“Oh, I know that! And it won’t cut into your military production at all. In fact, you may want to farm it out to one of the plumbing manufactories. Or possibly to one of the ceramics works.”
“What in the world are you talking about, Nahrmahn?” Nynian demanded with a smile. She’d had more experience than most of how the devious little Emeraldian’s mind worked.
“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but back when I had to waste all that time breathing, I did some of my most profound thinking when I was enthroned in the privacy of my water closet,” Nahrmahn said with his most serious and profound expression. “The isolation, the quiet—the ability to focus upon my reflections secure from any interruptions or distractions—were always rather soothing.”
“Should I assume this is going somewhere? Besides into the crapper—you should pardon the expression—anyway?” Cayleb seemed torn between laughter and exasperation, and Nahrmahn grinned at him. But then the prince’s expression sobered once more—a bit, anyway.
“It is, actually,” he said, “and it goes back to what Merlin just said about morale. Our people have plenty of determination, Cayleb, but sometimes they need a little laughter, too, and there are times mockery can be more deadly than any amount of reasoned argument. So I got to thinking about how we might provide that laughter, especially in a way that gave another kick to Clyntahn’s image, and it occurred to me that indoor plumbing isn’t really all that widespread, especially in rural Siddarmark or places like Delferahk and Zebediah. For that matter, it damned well doesn’t exist in North Harchong or anywhere in Desnair outside a palace! And that suggested this to me.”
He held out an empty left hand and waved his right hand above it like a stage conjurer. Unlike the conjurer, however, Nahrmahn Baytz truly could work “magic”—within the confines of his virtual reality, at least—and an object appeared on his palm. It was a largish white, bowl-shaped ceramic vessel with a handle and a cover, and Merlin frowned as he recognized the chamber pot.
“That’s your magic morale weapon?” he asked skeptically, and Nahrmahn glanced down at it.
“Oh, excuse me! I didn’t quite finish it.”
He snapped his fingers, and the plain white chamber pot’s sides were abruptly decorated with a tasteful pattern of intertwined leaves and vines. Then he held it up at an angle and removed the lid with a flourish, allowing the others to see down into its interior.
“Oh, Nahrmahn! That’s perfect!” Nynian exclaimed before a chorus of laughter swamped the com net, and Nahrmahn’s smile became an enormous grin.
The bottom of the chamber pot was decorated with the jowly, readily recognizable face of a man in the orange-cockaded white priest cap of a vicar. His mouth was open and his eyes were wide in an expression of pure outrage, and a six-word label ran around its rim.
“A salute to the Grand Fornicator,” it said.
.V.
Earl Thirsk’s Townhouse,
City of Gorath,
Kingdom of Dohlar.
“Thank you for coming, My Lord,” Earl Thirsk said as Bishop Staiphan Maik followed Paiair Sahbrahan into his library. He climbed out of his chair—a bit of a struggle with his left arm still immobilized—despite Maik’s quick, abortive wave for him to stay seated. The earl smiled faintly at the bishop’s distressed expression and bent to kiss Maik’s ruby-set ring.
“There’s no need for this sort of nonsense when no one else is looking, Lywys,” Maik scolded. “Sit back down—immediately!”
“Aye, aye, My Lord.” Thirsk’s smile broadened, but he obeyed the prelate’s command, settling back into his chair with a slight sigh of relief he couldn’t quite suppress. Maik heard it, and shook his head.
“All silliness about formal greetings aside, you shouldn’t push yourself this hard,” he said seriously, brown eyes dark with a very personal concern. “Langhorne knows you’ve been through enough—lost enough—for three men!”
“Others have lost their families,” Thirsk replied, his smile vanishing. “And others have been ‘through’ quite a lot since the Jihad began.”
“Of course they have.” Maik’s hair gleamed like true silver in the lamplight as he shook his head, and his expression tightened. “But I’ve seen and shared more of what you’ve been through. And try though I might, I can’t avoid the thought that God’s asked too much of you.”
“I don’t think so, My Lord.”
There was a curious tranquility in Thirsk’s tone, and he leaned back in his chair, his good hand waving for Sahbrahan to leave. The valet withdrew, closing the door behind him, and it was the earl’s turn to shake his head.
“Men can ask too much of someone,” he said. “And sometimes Mother Church—or the men who serve her, at least—can do the same. But God and the Archangels?” It was his turn to shake his head. “We owe them all we are or can ever hope to be. How can they possibly ask ‘too much’ of us?”
The bishop sat back in his own chair, his eyes narrowing, and frowned.
“I’ve known you and worked with you for several years now, Lywys,” he said slowly. “I think I’ve come to know you fairly well during that time.”
“I’d agree with that,” Thirsk conceded.
“On the basis of how well I’ve come to know you, I think you just chose your words very carefully.”
“Because I did.” Thirsk’s good hand pointed at the whiskey decanter and glasses on the small table at the bishop’s elbow. “Would you pour for us, My Lord?” He smiled thinly. “It’s Glynfych … from Chisholm.”
“Is it?” Maik smiled slightly as he unstoppered the decanter and poured the amber liquid into the glasses. “I’m sure the bottle was imported long before the Grand Inquisitor prohibited any trade with Chisholm.”
“Oh, of course!”
Thirsk accepted his glass and the bishop re-seated himself and sipped appreciatively. Yet his eyes never left the earl’s face, and a subtle tension hummed in the modest-sized, book-lined room. The coal fire crackling on the hearth seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness, and Thirsk allowed that stillness to linger as he took a slow, deliberate swallow of his own whiskey and wondered if he was right about the man sitting across from him. He hoped he was. He believed he was. But he also knew Staiphan Maik had been handpicked by Wyllym Rayno and Zhaspahr Clyntahn for his present assignment because of how implicitly they’d trusted his judgment and his devotion to Mother Church.
Of course, there’s just a tiny difference between devotion to Mother Church and devotion to Zhaspahr Clyntahn, now isn’t there? Thirsk thought. And time and experience have a habit of changing a man’s opinions, if his heart’s good and his brain works.
The library was smaller than his formal study, and it was also an interior room with no windows, although it was well illuminated in daylight by an extensive, domed skylight. Its size and internal location meant it tended to stay warmer this time of year, despite the skylight’s expanse of glass, but warmth wasn’t the primary reason he’d invited the Royal Dohlaran Navy’s intendant to join him here. The lack of windows, and the fact that no one could enter it—or eavesdrop upon any conversation within it—without first getting past Sahbrahan and Sir Ahbail Bahrdailahn, Thirsk’s flag lieutenant, were far more pertinent at the moment.
“I’m pleased to see you looking so well. Relatively speaking of course,” Maik said into the stillness. “I was … concerned about what I was hearing.”