“None of us should be,” Duchairn said in an even quieter voice.
He leaned back in the swivel chair on his side of the enormous desk—he and Maigwair were sharing yet another working lunch in his office—and contemplated the other man. They’d been forced into ever closer partnership as they coped with the rising flood of the Jihad’s disastrous requirements. The fact that they knew Zhaspahr Clyntahn regarded them both with the utmost suspicion—and was undoubtedly simply waiting for the appropriate moment to act upon that suspicion—had only glued them more tightly together. And in the process, Duchairn had realized his own view of Maigwair as a slow, unimaginative plodder had been … less than fair. Or accurate. Allayn Maigwair might not be the most brilliant man he’d ever met, but he was a long, long way from the stupidest. And as he’d just pointed out, brilliance all too often ran a piss-poor second to common sense, and that he’d turned out to have in abundance. Yet for all the closeness with which they’d come to coordinate their plans and efforts, this was the first time Maigwair had ever expressed his own misgivings about the Jihad’s origin—or probable outcome—quite so clearly.
“I don’t think any rational human being would think God wants to see His children slaughter one another in His name,” the Church’s treasurer continued, his soft voice clearly audible against the muted backdrop of the blizzard howling outside the mystically heated comfort of the Temple. “Maybe it is necessary, sometimes, but surely it ought to’ve been a last resort, not the first one we reached for!”
“I know.” Maigwair set his stein back beside his empty soup bowl and gazed down into it for a long moment. “I know.” He looked back up at Duchairn. “But we’re astride the slash lizard, and we’ve taken all of Mother Church there with us.” His mouth was a grim line. “Until we’ve dealt with the outside threat, we can’t risk trying to deal with any that might be … closer to home.”
Duchairn nodded slowly, and his eyes were as dark as Maigwair’s.
You’re right, Allayn. Unfortunately, some outside threats are easier to deal with than others, he thought with a certain acid humor. And then there’s the little problem of timing. Supposing that we somehow miraculously “deal” with Charis and the Republic, what happens when Zhaspahr realizes we have? Just how are we supposed to “deal” with him if he has the two of us killed as soon as he decides he no longer needs us to keep his fat arse in the Grand Inquisitor’s chair? That is sort of the heart of the question, isn’t it?
He thought about asking that out loud, but he didn’t, and as he studied Maigwair’s expression, he felt vaguely ashamed by the temptation. Because the truth was that he honestly didn’t think Maigwair’s first concern was over his own survival. Not any longer. And if it had taken the other vicar a little longer to reach that point, at least he had reached it. And the Writ itself taught that what mattered was the destination, not how long it took to get there.
Some things were best not said, however, even between just the two of them, and even here in his own office. If nothing else, it was dangerous to get into the habit of confiding too easily—or too openly, at least—when the Inquisition commanded so many spies, so many sets of ears. Maigwair had been given fresh proof of that only last June when Clyntahn summoned a dozen of the captain general’s most trusted colleagues to receive their orders to betray him. Unfortunately for the Grand Inquisitor, the “Fist of God” had blown up the traitors—along with the Second Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion—and Maigwair had moved with surprising speed to take advantage of the sudden vacuum at the top of the Army of God’s hierarchy.
He’d been rather more careful about who he’d selected to fill those offices this time around. It was to be hoped he’d been careful enough.
And in the meantime, the treasurer reminded himself, while winning the Jihad would be nice, we somehow have to see to it that we at least don’t lose it. God knows I’ve heard of lighter challenges!
“Well,” he said out loud, cradling his own stein in both hands, “I think we’ve covered just about everything from my side, at least as far as current production plans are concerned. Is there anything else you think we need to discuss on that side, Allayn?”
“No.” Maigwair shook his head and laid one hand on the fat looseleaf binder beside his tray. “I’m comfortable that we’ve come up with the best projections we can based on reports from the front and Brother Lynkyn’s estimates.” He shrugged. “I’d be lying if I said I was satisfied with those projections, because I’m damned well not, and I really don’t like what meeting them is costing the Army in terms of personnel. But that doesn’t mean we can come up with better ones.”
“I wish we could cut you a little more slack on the manpower side,” Duchairn said soberly. “Unfortunately, I need those men badly.”
“Oh, I know that! And if it’s a choice between putting them into uniform and having enough weapons to go around for the men we already have in uniform, I’m all in favor of letting you have them! It’s just the caliber of the men in question. And then there’s the little matter of how much more weight this makes us throw on Rainbow Waters and the Mighty Host.” The captain general shook his head. “It’s slowing the training process, too, and that means we’ll be slower hitting our deployment targets this summer.”
Duchairn nodded. The voracious demand of the manufactories supporting Mother Church’s war effort was cutting into the personnel available to Mother Church’s armies. There’d always been some competition in that regard, but it had gotten steadily worse—far worse—as the Church found itself confronting the floodtide of Charisian productivity. Duchairn’s comb-out of the great orders had provided a huge upsurge in available hands two years ago, but much of that manpower surge had vanished like a prong buck sliding down a crusher serpent’s gullet. Not because the hands the personnel requisition had provided weren’t working harder than ever, but because the previous year’s military catastrophes had required even more weapons—replacement weapons, as well as the newly designed and developed ones—than anyone had dreamed might be the case.
The production techniques Lynkyn Fultyn and Tahlbaht Bryairs had pioneered right here in Zion helped enormously, and Fultyn had assembled what he called his “brain trust” to push that process along. Duchairn knew the Chihirite monk was nervous about pulling so many of his more innovative thinkers together into a single group so close to Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s personal eye, and the treasurer had been careful to point out in his memos to his colleagues how incredibly important that group’s efforts were. That didn’t keep him from worrying about the targets he and Fultyn had pasted onto those men’s backs, but it was the best he could do, and they needed the “brain trust.” They were not only Fultyn’s primary problem solvers—the analysts he turned to whenever yet another new piece of Charisian technology was brought to his attention—but were also engaged in what Fultyn called “efficiency studies.” They were specifically charged with studying the production techniques and processes being mandated and enforced across every single one of Mother Church’s manufactories for the specific purpose of finding ways in which those techniques could become even more efficient.
Yet even with all the “brain trust” could do, Mother Church’s productivity per man-hour remained drastically lower than that of Charis. There were times that seemed impossible when Duchairn looked at the thousands of artillery pieces—and the hundreds of thousands of rifles—pouring from her manufactories, yet it remained true. And, far worse, because the capability of those cannon and rifles remained inferior to that of the weapons in heretic hands, her defenders had no choice but to substitute quantity for quality. The Treasury had poured out a floodtide of marks building manufactories to make that possible, and that tide continued to flow, even though Duchairn had been forced to more and more desperate expediencies to sustain it. But manufactories needed far more than bricks and mortar, and money wasn’t the only thing that had to be carefully budgeted to meet the Jihad’s insatiable appetites.