by David Weber
Under the circumstances, it probably wasn’t unreasonable for at least some Chisholmians to nourish a few doubts about how long it would be before Chisholm openly became the junior partner—one might almost say the second-class partner—in the imperial relationship.
Cayleb and Sharleyan were determined to prevent that from happening. The fact that Sharleyan was Cayleb’s co- ruler, that she had governed the entire Empire in her own name from Tellesberg while Cayleb was off at war in Corisande, and that it was she—not Cayleb—who had overseen the creation of the new Imperial Parliament had gone quite some way towards accomplishing that goal. The fact that the imperial capital would be located in Cherayth, the capital of the Kingdom of Chisholm, for half the year, and in Tellesberg, the capital of the Kingdom of Charis, for the other half of the year, went even further. It assured the citizens of Chisholm that Charisian viewpoints would not be allowed to dominate the imperial government simply because the people arguing for those viewpoints enjoyed a far better, far closer, and uninterrupted access to the emperor and empress.
The formation of the Imperial Army was intended to be yet another reassurance. The Chisholmian Crown’s two great supports under King Sailys and Queen Sharleyan had been the fierce loyalty of the Chisholmian Commons and the Royal Army. As Green Valley had just pointed out, it had been the Army, backed by the political and financial support of the commons and with its ranks filled primarily by commoners, with which King Sailys had broken the arrogant power of the Charisian aristocracy’s great magnates. It was that same Army and the even fiercer loyalty—the love—of those same commoners for the dauntless courage of the child- queen who had succeeded Sailys after his untimely death which had allowed Sharleyan to survive. And those same deep reservoirs of support were what had carried them with her in her decision to wed Cayleb and create the Empire.
She and Cayleb were both fully aware of that, which was why, just as Cayleb had insisted Chisholmian merchants and manufacturers must have equal access to the Empire’s markets, both foreign and domestic, the two of them had decreed that it was Chisholm which would take the lead in the formation of the Imperial Army. There were those among the Royal Charisian Marines who had objected (although they’d been wise enough to do it quietly, in most cases) to that decision. Whose sense of pride in their own organization, in the way it had grown so explosively, the fashion in which it had smashed its opposition in Corisande, was deeply offended by the notion that the Marines should not only go back to being purely a shipboard and amphibious force but also transfer the majority of the Corisande campaign’s veterans to the Army.
Those who’d been sufficiently foolish to make an issue of their objections had been... found other duties, however.
“I think probably still another part of it,” the seijin said out loud now, “is the fact that Cayleb and Sharleyan have made it so abundantly clear that whereas Charis is reasonably going to take the lead where naval affairs are concerned, it only makes sense to give that same role to Chisholm where the Army is concerned. Which is why you’re an Army officer now, of course. The decision to fold the bulk of the Imperial Marines over into the Army—and respect the seniority of the Army’s existing officers in the process—wasn’t an easy one, but Cayleb and Sharleyan were right to insist on it, I think.”
“Absolutely!” Green Valley’s nod was more vigorous and emphatic than Merlin’s had been. “The officers I’m working with obviously see that decision as proof Their Majesties meant what they said about the organization of the Empire’s armed forces. Especially after—well ...”
The baron’s voice trailed off on a most unusual note of something that was almost—not quite, but almost— embarrassment, and Merlin smiled without any trace of humor.
“Especially after the Army’s top commander conspired with the Temple Loyalists to murder—or at least kidnap—Sharleyan, you mean?”
“Well, yes, actually,” Green Valley admitted. He shook his head slightly. “Hard to blame them for worrying about it, really. In their place, I’d certainly have been afraid the Crown would entertain serious doubts about the Army’s basic reliability. Especially given how popular Halbrook Hollow was—with the common troopers, not just the officer corps. He’s the one who built this entire Army, Merlin. He shaped it, he commanded it in most of its critical battles, and he led its soldiers to victory in every campaign. How could they not have worried about whether or not the Crown would feel it couldn’t afford to trust their loyalty after something like that? For that matter, a lot of them felt shamed by his actions. They hadn’t done anything wrong, but he was their commander, and at least some of them feel his treason has stained them, as well.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Merlin said soberly.
And the truth is,he told himself silently, that at least some of the Army’s officers do entertain the same doubts Halbrook Hollow did. Like the noble Earl of Swayle, for example.
Barkah Rahskail, the Earl of Swayle, was young, only thirty- seven Safeholdian years old. He was also very tall for a Safeholdian, within an inch or so of Merlin’s own height, and rakishly good- looking with his fair hair, dark eyes, and sun- bronzed complexion. Back when Merlin Athrawes had been Nimue Alban, she would definitely have given Swayle a close look.
But in addition to his good looks and noble birth, Swayle was a dyed- in the- wool Temple Loyalist. He’d done a better job of hiding it than quite a few of his fellows, including Halbrook Hollow, but Merlin had no doubts about his fundamental beliefs. What he didn’t know yet was where Swayle’s ultimate loyalties lay. Would his repulsion against the Church of Charis’ “apostasy” and “heresy”— and, quite possibly, the death in disgrace of an army commander he’d deeply admired and respected—drive him into treason of his own? Or would his and his family’s long- standing loyalty to the House of Tayt—unusual, actually, among the high Chisholmian nobility—and his oath as an officer of the Royal Army hold firm against those forces?
Merlin was afraid he could guess which way Swayle would jump in the end. But he hadn’t jumped yet, and neither Cayleb nor Sharleyan was in the habit of punishing people for what they might do.
Which suited Merlin Athrawes just fine, when it came down to it.
I’m keeping an eye on all of the ones we know shared at least some of Halbrook Hollow’s doubts,he reminded himself . And if Cayleb and Sharleyan aren’t going to hammer anyone until and unless someone decides to emulate Halbrook Hollow, they won’t hesitate if the time ever comes to bring that hammer down, either. I know they hope they won’t have to, but they’ll do it if they do have to. And at least it looks like the ones with Temple Loyalist leanings are definitely in the minority . . . for now.
“And Duke Eastshare?” he asked out loud. “What’s your read of how he feels about all this, My Lord?”
“You’re asking me to comment about my commanding officer, Seijin Merlin,” Green Valley said with a sudden—and unaccustomed—edge of severity, and he frowned. “I understand why you’d be concerned, but, to be honest, I don’t think it’s really appropriate for me to be passing judgment on His Grace’s loyalty to the Crown.”
Merlin allowed one of his eyebrows to arch in mild surprise. He started to respond, then stopped.
Actually, he thought, Green Valley’s . . . stiffness was a judgment on Eastshare’s loyalty. Particularly since it clearly didn’t stem from any reluctance to risk antagonizing a powerful noble in the extraordinarily unlikely event that word of any criticism on his part would ever make it back to Eastshare.
What itis, is an indication of just how much he’s discovered he respects Eastshare, Merlin told himself. If he had any doubts about Eastshare’s loyalty, he wouldn’t respect him, either, no matter how flexible the Duke might be in a professional sense. So the fact that he doesn’t want to answer is an answer.
“I understand, My Lord,” he said out loud, rather more formally than had become the norm for his conversations with Green Valley. The baron looked at him for a moment, then ga
ve an almost imperceptible nod, and his frown vanished.
“So, overall, you’re satisfied?” Merlin continued in a more normal tone, and Green Valley nodded again, more firmly.
“Overall, I’m very satisfied. I wish—and so does Duke Eastshare—that we could have provided even more Marines as cadre, but we both understand why Their Majesties had to leave General Chermyn a big enough garrison force in Corisande. I also wish we could get the new rifle shops and cannon foundries set up here in Chisholm more quickly, but Chisholm simply doesn’t have the pool of experienced mechanics and craftsmen Old Charis does. At least the first couple of shipments of rifles have already come in, so not everyone is drilling with broom handles.
“On the plus side, in addition to everything else we’ve just been talking about, I have to admit that the Duke and his officers seem to have a better grasp of the realities of fighting on land than we do—than I do, and I’m the fellow who developed all our new infantry tactics.” He snorted. “They pay me a flattering amount of attention, and they listen damned carefully to everything I say, particularly given the fact that, unlike them, I actually have field experience with the new weapons. But the truth is, they’ve already pointed out a lot of places where my ideas—and not just about tactics, either; they’ve got a lot more experience with army logistics than we have—could stand some improving. In some cases, a lot of improving.”
And it says very good things aboutyou, My Lord, that you not only recognize the truth when you see it but that you’re willing to admit it—to others, and not just yourself, too, Merlin thought.
“So you think I’ll be able to go back to Cherayth and tell Their Majesties the great army integration project is going well?” he said out loud.
“Yes,” Green Valley said, looking steadily into the seijin’s blue eyes, making it plain just how many levels he was actually speaking on. “Yes, I think you can tell them it’s going very well.”
.III.
Royal Palace,
City of Talkyra,
Kingdom of Delferahk
What do you think they really want, Phylyp?”
Irys Daykyn’s tone was calm as she gazed across the dinner table’s empty plates at her legal guardian, but the hazel eyes she’d inherited from her dead mother were darker than could have been explained solely by the lamps’ dimness.
“Mostly, I think, what they’ve said, Your Highness.” Phylyp Ahzgood, Earl of Coris, shrugged. “Oh, I don’t doubt they’ve got more in mind than they’ve actually said so far. But as far as what that ‘more’ might be, your guess is almost certainly as good as mine,” he said. And he meant it, too. Irys Daykyn might be only seventeen years old—not quite sixteen, in the years of the planet upon which humanity had actually evolved—but she was scarcely a typical seventeen-year- old. Not even a typical seventeen- year- old princess.
“I don’t expect they’ve issued their . . . invitation, let’s call it, because of their vast concern for Daivyn, though.” Coris’ tone was biting. He wouldn’t have let anyone else hear him using it about the Group of Four, but neither he nor Irys had any illusions about that particular quartet, and no one else was present. “At the same time,” the man who had been Prince Hektor of Corisande’s spymaster for so many years continued, “I think it could probably be worse than it actually is. At least they’re not insisting the two of you accompany me!”
“Why should they bother to invite me, what ever their motives?”
Irys’ face had tightened, and Coris found himself nodding in acknowledgment. He’d meant his final sentence at least partly as an attempt at humor, but he wasn’t really surprised, after the fact, that it had fallen flat. And he no more doubted than Irys did that, as far as the Group of Four was concerned, she herself had very little value. Her little brother Daivyn was the legitimate Prince of Corisande—even Cayleb and Sharleyan of Charis acknowledged that much—even if he was currently in exile. But Irys? She was simply a sort of unimportant second thought. She had no intrinsic value as a political pawn in the Group of Four’s eyes, and they certainly weren’t going to waste any time worrying about what a fugitive princess in exile, subsisting solely (so far as they knew, at any rate) upon the niggardly generosity of distant relatives, might think.
Which was incredibly foolish of them, in Phylyp Ahzgood’s opinion, no matter how reasonable they obviously thought it was.
So far, anyway. It was entirely possible they would eventually learn the error of their ways. Probably quite painfully, he thought with a certain undeniable satisfaction.
“I’m afraid you have a point about that, from their perspective, at least,” he said in answer to her question. “On the other hand, my own point stands, I think. If they had any immediate plans where Daivyn is concerned, they’d probably insist I drag him along, as well.”
Despite the very real affection in which she held her “guardian,” and despite her own worries, Irys couldn’t quite keep from grinning at Coris’ sour tone. It wasn’t really funny, of course—a journey of the next best thing to nine thousand miles would scarcely have been a mere jaunt in the country, even in the middle of summer. With winter coming on fast, it was going to be a highly unpleasant experience no matter what happened. And its final stage had the potential to be actively dangerous, for that matter.
“You don’t think it’s just because of how hard the trip’s going to be?” she asked, indirectly voicing her own worry where Coris was concerned.
“No, I don’t.” The earl’s lips tightened, and he shook his head. “Duchairn would probably worry about that, especially given Daivyn’s age. Even Trynair might consider it, for that matter, if only because of his awareness of Daivyn’s potential value. I doubt it would even cross Maigwair’s mind to worry about dragging a nine- year- old through hip- deep snow, though. And Clyntahn—”
Coris broke off and shrugged, and it was Irys’ turn to nod. Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair was probably as cold- blooded and calculating a chancellor as the Church of God Awaiting had ever produced in all the nine dusty centuries since the Day of Creation. He was far more likely to regard Daivyn Daykyn purely as a potential political asset than as a little boy whose father had been brutally murdered. And, by all reports, Allayn Maigwair, the Church’s Captain General, had about as much imagination as a worn- out boot. Expecting it to occur to him to worry about Daivyn would have been as foolish as it would futile.
And then there was Zhaspahr Clyntahn. Irys no more doubted than Coris did that the Grand Inquisitor would simply have looked blankly at anyone who might have had the temerity to suggest he should bother his own head one way or the other about Daivyn’s well- being.
“If they were contemplating any significant change in their calculations where he’s concerned, they might want him in Zion, where he’d be handy,” the earl continued. “For that matter, I think Clyntahn, at least, would want the opportunity to... impress Daivyn with just how serious an interest the Inquisitor and his associates take in him.” He shook his head. “No, I’m inclined to think it’s pretty much exactly what Trynair’s message suggests it is. They want to be sure I fully understand their plans for him. And to get my own impressions of the situation in Corisande, of course.”
For a moment, Irys looked as if she wanted to spit, and Coris didn’t blame her a bit.
“I’m sure they’ve got better sources than I do—than we do,” he said. “Or, at least, that their sources can get their reports to Zion faster than our agents can get reports to us. But anything they know about Corisande is secondhand, at best, even if it is more recent than anything we’ve heard. I’m not surprised they’d want to pick the brain of one of your father’s councilors.”
“Especially his spymaster’s brain, you mean.” Irys’ lips twitched a brief smile. It was very brief, though. “And especially now that Father’s dead. No doubt they want your impression of how our people are likely to have reacted when Cayleb assassinated him.”
This time, Coris only nodded. He’d watched Irys Daykyn grow up.
In fact, as he’d once admitted to her, he’d been present on more than one occasion when her diaper had been changed. He knew exactly how close she’d been to her father, exactly how she’d taken his murder. And although he’d tried his very best to keep her mind open to other possibilities, he knew exactly who she blamed for that murder.
Personally, Coris’ suspicions lay in a somewhat different direction. But there were dangers, especially for her, in laying those suspicions too plainly before her.
“I’m sure that’s one of the things they’ll want to discuss,” he agreed. “At any rate, though, I think this probably means they’re planning on leaving you and Daivyn here in Talkyra with King Zhames, at least for the foreseeable future. It’s going to take me better than two months just to get to Zion, and I don’t have any idea how long they plan on my staying once I get there. Since I don’t think they’re contemplating separating me permanently from Daivyn, or that they’re likely to be planning on sending him anywhere without me along as his guardian, that probably means they expect to leave him right here for at least five or six months. Probably longer, actually.”
“I can’t say I’d be entirely sorry if they did.” Irys sighed and shook her head. “Neither of us really likes it here, but he needs some stability, Phylyp. Needs some time in one place to heal.”
“I know.” Coris reached across the table and patted the back of her left hand gently. “I know. And I’ll do my best to convince them of that, as well.”
“I know you will.”
Irys smiled at him, hoping he didn’t see the edge of fear behind her expression. She knew Phylyp Ahzgood. Despite the reputation some assigned him, she knew how loyal he’d always been to her father, and she herself trusted him implicitly. Probably more than she really ought to, she thought sometimes. Not because she thought there was truly any likelihood of his betraying her trust, but simply because—as her father had always said—no one who sat on a throne, or who was responsible for supporting someone who did, could ever afford to completely trust anyone.