“Excuse me, Alahnah,” she said as the guardsmen and the agents inquisitor followed her to the display window. “There are some people here who’d like to speak to you.”
“Oh?” Alahnah’s back was to the shop as she worked on the display, and she turned with a pleasant smile … that vanished instantly when she saw the Schuelerite purple.
“Oh!” she gasped, stepping back involuntarily. Her back touched the display window’s glass, and she stopped, staring huge-eyed at the inquisitors.
“Alahnah Bahrns?” the under-priest asked harshly.
“Y-y-yes,” she got out. “I’m—I’m Alahnah Bahrns … Father.”
“Come here, girl!” he half-snapped, pointing impatiently at the shop floor in front of him.
She stared at him a moment longer, trapped in the window bay, then her shoulders slumped and she obeyed the command. He waited until she stood directly in front of him, then crossed his arms and regarded her sternly.
“The Office of Inquisition has a few matters to discuss with you, Mistress Bahrns. Matters concerning your cousin and your uncle.”
“M-m-my…?”
She couldn’t get the sentence out, and sudden fear—and grief—filled her brown eyes.
“Yes.” His eyes were much harder than hers, glittering and cold. “They’re in custody at the moment. I’m afraid I’ve been sent to fetch you to join them.”
“In custody? Fetch me?” Alahnah shook her head. “No! There must be some mistake! Krystahl and Uncle Gahstahn—they’re good people, Father! They love Mother Church and the Archangels! Truly they do!”
“In that case, they have nothing to fear … and neither do you,” he told her in a voice which shouted exactly the opposite. “I’m sure we’ll get all of that sorted out quickly enough. Now come along, girl.”
Alahnah stared pleadingly at him. Then, against her will, her eyes flitted to Zhorzhet and she half-raised one imploring hand.
The under-priest’s hard eyes narrowed, and his thin lips tightened. Then he glanced at the senior guardsman.
“Probably best to bring this one along, as well,” he said. “It couldn’t hurt, anyway, and if this conspiracy’s as broad spread as we think it is, she may have something to tell us, too.”
Zhorzhet Styvynsyn’s racing heart seemed to stop.
“Father,” she said carefully, “I don’t know anything about any conspiracies. Frankly, I can’t believe Alahnah does, either, but I can assure you that I don’t.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about,” he told her, and twitched his head at the monk standing behind her.
She couldn’t see the man, but she knew he was there, and her right hand shot towards her mouth as he reached for her. Her lips parted and her eyes closed in a quick, final prayer. Then her hand was at her mouth and—
Her eyes flared wide once more as the monk’s fingers closed on her wrist. He’d been primed and ready for such an order, and his own hand had started moving an instant before hers. Now it stopped her fingers a fraction of an inch from her lips. She twisted desperately around to face him, clawing at his eyes with her free hand, fighting to wrench free and get the locket into her mouth, but he only turned his face away from her fingernails and twisted the arm he’d captured up and behind her. Something popped and tore in her elbow and she cried out in anguish and went to her knees, her face white with pain, then screamed through gritted teeth as he twisted even harder to keep her there.
“And what do we have here?” the under-priest said very softly, bending over her as one of the guardsmen caught her other arm, twisting it behind her as well and stilling her desperate struggles.
She stared up at them, panting hard, fear and defiance blazing in her blue eyes. There was no hope to keep those emotions company, yet she refused to look away, despite the awful pain in her ruined elbow as the monk forced her hand to turn palm-uppermost, his strength mocking her own, and pried her fingers apart. The under-priest reached out and peeled the locket from her palm, holding it up to the light, and his eyes flamed with triumph.
“So we’ve netted a rather bigger fish than I’d expected,” he murmured, closing his fist around the locket and sliding it into his coat pocket. “Oh, I’ve wanted to meet one of you for a long, long time.”
.X.
Allayn Maigwair’s Office,
City of Zion,
The Temple Lands.
“This is a bad idea, Allayn,” Archbishop Militant Gustyv Walkyr said. “I can’t begin to tell you how bad an idea I think this is, and Rainbow Waters is going to like it even less than I do.”
“Then that makes three of us,” Allayn Maigwair replied sourly. “Unfortunately, I don’t see any way to avoid it.”
Walkyr sat back in his chair, scowling so fiercely his thick beard seemed to bristle. One of the things Maigwair had always treasured about Walkyr was his willingness to speak his mind … to the captain general, at least. That—coupled with his sheer competence, energy, and personal sense of loyalty—explained how he’d risen from under-priest to archbishop militant in the six years since the initial disaster off Armageddon Reef. It was fortunate that he was also smart enough not to speak his mind in front of certain other ears, but this time he seemed furious enough Maigwair was actively concerned about his discretion.
“Listen, Gustyv,” the captain general said, leaning forward slightly across the desk, “I need you where you are right now—alive, that is—so please don’t express yourself quite this … frankly where it might get back to Zhaspahr.”
Walkyr glowered at him for a moment, but then his shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly and he nodded choppily.
“I understand,” he conceded. “But this really is a bad idea.”
“I agree it has definite shortcomings,” Maigwair conceded, “and my initial response to it was about the same as yours. I’ve had some time to think about it since then, though, and the truth is that if the intelligence behind it holds up, it’s not quite as insane as it looks on first glance.”
Walkyr made a semi-polite sound of incredulity, and Maigwair snorted.
“I did say ‘not quite,’” he pointed out.
He stood and crossed to the enormous topographic map hanging on one wall of the office. The known position of the headquarters of every Charisian and Siddarmarkian army was marked with pins, each with a tiny flag bearing that army’s name, and his forefinger tapped the one indicating the Charisian Army of Cliff Peak’s headquarters, located at the smallish Cliff Peak Province city of Halfmyn.
“According to the Inquisition’s agents, all indications are that the Charisians are steadily reinforcing High Mount down here in Cliff Peak a lot more strongly than they are Green Valley up in New Northland or Eastshare in Westmarch.” His finger swept over the other two armies’ positions. “We’re not as well informed about Stohnar.” His expression was bleak as his finger tapped the city of Guarnak, which General Trumyn Stohnar had made his headquarters after his army completed the destruction of Bahrnabai Wyrshym’s. “Indications are that he’s definitely being strengthened, but we don’t know by how much. We do know that at least three of the new Siddarmarkian rifle divisions are being sent to High Mount, though, not to Stohnar.”
He indicated the Army of Cliff Peak’s position once more, then returned to his chair, sat, and tipped it back, his expression serious.