A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  “I believe I agree with His Grace, Your Majesty,” Nahrmahn told Sharleyan after a moment. He reached out and began absently buttering a still- warm scone. “Of course, Waimyn’s always had the problem of those poor communications. Any sort of fine coordination with Shylair, Storm Keep, and the rest has been out of the question. Still, it’s been obvious he recognizes the need to orchestrate his own efforts with theirs in so far as he can, so I’m strongly inclined to believe that some purely local factor—a tactical one, one might say, and not a fundamental shift in his strategic thinking—produced this decision on his part.”

  From Sharleyan’s expression, it was obvious Nahrmahn’s apparent detachment irritated her. The prince wasn’t too concerned about that, though. She and Cayleb had come to know him well enough by now that she had to recognize the manner in which he normally approached this sort of analysis. It was her own pain and anger which woke her irritation, and Sharleyan Tayt Ahrmahk, for all her youth, was more than wise enough to recognize that, as well.

  “I’ve had a little longer to think about it than you have, Nahrmahn,” Cayleb said, reaching for his own chocolate cup, “and I imagine it was actually a combination of things. If I had to guess, I’d say Father Tymahn was proving more effective in unifying support for the Church of Charis than Waimyn had expected. And while I don’t think it was what Father Tymahn truly had in mind, that’s been spilling over into an at least grudging acceptance of the Empire of Charis among a significant segment of the capital’s population, as well. I’m positive Waimyn saw that, whether Tymahn and the rest of the Reformists did or not, and I doubt he cared for the impact it was having on his own plans and organization. For that matter, we know he’s been concerned about the number of people who have begun quietly passing on bits and pieces of information about his operations to priests like Tymahn. So my theory is that he reached the point of deciding Tymahn was proving an unacceptable hindrance and had to go. And the way he had him killed, and where he had the body dumped, was intended to... discourage not only Tymahn’s fellow Reformist clergy, but also any members of the laity who might have been inclined to ‘collaborate’ with them.”

  “All of that makes sense, Your Grace,” Nahrmahn allowed after a moment. He took a bite of buttered scone, chewed slowly and thoroughly, his eyes thoughtful, then swallowed.

  “All of that makes sense,” he repeated, “and I’m inclined to agree with your analysis. At the same time, however, I believe you’ve overlooked another factor.”

  “I’m sure I’ve overlooked dozens of other factors!” Cayleb snorted. “Which one, in particular, were you thinking about?”

  “Waimyn’s temper, Your Grace,” Nahrmahn said flatly. “There’s not much question that he deeply and personally hated Father Tymahn for his ‘treachery’ and ‘apostasy.’ And the man’s a Schuelerite. For him, this wouldn’t be simply a matter of passing a message, important though that must definitely be. It would also be a matter of appropriately punishing a priest for heresy and the betrayal of his vows of obedience to the Grand Vicar.”

  “In other words,” Sharleyan’s voice was even flatter than Nahrmahn’s had been, “it was personal.”

  “Your Majesty, it’s almost always ‘personal’ to at least some extent,” Nahrmahn said a bit sadly. “If I had a mark for every prince or vicar who’s let personal anger push him into some truly, outstandingly, monumentally stupid catastrophe, I could buy the Temple from Duchairn and we could all go home and live happily ever after. When you come down to it, this entire war is the result of Zhaspahr Clyntahn doing exactly that, after all.”

  “That’s true enough,” she agreed after a moment. “What has Merlin said about it?” Nahrmahn asked, looking back at Cayleb. “We haven’t discussed it yet.” Nahrmahn’s eyebrows rose again, and Cayleb shrugged. “It was hard enough for me to get him to take the ‘downtime’ he needs every night, and events persist in throwing up entirely too many good, legitimate reasons for me to yank him back out of it. I’m not going to get into the habit of doing that unless it’s really an emergency, and Father Tymahn was already dead.” The emperor waved one hand in a choppy gesture of dismissal. “Waking Merlin up couldn’t have changed anything, and he’ll be coming back ‘online’ in another fifteen minutes or so, anyway. We can wait that much longer before we com him.”

  “I see.”

  Despite his own shock and anger over what had happened to Hahskans, Nahrmahn felt his lips trying to twitch into an inappropriate smile. He knew he shouldn’t have found it amusing, but Cayleb’s fierce protectiveness—and Sharleyan’s, for that matter—where a millennium- old, immortal, virtually indestructible PICA was concerned was far more evident than either of them probably suspected. And rather touching, too, for that matter.

  “In the meantime, though,” Sharleyan said, “I think we need to reconsider how wise it would be to allow Maikel to continue on to Corisande the way he’s planned. If Waimyn’s come far enough out into the open—or, at least, been willing to escalate things far enough—to kill Father Tymahn, I think we have to assume he’ll be perfectly willing to attempt Maikel’s assassination, as well. I know Gahrvai’s been doing a surprisingly good job of protecting the Church in Corisande so far, but there’ve still been those acts of vandalism, and now they’ve gotten to Father Tymahn, too. Unless we’re willing to send Merlin along to personally protect Maikel, I don’t think we can afford to risk the possibility that they might get lucky again. Especially when we don’t have anyone in Corisande with whom we can communicate directly using the SNARCs.”

  “Your Majesty, there are some challenges I’m more willing to undertake than others,” Nahrmahn said dryly. “Having sailed all the way from Emerald to Chisholm in company with the Archbishop, it’s my opinion you’d have better luck forbidding snow to fall or the tide to rise than telling him he can’t go to Corisande because you’re concerned about his physical safety.”

  Despite the somberness of their collective mood, both Cayleb and Sharleyan smiled unwillingly. Then the empress reached for one of the muffins, as if yielding to the prince’s example. Her pregnancy—and her morning sickness—were far enough advanced that she was extraordinarily careful about what she ate, however, especially early in the morning. The state of her stomach was also the reason she was drinking tea, instead of the rich, dark chocolate, and she looked rather wistfully at Nahrmahn’s scone, with its chopped nuts and mixed berries, dripping with melted butter, then bit into the plain, dry, unbuttered corn muffin.

  “I realize he’s likely to be . . . stubborn about it—” she began, her voice a bit indistinct as she chewed, but Cayleb interrupted her with a rueful laugh. She looked a question at him, and he shrugged.

  “I was just thinking about an officer’s evaluation Bryahn showed me several years ago. It was about a certain Master Midshipman Ahrmahk . . . otherwise known, at least on social occasions, as Crown Prince Cayleb.”

  “It was?” Sharleyan’s eyes narrowed, then their darkness lightened with just a touch of true humor. “And may one ask why High Admiral Lock Island shared this no doubt fascinating document with you?”

  “He was making a point, actually.”

  “Excuse me, Your Grace,” Nahrmahn put in, “but this is the first I’ve heard about ‘officer’s evaluations.’ Is this a standard part of your Navy’s procedures? Or was there a particular reason one was written about . . . ah, the midshipman in question?”

  “Oh, they’ve been part of our regular practice for thirty or forty years now,” Cayleb replied. “Grandfather instituted them when he was a serving officer himself. Every commanding officer is responsible for writing an evaluation of each officer under his immediate command every year. They go into the personnel files of the officers in question to be available for future promotion boards.” He shrugged again. “In my case, obviously, promotion boards weren’t going to be a factor, since Father had already decided he needed me understudying him in Tellesberg more than he needed me serving in the Navy somewhere. Stil
l, I was a midshipman, and evaluations get written on every midshipman, so one got written on me.”

  “I see. And who was the officer who produced this document, my love?” Sharleyan asked.

  “A fellow by the name of Dunkyn Yairley,” Cayleb replied. Sharleyan’s eyebrows flew up in genuine surprise, and the emperor chuckled. “He was only a lieutenant at the time, but, yes, that’s one reason I had Hektor assigned to Destiny. And I specifically told Captain Yairley I didn’t want Hektor told that I’d been a midshipman under him. I doubt he would have anyway, but I just thought I’d make sure.”

  “Under the circumstances, then, should I assume Lieutenant Yairley produced a glowing testimonial to your own sterling character, Your Grace?” Nahrmahn inquired with a slight smile as he raised his chocolate cup once more.

  “Well, that depends on your definition of glowing testimonials.” Cayleb smiled back. “What he actually said was, ‘His Highness possesses a superabundance of that quality which, in myself, I should characterize as tenacity and maintenance of aim, but which, in His Highness’ case, I can describe only as sheer bloody- minded obstinacy.’ ”

  Nahrmahn, who’d been unwise enough to be sipping chocolate at that particular moment, spluttered into his cup. Sharleyan surprised all of them—and herself most of all, probably—by giving a sudden, delighted giggle, and Cayleb shook his head at both of them.

  “I can see why you wouldn’t be overly concerned by his ability to deal with a midshipman of Duke Darcos’ sudden seniority, Your Grace,” Nahrmahn said, blotting his lips with a napkin.

  “No, I’m not,” Cayleb agreed. Then his expression sobered slightly. “On the other hand, his description of me at thirteen is only a pale reflection of Maikel Staynair at seventy- two. He can out- stubborn a dragon. For that matter, he can probably even out- stubborn a cat- lizard, much less a mere emperor or empress!”

  “I’m afraid you’re right about that, Your Grace.” Nahrmahn laid his napkin on the table and pursed his lips for a moment. “And while I understand your concerns, Your Majesty,” he continued then, looking at Sharleyan, “I’m afraid that on a purely intellectual basis, I’d have to agree with the Archbishop.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Sharleyan seemed too surprised by his statement to be angry over it, and in light of her general mood, Nahrmahn continued just a bit quickly, before that could change.

  “Your Grace, his visit has already been announced, in Manchyr as well as here. Everyone in Corisande knows he’s coming, and they know he’s coming specifically to make a pastoral visit and show his support for the local Church. If he suddenly decides to cancel that trip, people are going to wonder why. If he announces its cancellation now—immediately—before news of Father Tymahn’s murder has had time to reach us here by normal means, we could argue his decision had nothing to do with any specific concerns about his safety. The problem is that I doubt very much he’d be willing to... prevaricate in that fashion. And, even if he were, there would be plenty of people—the majority of them, in fact—who would never believe the actual sequence. What ever we might say, and what ever proof we might offer, it would be generally believed that he’d made the decision only after he learned about Father Tymahn’s murder.”

  “He’s right about that, Sharley,” Cayleb said with a grimace. “And if they do believe that, it will be child’s play for the Group of Four and the Temple Loyalists to portray his decision as cowardice,” Nahrmahn went on with implacable logic. “For that matter, let’s be honest—that’s what it would be, in some ways. Oh,” he waved his hand gently before Sharleyan could object, “I agree a better word for it would be ‘prudence,’ Your Majesty. In fact, I’ll go further and call it simple prudence, or even sanity. And all three of us know it would be prudence on our part, not his. That we’d have to have Merlin in here to arm wrestle him into submission before he’d agree. But the impression in Corisande, and probably even in Chisholm and Emerald, would be that he’d stayed away in order to avoid the threat of assassination. I’m sure a lot of people who already support the Church of Charis would be delighted if he did just that; unfortunately, even more people who oppose the Church of Charis would be just as delighted by it. They’d hammer away at the point that not even the Church’s own Archbishop has enough genuine faith to risk death in support of his beliefs. And if they can do that successfully, Your Majesty,” the plump little prince met Sharleyan’s eyes very levelly, “then everything Archbishop Maikel has already achieved, and everything Father Tymahn died trying to achieve in Corisande, would be for nothing.”

  The quiet in the council chamber was deafening. The quiet crackle of coal in the stove seemed almost deafening by contrast, and outside the windows a few dry flakes of snow began to dust down out of the clouds, brushing against the windowpanes like silent ghosts. The stillness lasted for several seconds, and then, grudgingly, Sharleyan nodded.

  “You’re right,” she said with manifest unhappiness. “That’s exactly what Maikel would argue . . . and he’d be right, damn it.” She looked down at the muffin in her right hand and discovered she’d been picking it to pieces with the fingers of her left hand. “Worse, I know it, too. And, worse yet, all I’d do if I tried to argue him out of it would be to make him even more stubborn.”

  She continued the muffin’s gradual destruction for another minute or so, then looked back up, and her eyes were fierce.

  “But if that’s the case, then we are damned well going to send Merlin along with him! I think we could justify that on the basis of what happened to Father Tymahn without anyone deciding Maikel lacks the courage of his convictions. And if there’s anyone—outside me—Cayleb would be willing to send Merlin to look after, it would have to be him! And it’s not as if we have to actually have Merlin right here in Cherayth so we can confer with him when we need to, either.”

  “No, that’s true.” Cayleb’s eyes were thoughtful. “It never occurred to me, but you’re right. We’ve already been sending him off on little errands for us here in Chisholm, like his current visit to Eastshare. So we could—”

  Someone knocked gently on the council chamber door, and all three of them turned to face it. Then it opened, and their eyes went wide in astonishment when Merlin Athrawes stepped through it, as if the mere mention of his name had magically summoned him back from Maikelberg. His boots were thick with mud, more mud had spattered his breeches and the hooded coat he wore over his breastplate and hauberk, and his shoulders were dusted with melting snow.

  “Your Majesties.” He bowed to Cayleb and Sharleyan, then to Nahrmahn. “Your Highness.”

  The door closed behind him, and he straightened.

  “And good morning to you, too,” Cayleb said, his head cocked quizzically, as the closing door provided them with privacy once more. “Forgive me for asking this, but aren’t you still supposed to be in Eastshare discussing things with Green Valley and the Duke?”

  “I am,” Merlin agreed. “Something’s come up, though. I thought it would be better to discuss it with you face- to- face rather than over the com, so I headed home yesterday.” He grimaced and looked down at his muddy boots. “I’m afraid I didn’t put in my downtime last night.” He raised his head once more. “I changed horses a dozen times or so, and I hoped I was going to make it in time to speak to you and Sharleyan first thing this morning.” He grimaced again, this time with a ghost of humor. “I hadn’t expected the two of you to be up quite this early.”

  “That was because you failed to consider my regularly scheduled bout of morning sickness, I imagine,” Sharleyan said wryly. “Admittedly, it doesn’t usually get us out of the bedchamber this early, but, I assure you, we’re usually awake by now.”

  Nahrmahn took another bite of buttered scone as the simplest means of suppressing his smile.

  “You’re right, Your Majesty. I did somehow manage to forget about that. I apologize.” The seijin bowed to her again, a bit more deeply than before.

  “You said you meant to talk to us ‘first thing
in the morning,’ ” Cayleb said as Merlin straightened once more. The emperor’s eyes were intent. “Should I assume you intended to discuss certain events in Corisande?”

  “I see you already know about that.” Merlin’s tone was just a bit odd, Nahrmahn thought. Almost—not quite, but almost— uncomfortable.

  “You might say that,” Cayleb replied grimly. “I’ve been asking Owl to keep an eye on Father Tymahn’s sermons. When I asked him for an update this morning, he told me.”

  “I see.”

  Merlin’s voice still seemed just a little off normal, Nahrmahn thought, and felt his own curiosity perk.

  “We’ve just been discussing with Nahrmahn whether or not we should allow Maikel to continue with his pastoral visit,” Sharleyan said. “Obviously, Cayleb and I aren’t especially overjoyed at the prospect in light of all this. So we’ve been thinking we should send you along to make sure Waimyn and his butchers don’t take a shot at him, as well.”

  “That Wai—?” Merlin began, then stopped.

  He looked back and forth between Cayleb and Sharleyan for a moment, his expression most peculiar, then cleared his throat. All three flesh- and- blood members of his audience knew a PICA had absolutely no reason ever to do anything of the sort, just as all three of them had long since realized it served Merlin as a sort of time- buying mannerism. Which explained why all three of them found themselves looking back at him in various degrees of confusion, puzzlement, and speculation.

  “Merlin?” Cayleb asked with the stern, slightly rising inflection of a parent who suspects his offspring has Been Up To Something. Merlin looked back at him, then did another thing a PICA never really had to do and sighed.