Graingyr and Pahrkyns looked at each other. It was evident the situation was already past that sort of request, as far as they were concerned. On the other hand, judging by expressions, at least half of the other eleven people crowded into the back of Graingyr’s shop agreed with Krystahl.
“If you’re afraid to be involved with anything that looks like it’s criticizing the Inquisition, you don’t have to help circulate the petition, Krys,” Pahrkyns pointed out.
“I’m not afraid to be involved.” Krystahl’s hazel eyes flashed. “Anyone who isn’t nervous about having his or her words misconstrued at a time like this obviously isn’t the sharpest pencil in the box, though. We’re here because we think the Inquisition’s turning too harsh, too repressive, in response to the threat of the heretics. It’s also possible we’re not in the best position to judge how much harshness is really necessary at this point, though. I think it would be more appropriate for us to ask Vicar Rhobair to explore that very question for us before we start openly condemning the Inquisition’s actions. And—” she added in a rather unwilling tone “—if the Inquisition is acting … capriciously, or without respect for the due process established in the Writ, the last thing we need to do is to turn that capriciousness in our direction until we have to.”
“There’s something to that, Gahlvyn,” Graingyr said. “In fact—”
The sudden crash of shattering glass cut the youthful printer off in mid-word. He started to whirl towards the workshop windows as the broken panes cascaded across the floor, but in the same instant both the back door leading to the service alley behind his shop and the door to the public area where he took orders crashed open. More than open: they flew off the hinges, smashed and broken by heavy iron-headed rams in the hands of a dozen Temple Guardsmen.
“Stand where you are!” a voice shouted, and Krystahl Bahrns paled as she recognized Father Charlz Saygohvya, the agent inquisitor who headed the Inquisition’s office in her own parish of Sondheimsborough. “You’re all under arrest in the name of Mother Church!”
“Shit!”
The single word burst from Gahlvyn Pahrkyns. He whipped around, then bolted towards the broken-in windows.
It was pointless, of course—a panic reaction, nothing more. The guardsmen who’d smashed those windows were waiting right outside them when he came scrambling through the opening, slicing both hands on the broken glass still in the frame. A heavily weighted truncheon smashed down across the back of his neck, and he crashed to the cobblestones face-first.
Krystahl’s hands rose to cover her mouth as icy wind sliced into the printing shop’s warmth, then she turned in place and found herself face-to-face with a thick-shouldered, dark-haired Schuelerite monk with the flame and sword emblem of the Inquisition on his cassock.
“Please,” she whispered. “We weren’t … we didn’t—”
“Be still, woman!” the monk snapped. “We know what you were doing!”
“But—”
“Be still, I said!” he barked, and the truncheon in his right hand slashed up in a flat, vicious arc. Krystahl Bahrns never saw it coming before it impacted savagely on her face, shattering her cheekbone and jaw and clubbing her to the floor, less than half-conscious.
“You’re all coming with us,” she heard Father Charlz’ voice saying, and then she faded into the darkness.
.III.
HMS Floodtide, 30,
Rahzhyr Bay,
Talisman Island,
Gulf of Dohlar.
Bosun’s pipes twittered, the side party snapped to attention, and a commodore’s streamer broke from HMS Floodtide’s mizzen peak as Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht climbed through the entry port to the ironclad’s deck. The entire ship’s company was drawn up in divisions on the broad deck, or manned the yards overhead, in clean, tidy uniforms, and the captain waiting for him at the side party’s head saluted sharply. Ahbaht returned the courtesy with equal precision and, despite the solemnity of the occasion, felt his lips trying to smile. The towering, broad-shouldered captain was almost a full foot taller than his own 5'4"—indeed, he was every bit as tall as Merlin Athrawes himself—and Ahbaht hoped he didn’t look too much like a teenager reporting to his father after staying out too late.
“Welcome aboard Floodtide, Sir Bruhstair,” the captain said, taking his right hand from his chest and extending it to clasp forearms.
“Thank you, Captain Tohmys,” Ahbaht responded gravely. “She looks like a beautiful ship.”
“I’m proud of her, Sir,” Kynt Tohmys agreed.
“I’m sure you are—and with good reason. For the moment, though, allow me to present Lieutenant Commander Kylmahn.” He gestured to the auburn-haired, green-eyed officer who’d followed him through the entry port. “My chief of staff,” the commodore added as Kylmahn and Tohmys exchanged salutes and then arm clasps.
“And this,” he indicated a considerably younger officer, “is Lieutenant Bairaht Hahlcahm, my flag lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant,” Tohmys acknowledged as the slender, dapper young lieutenant—who was only an inch or two taller than his commodore—came to attention and saluted.
“Captain Tohmys,” the lieutenant acknowledged in a pronounced working-class accent.
That accent might have seemed … out of place to some people’s ears, given his immaculately groomed appearance. Not to Tohmys’, though. The captain might be a Chisholmian, but he recognized the sound of Tellesberg’s docks when he heard it, and there were at least a score of “working-class” Tellesberg families who qualified for the newfangled term “millionaire.” And unlike most Mainland realms, where the newly rich worked hard to extirpate any vestige of their origins from speech and mannerism, Charisians saw things rather differently. They were just as adamant about their children’s educations, about acquiring the better things in life for spouse and family and learning how not to embarrass themselves in business discussions, but they were just as adamant about not forgetting where they’d come from. It was one of the things Mainlanders who persisted in regarding all Out Islanders as ignorant bumpkins most despised about Old Charis … and one of the things Tohmys most liked.
“If you’ll accompany me, Sir,” he said, turning back to Ahbaht, “I’ll escort you to your quarters. Unless you’d care to address the ship’s company?”
Ahbaht looked at him, head slightly cocked, but Tohmys looked back steadily. The line between the authority of a flag officer and the captain of his flagship was drawn very clearly for a great many reasons. A commodore or an admiral could order his captain to do anything he wished with his flagship; he had no authority over how the captain did it. There could be only one commander aboard any ship, especially any warship, and it was essential that there never be any question in anyone’s mind who that one commander was.
Because of that, the ICN tradition was that flag officers addressed their flagship’s companies only at their flag captains’ invitation. It would take a hardy captain to refuse a commodore or admiral permission to address his crew, but there was a distinct difference between granting permission and extending an invitation.
“I would, indeed—with your permission, Captain,” Ahbaht said after a moment. “And I thank you for the indulgence.”