Because it’s a very pointed argument, isn’t it, Zhaspahr? the treasurer thought. You don’t like it, and it scares the shit out of you, but Allayn’s got one hell of a point! Especially since this isn’t the first time a “more than mortal agency” seems to’ve acted right in the heart of Zion. Don’t want to admit that to anyone, do you?
Clyntahn resolutely refused to confirm what had happened at St. Thyrmyn Prison, even now and even to the other two members of the Group of Three. For that matter, the Inquisition refused to acknowledge that anything had happened there. By now, though, Duchairn and Maigwair had confirmed that every single individual in the prison had mysteriously and suddenly died—confirmed it through multiple, independent sources both of them trusted implicitly. Worse, garbled versions of the same event had spread throughout the city, despite the Inquisition’s best efforts to stop them.
And now this.
Duchairn hadn’t yet officially seen the manifesto from the Fist of God which had gone up all across the city, obviously through the same mysterious avenue as those heretical broadsheets Clyntahn had never been able to stop. He wasn’t about to suggest he had seen that manifesto—or breathe one single word about those broadsheets—to Clyntahn at this moment, either. But whether or not he had any official knowledge, he’d already seen a copy, and he knew exactly what it had said:
To the Grand Fornicator:
Greetings! We thank you for summoning Bishop Wylbyr home so that we might send him along with Bishop Zakryah, Father Mairydyth, Brother Zherohm, Father Charlz, Sister Tyldah, and Brother Hahnz to render a long overdue accounting for their actions before God and the Archangels. We doubt they took pleasure at the final rendering of their accounts, yet their debts were only a tiny fragment of yours.
The Inquisition has much for which to atone before the Throne of Langhorne. Most grievously of all, it must answer for its willingness to serve the human-shaped corruption which profanes the office of Grand Inquisitor. Mother Church’s rod of correction was never created to become the whore of an arrogant, egotistical fornicator who sets his personal, unholy ambition above the will of God Himself. You have seen fit to torture, starve, and murder countless children of God in the name of that ambition, turned the Holy Inquisition into your accomplice in the service of that arrogance, and, in the process, become the greatest butcher since the War Against the Fallen itself.
The Fist of God has sworn to stop you, and we will neither halt, nor rest, nor pause until you pay the last, full measure of your debt to God and the Archangels whose true will you defile and pervert with every breath you draw.
You have chosen to torture and kill those dear to us—our sisters Zhorzhet and Marzho. They are only two more deaths among the millions whose blood stains your hands, and their souls are already with God. But unlike those other, nameless dead, Zhorzhet and Marzho have champions. They have avengers. We will not defile ourselves before God by lending ourselves to torture out of hate and love of cruelty, as you do, but we will balance the scale of justice as Schueler and Langhorne require, and so we begin by taking from you Wylbyr Edwyrds and the others struck down this day. We take them in recompense not only for our sisters, but for the millions of innocents Edwyrds has murdered in the Republic of Siddarmark and in the Border States in your service. In your service—never God’s!
We begin with these names, but we will not end here. In the fullness of time, we will come for you, as well, murderer of innocence. And know this: there is no threat you can levy, no bribe you can offer, no plea you can utter which will turn us from our purpose … and there is no place you can hide from us. Whatever lies you may tell, you know, as we do—as the inquisitors of St. Thyrmyn Prison learned—whose side God is truly on, and the day will come when He delivers you into our hand, as well.
No wonder Clyntahn wanted so desperately to deny the Fist of God’s involvement in Edwyrds’ assassination! Yet Maigwair was right. Perhaps some would believe his denial … but many, many more would not. Not with the other deaths associated with it. And when they rejected the truth of one claim, then the truth of every single fresh lie would become suspect.
They couldn’t prevent that from happening in the long term, whatever they did. Not unless the Charisians and their allies suffered a major reverse—or something that could be spun as a major reverse—to offset the endless chain of disasters which had befallen the forces of Mother Church. The City of Zion—the entire Church—had sunk deeper and deeper into what Duchairn could describe only as a “fortress mentality.” More and more of Mother Church’s children were hunkering down, hunching their shoulders under the lash of one defeat after another. They might endure those lashes without admitting open despair, even to themselves. Might even continue to believe victory was possible. But they no longer believed it was inevitable. They expected more defeats, more reverses, and more and more of them were coming to the view that stopping the “heretics” short of Zion itself would require the direct intervention of God and the Archangels.
He and Maigwair realized that; Clyntahn chose to deny it, yet he, too, had to know the truth deep inside.
But he’ll never admit it, the treasurer thought sinkingly. Never. He can’t—he literally can’t—because he knows the Fist of God is telling him the exact truth in at least one respect. After all the death, all the destruction, all the torture and murder handed out by the Inquisition in Mother Church’s name, her defeat—no, our defeat—can end only in his death. However fiercely he may deny that to others, he can no longer deny it to himself, because his millions of victims demand nothing less. And for all the faith he professes in God, he can no more divorce his own survival from the survival of Mother Church than he could bodily ascend to Heaven from the Temple’s dome. Whatever he may say, the entire world ends with his death, and it would never occur to him in a million years to sacrifice himself for anyone else, no matter what the Writ says. And since that’s the case, he has nothing to lose … and no reason not to pull the rest of the world down with him.
“All right,” Clyntahn said finally, and his voice was like crushed glass. “It wasn’t the ‘Fist of God,’ Allayn. Whatever else they may have done, this couldn’t have been them. But in this case—in this case—you may have a point. Perhaps it will be better to allow the lying sons-of-bitches’ claim to stand rather than give any credence to the possibility that they’re receiving demonic aid here in God’s own city. But there’s a difference between allowing it to stand and confirming it! The Inquisition’s official position on the cause of Bishop Wylbyr’s death will be silence. We will neither confirm nor deny that it was an act of murder, and if we’re asked, in the fullness of time, we’ll say only that it’s impossible for us to know exactly how that explosion occurred. We’ll concede that it could—could—have been the work of the same impious, bloody-handed assassins who struck down so many other blameless sons and daughters of God this day. But we’ll also point out that it might have been the spontaneous, accidental explosion of the boat’s magazines, instead, and that all the evidence available to us suggests that that’s precisely what it was. If that’s not going far enough, then fuck you!”