A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  “But how many are going to die, first, Ahbraim?” she asked sadly, her expression still that of a woman chatting idly with a favored guest. “How many people are going to die, first?”

  “Too many,” he said, unflinchingly. “But it’s not your doing, or your fault, and there are going to be a lot fewer of them, thanks to you, than there would have been otherwise. So, if you don’t mind, instead of worrying about how completely you’ve ‘failed,’ let’s just see about getting you and as many of those other people out of this alive as we can, all right?”

  Captain Khanstahnzo Phandys of the Temple Guard walked swiftly down the Temple hallway. He wore the polished steel cuirass and scarlet tunic of the Guard over a heavy woolen sweater that was just a bit too warm here inside the Temple proper. His sword was sheathed at his hip, his gloves were tucked under his belt, and although he’d shed his heavy coat at the cloakroom when he entered the Temple, his tall boots and the legs of his breeches were dotted with the wet spots left by melted snow.

  Captain Phandys’ expression was not a happy one, but he was scarcely alone in that, these days. In fact, he’d discovered that quite a few of his fellow Guard officers were obviously on edge this morning, as well, and there was something invisible in the air—something unseen, scentless, impossible to touch, yet all-pervasive.

  It was scarcely the first time that had been true over the three years since the cataclysmic failure of the attack on the heretical Kingdom of Charis. That had been the sort of earthquake which came along perhaps once in a hundred years, Phandys thought now. It wasn’t the sort of thing a mere Guard captain was supposed to be thinking, but there was no point pretending he didn’t know it was true. Just as there was no point pretending that the tremors which the subsequent defection of Chisholm, Emerald, and Zebediah and the conquest of Corisande had sent through the Temple and the ranks of the vicarate hadn’t been even more deadly, in their own way.

  For most subjects of the mainland realms, all of those distant lands were unimportant, lost beyond the periphery of their own interests. Besides, while Charis’ wealth might be the stuff of fabulous (and envious) legend, the island kingdom’s population was surely too small to pose any threat to the power of such great realms as Desnair, Dohlar, Harchong, even the Republic of Siddar-mark. The very notion was ridiculous . . . and that completely overlooked the fact that God, in His wisdom, would never permit the aggression of such apostate and heretical lands to prosper!

  Yet those who wore Mother Church’s orange had a somewhat different view of things. Little though they might care to admit it—and, indeed, many flatly refused to admit it—they knew the rebellion of the “Church of Charis” had found frightening echoes in the other lands of the newborn Charisian Empire. They had begun to realize, however dimly, that people like Samyl and Hauwerd Wylsynn might have had a point all along. That the luxurious lifestyles and personal power to which they had become accustomed might not actually be quite so universally beloved and approved of as they’d told one another.

  That in its attack on Charis, the Group of Four might just have unleashed forces which could destroy them all.

  Such considerations were the business of those who far outranked Captain Phandys, and he knew it. He wasn’t an idiot, however, and his assignment to the Courier Ser vice had put him in an ideal position to recognize what was going on, since so many of the messages about world events passed through his hands. And even if that hadn’t been true, he’d been stationed here in the Temple for over two years now. During those years—and especially this past winter—he’d seen how things had changed since his last Temple tour. He’d seen what others had seen, recognized what others recognized, and there was no doubt in his mind that Grand Inquisitor Zhaspahr and Phandys’ own ultimate superior, Captain General Maigwair, had decided they could not afford to be threatened on more than one front at a time.

  Which was precisely what brought Phandys here today, when he was supposed to be in his own office down in the Courier Ser vice’s lakeside annex.

  He reached a cross hallway and turned left. A pair of vicars stood by one of the windows, gazing out into the frozen early morning. Their heads popped up, like startled wyverns, as Phandys appeared. They actually flinched, visibly, before they got themselves back under control, and the captain wondered what they’d been talking about so quietly. Given the way they’d reacted to the appearance of a mere Guard captain, it was probably something they shouldn’t have been discussing... as far as the Group of Four was concerned, at least, he reflected grimly. There’d been a lot of that going around lately.

  Khanstahnzo Phandys had served in the Temple Guard for over fifteen years, and this was his fourth tour here in the Temple itself. In all those years, however, he’d never seen a winter like this one. Never seen the most senior ranks of the episcopate and the vicarate itself broken up into such ragged knots of apprehensive, all too often half- terrified men, all watching their own backs, frightened to reveal their true inner thoughts even among their closest intimates.

  He saluted the vicars courteously as he strode past them. Neither acknowledged his salute. They only stared at him the way an ice wyvern perched on the edge of an ice flow might watch a circling kraken glide past.

  He continued down the hall, turned another corner, descended a short, broad flight of steps, and found himself outside a closed door. He paused very briefly—a hesitation that was felt, more than seen—then rapped sharply.

  “Yes?” a voice inquired. “May I speak with you for a moment, Major Kahrnaikys?” Phandys replied. “I’m afraid it’s fairly important, Sir.”

  The voice didn’t reply immediately. Then— “Enter,” it said curtly, and the mystically powered doors slid silently open as someone waved a hand above the magic eye which commanded them.

  Major Zhaphar Kahrnaikys was a tallish man, with red- brown hair, bushy brows, and dark eyes. He was a bit unusual in that he held rank simultaneously in both the Temple Guard proper and in the Order of Schueler, and Phandys felt his pulse quicken slightly as he saw Kahrnaikys’ sheathed sword lying on his desk instead of being racked on the wall in his inner office.

  “What is it, Phandys?” the major said with an edge of impatience. He had the air of a man who was preoccupied. Phandys recognized that impatience, but he still took a moment to glance at the orderly sitting at his own desk in the outer office. Kahrnaikys followed his eyes. The major’s mouth tightened, obviously irritated at the implication, but then he grimaced and shook his head.

  “Give us a minute, Sergeant,” he said sharply.

  The noncom looked up, then rose quickly. “Yes, Sir!” He managed to keep most of the curiosity out of his eyes as he stepped past Phandys, but some of it leaked out anyway. As did an undeniable flicker of relief as the doors closed behind him, shielding him from what ever had brought Phandys to visit Kahrnaikys.

  The major watched the doors close, then looked back at Phandys. “Well?” he said brusquely, and the captain drew a deep breath. “Sir,” he said, his voice more than a little troubled, “I’ve just become aware of something that . . . disturbs me. Something I thought should be drawn to the proper person’s attention.”

  “You have, hey?” Kahrnaikys’ eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head to one side. “And from the fact that you’re standing in my office, should I assume you’ve decided I’m that ‘proper person,’ Captain?”

  “In a way,” Phandys agreed. “At any rate, you’re the first one I thought of.” He let his eyes stray briefly to Kahrnaikys’ sword- and- flame Schuelerite badge.

  “I see.” Kahrnaikys leaned back and crossed his arms. “Very well, Phandys. Tell me about it.”

  “Sir, I’m the duty officer for the Courier Ser vice this morning,” Phandys began, “and—”

  “If you’re the Courier duty officer, what are you doing here instead of in your office in the Annex?” Kahrnaikys interrupted harshly. He had a reputation as a demanding disciplinarian.

  “Sir, I was at my post when I
discovered an order that . . . looked odd to me,” Phandys said, clearly choosing his words with care. “Given the nature of that order, I felt I had no choice but to hand the duty over to Lieutenant Vyrnahn while I came and reported it to you.”

  “What sort of order?” Kahrnaikys obviously doubted Phandys’ judgment, which could bode poorly for the captain’s future, but he was committed now.

  “Sir, it was an order booking passage on the morning iceboat to Lakeview.” Kahrnaikys frowned, and Phandys hurried on. “The authorization had been logged in last night, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t been catching up on some of my own routine paperwork. But the reason it seemed odd to me was that there was no name listed for the passage; the space was supposed to be reserved, but there was no notation as to who the passengers were going to be. So I checked it against the order book, and there was no name listed for the officer who’d signed in the initial authorization, either. Sir, as far as I can tell, the order just appeared, without anyone having officially authorized it.”

  “What?” Kahrnaikys’ frown had deepened. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, Sir, that’s what I thought, too.” Phandys’ relief at the major’s reaction was obvious. “So I did some more checking around. And as nearly as I can tell from the form numbers, the order got inserted into the queue sometime after Langhorne’s Watch this morning. You know how quiet things are then?”

  “Yes, yes!” Kahrnaikys said, unfolding his arms to wave one hand impatiently. “Of course I do. Go on!”

  “Well, Sir, about that time, the night-duty officer logged in a long message from one of the vicars. In fact, it was long enough—and apparently important enough—that the vicar sending it personally brought it down to the Annex . . . despite how miserable the weather was.” Phandys shrugged. “I know the weather is always miserable this time of year, but last night was especially bad. He must’ve been half- frozen by the time he crossed the Colonnade all the way to the Annex. And since the message receiving room is usually closed at that time of night, the duty officer had to roust someone out to open it for him.”

  “Are you suggesting, Captain, that while he was opening the receiving room and logging in this message, someone was slipping this anonymous iceboat reservation into the queue?” Kahrnaikys didn’t sound as incredulous as he might have, Phandys noticed.

  “Sir, I think that’s exactly what happened,” the captain admitted. He shook his head, his own expression manifestly unhappy. “Major, I know we’re not supposed to officially know everything that’s going on. And, Sir, Langhorne knows I don’t want to be poking my nose in somewhere it’s not supposed to be! But this just doesn’t make sense to me, not the way it seems to’ve happened, and, well . . . under the circumstances....”

  His voice trailed off, and Kahrnaikys gave him a thin smile. Yet for all its thinness, there was at least a little approval in it, Phandys thought.

  “I understand, Captain. And I... appreciate the delicacy of your situation. But, tell me—which vicar had this lengthy message to send at such an ungodly hour?”

  Silence hovered for an instant, as if Phandys realized he stood upon the brink of a precipice. That there could be no going back from this moment. Yet the truth was that he’d known that before he ever opened his mouth the first time, and so he simply squared his shoulders and looked Kahrnaikys square in the eye.

  “It was Vicar Hauwerd, Sir,” he said softly, and Kahrnaikys’ eyes flashed with dark fire.

  “I see.” He looked at Phandys for a seemingly endless moment, then nodded sharply, pushed back his chair, and surged to his feet, reaching for his swordbelt as he rose.

  “Captain, if I’ve seemed to doubt your judgment in bringing this to me, I apologize. You did exactly the right thing. Now, come with me!”

  Samyl Wylsynn picked up his chocolate cup, cradled it in both hands, and gazed across it at his brother, sitting on the other side of the breakfast table. Samyl’s eyes were speculative, and he tilted his head to one side as he contemplated Hauwerd’s expression.

  “Are you ready to tell me why you invited me to breakfast this morning?” he asked. Hauwerd looked up from the breakfast sausage he’d been pushing aimlessly around his plate for the last ten minutes, and Samyl smiled gently. “I’m always happy to share a meal with my favorite brother, Hauwerd. My only brother, now that I think about it. But you’re not exactly a big fan of early rising at the best of times, and I practically have to stand over you with a club to get you to join me for breakfast. For that matter,” he nodded at the fork-herded sausage making yet another perambulation around his brother’s plate, “I don’t think you’ve managed to actually eat a single thing this morning. So I have to admit to a fair amount of curiosity.”

  “Was I that obvious?” Hauwerd’s answering smile was crooked. “Actually, yes,” Samyl said. He paused for a moment, sipping chocolate, then drew a deep breath. “Would it happen your contacts have suggested something to you that indicates we may not have a great many more breakfasts to share?”

  Hauwerd’s powerful shoulders stiffened. He started to respond quickly, but then he stopped himself and gazed back at his older brother for several seconds.

  “Yes,” he said then. He grimaced. “I still have a few friends in the Guard, you know. One of them—I’d rather not say who, even to you—warned me we’re running out of time, Samyl. I think . . . I want you to reconsider what we discussed last five- day. Please.”

  “No.” Samyl’s tone was gentle, almost regretful, but firm. “Samyl, you know—” Hauwerd began, but Samyl raised one hand and shook his head.

  “Yes, Hauwerd. I do know. And I won’t pretend I’m not terrified—that your suggestion isn’t tempting. Very tempting. But I can’t. What ever else may happen, what ever else I may be, I’m still a vicar of Mother Church. And I’m still a priest.”

  “Samyl, even The Book of Schueler makes it clear that when a situation is truly hopeless, there’s no sin in—”

  “I said it was tempting,” Samyl interrupted, his tone a bit sterner. “But you know that the passages in Schueler you’re talking about have a lot more to do with illnesses than with matters of faith.”

  “You’re splitting hairs!” Hauwerd’s voice was harder, ribbed with frustration and concern. “Damn it, Samyl! You know what Clyntahn’s going to do to you—to you, especially, of all people!— if he gets his hands on you!”

  “There’s a point where it doesn’t matter anymore,” Samyl replied. “It’s only a matter of degree, Hauwerd—and he’s going to do exactly the same thing to men we’ve known and loved for years. Brothers, even if you and I don’t share our parents with them. Should I abandon them? I’m the one who got them involved with the Circle in the first place. I’ve been their leader for years. Now you want me to take the easy path out and leave them to reap the whirlwind?”

  “Oh, for Langhorne’s sake!” Hauwerd snapped, his eyes flashing. “It’s going to happen to them what ever you do, Samyl! And don’t pretend you got them into this all by yourself—that they didn’t know exactly what they were doing! You aren’t the only grown- up in the vicarate, damn it, and don’t you take that away from them. Away from me!” Hauwerd glared at his brother. “Yes, all of us followed your lead. And I’m pretty sure at least some of the others did it for the same reasons I did—including the fact that I love you. But we also did it because you were right! Because we owed God at least an attempt to reclaim His Church from bastards like Clyntahn. Even from bastards like Trynair, who’s never been the outright sadist Clyntahn is! That was our choice, and we made it, and don’t you dare take that away from us now!”

  “Hauwerd, I—”

  Samyl’s voice was husky, and he broke off, gazing out at the snowy morning and blinking rapidly. Then he cleared his throat and looked back at his brother.

  “I’m sorry,” he said humbly. “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Oh, shut up.” The words were harsh, but Hauwerd’s voice was soft, the
hard edges gentled by love, and he shook his head. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. And I know that’s not what you meant, too. But that doesn’t change anything. I guess that’s what really pisses me off. You know as well as I do that it won’t change a thing. All you’re doing is being stubborn, and that’s stupid.”

  “Maybe it is,” Samyl acknowledged. “You could well be right. But I’m not going to give Clyntahn that particular satisfaction. I’m not going to face God and the Archangels with someone like him thinking I killed myself because I was so terrified of what he intended to do to me.”

  “So instead of giving him that satisfaction you’re going to give him the satisfaction of actually torturing you to death?!” Hauwerd shook his head harder. “Samyl, that’s the dictionary definition of ‘stupid’!”

  “Probably.” Samyl’s smile was twisted, yet there was a shadow of real amusement in it. Then the smile faded, and it was his turn to shake his head. “Erayk Dynnys found the moral courage and faith to speak the truth when he’d been given the chance to buy an easy death with a lie, Hauwerd. Can I do less? And can I give Zhaspahr Clyntahn the weapon of my own suicide? Give him the opportunity to shout to all the world that the members of the Circle lacked the faith, in the end, to face the Question and the Punishment of Schueler for what we truly believed in? Let him reduce our commitment to the level of his own ambition and greed? You know he’d never have the courage to face something like this for his faith, for what he believes in. Am I supposed to tell the rest of the vicarate, the rest of God’s Church, the rest of God’s children, that this was really only one more power struggle? One more contest over who was going to wrest political power from whom? If I do that, what happens to the next Circle? To the next group of men and women who might have successfully opposed Zhaspahr Clyntahn? Or his successor? Or his successor’s successor?”