How Firm a Foundation

by David Weber

  “You snatched scores of innocent victims out of Clyntahn’s grasp,” he said, his tone suddenly sterner. “Women and children who would have been tortured and butchered in that parody of justice of his, be they ever so blameless and innocent! Langhorne said, ‘As you have done unto the least of God’s children, for good or ill, so you have done unto me.’ Remember that and never doubt for one moment that all that innocent blood will weigh heavily in your favor when the time comes for you to face him and God.”

  “I try to remember that,” she half-whispered, turning back to the window and gazing sightlessly out across the bay. “I try. But then I think of all the ones we had to leave behind. Not just the Circle, Your Eminence, all of them.”

  “God gave Man free will,” Cahnyr said. “That means some men will choose to do evil, and the innocent will suffer as a result. You can’t judge yourself guilty because you were unable to stop all the evil Clyntahn and others chose to do. You stopped all it was in your power to stop, and God can ask no more than that.”

  She stared out the window for several more moments, then drew a deep breath and gave herself a visible shake.

  “You’re probably right, Your Eminence, but I intend to do a great deal more to those bastards before I’m done.” She turned back from the window, and the steel behind her eyes was plain to see. “Not immediately, because it’s going to take time to put the pieces in place. But once they are, Zhaspahr Clyntahn may find wearing the Grand Inquisitor’s cap a lot less pleasant than he does today.”

  Cahnyr regarded her with a distinct sense of trepidation. He knew very few details of her current activities, and he knew she intended to keep it that way. Not because she distrusted him, but because she was one of the most accomplished mistresses of intrigue in the history of Zion. That placed her in some select company. Indeed, she’d matched wits with the full suppressive power of the Office of Inquisition, and she’d won. Not everything she’d wanted, perhaps, and whatever she might say—or he might say to her—she would never truly forgive herself for the victims she hadn’t managed to save. Yet none of that changed the fact that she’d outmaneuvered the Grand Inquisitor on ground of his own choosing, from the very heart of his power and authority, and done it so adroitly and smoothly he still didn’t know what had hit him.

  Or who.

  The woman who’d contrived all of that, kept that many plots in the air simultaneously without any of them slipping, plucked so many souls—including Zhasyn Cahnyr’s—from the Inquisition’s clutches, wasn’t about to begin letting her right hand know what her left hand was doing now unless she absolutely had to. He didn’t resent her reticence, or think it indicated any mistrust in his own discretion. But he did worry about what she might be up to.

  “Whatever your plans, my dear,” he said, “I’ll pray for their success.”

  “Careful, Your Eminence!” Her smile turned suddenly roguish. “Remember my past vocation! You might not want to go around writing blank bank drafts like that!”

  “Oh,” he reached out and touched her cheek lightly, “I think I’ll take my chances on that.”

  * * *

  “Madam Pahrsahn! How nice to see you again!”

  The young man with auburn hair and gray eyes walked around his outsized desk to take his visitor’s subtly perfumed hand in both of his. He bent over it, pressing a kiss on its back, then tucked it into his elbow and escorted her across the large office to the armchairs facing one another across a low table of beaten copper.

  “Thank you, Master Qwentyn,” she said as she seated herself.

  A freshly fed fire crackled briskly in the grate to her right, noisily consuming gleaming coal which had probably come from Zhasyn Cahnyr’s archbishopric in Glacierheart, she thought. Owain Qwentyn sat in the chair facing hers and leaned forward to personally pour hot chocolate into a delicate cup and hand it to her. He poured more chocolate into a second cup, picked it up on its saucer, and leaned back in his chair, regarding her expectantly.

  “I must say, I wasn’t certain you’d be coming today after all,” he said, waving his free hand at the office window. The previous day’s gray skies had made good on their wintry promise, and sleety rain pounded and rattled against the glass, sliding down it to gather in crusty waves in the corners of the panes. “I really would have preferred to stay home myself, all things considered,” he added.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have that option.” She smiled charmingly at him. “I’ve got quite a few things to do over the next few five-days. If I started letting my schedule slip, I’d never get them done.”

  “I can believe that,” he said, and he meant it.

  The House of Qwentyn was by any measure the largest, wealthiest, and most powerful banking house in the Republic of Siddarmark and had been for generations. It hadn’t gotten that way by accident, and a man as young as Owain Qwentyn wouldn’t have held his present position, family connections or no, if he hadn’t demonstrated his fitness for it. He’d been trusted with some of the house’s most sensitive accounts for the last five years, which had exposed him to some fascinating financial strategists, yet Aivah Pahrsahn was probably the most intriguing puzzle yet to come his way.

  Her primary accounts with the House of Qwentyn had been established over two decades ago, although he wouldn’t have said she could possibly be a day past thirty-five, and her balance was enviable. In fact, it was a lot better than merely “enviable,” if he wanted to be accurate. Coupled with her long established holdings in real estate and farmland, her investments in half a dozen of the Republic’s biggest granaries and mining enterprises, and her stake in several of Siddar City’s most prosperous merchant houses, that balance made her quite possibly the wealthiest woman Owain had ever met. Yet those transactions and acquisitions had been executed so gradually and steadily over the years, and spread between so many apparently separate accounts, that no one had noticed just how wealthy she was becoming. And no member of the House of Qwentyn had ever met her, either; every one of her instructions had arrived by mail. By courier, in point of fact, and not even via the Church’s semaphore system or even wyvern post.

  It had all been very mysterious when Owain finally looked at her accounts as a whole for the first time. He might not have noticed her even now if the somnolent, steady pace of her transactions hadn’t suddenly become so much more active. Indeed, they’d become almost hectic, including a series of heavy transfers of funds since the … difficulties with Charis had begun, yet despite the many years she’d been a customer of his house, no one seemed to know where she’d come from in the first place. Somewhere in the Temple Lands, that much was obvious, yet where and how remained unanswered questions, and the House of Qwentyn, for all its discretion, was accustomed to knowing everything there was to know about its clients.

  But not in this case. She’d presented all the necessary documentation to establish her identity on her arrival, and there was no question of her authority over those widespread accounts. Yet she’d simply appeared in Siddar a month or so ago, stepping into the capital city’s social and financial life as if she’d always been there. She was beautiful, poised, obviously well educated, and gracious, and a great many of the social elite knew her (or weren’t prepared to admit they didn’t know Polite Society’s latest adornment, at any rate), but Owain had been unable to nail down a single hard fact about her past life, and the air of mystery which clung to her only made her more fascinating.

  “I’ve brought the list of transactions with me,” she said now, reaching into her purse and extracting several sheets of paper. She extended them across the table to him, then sat back sipping her chocolate while he unfolded them and ran his eyes down the lines of clean, flowing script.

  Those eyes widened, despite his best efforts to conceal his surprise, as he read. He turned the first page and examined the second just as carefully, and his surprise segued into something else. Something tinged with alarm.

  He read the third and final sheet, then folded them back toge
ther, laid them on the tabletop, and looked at her intently.

  “Those are … an extraordinary list of transactions, Madam Pahrsahn,” he observed, and she startled him with a silvery little chuckle.

  “I believe you’ll rise high in your house’s service, Master Qwentyn,” she told him. “What you’re really wondering is whether or not I’m out of my mind, although you’re far too much the gentleman to ever actually say so.”

  “Nonsense,” he replied. “Or, at least, I’d never go that far. I do wonder how carefully you’ve considered some of this, though.” He leaned forward to tap the folded instructions. “I’ve studied the records of all your investment moves since our House has represented you, Madam. If you’ll forgive my saying so, these instructions represent a significant change in your established approach. At the very least, they expose you to a much greater degree of financial risk.”

  “They also offer the potential for a very healthy return,” she pointed out.

  “Assuming they prosper,” he pointed out in response.

  “I believe they will,” she said confidently.

  He started to say something else, then paused, regarding her thoughtfully. Was it possible she knew something even he didn’t?

  “At the moment,” he said after a minute or two, “the shipping arrangements you’re proposing to invest in are being allowed by both the Republic and Mother Church. That’s subject to change from either side with little or no notice, you realize. And if that happens you’ll probably—no, almost certainly—lose your entire investment.”

  “I’m aware of that,” she said calmly. “The profit margin’s great enough to recoup my entire initial investment in no more than five months or so, however. Everything after that will be pure profit, even if the ‘arrangements’ should ultimately be disallowed. And my own read of the … decision-making process within the Temple, let us say, suggests no one’s going to be putting any pressure on the Republic to interfere with them. Not for quite some time, at any rate.”

  She’d very carefully not said anything about “the Group of Four,” Owain noticed. Given the fact that she clearly came from the Temple Lands herself, however, there was no doubt in his mind about what she was implying.

  “Do you have any idea how long ‘quite some time’ might be?” he asked.

  “Obviously, that’s bound to be something of a guessing game,” she replied in that same calm tone. “Consider this, however. At the moment, only the Republic and the Silkiahans are actually succeeding in paying their full tithes to Mother Church. If these ‘arrangements’ were to be terminated, that would no longer be the case.” She shrugged. “Given the obvious financial strain of the Holy War, especially in light of that unfortunate business in the Markovian Sea, it seems most unlikely Vicar Rhobair and Vicar Zahmsyn are going to endanger their strongest revenue streams.”

  He frowned thoughtfully. Her analysis made a great deal of sense, although the financial and economic stupidity which could have decreed something like the embargo on Charisian trade in the first place didn’t argue for the Group of Four’s ability to recognize logic when it saw it. On the other hand, it fitted quite well with some of the things his grandfather Tymahn had said. Although.…

  “I think you’re probably right about that, Madam,” he said. “However, I’m a bit more leery about some of these other investments.”

  “Don’t be, Master Qwentyn,” she said firmly. “Foundries are always good investments in … times of uncertainty. And according to my sources, all three of these are experimenting with the new cannon-casting techniques. I realize they wouldn’t dream of putting the new guns into production without Mother Church’s approval, but I feel there’s an excellent chance that approval will be forthcoming, especially now that the Navy of God needs to replace so many ships.”

  Owain’s eyes narrowed. If there was one thing in the entire world of which he was totally certain it was that the Church of God Awaiting would never permit the Republic of Siddarmark to begin casting the new model artillery. Not when the Council of Vicars in its role as the Knights of the Temple Lands had been so anxious for so long over the potential threat the Republic posed to the Temple Lands’ eastern border. Only a fool, which no member of the House of Qwentyn was likely to be, could have missed the fact that Siddarmark’s foundries were the only ones in either Haven or Howard which had received no orders from the Navy of God’s ordnance officers. Foodstuffs and ship timbers, coal and coke and iron ore for other people’s foundries, even ironwork to build warships in other realms, yes; artillery, no.

  Yet Madam Pahrsahn seemed so serenely confident.…

  “Very well, Madam.” He bent his head in a courteous, seated bow. “If these are your desires, it will be my honor to carry them out for you.”

  “Thank you, Master Qwentyn,” she said with another of those charming smiles. Then she set her cup and saucer back on the table and rose. “In that case, I’ll bid you good afternoon and get out of your way.”

  He stood with a smile of his own and escorted her back to the office door. A footman appeared with her heavy winter coat, and he saw an older woman, as plain as Madam Pahrsahn was lovely, waiting for her.

  Owain personally assisted her with her coat, then raised one of her slender hands—gloved, now—and kissed its back once more.

  “As always, a pleasure, Madam,” he murmured.

  “And for me, as well,” she assured him, and then she was gone.

  * * *

  “So what do you make of Madam Pahrsahn, Henrai?” Greyghor Stohnar asked as he stood with his back to a roaring fireplace, toasting his posterior.

  “Madam Pahrsahn, My Lord?” Lord Henrai Maidyn, the Republic of Siddarmark’s Chancellor of the Exchequer, sat in a window seat, nursing a tulip-shaped brandy glass as he leaned back against the paneled wall of the council chamber. Now he raised his eyebrows interrogatively, his expression innocent.

  “Yes, you know, the mysterious Madam Pahrsahn.” The elected ruler of the Republic smiled thinly at him. “The one who appeared so suddenly and with so little warning? The one who floats gaily through the highest reaches of Society … and hobnobs with Reformist clergymen? Whose accounts are personally handled by Owain Qwentyn? Whose door is always open to poets, musicians, milliners, dressmakers … and a man who looks remarkably like the apostate heretic and blasphemer Zhasyn Cahnyr? That Madam Pahrsahn.”

  “Oh, that Madam Pahrsahn!”

  Maidyn smiled back at the Lord Protector. Here in the Republic of Siddarmark, the Chancellor of the Exchequer was also in charge of little matters like espionage.

  “Yes, that one,” Stohnar said, his tone more serious, and Maidyn shrugged.

  “I’m afraid the jury’s still out, My Lord. Some of it’s obvious, but the rest is still sufficiently obscure to make her very interesting. She’s clearly from the Temple Lands, and I think it’s equally clear her sudden appearance here has something to do with Clyntahn’s decision to purge the vicarate. The question, of course, is precisely what it has to do with that decision.”

  “You think she’s a wife or daughter who managed to get out?”

  “Possibly. Or even a mistress.” Maidyn shrugged again. “The amount of cash and all those deep investments she had tucked away here in Siddar were certainly big enough to represent someone important’s escape fund. It could have been one of the vicars who saw the ax coming, I suppose, although whoever it was must have been clairvoyant to see this coming.” He grimaced distastefully. “If someone did see a major shipwreck ahead, though, whoever it was might have put it under a woman’s name in an effort to keep Clyntahn from sniffing it out.”

  “But you don’t think that’s what it is,” Stohnar observed.

  “No, I don’t.” Maidyn passed the brandy glass under his nose, inhaling its bouquet, then looked back at the Lord Protector. “She’s too decisive. She’s moving too swiftly now that she’s here.” He shook his head. “No, she’s got a well-defined agenda in mind, and whoever she is, and where
ver she came from originally, she’s acting on her own now—for herself, not as anyone’s public front.”

  “But what in God’s name is she doing?” Stohnar shook his head. “I agree her sudden arrival’s directly related to Clyntahn’s purge, but if that’s the case, I’d expect her to keep a low profile like the others.”

  The two men looked at one another. They’d been very careful to insure that neither of them learned—officially—about the refugees from the Temple Lands who’d arrived so quietly in the Republic. Most of them had continued onward, taking passage on Siddarmarkian-registry merchant vessels which somehow had Charisian crews … and homeports. By now they must have reached or nearly reached the Charisian Empire and safety, and personally, Stohnar wished them well. He wished anyone that unmitigated bastard Clyntahn wanted dead well.

  A handful of the refugees, however, had remained in Siddarmark, seeking asylum with relatives or friends. At least two of them had found shelter with priests Stohnar was reasonably certain nourished Reformist tendencies of their own. All of them, though, had done their very best to disappear as tracelessly as possible, doing absolutely nothing which might have attracted attention to them.

  And then there was Aivah Pahrsahn.

  “I doubt she’d spend so much time gadding about to the opera and the theater if it wasn’t part of her cover,” Maidyn said after a moment. “And it makes a sort of risky sense, if she is up to something certain people wouldn’t care for. High visibility is often the best way to avoid the attention of people looking for surreptitious spies lurking in the shadows.

  “As to what she might be up to that the Group of Four wouldn’t like, there are all sorts of possibilities. For one thing, she’s investing heavily in the Charisian trade, and according to Tymahn, her analysis of why Clyntahn’s letting us get away with it pretty much matches my own. Of course, we could both be wrong about that. What I find more interesting, though, are her decision to buy into Hahraimahn’s new coking ovens and her investments in foundries. Specifically in the foundries Daryus has been so interested in.”