If they’d been heretics, they’d still be in Tellesberg, he thought grimly. Still with the neighbors they’d grown up with, not estranged from their own families. They’d come to Siddar City because they couldn’t be party to the schism, couldn’t stand by and watch while God’s own Church was torn apart. No, they didn’t like everything about the current situation in Zion. In fact, in the privacy of his own mind, Sailys regarded Zhaspahr Clyntahn as an abomination, an indelible stain on the sanctity of Mother Church. But the Writ and The Commentaries made it abundantly clear that the Church was greater than those who served her. Their sins could not diminish her authority, nor could they absolve her children from their obedience to her. They had the right to protest, to seek redress, when her servants fell short of their responsibilities. Indeed, they had a duty to insist her priesthood be worthy of their offices and the God they served. But that wasn’t the same thing as throwing defiance into the Grand Vicar’s own face! And it certainly wasn’t the same thing as setting up the judgment of a mere provincial archbishop as superior to that of the Archangels themselves!
He felt the rage building in him again and forced himself to let go of it. It wasn’t his business to judge other men. It was his job to make sure he met his own responsibilities and didn’t help others avoid theirs. Those responsibilities included standing up for what he knew was right, and they included putting up with idiots who didn’t understand, as well. As long as he did what he knew was right, he could leave final judgments to Langhorne and God.
He picked up another sack, settled it on his shoulder, and turned back towards the warehouse.
Fucking heretic, Samyl Naigail thought bitterly. Should’ve thrown a damned rock. Hell, his lips drew back in an embittered snarl as he stood in the alley between the warehouses, glaring out at the busy scene, I should’ve thrown a fucking knife!
Naigail was only seventeen, but he knew what was going on. He knew who was to blame. His father had been a sailmaker, and a good one, but never a prosperous one. That was the fucking Charisians’ fault, too. Bad enough when everyone had “known” Charisians built the best ships in the world, whether they really did or not. The shipbuilders here in Siddar City had at least managed to keep their heads above water, and at least there’d been some work those days. But then the bastards had introduced their damned “schooner rig,” and things had gotten even worse. Everybody had to have one of the new damned ships, and if you didn’t know how the sails were cut, then you were just fucking out of luck as far as new orders went, weren’t you? Besides, who could match the quality of the canvas coming out of Charis these days? And who could afford to buy the quality of canvas coming out of Charis?
Nobody, that was who! And as if that weren’t enough, then the goddamned heretics had to launch their fucking schism against Mother Church! Of course they’d driven the Grand Inquisitor into declaring an embargo against trade with them. What else had they expected? But they’d had an answer for that, too, hadn’t they? Them and their buddies the fat, sand maggot bankers. Hell, half of them were Charisians, too, weren’t they? And they got their sodomite friends in the Lord Protector’s government to go along with it.
So now everyone was using Charisian ships, with Charisian crews, financed by Charisian money, and pretending they were Siddarmarkian. Everybody knew better, but did it matter?
No, of course it didn’t! Whatever the registration papers might say, they were Charisian ships, and the Charisian privateers knew it. So they got safe passage while everyone else’s shipping got wiped off the face of the ocean. The shippers and the warehouses and the longshoremen were still doing just fine, them and their fucking Charisian friends. But the honest workers-the honest Temple Loyalist workers-who couldn’t find jobs as carpenters or sailmakers or chandlers or in the ropewalks, they were starving to death! Unless they wanted to go crawling to one of the soup kitchens, at least. But a man had his pride, and it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right for good, hardworking, believing Siddarmarkians to be thrown out of work and forced to accept charity just to survive.
His father hadn’t been able to face it. They could say what they liked about accidents, but Samyl knew better. His father had always liked his beer, yes, but he’d never have gotten so drunk he staggered accidentally off the end of the wharf in the middle of winter and drowned, assuming he hadn’t frozen to death first. And he’d been careful to arrange an apprenticeship with his older brother for Samyl first. No, it hadn’t been an accident. He’d made it look like one so Mother Church would agree to bury him in holy ground, and he’d done what he could to take care of his boy first. It wasn’t his fault Uncle Byrt’s sail loft had collapsed into bankruptcy as well.
Samyl felt the hot tide sweeping up inside him again, but he fought it down. This wasn’t the time. Master Bahzkai and Father Saimyn were right about that. If they started actually attacking Charisians, really hurting the bastards the way they deserved, they were likely to actually generate some kind of sympathy for them. The very idea seemed impossible, but the city authorities were letting the damned heretics stay right here in Siddar City, weren’t they? If they were willing to whore themselves out for Charisian gold to that extent, then who knew where they’d be willing to go in the end?
No, he thought, turning away and shoving his hands into his tunic pockets as he stamped angrily down the narrow, noisome alley, the time might come, but it hadn’t come yet. Father Saimyn promised God and the Archangels would smite the Charisians in the fullness of time, and for now-at least-Samyl Naigail would wait to see that happen.
But if it didn’t, he wasn’t going to wait forever.
“Good evening, Madam Pahrsahn,” Tobys Suwyl said. He knew he sounded more than a little stuffy, but he couldn’t help it. Pahrsahn was just as charming, witty, beautiful, and wealthy as all her champions claimed, but he caught the stink of Reform from her.
“Good evening yourself, Master Suwyl,” Pahrsahn replied, smiling at him and extending one slim hand. Appearances had to be maintained, and he bent over it, brushing it with his lips. “I hadn’t expected to see you tonight,” she continued as he straightened.
“When my wife heard Sharghati would be performing at your party, she simply had to be here,” he said.
“Ah.” Pahrsahn’s smile broadened and turned impish. “I’d rather hoped it would have that effect,” she confided. “And I have to admit any excuse to listen to her sing was worthwhile.”
Suwyl nodded. And she was right. Ahlyssa Sharghati was the most highly sought-after soprano in all of Siddarmark. She’d traveled all the way to the Harchong Empire to study voice, and even the most sturdily Siddarmarkian critic had to acknowledge opera still attained its highest expression in the Empire. She could command any venue-or fee-she chose, and the fact that this was the second party of Pahrsahn’s she’d graced said a great deal about the woman’s wealth.
Either that, or it may say some unappetizing things about Sharghati’s own religious leanings, he thought, looking around the assembled guests.
“Well, I do hope you and your charming wife will enjoy yourselves this evening,” Pahrsahn said to him. “In the meantime, however, I see the Seneschal’s wife has just come in. I’m afraid I’m going to have to meet my social obligations and greet her. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask one of my servants to see to it for you.”
She swept him a stylish half-curtsy with all the polished elegance only to be expected from someone who’d come from Zion itself. Then she moved away, smiling and gracious, strewing conversational tidbits in her wake, and Suwyl watched her go with a sense of relief.