even Maikel Staynair's monumental calm should be just a bit frayed. The archbishop cleared his throat and nodded.

“Yes,” he said more firmly. “I'm fine, Merlin. Thanks to you.”

“Then unless you want a riot, I think you'd better stand back up and show yourself to the congregation before they decide
you're
dead, too,” Merlin suggested as gently as he could through the steadily growing roar of angry, frightened, confused voices.

“What?” Staynair gazed at him for a moment, obviously still more than a bit confused himself. Then his eyes cleared with understanding, and he nodded again, more crisply.

“You're right,” he said, and stood.

“We have to get you to someplace safe, Your Eminence!” one of the under-priests said urgently. Merlin found himself in strong agreement, but Staynair shook his head. The gesture was vigorous, purposeful.

“No,” he said firmly.

“But, Your Eminence—!”

“No,” he repeated, even more firmly. “I appreciate the thought, Father, but
this
—” one hand waved at the cathedral and the ripples of fury spreading steadily outward as those closest to the attempted assassination shouted explanations to those farther away “—is where I need to be.”

“But—”

“No,” Staynair said a third time, with a note of finality. Then he turned, pushed his way through the scepter-bearers and candle-bearers still standing in shocked immobility, and started back up the nave.

The other members of the procession stared at one another, still too badly shaken and confused to know exactly what to do, but Merlin straightened his shoulders and started after the archbishop. His own thoughts were still only beginning to catch up with Staynair's, but as they did, he realized the archbishop was right. This
was
where he needed to be … in more than one way.

Merlin carefully closed the priming pan and lowered the hammer on his remaining pistol's single unfired barrel. He holstered the weapon without breaking stride and continued down the nave behind Staynair, watching the worshippers to either side narrowly. The odds of there being a
second
assassination team were undoubtedly slim, yet Merlin intended to take nothing—
nothing
else,
at least
, he told himself grimly—for granted where Maikel Staynair's safety was concerned.

Those closest to the nave saw the archbishop walking past them, alone, followed only by the single grim-faced, blue-eyed guardsman, and waves of relief rippled outward from them, following on the heels of the shocked confusion and anger which had already swept the cathedral. Staynair's face was less grim than Merlin's, and he seemed to find it rather easier than Merlin would have to keep himself from flinching as more hands than ever reached out, touching him as their owners sought physical reassurance that he was unharmed.

Letting those people reach out to the archbishop, actually touch him, was one of the hardest things Merlin had ever done, yet he forced himself not to interfere. And not just because he knew Staynair would not have thanked him for the interference. Merlin would have found it remarkably easy to live with the archbishop's subsequent ire, if only he hadn't realized Staynair was right about that, too.

It's not even as if he'd reasoned it out
, Merlin thought.
It's who he is
—what
he is. Pure instinct. Well, instinct and faith
.