If he was going to be honest, his dislike for her stemmed far less from religious principles than from the threat she represented. Personally, Suwyl didn’t really care who ran the Temple. As far as he was concerned, that was God’s business, and God would get around to straightening it out eventually if He wasn’t happy about it. In the meantime, however, one of Mother Church’s responsibilities was to see that people behaved themselves. And when people behaved themselves, there weren’t things like wars and violence. And when there weren’t things like wars and violence, simple bankers could engage in honest, gainful trade without having to worry about what the lunatics on either side were going to tear down, burn to the ground, or blow up next.
Suwyl considered himself as Charisian as the next man, but he’d lived here in Siddar City for almost thirty years. He was part of the city, a known man, respected and listened to throughout the business community, not just in the Quarter, with contacts at the highest level of the government. Or at least he was for now. There was no telling how long it would continue to be true, though, and it was the maniacs like Staynair and “Emperor” Cayleb who were to blame.
Remember what the healers keep telling you about your temper, Tobys, he reminded himself. The last thing you need is to work yourself into an apoplectic fit over things you can’t do anything about anyway.
He drew a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly. His wife Zhandra had taught him the technique, and it actually worked. Sometimes, anyway.
Fortunately, this was one of the sometimes, and he felt his anger ease. A business colleague nodded to him in passing, and he managed to nod back with a genuine smile. Then he accepted a goblet of wine from one of Pahrsahn’s servants and sipped.
At least the woman’s taste in wine is as good as her taste in music, he reflected morosely. That’s something, if I’m going to be stuck here all night anyway.
He took another sip and began easing his way through the crowd, looking for his wife.
“Good evening, Aivah,” a quiet voice said, and Aivah Pahrsahn turned to smile at the silver-haired man who didn’t happen to be wearing a cassock this evening.
“And good evening to you, too, Zhasyn,” she said, tactfully avoiding any last names or ecclesiastic titles. “You are aware the Seneschal and his wife are both attending tonight, aren’t you?” she added teasingly.
“I assure you, I’ll stay out of Lord Daryus’ way,” he replied with a smile. “Although according to my sources, he’ll probably be going pretty far out of his way himself to avoid noticing me. May I ask if your… negotiations with him have prospered?”
“Oh, I’m sure both the Republic and I will be making a great deal of money, Zhasyn,” she assured him. “And it really won’t hurt for Hahraimahn’s foundries to get a small infusion of capital at a time like this.”
“Small?” He raised his eyebrows in polite incredulity, and she laughed.
“Perhaps not so small on the scale of individuals,” she acknowledged, “but still relatively small on the scale of entire realms. Indeed,” her smile faded slightly, “small enough I think there’s an excellent chance none of Clyntahn’s eyes or ears will realize it’s even been made. For a while, at least.”
Zhasyn Cahnyr nodded, although his eyes were worried. “Madam Pahrsahn’s” investment was nowhere near so cut and dried as she chose to pretend, and she was playing a more dangerous game than she was willing to admit. He was less certain than she that the Inquisition wouldn’t get wind of a “private investment” which amounted to the purchase of several thousand rifled muskets and bayonets. More than that, he was more than a little frightened of exactly what she intended to do with them once she had them.
Perhaps it’s just as well she hasn’t enlightened you on that particular point, he told himself dryly. You’d probably worry even more if you did know what she was going to do with them!
“You have made it clear to your ‘special guests’ that there’s a degree of risk involved here, haven’t you?” he asked now, changing the subject.
“Of course I have, Zhasyn.” She smiled and touched his cheek gently. “I admire and respect you, my friend, but I’m not going to throw any lambs to the slash lizards without due consideration. I’m very careful about who I approach with your invitation, and after the initial flirtation-I’d be tempted to say ‘seduction’ if it wouldn’t seem too much like a bad jest, given my previous vocation-I’m very careful to warn them about the dangers. And that’s why I send them to you only one or two at a time. We can’t avoid letting you and me know who they are, but we can at least protect their identities from anyone else.”
“Forgive me.” He smiled back and cupped his left hand lightly over the fingers on his cheek. “I forget sometimes how long you’ve been doing this sort of thing. I should know better than to try to teach such a mistress of her art.”
“‘Mistress of her art’?” She shook her head, eyes dancing. “And here I went to such lengths to avoid any double entendres!”
“My dear, I know it amuses you to try, but you’re really not going to shock me or offend me by throwing your past into my face,” he pointed out.
“I know. But you’re right, it does amuse me. And it probably says something unfortunate about me, as well.” She shook her head, still smiling. “My initial involvement in this sort of thing was what you might call a reaction against the high clergy, you know. I can’t quite seem to forget that even though you’re not like the vast majority of your ecclesiastic brethren, you are an archbishop. I think that’s why I feel such a compulsion to keep trying.”
“As long as it amuses you,” he said, then looked across the room. “Not to change the subject-although that’s really exactly why I’m doing it-who’s that youngster with Sharghati?”
She turned to follow the direction of his glance.
“Which one? The younger of the two is Byrk Raimahn. He’s Claitahn Raimahn’s grandson, and I strongly suspect him of harboring Reformist thoughts. In fact, I’m not so sure he’d be happy stopping short of Church of Charis-style thinking if he had his druthers, although he’s far too astute and too well informed to come out and say anything of the sort. The fellow with him is Raif Ahlaixsyn. He’s about ten years older than young Raimahn and a Siddarmarkian. I’ve met his father. The family’s got money, and I think they’d really prefer to sit on the sidelines, but I’m not sure about Raif. Not yet.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I think there’s some potential there, but given his family connections, I’m being particularly cautious about exploring it.” She shrugged. “In the meantime, he’s really quite a good poet and making him a more or less permanent fixture at my parties is something of a social coup.”
“You actually enjoy this, don’t you?” he asked. She looked back at him, and he shrugged. “I mean all of it. The scheming, outwitting your enemies, laying the evil low, the dancing on the edge of the sword blade-not just all of that, but the parties and the gaiety, too. You do, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Zhasyn!” She seemed surprised by the question. “It’s what I do. Oh,” her eyes hardened, although her smile never wavered, “don’t think for one moment that I’m not going to dance in that pig Clyntahn’s blood the day Cayleb and Sharleyan take his head. And string up the rest of the Group of Four, and the entire damned vicarate- what’s left of it-for that matter. Never underestimate that side of me, Zhasyn, or you may get hurt. But the rest?” The hardness disappeared and her eyes danced once more. “It’s the grandest game in the world, my friend! Beside this, anything else would be only half alive.”
He gazed at her for a moment, then shook his head, and she laughed.
“Take yourself off to the private salon now, Zhasyn,” she told him. “Your first meeting’s scheduled to begin in about ten minutes. And in the meantime,” she smiled brilliantly, “I have to go have a word with the Seneschal.” . II.