Zhonathyn Clyntahn had been narrowly defeated for the office of Master of the Gunmakers Guild in Cherayth three years back. He hadn’t enjoyed that defeat, but he’d actually taken it fairly well, especially when the Crown offered him one of three supervisor’s positions at the Maikelberg Rifle Works. As a supervisor, working directly with Styvyn Nezbyt, the Old Charisian manager of the Maikelberg Works, he’d earned almost twice his previous income, although it might have been a bit less than he could have earned as an independent contractor, given the incredible press of orders for firearms. Of course, there weren’t very many of those “independent contractors” anymore, and as Maikelberg hit its stride, there would be even fewer of them. That had quite a bit to do with Clyntahn’s presence here in Swayleton on this icy May afternoon.
“With your permission, Master Clyntahn,” Rebkah said now, “I’ll dispense with the customary circumlocutions and cut straight to the heart of the matter. I understand from our … mutual friend that you’re less than enthralled with the state of affairs here in the Kingdom.”
She watched him narrowly as she deliberately used the word “Kingdom” instead of “Empire.” A flicker of alarm warred with the deep-seated anger in his eyes, but it was a brief battle.
“You understand correctly, Milady.” He lifted his chin, meeting her gaze as anger won. “And I understand from our ‘mutual friend’ that you’re a lot less ‘enthralled’ with it than I am. Although, much as it pains me to disagree with a man of the cloth,” he smiled thinly, “I find it a little hard to believe that anyone could be less enthralled than I am at the moment.”
“Perhaps that would be true for most people.” More than a hint of frost crept into Rebkah’s voice. “But most people didn’t see their husband hanged like a common criminal by that traitorous bitch on the Throne.”
The words came out evenly, almost conversationally but for that edge of ice, yet all the more potent for her restraint, and Clyntahn’s face tightened.
“I beg your pardon, Milady. That wasn’t meant to sound churlish or uncaring. If it did, I do most humbly apologize.”
“No apologies are necessary, Master Clyntahn. And if I gave the impression that they were, that was never my intention. It’s just that … some wounds cut deeper than others.”
“I can understand that.” Clyntahn shook his head. “I haven’t suffered the same loss, so I’m sure I can’t truly appreciate the depth of your pain, but I’ve always been cursed with an active imagination.”
Rebkah nodded, but she also reminded herself of Father Zhordyn’s warning. Despite his last name, Clyntahn was far more sympathetic to the Reformists than to the Temple Loyalists. His dissatisfaction with Sharleyan and Cayleb Ahrmahk had much less to do with religious conviction than with the wave of disruptions sweeping through Chisholm’s social fabric.
But that’s all right, she told herself. A true daughter of God can build with whatever bricks He sends her.
“At any rate,” she said more briskly, “I was most interested when our mutual friend suggested you and your friends in Cherayth might have more in common with us than I’d realized. Of course, the deplorable state to which the Kingdom’s being reduced would be enough to give anyone of goodwill deep concern at this moment.”
“Absolutely, Milady.” Clyntahn nodded sharply. “I suppose some people would find the notion of an … alliance between the Kingdom’s nobility and commoner craftsmen such as myself unlikely, but there’s order and balance in everything. It’s taken centuries for Chisholm to reach the level of prosperity—and decades for it to reach the state of peace and security—we enjoyed before this accursed jihad. Bad enough that men and women should be slaughtering one another in God’s name, but the damage being done to the very fabric of our society is simply impossible to overestimate. Every professional and economic relationship is being disrupted, broken—thrown away like so much garbage!” His eyes glittered hotly. “It’s unnatural. It’s worse than unnatural! It’s going to open the door to the sort of Leveler madness they scream about on the streets of Siddar City! And as if that weren’t enough, the effect these new child labor laws and all the rest of that crap will have on the order God decreed for the family will be absolutely disastrous. I can understand getting them out of these accursed manufactories and away from all that insane machinery, but abolishing the guilds’ control of their own apprenticing practices? Insisting we open our crafts to just anyone? And then denying our ancient right to set our own journeyman and apprentice salaries, as if we were no more than—!”
Rebkah nodded gravely as she listened to his onrushing tirade, although it was difficult to keep her lip from curling as Clyntahn exposed the true reasons for his visit. Rebkah Rahskail liked social disruption no more than the next woman, but what really drove Clyntahn was the realization that his guild’s privileged position—and his position, as a member of that guild—was in the process of becoming totally irrelevant.
I wonder if it’s the money or the prestige he’ll miss the most? I’d bet it’s the prestige more than the income. He looks like that sort of man. But I don’t really care why he’s willing to serve as our go-between with the other craftmasters.
She very much doubted that Clyntahn and his associates had any clear notion of exactly what her cousin Zhasyn had in mind for them and all of their other “uppity” commoner friends after the Crown’s overweening power had been broken to bridle. That didn’t matter either, though, and Rebkah cared very little about what might happen then. Her purpose, the only one left to her, was to destroy Sharleyan Ahrmahk. It was only too likely that the murderess herself would escape Rebkah, hiding with her apostate husband in Old Charis at least until Zhaspahr Clyntahn and Mother Church dragged them out for the Punishment. Rebkah was realist enough to recognize that long ago. But that was fine. In fact, in some ways it would be even better. Dying would be an easy out for the bitch; watching the demolition of every single thing to which she and her father had dedicated their lives, though. That would be hard.
And if we can’t manage that, we can damned well make her slaughter enough people in the process of putting us down that the Crown will never rest easy on her head again. After all, when you come down to it, we’re the legacy of King Sailys’ war on the nobility. By the time I’m done with her, that apostate whore’s hands will be so bloodstained her great grandchildren will be seeing plots under every carpet, courtesy of “Sharleyan the Butcher’s” reign of terror.
She made herself sit calmly, listening attentively to Clyntahn’s diatribe, and schooled her expression to show no sign of her own volcanic fury. Not even Father Zhordyn recognized the true depth of her hatred. She knew that, from many of the things her confessor had said to her. And she intended to keep it that way. If she could restore Chisholm to Mother Church and God’s true plan for Safehold, then she would, and rejoice in the accomplishment. But the truth was that Mother Church’s victory was secondary. If the cost of Sharleyan Ahrmahk’s destruction was Rebkah Rahskail’s immortal soul, she would pay it in an instant and spend eternity laughing as she stood in hell at Shan-wei’s shoulder.