Things had gotten a little better after Twyngyth. Manthyr didn’t really know why, although he’d come to the conclusion they probably owed at least some of it to Father Myrtan. The fair-haired young upper-priest seemed no less fervent in his faith than Vyktyr Tahrlsahn, and Manthyr doubted Father Myrtan would hesitate to put any heretic to the Question or to the Punishment. The difference between him and Tahrlsahn was that Tahrlsahn would enjoy it; Father Myrtan would simply do it because that was what his beliefs required of him. Manthyr couldn’t decide which of those was actually worse, when he came down to it, but at least Father Myrtan didn’t delight in the sort of small souled brutality which had killed almost a dozen of Manthyr’s men in the first five-day and a half of this nightmare journey.
Oh, stop trying to analyze things, Gwylym, he told himself. You know perfectly well what it really was. Even that asshole Tahrlsahn finally realized none of you were going to live the rest of the way to Zion if he kept it up. Pity he figured it out. It would’ve been so fitting for him to have to face Clyntahn and explain how he’d come to use up all of the Grand Asshole’s “heretics” before he got home with them! Hell, he’d probably have gotten to take our place!
He let himself dwell for a moment or two on the delightful image of Tahrlsahn facing his own Inquisition, then brushed it aside. Whether Tahrlsahn faced justice in this life or the next really didn’t matter. Face it he would, one way or the other, and for now, duty called, and duty-and fidelity-to his men were really all he had left.
“Wakey, wakey, Naiklos!” he called as cheerily as he could, shaking the valet gently. “They say our cruise is over. Back on the road again, I suppose.”
“Yes, Sir.” Vahlain shook himself, struggling gamely up into a sitting position and fastidiously straightening the remaining rags of his clothing. “I’ll see to making reservations at a decent hotel, Sir.”
“You do that,” Manthyr said affectionately, resting one hand on the older man’s slight shoulder. “Nothing but the best, mind you! Clean linen and warming pans for me and Master Svairsmahn. And be sure you pick the wine; can’t trust my judgment about that, you know.”
“Of course, Sir.” Vahlain managed a death’s-head smile, and Manthyr squeezed his shoulder before he turned back to Svairsmahn.
The midshipman smiled, too, but it looked even more ghastly on him. Vahlain was over sixty; Lainsair Svairsmahn was not yet thirteen, and thirteen-year-old boys-even thirteen-year-old boys who were king’s officers-weren’t supposed to be one-legged, hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, half-starved, wracked by fever and nausea, and filled with the knowledge of what awaited all of them.
Three Temple Guardsmen clattered down the steep ladder from the upper deck. Manthyr was pretty sure they’d been chosen for their duty as punishment for some lapse in duty, and he heard them gagging on the stench despite the bandannas tied across their noses and mouths. Three days locked in the hold of an undersized coasting brig tended to produce quite an aroma, he thought grimly.
“On your feet!” one of them snarled. “You, there!” He kicked one of the seamen lying closest to the hatch. “You first!”
He tossed the seaman a key, then stood back, tapping the two-foot truncheon in his right hand against the side of his boot while the Charisian fumbled with the padlock. He managed to get it open, and iron grated and rattled as the chain which had been run through ringbolts on the deck and then through the irons on every man’s ankles was released. He pushed himself clumsily to his still-chained feet and staggered towards the ladder.
“Get a move on, whoreson!” the Guardsman sneered, prodding him viciously with the truncheon. “Can’t be late for your date in Zion!”
The Charisian almost fell, but he caught himself on the ladder with his manacled hands and climbed slowly and painfully up it while the cursing Guardsmen kicked and cuffed and beat his fellows to their feet. They made no distinction between officer, noncom, and enlisted, and neither did the Charisians, anymore. Those distinctions had been erased in the face of their common privation, and all that remained were Charisians, doing whatever they could to help their companions survive another day.
Which is stupid of us, Manthyr thought as he forced himself to his feet and then bent to half assist and half lift young Svairsmahn. All we’re doing is prolonging our own punishment until we get to Zion. If we had any sense, we’d figure out how to hang ourselves tonight.
That dark thought had come to him with increasing frequency, and he braced himself against its seduction while he slipped his arm around Svairsmahn’s shoulders and helped him towards the ladder. However tempting it might be, it wasn’t for him-not while a single one of his men lived. There might not be one damned thing he could do for any of them, but one thing he couldn’t do was to abandon them. And they, the miserable, starving, sick, gutsy bastards that they were, would never give the Inquisition the satisfaction of giving up.
AUGUST, YEAR OF GOD 895
Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk
“I could wish they’d just go ahead and get all of this settled,” King Zhames II grumbled across the dinner table.
The king’s kingdom, despite its respectable size, was not one of the great realms of Safehold. In fact, it was on the penurious side, which was one reason his own father had arranged his marriage to one of Hektor of Corisande’s cousins. King Styvyn had had hopes that the relatively wealthy island princedom would see its way to making investments in his longed-for project to turn the port city of Ferayd into the kernel for a Delferahkan merchant marine which, in alliance with that of Corisande, might actually have been capable of challenging Charis’ maritime dominance. Alas, it had never been any more than a hope-a dream, really-although Prince Fronz and, later, Hektor had been relatively generous in loans over the years. Not that Zhames had entertained any illusions that it had been out of the goodness of Hektor’s heart, whatever might have motivated his father. Hektor of Corisande had always invested his marks wisely, and it had been Zhames Olyvyr Rayno’s distant kinship to an up-and-coming bishop of the Order of Schueler which had been the true reason for Hektor’s generosity.
Not that Wyllym Rayno had ever done a damned thing for Delferahk, Zhames reflected grumpily. He’d been willing enough to use Zhames as a go-between to Hektor once or twice, and he’d helped arrange the remittance of the interest on a couple of the king’s more pressing loans from the Temple, but that was about it. And now there was this mess.
“Sooner or later it will all blow over, I’m sure, dear,” Queen Consort Hailyn said serenely from her own side of the table. The two of them dined alone together more often than not, less for any deep romantic reasons than because state dinners were expensive. At the moment, their three grown sons were elsewhere, no doubt entertaining themselves in some fashion of which a dutiful mother would not have approved. The queen consort had grown increasingly accustomed to that over the years. In fact, she’d grown accustomed to a great many things and taken most of them placidly in stride.
“Ha!” Zhames shook his head. Then, for added emphasis, he shook his finger across the table, as well. “Ha! You mark my words, Hailyn, this is going to get still worse before it gets better! And we’re already stuck in the middle of it, no thanks to dear, distant Cousin Wyllym!”