At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  “And with good reason,” Merlin said with a fond smile. Then he sat back, sipping more cherrybean as the two of them watched the imagery from the SNARC remote on the ceiling of Airah Sahbahtyno’s hotel room.

  Even with the advantages the SNARCs conferred, and even with such talented hunters as Nahrmahn Baytz and Nynian Rychtyr, it had taken over four months to find and identify Sahbahtyno. They’d known he had to be out there somewhere, and together with Owl, they’d been back over every second of imagery from every single one of the hundreds of remotes seeded throughout Siddar City until they finally found him.

  I suppose I should feel at least a little remorse that we hanged Samyl Naigail for Trumyn’s murder, Merlin reflected. On the other hand, he was definitely right there in the middle of the riot, and they found plenty of imagery of what that little bastard did in the Charisian Quarter two years ago. The seijin’s mouth tightened ever so briefly as he remembered reviewing some of that imagery. Nobody in the universe ever deserved hanging more than he did. And the fact that we hanged him for it—and truly thought we were getting the guilty party, at the time—was probably a major factor in Sahbahtyno’s conclusion that no one suspected him at all.

  It was painfully obvious that the Church’s sudden acquisition of the open hearth steel process must have come from the briefcase which had been stolen from Zhorj Trumyn after his murder in that “spontaneous riot” in Tanner’s Way. Unfortunately, there’d been far fewer remotes in Siddar City at the time, and that particular bit of violence had escaped their attention. Ultimately, that was probably for the best, though, because if they’d identified Sahbahtyno at the time, they would most certainly have executed him for it. And that, as Nynian had just pointed out, would have been a pity.

  Or a waste, at least. Merlin couldn’t quite convince himself to view Sahbahtyno’s continued existence as a good thing, however useful he might have proved. In fact, he’d been all for bringing the bastard in and repairing the omission which had left him alive, and both Cayleb and Sharleyan had supported him strongly … until Nynian pointed out that after his success in acquiring the steelmaking information he must have absolutely established his reliability in the eyes of his masters in Zion.

  Just leaving him in place while they studied his actions had told them a great deal about how Rayno and Clyntahn had reorganized their intelligence operations in light of Charis’ lethally effective counterintelligence. Sahbahtyno had very carefully avoided creating any sort of network, any web of sources that could be penetrated and tracked back to him, and that explained a great deal about how he’d evaded detection in the first place. It had limited the reach of his information gathering, despite the unanticipated treasure trove which had fallen into his lap when he’d launched the riot in which Trumyn died, but it had also made him almost totally invisible, even to Nahrmahn and Owl. And he really was very, very good at his work, with exactly the combination of skill, acute observation, cool calculation, discipline, patience, and dash of recklessness a first-rate intelligence agent required.

  The Inquisition had done an excellent job in establishing his basic cover, as well. He’d set up as an upscale rug merchant with a well-heeled clientele, importing his goods from both Chisholm and Tarot, and he turned a tidy legitimate profit. In fact, his business produced more than enough income for him to afford a room someplace like the Protector’s Arms, and he clearly realized that the best place to hide was usually in plain sight. He’d made no effort to keep his activities—or, at least, the activities of his public persona—under wraps, and “furtive” was probably the last word anyone would have applied to him. After studying him for a few five-days, Nynian had realized he reminded her a great deal, in some ways, of Ahrloh Mahkbyth. She doubted he was as physically tough as the ex-Guardsman, and he definitely wanted to stay as far from any more “hands-on” work than he could possibly avoid. But he was perfectly willing to resort to violence when needed, as the Tanner’s Way riot demonstrated, and he was probably just as smart as he thought he was. That was saying quite a lot—self-deprecation wasn’t one of his outstanding qualities—and that suited her purposes just fine. A smart spy who didn’t realize he was being manipulated was a priceless asset, she’d explained. Especially if his superiors knew how smart he was. They’d be far more cautious about accepting information from a stupid spy, after all.

  And smart people could be counted upon to do smart things. Which meant that if one understood their motives and approached them properly, it was actually easier to predict how they would react than it would have been with someone who wasn’t smart. That was a fundamental article of faith for her, and she’d set out to demonstrate its applicability in Airah Sahbahtyno’s case.

  Mahrlys Fahrno truly had been one of Ahnzhelyk Phonda’s favorite courtesans in Zion, almost more daughter than an employee. She’d never been recruited by the Sisters of Saint Kohdy, but when Ahnzhelyk disappeared, she’d arranged independent routes by which each of her young ladies could escape Zion as well, if they chose. She hadn’t expected the Inqusition to become suddenly and deeply interested in Ahnzyhelyk’s past activities, but she hadn’t been able to rule out the possibility, and so she’d given each young woman her own avenue out of the city without ever mentioning that she’d done the same thing for all of them.

  In the event, no one in the Inquisition even seemed to have noticed Ahnzhelyk’s disappearance, but the savagery of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s purge of the vicarate, following so closely on the closure of Madam Phonda’s establishment, had made it easy for Mahrlys to make her choice. Few of Ahnzhelyk’s competitors had been able—or willing—to provide the quality of client, the comfort, and—above all—the safety Ahnzhelyk had, and she’d personally known too many of the men Clyntahn had so brutally murdered. She’d known that whatever else they might have been, they definitely hadn’t been the monsters the Inquisition claimed they had. She hadn’t much thought about Reformism before that, but the shattering proof of the Group of Four’s corruption had clarified her thinking remarkably, and Zion had been no place for a new, fiercely devoted Reformist. Besides, she’d been born and raised in Silk Town. That meant she’d had no family in the Temple Lands to hold her there, and she’d arrived on the doorstep of Aivah Pahrsahn’s Siddar City townhouse less than three months later.

  She wasn’t the only one of Madam Phonda’s ladies to flee the Temple Lands, and “Aivah” had quietly arranged comfortable livings for all of them. Those livings had meant none of them had to return to their previous careers, but Mahrlys had been different. She hadn’t come seeking simple safety; she’d come seeking a way to strike back at Clyntahn and the others, and if she still didn’t know about the Sisters of Saint Kohdy, she was as smart as she was beautiful. She’d quickly realized “Aivah” was deeply involved with the Reformist movement in Siddarmark, and it hadn’t taken her long to deduce that Ahnzhelyk must have been just as deeply involved in it in Zion without Mahrlys ever suspecting a thing. Coupled with her own bitter disillusionment about the Church—or the Group of Four, at least—that had been more than enough for her to volunteer to join Aivah’s efforts here in the capital.

  She’d been very effective, too, especially after Aivah helped her establish herself in her old profession. Ahnzhelyk Phonda had never offered her guests in Zion anything so crude as simple prostitution. Her young ladies had been true companions, as well—highly decorative and skilled in the pleasures of the flesh, yes, but also intelligent, educated, and cultured, as accomplished in making witty conversation, critiquing the latest theatrical performance, discussing religion (in the days when that had been a safe topic), or enjoying a night at the opera, as they ever were in bed. It hadn’t taken someone who’d been tutored by Ahnzhelyk very long to establish herself as one of the most sought-after courtesans in Siddar City.

  Once they’d identified Sahbahtyno, they’d moved Mahrlys into the Protector’s Arms. And once she’d been there for a few five-days, they’d arranged for Colonel Fhetukhav—a lonely widower, six
years older than she, a logistics specialist on Daryus Parkair’s personal staff who’d come up through the Quartermaster’s Corps—to cross her orbit. Fhetukhav had been more than willing to play his part, especially after he set eyes on Mahrlys for the first time! And while he often took sensitive documents home to work on there, he was always scrupulous about securing them in the hotel’s strongroom on the two nights every five-day he spent with Mahrlys.

  They were both intelligent, warmhearted people who believed deeply in what they were doing and why. Merlin hadn’t counted on it, but neither had he been surprised when their “cover” as lovers blossomed into a deep, genuine love for one another. He was happy for them, but he was even happier that Nynian—and Nahrmahn, who’d supported her strongly—had been right about Sahbahtyno. However careful he might have been to avoid any extended network that could be traced back to him, the temptation to spread his tendrils just a little wider had proved too much to resist when Nynian trolled Fhetukhav delicately under his nose. Especially given the fact that he’d long since realized that Charlz Ohbyrlyn, the Protector’s Arms’ senior night clerk, was an ardent Temple Loyalist. Ohbyrlyn had tried hard to conceal his personal fury at Greyghor Stohnar’s decision to ally the Republic with Charis, but Sahbahtyno was very, very good at reading people.

  Which, now that Merlin thought about it, probably made the genuine affection between Mahrlys and Fhetukhav an even better thing.

  Within a month of Fhetukhav’s first visit to the hotel, Sahbahtyno had been studying the contents of his briefcase whenever it was locked in the strongroom overnight. That didn’t happen very often; Nynian and Nahrmahn were far too skilled for anything that crude. But when it did happen, every bit of information, every document in the briefcase, was completely genuine. Some of that information must have been quite valuable to the Temple, although most of it had been things they’d been confident would have eventually reached Zion anyway through one of Rayno and Clyntahn’s other conduits. But coupled with Sahbahtyno’s original triumph with Trumyn’s notes, the fact that they’d never passed him one single piece of misinformation had probably turned him into Rayno’s gold standard as an intelligence source.

  There were times I thought you’d spent all this effort building the perfect asset we’d never use, love, Merlin thought, looking down at the top of Nynian’s head with a smile. You were right, though, bless your devious little heart—better to have it available and never use it than to not have it available when we needed it. And when he reports we’re shifting so much of our available strength south to High Mount, Clyntahn—and Maigwair—will have to take the possibility very seriously, indeed.

  Merlin Athrawes could live with leaving him un-hanged a little longer to accomplish that.

  Especially since they still had more than enough evidence to hang him in the end, anyway.

  .V.

  Rhobair Duchairn’s Office,

  The Temple,

  City of Zion,

  The Temple Lands,

  Republic of Siddarmark.

  “That was delicious, Rhobair.”

  Vicar Allayn Maigwair wiped his mouth and laid the snowy napkin down beside the empty bowl before he sat back with a sigh of repletion.

  “Thank you,” Rhobair Duchairn replied with a smile. “I let Brother Lynkyn keep his cooks, but I extorted their clam chowder recipe out of them at knifepoint. I’m glad you enjoyed it, Allayn.”

  “Oh, I did. I did!” Maigwair shook his head. “In fact, I think I enjoyed it even more because I’ve rediscovered how much I prefer simple menus. There’s something … honest about food like clam chowder. I never really enjoyed those fancified dinners we used to have before Zhaspahr got the wild hair up his arse about Charis. Although if I’m going to be honest,” he smiled with a trace of bitterness, “that had less to do with menus and more to do with the fact that I knew the rest of you considered me the lightweight of our little group.”

  Duchairn opened his mouth, but Maigwair shook his head before the other vicar could speak.

  “The main reason that bothered me was because I figured it was probably true,” he confessed with a slightly broader smile. “On the other hand, it’s occurred to me since that you can be smart as Proctor himself without having a lick of common sense. Our good friend Zhaspahr strikes me as a case in point. And then there’s Zahmsyn.”

  “Good of you to leave me out of their company,” Duchairn said wryly as Maigwair paused, and the Church’s captain general snorted.

  “I’m not going to propose any of us as geniuses, given the fucking mess we’ve managed to land the entire Church in! And ourselves; let’s not forget that! But the truth is, you were the only one who even tried to put the brakes on. I sure as Shan-wei didn’t!”

  He scowled, reached for his beer stein, and finished its contents in a single long swallow.

  “Keeps me up nights worrying, that does,” he said in a much quieter voice. “I’m not looking forward to what God and Langhorne will have to say to me on the other side.”

  “None of us should be,” Duchairn said in an even quieter voice.

  He leaned back in the swivel chair on his side of the enormous desk—he and Maigwair were sharing yet another working lunch in his office—and contemplated the other man. They’d been forced into ever closer partnership as they coped with the rising flood of the Jihad’s disastrous requirements. The fact that they knew Zhaspahr Clyntahn regarded them both with the utmost suspicion—and was undoubtedly simply waiting for the appropriate moment to act upon that suspicion—had only glued them more tightly together. And in the process, Duchairn had realized his own view of Maigwair as a slow, unimaginative plodder had been … less than fair. Or accurate. Allayn Maigwair might not be the most brilliant man he’d ever met, but he was a long, long way from the stupidest. And as he’d just pointed out, brilliance all too often ran a piss-poor second to common sense, and that he’d turned out to have in abundance. Yet for all the closeness with which they’d come to coordinate their plans and efforts, this was the first time Maigwair had ever expressed his own misgivings about the Jihad’s origin—or probable outcome—quite so clearly.

  “I don’t think any rational human being would think God wants to see His children slaughter one another in His name,” the Church’s treasurer continued, his soft voice clearly audible against the muted backdrop of the blizzard howling outside the mystically heated comfort of the Temple. “Maybe it is necessary, sometimes, but surely it ought to’ve been a last resort, not the first one we reached for!”

  “I know.” Maigwair set his stein back beside his empty soup bowl and gazed down into it for a long moment. “I know.” He looked back up at Duchairn. “But we’re astride the slash lizard, and we’ve taken all of Mother Church there with us.” His mouth was a grim line. “Until we’ve dealt with the outside threat, we can’t risk trying to deal with any that might be … closer to home.”

  Duchairn nodded slowly, and his eyes were as dark as Maigwair’s.

  You’re right, Allayn. Unfortunately, some outside threats are easier to deal with than others, he thought with a certain acid humor. And then there’s the little problem of timing. Supposing that we somehow miraculously “deal” with Charis and the Republic, what happens when Zhaspahr realizes we have? Just how are we supposed to “deal” with him if he has the two of us killed as soon as he decides he no longer needs us to keep his fat arse in the Grand Inquisitor’s chair? That is sort of the heart of the question, isn’t it?

  He thought about asking that out loud, but he didn’t, and as he studied Maigwair’s expression, he felt vaguely ashamed by the temptation. Because the truth was that he honestly didn’t think Maigwair’s first concern was over his own survival. Not any longer. And if it had taken the other vicar a little longer to reach that point, at least he had reached it. And the Writ itself taught that what mattered was the destination, not how long it took to get there.

  Some things were best not said, however, even between just the two of them
, and even here in his own office. If nothing else, it was dangerous to get into the habit of confiding too easily—or too openly, at least—when the Inquisition commanded so many spies, so many sets of ears. Maigwair had been given fresh proof of that only last June when Clyntahn summoned a dozen of the captain general’s most trusted colleagues to receive their orders to betray him. Unfortunately for the Grand Inquisitor, the “Fist of God” had blown up the traitors—along with the Second Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion—and Maigwair had moved with surprising speed to take advantage of the sudden vacuum at the top of the Army of God’s hierarchy.

  He’d been rather more careful about who he’d selected to fill those offices this time around. It was to be hoped he’d been careful enough.

  And in the meantime, the treasurer reminded himself, while winning the Jihad would be nice, we somehow have to see to it that we at least don’t lose it. God knows I’ve heard of lighter challenges!

  “Well,” he said out loud, cradling his own stein in both hands, “I think we’ve covered just about everything from my side, at least as far as current production plans are concerned. Is there anything else you think we need to discuss on that side, Allayn?”

  “No.” Maigwair shook his head and laid one hand on the fat looseleaf binder beside his tray. “I’m comfortable that we’ve come up with the best projections we can based on reports from the front and Brother Lynkyn’s estimates.” He shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said I was satisfied with those projections, because I’m damned well not, and I really don’t like what meeting them is costing the Army in terms of personnel. But that doesn’t mean we can come up with better ones.”

  “I wish we could cut you a little more slack on the manpower side,” Duchairn said soberly. “Unfortunately, I need those men badly.”