How Firm a Foundation (Safehold)

by David Weber

  “I knew I could count on you. Zheryld was right about how useful you’ve been, and not just taking dictation and dealing with the correspondence. I’ve valued your input on a lot of issues, Wynai. You realize that, I hope?”

  “I’ve tried to be useful, Sir Rayjhis,” she said with a small bob of her head, but the fleeting smile had disappeared again. “I only wish I thought it was really going to do some good.”

  “All we can do is the best we can do.” Dragoner’s tone was firmer and more optimistic than he truly felt, and he was pretty sure Wynai knew it.

  He truly was glad Zheryld Mahrys, his secretary of many years, had managed to find Madam Thyrstyn for him, and not just because she was a skilled stenographer and secretary. He could always use more people with that set of skills, but she was also smart, and it was that, coupled with the many years she’d lived here in the Republic, which made her truly valuable to him. She understood Siddarmarkians in ways he simply didn’t, despite how long he’d been posted as the Charisian ambassador to the Republic.

  And you might as well admit it, Rayjhis, he told himself now, turning back to the window. You value her because she’s your window into the Charisian Temple Loyalists here in the city, too.

  “Do you really think it’s as bad as some people seem to be saying, Sir Rayjhis?” she asked now, and he shrugged.

  “I think it’s not as good as I wish it were,” he said. “Let’s just put it that way.” He shrugged again. “All we can do is warn people to be careful, to avoid provocations, and for any of them who can to return to Charis.”

  “I’ve lived here almost half my entire life, Sir Rayjhis!” Wynai said with an unusual flash of fire. “I’m not going to just run away from my neighbors and my friends—and my family!—and all the rest of my life because some people are letting their mouths run away with them!”

  “I hope that’s all it is,” he said, turning back around to look at her. “You’ve seen the dispatches I’m sending home, though. You probably know more about what’s happening here in the capital than I do, when it comes down to it. And you know I’m trying hard not to be alarmist and make a bad situation worse. But I’d be derelict in my duties if I didn’t warn the Charisian community about the rumors we’re picking up.”

  “Why did we ever have to start all this?” she asked, her eyes pained. “It’s all … all just crazy, Sir Rayjhis!”

  “In some ways I agree with you,” he said heavily. In fact, he agreed with her in a lot more ways than he was prepared to admit. His personal balancing act as a loyal son of Mother Church and the ambassador of the heretical Empire of Charis had become nothing but more difficult as the Church moved steadily towards an official declaration of jihad. Over the last year, since that declaration had actually come, it had gotten even harder, and deep inside himself he wondered what he was going to do if worse came to worst in the Republic. Only his overriding sense of duty to the House of Ahrmahk had kept him at his post this long, and he didn’t know if even that could have done the trick if he hadn’t seen so many indications Mother Church was striving to keep the Republic as close to neutral territory as it could. He’d had enough clear signs—signals that could only have come from Vicar Rhobair and Chancellor Trynair—that Mother Church actually wanted the embargo to continue “leaking” in Siddarmark’s case. That had been enough to keep him in his office, still able to serve both of the causes which were so dear to his heart. But if that balance was shifting, if Mother Church was changing her mind, what did he do then?

  “In some ways I agree with you,” he repeated, “but we live when we live, and all any of us can do is pray for guidance to get through all this without trading away any more of our souls than we have to. And if we get an opportunity to do something which may make it even a little better—or at least less bad—than it would have been otherwise, then we give thanks on our knees.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Wynai lowered her eyes, seeming a bit abashed at having spoken out, and he inhaled deeply.

  “Go ahead and get clear copies of those written up,” he told her in a gentler tone. “And tell Zheryld we’re going to have a special dispatch bag for Tellesberg.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  “And, Wynai, if you’d like to send any messages home to Charis, feel free to use the dispatch bag.” She looked up at him, and he smiled at her. “I know you don’t abuse the privilege, and at least this way they’ll get home a little quicker.”

  “Thank you, Sir Rayjhis. I appreciate it.”

  Wynai gathered up her notepad and her pen and headed down the hall to her own little cubbyhole of an office. The door closed quietly behind her, and Dragoner returned his attention to the window, looking across those sunlit roofs at North Bay’s sail-dotted azure water and thinking about the homeland which lay so far beyond it.

  * * *

  Wynai Thyrstyn closed her office door behind her and sat in the creaky, slightly rickety chair at her desk. She laid her shorthand notes on the blotter and stared down at them, thinking about them, wondering what she should do. Then she leaned back, closed her eyes, and covered her lids with her hands while she tried not to weep.

  There were times she felt almost unbearably torn by guilt as she sat in Sir Rayjhis’ office, taking down his words, working on his correspondence, answering his questions about the Charisian and non-Charisian communities here in Siddar City. It was wrong of her to feel that way, she knew that. She wasn’t doing anything she shouldn’t be doing, and Sir Rayjhis was a good man, one who needed her help. She could see how he was aging before her, the way his hair was going progressively whiter, the lines carving themselves more and more deeply into his face. He’d revealed more of his own spiritual turmoil than he thought he had—she was pretty sure of that—and she wondered how much longer he could bear it. And how he was going to react when the inevitable happened.

  And it was inevitable. She lowered her hands again, staring at the icon of the Archangel Langhorne hanging on the wall above her desk. God couldn’t permit any other outcome, but why did it have to be so hard? Why did so many people—good people, and there were good people, on both sides—have to die?

  The tears came despite her efforts to stop them as she thought of her brother Trai and her cousin Urvyn. Sir Rayjhis had tried so hard to comfort her when the terrible news came, tried to tell her it had all been some horrible accident, but Wynai knew better. She couldn’t be certain, of course, but … she knew better. If only Urvyn had been able to see the truth the way she and Trai had! But he hadn’t, and they’d lost him to the heresy, and she’d still loved him so much, and, O Sweet Bédard, but it hurt so much to be so sure Trai had killed him … and himself.

  Forgive him, she prayed now, staring at the image of the Archangel on the wall before her, not entirely certain if she were praying for her heretical cousin or the brother who’d violated divine law by taking his own life. But then she shook herself. God couldn’t possibly condemn Trai for giving up his life in His own service! Yet even so—

  Forgive all of them, please! I know Urvyn and the others are wrong, I know it’s all so horribly wrong, but they’re not really evil. They’re doing what they think they have to do, what they think you and God want them to do. Do they really have to spend all of eternity paying for that?

  The icon didn’t answer her, but she hadn’t really expected it to, and she drew a deep breath. A decisive breath.

  She’d wanted to do more from the very beginning, but Trai had convinced her—no, be honest, he’d ordered her—not to. She remembered that first letter of his, the one which had filled her with mingled fear and elation. It was so like her big brother to take charge, to know exactly what to do, and she’d taken his warnings seriously. She’d never said a single word to anyone, not even her own priest and confessor, about the “personal letters” to her which she relayed to her husband’s aunt in Zion. The letters which went from there directly to the Office of the Inquisition … and the replies to which were transmitted to him in her own “
personal letters.” She had no idea what information and what instructions had passed back and forth, because Trai had been very clear about that, as well. At his request, the Inquisition had sent him a code book by an entirely separate route—she didn’t know what it had been—and he and whoever he was actually writing to had buried their messages in the word puzzles and acrostics he and Wynai had shared regularly by mail ever since her marriage had taken her to the Republic so many years before.

  But he’d been very specific in that first letter. She was to do nothing but relay letters. That was the most important thing she could possibly do, and she mustn’t do anything that could compromise her ability to perform that task. So she’d had no contact at all with the Inquisition here in Siddar. She’d spoken as calmly and reasonably as she could when the inevitable debates erupted between Temple Loyalists and adherents of the Church of Charis, avoiding anything which could have gotten her labeled an extremist by either side. And she’d never, not once, used her privileged position here inside the embassy to provide information to Mother Church.

  In a lot of ways, she’d been grateful Trai’s instructions had precluded her from doing that. But Trai was gone now, and Urwyn, both of them sacrificed to the war impious man had declared upon God Himself, and that meant she was free. It would be a betrayal of Sir Rayjhis’ trust, and she regretted that deeply, yet she had no choice but to serve God and the Archangels in any way she could.

  She drew another deep breath and began transcribing her notes in the beautiful, clear handwriting she’d been taught as a child in Tellesberg. She had the dispatch bag to catch, and she would. But this time, instead of destroying her original notes the way she always had before, she would take them with her when she left.

  It was very quiet in the tiny office, with only the soft, purposeful scratching of her pen to break the silence.

  .VIII.

  The Temple, City of Zion, The Temple Lands

  “God damn them! God damn all of them!”

  Zhaspahr Clyntahn threw the entire file across the sitting room of his luxurious personal suite. It hit the outer wall’s unbreakable transparent crystal with a thump and flew back, scattering pages across the thick, rich carpets, and the Grand Inquisitor snarled. His heavy-jowled face was purple with fury as he snatched up a priceless glass paperweight that was over three hundred years old and hurled it across the room, directly into a glass-fronted cabinet of crystal decanters. It struck with an ear-shattering crash and the sharp scent of expensive brandies and whiskeys as paperweight, glass, and bottles exploded in fragments.

  Spectacular as it was, the destruction had no apparent effect on Clyntahn’s rage, and he bent and snatched up the bronze coffee table. It had to weigh a hundred pounds, Wyllym Rayno thought, but the Grand Inquisitor didn’t even seem to notice. He only hurled it after the paperweight with an explosive grunt of effort, demolishing the entire wet bar in a cascade of shattered snifters, goblets, liqueur bottles, and exquisite—and exquisitely expensive—cabinetry.

  The Archbishop of Chiang-wu made himself as small and inconspicuous as he possibly could. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Clyntahn explode in all but incoherent fury, but it was never a pleasant experience. And he’d seldom seen the Grand Inquisitor this angry. In fact, it was entirely possible he’d never seen Clyntahn this angry.

  Not even Zhaspahr Clyntahn in the grip of a monumental rage could throw something as heavy as that coffee table without consequences. He stumbled, nearly falling, and kept himself on his feet only by grabbing the back of a couch. He snarled, shoved himself back upright, and kicked the couch halfway across the room. It knocked over a display pedestal, and a marble bust of the Archangel Chihiro—carved from life by the second-century master Charkain—toppled to the floor in a crunching, face-first impact that sent fragments of white stone flying. He looked around, as if seeking something else expensive to destroy, then stomped out of the sitting room, kicking heirloom furniture out of his way, and Rayno heard more shattering sounds from the adjacent bedchamber.

  Fortunately, Clyntahn hadn’t ordered the archbishop to accompany him, and Rayno breathed a quiet prayer of thanks as he tucked his hands into the sleeves of his cassock and prepared to wait out his superior’s rage.

  From the sounds of things, it was going to take a while.

  * * *

  “All right,” Clyntahn said flatly, the better part of two hours later. “Give me the details.”

  He and Rayno had withdrawn to the small conference room attached to the Grand Inquisitor’s suite. The door had opened at their approach and then closed silently behind them, cool air whispered through the overhead ducts, and the conference room’s soundproofing guaranteed that none of the white-faced servants creeping about while they dealt with the wreckage littering the wake of Clyntahn’s rage would hear a word they said.

  Rayno considered pointing out that all “the details” he possessed had been contained in the file, but he didn’t consider it very hard. He’d quietly gathered up the file’s scattered contents and brought them with him, but reminding Clyntahn he’d cleaned up behind him probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

  “I’m afraid there’s not a great deal to add to what I’ve already told you, Your Grace,” he said just a bit cautiously. “The destruction appears to be effectively total. Jahras’ entire fleet seems to have been sunk, burned, or taken. All the navy yard facilities were burned. The artillery foundries in and around Iythria were all destroyed, and the port’s batteries were blown up. As nearly as I can tell, Your Grace, the Imperial Desnairian Navy now consists solely of the twenty-one galleons in Desnair Bay. And, in all honesty, Your Grace, I’ll be astounded if the heretics don’t move against Desnair the City very soon now.” His mouth twisted. “They made it clear enough at Iythria that they’re not afraid to confront heavy fortifications or our galleons, and I don’t think there’s anything at Desnair that could stop them if Jahras couldn’t stop them at Iythria.”

  “No?” Clyntahn glared at him, jowls tinged with just a hint of the purple which had suffused them earlier. “What about a fucking commander with at least a little guts?” he snarled. “What about a goddamned navy that remembers it’s fucking fighting for God?!”

  Rayno started to reply, then paused. From the casualty reports he’d read (and which Clyntahn hadn’t gotten to before he’d launched off into his paroxysm of fury), the Desnairian Navy had fought—and died—hard before its final surrender. He thought about pointing out that of the ninety-plus ships with which Jahras had begun the action, the Charisians had kept only thirty-five or forty as prizes. The others had been so badly damaged Rock Point had ordered them burned. That didn’t strike him as the sort of damage a fleet that gave up easily suffered. And Jahras’ after battle report had pulled no punches about the devastating advantage the Charisians’ new ammunition had provided them.

  No, there’d been nothing wrong with the fighting spirit of Iythria’s defenders. Not until after Jahras’ surrender, at least. But pointing that out would be … impolitic.

  “I trust we have both of those things at Desnair the City, Your Grace,” he said instead. “It is the Empire’s capital city, after all, and the added motivation of fighting under Emperor Mahrys’ own eye should help to stiffen their spines, as well. I know!” He raised a hand quickly as Clyntahn’s eyes flashed. “The fact that they’re fighting under God’s eye should be motivation enough for any man. But you’ve always told me, Your Grace, that we have to allow for men’s inevitable weaknesses, the way their fallen nature leads them to fall short of their duty. I’ve dispatched instructions to Archbishop Ahdym and Bishop Executor Mahrtyn to do all in their power to strengthen the faith and determination of the capital’s defenders, and I’m sure they will. At the same time, though, if there are any purely secular … motivators we can apply, I’m in favor of using them, as well.”

  The incipient glare in Clyntahn’s eyes eased slightly under Rayno’s reasonable tone. He continued to stare at the archbishop for a
long, simmering moment, but then he shoved himself back in his chair with a choppy nod.

  “Point taken,” he said, his own voice once again flat and controlled. “I want Jahras and Kholman, though. They’ve failed Mother Church—betrayed Mother Church—and they have to pay the price.”

  “I agree entirely, Your Grace, and I’m already considering possible ways to see that they do. The fact that they’ve cravenly fled to Charis like the cowards they are is going to make it difficult, however.”

  In fact, Rayno thought, Baron Jahras and Duke Kholman had displayed prudence, not cowardice, in removing themselves from Clyntahn’s reach. And unless he was mistaken, before their departure they’d done their best to report honestly and accurately—and warningly—on what they’d faced when the Charisian Navy came to call. Best not to make that point just yet, either, though.

  “Our inability to operate with any degree of flexibility in Charis is going to work against us, as well,” he continued instead. “At the moment, I don’t think it would be possible to send in any of our agents to deal with them. Getting to them is going to require something like Operation Rakurai, and until we know exactly where the heretics are keeping them, even beginning to plan that kind of mission is going to be … impractical, I’m afraid.”

  Clyntahn growled something under his breath, but he also gave another of those jerky nods. In fact, his color seemed to improve a little, and Rayno congratulated himself on having brought up Operation Rakurai. There’d been too little time for any reports to reach Zion yet, so it was impossible to say how well the Rakurai had fared. Clyntahn anticipated a high degree of effectiveness, however, and contemplating that seemed to take at least the worst edge off his fury over Iythria. Of course, if it turned out Operation Rakurai had been a failure, and not a success, his rage would simply return in redoubled force, but as the Writ said, sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.