A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  “Go on,” he urged. “This stuff is sensitive enough you can set it off just by dropping it, which is going to pose some problems,” Seamount said, leaning forward himself and waving his mutilated hand in what Mahklyn considered rather pointed emphasis. “I’ll be surprised if there’s not a way to figure out solutions for most of them, though. And if we can... ! Rahzhyr, you can actually set it off underwater! If we can figure out a way to make it work, our Marines’ rifles would fire just as reliably in the middle of a Tellesberg thunderstorm as on a sunny day! Not only that, but I think it would decrease the lock time—the interval between when the hammer falls and the main charge explodes. And if it does, it should also increase individual accuracy.”

  “I see.” Mahklyn nodded his head energetically. “I think your ‘clever young officer’ is onto something very important here, Ahlfryd. This is something we need to follow up on immediately!”

  “I agree entirely,” the baron said, then snorted. “He really is a clever fellow, too. In fact, he’s also come up with another interesting application of Dr. Lywys’ fuse compound.”

  “He has?”

  “Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, I think he may be going to put tinderbox makers out of business,” Seamount said, and chuckled at Mahklyn’s baffled expression. “He tried putting some of the new compound on the end of a splinter and discovered he could ignite it by scratching it across a rough surface. It’s almost like magic, in a lot of ways. The damned thing will strike almost anywhere, and if he coats the splinter in a little paraffin to give it some reliable fuel, it not only waterproofs the compound, but the splinter itself burns a lot hotter—and a lot longer—than anything I’ve ever seen out of a tinderbox or a regular fire striker, too.”

  “Really? That sounds like it could have a lot of uses outside the Navy!”

  “I imagine it will, but it’s going to take some getting used to. It ignites a bit . . . energetically, and it throws sparks like crazy. In fact, you have to be a bit cautious about using one of the things. And talk about stinking—!” He grimaced, then grinned suddenly. “Somehow, I don’t think the Group of Four is really likely to approve of the nickname the Board’s hung on the thing, either.”

  “What sort of nickname?” Mahklyn asked. “Well, given the sparks and the stink—it smells just like brimstone, actually—they’re calling the things ‘Shan- wei’s candles,’ ” Seamount said with another grimace. “I’m not so sure we want to be encouraging anyone to use that particular nickname when the Group of Four is busy accusing us all of heresy and Shan- wei worship!”

  “Probably not,” Mahklyn agreed. “Probably not.”

  Yet even as he agreed, another thought was passing through a very private corner of his brain.

  You may be right about not using itnow , Ahlfryd. In fact, I’m sure you are! But whether they know it or not, your “bright young officers” have hung exactly the right name on it. Because that “candle” is part of what’s going to blow the Church of God Awaiting’s tyranny apart, and wherever she is, Pei Shan- wei is going to be cheering us on the entire way.

  .V.

  Imperial Palace,

  City of Cherayth,

  Kingdom of Chisholm

  Oh, it’s good to actually see you, Maikel!”

  Empress Sharleyan held out her arms to Maikel Staynair, who was considerably taller than she was. She seemed to disappear momentarily as he embraced her, and Cayleb was pretty certain, as he waited for his own turn to embrace Staynair, that neither his wife’s nor his archbishop’s eyes were completely dry.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Your Majesty,” Staynair replied after a moment, standing back far enough to rest his hands on Sharleyan’s shoulders and looking deep into her eyes. “The last time, it hadn’t been all that long since those maniacs tried to kill you.”

  “I know.” Sharleyan’s eyes darkened briefly, and she reached up to pat the hand on her right shoulder. Then her expression turned more lively once more, and she shook her head severely at him. “I know,” she repeated, “but don’t think the plea sure of seeing you again is going to cause me to overlook the impropriety of your chosen form of address!”

  For a second, Staynair actually seemed a bit taken aback, but then his own eyes began to twinkle and he stepped back to bow to her in mock contrition.

  “Forgive me . . . Sharleyan,” he said.

  “Better,” she told him, and he chuckled as he turned to greet Cayleb, in turn.

  With most men, Cayleb would have settled for clasped forearms, but this was Maikel Staynair, whom he hadn’t seen face- to- face in over a year, and his own eyes weren’t totally dry as he hugged the archbishop fiercely.

  “Easy, Cayleb! Easy!” Staynair gasped. “Mind the ribs! They’re no younger than the rest of me, you know!”

  “They—and you—are tougher than an old boot, Maikel!” Cayleb returned a bit huskily.

  “Now there’s a respectful way to describe an archbishop,” Staynair observed, and Cayleb laughed and waved at the armchair waiting in front of the coal fire quietly seething on the grate.

  “Well, we’ll just have to see if we can’t make amends. Knowing you as well as I do, I expect this to make a pretty good start.” He indicated the whiskey decanter on the end table between the armchair and the small couch beside it. “West Isle blended, as a matter of fact. It was hard to get Sharley to agree to part with it—this is the twenty- four- year grand reserve—but she agreed it would probably be the best way to get your undivided attention.”

  “The two of you obviously have a deplorably low—and frighteningly accurate—view of my character,” Staynair said.

  The archbishop followed his hosts across to the waiting chair and allowed himself to be seated before either of them. Most—not all, by any means, but definitely most—of the Church of God Awaiting’s archbishops would have demanded precedence over any mere monarch. Would have expected his hosts to remain standing until he’d taken his seat. Staynair didn’t . . . which was one reason they insisted on doing it anyway.

  Once they had him ensconced in the comfortable chair, Sharleyan curled up on one end of the couch, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under her, while Cayleb busied himself pouring three substantial glasses of the pungent, amber whiskey. He added water to all three, and a little ice (something Chisholm produced in bulk, during the winter months) to his and Staynair’s glasses. Sharleyan, having been taught the proper way to appreciate fine drink by Baron Green Mount, regarded the contamination of perfectly good whiskey with ice as a Charisian perversion. When she was in a better mood than usual she was prepared to concede that, given the warmth of Old Charis’ year- round climate, the barbarous custom might have some justification under truly extreme conditions, but that didn’t make it the sort of thing in which decent people wanted to indulge. A little spring water to tone down the alcohol just enough to bring out the full array of scents and flavors was quite another thing, of course.

  “Oh, my,” Staynair sighed, eyes half- closed in bliss, as he lowered his glass a few moments later. “You know, it’s not often something actually exceeds its reputation.”

  “I have to admit, Chisholm’s distilleries really are better than ours in Charis,” Cayleb agreed. “I’m still in the process of sampling and developing my palate properly. And the good news is that it’s going to take me years to try all of them.”

  “It’s incredibly smooth,” Staynair said, taking another sip and rolling it gently over his tongue before swallowing.

  “They triple- distill it,” Cayleb told him. “And most of the distilleries char the insides of the casks, too. The West Isle distillery’s just outside Traynside, and they add just a little peat to the drying kiln—that’s where that little touch of a smoky taste comes from. Merlin says that, aside from the peat, it reminds him a lot of something they used to call ‘Bushmills’ back on Old Terra.”

  “Somehow, when he told us that, it did more than almost anything else—for me, at least—to drive home the c
onnection between us, right here today on Safehold, and where we all truly came from in the beginning,” Sharleyan said quietly. “We’re not only still distilling whiskey, but someone who was there—on Old Terra—recognizes it when we do.”

  “Recognizes the taste, anyway.” Cayleb’s smile was as crooked as it was sad. “Apparently, a PICA can’t really appreciate alcohol, anymore. And for me, that drives home what Merlin’s given up just to be here.”

  “Amen,” Staynair said quietly, and the single word was as much prayer as simple agreement. The archbishop sat for a handful of seconds, looking down into his glass, then deliberately sipped again and sat back in his chair.

  “Speaking of Merlin—?” he said, one eyebrow arched. “He’ll be here for supper,” Cayleb assured him. “He’s taking care of an errand with Ahlber Zhustyn and Earl White Crag.”

  “Ah?” Staynair’s other eyebrow rose.

  Sir Ahlber Zhustyn was the Chisholmian equivalent of Bynzhamyn Raice, and Hauwerstat Thompkyn, the Earl of White Crag, was Chisholm’s Lord Justice. Zhustyn and White Crag worked closely together, because the espionage function was distributed rather differently under the Chisholmian tradition. Zhustyn was responsible for spying on other people, while one of White Crag’s responsibilities was to keep other people from spying on Chisholm.

  “May I ask the nature of the errand?” the archbishop inquired. “Actually, he’s mostly preparing the ground for Nahrmahn’s conference with them tomorrow,” Sharleyan replied, and made a small face. “I’m afraid that, even now, Hauwerstat finds it difficult to contemplate welcoming Nahrmahn with open arms. Something about how many years he spent trying to fend off Emeraldian spies.”

  “Now why could that possibly be?” Staynair wondered dryly. “I don’t have the least idea,” Cayleb said even more dryly, then snorted a chuckle. “You should’ve seen the two of them when we stopped off here in Cherayth on our way to Chisholm last year, Maikel!” He shook his head. “No one could possibly have been politer, but somehow, every time Nahrmahn started getting a little close to discussing any of the things White Crag’s spent so long keeping his nose out of, the Lord Justice suddenly discovered something else he absolutely, positively had to do right then.”

  “I’ve scolded him about that since I got home.” Sharleyan looked a little embarrassed. “He’s promised he’ll behave better this time. But, to be perfectly honest, I’d rather have him being overly suspicious rather than too complacent.”

  “Oh, no argument there.” Cayleb nodded vigorously. “And Nahrmahn obviously understood. Besides, White Crag was perfectly willing to share any intelligence he had with me, so Nahrmahn got it all secondhand, anyway. Still, we really do need for our imperial councilor for intelligence to have direct access to all of the intelligence coming our way. Which is what Merlin—and Ahlber, who’s a bit more . . . flexible about these things—are emphasizing to White Crag right this minute.” The emperor shrugged. “By now, everyone here in Chisholm regards Merlin as my own personal messenger. And Sharley’s, for that matter. They’re all prepared to accept that he’s speaking directly for us, but he can be a bit franker than either of us can without things turning officially sticky. And, for that matter, people can be ‘franker’ in responding to him while every-body pretends it’s not going to get back to us.”

  “I see.” Staynair shook his head and chuckled. “Somehow, it’s a bit hard to think of Merlin playing go- between.”

  “Really?” Cayleb cocked his head at the archbishop with a peculiar expression, half smile and half grimace. “Trust me, ‘go- between’ is a pretty good description of a couple of things he’s got in mind.”

  “What sort of things?” Staynair asked more than a bit warily, but Cayleb only shook his head.

  “Oh, no, Maikel! We’re not going to trot that particular little discussion out until Merlin’s here to take part in it himself. For that matter, he’s been being a bit mysterious even with Sharley and me, so we’re looking forward to hearing what he’s really up to at the same time you do!”

  Staynair looked at his monarchs thoughtfully. There were times when he had to remind himself that Merlin Athrawes had his own agenda. Or perhaps it would have been more accurate to say Nimue Alban had her own agenda. Better yet, her own mission. The archbishop never doubted Merlin’s loyalty to Charis and the people who had become his friends, his family. Yet under all of that—sometimes obscured by that loyalty though it might be—lay the granite purpose which had sent Nimue Alban knowingly to her death so that, nine centuries later, her PICA might walk the soil of a planet she herself would never see. There had to be times, Staynair thought, when Merlin found the imperatives of Nimue’s mission clashing with his own loyalties here on Safehold. It could scarcely be any other way, and the archbishop hoped what ever he had in mind this time didn’t fall into that category. Yet if it did, he knew, Merlin would meet that challenge as unflinchingly as he’d met every other challenge, and Staynair found himself murmuring a silent, heartfelt prayer for the soul which had accepted such a burden.

  “Well,” he said then, holding out the whiskey glass which had somehow mysteriously become empty, “I suppose I should probably fortify my nerve a little more before I find myself subjected to such a stressful revelation.”

  “Oh, what a marvelous rationale, Maikel!” Sharleyan laughed. “Wait a minute while I finish my glass and I’ll join you!”

  “Don’t get too fortified, either of you,” Cayleb said sternly. “Or not before we’re finished with our immediate business, at least.”

  “ ‘Immediate business’?” Staynair repeated. “Oh, I know what he’s talking about,” Sharleyan said. The archbishop looked at her, and she shrugged. “Nahrmahn.”

  “Nahr—?” Staynair began, then nodded in sudden understanding. “You mean whether or not he should be admitted to the inner circle?” Cayleb nodded, and the archbishop looked at him curiously. “I’m just a bit surprised you want to discuss it when Merlin isn’t here to put in his quarter- mark’s worth.”

  “Merlin,” Cayleb said, “has already voted. And, I might add, treated Sharley and me to some fairly... pithy comments on the Brethren. Something about decision processes, glaciers, cranky old men, and watched pots.”

  “Oh, my,” Staynair said again, in a rather different tone, and shook his head with a chuckle. “I wondered why he hadn’t been pestering Zhon about it lately. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might be because of something as unMerlin- like as tact, though!”

  “I wouldn’t go quite that far, myself,” Cayleb said dryly. “I think it may have been more a matter of not trusting himself to remain civil. He’s pretty damned adamant about it, actually. And, to be honest, I think part of that’s because he’s pretty sure Nahrmahn has already figured out even more than we’ve told him.” Staynair’s eyes widened with what might have been an edge of alarm, but the emperor waved his hand in a brushing- away gesture. “Oh, I don’t think even Nahrmahn could’ve gotten too close to guessing what’s really going on. For that matter, I’m pretty sure that if he had, you’d have been in a better position than anyone else to notice it, given where the two of you have been for the last few months. But I do think Merlin has a point about his having put together enough to at least be asking himself questions we haven’t gotten around to answering for him yet. And as we all know, Nahrmahn has a distinct tendency to eventually get answers when he goes looking for them.”

  Now that,Staynair thought, is an outstanding example of understatement. There might have been one or two men on Safehold who were smarter than Nahrmahn Baytz, the archbishop reflected. He was quite certain, though, that there weren’t three of them. If he’d ever entertained any doubts on that head, they’d been firmly laid to rest during the long days of the lengthy voyage from Emerald to Chisholm. With Nahrmahn’s cousin, the Earl of Pine Hollow, to keep an eye on matters of state in Emerald, the rotund little prince had been perfectly willing to return to Chisholm. Mostly, Staynair suspected, because that was where the Cour
t was and Nahrmahn simply couldn’t stand being away from the “great game,” even if he had found himself drafted onto someone else’s team after his own was eliminated early in the playoffs. The only thing he’d insisted upon was that his wife, Princess Ohlyvya, join him this time, and watching the two of them together during the voyage, Staynair had understood that perfectly, as well.

  As a matter of fact, Staynair had been very much in favor of Ohlyvya’s coming along. He strongly suspected that Nahrmahn’s wife—who was one of the shrewdest women the archbishop had never met—helped to keep the sometimes potentially too- bright- for- his- own- good Nahrmahn centered, and that was a very good thing. Of course, it could present a few additional difficulties of its own, under the circumstances.

  “As a matter of fact, Cayleb, I agree with your assessment of Nahrmahn,” he said out loud. “And with Merlin’s, for that matter. And, unlike Merlin, I have been pressing Zhon for a decision. Which, I might add, he hasn’t given me yet.”

  “No?”

  Cayleb sat back, gazing at the archbishop. The short silence seemed considerably longer than it actually was, and then the emperor grimaced.