The implications of its obvious and utter contempt for anything Gorath’s defenders could do had been terrifying, but the reach and accuracy of its fire had been even more frightening. Lainyr was no military man. He’d had no idea how the heretics could drop their shells so accurately, with a precision the finest surgeon might have envied, on targets that couldn’t even be seen from Queen Zhakleen Harbor, but he didn’t doubt Captain Gairybahldy’s explanation was correct. It was the balloon. It was the accursed, no doubt demonic, balloon. It hung above the ironclad, watching the fall of its shells, sending down corrections, and the thunderbolts of destruction had marched across their targets with devastating effect.
And the bastards were careful not to hit the residential areas, Lainyr thought grimly.
For all the pervasiveness of the smoke, only a handful of shells had landed anywhere near the city’s houses or apartment buildings, and they’d obviously missed their intended targets. The Navy Yard, the manufactories and warehouses, the city’s walls had been demolished by hit after hit, yet it had been painfully obvious the heretics were carefully avoiding civilian casualties.
And the people of Gorath knew it. They knew the navy which had every reason to hate their kingdom, whose monarchs had declared the basis for those reasons time and again, whose dead sailors had been dropped into Gorath Bay like so much refuse, denied even burial in consecrated ground, and whose living sailors had been delivered to the hideous provisions of the Punishment, were deliberately not killing them. Destroying their city’s manufactories, smashing its walls and its fortifications, yes; killing the civilians of that city, no.
The word that the heretics—the savage, bloodthirsty heretics the Inquisition had assured them sacrificed babies to Shan-wei and routinely burned Temple Loyalist churches to the ground, generally with their congregations locked up inside them—were trying not to kill them or their families and children had spread rapidly among the capital’s inhabitants. Ahbsahlahn Kharmych’s agents inquisitor had already confirmed that, and Lainyr didn’t want to think about the speculation that restraint was bound to spawn, especially after all the casualties Dohlar had suffered in the service of Mother Church. King Rahnyld’s subjects’ confidence in the Jihad—and in its justification, little though Lainyr liked admitting that—had been crumbling for months. Langhorne only knew what would happen to it now, but the bishop executor didn’t expect it to be good.
“Five more minutes, Your Eminence.”
Lainyr turned his head as Captain Gairybahldy leaned from the saddle and spoke through the open carriage window. Like everyone they’d passed, the captain had tied a wet bandanna across his face. It made him look like a highwayman, Lainyr thought. Or like some other sinister criminal, at any rate. That was an image Mother Church’s protectors didn’t need to be projecting just now, and a petty, petulant part of him thought about snapping an order to take it off—and for all of Gairybahldy’s men to do the same.
But there’s no point, he thought wearily. And how likely is that, really, to add to the … demoralization this city’s already suffered?
“Thank you, Captain,” he said, courteously, instead, and leaned back in his seat opposite Kharmych and closed his eyes in silent prayer.
* * *
Closed windows and doors might keep the worst of the city’s smoke at bay, but the stink of it penetrated even to the heart of the royal palace. Lainyr would have preferred to think it had come in on his own clothing, but the faintest haze was visible in the longer palace corridors, hanging in nebulous halos around the lamps which lit them.
He followed their guide down the crimson runner and the council chamber doors opened wide at their approach.
“The Bishop Executor and Father Kharmych, My Lords,” the liveried footman announced, and stood aside as the clerics passed through the doors, followed by Captain Gairybahldy. The men seated at the table—the Duke of Fern, the Duke of Salthar, and Baron Yellowstone—rose as they entered.
“Your Eminence, Father,” Fern greeted them.
“Your Grace,” Lainyr replied, but he also paused just inside the doors.
“Is something wrong, Your Eminence?” Fern inquired.
“I was about to ask you that,” Lainyr replied. “May I ask where Duke Thorast is? And it was my impression His Majesty intended to be present for the discussion of the capital’s defense.”
“Duke Thorast has been unavoidably detained, I’m afraid,” Fern replied, gesturing with one hand towards the comfortable chairs waiting for Lainyr and Kharmych. “And His Majesty is currently with the healers.”
“With the healers?” Lainyr repeated sharply, resuming his progress towards the table. “Was he injured during the attack?!”
“No, Your Eminence. I assure you, if he had been you would already have heard. No, he’s simply experiencing some difficulty with his breathing because of the smoke. The healers don’t think it’s anything serious, but his personal physician wants to keep an eye on him until they’re positive of that.”
“I see.” Lainyr extended his ring for Fern to kiss, then settled into his chair, Gairybahldy at his back like an armsman, as the Dohlaran councilors sat back down. “And do we know how long Duke Thorast will be delayed?”
“For quite some time, I’m afraid, Your Eminence,” another voice said, and Lainyr’s head whipped around.
He hadn’t heard the well-oiled hinges when the doors opened again behind him. Nor had he heard the boots crossing the thick, expensive carpet. But he recognized that voice, and his eyes flared as he saw the Earl of Thirsk.
The Admiral wasn’t alone, and the color drained from the bishop executor’s face as he saw Sir Rainos Ahlverez at Thirsk’s left shoulder … and Bishop Staiphan Maik at his right. There was a pistol in Ahlverez’ hand, aimed directly at Captain Gairybahldy’s head, and the general shook his head very slightly when the Guardsman whipped around and his hand started towards his own pistol.
Gairybahldy froze, standing very still indeed under the blank, cold eye of that pistol muzzle, but Ahbsahlahn Kharmych shot to his feet.
“What’s the meaning of this?!” the intendant thundered. “What do you think you’re doing?!”
“I should think that would be clear even to you, Father,” Thirsk replied coolly. “For your information, however, units of the Army and Navy are currently arresting every agent inquisitor in Gorath.” He shrugged slightly at Kharmych’s stunned expression. “We may miss a few, and I’m afraid there may be a little breakage. The officers and sergeants assigned to that duty are mostly survivors of the Army of Shiloh or veterans from the Army of the Seridahn. I’m afraid they’re unlikely to show a great deal of patience if any of your agents offer resistance. For some reason, they aren’t very fond of inquisitors.”
Kharmych stared at him, frozen, as he and Bishop Staiphan walked around the end of the table to the Duke of Fern’s chair. The bishop’s face was stone, his eyes harder than flint as they met Lainyr’s horrified gaze, and the bishop executor’s frozen heart plummeted as he read the message in that unyielding countenance. Ahlverez stayed where he was as another half-dozen men in Army uniform filtered into the room, bayoneted rifles carried at a position of port arms, and Duke Fern rose once again, to stand beside Thirsk and Staiphan Maik.
“At this moment,” the earl continued, “Sir Rainos’ senior aide, Captain Lattymyr, is at the Cathedral with two platoons of Army of Shiloh veterans. It’s a pity Archbishop Trumahn’s business in Zion has continued to prevent his return, but I’m confident Father Rahndail will be able to direct the Captain to General Rychtyr’s chambers so that the General can accompany Sir Lynkyn back to the Palace. In the meantime,” he smiled thinly and settled into the chair Fern had just vacated, while Bishop Staiphan moved to stand at one shoulder and the first councilor—the former first councilor, Lainyr realized numbly—moved to stand at the other, “I think we should by all means begin that discussion about how to defend this city.