Hell's Foundations Quiver (75 page)

Clyntahn frowned, not in disapproval but thoughtfully.

Second Pasquale's—more formally known as the Second Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion to differentiate it from the original, older, and more prestigious Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion—was located several blocks outside the Temple's precincts in a relatively quiet area of Zion. Despite the fact that it lay outside the Temple proper, however, its location backed up against a section of townhouses and luxurious apartment buildings in which many of the archbishops and senior bishops too junior for quarters in the Temple itself had their lodgings. As such, primary responsibility for security in its vicinity had become the business of the Inquisition rather than the Temple Guard over the last two or three years.

He could have wished for a little more physical separation from the Temple, yet he understood the advantages which had drawn Gohdard to that location. The vicars and archbishops should find it relatively simple to arrive at Second Pasquale's without drawing attention to their movements, and the Inquisition already controlled the patrols in the area. Gohdard would have no problem clamping the necessary tight security into place.

“That sounds reasonable,” he said after a few moments' consideration. “Tell him I approve. Then inform Waimyan that he's to dine with me tonight. He and I need to go over exactly what needs to happen.”

“At once, Your Grace.” Rayno bowed slightly. “Should I also inform Vicar Allayn and the others that you need to meet with them after lunch tomorrow?”

“No.” Clyntahn shook his head. “I don't want that bastard to get even a sniff that anything special is going on. I'll have one of my clerks draft the invitations this afternoon and send them through the regular channels.” He smiled coldly. “Given the debacle in New Northland, I don't imagine any of the others will find it too difficult to set aside a little time on their calendar.”

*   *   *

Father Elaryn Ohraily sat on the bench while he finished his wyvern breast sandwich. It was a bright day and he was grateful for the sunlight's warmth—anemic though it might still be this early in June in Zion—yet he frowned ever so slightly as he wiped his lips with his napkin. This meeting was supposed to be … inconspicuous. Bishop Markys had made that abundantly clear. No one had explained why that was so important, but Ohraily hadn't served the Inquisition for fifteen years without understanding the need to keep secrets closely held. He'd also recognized at least six vicars among the participants who'd already arrived, and he understood security needed to be tight for such exalted individuals, particularly given the Fist of Kau-Yung's recent activities. He wasn't supposed to have heard about that affair at St. Evyryt's, but he'd been one of Bishop Markys' senior troubleshooters for almost ten years now. There were very few things he didn't hear about eventually.

So, yes, he understood the need for a strong security cordon, but if they were going to be “inconspicuous,” the guards needed to be a bit less obvious.

He rose from the bench where he'd been calmly eating his lunch, tucked his napkin into his lunch sack, and strolled across the tiny tunic-pocket park, beer bottle still in hand, toward one of the people who were supposed to be looking inconspicuous. He paused behind the other man, examining the blossoms on a flowering shrub, and cleared his throat quietly.

“Yes, Father?” Major Walysh Zhu said politely, turning to face him.

Well, at least he hadn't come to attention or saluted, Ohraily thought. That was something.

“Major,” he said, trying not to sound overly patient as he abandoned his examination of the shrubbery, “we're not supposed to draw attention to the church.”

“Yes, Father. I know that.”

Zhu was a shortish, blocky man who'd probably just turned forty or so. He was also a Harchongian, very devout and very orthodox, who'd spent half his life in the Temple Guard. That made him a treasure in the Inquisition's eyes, and it had called upon his services more than once in the past, but in some ways he was a very blunt instrument of a treasure.

“In that case,” Ohraily said, “could you please ask your men not to stand in such neat, militarily correct lines? They're supposed to be … scattered. That's why they're in civilian clothing, so that they can stand around, enjoy the shade, admire the flowers,” his tone hardened very slightly on the last three words, “be having a casual conversation—that sort of thing. Anything besides being obvious sentries stationed around the church.”

The major's face tightened for just a moment, but then he nodded. His right hand twitched as if he'd forcibly restrained the reflex to salute.

“I'll have a word with them, shall I, Father?”

“I think that would be a splendid idea,” Ohraily congratulated him.

He watched the major move off, then returned to his original bench and pulled his personal copy of the
Holy Writ
out of his cassock pocket, found his place, and began scanning the familiar words with a tiny corner of his attention while the rest of it kept watch over the Second Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion.

*   *   *

“Well, this is a fine mess,” Zhaspahr Clyntahn observed sourly. He looked around the conference table and his gaze settled on Allayn Maigwair. “Took you long enough to tell the rest of us about Fairkyn, didn't it, Allayn?”

“The entire situation in New Northland and Hildermoss is in turmoil,” Maigwair replied more calmly than Clyntahn had anticipated. “I'm getting all sorts of reports, at least half of which are wholly inaccurate and another quarter of which are wildly exaggerated. If you'll recall, I warned everyone that Wyrshym wouldn't be able to hold his position if we didn't withdraw him. I believe I also mentioned Fairkyn was already gone, for all intents and purposes. So, yes, I did take the time to try to confirm Nybar's dispatch before I distributed it. If you've read through that, Zhaspahr,” he gestured at the folder on the conference table in front of the Grand Inquisitor, “then you know I sent you not only his original message but also the best estimate I could put together of everything
else
happening in that theater yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, you did,” Clyntahn conceded in that same sour tone. “I don't see any explanation in here of why Wyrshym decided to violate his orders to stand fast, however. Which he obviously did.”

“Zhaspahr, we've already been over that entire situation,” Rhobair Duchairn put in. The Grand Inquisitor glowered at him, and the Treasurer shrugged. “I know the Army of the Sylmahn was ordered to hold its positions no matter what. I think it's obvious from the sheer weight of the attack, however, that Wyrshym
couldn't
have held his forward positions for more than a day or two no matter what he did, and it's not as if he ordered his entire army to retreat. Surely he was justified in trying to save at least
something
out of the wreckage.”

“Not when neither he nor his intendant ever suggested they meant to do anything of the sort he wasn't,” Clyntahn said harshly. He held out one meaty hand, and Wyllym Rayno placed another, much thicker folder in it. “In fact, that's what disturbs me the most. I'm not happy with Wyrshym, and I'm not delighted with the fact that Allayn here didn't keep him on a short enough rein to prevent something like this from happening. But what actually concerns me more is that Bishop Ernyst didn't breathe a hint of any of this to
me
, either. This isn't just a case of Wyrshym falling back too precipitously, Rhobair. It looks like it's a case of active
collusion
between him and his intendant—collusion aimed at keeping his superiors, you, me, Zhasyn, and Allayn—ignorant of their intentions, and that cuts at the very heart of the reason our commanders have intendants.”

He opened the folder and began handing out paper-clipped copies of semaphore dispatches.

“I submit we
all
have a problem here,” he continued, “and it's one we'd better get a grip on quickly. If I'm right, then I obviously didn't have Abernethy on a tight enough rein, either, did I?” The corner of his eye noted the surprise Maigwair couldn't quite hide as his reasonable tone registered. “These are copies of the last reports he filed with my office. I'd like to go over them with all three of you, because I think we can all agree that if we have field commanders who really are making private arrangements with their intendants without our knowledge, we need to put a stop to it
now
.”

*   *   *

Major Zhu's guards still looked like guards, but at least they looked
less
like guards, Father Elaryn reflected wryly. His own agents inquisitor did a far better job of projecting their harmlessness; even so, if he was going to be honest, there were too many of them standing around to be totally unobtrusive.

Well, Bishop Markys had been around the block a time or two. No doubt he'd realized from the beginning that no one could put guards around a church in the middle of Zion without anyone at all noticing that he'd done it. On the other hand, there were guards around at least two dozen of the city's churches at this very moment, for one reason or another, so there was nothing to draw
special
attention to Second Pasquale's.

At least all of the attendees had arrived. Vicar Stauntyn had put in his appearance last, of course. That was only to be expected of someone of his seniority. Especially if, as Ohraily suspected from one or two things Father Byrtrym had carefully
not
said, none of the others had known he was coming in the first place. No one had told Ohraily how long this gathering was supposed to run, either, but he rather suspected he'd be sitting down to a late supper. A meeting of such senior prelates, especially at this particular time, wasn't going to race through its work and—

The Second Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion disappeared in a mind-numbing roar that fountained fire, shattered stone, and dust into the peaceful afternoon sky.

 

.IX.

HMS
Thunderer
, 30, Kaudzhu Narrows, and HMS
Dreadnought
, 30, South Shwei Bay, Shwei Province, Harchong Empire

“Thank you, Mahrak. I think that's all we'll need for a while. Leave the teapot, and I'll call for you if I need you.”

“Of course, Sir Bruhstair.”

Mahrak Sahndyrs came briefly to attention, nodded respectfully to both Captain Ahbaht and Lieutenant Kylmahn, and withdrew, leaving the pot behind. Lieutenant Kylmahn looked as if he might be in two minds about that. Ahbaht, like quite a lot of Emeraldians, preferred cherrybean tea, made from the roasted and ground seeds of the cherrybean tree. Kylmahn couldn't deny that cherrybean did a much better job of keeping him awake than hot chocolate or most of the other teas he'd ever tried, but he really couldn't understand why Sir Bruhstair and the other cherrybean gourmands liked its
taste
. Personally, he preferred to bury it under copious quantities of cream and sugar.

Ahbaht smiled slightly, thoroughly aware of his first lieutenant's views on the subject of cherrybean, and poured two cups. He passed one across the breakfast table to Kylmahn, then sat back with his own.

“We should raise Cape Longzhi by the turn of the watch,” he remarked.

“Assuming the wind holds, Sir,” the first lieutenant agreed as he began spooning powdered milk into his cup.

Ahbaht tried not to shudder. He'd never understood why so many people insisted on adulterating cherrybean with milk or cream, and—unlike most mariners—he'd never developed a taste for dried milk, anyway. Others might insist that it tasted just like fresh milk and be glad to get it after five-days or months at sea, but Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht wasn't one of them. He was glad it was available to help satisfy the dictates of Pasquale's Law, he'd drink it when he absolutely had to, and he was grateful to the Archangel for teaching men how it was made, yet the rotating heated drums on which the liquid was evaporated always left a bit of an off taste, in his opinion. It was true the Imperial Charisian Navy insisted on first-quality dried milk, without any of the browning which resulted if it was left on the evaporating drums too long before being scraped off, which improved its taste considerably, but not enough that he would ever dream of contaminating perfectly good cherrybean with it!

“I could wish for a bit more of a breeze myself,” he acknowledged, his voice tranquil despite the barbarity before him as Kylmahn added sugar to the powdered milk and began gently stirring the light-brown brew.

At the moment, the squadron was spreading out a bit again in a light topgallant breeze and
Thunderer
was making good no more than a knot and a half with all sail set to the royals. The wavelets were short and glassy, without any break, banners and streamers flapped halfheartedly, and the sun beat down mercilessly. The weather was atypical for this time of year, to say the very least, and it was all Ahbaht could do to project the semblance of serenity required from a captain. They were eleven days out of Talisman Island, passing through the narrows between South Shwei Bay and Hahskyn Bay, and by his original timetable, they should have reached Ki-dau by tomorrow morning. At their current rate of progress, it would take them another four days.

And if it did take them four more days.…

He watched Kylmahn sip his so-called cherrybean tea with apparent pleasure and shook his head.

“If we don't get a better wind than this by midday tomorrow, I'm turning back,” he said.

Kylmahn stopped sipping and lowered his cup, eyes suddenly intent, and Ahbaht smiled humorlessly.

“The last thing anyone needs is for me to go plowing onward like a gambler shoving his last pile of marks onto the table in hopes of throwing triple-six, Daivyn. If we can't get to Symarkhan before the screw-galleys do, there's no point going at all, and I'm not a lot more eager about facing them even out here on the bay without more wind in my pocket than this. That might not be the proper attitude for a captain imbued with true derring-do, but personally, I'd rather bring the squadron back intact.”