by David Weber
Some of that, Merlin suspected, was because Eastshare regarded “all” his officers, including the common- born ones, as members of his own extended family. Another part, however, was probably institutional, given the fact that the Army had been specifically created to break the aristocracy’s grip on Chisholm. It had been created around commoners, not aristocrats, and despite the towering nobility of his own birth, Eastshare had no problem maintaining that tradition. In the Army, at least; outside the Army, he seemed perfectly comfortable with the patronage- backed ascendancy of his fellow aristocrats.
In Merlin’s case, Eastshare had obviously decided he fell under the “soldier” heading, even if he had had the bad taste to be born somewhere besides Chisholm, and related to him accordingly. And although Merlin’s official rank was still only “captain,” Eastshare—who was no dummy—clearly realized some captains were more equal than others. In particular, a captain of the Imperial Guard, assigned to head the emperor’s personal detail, who’d first introduced himself to the emperor by foiling an assassination attempt when the emperor in question had been a mere crown prince, and who was routinely used by both the emperor and the empress as their personal messenger and troubleshooter, was one hell of a lot more equal than other captains. That, Merlin had decided some time ago, was the reason Eastshare habitually addressed him as “seijin” rather than using his official rank. And it was probably also the reason he treated a commoner—and a foreign- born commoner, at that—as something very close to an equal. Not quite, of course. But close.
“If Their Majesties think I need to hear something from you personally, why don’t you join me for supper?” the duke asked now. “Lady Eastshare is off visiting our newest grandchild, and she won’t be back until sometime late tomorrow, so I was planning on dining at headquarters, anyway, then turning in in my quarters here instead of riding all the way home. I’d intended to ask some of my staff to join me. Should I assume the nature of your message would make it more advisable for you and me to dine privately?”
“Actually, Your Grace,” Merlin murmured, “I think that might be a very good idea.”
“So, Seijin Merlin,” Eastshare said three hours later. “About that message?”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Eastshare’s orderly had overseen the servants who had removed the dishes, then poured the wine, set the decanter on the table at Eastshare’s elbow, and withdrawn from the private dining room adjacent to the duke’s quarters here in the Maikelberg citadel. It had been an excellent dinner, Merlin thought appreciatively, and the wine was quite good, too. Fusion- powered PICAs didn’t require nourishment, although his internal arrangements were designed to scavenge the material he needed to produce his “naturally growing” hair and beard from the food he ingested. Most of that food simply had to be disposed of later, but PICAs had been designed to allow their owners to do anything they could have done in their own biological bodies. Merlin’s tastebuds were fully functional, although any Safeholdian healer would have gone off in gibbering madness if Merlin had tried to explain to him exactly how they functioned. He’d enjoyed the meal, and aside from a certain degree of tunnel vision resulting from that single blind spot where commoners were concerned, East-share was an incisive observer, with a trenchant wit. The table conversation had been just as enjoyable as the meal, and Merlin hoped that wasn’t going to change.
It’ll be interesting to see whether or not he goes ballistic,the seijin thought. Cayleb and Sharleyan had a side bet going, and he suspected the two of them were watching through one of the SNARCs to see which of them had been right. For that matter, Nahrmahn’s probably looking in, too, he reflected.
Eastshare was looking at him across the table, he realized, and there was more than a hint of impatience in the duke’s steady regard.
Stop dithering, Merlin,he told himself firmly, and cleared his throat. “I’m sure you’re aware, Your Grace,” he began, “that there have to have been some . . . concerns about conflicting loyalties in the Army’s officer corps.”
“You mean I’m aware Their Majesties have to have wondered how many of the rest of their officers are going to go the way Halbrook Hollow went,” Eastshare said flatly. Merlin’s eyebrows rose involuntarily at the bluntness of the duke’s comment, and Eastshare chuckled a bit harshly.
“You’ve always been the soul of courtesy, Seijin Merlin,” he said, “but only an idiot—which, I assure you, I’m not—could have failed to realize that one reason you’ve paid so many visits to Maikelberg on Their Majesties’ behalf was to look into that very concern. And, frankly, I’ve assumed from the beginning that you had to be looking more closely at me than at anyone else, given that Byrtrym was married to my sister and how long he and I were friends even be- fore that. Not to mention the fact that I inherited my present post directly from him. I’ve also assumed, however, since I haven’t been removed from that post, and since Their Majesties have always treated me with courtesy and frankness, that your reports to them must have been at least generally favorable.”
Merlin looked at him silently for a moment or two, then shrugged. “I hope I wasn’t too obvious about it, Your Grace,” he said a bit wryly, and Eastshare gave another, slightly less harsh chuckle.
“As a matter of fact, when I said you were the soul of courtesy, I meant it. And to be honest, I’d have been disappointed if Sharleyan and Cayleb hadn’t had reservations.” It was his turn to shrug. “I’ve watched Her Majesty, in particular, since she was twelve, Seijin Merlin. She didn’t survive in Queen Ysabel’s shadow by being stupid. She didn’t do it by being so clumsy as to rub people’s noses in the fact that she had to regard them as untrustworthy until they proved otherwise, either, though. I’d say you’ve served her quite admirably in both those regards.”
“Thank you.” Merlin bobbed a half bow across the table, then smiled. “And, yes, Your Grace, the verdict in your case was entirely favorable. And while it may not really be my place to add this, my impression is that Her Majesty was as pleased by that on a personal level as she was in her official persona. I don’t believe she regards—or values—you solely as a vassal, or even as the commander of her army.”
“Good.” Eastshare’s expression softened. “I couldn’t blame her for worrying, but I won’t pretend it didn’t bother me, anyway.” Sadness touched his brown eyes. “I suppose a lot of that was because of the reason she had to worry in the first place.” He shook his head. “I wondered how Byrtrym was going to deal with that conflict of loyalties. I knew it was going to be hard for him, but—”
The duke broke off, shaking his head again, harder. There was something about the motion, almost like a prize fighter trying to shake off the effects of a powerful left jab, and his eyes were distant, looking at something only he could see. Then he gave his shoulders a small twitch, took a sip of wine, and turned back to Merlin with a brisker air.
“And now, about that message—?”
“Well, discarding all the courteous euphemisms and circumlocutions I was going to employ, Your Grace, the short version is that Their Majesties and Prince Nahrmahn have determined that, unlike you, one of the officers on your staff most definitely does have divided loyalties. In fact, the evidence available to Prince Nahrmahn suggests the officer in question is actively involved in treason.”
And every word I just said is completely true,he reflected, even if Sharleyan and Cayleb—and Nahrmahn—have made that determination on the basis of information I provided.
Eastshare snapped upright in his chair, and his expression hardened abruptly. The adjective that came to mind, Merlin decided, was “thunderous.”
“Who is the bastard?!” the duke demanded, and his tone was even harsher than his expression. “I’ll roast his fucking balls over a low fire! And that’ll be the gentlest thing that happens to him!”
Well, so far it looks like Cayleb’s going to win the bet,Merlin thought dryly. “Please, Your Grace!” Merlin raised both hands and made gentle, patting “go- slow
” motions. “I warned you this is going to be complicated. I doubt Their Majesties would have any problem with your doing exactly that . . . eventually.”
“ ‘Eventually’?!”Eastshare’s expression transformed into one of disbelief. “Langhorne, Seijin! You just said he’s on my own staff! Do you realize what sort of information that means he has access to? How much damage he can do?”
“That’s the reason—or one of the reasons, at least—Their Majesties sent me to discuss this with you.” Merlin grimaced. “To be perfectly frank, Your Grace, I think there was some concern about how well you’d be able to dissemble if you knew the officer in question was a traitor. I hesitate to say this, but you’re not . . . exactly known for personal subtlety.”
For a heartbeat, it looked as if Eastshare literally couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Merlin looked back calmly, wondering whether or not the duke was going to explode, but then, instead, Eastshare astounded him with a sharp, barking laugh.
“Not known for subtlety, is it?” The duke jabbed an index finger at his dinner guest. “Subtlety!”
“Only on a personal basis, Your Grace,” Merlin said earnestly. “When it comes to politics, Her Majesty believes you can lie, deceive, and dissemble with the best!”
Eastshare laughed again, then shook his head and gave Merlin a moderately severe glare.
“All right, Seijin. Point taken. But”— his expression sobered once more, and he leaned slightly forward—“I stand by my original observation. Anyone on my staff knows entirely too much about the new weapons, the new tactics, our strategic thinking and planning, our troop strengths.” He shook his head again. “If someone’s passing on that kind of information, even just to our own Temple Loyalists, it’s damned well ending up in the Temple!”
“Agreed.” Merlin nodded, and his own expression was much more serious than it had been. “On the other hand, I think part of the decision- making pro -cess was that with the Church’s semaphore systems in the Empire now in our hands, and not the Group of Four’s, any information from Chisholm will take months getting to Zion. By the time it does, it’s going to be thoroughly obsolete and out- of- date. It’s not going to have any immediate tactical value to them, at any rate.”
“But it could have quite a lot of value in terms of doctrine and how the new weapons work,” Eastshare countered. “The longer it takes them to start figuring out that kind of crap, the better I’ll like it.”
“Your Grace, much as I might wish it were otherwise, not all the people serving Clyntahn and Maigwair are idiots, and the Inquisition’s intelligence ser vices have always been among the best in the world. It could hardly be any other way, given the Inquisition’s responsibilities, now could it?”
Merlin held Eastshare’s eyes until the duke nodded slightly, then shrugged. “That being the case, I think we have to assume more information than we’d like, especially about the new weapons, is going to find its way into the Temple’s hands, no matter what we do. For that matter, by this time, someone’s almost certainly managed to divert actual examples of them into Temple Loyalist hands. I’d be extremely surprised if they don’t already have at least a few of our rifles in Zion by now, for example. And I think we have to take it as a given that anything Corisande had figured out before our actual invasion had been transmitted to the Temple, as well. So even though our staff officer–traitor may be able to do some damage in that regard, Their Majesties are of the opinion that the damage he can do is outweighed by... other considerations.”
“ ‘Other considerations,’ ” Eastshare repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Should I assume from that, Seijin Merlin, that Their Majesties—oh, and let’s not forget Prince Nahrmahn—have concocted some strategy to use this traitorous bastard?”
“Oh, I think you can take that as a given, Your Grace.” Merlin smiled nastily. “In fact, if you can restrain your impulse—completely natural and fully understandable though it is—to cut off his testicles and roast them, I think we may be able to use one relatively minor ‘traitorous bastard’ to set a little trap for a very major ‘traitorous bastard.’ ”
“Did I say something to make you think I intended to cut them off before I fried them?” Eastshare inquired acidly, and despite the fact that Nimue Alban had been born a woman, Merlin winced slightly as he realized the duke meant it.
“My error, Your Grace,” he apologized. “Nonetheless, my point stands.”
“I see.”
Eastshare settled back in his chair again, right hand toying with the stem of his wineglass while the fingers of his left hand drummed slowly, rhythmically, on the linen tablecloth.
“It occurs to me,” he said finally, “given what you’ve just said about my ‘subtlety,’ or lack thereof, that Their Majesties wouldn’t have sent you to tell me about this unless they need me to make this strategy of theirs work. I mean, they would have preferred not to tell me a thing about it and give me the opportunity—in my own inimitably unsubtle fashion—to warn him he’s under suspicion.” The duke showed his teeth briefly. “I imagine, for example, that squeezing his head like a pimple the next time I saw him might be just a tiny giveaway.”
“Indeed.” Merlin decided not to respond directly to that last comment and contented himself with another nod, then went on a bit more briskly. “Actually, there are two things they need you to do. First, they wanted to be certain you knew about him—and about their plans—before you became aware of his activities on your own. They were pretty sure that if that happened, you’d arrest him immediately, then inform them of what you’d discovered.”
He paused briefly, and Eastshare nodded in understanding. “Secondly,” Merlin continued, “they want you to actually help his treason along a little bit.”
The duke’s facial muscles tightened ever so slightly, and he looked, for a moment, as if he were going to protest. He didn’t, though.
Thinking that if someone else notices you “helping his treason along” they’re likely to assumeyou’re a traitor, too, aren’t you, Your Grace? he thought. Well, I don’t blame you. And, frankly, the fact that the thought occurred to you and you didn’t automatically object only makes me think still better of you.
“Who is this fellow?” Eastshare asked instead. “Earl Swayle, Your Grace,” Merlin replied quietly.
The duke grimaced. There was pain in that expression—not surprisingly, given how long the Thairis and Rahskail families had known one another. But there was less surprise than there might have been.
“I wondered about that. Or perhaps I should say I was afraid of that.” Eastshare’s voice was even quieter than Merlin’s, and he shook his head sadly. “He’s shut up about it lately—especially since that business at Saint Agtha’s—but his initial reaction to the marriage proposal was . . . unhappy.” The duke shook his head again. “I think he blamed the Emperor for ‘luring’ the Queen into apostasy. If he did, it was stupid of him. I can’t remember the last time—or, for that matter, the first time—anyone managed to ‘lure’ Sharleyan into anything she didn’t want to do all along! Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what drew him into active treason. Assuming Prince Nahrmahn’s evidence is valid.”
“If it turns out Their Majesties’ suspicions are baseless, then what they have in mind will do no harm, Your Grace. If their suspicions are valid, however, we may accomplish several very useful things.”
“All right, Seijin Merlin,” Eastshare said with a trace of sorrow. “I’ll accept, tentatively, at least, that he’s gone rogue. And I’ll not only keep my hands off him but pretend he’s still one of my trusted officers . . . and friends. Now, please be good enough to tell me exactly what it is Their Majesties have in mind.”
“Of course, Your Grace. The main thing is—”
.IX.
Saint Kathryn’s Church,
Candlemaker Street,
and
a Warehouse,
City of Manchyr,
Princedom of Corisande,
and
&
nbsp; Captain Merlin Athrawes’ Room,
Imperial Army Barracks,
Maikelberg,
Duchy of Eastshare,
Kingdom of Chisholm
So, there you are!”
Tymahn Hahskans twitched, then looked up with a visibly guilty expression. Dailohrs Hahskans stood at the top of the narrow stair in her nightgown, looking down at him, arms folded while the toes of one bare foot tapped ever so gently on the landing. She was a tallish, slender woman, eight years younger than her husband, with auburn hair just starting to go gray and blue- green eyes. At the moment, those eyes were sternly narrowed, Hahskans noted. He considered—briefly—prevaricating, but after the next best thing to thirty years of marriage, that would have been an exercise in futility. So, since he’d been caught anyway, he decided his best course was to manfully own up to his misdeeds.
“I was discussing this five- day’s sermon with Zhaif Laityr.”
“Swilling down beer with Zhaif Laityr until all hours, don’t you mean?” she demanded.
“We might, perhaps, have partaken of a tankard or two. Strictly as a source of desperately needed sustenance while we contemplated weighty matters of theology,” he replied with im mense dignity, and the corners of her mouth twitched. It was barely a shadow of the broad grin he would normally have seen at this point in their familiar, well- worn exchange, yet his heart eased—a little, at least—when he saw it.
Father Zhaif Laityr was the senior priest at the Church of the Holy Archangels Triumphant in Gray Lizard Square, two parishes over from Hahskans’ own Saint Kathryn’s, and the two of them had been friends for many years. Despite the fact that Hahskans was a Bédardist while Laityr was a Pasqualate, they saw eye to eye on quite a few issues . . . including several they’d both been forbidden to speak about.
Which was why Dailohrs’ eyes were worried and she found it so difficult to smile.