Safehold 10 Through Fiery Trials

by David Weber

  “I’m sure,” Cayleb said.

  In fact, however, the reason Hygyns was “too damned good” at hiding the payoffs was that there weren’t any. Not financial ones, anyway. Zhermo Hygyns might be as ambitious and unscrupulous as they came, yet so far, at least, he’d steered clear of the sort of bribery and graft men like Mahthyw Ohlsyn and Maikel Zhoelsyn doled out. But that hadn’t prevented him from using the troops under his control to break up more than a few demonstrations—and, to be fair, riots—aimed at Ohlsyn and Zhoelsyn’s Western Syndicate paymasters.

  The land speculators who’d succeeded in snapping up so much of the consecrated farmland of Westmarch and Tarikah had converted their holdings into massive commercial operations of the sort the Republic had never before experienced. Along the way, many once-independent farmers who’d been frozen out had been reduced to little more than sharecroppers, often on land which had been in their own families for generations. That generated resentment, and the “Western Syndicate,” as the alliance of landlords had been dubbed, had turned to the Army when some of that resentment spilled over into active resistance.

  To his credit, Hygyns hadn’t set out to be the Syndicate’s leg-breaker, but he’d made no distinction between irate farmers protesting their new status as slightly better off serfs and Siddar Loyalists burning out Temple Loyalists’ farms and families. That had brought him glowing recommendations and support from the Syndicate’s political allies. They’d been smart enough not to offer him money, but they’d offered him plenty of validation and ego-stroking. In the process, they’d captured his ongoing support for their positions without paying him a single copper mark.

  “As Samyl said, we’re just going to have to ride it out,” the lord protector said after a long, fulminating moment.

  “And I hope the fact that I came and Sharleyan didn’t isn’t going to make that harder,” Cayleb sighed.

  “What was that phrase Merlin came up with? A ‘lose-lose situation,’ wasn’t it?” Gahdarhd said sourly, and Cayleb nodded.

  He and Sharleyan had decided only one of them should attend Myllyr’s inauguration. Indeed, they’d strongly considered both simply staying home. In the end, they’d decided Myllyr needed a public display of their support, now that he’d won reelection in his own right, as part of the groundwork for the eventual implementation of the Ahrmahk Plan’s Siddarmarkian variant. At the same time, they’d wanted to avoid looming behind him and giving additional grist to the “Charisian puppet” caricature Flahnairee and his backers had used against him. That was also the reason Cayleb had left Merlin home with Sharleyan and the children. His reputation as a “puppetmaster” was even stronger (and far more sinister) among the anti-Charis crowd. Unfortunately, as Gahdarhd had just pointed out, there was a downside to that, too, with another element of the anti-Charis segment pointing out that both monarchs had so recently traveled to Dohlar for the funeral of a mere earl—and one who’d been a leading military commander on the other side of the Jihad, to boot! That showed Charisian priorities pretty damned clearly, didn’t it?

  “The best we can do is the best we can do,” he said finally. “It probably won’t hurt for me to get my posterior back to Tellesberg as soon as I can, but stay in touch. Ambassador Preskyt has our full confidence, and you know that anything we can do, we will. If anyone owes anybody anything because of the Jihad, Charis owes Siddarmark, not the other way around. There may be some people here in the Republic who’re having trouble remembering that, but we aren’t.”

  .II.

  City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis, Empire of Charis.

  The enormous gray-colored airship drifted down the cobalt-blue sky, propellers spinning like silver discs in the brilliant sunlight. The Duchairn-class airship’s gasbag was two hundred and sixty feet long and fifty feet in diameter, and the hum of its propellers was clearly audible although its Praigyr engines were silent.

  As it neared the ground, those waiting for it did hear a soft, sibilant roar, however. It was the sound of venting hydrogen as it decreased its lift. It drifted still lower, turning into the wind, propellers slowing as it came to a near halt, balanced between their remaining thrust and the breeze pressing against its streamlined but bulbous prow. Mooring ropes fell from its cabin and waiting ground handlers pounced. Four of them were made fast quickly to massive, vehicle-mounted winches, and vaporized kerosene burned with a seething roar of its own as the Praigyr-powered winches began to take in slack.

  The airship—it was low enough now to read the name emblazoned across its cabin: Zhasyn Cahnyr—stopped venting hydrogen and its propellers slowed to a halt as it once again became captive to the earth.

  * * *

  “Langhorne, that was fantastic!” the tall, brown-haired young man said enthusiastically as he bounded over to the waiting steam carriage. “Eight days! The entire trip took just eight days, Seijin Merlin! And that was with the … the ‘layover’ in Tarot!”

  Merlin Athrawes nodded gravely. Lywys Whytmyn would be nineteen in two more months. That made him the Old Terran equivalent of seventeen. He might be very tall for a Safeholdian, barely four inches shorter than Merlin himself, but he was still only nineteen. And he’d just completed an eight-day trip—by air—from Gorath to Tellesberg. Small wonder that he was … excited.

  Despite that, the youngster reminded Merlin in many ways of another nineteen-year-old he’d met here in Charis, almost twenty Safeholdian years ago. He and Cayleb were very much of a height—Cayleb was a little taller—and their coloring was similar. Young Whytmyn had his grandfather’s chin, though, and something about his eyes reminded Merlin of Lywys Gardynyr, as well. Tall as he was, he had a lot to live up to before he could challenge his grandfather’s moral stature, but he seemed a smart, focused fellow. The early signs were good, Merlin thought.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed the flight,” he said out loud. “What did you have to promise your mother to be allowed to make it?”

  “Nothing!” Whytmyn said emphatically.

  “Really?” Merlin arched an eyebrow at him. “No doubt that explains why your sister and your cousins are coming by sea?”

  “Well, maybe she just thinks boys are more expendable,” Whytmyn shot back, and Merlin chuckled. “Truthfully,” the young man went on, “I didn’t have to promise anything I wouldn’t have had to promise her anyway.”

  “Such as?”

  “No leaning out of windows over the ocean, for one thing!” Whytmyn laughed. “And she made me turn out my pockets to show there were no candles in them before she let me go on board.”

  “I see.”

  “Seriously, Seijin, she took it better than I expected.” Whytmyn’s expression sobered. “I don’t think she’s completely comfortable with all the changes in the world, but she knows you can’t put a wyvern back into the egg. You’re right, she wasn’t ready to let the girls come the same way—and she told me to thank you, as well as Their Majesties, for sending Seijin Cleddyf to escort them.” He smiled gratefully at Merlin. “All of us appreciated that, because we know they couldn’t be safer with anyone. But she told me, before I left, that she knew she’d have to let me do ‘crazy things’ sooner or later, so she might as well start now. And she said she hoped I’ll grow up understanding the changes better than she ever could.”

  “I see,” Merlin repeated, his expression thoughtful.

  The inner circle had pulled back on the use of the SNARCs since the Jihad. Some individuals and groups were too important, too potentially threatening, to be left unobserved. But they’d tried to strike a balance between intrusiveness that could and couldn’t be avoided. Merlin had never been comfortable about spying on personal and intimate moments, and he and the inner circle—even Nahrmahn—had relegated more and more to Owl now that the AI had developed full sentience. They relied upon him to filter the content, and unlike his organic friends, he could genuinely erase or lock records—even in his own memory—that had no bearing on the inner circle and its mission.

 
; Despite that, Merlin had watched Whytmyn growing up, and what the young man had just said only increased his respect for his mother, Hailyn.

  “I think she understands it better than she thinks she does, Master Whytmyn,” he said now. “She’s a very smart lady, and her and your father’s willingness to send you to the Royal College shows a pretty firm grasp of the shape of things to come, I think.”

  “Please, Seijin Merlin,” Whytmyn said. “You’ve known me since I was six. Do I have to be ‘Master’ Whytmyn?”

  He looked at Merlin, his eyes very steady, and Merlin smiled slowly.

  “At the moment, I’m acting in my official capacity, collecting you for Sharleyan,” he pointed out. “As such, it behooves me to abide by all those stuffy rules. But, if you insist, after we get you settled, if you want to be ‘Lywys,’ it’s all right with me. As long as I’m ‘Merlin’ to you.”

  “Well, of course.” Whytmyn’s voice, which was quite deep for a youngster of his age, although nowhere nearly so deep as Merlin’s, seemed to slide higher for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “I’d be honored.”

  “As you say, I’ve known you and your family a long time,” Merlin said more gently, resting a hand on his shoulder for a moment. “Your grandfather was one of the finest men I ever met. Grow up to be the man he was, and the honor will be mine, believe me.”

  * * *

  The Praigyr-powered steam carriage rolled quietly into the Tellesberg Palace courtyard, and a small phalanx of greeters gathered at the top of the broad, shallow steps.

  Cayleb was en route home from Siddar City, but Empress Sharleyan stood flanked by Crown Princess Alahnah and Stefyny Athrawes. Alahnah had nine-year-old Gwylym in hand, and Stefyny had corralled Bryahn, the more fractious of the twins. Six-year-old Nynian Zhorzhet held Sairaih Hahlmyn’s hand, gazing gravely down the steps, and Prince Domynyk, who’d turn two in another five-day, paid absolutely no attention from Gladis Parkyr’s arms.

  Merlin got out of the front seat and opened the passenger side door. Young Whytmyn climbed out of it and tugged the hem of his tunic down. Then he nodded his thanks to Merlin and waved courteously for the seijin to proceed him. Merlin smiled, then led the way up the stairs, and Sharleyan extended her hand as Whytmyn approached.

  “Master Whytmyn—Lywys,” she said with a smile, and that smile turned impish as he bent over her hand and kissed it with a flourish the most polished courtier couldn’t have bettered. He straightened and his cheeks turned ever so slightly pink as he saw the twinkle in her eyes, but she squeezed his fingers firmly before he released her hand.

  “You are most welcome in our home,” she told him. “It’s good to see you again, and good to know you’ll be spending some time with us. We’ve arranged quarters for you here in the Palace for now. When Lyzet, Zhosifyn, and Zhudyth get here—and Rahnyldah, of course!—we’ll probably arrange for all of you to be quartered with Archbishop Maikel or Bishop Paityr. Wherever we end up parking you, we expect to see a lot of you here, however. I trust that’s understood?”

  She gave him a moderately stern look, and he nodded.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said meekly. Suspiciously meekly, in Merlin’s opinion. “Mother made me promise to give you her greetings, to thank you for ‘putting up with me,’ and to tell you that she trusts me entirely to your hands. And she also said something about behaving myself because if I don’t, after you get done with me she’ll make my life truly miserable.”

  “A wise woman!” Sharleyan chuckled. “I’ve always liked her. And, trust me, I’ll take her advice where you’re concerned, young man!”

  “I know you will, Your Majesty,” he told her with a grin, and she smacked him lightly on the shoulder. Then she turned and waved at the rest of her family.

  “So, with that out of the way, say hello to the rest of the menagerie and we’ll get you settled and unpacked before dinner!”

  JUNE YEAR OF GOD 909

  .I.

  Iythria Automotive Works, City of Iythria, Duchy of Kholman, Desnairian Empire.

  “Impressive—most impressive, Sir Dunkyn!” Mahnan Zhyng said, as the smoking behemoth came crawling out of the enormous shed. More smoke streamed from the louvers in the shed’s steeply pitched roof. The automotive’s bell rang loudly, clearly, and Zhyng smiled. “His Majesty will be delighted!”

  “It’s certainly to be hoped he will, Master Zhyng,” Sir Dunkyn Paitryk, the managing director of Iythria Automotive Works, said as he shaded his eyes against the bright afternoon sun. The automotive’s polished brass work was almost blinding. “We’re proud of it, anyway.”

  “And well you should be,” the Harchongian said firmly, looking up at the substantially taller Desnairian. “I probably shouldn’t admit this, but the automotives our manufactories are producing remain … less than satisfactory. Carriages and rails, yes; those we can manage. But the automotives themselves?” He shook his head, his expression much less cheerful than it had been.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Paitryk’s own expression was admirably grave, although the news was scarcely unwelcome.

  “Master Nengkwan is making progress, but the accursed Charisians left before our artisans were fully trained. The problems have been less severe in the foundries themselves, but our automotive works have issues with the … tolerances.” Zhyng frowned. “I suspect that means more to you than it does to me?”

  “I’m familiar with the problem, yes,” Paitryk replied. In fact, he was much more familiar with it than he’d been four or five years earlier, before he became one of Symyn Gahrnet’s senior deputies. They never had enough inspectors, and their calipers and measuring rules simply weren’t as precise as the ones Charis produced, which only made the problem worse. But they were dealing with it, he reminded himself. One way or the other, they were dealing with it.

  “And I can’t say I’m surprised the Charisians left your workers less than fully trained,” he went on.

  Of course, he added silently, as Zhyng scowled in obvious agreement, if your idiot emperor hadn’t kicked them out of his empire, that might not have happened.

  He scolded himself for the thought, but that didn’t make it untrue. And the fact that there’d never been any Charisians to throw out of Desnair only fueled his scorn for Zhyou-Zhwo’s decision. If the idiot had only waited another few months, the equally idiotic Charisians would almost certainly have trained the Harchongese workmen up to Charisian standards. But had Zhyou-Zhwo thought about that? Of course not!

  Just as well he didn’t, though, really. If he had, he might not be such an eager customer for our automotives! And there is the matter of my commission on every one they buy from us.

  Paitryk was related to half a dozen major aristocratic families by blood or marriage, but despite the “Sir” in front of his name, there were far too many heirs between him and any of those families’ titles. It would have taken a plague of Grimaldian proportions to empty enough shoes to do him any good!

  His service as a youthful colonel in the Jihad had been honorable—and avoided the Army of Justice’s debacle—but no one had won many titles or honors from that war, which had foreclosed the most customary Desnairian path to noble position. Given his meager prospects, he’d decided early on that he couldn’t afford the traditional disdain for wealth earned in “trade,” yet he had sufficient good blood to be an acceptable interface between the grimy, oily world of “industrialization” and those relatives of his.

  His current perspective gave him rather less patience with his relatives these days, however, and even less with Zhyou-Zhwo.

  “It might be possible for some of our artisans to visit Harchong and help train yours,” he said now. Zhyng brightened perceptively. “I’d have to discuss the idea with Baron Iythria, of course.”

  “Of course! In fact, I should admit that Master Nengkwan suggested in his latest semaphore messages that Earl Sunset Peak would appreciate any assistance in that regard that I might be able to entice you and the Baron into sharing wi
th us.”

  “I understand,” Paitryk said. “And I’m sure he’ll provide any assistance he can. Of course, we are heavily taxed ourselves with our expansion efforts. We’ll break ground on the third production line here at Iythria in August.”

  “No doubt,” Zhyng agreed with a nod, and Paitryk nodded back as they both focused on the gleaming black-and-red automotive once more.

  Symyn Gahrnet, who’d been rewarded with the vacant title of Baron of Iythria for his efforts, had accomplished more, and accomplished it more rapidly, than Paitryk had really believed they could when they first set out. On the other hand, Paitryk’s original expectations hadn’t allowed for the unanticipated assistance of Stywyrt Showail and Dymytree Shallys. The two renegade Charisians had proven worth every one of the exorbitant heap of marks Iythria and the Crown had showered upon them, although Paitryk didn’t much care for them. No, that wasn’t fair. He didn’t care for Showail at all, but Shallys wasn’t bad. Unfortunately, Shallys was a shipbuilder, not a foundry master or an automotive maker.

  Showail was both those things, and that meant Paitryk had to put up with him. Worse, he’d had to accept the man’s condescending “expertise.” It hadn’t been the easiest thing he’d ever done, but he had to admit he’d learned Langhorne’s own lot from the Charisian turncoat. And he’d also come to suspect that Showail himself had learned quite a lot about automotives as he went about building the first Desnairian automotive work. He’d seemed suspiciously short of hands-on experience, but he’d arrived with a trunk full of plans and sketches. He’d been creatively vague about how they’d come into his possession, but fortunately for him, Emperor Mahrys declined to recognize Charis’ ridiculous “patent laws.” And whether Showail had ever before built an actual automotive, he’d known exactly how to turn those plans into actual buildings and machinery. He might be a loathsome individual, but he was competent. Not too surprisingly, since he’d been a highly successful foundry master in Charis during the Jihad … until he’d fallen afoul of those pesky “patent laws” and the ridiculous Charisian rules against child labor. That was the reason he’d been driven out of business—and financially ruined—by no less than the great Duke of Delthak himself.