The woman—the girl, really—behind him clung tightly, urging him to turn towards her, but the chime sounded a third time, louder still, and he muttered a curse, threw back the light cover, and disentangled himself from her. He stooped to pick up the robe he’d discarded a few hours earlier and shrugged into it, tying the sash, then stomped towards the chamber door, waving one hand to bring up the overhead lights.
The door slid open at a touch on the plate set into its frame, and he glared at Brother Hahl Myndaiz, the nervous-looking Schuelerite monk who’d been his valet for the last six years.
“What?” he snarled.
“Your Grace, I apologize for disturbing you,” Brother Hahl said so quickly the words seemed to stumble over one another. “I wouldn’t have, I assure you, but Archbishop Wyllym is here.”
“Here?” Clyntahn’s eyebrows rose and surprise leached some of the anger out of his expression. “At this hour?”
“Indeed, Your Grace.” The monk bowed, clearly hoping his vicar’s ire had been assuaged … or directed at another target, at least. “He’s waiting in your study.”
“I see.” Clyntahn stood for a moment, rubbing the stubble on his bristly jowls, then made the sound of an irate boar. “Well, if he’s going to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night, then he can go on waiting for a few minutes. I need a shave and a fresh cassock. Now.”
“At once, Your Grace!”
* * *
Archbishop Wyllym Rayno came to his feet, turning towards the study door as it slid open. The Grand Inquisitor strode through it, immaculately groomed, carrying the fresh scent of shaving soap and expensive cologne with him, and his expression was not one of unalloyed happiness.
“Your Grace,” Rayno bent to kiss the brusquely extended ring, then straightened, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his cassock.
“Wyllym.” Clyntahn twitched his head in a curt nod and stalked past the archbishop to settle into the luxurious chair behind his study desk. He tilted it back, surveying the Inquisition’s adjutant with a sour expression. “You do realize I’d been in bed for less than three hours—and gotten considerably less sleep than that—before you dragged me back out of it, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t aware of the exact time you retired, Your Grace, but, yes, I realized I’d be disturbing your sleep. For that, I apologize. However, I was convinced you’d want to hear my news as soon as possible.”
“I find it difficult to think of anything short of a direct demonic visitation here in Zion that’d be so important it couldn’t wait a few more hours,” Clyntahn said acidly, but then his expression eased … a bit. “On the other hand, I doubt you’d be willing to piss me off this much over something you didn’t think really was important. That being said,” he smiled thinly, “why don’t you just trot it out and find out if I agree with you?”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Rayno bowed again, briefly, then straightened. “Your Grace,” he said, “we’ve taken one of the so-called Fist of God’s senior agents alive.”
Clyntahn’s chair shot upright and he leaned forward across the desk, eyes blazing with fierce, sudden fire.
“How? Where?” he demanded.
“Your Grace, I’ve always said that eventually the terrorists would make a mistake or we’d get lucky. In this case, I think it was mostly that God and Schueler decided to give us that luck. It was a routine visit by a parish agent inquisitor—Father Mairydyth Tymyns; he’s distinguished himself in his pursuit of the heretic and the disaffected several times already—to collect and question the cousin of a seditionist we’d taken into custody some days ago.” He shrugged. “The cousin we’d arrested had already been judged and condemned to the Punishment in closed tribunal, and it seemed likely from Father Mairydyth’s interrogation of her father that the rest of her family was involved. When Father Mairydyth went by the second woman’s place of employment, however, he observed that her supervisor appeared to be very concerned about the interest the Inquisition was taking in her. And when the cousin was informed she was being taken into custody, she obviously expected—or hoped, at least—that her supervisor could do something to prevent that from happening. At that point, Father Mairydyth judged it best to bring the supervisor along for examination, as well. And that was when she betrayed herself.”
“She betrayed herself?”
“Yes, Your Grace. It was a woman.”
“And just how did she betray herself?” Clyntahn asked intently, his eyes narrow.
“She attempted to take her own life, Your Grace. That would have been enough to make us suspect a possible connection to the terrorists, regardless of the means she used. In this case, however, she used poison—and Father Mairydyth’s report strongly commends Brother Zherom, one of our monks, for reacting quickly enough to catch her wrist before she got the poison into her mouth. Examination proved that it was identical to the poison capsules we’ve found on the bodies of several dead terrorists.” Rayno shrugged again. “Under the circumstances, there can be little doubt she truly is an agent of the ‘Fist of God,’ and it seems likely that the family which was already under suspicion is also associated, perhaps less directly, with the terrorists.”
“Yes, that would follow, wouldn’t it?” Clyntahn murmured.
“Almost certainly, Your Grace. And there’s another bit of evidence that, I think, makes the connection to the terrorists crystal-clear.” Clyntahn sat back in his chair a bit once more, raising his eyebrows in question, and Rayno smiled coldly. “I regret that I don’t have the capture of two positively identified terrorists to announce to you,” he said, “but clearly this was a well-hidden cell of their organization. The proprietor of the milliner’s in which both of the prisoners were employed successfully poisoned herself while Father Mairydyth and his guardsmen were breaking in the door to her apartment above the shop.”
“Excellent, Wyllym,” Clyntahn murmured. “Excellent! I’d’ve been far happier to take two of them, too, but that does pretty definitely confirm what they were, doesn’t it? I assume the premises have been thoroughly searched for any additional incriminating evidence?”
“That search is underway at this very moment, Your Grace.” Rayno inclined his head. “Given how elusive these people have been for so long, I’m not as sanguine as I might wish to be about the likelihood of our discovering any such evidence, but they clearly didn’t have time to destroy anything. If they had ciphers, codes, or any sort of written records, we will find them. And, in the meantime, I’ve instructed Bishop Zakryah—the shop is in Sondheimsborough, Your Grace—to make certain his agents inquisitor on-site are as visible as possible while they conduct the search.”
“Is that wise?” Clyntahn frowned. “Won’t informing the terrorists that we’ve taken at least one of them alive throw away any advantage of surprise?”
“It seems unlikely they wouldn’t have become aware of that very soon,” Rayno replied. “It’s become painfully obvious that their organization is very tightly knit. They’re certain to realize something’s happened to this cell, and given the absolute importance of gaining full information from the terrorist we’ve taken, our interrogators will have to show extraordinary restraint. Frankly, from preliminary reports, I think it’s unlikely she’ll break quickly. Accursed and foolish though they may be, these terrorists are clearly fanatic in their devotion to their false cause, and this woman seems determined to protect her accomplices as long as possible. That being the case, I very much fear they’ll have sufficient warning—and time—to take whatever precautions they can against the information we may obtain before we get it out of her. So I judged it more useful to make the arrests as public as possible, both as an example to any other seditionists who might be tempted to emulate the ‘Fist of God’ and as a step which might conceivably panic them into taking some action in response that could expose them to additional damage.”