by David Weber
“Thank you, Lawrync,” Fern said after only the briefest of pauses. “I don’t believe we’ll need notes for today’s meeting.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Servahntyz replied. He closed the desk once more, then bowed to Lainyr and Kharmych. “Your Eminence, Father,” he murmured, and withdrew, closing the ornately carved council room door silently behind him.
Silence hovered for a second or two, then Lainyr cleared his throat.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Your Grace,” he said to Fern.
“Your Eminence, you’re Bishop Executor of Dohlar,” Fern observed a bit dryly. “We can usually make a little time in our busy schedules when you think you need a word with us.”
“I know.” Lainyr smiled briefly. “I also know that isn’t always easy, though, because you truly do have very busy schedules, all of you. That’s true at any time, but I’m painfully well aware that it’s even truer at this moment. Indeed, I wouldn’t intrude on you if a matter of some considerable importance hadn’t been brought to my attention.”
“What sort of ‘matter,’ Your Eminence?” Fern asked obediently as the bishop executor paused, clearly inviting the question.
“I’ve received a letter,” Lainyr replied. “It arrived last five-day, and I spent the last six days in prayer and meditation, trying to decide what to do about it.”
Fern nodded, his expression attentive, although his own sources suggested the “prayer and meditation” had actually been a case of waiting for a response from Zion. The duke didn’t know what Lainyr’s urgent semaphore transmission had contained, but both of Fern’s discreetly—and expensively—bribed sources in the Church-administered semaphore office confirmed that the bishop executor had dispatched a lengthy coded message to the Temple, addressed collectively to Zhaspahr Clyntahn, Zahmsyn Trynair, and Allayn Maigwair. That was sufficient grounds for concern, but scarcely so unusual as to rise to the level of worrisome, given the fact that Mother Church was at war … and losing. Unfortunately, Lainyr’s message had been accompanied by an even lengthier one from Ahbsahlahn Kharmych which had been addressed solely to the Grand Inquisitor, and that had elevated the duke’s reaction from simple worry to outright alarm.
The fact that it had taken at least three days for those messages’ recipients to decide upon a reply didn’t make Samyl Cahkrayn feel one bit less alarmed.
“Having prayed and meditated,” Lainyr continued somberly, “I’ve decided my proper course is share that letter’s contents and concerns with you.”
“With me, specifically, Your Eminence, or with all of us present, collectively?”
Another unnecessary question, Fern thought, since you specifically asked for all three of us to be here. I wonder if you get as tired of this diplomatic song and dance as I do, Your Eminence?
“Most immediately, with you and Duke Salthar.” Lainyr nodded in Salthar’s direction. “Under the circumstances, however, it does touch upon Duke Thorast’s legitimate concerns, as well, I believe.”
“Then please tell us how we can be of service.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Lainyr reached into the breast of his cassock and removed two folded sheets of handwritten paper. He unfolded them carefully and laid them on the table in front of him, running the heel of one hand across them, as if to smooth out the fold marks, then looked up once more.
“Your Grace, this is a letter addressed to me from Sir Clyftyn Rahdgyrz. It wasn’t an easy letter for him to write, and I’m afraid that, after much prayer, I’ve concluded parts of it must be treated as falling under the seal of the confessional.” The bishop executor shook his head slowly. “Sir Clyftyn was obviously deeply troubled by his decision to write me at all, and it’s my belief the portions of it which deal directly with his spiritual concerns are best left between him, Mother Church, and God. I trust you’ll respect that decision on my part.”
“Of course I will, Your Eminence,” Fern assured him, just as seriously and soberly as if he’d had an actual choice in the matter.
“Thank you.”
Lainyr smiled again, fleetingly, but then his nostrils flared and he sat back in his chair, squaring his shoulders.
“Your Grace, I’m sure you know—I know Duke Salthar does, at any rate—that Sir Clyftyn and Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr have been close friends for many years?”
Fern nodded, and Lainyr stroked the letter in front of him.
“The reason I mention their long friendship is because I believe it lends added point to Sir Clyftyn’s concerns. I think it best to remind all of us that this is the letter of a friend and a man of honor and deep conviction, not of a personal enemy, political opponent, or anyone with what you might call an ax to grind. In other words, he would never have said anything … potentially damaging about a friend of such long-standing if he hadn’t believed he had an overriding responsibility to God and the Archangels to do so.”
The bishop executor paused, and Fern glanced at the other two. Then he turned back to Lainyr.
“Should we assume this letter is somehow … critical of Sir Fahstyr, Your Eminence?” he asked in a careful tone.
“I’m afraid it is.” Lainyr’s expression was grave, but he raised one hand in an almost placating gesture. “Mind you, it doesn’t criticize Sir Fahstyr’s devotion to God, Mother Church, or his Kingdom in any way. If anything, it extols his devotion. At the same time, however, Sir Clyftyn has concerns—deep concerns—over certain of Sir Fahstyr’s recent decisions. I believe he feels fatigue, which I’m sure is completely understandable given the terrible burdens the Jihad has laid upon Sir Fahstyr’s shoulders, is beginning to affect those decisions.”
“I see.”
Fern leaned back in his own chair, and his mind raced. He did, indeed, know about the close friendship between Rahdgyrz and Rychtyr, and he would never have expected Rahdgyrz to provide such potentially lethal ammunition against Rychtyr to the Inquisition.
But he didn’t, really. Or he wouldn’t see it that way, at any rate, so maybe you should have seen this coming. You’ve always known how … aggressively devoted to Mother Church Rahdgyrz is. If there’s one man in the entire Kingdom who’d be constitutionally incapable of questioning Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s version of reality, it would have to be him. And the way the Jihad’s been going has to be like acid eating his soul. He thinks we’re failing God, and that’s unacceptable. But he also believes Mother Church is still the clean and dutiful Bride the Writ describes, not captive to someone like Clyntahn. So he wouldn’t see this as betraying his friend to the Grand Inquisitor. If he’d wanted to do that, he’d’ve written to Kharmych, not Lainyr! No, he’s a dutiful son of Mother Church bringing his concerns to her senior shepherd here in the Kingdom, and he truly believes she’ll listen compassionately, not judgmentally.
“Which of Sir Fahstyr’s decisions are causing General Rahdgyrz distress, Your Eminence?” he asked after a long, still moment. He stressed the military title very slightly, and Lainyr’s eyes seemed to flicker.
“Sir Clyftyn,” the bishop executor’s tone recognized—and rejected—the duke’s implication that, as an officer in the Royal Dohlaran Army, Rahdgyrz’ concerns might more appropriately have been expressed to his secular superiors, “is concerned that Sir Fahstyr’s exhaustion is affecting his readiness to stand and fight. I should point out that Sir Clyftyn expresses the opinion that if, in fact, General Rychtyr is … disinclined to engage the heretics in a fight to the finish, that hesitation owes far more to the thousands of casualties his army has suffered than to any trace of physical or moral cowardice on his part. Sir Clyftyn agrees Sir Fahstyr is a good and godly man, Your Grace, and a brave soldier, but he’s also a very tired one. An officer who’s seen far too many of his men viciously slaughtered by the heretics. If, in fact, that’s the case—if grief for all of the other brave soldiers who’ve died under his orders is affecting his judgment—that would be totally understandable. Indeed, given how long he’s held his command, and the press
ure under which he’s operated for so long, it would be remarkable if a man of Sir Fahstyr’s caliber wasn’t affected—to some extent, at least—by the casualties his regiments have taken.”
You’re trying much too hard, Your Eminence, Fern thought. If you really thought so highly of Rychtyr—or if your superiors did, anyway—it wouldn’t have taken six days for you to bring this to us. Of course, that does rather raise the question of why it did take so long. And of why that lunatic Clyntahn isn’t already frothing at the mouth for us to send Rychtyr off to Zion!
“I’m sure General Rychtyr has been under a great deal of stress, Your Eminence,” he said out loud. “And the Book of Bédard warns us about the many ways in which fatigue and stress can affect our judgment. Could you, perhaps, be a bit more specific about the aspects of his recent decisions that cause you—and Sir Clyftyn, of course—to think that might be true in his case?”
“I should think the decision to simply surrender Bryxtyn and Waymeet to the heretics without so much as a fight might be a case in point, Your Grace,” Kharmych said a bit sharply, speaking up for the first time.
The intendant was only in his mid-thirties, brown-haired and with a very fair complexion. A native of the Episcopate of St. Cehseelya on the shore of Hsing-wu’s Passage, he found Dohlar’s hotter summers difficult. That wasn’t the only thing he found difficult about his present assignment, however, for he was a man of strong passions. He wasn’t what anyone might have called a tolerant man, either, nor was he always a tactful one. Lainyr gave him a dirty look, but the kingdom’s intendant seemed unfazed.
“Neither fortress had even been attacked when he ordered their garrisons to evacuate,” he continued. “Surely they could have tied down considerable numbers of the heretics’ forces if they’d resisted until they could be relieved!”
“Is that the opinion Sir Clyftyn expressed?” Fern inquired after a moment.
“It was one of the decisions that concerned him, yes, Your Grace,” Lainyr said before Kharmych could respond, and this time the intendant wasn’t able to ignore the sharp glance that came along with the words.
“Did Sir Clyftyn believe Bryxtyn or Waymeet could have held out for an extended period?” Duke Salthar asked, leaning forward slightly in his chair.
“No, Your Grace—not for an extended period.” Lainyr appeared unhappy about that concession, but he gave Kharmych another stern glance when the intendant shifted in his chair.
“And, in answer to the … difficulty which you see with Father Ahbsahlahn’s analysis,” the bishop executor continued, looking back to Salthar, “Sir Clyftyn didn’t suggest it would be possible to relieve either fortress in anything less than an extended period. He did, however, feel they might have held up the heretics long enough to permit General Rychtyr to establish a new front between, say, Kraisyr and the Bryxtyn High Road. As he points out, a labor force sufficient to throw up fresh entrenchments at that point was readily to hand. Given as much as another five-day or two, that labor force could have erected defensible earthworks. In Sir Clyftyn’s opinion, at least.”
“I see.” Salthar sat back once more and stroked his flowing mustache with a thoughtful air. “No one in the world has more respect or a greater admiration for Sir Clyftyn’s courage and tactical skill, Your Eminence,” he said then. “He’s demonstrated both of those far too conclusively to ever doubt them. However, I think it might be well to point out that the distance from Kraisyr to the Bryxtyn High Road is just over ninety miles as the wyvern flies. At the time Sir Fahstyr—and Father Pairaik—ordered the evacuation of the two fortresses, the Army of the Seridahn’s effective strength had fallen to approximately thirty-eight thousand men. That would have given him about four men per yard of frontage if he’d attempted to hold a line that long.”
“Sir Clyftyn wasn’t suggesting holding that entire distance in a single fortified line, Your Grace.” Kharmych’s sharp tone was that of a man who couldn’t keep himself from responding, despite the bishop executor’s glare.
“I’m sure he wasn’t, Father,” Salthar replied. “But that’s still the density Sir Fahstyr would have had to cover the distance. I’m afraid this is something he and I had discussed earlier, well before the heretics crossed out of the South March. If you’d like, I can share the correspondence with you and the Bishop Executor. To summarize, however, the sense of our conversation was that to generate sufficient density to hold an extended line like that would require him to adopt a ‘nodal’ deployment. He couldn’t have enough men in any one spot to resist a heretic attack without splitting his army into numerous smaller forces and stringing them out like beads in a necklace. But he simply can’t afford to parcel his men out into isolated fortified positions, like that, unable to offer one another mutual support. He was outnumbered by the heretics by very close to three-to-one. If he’d dug in in the necessary nodal positions, Hanth would have found it absurdly simple to drive forces between them to isolate them from one another and then bring overpowering strength to bear on each of them in turn. The entire Army of the Seridahn would almost certainly have been destroyed within five-days.”
Something flickered in Kharmych’s eyes, and Fern kept his expression very carefully neutral as he saw it.
“There might well have been risks involved in such an attempt, Your Grace, but he could still have compelled the heretics to deploy against him,” Lainyr pointed out before Kharmych could speak. Salthar cocked his head politely, and the bishop executor shrugged. “He’s done that several times since his retreat from Thesmar. Indeed, that’s how his strategy was explained to Mother Church from the beginning. The entire idea was to compel the heretics to bring up the ‘overpowering strength’ necessary to crush his fortified positions because they would expend precious time doing that before he slipped away and required them to do it all over again. Was that not the way you understood it, Your Grace?”
His tone was a bit more pointed, although still considerably less sharp than Kharmych’s had been.
“Yes, Your Eminence, that’s exactly the way I understood his proposed strategy from the beginning. And as we pointed out to Captain General Allayn, without more manpower—and the weapons for them—that was the only strategy available to us. But for it to work, he needs to find positions that are relatively compact and where he can establish something like firm flanks. And, I should point out that the dryer ground and the flatter terrain west of the border strongly favor the heretics’ greater mobility. That puts them in a far better position to flank any line he establishes—or to break through between nodes and crush them in isolation—than they were over the winter while he had them pinned against the canal in the bad ground east of the border. And that, I’m afraid, securing his flanks means finding terrain that significantly restricts their mobility. Unfortunately, he couldn’t have done that on the line you’re saying—if I understand you correctly, at least—Sir Clyftyn advocated.”
Lainyr nodded, although his expression was that of a man who didn’t much care for where the conversation was going. And, of a man who hadn’t expected the Duke of Salthar to be the one taking it there.
Fern kept his own expression merely politely attentive, but it was difficult. What he really wanted to do was to beam at Salthar in approval. The other duke would never see seventy again, and he’d have been utterly out of his depth trying to actually manage a battle using the new model weapons Charis had introduced to the world. But the first councilor had always known he was a long way from stupid. He might not be anything like adequately versed in the new style of warfare’s tactics, but he understood strategy just fine. On the other hand, he’d always been one of the Jihad’s strongest supporters. He might have been willing, upon occasion, to question some of Mother Church’s tactical decisions, but he’d been firmly devoted to achieving her victory at any cost. He’d been one of the voices in King Rahnyld’s Council upon whose support Lainyr and Kharmych had always been able to depend. The possibility that this time might be different obviously didn’t ma
ke the bishop executor very happy.
Of course, he hasn’t known Shain as long as I have, Fern thought dryly. Yes, he’s a loyal son of Mother Church, but the problem with a man of faith is that he’s a man of faith. If you push him beyond the limits of his beliefs, his own understanding of God’s will, bad things can happen … especially when you crank in a dash of desperation. And he is feeling the desperation. For that matter, you know damned well that desperation’s playing a part in your thinking, now don’t you? What was it Cayleb’s supposed to have said? Something like ‘When a man knows he’s going to be hanged in a five-day, it concentrates his thoughts wonderfully’ or something like that, wasn’t it? The first councilor snorted silently in harsh amusement. Man may be a heretic—for some definitions of the word, anyway—but he does have a way with words!
Lainyr wasn’t the only person at the table who looked unhappy with Salthar’s analysis.
“But sooner or later, somewhere, he has to actually stop the heretics, Your Grace!”
Kharmych’s tone was hotter than an upper-priest should use to the duke who commanded Mother Church’s only army currently in contact with the enemy, Fern thought. This time, however, Lainyr showed no inclination to call his attack dog to heel.
“After all,” the intendant continued, “every mile they advance leaves still more of the faithful children of Mother Church in heretical clutches!” The corners of the intendant’s eyes strayed towards Thorast. “They’re already over a hundred miles deep into the Kingdom, a third of the way across Thorast. And when General Rychtyr abandoned—I mean, declined to defend—Shandyr, he handed Hanth the largest city in eastern Thorast! If he wasn’t prepared to stand in defense of that city, where will he stand?!”
This time he looked straight at Thorast, clearly inviting his contribution to the argument, and the duke shifted in his chair.
“Believe me, Father,” he said gravely, his expression troubled, “I understand what you’re saying, and the thought of my people in the grip of heresy, however temporarily, weighs heavily upon me.”
