“Sister Klairah didn’t recruit me simply because I wanted Mother Church to be what she’s charged by God to be, Merlin. Many of the Sisters — most of them, really — have been called over the years for the same reason so many of my classmates were sent to Saint Anzhelyk’s: because they were rebels. Because they had not simply the faith or the skills the Sisterhood needed, but because they had the fire, the need to do something with that rebellion — that touch of the anshinritsumei that comes down to us from Saint Kohdy. And in my case,” her smile turned almost impish, “there was even more of that fire than I think Sister Klairah realized. I’m afraid I was never the most . . . dutiful of daughters, whether of my father or of Mother Church. And then, too,” the smile vanished, “I had the example of my own father and of what was happening inside the vicarate.
“I knew better than most what had really happened to Saint Evyrahard, and I’d come to the conclusion there was precious little chance of the vicarate’s ever reforming itself. The rot was too deep, the momentum building too steadily, for that to happen. Not without a little . . . push, at least. Which is why I became what I became. Oh, I’ll freely admit I took a certain pleasure out of outraging my father and his family connections, especially since he couldn’t openly object without admitting he was my father. But I also knew no one could possibly be in a better position to acquire the sort of . . . leverage that might inspire better behavior out of the worst of vicars than a courtesan — and later a madame — serving the most rarified heights of the episcopacy.
“Then I became aware of what Samyl and Hauwerd Wylsynn were trying to accomplish.” She shook her head sadly, eyes darkening once more. “At first, I avoided them, since the last thing I wanted was for any of the vicars to see me coming and I was afraid an association with the Wylsynn family might come to light. But then it looked as if Samyl had a genuine chance of becoming Grand Inquisitor, and he was such a good man, and Adorai was already part of his circle. So I made myself a member as well, but only as myself, without ever acknowledging the Sisterhood’s existence to anyone, even Adorai. Only he lost the election — almost certainly because Rayno manipulated the vote, though I could never prove that — and you know what happened from there.”
She fell silent, and Merlin stood for several minutes, considering all she’d said.
“I assume the Sisterhood’s secret investments explain where Ahnzhelyk Phonda found the capital she used to build that empire of hers in Zion? And the one here in Siddarmark, as well?” he asked then.
“You assume correctly,” she acknowledged. “Except that the initial investments in Siddarmark are much older than I am. The Sisterhood’s managed its portfolio well over the centuries, and until very recently its core expenses have been quite low. We’ve been active in charitable work for a long, long time, although we’ve had to be very careful about how we funded them without anyone’s noticing us. The experience we gained in doing that for several hundred years was very useful when we started funding more . . . proactive endeavors.”
“And your current Mother Abbess doesn’t object to your more . . . secular activities, shall we say?” he asked, and she chuckled throatily.
“I’m afraid you don’t quite have it straight yet,” she told him. “The Sisters don’t have a Mother Abbess anymore. We have a Mother Superior. She’s the one who determines what the Sisters as a whole do in the world, and, no, she doesn’t object to my ‘more secular activities,’ as you put it. That would be rather difficult for her to do, actually . . . since for the last twenty years or so, I’ve been the Mother Superior.”
* * * * * * * * * *
“Trust me,” Merlin Athrawes told the senior members of the inner circle as his attention returned to the com conversation. “Domnyk never said a truer thing in his entire life. Whatever else we may do, we don’t want to turn this woman into our enemy.”
.III.
HMS Chihro, 50,
Gorath Bay,
Kingdom of Dohlar,
and
HMS Destroyer, 54,
Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Old Charis,
Empire of Charis.
“Is that confirmed, My Lord?”
Commander Ahlvyn Khapahr sounded very much as if he hoped it wasn’t, and Lywys Gardynyr, the Earl of Thirsk and the Kingdom of Dohlar’s senior fleet commander, didn’t blame him one bit.
“I’m afraid it is,” he told the man who would have been called his chief of staff in Charisian service, and saw Khapahr’s face tighten. He glanced around his day cabin and saw much the same reaction out of everyone else, as well.
Not surprisingly.
He pushed back his chair, rose, and crossed to the open quarter windows, looking out across the waters of Gorath Bay at the golden stone walls of the city of Gorath with his hands clasped behind his back. The late afternoon sun hung barely above the western horizon, its rays slanting across the battlements and parapets, painting them with a deeper, more lustrous gold, and the kingdom’s banners flew bravely above them.
Gorath Bay’s temperature seldom fell below freezing, yet it could be bitterly cold in winter, especially for anyone out on its waters. The bay’s cold snaps, with their raw, biting chill, might last for five-days, despite its southern location. That was what had caused so much sickness among Gwyllym Manthyr’s half-starved, half-naked crews when they were confined in the prison hulks.
Oh, yes, Thirsk thought. The bay can be cruel, especially when human spite sees a chance to make it worse.
His jaw tightened as he remembered that winter, remembered his shame and the way the Inquisition had countermanded his orders to provide his prisoners — his prisoners — with food and healers. That wind-polished sheet of pitiless winter water danced before his eyes again, and he felt the helplessness he’d felt then. Oh, how he’d hated Gorath Bay throughout that cold, bitter winter.
But not today. He squared his shoulders and drew a deep breath, forcing himself to step back from the familiar rage, and looked out at the capital of his kingdom.
Although it was the middle of winter, the breeze whipping across the bay today was little worse than chilly, cold but not cutting, and the darkening sky was cloudless for the first time in several days. People in the city were enjoying the last minutes of that sunlight, he thought, possibly doing a little shopping as they hurried home. And the painters were probably out along the Gorath River with their easles, catching that golden sunlight across the river that flowed through the heart of the city as the light gilded the Cathedral’s scepters. He wondered how many of those people had heard the news? If they hadn’t heard yet, they would soon enough, even if Duke Salthar and Bishop Executor Wylsynn attempted to conceal it. That would be not only futile but particularly stupid, in Thirsk’s opinion, yet he’d seen ample examples of Wylsynn Lainyr’s doing equally stupid things. Salthar was probably smart enough to argue against it, but in this case Thirsk could count on his own service superior, Duke Thorast, to support any effort to hide the truth for as long as he possibly could.
Although not, of course, for all the same reasons as Lainyr.
