by David Weber
“I considered that, Your Majesty,” Fharmyn acknowledged. “At the same time, though, it occurred to me that if the idea was to plant false information, false suspicion, in the mind of the Inquisition, there were probably simpler and more reliable ways for Earl Gray Harbor or Baron Wave Thunder to ‘accidentally’ allow their correspondence to ‘fall’ into the Inquisition’s hands.”
Gorjah’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. There’d been no need for Fharmyn to offer that last observation, and the king wondered why he had.
Is that simply your way of suggesting that you think what ever this damned thing says is genuine? Or is it your way of suggesting that I ought to read it . . . and possibly give some serious thought to what ever itdoes say?
He considered asking the question out loud, but only briefly. Either way, it really didn’t matter... except that—again, either way—the foundry owner obviously did think he should read it.
“That’s an excellent point,” he said instead, and waggled the fingers of his outstretched hand very slightly.
Fharmyn took the hint and laid the envelope in his palm. Gorjah let it lie there for a moment while he gazed down at it, feeling its weight, wondering what it said. Then he looked back up at Fharmyn.
“Sir Ryk, I’m well aware that bringing this to me was no easy decision. I appreciate your courage in doing so, and the frankness of your explanation. And, for that matter, the wisdom of your analysis. Now, however, I think it would be best for you to return to your home while I examine this and think about it.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Fharmyn began to back away from the table, avoiding the social solecism of turning his back upon his monarch, but Gorjah raised the index finger of his free hand, and the foundry owner paused.
“If it should happen I decide the Inquisition needs to be informed about this, Sir Ryk,” the king said quietly, “I’ll have word sent to you first. Before I contact Father Frahnklyn.” He saw Fharmyn’s face tighten slightly. “I believe I owe you that courtesy. And, what ever happens, I promise you that I won’t forget your ser vice in bringing it to me.”
He emphasized the final pronoun very slightly, but deliberately, and Fharmyn nodded.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. And, now, with Your Majesty’s permission—?” He gestured in the door’s direction, and Gorjah nodded.
“By all means, Sir Ryk,” he agreed, then watched while the foundry owner eased out of the council chamber and the door closed quietly behind him.
The King of Tarot gazed at that closed door for the better part of two minutes. Then, finally, he laid the envelope on the table in front of him, opened it, and extracted its contents. He paid no immediate attention to the cover letter to Fharmyn. Instead, he slowly unfolded the second envelope which had been enclosed in the first one, and his eyes widened as he saw the handwriting. He paused for just a moment, then flattened it on the table, holding it down for a moment with both hands, the way a man might restrain a small, unknown animal he wasn’t certain wasn’t going to bite.
Well, I don’t supposethat’s a surprise, a corner of his brain reflected as he studied the handwritten address. Or, maybe it is. I’m sure he has a secretary somewhere he could trust with almost any correspondence. On the other hand, I imagine he could be fairly confident this would be one way to get my attention. The king surprised himself with a snort of humor. Not that his rather dramatic way of getting it delivered didn’t already take care of that!
King Gorjah shook his head, looking down at the envelope an extraordinarily busy and powerful man had addressed himself. There was no question in the king’s mind that the man who’d done that had expected his addressee to recognize his handwriting, know it had truly come from him.
Now it only remained to see exactly what Rayjhis Yowance, the Earl of Gray Harbor and, effectively, the first councilor of the Charisian Empire, had to say to him.
MARCH, YEAR OF GOD 894
.I.
HMS Dancer, 56,
Off the Thairmahn Peninsula,
Southern Ocean
It was cool on deck, despite the bright sunlight, as the brisk easterly wind pushed HMS Dancer steadily westward in a wind- hum of rigging and the wash and bubble of water around the hull. The galleon was on very nearly her best point of sailing, with the wind coming in just abaft the starboard quarter, and with all sail set to the royals, she was making almost ten knots. That was a very respectable turn of speed for any galleon, even one only two months out of port. Of course, like every galleon in the Imperial Charisian Navy, Dancer was copper- sheathed below the waterline. It protected her from both the borers which all too often devoured a ship’s timbers without anyone noticing (until her bottom fell out, that was) and from the weed which killed her speed, as well. Nothing could completely stop a ship’s bottom from growing steadily fouler, but Dancer’s copper gave her a tremendous advantage. It was going to make her faster than most ships she might meet, even as far away from home as the Gulf of Dohlar.
Still, she could have done a bit better than her present speed if she’d been sailing by herself, Admiral Sir Gwylym Manthyr thought as he paced steadily back and forth along the railed walkway which stretched the full width of her stern. Ships sailing in company were always slower than they might have been sailing alone, because every sailing vessel was unique, each had her own best point of sail. Even sister ships from the same dockyard, as alike as two peas to the human eye, took wave and wind differently, made their best speeds under slightly different conditions. A captain who knew his ship as well as Captain Raif Mahgail knew Dancer could wring the very best performance out of his command in any given wind and sea, but when ships sailed in company, they were limited to the best speed of the slowest vessel under what ever conditions currently applied.
That thought was one which had been largely academic when Manthyr had commanded HMS Dreadnought, then- Prince Cayleb’s flagship. Despite the fact that Dreadnought had been a fleet flagship, Manthyr’s responsibilities hadn’t included deciding what that fleet was going to do next, or worrying about how long it was going to take all of its ships to get from one point to another.
Of course, he wasn’t a mere flag captain any longer.
He’d lost Dreadnought at Darcos Sound, a memory which still brought him intense pain, and not simply because of how much he’d loved that ship. He’d lost her, in the end, because he’d deliberately rammed her into a Corisandian galley under all the sail she could carry. Even though she’d struck bows- on, she’d been traveling too fast at the moment of impact, and he’d split her seams wide open. He’d managed to stave in a good twenty feet of her hull planking, as well, inflicting far too much damage below the waterline for her crew to save her, desperately though they’d tried. He’d known well before she struck that he was going to do potentially fatal damage, too. But that wasn’t the reason the memory hurt so much. No. No, it hurt so much because, even so, he’d been too late. Because despite all he and his crew had been able to do—and he knew, without doubt, that they’d done everything humanly possible—they’d been ten minutes too late to save their king’s life.
Gwylym Manthyr would have sent a dozen galleons to the bottom in return for those ten minutes.
He realized he’d stopped pacing, that he was standing with his hands on the sternwalk rail, staring back across Dancer’s wake. He looked out over the vast expanse of the Southern Ocean and gave himself a shake. The only person in the world who blamed him for being too late was himself, and he knew that, too. His knighthood, and his promotion from captain to admiral, would have been proof enough of that, even without his current assignment.
His was the most distant of all of Charis’ far- flung squadrons. He was two months out from the great naval base at Lock Island, with eighteen war galleons, six schooners, and no less than thirty transports, and wind and weather had favored him quite unreasonably. Indeed, he was the better part of two five- days ahead of his originally projected passage time, some hundred miles south of the Thairmahn Peninsu
la, rounding up around the southern end of the continent of Howard to pass through the Gosset Passage between Westbreak Island and the western tip of the enormously larger island called The Barren Lands into the Harthian Sea. That put him nine thousand miles from Lock Island, but that was in a straight line, and ships couldn’t just fly through the air. To reach this point, Manthyr’s squadron had been forced to sail over fifteen thousand miles, and they still had almost five thousand to go. At such a vast distance from any of his superiors, Manthyr was entirely on his own, which was a pretty conclusive statement of those superiors’ trust in him and his judgment, however he looked at it. After all, he had only the resources aboard his own ships—plus what ever he could “liberate”— and no one to turn to for orders or directions.
In some ways, that made him no different from the captain of any warship on in de pen dent duty. Ultimately, every captain in that situation was always on his own when it came to the decision point. And what ever that captain decided, someone else was likely to decide he’d been wrong and say so—loudly. But that was part of the price for commanding a king’s (or, now, an emperor’s) ship.
Still,he thought, gazing out over that enormous spread of dark blue water, I have to admit that I never really appreciated, as a mere captain, how much . . . nastier the whole thing gets as a flag officer.
His lips twitched wryly. One thing he’d learned long ago was that the perspective was always different. As a midshipman, he’d thought captains were God and lieutenants were Archangels. As a lieutenant, he’d started to recognize that captains were only masters after God, but they’d still been at least equal to the Archangels in their godlike authority and power. As a captain, he’d come to recognize—fully recognize, for the first time—the full crushing weight of the responsibilities a captain shouldered in return for his all- powerful authority at sea. But now that he was an admiral himself, he realized that, in many ways, flag officers had the worst of all worlds. For all their lordly authority, they commanded squadrons and fleets, not ships. They directed, they administered, they devised strategies, and the full weight of responsibility for success or failure rested upon them, but they were forced to rely on others to execute their plans, carry out their orders. They might even get to direct the movements of their squadrons up to the moment battle was actually joined, yet once the ships under their command finally came into action, they were spectators. Passengers. For all their lordly power to direct the movement of other ships, they would never again command their own, and he hadn’t realized just how much that was going to hurt.
Oh, stop it, Gwylym!He chuckled harshly. If that’s the way you feel, you can always ask them to take the nice admiral’s streamer back! Or you could have asked them not to give it to you in the first place. There’s a price for everything, and you learned that a long time before you got your captain’s commission. Do you really think you could convince anyone—including yourself!— that you don’t want to be out here doing what you’re doing?
Probably not, he reflected, and then, in response to a certain rumbling sensation from the direction of his stomach, pulled his watch from his pocket.
No wonder he was feeling peckish. Lunchtime had arrived ten minutes ago, and he had no doubt Captain Mahgail and the rest of his officers were al-ready seated around the large table in his dining cabin, waiting for him.
Yet another proof rank has its privileges,he thought wryly, closing the watch. He straightened and inhaled another deep lungful of the clean ocean smell. They’re all sitting there waiting for me while I stand here in lordly splendor and isolation. I wonder how much longer they’ll be willing to give me before Dahnyld comes ever so respectfully looking for me?
He had to admit that a tiny, nasty part of him was half tempted to wait and see how long it would take for Dahnyld Rahzmahn, his highly efficient flag lieutenant, to overcome his natural deference and oh- so- diplomatically remind his admiral that he had luncheon guests waiting for him. But it was only half a temptation. Maybe even only a quarter temptation, he reflected judiciously. No, it was at least a third of a temptation, he decided. Which probably said less than complimentary things about his own nature.
He grinned broadly and shook his head.
It’s good to be the Admiral, Gwylym, he told himself. It might be a good idea not to let it go to your head, though. I think Admiral Lock Island said something in that general vein when he gave you your orders, didn’t he? In his own inimitably diplomatic fashion, of course.
That thought transformed the grin into a deep, rolling laugh. He gave his head another shake, then turned and stepped through the windowed door from the sternwalk into his day cabin.
.II.
Summit House Lodge,
Province of Glacierheart,
Republic of Siddarmark
Your Eminence, how long have I been your valet?”
Zhasyn Cahnyr turned to look at Fraidmyn Tohmys speculatively. He knew that long- suffering tone entirely too well.
“For quite some time,” he said mildly, at which Tohmys folded his arms and gave him a very stern look indeed.
At the moment, the Archbishop of Glacierheart sat in front of a fire barely short of roaring. Summit House Lodge, the name some long- ago archbishop had bestowed upon his summer retreat, lay considerably higher up the mountain behind the city of Tairys than the city itself. The relatively modest lodge was also, despite the steep- pitched, snow- shedding roof all buildings required in these mountains, intended as a summer residence. A place for the archbishop and his favored guests to withdraw into rustic seclusion and relax. (Cahnyr suspected that at least one of his predecessors had also seen Summit House as a secluded venue for drunken parties and the occasional orgy far enough away from his parishioners’ disapproving eyes to avoid any official scandal.) The fact that it had been viewed primarily as a summer residence, however, also meant that even though it was weathertight, it hadn’t really been designed for occupancy in the coldest month of an East Haven winter. Despite the high- piled coal fire on the drawing room’s hearth, the air temperature left much to be desired. Which was why Cahnyr wore a thick sweater over his heavy woolen winter- weight cassock.
Despite which he felt a certain sympathy for a ham hung up in an ice-house.
“For forty-three years, Your Eminence,” Tohmys told him now. “That’s how long I’ve been your valet.”
“Really?” Cahnyr canted his head to the side. “I do believe you’re right. Odd. I thought it had been longer than that somehow.”
Something glinted in Tohmys’ eyes, and his sternly set lips might have twitched ever so slightly. It was possible, at any rate.
“Well, Your Eminence, saving your pardon and all, I hope you’ll not take it the wrong way if I tell you that of all the addle- brained flights you’ve gotten up to—and, yes, I do remember that ‘party’ of yours when you near as nothing got tossed out of seminary—this one is the worst.”
“It’s not as if I really have much choice at this point, Fraidmyn,” Cahnyr replied in a much more sober tone. “And I deeply regret having gotten you involved in all of this. But—”
He shrugged, and Tohmys snorted.
“The way I recall it, Your Eminence, I was as enthusiastic about it as ever you were. I’d not go taking all the credit, were I you.”
“No, that’s fair enough, I suppose. But I’m the archbishop around here. It’s not right that you should suffer for my actions. Or that you should be stuck up here with me hoping whoever wrote that letter meant what he said.”
“And where else should I be?” Tohmys demanded. “I’ve no more chick nor child than you do, Your Eminence, and you need someone to look after you. I’ve gotten into the habit of doing that.” He shrugged. “Look at it how you will, there’s little point in regretting and even less in trying to change what’s done.”
“Well,” Cahnyr smiled, feeling his eyes burn slightly, “if that’s the way you feel, then why this sudden criticism of my plans?”
“Why, as to
that, if it were to happen you had any ‘plans’ to speak of, then I’d not have opened my mouth.” Somehow, Cahnyr found that a bit difficult to believe. “As it happens, how some so ever, as near as I can see, your ‘plans’ consist of turning up in the middle of the night in the middle of the mountains in the middle of the winter in nought but the clothes on your back and hoping someone as you’ve never met and don’t even know the name of will be waiting there for you. Would it be I’ve got that more or less straight, Your Eminence?”
“Actually, I think that’s a fairly masterly summation,” the archbishop conceded.
“And you think all of that’s a good idea, do you?” Tohmys demanded. “No, I simply think it’s the best idea available to us,” Cahnyr replied. “Why? Have you thought of a better one?”
“No, and it’s not my business to be thinking of better ones, either.” If Tohmys had been fazed by Cahnyr’s challenge, he gave no sign of it. Besides, as both of them understood perfectly well, his was the duty to sound the voice of gloom and doom, not to suggest how his dismal prophecies might be evaded. “It’s just that I was wishful of being certain I had all that straight in my head.”
“I’d say you do,” Cahnyr said judiciously. “Well, in that case, and seeing as how your mind’s made up, I’d best see about finishing packing, hadn’t I?”
Much later that afternoon, Zhasyn Cahnyr stood, gazing out of his Summit House bedchamber window. This late in the day, especially here on the eastern side of Mount Tairys, the tallest peak of the Tairys Range, evening would already have been settling into night, under even the best of conditions. Under the current conditions, he could see very little beyond the flakes of hard- driven snow being blown through the feeble illumination of the window’s own light.