“Of course They will, Father.” Ohrohrk sounded less than totally convinced, but he nodded sharply when Rahlstyn looked at him.
“Then let’s go out and greet our rescuers,” the upper-priest said.
The two Schuelerites opened the shop’s front door and stepped out into the street as the front rank of the column drew even with it. The officer at its head touched his horse with a heel, and the big roan swung around, trotting over to where Rahlstyn stood.
The upper-priest’s heart rose as he recognized the rider’s insignia. It was that of a full bishop militant, a division commander, and there must have been two thousand men in the column behind him.
“Praise Langhorne and Schueler you’ve come, My Lord!” Rahlstyn cried. “May I ask your name?”
“Kradahck,” the bishop militant said. “Dynnys Kradahck. And yours, Father?”
“Zhordyn Rahlstyn, My Lord. And this is Brother Anthynee Ohrohrk.” Rahlstyn’s spirits rose still higher as he recognized the bishop militant’s name. He wasn’t “just” a division commander. Bishop Militant Dynnys Kradahck commanded the Holy Martyrs Training Camp, the main Army of God training facility twenty-two miles from the City of Zion. To have reached the city so soon he must have been summoned by semaphore—or perhaps messenger wyvern—almost the moment the outbreaks began. The proof that the Grand Inquisitor and Captain General had reacted so promptly and strongly was a tremendous relief.
“I never thought I’d be so relieved to see the Army here in Zion,” he said frankly, “but some sort of madness seems to have seized the city! Thank God you’ve arrived! Are more troops on the way?”
Kradahck looked down at him thoughtfully, and Rahlstyn suddenly found himself wondering if his anxiety—and his sudden relief—had betrayed him into what might be misconstrued as impertinence. He was an upper-priest of the Inquisition, of course, and Kradahck was only a bishop militant, which was just a military rank, really. He wasn’t certain, but he rather thought Kradahck had been a mere under-priest a few years earlier. For that matter, he might be one of the Army of God officers who’d been directly consecrated from the laity in answer to the desperate need for senior officers.
“Yes, Father,” the bishop militant said after a moment. “There are quite a few additional troops en route. Infantry, for the most part, so they’ll be some few hours behind the mounted men.”
“May I ask what your orders are?” Rydach asked in a deliberately more courteous tone, and Kradahck nodded.
“I’m on my way to relieve the Temple Annex and restore order.”
“May Brother Anthynee and I accompany you?”
“Oh, I think that can be arranged, Father,” Kradahck replied, and looked over his shoulder at the youthful, brown-haired major who’d just cantered up to join him, accompanied by a quartet of noncoms. “Father Zhordyn, this is Major Sahndyrsyn, my aide.” Rahlstyn nodded to the major, and Kradahck waved a hand at him and Ohrohrk. “Hainryk, these are Father Zhordyn and Brother Anthynee. Arrest them.”
Rahlstyn was still staring in goggle-eyed disbelief when four very tough-looking dragoons grabbed the agents inquisitor.
They weren’t particularly gentle.
* * *
“What in Shan-wei’s name is happening?!” Zhaspahr Clyntahn demanded furiously. “Wyllym! What’s the meaning of this?!”
“Your Grace, it’s … it’s—”
Rayno broke off, unable for once to find the words to answer the Grand Inquisitor.
“Don’t just gobble, damn it!” Clyntahn snapped. “Why hasn’t this rabble already been dispersed!”
He stabbed an angry finger at the sea of rioters crowding into the Plaza of Martyrs. Most wore civilian clothing, but here and there Rayno saw men in AOG uniform. The vast majority of them seemed to be armed only with improvised bludgeons, or paving stones, or even nothing at all, but there were dozens—possibly even scores—of rifles in that enormous crowd, and the rumbling snarl coming from it was enough to freeze a man’s blood.
“Your Grace,” the archbishop said finally, taking his courage in both hands, “they haven’t been dispersed because the Army is supporting them.”
“What?!” Clyntahn wheeled around, and Rayno shook his head.
“Your Grace, this has to’ve been carefully planned, and the treason was spread more broadly than anyone could have imagined! Officers of the Temple Guard—our own officers!—opened the Guard arsenals and distributed weapons to the mob. Others actually led rioters into municipal and Church buildings! Many of the Guard remained loyal, I believe, but they had no more idea this was coming than we did. Most of them were seized before they could even begin to react, and every agent inquisitor we had in the street when this … this madness began had to run for his life. I’m afraid a great many of them couldn’t run fast enough, and the situation’s only continued to spiral farther and farther out of control. Vicar Rhobair’s occupied the Treasury and seized control of the semaphore office and the dock master’s offices, and it looks like Major Phandys is actually leading the mutineers who followed his orders to seize the buildings. As soon as I realized what was happening, I sent agents inquisitor to arrest Vicar Allayn, but none of them have returned, and Army troops—apparently under his personal command—have surrounded St. Thyrmyn. The prison is on fire—they’re using infantry angle-guns to drop shells into its courtyard!—and none of our brethren inside the facility have been able to escape.”
“How the fuck did you let this happen?!” Clyntahn snarled.
“Your Grace, even the Fist of Kau-Yung is involved in this!” Rayno snapped back. “Three quarters of my senior people—Wynchystair, Gahdarhd, Ohraily, Zhyngkwai, at least a dozen more—were assassinated almost simultaneously this morning. Nobody even saw whoever threw the grenade that killed Gahdarhd and his senior assistant!”
Clyntahn stared at him speechlessly, and Rayno made himself draw a deep breath.
“Your Grace, if it had been only Duchairn and Maigwair, or if it had been only the Fist of Kau-Yung—or even if it had been all of them, perhaps—we might have been able to retain control. I can’t say for certain; no one could! But I can tell you for certain that it was this—” it was his turn to jab his finger out the window “—this … this mob—that guaranteed we couldn’t control it.” He shook his head again. “The entire city caught fire, probably in the space of less than one hour. It certainly didn’t take more than two! How were my people supposed to deal with something that sudden, on that kind of scale? We simply couldn’t do it, Your Grace!”
“My God,” Clyntahn whispered
He looked back out at the Plaza of Martyrs and his face tightened as a straw-stuffed effigy in an orange cassock was dragged across the plaza to one of the charred posts to which so many heretics had been chained. The effigy was lashed to the post, and a torch flared.
And over it all, he heard the shouts.
“Death to the Inquisition! Death to the Grand Fornicator!”
And, more terrifying—and far more infuriating—even than that, a single name, chanted over and over and over again.