He saw the same awareness, the same recognition, in Allayn Maigwair’s eyes, and he started to open his mouth. He wasn’t certain what he was going to say, how he’d find the words, and someone else spoke before he found them.
“I think it might be time to … seek direct contact with Cayleb and Sharleyan and Stohnar.”
The hesitant voice was Zahmsyn Trynair’s, and Duchairn’s eyes widened in astonishment as the Chancellor looked nervously at Clyntahn.
The Grand Inquisitor seemed not to have heard him for a handful of seconds. Then he turned his head, looking back at Trynair.
“What did you say?” he asked, and Duchairn’s astonishment grew.
The question had come out calmly, almost courteously, as if Trynair’s suggestion had been perfectly reasonable, and now Clyntahn cocked his head. His expression was almost as calm as his tone, and he made a little encouraging motion with his right hand.
“I said … I said it might be time to seek contact with Cayleb and Sharleyan and Stohnar,” Trynair said, and leaned forward slightly. “I know none of us want to even contemplate that, but if … if the situation’s as … as serious as it seems to have become, then it seems unlikely we can expect a … successful resolution on the battlefield. So perhaps it’s time we sought a diplomatic approach.”
“A diplomatic approach,” Clyntahn repeated. He leaned back in his own chair, folding his hands across his midsection, and raised his eyebrows. “What sort of ‘diplomatic approach’ did you have in mind, Zahmsyn?”
“Well,” Trynair said a bit hesitantly, “I think we probably have to begin by forming a … a realistic view of what Mother Church’s prospects are if we continue the war. I mean, we need to have an accurate understanding of our capabilities—and how they compare to the heretics’—before we can assess what we can realistically ask for.”
“Ask for at the negotiating table, I presume you mean?”
“Yes.” Trynair nodded, his expression more animated at the evidence of Clyntahn’s willingness to hear him out. “It’s always important to decide ahead of time what points are and aren’t negotiable, Zhaspahr. And it’s just as important to evaluate the strengths and weaknesses of both sides’ positions before sitting down at the table. Each of them is going to assess what it demands—or what it’s willing to concede—based on what it expects continuing the war would cost it.”
“And I imagine it’s equally important to decide what’s the minimum you’re prepared to accept from the other side. Especially when you’re negotiating on God’s behalf,” Clyntahn observed in that same calm, reasonable voice, and something in his eyes sent a thousand tiny, icy feet scuttling up and down Duchairn’s spine.
“Oh, absolutely!” Trynair nodded again, firmly, and Duchairn could almost physically feel the Chancellor’s eagerness. It was like watching someone awaken from a trance, rousing as he realized his diplomatic competence and experience had suddenly become relevant once more.
“You always have to understand what you can and can’t bargain away,” he went on. “And it’s always important to remember that you’re not going to get everything you ask for. In this case, I think we’re all in agreement that Mother Church can’t bargain away her religious authority. That has to be guaranteed at an absolute minimum. But we might be willing to offer some accommodations to the Reformists’ less outrageous demands.”
“I don’t think it would be acceptable for Mother Church to surrender any significant doctrinal points, Zahmsyn,” Clyntahn said thoughtfully.
“Oh, no! Not permanently,” Trynair agreed. “I’m not suggesting we should do anything of the sort! But we might need to convince them we’d be willing to, if only to get them started talking to us. If we tell them we’re prepared to negotiate and both sides agree to a cease-fire in place while we do, I’m sure we could spin the talks out at least to the end of summer. Trust me, my people and I are old hands at that sort of thing!” He smiled. “If we get them talking in the first place, I’m confident we can keep them talking until the first snow shuts down the fighting. That would give us all winter to improve our military position, and if we did that, we’d be able to hold out for much better terms next year. The longer they give us to recover, the more expensive it becomes for them to defeat us militarily. And the more expensive that becomes, the more … amenable to reason they’ll be.”
“And you genuinely think you could negotiate an acceptable balance of authority between Mother Church and someone like Cayleb Ahrmahk or Greyghor Stohnar? Forgive me if I seem just a trifle skeptical about that, after all this time and all this bloodshed.”
“I don’t know,” Trynair said frankly. “I only know it’s our best chance—our only chance, really—given how bad things look. I may not be able to get them to agree to our minimal terms, but there’s at least the possibility that I can. On the other hand, if we continue the Jihad and lose—and that’s exactly what seems to be happening, Zhaspahr—they’ll be in a position to dictate any terms they want, and I think we can all imagine what those terms would be like.”
“I imagine we can,” Clyntahn agreed. He sat for several more moments, his lips pursed in thought, then gave a small nod and stretched out an arm. He passed one hand over the glowing God light on the table before him, and the council chamber door slid open once more as one of the purple-cassocked agents inquisitor in the antechamber answered the soft chime.
“Yes, Your Grace?” he said, signing himself with Langhorne’s scepter and bowing to the Grand Inquisitor.
“Arrest him,” Clyntahn replied conversationally, and pointed at Trynair.
Zahmsyn Trynair slammed back in his chair, staring at Clyntahn in disbelief, but the agent inquisitor only nodded, as if the order to arrest Mother Church’s Chancellor was nothing out of the ordinary. The sound of his heels was loud in the brutal, echoing silence as he crossed to Trynair’s end of the table.
“If you’ll accompany me, please, Your Grace.”
The words were courteous, but the tone was icy and Trynair shook his head, still staring at Clyntahn.
“Zhaspahr, please,” he whispered. “You can’t! I mean—”
“I know exactly what you mean, Zahmsyn,” Clyntahn said, and the veneer of thoughtful, interested curiosity had vanished. “You mean you’re willing to sit down across a table from that bastard Cayleb and that harlot Sharleyan and bargain away God’s own authority to save your worthless arse.” His voice was as implacable as his frozen eyes. “I should’ve realized long ago that you’d betray Him and His Archangels anytime you saw an advantage to it. But just as God knows His own, His Inquisition knows how to deal with Shan-wei’s own.”
“But I’m not!” Trynair rose from his chair, holding out an imploring hand. “You know I’m not! I’m trying to save Mother Church from losing everything if the heretics defeat our last armies!”
“Don’t be any stupider than you have to be,” Clyntahn sneered. “Mother Church is God’s Bride. She can’t lose—not in the end—so long as one faithful, loyal son stands to fight for her! But I don’t suppose a traitor to God could be expected to understand that, could he?”
“I—”
Trynair broke off, his face paper-white, terror beginning to flare in his eyes as panic leached away the anesthetic of shock. He stared at Clyntahn, and then his eyes darted desperately to Duchairn and Maigwair.