By Heresies Distressed (50 page)

As far as Tryair knew,
no
Delferahkan civilians had been killed in the Charisian attack, but there was no way for Charis to prove that. No handy, captured reports which were bound to get out, anyway, and leave all sorts of embarrassing mud on the Church's face.

None of which meant that the Charisians hadn't demonstrated a fiendish ability to distribute their propaganda—like their version of Ferayd—whenever and wherever they chose.

Clyntahn seemed particularly irate about that. No doubt because he'd believed the Inquisition's ability to intercept such inflammatory documents was adequate to the Church's needs. What he was discovering, unfortunately, was that much of the Inquisition's previous success had been due to the fact that no realm or kingdom had ever before dared to openly proclaim its opposition to the Church. These were no smudgy, poor-quality sheets run off on a hidden press in some malcontent lunatic's cellar. These were every bit as professionally produced as anything the Inquisition or Office of Instruction had ever distributed, and literally thousands of them were mysteriously appearing in every port city.

And unlike our efforts, they have the unfair advantage of actually telling the truth, don't they, Zhaspahr?
the Chancellor reflected grimly.

Trynair considered asking the same question aloud, but only briefly. First, because it didn't really matter a great deal either way, after the fact, and second, because nothing he could say would change Clyntahn's view, and he knew it. Just as he knew that attempting to challenge the Grand Inquisitor's version could actually be . . . hazardous.

“At any rate,” Clyntahn went on after a moment, “I've sent out instructions to every intendant and to every senior inquisitor. We'll still use the silk glove approach with the laity—for a while, at least—but it's time for them to begin making clear to the clergy that the possibility of some sort of patched-up compromise is long past . . . if it ever existed in the first place! Trust me, they'll soon understand that no defeatism or lack of enthusiasm will be tolerated.”

“I could wish, Zhaspahr,” Trynair said after a brief pause, “that you'd at least informed me of your intentions before you sent out those instructions. I am Chancellor, you know. The archbishops and bishops should have received a letter of instruction from me at least simultaneously.”

“The actions of the Order of Schueler, Mother Church's intendants, and the Office of Inquisition are
my
responsibility, Zahmsyn,” Clyntahn said coldly. “You may send whatever instructions you like to the archbishops and bishops, but it's the Inquisition's task to see to it that all of Mother Church's priests know precisely what is expected of them—and what will be
demanded
of them—where matters of spiritual and doctrinal purity are concerned.”

Trynair's nostrils flared, but he sat on his own instant surge of anger. What Clyntahn had just said—in his own, thankfully inimitable fashion—was true. Trynair never doubted that the way Clyntahn had handled it, like his current half-glare, owed a great deal to the fashion in which the Chancellor had . . . discussed Ferayd with him, but that didn't make what he'd just said inaccurate. Nor did it change the importance of handling him carefully. Still, there was a point here which had to be made.

“I never said it wasn't the Inquisition's responsibility to ensure the reliability and purity of doctrine, Zhaspahr,” he said in a calm but firm voice. “I merely indicated that there are longstanding traditions and procedures by which such messages and instructions are supposed to be distributed. You know that as well as I do . . . and so do the bishops. If we begin sending out directives which obviously haven't been coordinated with one another, it's only going to engender a sense of confusion and make them wonder if we're truly in control of the situation. I don't think either of us wants that to happen, do we?”

He met Clyntahn's eye levelly, forcing himself not to flinch, despite any inner qualms. It wasn't easy, and he felt rather like an animal trainer facing down a dangerous beast in a cage. But, after a moment, Clyntahn nodded, almost as if against his will.

“Point taken,” he said shortly. “I'll try to at least keep you informed—in advance—of any additional directives I feel must be distributed in the Inquisition's name.”

“Thank you.” Trynair poured fresh wine into his own glass with a hand which, he was pleased to note, didn't tremble at all.

He passed the glass under his nose, savoring the bouquet while he gazed out the windows. Spring had come late, hard, and cold to Zion, but at least there was no more blowing snow. Not that he was convinced icy rain and mud were that much of an improvement, even when all he had to do was view it from the comfort of his own suite. That suite was every bit as luxurious as Clyntahn's own, although he'd preferred one with a smaller expanse of windows, and not just because he didn't like looking at snow or rain. He knew the Temple's mystic glass permitted the human eye to see through its windows in only one direction, yet something deep inside him always felt somehow exposed when they dined in Clyntahn's chambers.

Perhaps that's because I know Zhaspahr makes a habit of mounting his mistresses in front of those windows
, he thought sardonically.
I wonder what it says about the way his mind works that he wants to be able to look out across the entire city of Zion at a moment like that?

“I suppose that's just about everything for this evening, then,” he said aloud after a moment.

“Just about,” Clyntahn agreed. “I did just receive a dispatch from Father Aidryn in Manchyr, however.”

“You did?” Trynair looked up sharply.

“Yes, but it arrived by courier less than an hour before we were scheduled to dine, and it came in in cipher. There wasn't time to get it deciphered before I had to leave. I'll see to it that you get a clean copy tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.” Trynair leaned back in his chair, wondering whether or not his “clean copy” would also be a
complete
copy.

“I'm not happy about what we've heard so far about Cayleb's campaign,” he admitted after a moment. “And I have to confess I was most unpleasantly surprised when we found out he'd managed to launch both his invasion of Corisande and his expedition against Ferayd virtually simultaneously.”

“There I have to agree with you,” Clyntahn said, and his voice was quite different from the tone in which he'd discussed Ferayd. In fact, his entire body language was different. He sat straighter in his chair, his eyes narrowed, and he set his wineglass down in front of him, folded his arms on the edge of the table, and leaned slightly towards the Chancellor.

“Actually, one of the things that most disturbs
me
about Cayleb's ability to operate with such impunity is that I've come to the conclusion that Allayn's new fleet is going to be about as useful as tits on a boar dragon.”

“What?” Both of Trynair's eyebrows arched. “This is the first time you've mentioned
that
!”

“It's taken a while for some of the evidence to come together for me,” Clyntahn admitted. “I'm not a naval man, or a soldier. And, to be blunt, I've had my own responsibilities and I've been forced to assume Allayn was adequately discharging
his
responsibilities. Unfortunately, I'm rapidly coming to realize he hasn't been.”

“That's a very serious allegation, Zhaspahr.”

“Oh,
fuck
‘allegations,' Zahmsyn.” Clyntahn unfolded his arms long enough to wave one hand dismissively. “I'm not accusing him of playing some sort of games, or of
shirking
his responsibilities. The problem is that his imagination is about the size of a dried pea. A
small
dried pea. And it's at least partly—maybe even mostly—our fault for not riding herd on him more carefully. You and I both know he's the weak link in our group, after all.”

Trynair was privately surprised by Clyntahn's frankness. At the same time, he couldn't disagree with anything the Inquisitor had so far said.

“He may be the weak link, but we can't really afford to dispense with him, especially now,” the Chancellor pointed out, and Clyntahn shrugged his broad, beefy shoulders.

“Not unless we're prepared to strip him of his office and pick Mother Church a new Captain General,” he agreed. “And, like you, I don't believe we can afford to risk any appearance of internal dissension. But that's really a bit beside my point where the new fleet is concerned.”

“Then what is your point?”

“We're building the wrong ships,” Clyntahn said flatly. “I've been reading over reports from my intendants and inquisitors. Obviously, many of them have been deeply concerned about the nature and extent of the Charisians' innovations and their violations of the Proscriptions of Jwo-jeng. As part of that concern, they've been reporting on every instance of those innovations' use which has come to their attention. And it's disturbingly clear to me, now that I've had time to think about it, that these new galleons of theirs are far more effective than any galley.”

“Even the new, bigger galleys?”

“Than
any
galley,” Clyntahn repeated in that same flat voice. “It's a simple enough proposition, Zahmsyn. A ship which doesn't rely on rowers can be bigger, heavier, and tougher. We can make our galleys bigger and more seaworthy—which we
are
doing—but at the price of making them slower and requiring more rowers under oars. That's what the Charisians had already done before they started turning to galleons. But a
galleon
can eventually be made bigger and heavier than anything that's going to be able to move under oar power. And a ship which doesn't have oars all down the side can mount a lot more guns in that same space, as well. So when you combine bigger, heavier ships—which means ships which can carry heavier
weights
—with a hull design which lets them cram more guns into a broadside, you get a ship which can do what Cayleb's ships have been doing to us for the last year and a half. I'm sure the new ships Allayn is building will be more effective than older style galleys. Unfortunately, I'm coming to suspect that ‘more effective' in this case simply means one of Cayleb's galleons will need
three
broadsides to sink them, instead of only one.”

“Sweet Langhorne,” Trynair murmured as he reflected on how much Rhobair Duchairn had already disbursed on the Temple's massive new naval programs. It was, as the Treasurer General had pointed out a few five-days earlier, the largest single outlay of funds in the history of Mother Church, and the entire enormous first wave of galleys they'd ordered was nearing completion. In fact, scores of them had already been launched, in Dohlar and the southern ports of Harchong. But if Clyntahn's biting analysis was accurate, then those ships represented a colossal waste of timber, money, and time. Especially time.

“How long ago did you reach this conclusion?” he asked after a moment, and Clyntahn shrugged again.

“I actually started suspecting it a few five-days ago,” he admitted. “Given how much we've already committed to the building program, and the extent to which Allayn's prestige is tied up in it, I decided to take the time to think about it and be certain of my conclusions before I shared them with anyone.”

“I can understand that, I suppose.”

Trynair stared out the window again, his eyes distant, and Clyntahn chuckled sourly.

“I wasn't any too happy about it when it first occurred to me, either,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I still don't find it particularly amusing. The Address warned the entire vicarate we were planning to declare Holy War, and now it turns out we still don't have a navy we can use to launch a Jihad after all! On the other hand, it's a lot better to figure it out now than after we send a galley fleet—
another
galley fleet—out to be turned into driftwood by Cayleb and his galleons.”

“That's true enough,” Trynair agreed slowly.

“Well, after I'd realized that, I also realized the present program hasn't been a complete waste of time. If nothing else, we've assembled the shipbuilding teams, established the yards, and generally streamlined the construction process. Rhobair's not going to be happy about it,” Clyntahn smiled nastily, “and I expect to hear him pissing and moaning about the additional expense. With reason, I suppose, however irritating he can sound. But at least we've got the men and the tools in place if we're going to have to start building galleons, instead.”

“But dare we embrace all of these Charisian innovations?”

“We'll dare to do anything we
have
to do to crush these schismatics. As Grand Inquisitor, I can grant special dispensations to anyone, if I need to.”

“That wasn't really my point,” Trynair said, shaking his head. “What I meant is that we've stressed the Charisian willingness to violate the Proscriptions. If we're going to accuse them of having done that, and then we turn around and do exactly the same things they're doing . . .”

He let his voice trail off, and Clyntahn grunted in understanding. But the Inquisitor seemed far less concerned over the possibility than Trynair was.

“We can duplicate their new galleons, and almost certainly this new artillery of theirs, as well, without breaching the Proscriptions. And the artillery and the new ship designs are only a fragment of all of the ‘innovations' they've been introducing. The mere fact that we're very cautiously adopting a tiny part of what they've done isn't going to magically make all of their other, far more serious violations disappear. Besides, the entire nature of the contest is shifting. It's about Mother Church's legitimate primacy, now, and all the doctrinal implications which hang on that dispute. If we emphasize that firmly and steadily, I don't think we'll have any problems over introducing a few new guns and a few new ships of our own.”