David Weber - How firm a foundation

Clyntahn’s eyes glittered with satisfaction as he asked the question he knew Manthyr couldn’t answer. There was no way for his victim to voice his defiance, demonstrate his rejection of the judgment and sentence which had been pronounced upon him, yet there was also no way for anyone in that watching crowd to know his voice had been taken from him before the question was even asked. They would see only the terrified heretic, too cowed by the onrushing approach of the eternal damnation he’d earned to say a single word.

Sir Gwylym Manthyr looked back at the gloating Grand Inquisitor as Clyntahn savored his triumph… and then he spat squarely into the vicar’s face. . VI.

Saint Bailair’s Church and Madam Aivah Pahrsahn’s Townhouse, Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark

“I don’t like it, Father,” Stahn Mahldan said unhappily as he knelt in the closed booth of the confessional. “I don’t like it at all. Where’s it coming from?”

“I don’t know, Brother,” Father Lharee Traighair, the rector of Saint Bailair’s Church, replied, although he wasn’t as sure of that as he would have liked.

“It’s all so… wrong,” Mahldan said, his eyes anxious, and Traighair smiled affectionately at him.

Brother Stahn was in his late fifties, thinning hair going steadily white, and there wasn’t a malicious bone in his entire body. There wasn’t an ambitious one, either, as far as Traighair could tell, which probably explained why Brother Stahn was still only a sexton of the Order of the Quill at his age. It certainly wasn’t because of lack of ability, faith, or industry!

A librarian by training and inclination alike, Mahldan was an absentminded, otherworldly sort who was always happiest puttering about in the histories he was responsible for maintaining and updating. He had a sharp, analytical brain, but one which was altogether too poorly suited for considering ugly truths outside the covers of his beloved histories. He was inclined to assume that since he wished ill to no one, no one could possibly wish ill to him, which, unfortunately, was no longer true even in the Republic, if it ever had been.

At least the old fellow’s had the sense to keep his feelings mostly to himself, Traighair thought. Or I hope to Langhorne he has, at any rate!

“I agree it’s wrong, Brother Stahn,” he said. “But I’m afraid it’s also fairly inevitable, as well.” He shook his head, his expression sad. “Men who are afraid do ugly things. And one of the things they do first is to strike out at and try to destroy whatever frightens them.”

Mahldan nodded, although Traighair was pretty sure the sexton’s understanding was more intellectual than emotional. The priest wished he were a more inspired speaker, better able to explain what he saw so clearly, but he was a teacher more than a preacher, without the gift of language which God had given so generously to some other priests. He tried not to envy their greater gifts and to appreciate the ones he’d been given, but that was harder to do in times like these.

“All I can tell you, Brother, is that I urge you to go home. Go about your business and do your best to… well, keep your head down.” Traighair’s smile was fleeting. “I don’t know where the fellows you’re talking about are likely to go in the end, but I advise you to keep yourself out of their sights.”

“But they’re threatening people, Father!” Mahldan protested. “And they’re claiming it’s what God and Langhorne want them to do!”

“I understand that, Brother,” Traighair said as patiently as he could. “But there’s nothing you can do about it, and if you confront them, you only run the risk of pouring oil on the flames. Trust me, men who say the things you say they said aren’t going to respond well to reasonable argument!”

He gazed into the sexton’s eyes, willing Mahldan to simply take his word for it. He didn’t want to have to tell the gentle librarian that if he confronted the Temple Loyalist toughs he’d described he was only going to bring their violence down on his own head. And he didn’t want to have to explain that he was beginning to fear no amount of “reasonable argument” could head off what he was afraid was coming.

“Are you sure, Father?” Mahldan shook his head. “The Writ says we’re supposed to stand up for what we know is right and denounce what we know is wrong.”

“Yes, we are. And you have- to me,” Traighair said firmly. “You’ll just have to trust me when I say I’ll bring it to the attention of the proper ears. That’s my responsibility, not yours.”

Mahldan still looked unhappy and distressed, but he finally nodded.

“Good, Brother Stahn. Good!” Traighair patted the older man on the arm. “Now, about those ‘sins’ of yours.” He shook his head and smiled. “I believe I can safely say they’re all scarcely even venal, this time. So light a candle to the Holy Bedard, leave an extra silver in Pasquale’s Basket this Wednesday, and say ten ‘Hail Langhornes.’ Understood?”

“Yes, Father,” Mahldan agreed obediently, and the young priest stood and began escorting him down the nave.

“I know you’re worried,” he said quietly as they reached the front steps. “To be honest, so am I, because these are worrying times. But you’re a good man and, if you’ll forgive my saying so, a gentle one. I think you’ll best serve by lending your prayers to those of all good and God-fearing people. And”-he looked the sexton firmly in the eye-“by staying home, keeping out from underfoot, and not making things worse. Understand me?”

“Yes, Father.” Mahldan managed a wry smile and nodded again, more firmly.

“Good!” Traighair repeated. “Now, go home!”

He pointed like a stern grandfather, and the white-haired Mahldan laughed and obeyed the imperious gesture. The priest watched him until he turned the corner, then turned and walked briskly back into his church. It would be tight, but he had time to talk to those “proper ears” he’d promised Mahldan he’d speak to between now and afternoon mass if he hurried.

“I can see why Father Lharee was upset, Your Eminence,” Aivah Pahrsahn said.

She stood gazing out her windows at North Bay once more. The Navy of God galleons had long since departed for Hsing-wu’s Passage, and the blue water sparkled under the September sun, busy with the weathered, tan sails of Siddar City’s teeming commerce. It would be winter again soon enough, she thought, with icy snow, rain, and the bay the color of a polished steel blade. She wasn’t looking forward to that. In fact, there were several things she wasn’t looking forward to, and she was frankly surprised they’d held off this long.

“What worries me most is Father Lharee’s fear that he knows these men,” Zhasyn Cahnyr said unhappily.

“Surely that doesn’t come as a surprise, Your Eminence?” Aivah turned to face him, and her expression was a strange mix of compassion and exasperation. “Did you truly believe this was all purely spontaneous? Something just naturally bubbling up out of Siddarmark’s burning loyalty to Mother Church and the people currently controlling her policies?”

“I…” Cahnyr looked at her for a moment, then shrugged unhappily. “No, of course not,” he said. “I mean, in some ways I’d like to believe it’s purely out of loyalty to the Church, even if a mob mentality is a dangerous thing. Mobs can do horrible things, and I’ve seen it. But if Father Lharee is right, if these men Brother Stahn is talking about really do come out of Bishop Executor Baikyr’s or Father Zohannes’ offices, then we may be looking at something a lot worse than some kind of spontaneous vigilantism!”

“Of course we are,” Pahrsahn told him flatly. “And Father Lharee is right, Your Eminence. I already had the names of four of the men he’s talking about, and at least one of them works directly for Father Saimyn.”