A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  “To be perfectly honest,” he said carefully, “she didn’t send me. She doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  “But you said—” Her hand tightened around the locket again. “Gently!”

  His own hand shot out with blinding speed, more quickly than she’d ever seen—or imagined!— a human hand could move. It closed on her wrist, and her eyes flew wide. Its grip was almost absurdly gentle, yet it might as well have been a steel vise. She jerked against it with all of her strength, hard enough she actually staggered half a step forward, and it didn’t move a fraction of an inch.

  “I said she doesn’t know I’m here, Ahnzhelyk,” he said quietly. “I also said she’d like you to join her in Tellesberg. Both of those statements were accurate.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She abandoned her useless effort to pull free of his grip, and her eyes narrowed once more, speculatively.

  “I’m sure that even here in Zion you’ve heard stories about ‘Seijin Merlin’ and his ser vice to Charis.” Zhevons’ tone made the statement a question, and she nodded. He shrugged. “Well, you might say I’m cut from the same cloth as the seijin, and Archbishop Maikel and Merlin... became aware of certain events transpiring here in Zion. On the basis of what they’d learned, the two of them decided it would be wise to send me here. Unfortunately, there wasn’t time for them to explain their fears to Adorai or consult with her about it before they did. That’s why I know a great deal about you, but not everything.”

  “So you claim to be a seijin, as well?” Ahnzhelyk sounded more than a little skeptical, and Zhevons smiled.

  “Like Merlin himself, I simply say I possess some of the abilities legend ascribes to seijins.” He shrugged. “Still, it’s a convenient label.” He paused, regarding her levelly. “If I let go of your wrist, will you promise to leave yourself unpoisoned long enough for us to talk?” he asked her then, with a ghost of a smile.

  “Yes,” she said. “But only if you let go of my wrist . . . and step back a bit.” She held his gaze, her own unwavering, and he spent a second or two obviously contemplating her requirement. Then he nodded.

  “Very well.” He released her wrist and stepped back three strides. It was about as far as he could go in the small chamber, and he smiled again, sardonically, as he folded his arms in a manifestly unthreatening gesture. “Is this sufficient, My Lady?” he inquired.

  “I suppose it will have to do, won’t it?” she replied, although, having seen how quickly he could move, she suspected he was still more than close enough to stop her before she actually got the poison into her mouth. “Now, you were saying?”

  Ahnzhelyk Phonda sat up in bed, propped against a luxurious stack of pillows, breakfast tray across her lap, and gazed out her frosty window through the wisps of steam rising from the fresh cup of chocolate clasped between her slim hands. The sun was just rising, touching the frost crystals on the windowpanes with iridescent gold and red, and her expression was serenely pensive.

  She frequently started her mornings this way, although she was seldom up quite so early, given the late- night hours she tended to keep. But although no one would have guessed it from her expression, she’d slept very little during the night just past, and her thoughts were far more anxious than her well-schooled expression might have suggested.

  Someone rapped very gently at her bedroom door, and she looked away from the window.

  “Yes?”

  “Mahrlys is here, Mistress,” Sandaria Ghatfryd, Ahnzhelyk’s personal maid, replied from the other side of the closed door.

  “Come in, then—both of you.”

  The door opened, and Sandaria stepped through it, followed by Mahrlys. The contrast between the two women was noteworthy, and not simply because Sandaria was as neatly and soberly dressed as always, while Mahrlys wore an embroidered robe over her nightgown and her hair tumbled loosely over her shoulders. Sandaria was a good twenty- five years older than Mahrlys, with slightly mousy brown hair, brown eyes, and an almost swarthy complexion from her Harchongese mother. She was also at least four inches shorter than the golden- haired Silkiahan. Yet there was abundant intelligence behind both women’s eyes, and although Sandaria would never have passed the beauty requirements for one of Ahnzhelyk’s young ladies, she’d been in her mistress’ ser vice for close to twenty years. Indeed, although no one else knew it, Sandaria had known Ahnzhelyk far longer even than that.

  “Yes, Mistress?” Sandaria asked now. Although Ahnzhelyk employed an official steward who doubled as her butler and majordomo, everyone in her house hold knew Sandaria was the true manager of that house hold.

  “I have a few things you and I need to discuss, Sandaria,” Ahnzhelyk replied. “But first, I wanted to ask you, Mahrlys—what was your impression of Master Zhevons?”

  Mahrlys frowned thoughtfully. Not in surprise, because Madame Ahnzhelyk was very protective of her young ladies. Most of her clients were well known to her, or had been vouched for by someone who was. On the occasions when someone about whom she knew nothing turned up, she generally quizzed whichever of her young ladies had spent time with him. All of them expected that . . . just as they knew a couple of the sturdy young armsmen Madame Ahnzhelyk employed as “footmen” were always close at hand whenever they were in the company of someone with whom Madame Ahnzhelyk was not already acquainted.

  “I liked him, Madame,” she said simply, after a moment. “He was courteous, witty, generous, and a gentleman.” She wrinkled her nose charmingly. “He didn’t have any peculiar requests, and he was actually quite gentle. One of those men who seem as concerned with giving plea sure as receiving it. And”— she smiled even more charmingly—“quite good at it, too.”

  “I take it the two of you actually spent a little bit of time talking, as well?” Ahnzhelyk inquired with a smile of her own, and Mahrlys chuckled.

  “A little bit,” she admitted. “It must have been nice to have the opportunity to talk to someone from home.”

  “Actually, Madame, I’ve never really missed Silkiah that much.” Mahrlys grimaced. “I don’t think my mother’s family approved of me after Father died—even before they figured out that if I had a ‘vocation,’ it certainly wasn’t with Mother Church!” She smiled again, considerably more tartly this time. “Still, I have to admit I rather enjoyed being brought up to date on events in Silk Town. And Ahbraim knew all the current scandals!”

  Mahrlys rolled her blue eyes, and Ahnzhelyk chuckled. “So I take it you wouldn’t be unhappy if he should visit us again?”

  “Oh, I think you could take that as a given, Madame!”

  “Good.” Ahnzhelyk nodded. “I think that answers all of my questions, Mahrlys. Why don’t you go and find your own breakfast now?”

  “Of course, Madame. Thank you.”

  Mahrlys gave an abbreviated curtsy and withdrew, and Ahnzhelyk cocked her head at Sandaria as the door closed behind the younger woman.

  “Yes, Mistress?” Sandaria was the only member of Ahnzhelyk’s house hold who habitually addressed her by that title rather than “Madame.”

  “Our Silkiahan visitor last night was rather more interesting than Mahrlys realizes,” Ahnzhelyk told her. Sandaria quirked one eyebrow, and Ahnzhelyk snorted. “As a matter of fact, if he’s telling the truth—and I rather think he is—he’s not a Silkiahan at all. Or, at least, he’s not here on any of Silkiah’s affairs.”

  “No, Mistress?” Sandaria asked calmly when Ahnzhelyk paused. “He says, and I’m inclined to believe him, that he’s here as a representative of the Charisians,” Ahnzhelyk said flatly.

  “May I ask why you believe him, Mistress?”

  “Because he knows a great deal about me,” Ahnzhelyk replied. “He knows about the material I sent Adorai. He knows about Nynian.” Her eyes met Sandaria’s. “And, most disturbing of all, he knows about at least some of our . . . guests.”

  “I see.” If Sandaria was alarmed, she showed no sign of it. She simply frowned thoughtfully, eyes half- closed for a mome
nt, then looked back at her mistress. “I’m sure you’ve considered the possibility that he’s being less than truthful with you.”

  “Of course I have.” Ahnzhelyk shrugged. “In fact, I raised that very point with him, in a manner of speaking. And he pointed out in return that if he were an agent of Clyntahn’s, they wouldn’t be wasting time trying to entrap me.”

  “Unless they want you to lead them to those ‘guests,’ Mistress.”

  “I know.” Ahnzhelyk sighed, returning her gaze to the fire- struck frost on the bedroom window. “I think he’s probably right, though, that Clyntahn would simply have ordered me arrested and put to the Question.”

  There was the ghost of a tremor in her voice. No one who didn’t know her extremely well would ever have noticed it, but Sandaria did know her well, and the maid’s eyes narrowed slightly as she castigated herself for not noticing the locket around Ahnzhelyk’s neck. It did not constitute part of her mistress’ regular sleeping attire.

  “But even granting that he’s right about Clyntahn,” Ahnzhelyk continued, oblivious to Sandaria’s reaction to the locket, “it’s always possible he’s working for Rayno, instead. We’ve seen Rayno keep things from Clyntahn until he’s investigated them to his own satisfaction in the past.”

  “True, Mistress.” Sandaria nodded. “On the other hand, is it really likely he’d do something like that under the present circumstances?”

  “I... think not,” Ahnzhelyk said slowly. She shook her head—slightly, at first, then more firmly. “Given how urgently Clyntahn’s been looking for them, I don’t think Rayno would sit on any clues as to their whereabouts that might come his way. That’s one of the reasons I’m inclined to believe ‘Master Zhevons.’ ”

  “One of the reasons?” Sandaria repeated, raising an eyebrow once more. “One,” Ahnzhelyk said, her smile going a bit off center as she remembered Zhevons’ blinding speed and the impossible strength of his gentle grasp.

  “Very well, Mistress.” Sandaria nodded, her complete trust in Ahnzhelyk’s judgment evident. “What do you wish to do?”

  “I’m worried about the Circle,” Ahnzhelyk said flatly. “To be honest, I’m astonished Clyntahn has waited this long, assuming Samyl’s right about his plans.” Her lovely eyes darkened, shadowed with the premonition of a long-anticipated grief. “He won’t wait much longer, though—I’m positive of that much. And when he moves, you know everyone he takes will be put to the Question... at least.”

  Sandaria nodded again. Both of them knew exactly how efficient the Inquisition was at torturing information out of its prisoners. When the prisoners in question were the Grand Inquisitor’s personal enemies, the interrogators could be counted upon to be even more ruthless than usual.

  “Samyl and Hauwerd are the only two who know about us,” Ahnzhelyk continued. “Or that’s what I hope and believe, at any rate. And I trust their courage completely. But if they’re taken, we have to assume that, eventually, they’ll reveal my—our—involvement, however courageous they may be. And I’m afraid we can’t be entirely certain none of our guests have communicated with their husbands, so it’s entirely possible someone else could be broken and lead the Inquisition at least to his own family. Which, in turn—”

  She shrugged, and her maid nodded. “Under the circumstances, Sandaria,” Ahnzhelyk said, “I think we have to assume this man is who he says he is. And if he is, then we have to accept his warning that it’s time to smuggle our guests out of Zion. Now.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” Sandaria bent her head in an oddly formal bow, like an armsman acknowledging his liege’s orders.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to have to go shopping, this afternoon.” Ahnzhelyk smiled faintly. “See if you can find me some blue steel thistle silk.”

  “Of course, Mistress.”

  .XV.

  The Temple

  and

  Hahriman and Market Streets,

  City of Zion,

  Temple Lands

  Idon’t suppose you have any good news for me, Wyllym?”

  Vicar Zhaspahr Clyntahn, Bishop General of the Order of Schueler and Grand Inquisitor of the Church of God Awaiting, regarded the Archbishop of Chiang- wu with cold, unhappy eyes. His expression was no more cheerful than his eyes, and most members of the Order of Schueler would have felt a cold, solid lump of panic, resting in their bellies like a frozen round shot, had Clyntahn turned those eyes and that expression upon them.

  If Wyllym Rayno felt any panic, however, he concealed it well.

  “Not, I’m afraid, on the front you’re inquiring about, Your Grace,” he said with remarkable calm. “The latest reports from Corisande do indicate that things may be taking a turn in Mother Church’s favor there, but they’re very preliminary, and like every message from Corisande these days, rather badly out- of- date. The shipbuilding programs—in the ice- free ports, at least—seem to be proceeding fairly well, although there are still bottlenecks and delays. Earl Thirsk seems to be making excellent progress with his training efforts, and Tarot has finally begun its share of the building program. And, of course, I’ve shared Seablanket’s reports on the Earl of Coris’... suitability to Mother Church’s ends.” He smiled faintly. “None of which touches upon the matter about which you were inquiring, does it, Your Grace?”

  “No, Wyllym. It doesn’t.” There might have been a glimmer of respect for Rayno’s calm demeanor in the backs of Clyntahn’s eyes. On the other hand, there might not have been, too. “So why don’t you address the point I was raising?”

  “Very well, Your Grace.” Rayno bowed slightly. “We’ve had no success since my last report in locating the traitors’ families. They appear to have vanished from the face of the world.”

  “I see.” Clyntahn seemed unsurprised by Rayno’s admission. He leaned back in his chair, gazing across his desk at the Adjutant General of the Order of Schueler, and folded his hands across his belly. “I imagine you’ve figured out that I’m not very happy about this, Wyllym,” he said with a thin, cold smile.

  “Of course I’m aware of that, Your Grace. In fact, I would imagine I’m probably almost as unhappy about it as you are. Would you prefer that I promise you we’re making progress on finding them when, in fact, I know we’re not?”

  Clyntahn’s eyes glittered for a moment, but then his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply.

  “No, I wouldn’t prefer that,” he acknowledged, and it was true.

  One of the reasons he valued Rayno so highly was that the adjutant general wouldn’t lie in an effort to cover his own posterior . . . or failures. Clyntahn was certain there had been occasions upon which Rayno had “managed” news by refraining from bringing things to his attention at an inopportune moment. That was quite a different matter, however, from lying outright, and Clyntahn had encountered more than enough people who were stupid enough to do just that. They didn’t seem to consider the fact that, sooner or later, the Grand Inquisitor would discover the lie, at which point the consequences would be even worse.

  He had additional reasons for valuing Rayno, though. Among them was the fact that the archbishop had amply demonstrated his own loyalty. More than that, Clyntahn knew Rayno was well aware he himself could never aspire to the Grand Inquisitor’s chair. He had too many enemies, and not enough leverage to overcome them, which meant his present position was as high as he could hope to go... and that he would certainly lose the one he had if Clyntahn fell from power or withdrew his support. Which meant Rayno had every reason to serve his superior with steadfast loyalty.

  Besides, the adjutant general was extremely good at what he did. True, Samyl Wylsynn’s family had slipped through his fingers on the very doorstep of Zion, but that wasn’t Rayno’s fault. He’d had the woman and her brats under surveillance by no less than three of his most trusted Inquisitors . . . all of whom had also disappeared that same evening. Clyntahn had come to the conclusion that at least one of those Inquisitors must, in fact, have been a traitor. Preposterous though that might be
, it was the only answer to Lysbet Wylsynn’s successful disappearance he could come up with, yet he had personally reviewed the records of all three of the missing men. If one of them had turned traitor, nothing anywhere in his file would have suggested that possibility in advance. Clyntahn certainly hadn’t seen anything which suggested to him that Rayno should have seen it coming, at any rate. And the adjutant general’s current failure to locate the families of no less than three vicars and two archbishops who had made it to Zion—families they knew were almost certainly somewhere under their very noses, even now—was extremely unusual. In fact, the Grand Inquisitor could think of only one other occasion in which Rayno had suffered a similar failure.

  “So there’s been no progress at all?”

  “None, I regret to say, Your Grace.” Rayno shook his head. “There’s been no communication between any of them since they disappeared, and our agents throughout the city haven’t turned up a single trace.” He paused a moment, then cocked his head. “We could always have Stantyn inquire about them.”

  “No.” Clyntahn shook his own head instantly. “We might as well go ahead and ask them ourselves! For that matter, given the fact that we can’t find their families, we have to at least consider the possibility that they might slip through our fingers themselves if they thought we were about to pounce.”

  Rayno nodded, although he wasn’t positive he agreed with his superior in this case. Nyklas Stantyn, the Archbishop of Hankey, was Clyntahn’s mole within the group of reform- minded vicars who called themselves “the Circle.” In fact, it was Stantyn who’d first revealed the Circle’s existence to the Grand Inquisitor. It seemed obvious to Rayno that the other members of the Circle—or its leadership, at least—must realize one of their number had betrayed them, although they obviously didn’t know who. Personally, Rayno was at least half-inclined to stake Stantyn out. There were a couple of members of the Circle—Hauwerd Wylsynn came to mind—who Rayno rather suspected would come out into the open to cut Stantyn’s throat. It wouldn’t save them in the end, but they’d probably take a certain satisfaction out of it anyway. And when they did, it would be conclusive proof of their own guilt which could be readily displayed for the remainder of the vicarate. It would be a bit hard on Stantyn, but his value would disappear anyway the moment the Circle was broken. In Rayno’s opinion, he’d be far more useful at that point as a martyr whose death would have underscored the Circle’s treason.