APRIL
YEAR OF GOD 898
.I.
St. Kylmahn’s Foundry,
City of Zion,
The Temple Lands.
At least it wasn’t snowing.
In fact, he thought as he stepped down from the carriage to St. Kylmahn’s Foundry’s paved courtyard, it was a beautiful morning. Cold, but crystal-clear, with a sky of polished lapis and only the merest hint of a breeze.
It was, in fact, the sort of day April sent to lull the citizens of Zion into the false hope that spring might be upon them soon.
No doubt there’s an allegory in that, he thought dryly, and turned to the commander of his mounted escort as the door to Brother Lynkyn Fultyn’s office opened and the bearded Chihirite stepped out into the cold. The lay brother’s breath rose in a cloud of steam, touched to gold, like a frail echo of the sacred fire which had crackled about the Archangels’ brows. Under other circumstances, Rhobair Duchairn would have preferred to walk, enjoying the sunlight and the opportunity to make personal contact with the people whose spiritual shepherd he was supposed to be, but Major Khanstahnzo Phandys, the commander of his personal bodyguard, had refused to permit it. In this instance, given some of the rumors floating about the Temple, Duchairn wasn’t at all certain the major didn’t have a point where his personal safety was concerned. On the other hand, he wasn’t supposed to know Wyllym Rayno had personally ordered Phandys to be certain Duchairn had as little contact with his sheep as was humanly possible. That was a new twist, and the Church’s treasurer suspected it might actually confirm some of the wilder “rumors” which had come his way.
He put that thought temporarily on hold and beckoned Phandys closer.
“Yes, Your Grace?” the major said, just as attentively as if he hadn’t been the Inquisition’s spy.
“We’ll probably be here at least an hour or two, Major. In fact, I think it’s entirely possible we’ll be here through lunch. I think you should see about getting your men under cover and arranging a meal for them if we do stay through midday. Should I speak to Brother Lynkyn about that?”
“Thank you, but no, Your Grace. That won’t be necessary. I’ll arrange a rotation to keep anyone from being out in the cold too long, and Brother Zhoel and I have worked out standing arrangements to feed the men if we’re here through mealtime.”
“Good,” Duchairn said, and walked across the courtyard to Fultyn, extending a gloved hand. The Chihiro bowed to kiss the vicar’s ring through the leather, but a wave of Duchairn’s other hand stopped him.
“Consider that all courtesies due my lordly rank have been duly offered and received, Brother,” he said with a breath-steamy smile. “We don’t need your lips getting frostbite!”
“It’s not cold enough for that, Your Grace.” Fultyn gave him an answering smile, but obeyed the injunction. “It is, however, cold enough that I’m sure you’d rather get into the warmth than stand out here talking,” the foundry’s director continued, and stepped to one side, beckoning the vicar through the door he’d just emerged from. “Vicar Allayn’s already here.”
“I saw his carriage.” Duchairn nodded at the other vehicle standing in the courtyard, its paired horses well rugged against the sunny cold. “Has he been here long?”
“Only twenty minutes or so, Your Grace.” Fultyn followed the vicar through the door into his office vestibule. “He and I have already discussed Earl Rainbow Waters’ request that we expedite manufacture of his land-bombs.”
Duchairn nodded again, more soberly this time. The Inquisition-prescribed term for the infernal device in question was certainly accurate, although he personally found the Army of God’s original name for it much more appropriate. They truly were the very spawn of Kau-yung, and the Order of Pasquale’s hospitals were all too crowded with men who’d lost limbs to them. Still, he wasn’t surprised Zhaspahr Clyntahn had opted to “discourage” the troops’ chosen label, especially when his own inquisitors had taken to calling the terrorists here in Zion “the Fist of Kau-Yung” … at least where they didn’t expect their words to get back to the Grand Inquisitor’s ears. And whatever he might think of them, he could scarcely fault Rainbow Waters for responding in kind to a weapon which was going to cost him so many men in the coming campaigns. And now that the Inquisition had signed off on the production of the Charisian-introduced “percussion caps,” at least Brother Lynkyn’s foundries could provide him with the things, whether they were called “land-bombs” or “Kau-yungs.”
“Will you be able to meet the quantities he’s requesting?” the treasurer asked, unbuttoning his heavy coat as they crossed the vestibule and entered the outer office. Fultyn’s clerks rose, bowing deeply to the vicar as he passed through, then diving back into their never-ending paperwork as soon as he waved them back onto their stools.
“Of course not.” Fultyn smiled crookedly. “He knew that when he submitted the request, Your Grace. I doubt we’ll be able to manufacture more than a third of the numbers he’s asking for—especially if we mean to get them to him in time for the beginning of the campaign.”
Duchairn snorted in understanding. Frankly, he doubted the Church could have paid for all of the land-bombs the Mighty Host of God and the Archangels’ commander desired, and he was pretty sure Rainbow Waters knew it. But he understood exactly why he’d asked for them anyway. By requesting three or four times as many as could possibly be manufactured and shipped in the available time, he established his own opinion of how production capabilities should be allocated. The earl and the treasurer had come to understand one another quite well, and in the process, Duchairn had picked up a few new wrinkles on how to manipulate a bureaucracy.
There truly were some skills in which Harchongians had no peers.
“Well, we’ll just have to come as close as we can,” he said as Fultyn reached past him to open the inner office’s door. He stepped through it, and Allayn Maigwair turned from the courtyard window from which he’d watched his arrival and extended a hand to his fellow vicar.
“Beautiful weather, isn’t it?” he said, and Duchairn nodded.
“I think it’s the best we’ve seen since the end of October,” he agreed, clasping forearms with Maigwair. “I hope no one’s stupid enough to think it’s the beginning of the spring thaw, though!”
“No one outside the Inquisition,” Maigwair said dryly. Duchairn’s eyes widened, and he flicked them sideways to Fultyn, still half a stride behind him and to one side, but Maigwair only grimaced. “Brother Fultyn’s not going to misunderstand me,” he said. “He knows I was simply referring to the Inquisition’s … impatience to resume operations as soon as the weather makes it humanly possible. Or, preferably, even sooner than that! Don’t you, Brother?”
“Of course I do, Your Grace,” Fultyn replied imperturbably … and exactly as if he truly meant it.
“I see.” Duchairn gave Maigwair’s forearm a tighter squeeze than usual, then stepped back to allow Fultyn to walk around him to the chair behind the desk. The Chihirite started past him, then paused as Maigwair raised a forestalling hand.
“Yes, Your Grace?”