by David Weber
He felt the rage building in him again and forced himself to let go of it. It wasn’t his business to judge other men. It was his job to make sure he met his own responsibilities and didn’t help others avoid theirs. Those responsibilities included standing up for what he knew was right, and they included putting up with idiots who didn’t understand, as well. As long as he did what he knew was right, he could leave final judgments to Langhorne and God.
He picked up another sack, settled it on his shoulder, and turned back towards the warehouse.
* * *
Fucking heretic, Samyl Naigail thought bitterly. Should’ve thrown a damned rock. Hell, his lips drew back in an embittered snarl as he stood in the alley between the warehouses, glaring out at the busy scene, I should’ve thrown a fucking knife!
Naigail was only seventeen, but he knew what was going on. He knew who was to blame. His father had been a sailmaker, and a good one, but never a prosperous one. That was the fucking Charisians’ fault, too. Bad enough when everyone had “known” Charisians built the best ships in the world, whether they really did or not. The shipbuilders here in Siddar City had at least managed to keep their heads above water, and at least there’d been some work those days. But then the bastards had introduced their damned “schooner rig,” and things had gotten even worse. Everybody had to have one of the new damned ships, and if you didn’t know how the sails were cut, then you were just fucking out of luck as far as new orders went, weren’t you? Besides, who could match the quality of the canvas coming out of Charis these days? And who could afford to buy the quality of canvas coming out of Charis?
Nobody, that was who! And as if that weren’t enough, then the goddamned heretics had to launch their fucking schism against Mother Church! Of course they’d driven the Grand Inquisitor into declaring an embargo against trade with them. What else had they expected? But they’d had an answer for that, too, hadn’t they? Them and their buddies the fat, sand maggot bankers. Hell, half of them were Charisians, too, weren’t they? And they got their sodomite friends in the Lord Protector’s government to go along with it.
So now everyone was using Charisian ships, with Charisian crews, financed by Charisian money, and pretending they were Siddarmarkian. Everybody knew better, but did it matter?
No, of course it didn’t! Whatever the registration papers might say, they were Charisian ships, and the Charisian privateers knew it. So they got safe passage while everyone else’s shipping got wiped off the face of the ocean. The shippers and the warehouses and the longshoremen were still doing just fine, them and their fucking Charisian friends. But the honest workers—the honest Temple Loyalist workers—who couldn’t find jobs as carpenters or sailmakers or chandlers or in the ropewalks, they were starving to death! Unless they wanted to go crawling to one of the soup kitchens, at least. But a man had his pride, and it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right for good, hardworking, believing Siddarmarkians to be thrown out of work and forced to accept charity just to survive.
His father hadn’t been able to face it. They could say what they liked about accidents, but Samyl knew better. His father had always liked his beer, yes, but he’d never have gotten so drunk he staggered accidentally off the end of the wharf in the middle of winter and drowned, assuming he hadn’t frozen to death first. And he’d been careful to arrange an apprenticeship with his older brother for Samyl first. No, it hadn’t been an accident. He’d made it look like one so Mother Church would agree to bury him in holy ground, and he’d done what he could to take care of his boy first. It wasn’t his fault Uncle Byrt’s sail loft had collapsed into bankruptcy as well.
Samyl felt the hot tide sweeping up inside him again, but he fought it down. This wasn’t the time. Master Bahzkai and Father Saimyn were right about that. If they started actually attacking Charisians, really hurting the bastards the way they deserved, they were likely to actually generate some kind of sympathy for them. The very idea seemed impossible, but the city authorities were letting the damned heretics stay right here in Siddar City, weren’t they? If they were willing to whore themselves out for Charisian gold to that extent, then who knew where they’d be willing to go in the end?
No, he thought, turning away and shoving his hands into his tunic pockets as he stamped angrily down the narrow, noisome alley, the time might come, but it hadn’t come yet. Father Saimyn promised God and the Archangels would smite the Charisians in the fullness of time, and for now—at least—Samyl Naigail would wait to see that happen.
But if it didn’t, he wasn’t going to wait forever.
* * *
“Good evening, Madam Pahrsahn,” Tobys Suwyl said. He knew he sounded more than a little stuffy, but he couldn’t help it. Pahrsahn was just as charming, witty, beautiful, and wealthy as all her champions claimed, but he caught the stink of Reform from her.
“Good evening yourself, Master Suwyl,” Pahrsahn replied, smiling at him and extending one slim hand. Appearances had to be maintained, and he bent over it, brushing it with his lips. “I hadn’t expected to see you tonight,” she continued as he straightened.
“When my wife heard Sharghati would be performing at your party, she simply had to be here,” he said.
“Ah.” Pahrsahn’s smile broadened and turned impish. “I’d rather hoped it would have that effect,” she confided. “And I have to admit any excuse to listen to her sing was worthwhile.”
Suwyl nodded. And she was right. Ahlyssa Sharghati was the most highly sought-after soprano in all of Siddarmark. She’d traveled all the way to the Harchong Empire to study voice, and even the most sturdily Siddarmarkian critic had to acknowledge opera still attained its highest expression in the Empire. She could command any venue—or fee—she chose, and the fact that this was the second party of Pahrsahn’s she’d graced said a great deal about the woman’s wealth.
Either that, or it may say some unappetizing things about Sharghati’s own religious leanings, he thought, looking around the assembled guests.
“Well, I do hope you and your charming wife will enjoy yourselves this evening,” Pahrsahn said to him. “In the meantime, however, I see the Seneschal’s wife has just come in. I’m afraid I’m going to have to meet my social obligations and greet her. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask one of my servants to see to it for you.”
She swept him a stylish half-curtsy with all the polished elegance only to be expected from someone who’d come from Zion itself. Then she moved away, smiling and gracious, strewing conversational tidbits in her wake, and Suwyl watched her go with a sense of relief.
If he was going to be honest, his dislike for her stemmed far less from religious principles than from the threat she represented. Personally, Suwyl didn’t really care who ran the Temple. As far as he was concerned, that was God’s business, and God would get around to straightening it out eventually if He wasn’t happy about it. In the meantime, however, one of Mother Church’s responsibilities was to see that people behaved themselves. And when people behaved themselves, there weren’t things like wars and violence. And when there weren’t things like wars and violence, simple bankers could engage in honest, gainful trade without having to worry about what the lunatics on either side were going to tear down, burn to the ground, or blow up next.
Suwyl considered himself as Charisian as the next man, but he’d lived here in Siddar City for almost thirty years. He was part of the city, a known man, respected and listened to throughout the business community, not just in the Quarter, with contacts at the highest level of the government. Or at least he was for now. There was no telling how long it would continue to be true, though, and it was the maniacs like Staynair and “Emperor” Cayleb who were to blame.
Remember what the healers keep telling you about your temper, Tobys, he reminded himself. The last thing you need is to work yourself into an apoplectic fit over things you can’t do anything about anyway.
He drew a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly. His wife Zhandra had ta
ught him the technique, and it actually worked. Sometimes, anyway.
Fortunately, this was one of the sometimes, and he felt his anger ease. A business colleague nodded to him in passing, and he managed to nod back with a genuine smile. Then he accepted a goblet of wine from one of Pahrsahn’s servants and sipped.
At least the woman’s taste in wine is as good as her taste in music, he reflected morosely. That’s something, if I’m going to be stuck here all night anyway.
He took another sip and began easing his way through the crowd, looking for his wife.
* * *
“Good evening, Aivah,” a quiet voice said, and Aivah Pahrsahn turned to smile at the silver-haired man who didn’t happen to be wearing a cassock this evening.
“And good evening to you, too, Zhasyn,” she said, tactfully avoiding any last names or ecclesiastic titles. “You are aware the Seneschal and his wife are both attending tonight, aren’t you?” she added teasingly.
“I assure you, I’ll stay out of Lord Daryus’ way,” he replied with a smile. “Although according to my sources, he’ll probably be going pretty far out of his way himself to avoid noticing me. May I ask if your … negotiations with him have prospered?”
“Oh, I’m sure both the Republic and I will be making a great deal of money, Zhasyn,” she assured him. “And it really won’t hurt for Hahraimahn’s foundries to get a small infusion of capital at a time like this.”
“Small?” He raised his eyebrows in polite incredulity, and she laughed.
“Perhaps not so small on the scale of individuals,” she acknowledged, “but still relatively small on the scale of entire realms. Indeed,” her smile faded slightly, “small enough I think there’s an excellent chance none of Clyntahn’s eyes or ears will realize it’s even been made. For a while, at least.”
Zhasyn Cahnyr nodded, although his eyes were worried. “Madam Pahrsahn’s” investment was nowhere near so cut and dried as she chose to pretend, and she was playing a more dangerous game than she was willing to admit. He was less certain than she that the Inquisition wouldn’t get wind of a “private investment” which amounted to the purchase of several thousand rifled muskets and bayonets. More than that, he was more than a little frightened of exactly what she intended to do with them once she had them.
Perhaps it’s just as well she hasn’t enlightened you on that particular point, he told himself dryly. You’d probably worry even more if you did know what she was going to do with them!
“You have made it clear to your ‘special guests’ that there’s a degree of risk involved here, haven’t you?” he asked now, changing the subject.
“Of course I have, Zhasyn.” She smiled and touched his cheek gently. “I admire and respect you, my friend, but I’m not going to throw any lambs to the slash lizards without due consideration. I’m very careful about who I approach with your invitation, and after the initial flirtation—I’d be tempted to say ‘seduction’ if it wouldn’t seem too much like a bad jest, given my previous vocation—I’m very careful to warn them about the dangers. And that’s why I send them to you only one or two at a time. We can’t avoid letting you and me know who they are, but we can at least protect their identities from anyone else.”
“Forgive me.” He smiled back and cupped his left hand lightly over the fingers on his cheek. “I forget sometimes how long you’ve been doing this sort of thing. I should know better than to try to teach such a mistress of her art.”
“‘Mistress of her art’?” She shook her head, eyes dancing. “And here I went to such lengths to avoid any double entendres!”
“My dear, I know it amuses you to try, but you’re really not going to shock me or offend me by throwing your past into my face,” he pointed out.
“I know. But you’re right, it does amuse me. And it probably says something unfortunate about me, as well.” She shook her head, still smiling. “My initial involvement in this sort of thing was what you might call a reaction against the high clergy, you know. I can’t quite seem to forget that even though you’re not like the vast majority of your ecclesiastic brethren, you are an archbishop. I think that’s why I feel such a compulsion to keep trying.”
“As long as it amuses you,” he said, then looked across the room. “Not to change the subject—although that’s really exactly why I’m doing it—who’s that youngster with Sharghati?”
She turned to follow the direction of his glance.
“Which one? The younger of the two is Byrk Raimahn. He’s Claitahn Raimahn’s grandson, and I strongly suspect him of harboring Reformist thoughts. In fact, I’m not so sure he’d be happy stopping short of Church of Charis-style thinking if he had his druthers, although he’s far too astute and too well informed to come out and say anything of the sort. The fellow with him is Raif Ahlaixsyn. He’s about ten years older than young Raimahn and a Siddarmarkian. I’ve met his father. The family’s got money, and I think they’d really prefer to sit on the sidelines, but I’m not sure about Raif. Not yet.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I think there’s some potential there, but given his family connections, I’m being particularly cautious about exploring it.” She shrugged. “In the meantime, he’s really quite a good poet and making him a more or less permanent fixture at my parties is something of a social coup.”
“You actually enjoy this, don’t you?” he asked. She looked back at him, and he shrugged. “I mean all of it. The scheming, outwitting your enemies, laying the evil low, the dancing on the edge of the sword blade—not just all of that, but the parties and the gaiety, too. You do, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Zhasyn!” She seemed surprised by the question. “It’s what I do. Oh,” her eyes hardened, although her smile never wavered, “don’t think for one moment that I’m not going to dance in that pig Clyntahn’s blood the day Cayleb and Sharleyan take his head. And string up the rest of the Group of Four, and the entire damned vicarate—what’s left of it—for that matter. Never underestimate that side of me, Zhasyn, or you may get hurt. But the rest?” The hardness disappeared and her eyes danced once more. “It’s the grandest game in the world, my friend! Beside this, anything else would be only half alive.”
He gazed at her for a moment, then shook his head, and she laughed.
“Take yourself off to the private salon now, Zhasyn,” she told him. “Your first meeting’s scheduled to begin in about ten minutes. And in the meantime,” she smiled brilliantly, “I have to go have a word with the Seneschal.”
.II.
The Prison Hulks, and HMS Chihiro, 50, Gorath Bay, Kingdom of Dholar
“How is he this morning, Naiklos?” Sir Gwylym Manthyr asked, turning his back on the vista of Gorath Bay.
“Not as well as he pretends, Sir,” Naiklos Vahlain replied.
The slight, dapper valet joined the admiral at the forecastle rail and stroked his mustache gently as he, too, looked out across the bay. The sky was a blue bowl overhead, dotted with white cloud puffs, and a brisk breeze—cool, but without the bitter bite of the winter just past—blew across the deck. Wyverns and seabirds rode the breeze, their cries and whistles faint, and three-foot waves gave the deck underfoot a slight pitch as the ship’s anchor held her head to the wind.
Not that the roofed-over obsolete coastal galley was much of a ship, anymore, Manthyr reflected, gazing once more across the bay at the hateful sight of the city of Gorath’s tall stone walls. He’d had altogether too much opportunity to examine those walls over the last seven months. He’d spent endless hours picturing how vulnerable they would be to modern artillery … and regretting the fact that he’d never have the chance to see that vulnerability demonstrated.
He turned away from the familiar lava-flow anger of that thought, not that the contemplation of his remaining “command” was any more appealing. Lywys Gardynyr, the Earl of Thirsk, had done his best for his prisoners—better, to be honest, than Manthyr had anticipated, after the unyielding terms then-Crown Prince Cayleb had inflicted upon him after the Battle o
f Crag Reach—but he’d faced certain limitations. The greatest of which was that he appeared to be the only Dohlaran aristocrat with anything remotely resembling a sense of honor. The others were too busy hating all Charisians for the crushing humiliation of the Battles of Rock Point and Crag Reach. Either that, or they were Temple Loyalists too busy sucking up to the Inquisition—or both—to worry about little things like the proper treatment of honorably surrendered prisoners of war.
Manthyr knew his own sense of failure and helplessness when he contemplated the probable future of the men and officers he’d commanded only made his bitterness worse. But when he looked around the moldering old galleys which had been converted into prison hulks to house his personnel, when he considered how grudgingly their needs were met, how meager their rations were, how little concern even the Order of Pasquale had demonstrated for his wounded and sick, it was hard to feel anything except bitterness.
Especially when you know the only thing standing between your people and the Inquisition is Thirsk and—who would have believed it?—a Schuelerite auxiliary bishop, he thought.
