By Heresies Distressed (46 page)

The empress, Gray Harbor realized, had just turned Seamount into her adoring slave. Her nimble mind's quick grasp obviously delighted the pudgy artillerist, and he beamed at her as if they were co-conspirators.

“That's
exactly
right, Your Majesty!” he agreed, nodding vigorously. “In fact, that's the very thing I'm working on now.”

“And how are you approaching the problem?”

Sharleyan's expression was intent, and Gray Harbor realized something else. If she'd just captivated Seamount, it was because she was genuinely fascinated by what the baron had accomplished. She
was
Seamount's co-conspirator, and the first councilor had a sudden picture of her in the commodore's workshop, sleeves rolled up, hands grimy, dirt smudged across her nose, and as happy as a little girl in a candy shop.

“Actually, I'm thinking that what we need is some sort of incendiary composition,” Seamount told her. “Something that doesn't need a spark for ignition. Something that ignites from
friction
, for example. Gunpowder can do that. It's one of the dangers we look for in magazines where it's stored. But gunpowder won't work for this. We need something else. I'm trying several different compositions at the moment, and Dr. Mahklyn and the Royal College are also working on the problem. In the end, I think, the solution is going to be to make a fuse which is a closed vessel, with its walls coated in the composition we've managed to devise, and something like a heavy ball coated in more of the composition that flies forward when the shell lands and—”

“And strikes the walls of the vessel, setting off whatever compound you finally come up with, and detonates the shell on impact!” Sharleyan finished for him with a huge smile.

“Yes!” Seamount beamed back at her. For several seconds, they simply stood there, grinning at each other. Then the baron gave himself a shake.

“Your Majesty, I trust you'll forgive me for saying that you're even quicker at grasping possibilities than the Emperor. And that's saying a great deal, indeed.”

“Thank you, My Lord. That's a compliment I'll treasure,” Sharleyan told him. Then she inhaled deeply.

“And now, Baron Seamount, I believe you were about to demonstrate to me how to fire an explosive shell to the other side of a wall?”

“Excuse me, My Lord, but this just arrived.”

“Ahlvyn, Ahlvyn!” The man seated at the table looked up, waved an admonishing finger at the younger man standing in the doorway, and shook his head. “How many times must I remind you that I'm a simple merchant?” Archbishop Mylz Halcom asked chidingly.

“Excuse me, My Lo— Sir.” The younger man colored slightly at the familiar reprimand. “I'm afraid I'm more of a creature of habit than I'd thought I was.”

“We all are, and in some ways, that's a good thing. But it's also something that anyone—even a priest—needs to be aware of and guard against. Especially now.”

“Of course, Sir.” The younger man bent his head in a brief bow of acknowledgment, then held out a sealed envelope. “As I was saying, this just arrived.”

“I see.”

The man seated at the table took the envelope and turned it slowly in his hands. It was addressed to “Edvarhd Dahryus, at the Laughing Bride,” and he rather thought he recognized the handwriting.

“Thank you, Ahlvyn,” he said.

The younger man gave him another brief bow and withdrew from the room. “Dahryus” watched him go, then reached to the narrow bookshelf beside his worktable and withdrew a copy of
The Life of Saint Evyrahard
which had been printed right here in Tellesberg. He laid the book on the table, unsealed the envelope, and extracted the several thin sheets of fine, expensive, gilt-edged paper it contained. They were covered in columns of numbers—the new numbers, which had originated here in Charis—and he smiled thinly. The cipher in which the letter had been written was based on a technique the Church had worked out centuries before, but it amused him, in a grim sort of way, that the Charisians' own new numbers had made it so much simpler and more effective now that he found himself forced to employ it against them.

He laid out another pad of paper, inked his pen, and opened the book. The numbers were arranged in groups of four, and he started turning pages. The cipher was both simple and impossible to break without the key, albeit at the price of a certain cumbersomeness. The first number in each group referred to a specific page in Saint Evyrahard's biography. The second number referred to a paragraph on that page, the third referred to a sentence in that paragraph, and the fourth referred to a specific word in that sentence. Without knowing which book the cipher was based upon, no one could possibly break the code.

Which is undoubtedly a good thing at the moment
, he reflected as he began laboriously counting.
I think, though, that it might not be a bad idea to suggest that our friend use less expensive paper in the future. Wave Thunder might not be able to break the cipher, but I'll bet his agents could probably locate everyone who sells this particular paper . . . and find out who they sold it to
.

He worked his way slowly but steadily through the entire letter, transcribing the indicated words without really trying to read them. He knew his own impatience, and he was well aware of his ability to allow himself to succumb to distraction when faced with tasks like this one. As a young monk, he'd always found the traditional discipline of the scriptorium boring beyond words, not to mention pointless, given the existence of printing presses and moveable type. In fact, he'd been disciplined more than once for finding ways to amuse himself when he ought to have been attending to his copyist's duties. But although his present task's demand for exact accuracy and laborious precision was just as great, its purpose was deadly important, and so he forced himself to complete the entire task before he turned back to the very beginning and began methodically reading.

It took him several minutes to complete the transcribed text, and his eyes narrowed as he worked his way through it. Then he sat back, gazing up at the ceiling while he contemplated what he'd read. He stayed that way for the better part of half an hour, then straightened abruptly.

“Ahlvyn!”

“Yes, sir?”

Ahlvyn Shumay reappeared in the doorway as if by magic, and despite the tension the letter from the palace had generated, Halcom smiled slightly. The youthful priest would never admit it, of course, but Halcom knew he'd been hovering outside the door, consumed by curiosity. Then the bishop thought about what that letter had actually said, and the temptation to smile disappeared.

“We need a letter. Two letters, actually. One to our friend in the Palace, and one for our friend in the mountains.”

“Yes, Sir.” Shumay sat down on the opposite side of the table, took the pen Halcom had laid aside, and prepared to take notes. “Whenever you're ready, sir.”

“According to our friend here in Tellesberg,” Halcom began, tapping the letter he'd decoded, “the Duke has mentioned Saint Agtha's to the Empress, and as expected, she's expressed an interest in visiting the convent. Unfortunately, the Royal Guard—excuse me,” he smiled thinly, “I mean the ‘
Imperial
Guard,' of course—is being rather more solicitous of her security than we'd hoped. Our friend doesn't yet know just how strongly they intend to reinforce her normal bodyguards for any excursions outside the Palace, but he says they definitely will be reinforced. So, to our two letters.

“First, to our friend in the Palace. Inform him that we cannot risk exposing our presence and our capabilities unless we're as certain as humanly possible of success. If we make an attempt of this nature, and we fail, it's unlikely enough of us will survive to make another attempt. And even if that weren't the case, an unsuccessful attempt will certainly cause them to increase their bodyguards and all of their other security precautions. Because of that, I will not authorize the operation, even if Sharleyan does carry out her plans to visit Saint Agtha's, unless we have accurate information on the strength of her bodyguard at least several days before she departs the Palace. I don't wish him to run any extraordinary risks in acquiring that information. Stress to him that he'll be more valuable where he is in the future, even if this operation is never attempted, than he would be unmasked and executed. Not to mention the fact that if he
is
unmasked and executed, it will mean this particular operation will be a failure, anyway. Nonetheless, he needs to be aware that we simply can't act without that knowledge.”

“Yes, Sir,” Shumay said, pen flying as he jotted down the bishop's points.

“Now for our friend in the mountains.” Halcom frowned, then inhaled deeply. “I'm very much afraid we're going to have to risk widening our contacts,” he said. “We're simply going to need more men than we already have, and that means actively recruiting the people who can provide them. Tell him I'm assuming on the basis of present information that we'll have to increase the size of our force by at least another third, and possibly as much as half. I realize we've discussed the possibility that something like this might arise, and that he's done some preliminary planning already, but tell him to be extremely cautious about who he admits to his plans and how deeply he allows them to become involved—and informed—before the actual strike itself.”

“With all due respect, Sir,” Shumay said, “but would it be wise to involve anyone who isn't aware, at least in a general sense, of what will be asked of them?”

“A valid point,” Halcom conceded. “You're concerned that if they aren't aware of what we intend to do before the actual operation, some of them may balk when they do find out?”

“That's my major tactical concern, Sir,” Shumay agreed. “There's also the moral issue, of course.”

“There is indeed.” Halcom smiled affectionately at his aide. “And you're quite right that we can't forget our priestly calling and responsibilities simply because we find ourselves called to a sort of service we never contemplated when we first took our vows. Still, I'm afraid our greater responsibility to defend Mother Church against her enemies outweighs many of our purely pastoral concerns. At this moment, and especially for this particular operation, we must think first and foremost in pragmatic terms about the tactics and precautions necessary to success.

“Every individual we recruit increases the number of people who may inadvertently betray us, our plans, and God, even if that individual is completely and totally trustworthy. Should someone
not
be trustworthy, not be fully committed to what we ask of him in God's name, then the danger of betrayal increases many times over. And should we recruit someone who might—as you're quite right to be concerned over—balk at the last minute, then that person would be much more likely to inform one of Wave Thunder's agents if he learned early on exactly what our objectives are. Finally, should someone feel inclined to balk at the very last moment, after our force has already assembled to launch the strike, it will, to put it bluntly, be too late. The mere fact that he's already joined us under arms in what the Emperor and Empress, despite their excommunication and the interdict, will quite properly construe as an act of ‘treason' against them will mean he stands condemned before the Emperor's Bench of a capital crime whatever happens. Not only that, but if he attempts to withdraw, or even to actively resist our plans, we'll have the additional men available to prevent him from doing so.”

He paused, regarding his aide's troubled expression across the table, and smiled sadly.

“In some ways, I suppose, I'm guilty of allowing expediency to overrule conscience. And I'm definitely taking precautions which will make it effectively impossible for everyone involved in God's work to have made a fully informed decision about taking up that task. But I'm a bishop of Mother Church, Ahlvyn, just as both of us are priests. We have a responsibility not simply to the individuals who may be involved in this particular effort against the schismatics, but also to all of the other souls which may be lost forever to Shan-wei if our effort is unsuccessful. However much we may regret it, we must make our decisions on the basis of that larger responsibility.”

The bishop's expression darkened, and he shook his head.

“I know I'm asking much of the loyal sons of Mother Church, Ahlvyn. And it grieves me to do so without being completely honest with them beforehand. Yet, in my defense, I've asked as much or more of you. And of myself. We both have vows of obedience and loyalty to God and Mother Church, of course, and more is asked of any priest than of the souls in his care, but I never expected when I took those vows that those responsibilities would require me to set my hand to something like this. I know Sharleyan has made herself God's enemy. I know who she truly serves. And I genuinely believe that what we intend to do is the most effective blow we could possibly strike against the unholy alliance gathering to assail Mother Church. All of that's true. Yet when I face God and the Archangels in my evening prayers every night, I find myself begging for their forgiveness.”

“Do you, Sir?” Shumay asked softly. Halcom quirked one eyebrow, and the younger cleric shrugged. “I find myself in the same situation,” he explained.

“Of course you do,” Halcom said sadly. “You're a priest. Priests are charged to care for their flocks, not to plan acts of violence and rebellion against secular authority. It's how we think, as well as who we are. And that's why we both find ourselves asking forgiveness for doing the very thing we know Langhorne now calls us to. I sometimes think that the darkest thing of all about Shan-wei is her ability to contrive situations in which good and godly men find themselves forced to choose between evils in the service of God. Is it more evil for us, as individuals, to act as we are, or would it be more evil for us to
refuse
to act and allow this monstrous challenge to God's plan for all mankind to go unchecked?”