Not surprisingly, the baron reflected, unaware of how his thoughts mirrored those of his uncle. It’s obvious they understand everything about these hellish new weapons and … questionable devices better than anyone else does!
Well, perhaps they did. But his uncle clearly understood the new realities better than any other field commander they’d yet faced. It only remained to see whether or not he understood them well enough.
He’d better—we’d better, Wind Song told himself. Because if Dohlar does fall, and if Silken Hills is pushed back from the Snake Mountans, they’ll damned well try to push up north through Jhurlahnk and Usher to hit the Holy Langhorne from that direction. That means we have to inflict defeats—or at least decisive checks—on both flanks, because if we don’t, if they’re able to reach the Holy Langhorne from either direction, we’ll have to fall back so rapidly we’ll never be able to pull out all our men, far less all our artillery and other supplies. The ring around the Temple Lands and North Harchong would become unbreakable, even if we managed to retreat with some semblance of order. And if that happens.…
He busied himself tamping the tobacco in his pipe bowl and decided not to think about that too deeply.
.IV.
Royal Palace,
City of Gorath,
Kingdom of Dohlar.
The three men seated at one end of the vast, richly polished table looked up as someone knocked sharply on the chamber door. The door opened and a tallish, brown-haired man in his early fifties stepped through it.
“Bishop Executor Wylsynn and Father Ahbsahlahn are here, Your Grace,” he said quietly.
“I see.” Samyl Cahkrayn, the Duke of Fern, glanced across the table at his companions, then back at the man in the doorway. “Thank you, Lawrync,” he said. “Please, escort them in.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Lawrync Servahntyz had been Fern’s personal secretary for almost eighteen years. During those years, he’d seen a great deal, and very few things could disturb his monumental aplomb. Yet there was an unusual edge of something very like anxiety in his brown eyes as he bowed to his patron. Whatever it was, it seemed to have vanished by the time he straightened, stepped back a pace, and closed the door once more.
It opened again, twenty seconds later, and all three of the men at the table rose as he reappeared, followed by Bishop Executor Wylsynn Lainyr and Father Ahbsahlahn Kharmych.
“Your Grace, Bishop Executor Wylsynn and Father Ahbsahlahn.”
Few introductions had ever been more superfluous, and Fern stepped forward to kiss Lainyr’s extended ring.
“Your Eminence,” the Dohlaran first councilor murmured as he straightened. “You honor us with your presence.”
“It’s my honor to be so courteously received by such loyal defenders of Mother Church,” Lainyr replied.
The dukes of Thorast and Salthar came forward to kiss Lainyr’s ring in turn, and Fern waved the bishop executor to the seat of honor at the far end of the gleaming table. The tallish Kharmych—Lainyr was above average in height, but the intendant was both seven years younger and a head and a half taller—took the chair at his superior’s right elbow. Servahntyz opened the rollup top of the desk in one corner and started to seat himself, prepared to take notes, but Lainyr’s raised hand stopped him. Duke Fern raised one eyebrow in polite interrogation, and the bishop executor shook his head ever so slightly.
“Thank you, Lawrync,” Fern said after only the briefest of pauses. “I don’t believe we’ll need notes for today’s meeting.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Servahntyz replied. He closed the desk once more, then bowed to Lainyr and Kharmych. “Your Eminence, Father,” he murmured, and withdrew, closing the ornately carved council room door silently behind him.
Silence hovered for a second or two, then Lainyr cleared his throat.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Your Grace,” he said to Fern.
“Your Eminence, you’re Bishop Executor of Dohlar,” Fern observed a bit dryly. “We can usually make a little time in our busy schedules when you think you need a word with us.”
“I know.” Lainyr smiled briefly. “I also know that isn’t always easy, though, because you truly do have very busy schedules, all of you. That’s true at any time, but I’m painfully well aware that it’s even truer at this moment. Indeed, I wouldn’t intrude on you if a matter of some considerable importance hadn’t been brought to my attention.”
“What sort of ‘matter,’ Your Eminence?” Fern asked obediently as the bishop executor paused, clearly inviting the question.
“I’ve received a letter,” Lainyr replied. “It arrived last five-day, and I spent the last six days in prayer and meditation, trying to decide what to do about it.”
Fern nodded, his expression attentive, although his own sources suggested the “prayer and meditation” had actually been a case of waiting for a response from Zion. The duke didn’t know what Lainyr’s urgent semaphore transmission had contained, but both of Fern’s discreetly—and expensively—bribed sources in the Church-administered semaphore office confirmed that the bishop executor had dispatched a lengthy coded message to the Temple, addressed collectively to Zhaspahr Clyntahn, Zahmsyn Trynair, and Allayn Maigwair. That was sufficient grounds for concern, but scarcely so unusual as to rise to the level of worrisome, given the fact that Mother Church was at war … and losing. Unfortunately, Lainyr’s message had been accompanied by an even lengthier one from Ahbsahlahn Kharmych which had been addressed solely to the Grand Inquisitor, and that had elevated the duke’s reaction from simple worry to outright alarm.
The fact that it had taken at least three days for those messages’ recipients to decide upon a reply didn’t make Samyl Cahkrayn feel one bit less alarmed.
“Having prayed and meditated,” Lainyr continued somberly, “I’ve decided my proper course is share that letter’s contents and concerns with you.”
“With me, specifically, Your Eminence, or with all of us present, collectively?”
Another unnecessary question, Fern thought, since you specifically asked for all three of us to be here. I wonder if you get as tired of this diplomatic song and dance as I do, Your Eminence?
“Most immediately, with you and Duke Salthar.” Lainyr nodded in Salthar’s direction. “Under the circumstances, however, it does touch upon Duke Thorast’s legitimate concerns, as well, I believe.”
“Then please tell us how we can be of service.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Lainyr reached into the breast of his cassock and removed two folded sheets of handwritten paper. He unfolded them carefully and laid them on the table in front of him, running the heel of one hand across them, as if to smooth out the fold marks, then looked up once more.
“Your Grace, this is a letter addressed to me from Sir Clyftyn Rahdgyrz. It wasn’t an easy letter for him to write, and I’m afraid that, after much prayer, I’ve concluded parts of it must be treated as falling under the seal of the confessional.” The bishop executor shook his head slowly. “Sir Clyftyn was obviously deeply troubled by his decision to write me at all, and it’s my belief the portions of it which deal directly with his spiritual concerns are best left between him, Mother Church, and God. I trust you’ll respect that decision on my part.”