Off Armageddon Reef (61 page)

He gazed out over the rolling blue water of the Markovian Sea, and deep inside his heart railed at the unfairness of a world in which God permitted this to happen to him.

“Now, Father Ahlbyrt,” Samyl Cahkrayn, the Duke of Fern, said to Ahlbyrt Harys as the palace footman showed the young priest into his private office in the Royal Palace. “What can I do for you today?”

“First, Your Grace, let me thank you for agreeing to see me,” Harys said. “I know how busy you are as the Kingdom's First Councillor, and I, alas, am only an under-priest.” He smiled charmingly. “Believe me, I'm only too well aware of what a small fish that makes me!”

“Nonsense, Father!” Fern smiled back at him, considerably more broadly. “You serve the Council of Vicars. Indeed, your letters of introduction are signed by the Chancellor himself. That makes you a rather larger fish than you may believe it does.”

“That's kind of you, at any rate, Your Grace,” Harys replied. In fact, as both of them understood perfectly well, it made him a very big fish indeed. But both of them knew how the game was played, and so both of them were also aware that his junior status allowed him to be an
unofficial
big fish. The one difference between them was that Harys knew why that was important.

“The Chancellor's letter implied you were here to discuss some diplomatic matter, Father?”

“Actually, Your Grace, it might be more accurate to say I'm here in an advisory capacity. Vicar Zahmsyn is rather concerned about certain developments—not here in Dohlar, of course—which could have…unfortunate implications for God's Plan, and my instructions are to share his concerns with you.”

Fern had been listening with a grave smile. That smile disappeared with Harys' last few words, and he straightened a bit abruptly in his chair.

“That sounds ominous, Father,” the duke said after a moment into the small silence Harys had allowed to fall, and his tone was cautious.

“It's always possible the Chancellor's concerns are misplaced,” Harys said with precisely metered reassurance. “And, of course, I myself am not so experienced as he in matters such as this. It's possible my understanding of those concerns is less than perfect. I may be overreacting to what he said to me when he briefed me for this journey.”

“That's always understood, of course,” Fern murmured, but his sharp eyes told Harys he knew better. That he perfectly understood the diplomatic camouflage of the priest's last two sentences, even if he didn't yet know the reason for it.

“Well, having said that,” Harys continued, “I'm afraid there are persistent reports of disquieting changes and initiatives coming out of Charis. At this stage, there's no concrete evidence any of the Proscriptions have been violated, of course. If there were, Mother Church and the Inquisition would already have acted. However, there's a growing level of concern, let us say, that the Proscriptions are being more and more closely approached.”

“I see,” Fern said, although it was clear to Harys he
didn't
—not yet, at least.

“Mother Church cannot take action based upon mere suspicion,” the under-priest continued. “That, as I know you're aware, is a fundamental principle which was established long ago. But what's binding upon Mother Church in a corporate and temporal sense, as the anointed guardian of God's Plan, is less restrictive when the Church's servants discover they must act in a more secular role.”

Fern nodded silently, this time in genuine comprehension.

“In a sense,” Harys said, just to make sure they truly did understand one another, “I'm here not in the service of Vicar Zahmsyn or the Chancellor of the Council of Vicars so much as in the service of the Knights of the Temple Lands as they seek to discharge their responsibility for the secular administration of the Temple Lands. Of course, the Knights also sit upon the Council of Vicars, so there must be a certain commonality between their responsibilities as rulers in this world and the Church's temporal responsibility for men's souls in the next. Still, that which is binding upon Mother Church must not be lightly set aside by any of her servants, whether they act in the secular or the temporal role.”

“I've often thought it must be extraordinarily difficult for the Vicars to discharge all their heavy responsibilities,” Fern observed. “Obviously, as King Rahnyld's first councillor, my own duties are only a shadow of those which fall upon
their
shoulders. Despite that, there are times when I find myself torn between conflicting obligations, and that must be far worse for someone like the Chancellor. On the one hand, he has all of the responsibilities of any secular ruler, but on the other, he must be eternally vigilant against even the suggestion of capriciousness in how he might go about meeting them because of his even graver responsibilities to God and Mother Church.”

“That, unfortunately, is only too true, Your Grace,” Harys said with a sad little smile. “And in the case of Charis, the situation is further complicated by the fact that neither Mother Church nor the Temple Lands maintains any great strength at sea. Should it happen that…direct action against Charis became necessary, neither the Church nor the Temple Lands would have the means for it.”

“Does the Chancellor think such an eventuality is likely?” Fern asked, his voice was calm, merely thoughtful, but his eyes were very narrow, and Harys shrugged.

“Again, Your Grace, you must remember my relative youth and inexperience. I may very well be reading more into the Chancellor's instructions than he intended. However, my own interpretation is that he does, indeed, fear such a day of direct conflict may dawn. How
likely
it is, I'm in no position to say. But the Chancellor will have been derelict in his duty if it happened such a terrible situation should arise, despite all his earnest prayers, if he's taken no steps to prepare against it. Hence my visit to Gorath.”

“Indeed?” Fern cocked his head to one side.

“Your Grace, unlike the Temple Lands, Dohlar has a powerful fleet,” Harys said frankly. “Moreover, without wishing to suggest that considerations of material gain could drive your Kingdom's policy, Charis' maritime strength is a direct threat to Dohlar's own needs and aspirations. In light of those considerations, the Chancellor has asked me to point out to you that the Temple Lands and Dohlar share a natural common interest. While the Chancellor's concerns are a direct reflection of his duties as one of God's senior shepherds, he's also well aware of the fashion in which Charis' growing wealth and power menace Dohlar's future. The primary reason for my mission here is to alert you to his growing disquiet…and to assure you that he—and Mother Church—understand any reservations you and King Rahnyld may feel about Charis.”

Duke Fern's eyes were very narrow indeed now.

“And is the Chancellor preparing to take action if it should become necessary?” he asked.

“As I say, Your Grace, he has no naval forces at his command. Or, rather, no naval forces sufficient for a threat such as this. Nor is there likely to be time for the Temple Lands to increase their naval strength to that point. However—” Harys looked Fern directly in the eye. “—the Temple Lands' treasury is deep. Should it become necessary to take action, I feel confident the Chancellor and the Grand Vicar would recognize Mother Church's responsibility to support the sword arm of any prince or king acting in defense of God's Plan.”

There was silence in the chamber for several seconds, and then Fern nodded slowly.

“I thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Father. I assure you I'll inform His Majesty as promptly as possible about the Chancellor's concerns, and also about your own analysis of the…constraints under which he must address them. While I certainly can't speak for the King at this time, I'm sure he'd want me to ask you to inform the Chancellor that, as a loyal son of Mother Church, he stands, as always, ready to defend her against any threat.”

“Your Grace, I see your reputation for graciousness and piety is well deserved.” Harys bowed again. “I'll relay your words directly to the Chancellor. And, of course”—he looked up and met the duke's eye once again—“I'll keep you informed of any new messages I receive from him.”

“Your Eminence.” Bishop Executor Zherald Ahdymsyn bowed to kiss Archbishop Erayk Dynnys' ring as the archbishop was shown into the Archbishop's Palace. Although the Palace was officially Dynnys' residence, it was Ahdymsyn's
home
, and the bishop executor always felt just a bit odd when the archbishop arrived. As always, he'd met Dynnys in the entry hall, whose black and white marble squares stretched away, glistening in the sunlight pouring through the wide, deep set windows.

“Welcome to Tellesberg,” he continued, straightening from his bow.

“Thank you, Zherald,” Dynnys responded with a somewhat tart smile. “I appreciate the welcome, although, to be frank, I'd rather be in Zion.”

“That's understandable, Your Eminence.” Ahdymsyn returned his superior's smile, but inwardly he was somewhat shocked by Dynnys' appearance. It wasn't the ironwood cane and the hipshot stance, obviously designed to relieve pressure on the archbishop's right leg. Those he'd expected, more or less, following the dispatches about Dynnys' injuries. What he
hadn't
expected was the semipermanent vertical furrow between the archbishop's eyes. Or, for that matter, the worry in those eyes themselves.

“We have much to discuss,” Dynnys said, then glanced over his shoulder as the rest of his party filed respectfully into the entrance hall behind him. Ahdymsyn recognized most of them, but there were a few new faces. There always were.

He was a bit surprised by Mahtaio Broun's absence, but only for a moment. Broun's steady climb in the archbishop's service and confidence made him the logical choice to be left home to see to Dynnys' interests in the Temple in his absence, and Ahdymsyn cocked his head with a slightly inquisitive expression as Dynnys waved one of the new faces—a young under-priest—forward.

“Zherald, this is Father Symyn Shumakyr, my new secretary. Symyn, Bishop Zherald.”

“An honor, Your Eminence,” Shumakyr murmured, bending to kiss Ahdymsyn's ring.

“Welcome to Tellesberg,” Ahdymsyn responded.

Shumakyr was a personable-looking young man, in the habit of the Order of Langhorne with the white crown of a prelate's secretary on his sleeve. His eyes were bright and alert, and after his introduction, he stepped back into precisely the right position, one pace behind and to the left of his patron. On first impression, at least, he seemed a more than adequate replacement for Broun.

“I'm sure that after the fatigue of your long journey, you need an opportunity to rest and refresh yourself, Your Eminence,” the bishop executor said, turning back to Dynnys.

“I certainly do,” the archbishop agreed. “At the same time, thanks to my accident, I've been absent from Charis for much too long.” He gave Ahdymsyn a sharp, straight look. “I'd like to get right to work, make up some of that lost time. I thought we might take time for a fairly leisurely lunch, then begin immediately with a general overview of the Archbishopric's affairs.”

“Of course, Your Eminence,” Ahdymsyn replied, not really surprised, given the anxiety in the archbishop's eyes and body language. He gestured to a liveried servant. “Hauwyrd will escort you to your chamber so that you can refresh yourself before lunch. We'll get the rest of your people settled in, as well.”

“Thank you, Zherald,” Dynnys said with a genuinely grateful smile. “That sounds excellent.”

“So, while I'm not totally easy in my own mind over this recent spate of new ideas, Father Paityr assures me there's absolutely no evidence of a violation of the Proscriptions.”

“I gathered as much from your dispatches. And, of course, from young Wylsynn's reports,” Dynnys said. He leaned back in the comfortable chair behind the desk in the large office permanently reserved for his exclusive use on his visits to his archbishopric. Ahdymsyn sat in a facing chair, and Father Symyn sat at a smaller desk to one side, the nib of his pen scratching as he took notes.

“As you, I'm more than a little uneasy over the abruptness with which all these…innovations have emerged,” the archbishop continued. “That was why I requested Father Paityr to revisit his original evaluations of them.”

He paused, then grimaced and glanced at his secretary.

“I think we'll go off record for a moment, Symyn,” he said.

“Of course, Your Eminence,” Shumakyr murmured, laying down his pen and folding his hands on his desk.

“To be totally candid, Zherald,” Dynnys said then, “I'm not the only person in the Temple or in Zion who's been anxious about reports coming out of Charis. The Chancellor himself has expressed his concerns on more than one occasion.”

He paused, and Ahdymsyn nodded very slightly. There was no need for the archbishop to explain that if Vicar Zahmsyn had expressed an opinion, it was actually that of the Group of Four.

“My impression is that those concerns encompass more than simply these new ship designs, or the new spinning and weaving machines, or new ways of counting,” Dynnys continued after a moment. “Nonetheless, all those things are symptomatic of what appears to be worrying him. So I very much hope it will be possible to put his mind at ease over these matters. We need to reassure him that we're aware of our responsibilities, both to the Council and to God, and that we're meeting them with vigilance and forethought. And we also need to demonstrate that we're determined to keep an open mind—to continue to test, and to withdraw the certification of suspect devices or processes if we subsequently determine that the original attestation was in error.”

“I understand, Your Eminence,” Ahdymsyn assured him.

“Good. In that regard, I'd like you to arrange a personal interview for me with Father Paityr as early as possible tomorrow morning.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.”

“Thank you.” The archbishop nodded to Shumakyr, who picked up his pen once again, then looked back at Ahdymsyn.

“And now, Zherald, please continue.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.” Ahdymsyn cleared his throat. “I have been a little concerned over a few minor points of doctrinal interpretation on the part of some of our local priesthood,” he said carefully. “While I've seen no signs of any deliberate or intentional challenge to orthodoxy, there are some points upon which I think it might be well for you to counsel our priests and bishops, Your Eminence.”

Dynnys' eyes narrowed slightly, and Ahdymsyn continued in a deliberately unhurried voice.

“Such minor matters of correction are far from uncommon, of course, and I've dealt with them as they arose. Nonetheless, while you're here in Charis, I feel it would be most appreciated by all of our priesthood to hear a frank expression of your own views and to receive your pastoral instruction.”

“I'm sure you're right,” Dynnys agreed after a moment. “Please see to working that into our schedule. And perhaps it would be well for me to meet privately with Bishop Maikel first?”

“I think that might be wise, Your Eminence, as well as courteous,” Ahdymsyn said with a nod.

“See to that, as well, then, too.”

“Of course, Your Eminence.”

Ahdymsyn cleared his throat once more.

“One of the brighter spots has been the readiness with which the archbishopric's tithes have come forward,” he said much more cheerfully. “That's not to say there hasn't been a certain degree of grumbling—there always is—and pleas for extenuating circumstances. I've granted a few commutations, subject to your approval, of course.

“The Church's estates and manors, not to mention the monasteries and convents, are generally in good order. I'm a little concerned about the management of one or two of our manors in Margaret's Land, but over all I have few complaints or criticisms. In the case of—”

“Your Eminence.”

Father Paityr Wylsynn crossed Archbishop Erayk's large, luxuriously furnished office with quick, brisk strides. He went to one knee before the archbishop and bent his head to kiss Dynnys' ring, then remained kneeling until Dynnys touched him lightly on the shoulder.

“Rise, Father,” the archbishop said, and Wylsynn obeyed.

He folded his arms in the sleeves of his cassock, waiting silently, his expression both attentive and respectful, and Dynnys studied him thoughtfully.

He had the Wylsynn look, the archbishop thought. That strong nose and the stubborn, one might almost say mulish, set of the mouth were all too familiar, but there was something else about this youngster. Something in the gray eyes…or perhaps the set of the shoulders. It wasn't defiant, or disrespectful. Indeed, it was almost…serene.

Whatever it was, it made Dynnys uneasy, and he smiled a bit more broadly than usual to conceal it.

“I appreciate the promptness with which you responded to my request for a reexamination of your conclusions concerning the new processes and devices introduced here in Charis over the past year or so, Father.”

“I'm gratified that I was able to meet your requirements, Your Eminence.”

“Yes. Well,” Dynnys turned and limped around behind his desk and sank into the comfortable chair, “while I appreciate how quickly you responded, it occurred to me that it was possible I might have rushed you just a bit. Do you feel confident you were able to take sufficient time to be certain in your own mind of your conclusions?”

He met the young upper-priest' eyes steadily. Any cleric of Wylsynn's seniority in the Temple or Zion would almost certainly have taken the hint. Wylsynn only looked back calmly and nodded.

“Yes, Your Eminence, I am, thank you.”

“So you remain of your original opinion that there are no violations involved? No need for the Church to issue any cautionary notices? Revoke any attestations?” Dynnys asked pleasantly.

“Yes, Your Eminence, I do.”

“I see.”

Dynnys continued to gaze at the red-haired young intendant with a pronounced sense of frustration. Wylsynn couldn't possibly be as blind to the Church's political realities as he chose to appear, but his serenity was a shield, impervious to the archbishop's prods.

The Group of Four wanted proof Dynnys was
doing
something…and that Charis was sufficiently obedient to its archbishop that
they
need not take action. And if he ordered the revocation of an attestation and Charis accepted it—which he was certain the kingdom would—he would have convincing evidence the situation was under control. But if Wylsynn gave him no opening, there was no way he could act.

With another intendant, Dynnys might have been tempted to order him to rewrite his initial evaluations to give him what he needed. With
this
intendant, that was out of the question. Besides, when it came right down to it, Dynnys wasn't truly certain he really wanted Wylsynn to disallow any of the Charisian innovations.

Or I
think
I'm not, anyway
, he told himself.
Of course, that might be no more than putting the best face on it, since the stubborn little bastard isn't going to give an inch. On the other hand, as long as Wylsynn stands firm—which he obviously intends to do—even Clyntahn's going to find it hard to move against Charis for heresy. And if I emphasize his confidence in my “everything's all right down here,
really”
reports to the Temple
…

“In that case, I suppose there's nothing more to be said on that head,” he resumed aloud after a moment. “However, I would like to ask you for your personal impression of this Merlin Athrawes. I read your dispatch, of course, but I've found the written word frequently fails to convey all of the nuances.”

“Of course, Your Eminence,” Wylsynn said when Dynnys paused with one eyebrow arched. “As I wrote in the dispatch to which you just referred, I personally interviewed Lieutenant Athrawes. Although you hadn't specifically requested me to, I felt the stories flying about required a closer look. Of course, all manner of wild rumors about him were undoubtedly inevitable, given the part he played in saving the Crown Prince's life. And then again, in that matter of the Duke of Tirian's treason.