Hell's Foundations Quiver (28 page)

The lay brother's voice trailed off, and Duchairn tried not to shiver in a reaction which had nothing at all to do with the snow outside Fultyn's office as he attempted to envision what the Chihirite had just described. His imagination was unequal to the task, and he discovered that he was just as happy it was.

“I think I'll definitely avail myself of Saint Kylmahn's hospitality tonight, Brother Lynkyn,” he said after a moment, laying the bronze disk back on the desk. “This is clearly something Vicar Allayn and I will need to discuss, and obviously we need you to be part of the conversation.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Fultyn murmured, sliding the disk back into his drawer and closing it. There was something a bit odd about his voice, and when he looked up and his eyes met Duchairn's, the vicar realized what that oddity was.

He's been thinking about this longer than I have
.
That means he's probably come a lot closer to imagining what those rockets of his might be capable of … and he doesn't like it one bit more than I do
.

It was strange, the Treasurer thought. The Inquisition would undoubtedly have all manner of reservations about Fultyn's proposal, since its most important design feature was copied directly from yet another heretical device, but it wouldn't matter. And the reason it wouldn't matter was that the one man in Zion who definitely wouldn't flinch from what the Chihirite was proposing—the one man who would positively
exult
in the slaughter it might produce, be its origins however heretical—was the head of that Inquisition.

Oh, yes. Allayn and I won't have any problem at all convincing Zhaspahr to endorse
this
one … no matter how many dispensations he has to issue
.

 

.XIII.

Daivyn River, Twelve Miles East of Stantyn, Cliff Peak Province, Republic of Siddarmark

The wind gusted down the long, frozen surface of the Daivyn River in a sullen roar of leafless branches, bitter enough to steal a statue's breath.

Well, that might be putting it a bit too strongly, Zhasyn Cahnyr conceded. The temperature was, after all, a mere four or five degrees below freezing, positively balmy after the last few five-days. But it was certainly more than cold enough to burn like an icy blade in the ancient lungs of an archbishop who'd seen more than seventy-five winters.

Cahnyr rode at the center of a mounted bodyguard much larger than seemed necessary to him. Not that anyone was particularly interested in his opinion. Not after how close he'd come to getting himself killed the
previous
winter. All very well for him to point out how the situation had changed, how much more secure Glacierheart and the neighboring portions of Cliff Peak Province had become, and how the Temple Loyalist guerrillas had been driven into hiding or killed. No one intended to allow him, even for a single moment, to forget his previous lapse in judgment, and his keepers—“loyal subordinates,” he meant, of course—were none too shy about pointing out how enthusiastically the Inqusition's Rakurais resorted to assassination. It had been all he could do to exert his paramount authority as God's steward in Glacierheart and refuse to make the trip along the river's ice in a snow lizard-drawn sleigh, wrapped to the nose in furs, blankets, and shawls and completely surrounded by a regiment or two of bodyguards.

Which
, he acknowledged very privately,
might not have been so terrible an idea after all, deadly assassins or no deadly assassins
.
I can't decide whether my arse is frozen to the saddle or simply frozen
.

He grimaced at the thought, although the expression was fortuitously hidden by the thick, triple-knitted Angora lizard wool muffler which swathed his face to the eyes. Sahmantha Gorjah had knitted that muffler for him, and she'd personally wrapped it around his neck and tucked its ends down inside his parka before letting him out of Tairys, escort or no escort. At least this time he'd been able to convince her to stay behind herself … even if it had required him to take unprincipled advantage of the fact that all four of her children had joined their parents over the summer … and that she was three months pregnant with her fifth. It would, he had pointed out, be the height of unwisdom for her to expose herself to the potential rigors of such a trip under those circumstances.

It had, admittedly, been unscrupulous, but unscrupulous was fine with him, given the underhanded way all of them insisted on managing him. And he hadn't exactly gotten off unsupervised, anyway. Her husband, Gharth, rode to his left and Brother Laimuyl Azkhat, a very skilled Pasqualate healer, rode directly behind him. Brother Laimuyl was more than thirty years younger than Cahnyr, but age was no more protection against the healer's tyranny than the fact that he was a mere lay brother whereas Cahnyr was a consecrated archbishop who'd become the second ranking member of the Reformist Siddarmarkian episcopate.

Personally, Cahnyr was of the somewhat grumpy opinion that the ruby ring on his left hand and the broad, dove-tailed orange ribbon at the back of his priest's cap ought to have bought him at least a modicum of control over his own comings and goings.

Oh, stop complaining!
he scolded himself.
It could be a lot worse, and you know it, you cantankerous old … gentleman
.

His lips quirked under the muffler as he remembered the way Byrk Raimahn had applied that noun to him the previous April. Sailys Trahskhat's additional adjectives after the near-fatal ambush on the Green Cove Trace had been far more colorful … and, he allowed, no more than he'd richly deserved. So perhaps his subordinates weren't being quite as unreasonable as it felt. And even if they were, it was no more of a penance than he deserved.

He reminded himself of that rather firmly as the ridiculous cavalcade trotted briskly along the snowy tow road atop the riverbank, paced by the cargo sleighs on the river ice below them.

*   *   *

“You'd no need to come all this way in person, Your Eminence. I could've given you any report you needed by semaphore, or even messenger wyvern.”

Somehow, Archbishop Zhasyn wasn't surprised by Ahlyn Symkyn's first sentence. He'd formed a tentative judgment of the stocky, gray-haired general after he'd been relieved as commander of the Charisian 3rd Division and passed through Tairys on his way to assume command of the Army of the Daivyn. Now that judgment was confirmed as the Chisholmian regarded him with exactly the same I-respect-you-but-you-shouldn't-be-allowed-out-without-a-keeper glower Fraidmyn Tohmys, his valet of far too many years, had bestowed upon him when he announced his intention to visit the front.

“Yes, my son,” he replied tranquilly. “I'm sure you could have. Unfortunately, I've always found it just a bit difficult to visit the sick and bless the dying by semaphore or messenger wyvern.”

Symkyn's cheeks colored ever so slightly, and he bent his head in acknowledgment. Cahnyr wasn't deluded into believing the general's contrition would last long, however. Best to take as much advantage as he could before it dissipated.

“While I'm here,” he continued, “I would, of course, like to inspect the army's positions and meet as many of your brave soldiers as I can.” He touched his pectoral scepter and met Symkyn's eyes. “It seems the very least I can do for the men out here in the ice and snow protecting the people of my archbishopric. Believe me, General Symkyn. After the winter and summer just past, my Glacierhearters know exactly how important that is.”

“Of course, Your Eminence. Happen I'll be happy to provide guides—and a suitable escort—to take you anywhere you like. Within reason, of course.”

Well
, that
window didn't stay open very long
, Cahnyr thought tartly.

He thought about arguing, but not very hard. He'd come over three hundred miles to make this visit, and he'd covered more than half of them before he warned the general he was coming. The delay hadn't been an accident, either. Whatever Symkyn might say now, the archbishop was certain that if he'd been so imprudent as to tell the army commander he was coming any sooner, the general would have found all manner of irrefutable reasons for him to turn right around and return to Tairys. From what he'd seen of Charisians and Chisholmians, Symkyn would have been fully capable of sending an armed escort to politely—but firmly—enforce his view of the matter, too. Under the circumstances, it was probably wiser to settle for any victories he could get.

Besides, once he was out from under Symkyn's eye, he should be able to browbeat whatever subordinate officer was assigned to command his escort into taking him wherever he really wanted to go. There were certain advantages to being a frail, white-haired, saintly looking, devious old cleric.

However resistant to them
generals
might be.

“Thank you, my son,” he said meekly. “I'm sure you're the best judge of these matters.”

Symkyn gave him a skeptical look, and Cahnyr didn't need to look at Father Gharth to know his secretary and aide had rolled his eyes heavenward.

“In the meantime, however,” Symkyn said, “best we get you settled someplace warm and get some hot food into you. Once you've eaten and had a chance to rest for a few hours, I'll be happy to brief you on our situation here.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea, my son. Thank you.”

*   *   *

The hot soup, fresh bread, and strong mountaineers' tea were even more welcome than Cahnyr had expected. They were also a far cry from the tight rations he and all of his flock had endured the previous winter and spring. His eyes darkened with the memory of how many of that flock had perished of cold and privation … and of how many had been so very young. They'd paid a bitter price for their loyalty to Republic and Protector—and to Zhasyn Cahnyr—his Glacierhearters. A price bitter enough to make any archbishop feel inadequate.

But the situation was far better this winter. Lord Protector Greyghor and his Charisian allies had moved heaven and earth to ship food up the canals and rivers from Siddar City. And even though far too many of Glacierheart's farmers and miners had either perished or been called to military service, they were a tough and resilient people, too stubborn for their own good and well accustomed to meeting the challenges of life head on. They'd managed to get the crops sown and the coal mined, despite everything, and at least this year they'd been spared savage guerrilla attacks and the threat of outright invasion. Their stony fields had answered their devotion with richer yields than usual. The gaunt, thin faces—even Cahnyr's hunger-hollowed cheeks—had filled out once more, and he no longer felt bitterly guilty when he sat down to a solid, nourishing meal.

He finished the last of the soup and sat back from the plain wooden table, cherishing the tea mug between his palms, and looked about him. He was certain his own august presence had displaced some major or colonel, and he regretted that, but there was no point thinking he could have convinced Symkyn and his subordinates to make any other sort of arrangement. Which was probably just as well, since Gharth and Brother Laimuyl would have pitched three sorts of fits if he'd argued that they should house him in the Charisian-provided winter tents they'd used on their journey here. They were actually warmer than the lodge from which he, Gharth, and Fraidmyn had made their escape from the Inquisition, but he doubted anyone would have been interested if he'd pointed that out to them.

His present quarters, however, were far warmer and snugger than his lodge had been and, truth be told, he was more than happy with that state of affairs. The room was part of a sturdy barracks built of peeled, squared, chinked—and blessedly draft-proof—logs, thickly roofed in shingles cut from the logs' bark. A row of back-to-back fireplaces were set into the stone wall which formed the structure's spine, a solid cliff of river rock that absorbed the fires' heat and radiated it back. The floor's wooden planks had been slabbed off by the Charisian engineers' water-powered sawmills, and he felt his eyelids trying to slide shut as he sat in warm comfort and listened to the wind moaning outside the walls.

Someone knocked lightly on his closed door and he started in surprise, then straightened in his chair, setting the tea mug back on the table.

“Enter!” he called.

The door opened far enough for Gharth Gorjah to poke his head through it.

“General Symkyn is here, if you're prepared to receive him, Your Eminence.”

“Of course I am, Gharth!” Cahnyr stood. “Please, show the General in.”

Gorjah dipped his head in acknowledgment and disappeared. A moment later, he reappeared, ushering Symkyn into the room, accompanied by a youthful captain with what looked like a rolled map tucked under his arm and a civilian who was probably midway between the captain and general in age. Cahnyr held out his hand, and Symkyn bent to kiss his ring of office, then straightened.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Your Eminence.”

“No, thank you for
coming
to see me, General.” Cahnyr smiled faintly. “I'm certain you have far more pressing tasks.”

“Not so many as you might think, Your Eminence.” It was Symkyn's turn to smile. “Once an army goes into winter quarters, there's not so very much for its general to do. Unless he's Baron Green Valley, of course.”

The general's smile turned a bit tart with his last sentence, and Cahnyr nodded in understanding. He knew exactly what Symkyn meant, and he found himself rather in agreement with the Chisholmian's present, undoubtedly uncharitable thoughts about Green Valley. Not that he had anything at all against the baron, and it was well known that Symkyn and Green Valley were close friends. Unfortunately, supplies and capabilities had to be prioritized somehow.