A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  It’s certainly worth bearing in mind,the archbishop told himself. All my reports on Coris suggest Seablanket’s right when he says the Earl is far smarter than Zhames. Which means he’s a lot less likely to be tempted to do something outstandingly stupid. Leaving him right where he is as Daivyn’s guardian could be the smartest thing we could do. Always assuming Seablanket’s reading of his character is reliable.

  He thought about it for a few more moments, then gave a mental shrug. Trynair and Clyntahn would undoubtedly be forming their own opinions about Coris and his reliability over the next few five- days. They’d probably rely more on their own judgment than on any outside advice, but it would be a good idea for Rayno to have his own recommendation ready if it should be asked for.

  He put that consideration aside, tucking it into a mental pigeonhole for future contemplation, and returned his attention to Seablanket.

  “Those are some very interesting observations, Master Seablanket,” he conceded. “However, there are several other points I need to discuss with you, and I’m afraid time is pressing onward. So, bearing that in mind, what can you tell me about Prince Daivyn’s own attitude towards Charis?”

  “As I’ve already said, Your Eminence, he’s a very young boy whose father has been murdered, and what ever denials Cayleb and Sharleyan may have issued, I don’t believe there’s any doubt in Daivyn’s mind who was responsible. Under those circumstances, I don’t think it’s very surprising that he hates and distrusts—and fears—Cayleb with every fiber of his being. It hasn’t been difficult for Earl Coris and King Zhames to encourage those emotions, either.” Seablanket gave another of those tiny shrugs. “Under the circumstances,” he said, his tone ever so slightly edged with irony, “encouraging him to feel that way can only contribute to his own chances of survival, of course.”

  He met Rayno’s gaze yet again, and this time the archbishop found himself unable to totally restrain an unwilling smile. He was definitely going to have to find future employment for Seablanket, he thought. The man was even more perceptive and (even more valuable in an agent) willing to share those perceptions than Rayno had expected.

  “Having said that,” the Corisandian continued, “Daivyn’s also angry enough to be looking for any possible way to hurt Cayleb or Charis. Admittedly, he’s only a boy, but that won’t be true forever. By the time he comes to young manhood—assuming he can avoid Charisian assassins long enough for that—he’s going to be fully committed to the destruction of this ‘Charisian Empire’ and all its works. In fact, I think—”

  Wyllym Rayno sat back in his chair, listening attentively. He might well have to cancel his next appointment after all, he thought. Given the acuity of Seablanket’s insight into the inner workings of the Corisandian court in exile in Talkyra, it might be very much worthwhile to get the man’s impressions of the cities and provinces through which he and Coris had passed on their way to the Temple. Rayno had plenty of reports from Inquisitors and intendants throughout all of the mainland realms, but Seablanket clearly had a sharp and discerning eye, and Coris’ rank had been high enough to get Seablanket inside the highest circles of the lands through which they had traveled. True, he was only the earl’s valet, but any spymaster knew servants made the very best spies. They saw and heard everything, yet their betters tended to think of them as part of the landscape, little more than animate furniture. All of which meant Seablanket’s perspective on the reports from Rayno’s agents in place could be extremely valuable.

  I really have to keep an eye on this one,the archbishop told himself, listening to Seablanket’s report. Spies who can actually think are too rare—and valuable—to waste on routine duties.

  Rhobair Duchairn sat back, rubbing his forehead wearily. Another half hour, he thought, and they could finally break for lunch. He was looking forward to it, and not just because he’d skimped on breakfast that morning. His head throbbed, the congestion in his ears was worse than ever (the clerk who was currently speaking sounded as if he were in a barrel underwater), and he dearly wanted a little time in privacy to consider his unexpected encounter with Hauwerd Wylsynn.

  Not that he expected to feel a great deal of comfort after he’d done the considering, he thought.

  He felt his nose start to drip and muttered a short, pungent phrase which went rather poorly with the dignity of his august office. He hated blowing his nose in public, but the alternative seemed worse. So he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief—

  —and froze.

  For just an instant, not a single muscle moved, and then he forced himself to relax, one nerve at a time. He hoped no one had noticed his reaction. And when he thought about it, there was no reason anyone should have, really. But that didn’t prevent him from feeling as if he had somehow, in that instant, pasted an enormous archer’s target onto his own back.

  Or, perhaps, had someone else paste it there.

  His fingertips explored the small but thick envelope which had somehow come to be nestled under his handkerchief. It hadn’t been there when he left his suite this morning, and he knew he hadn’t put it there since. In fact, he could think of only one person who’d been close enough to find the opportunity to slide anything unobtrusively into his pocket.

  And just at this moment, he couldn’t think of a single gift that person could have given him that wouldn’t be at least potentially more deadly than its own weight in cyanide.

  Odd,a corner of his brain thought. For someone who was so hungry a few seconds ago, I seem to have lost my appetite remarkably quickly.

  .IV.

  Royal College,

  Tellesberg Palace,

  City of Tellesberg,

  Kingdom of Old Charis

  Baron Seamount is here, Doctor.”

  Rahzhyr Mahklyn looked up from the notes in front of him as Dairak Bowave poked his head through the office door. Bowave was a cheerful young man, not that many years older than Emperor Cayleb, and when he wasn’t working directly with Mahklyn, he tended to spend his time with Mahklyn’s son- in- law, Aizak Kahnklyn, in the Royal College’s library. There was certainly plenty to do there, Mahklyn reflected grimly. They’d accomplished a lot since the College’s original home had been burned to the ground eleven months earlier, yet their current collection remained little more than a shadow of what it had been, and organizing the new material as it came in was a huge task.

  Of course, even though Aizak and Bowave didn’t know it, what Mahklyn now had access to dwarfed everything they’d lost.

  Not that he could tell either of them.

  “Ask the Baron to come in, please, Dairak,” he said out loud.

  “Of course.” Bowave smiled, nodded, and disappeared, and Mahklyn started jogging the handwritten pages neatly together.

  The notes in question were from Sahndrah Lywys. He’d been scanning them in preparation for this very meeting, and he was amused by how easily he’d been able to follow them . . . now. Dr. Lywys’ writing style had always been clear and concise, even elegant, but her handwriting was also what might charitably be called “spidery,” and Mahklyn’s nearsightedness—“myopia,” as Merlin Athrawes called it—had been getting steadily worse for years. Despite the best lenses which could be ground, he’d found it harder and harder to read even the printed word. Until very recently, that was. Now the “contact lenses” Merlin had provided to go with Mahklyn’s “com” had also corrected his vision to miraculous clarity. In fact, Mahklyn suspected it was better than it had been even in the days of his now- distant youth. Of course that youth had been long enough ago the golden glow of memory could well be playing tricks on him, but he knew his ability to see things in poor light had improved enormously. He still didn’t have the low- light acuity Merlin Athrawes did, yet he saw far better than anyone else could.

  “Baron Seamount, Doctor,” young Bowave said, ushering a rather short, pudgy officer in the sky- blue tunic and loose black trousers of the Imperial Charisian Navy into the large, sunlit room.

  “A
hlfryd!” Mahklyn stood behind his desk, holding out his right hand, and the two men clasped forearms.

  They’d known one another only slightly before Merlin Athrawes arrived in Charis, but over the last three years they’d become critical members of the small, slowly growing cadre of advisers and innovators Emperor Cayleb had gathered together. Unlike Mahklyn, Seamount still didn’t know the full truth about Merlin. Or, for that matter, the full truth about the ultimate nature of Charis’ life- and- death fight against the Group of Four. None of which had kept him from making enormous contributions to Charis’ survival.

  And if Byrkyt can finally bring the rest of the Brethren around, we’ll get himadmitted to the inner circle. And past damned time we did, too, Mahklyn thought grumpily.

  “Rahzhyr,” Sir Ahlfryd Hyndryk returned the greeting with a smile of his own. “I’m glad you could fit me in.”

  “I imagine His Majesty would’ve had a little something to say if I hadn’t found it possible to ‘fit you in,’ despite my massively crowded schedule,” Mahklyn said dryly, waving for the baron to seat himself in the armchair facing his desk. “And even if His Majesty hadn’t, I know damned well Her Majesty would have.”

  Mahklyn added the final sentence just a bit feelingly, and Seamount chuckled. Empress Sharleyan had shown a deep interest in the baron’s many projects. Not only did she have a keen appreciation for the advantages and tactical implications of his efforts, but her agile, ever- active brain had produced quite a few eminently worthwhile suggestions of her own. And, in the process, a genuine friendship had sprung up between her and the baron.

  “On the other hand,” Mahklyn continued, “it really didn’t take the threat of potential imperial dis plea sure to get you in to see me.” He shrugged. “I never have time to keep completely abreast of your memos, Ahlfryd, but I keep up well enough to know you and those Helen Island minions of yours are making all kinds of waves again. Thank God.”

  “We try,” Seamount acknowledged. “Although I have to admit the tempo seems to slow down just a bit with Captain Athrawes out of the Kingdom.” The look he gave Mahklyn was more than a little speculative, but the civilian had become accustomed to the pudgy commodore’s occasional probes where Merlin was concerned.

  “He does seem to have that . . . fertilizing effect, doesn’t he?” he said in reply.

  “I hadn’t realized you had such a command of understatement,” Seamount observed with a thin smile.

  “We academics inevitably become masters of the language,” Mahklyn said with a matching smile, then tipped back in his swivel chair. “So, what’s managed to pry you loose from King’s Harbor?”

  “Actually, the main thing I want to do, as I believe I mentioned in my note, is to spend a little time with Dr. Lywys. I’ve got a couple of questions I need her to answer for me, if she can. But I also wanted to get you broadly informed about where we are at the moment.”

  Mahklyn nodded. Given the fact that the Royal College’s pursuit of knowledge had always skirted a little too close to the edge of the Proscriptions of Jwo- jeng for some of the clergy’s comfort, it had seemed like a good idea to keep it well separated from the Crown when old King Cayleb I originally endowed it. By the time Mahklyn became the College’s head, that separation had become a firm tradition, and despite his own involvement in the original innovations Merlin Athrawes had midwifed, he’d seen no reason to change it.

  Until, that was, arsonists had destroyed the original College and very nearly murdered Mahklyn himself in the process. At which point Emperor Cayleb—only he’d still been King Cayleb at the time—had decided the time for such nonsense was past. He’d moved the College onto the grounds of Tellesberg Palace, assigned responsibility for its security to the Royal Guard, and brought one Rahzhyr Mahklyn fully inside his own inner circle. One of the outward signs of that change was the fact that Mahklyn had also been formally named to head the “Imperial Council of Inquiry” when Empress Sharleyan created it.

  “So inform me,” he invited now, clasping his hands behind his head and leaning still farther back in his chair.

  “Well,” Seamount began, “first, I finally got my Experimental Board—you know, the one I’ve been kicking around as a concept for so long?— set up. Took me a while, I admit, but a lot of that was because of how long it took to find the right man to head it. I finally have, though, I think. I can’t remember—have you ever actually met Commander Mahndrayn?”

  “ ‘Mahndrayn’?” Mahklyn repeated slowly, frowning thoughtfully. Then his eyes narrowed. “Tall, skinny, young fellow, with black hair? Always looks like his trousers are about to catch on fire?”

  “I don’t know that I’d describe him exactly like that.” Seamount’s lips quivered, although he managed not to laugh out loud. “Still, he is a bit fidgety, so I’d say you’ve got the right man.”

  Mahklyn nodded, although “a bit fidgety” fell well short of the young man he remembered. His own impression of Mahndrayn had been of a man possessed of an abundance—one might almost have called it a superabundance—of nervous energy. Physically, the commander could have been deliberately designed as Seamount’s antithesis, but Mahklyn could see far greater and more important similarities under the skin.

  “At any rate,” the commodore continued, “I’ve assigned Urvyn—that’s his first name—to ride herd on my other clever young officers. In fact, I told him I wanted him to start out by examining everything we think we already know.”

  “What we think we already know?” Mahklyn raised one eyebrow, and it was Seamount’s turn to nod.

  “Exactly. The thing is, Rahzhyr, we’ve changed so much so quickly over the last few years that I’m not comfortable in my mind about how systematically we’ve approached the situation. Oh,” he waved his left hand, the one missing its first two fingers, courtesy of a long-ago gunpowder accident, “I’m satisfied that we’re enormously far out in front of anyone else. But we’ve moved so fast, covered so much ground, that I’m almost certain at least some of the things we’ve done are . . . less than optimal. So I asked Urvyn to start with a clean set of assumptions. To look at what we’ve done and see if he can spot any profitable avenues we passed up on our way by. Or, for that matter, choices we made which, with the benefit of hindsight, may not have been the best ones. Places where we might have chosen differently if we’d had more time to think about it.”

  “I see.” Mahklyn swung his chair gently from side to side while he considered what Seamount had just said. And as he considered, he realized just how much sense the commodore was making.

  In fact,I should have suggested something like this months ago, he admitted. I wonder why it never even occurred to me? He snorted mentally. No, you don’t, he told himself. You know exactly why it didn’t. It’s because you know the truth about Merlin. You know about all the “computer records” Owl has tucked away, so you know Merlin has all the answers at his fingertips. Which is why you’ve been assuming he must have given you the “right answers” to our various problems.

  But what Merlin’s been after from the beginning almost certainly means hehasn’t always gone out of his way to just hand us the “best answer” to a problem, now doesn’t it? He wants us to have to work for it . . . and to recognize the potentials to find better solutions on our own, without his leading us to them by the hand. Mahklyn gave a mental headshake. He’s right—we do have to develop and cultivate that kind of thinking of our own, but I wonder how hard it must be to not just tell us how to do something? Especially something which could turn out to be critical in the end, what ever it seems like at the moment?

  His already vast respect for the man who had been Nimue Alban clicked up another notch at the thought, and he returned his mental focus to Seamount.

  “That sounds to me like an excellent idea,” he said firmly. “Has anything startling come to light yet?”

  “Actually, I think there are going to be several things. Some of them I’m going to have to discuss with Admiral Lock Island and Dustyn Ol
yvyr, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we wind up making some design changes in the next class of galleons.” He shook his head, his expression ruefully bemused. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised, given how radically we’ve stood traditional naval architecture on its head, but it turns out—if Urvyn and the rest of the Experimental Board are right—that we’ve been guilty of trying for too much of a good thing, in at least a couple of ways.

  “They’re also carrying out those detailed artillery experiments I’ve been trying to find time to supervise for the last year and a half.” He shook his head again, and this time there was more than a trace of exhaustion in his eyes. “That’s one reason—the main one, really—I wanted the Board, Rahzhyr. There just aren’t enough hours in a day for me to personally see to everything that needs seeing to. I realized several months ago that I’ve actually turned myself into a bottleneck by trying to do that. I think Urvyn’s going to help a lot in that respect.”

  “Personally, I’m in favor of reducing your workload any way we can,” Mahklyn said a bit gently. “In fact, if I’d thought about it—and if I’d thought I could talk you into it—I probably would have suggested something like this to you myself. I’m ashamed to admit that I didn’t think about it, though.”

  “Well, it’s not as if we haven’t all had a few other things on our minds,” Seamount observed dryly.

  “No, it’s not,” Mahklyn agreed. And, he reflected, it must be extraordinarily difficult to voluntarily step back in a situation like this. Especially for someone who was so damned good at what he did. It had to be hard for a competent man, doing something he loved as much as Seamount obviously loved his own work, to let anyone else come between him and any of the “hands- on” aspects of it.