by David Weber
Which, of course, had been the only reason—the selfless and noble reason—for his expedition.
Merlin chuckled as he recalled Lieutenant Ahrnahld Falkhan’s rather pithy comments when he’d discovered what they were actually hunting. The hard-pressed Marine lieutenant who’d commanded Prince Cayleb’s security detail had put up with a lot from his fractious charge, and Merlin had listened through the SNARC remotes as the two of them “discussed” Cayleb’s agenda that day. The prince had been less than fully forthcoming about his plans before they left Tellesberg, and Lieutenant Fhalkhan had come within a whisker of turning them around when he found out what sort of “game” Cayleb proposed to hunt. But Cayleb Ahrmahk had been a force to be reckoned with, even at nineteen. Of course, if Falkhan had known about the assassins who’d arranged for Cayleb to hear about the man-eating slash lizard in order to draw him out, not even Cayleb’s stubbornness could have prevailed over his sense of duty.
Nor had time changed that sense of duty, which was one reason Brigadier Sir Ahrnahld Falkhan was now the commanding officer of the Charisian Imperial Guard. He walked with a limp to this day because of the thigh wound he’d suffered in the assassination attempt, and he retained his rank in the Imperial Charisian Marines, but he’d been the obvious choice to head the Imperial Guard when Ahdam Ropewalk finally surrendered that post.
He’d also personally handpicked the Marine bodyguards assigned to Crown Princess Alahnah. The heir to the Crown was protected by the Marines, not by the Imperial Guard; that part of the pre-imperial Charisian tradition continued to hold, although Lieutenant Ahlbyrt Bynyt, the commander of Alahnah’s detachment, was a Chisholmian, not an Old Charisian. Aside from that minor technicality, he reminded Merlin a great deal of a younger Ahrnahld Falkhan.
Which was a source of great comfort to him, since even a PICA could be in only one place at one time. At the moment, Alahnah and a handful of friends closer to her own age than a stodgy old father like Cayleb, had ridden ahead under Bynyt’s watchful eye, eager to reach the lodge where Ahlys Sohmyrsyt, Deep Valley’s daughter, waited to greet them.
Personally, Merlin thought that eagerness had more than a little to do with Alahnah’s special guest. She’d arranged for Stefyny to invite him in the fond belief it was possible her parents might not detect her own hand in the invitation. He wondered how she was going to react the day she discovered the truth about the archangels and the inner circle and realized her parents had had access to Owl’s SNARCs from the day she was born.
Actually, remembering Nimue Alban’s long-ago girlhood, he had a pretty fair notion how she was going to respond to learning about that particular unfair advantage on their part.
“How much farther to the lodge, Braiys?” Pine Hollow asked, although, like Merlin and Cayleb, he knew the actual distance to the foot, courtesy of the SNARCs and their com implants.
“Maybe another forty-five minutes or an hour,” Deep Valley said, after glancing around to check his landmarks.
“Good!” Cayleb said. Deep Valley raised an eyebrow at him, and Cayleb smiled wickedly at Merlin, then waved at the half-dozen Imperial Guardsmen flanking them as they made their way along the trail. “I’m looking forward to seeing Ahlys again, of course, but honesty compels me to admit that that’s not the only reason I’ll be glad to get there. As I believe I asked a certain Marine once upon a time, many years ago, how are we going to hunt anything if we take a great thundering herd of bodyguards along?”
He chuckled at Merlin’s expression, then sobered—a bit—and shrugged.
“I know we can’t really ditch them completely, but once we get to the lodge, I’m definitely stripping down a bit. I think we could probably trust Merlin to keep me intact, and he’s at least a little quieter in the woods than those fellows.” He twitched his head at the Guardsmen. “I think we’ll just leave most of them at the lodge.”
“We will, will we?” Merlin asked.
“Oh, trust me, we will,” Cayleb told him firmly.
* * *
“So, what do you think of the Ironhills?” Alahnah Ahrmahk asked the tall, brown-haired young man riding beside her.
“Impressive, Your Highness,” Lywys Whytmyn replied. “We don’t have as many mountains in Gorath as you do here in Charis. And Thirsk’s actually pretty flat. I mean, I love it—don’t get me wrong! But I have to admit I like this.” He waved one hand to indicate the trees and slopes around them. “Back home, mountains like this would be covered with snow by midwinter, though. I’m guessing not so much here?”
“Not so much, no,” Alahnah acknowledged. “Technically, this is still summer—we won’t officially start into fall for another couple of five-days—but we don’t get much snow even in August, despite how far south we are. Not on this side of the Iron Hills, at least. If you want to see snow, you should come visit us in Chisholm!” She shivered theatrically. “Gwylym and Braiahn love snow, but not me. I’m my father’s girl where cold weather’s concerned, and so is Mom, really.” She grinned. “She’s not going to admit it where any of her Chisholmians can hear her, but she’s the one who insisted that the half-year we spend in Tellesberg just happens to be the middle of winter in Cherayth! We’ll be leaving for Chisholm the middle of next month.”
“I can’t fault her timing.” Whytmyn chuckled. “It must be odd, though, moving everything back and forth twice a year.”
“Well, we don’t actually move everything,” Alahnah pointed out. “That’s sort of the point, really. We leave Earl Pine Hollow home here in Tellesberg while we’re in Cherayth, and we leave Earl White Crag in charge in Cherayth when we’re in Tellesberg. And that way neither kingdom feels like it’s being frozen out in terms of political influence.” She shrugged. “It’s awkward, although Mom and Dad both say it was a lot worse before we had steamships that can get dispatches from Chisholm to Old Charis in just nine or ten days. Or if it’s something that can be trusted to the semaphore, it can get here in as little as two days, if everything works right.”
His eyes widened. The Charisian Empire was wrapped around half the planet; it was literally true that the sun never set on the Charisian flag. He’d always assumed that had to have major implications for its internal communications, and it was clear from what Alanah had just said that it did. But that was a far shorter message turnaround time than he would have believed was possible. His surprise showed, and she shrugged.
“We’ve got semaphore chains clear across Zebediah now, so the dispatch boats only have to cross the water gaps between Chisholm and Zebediah and then between Zebediah and Silverlode. Same thing’s true for Corisande and Zebediah, really, and for Tarot, the water gap’s barely three hundred miles across the Tranjyr Passage. On a good day, Dad and Mom can get a message to King Gorjah in Tranjyr in less than one day! In fact, the record from Tellesberg to Tranjyr is just under fifteen hours. A lot depends on timing and weather, of course. Semaphores don’t work very well in the dark or if there’s any fog around, so the actual transmission time between Cherayth and Tellesberg is usually at least three days, even at the best of times. But it works, and the promise to move the capital back and forth was a pretty important part of Dad’s marriage proposal, really. Thinking ahead that way’s one of his strengths. Mom’s, too, of course, but Dad’s the most … foresighted person I know. I keep watching him, trying to figure out how it works since it’s going to be my job someday, but I haven’t nailed it down yet. I will, though!”
Whytmyn nodded. His expression was merely thoughtful, but his eyes had sharpened as she spoke. He was three years older than she was—she’d turned seventeen last month and he’d celebrate his twentieth birthday next five-day—but she didn’t seem that much younger. That was probably to be expected, given her parents and the job she knew would one day be hers, but that made it no less impressive when he listened to her.
Part of it might simply be that she was Charisian, though, he thought. She was arguably the most nobly born young woman in the entire world, but she seemed un
aware of it. Or, no, that wasn’t quite right. She was aware of it, and she conducted herself in the public eye with an easy grace and a calm assurance that commanded deference without ever having to demand it. He suspected she’d learned that more from her mother than father, since Cayleb’s style was rather more … free-form than the majority of Safeholdian monarchs. But there wasn’t an arrogant bone in her body. He was sure of that, and he wondered if she had any idea how remarkable that was.
It was genuinely possible she didn’t. Charisians in general—and Old Charisians, in particular—were unlike anyone he’d ever known growing up. Dohlar was nothing like Desnair or—thank God!—Harchong, but Dohlaran grandees knew exactly who they were and made damned sure everyone else was equally aware. Thankfully, he’d grown up as his grandfather’s grandson, and Earl Thirsk had possessed very little patience with that sort of attitude. Probably because he’d had to deal with so much of it during the Jihad. Whytmyn’s cousin Ahlyxzandyr had inherited the Thirsk title, and, despite his youth—he was only seven years older than Whytmyn—he was clearly following in their grandfather’s footsteps, much to the chagrin of certain of those other grandees. The fact that Thirsk—a mere earldom—had more influence these days than any of the kingdom’s duchies only made that worse, in their eyes. And the “Thirsk contamination,” as King Rahnyld liked to call it, was spreading to other noble families as well. Everyone told Whytmyn that—more often than not in terms of profound disapproval—so he had to believe it. It seemed to be spreading just a bit slower than a Mountains of Light glacier, however.
But Old Charis wasn’t like that. Oh, no Old Charisian was going to just walk up to Crown Princess Alahnah! He knew that, too. Yet virtually everyone, from the most commonly born longshoremen on the Tellesberg waterfront to the most nobly born duke in the entire kingdom, regarded her as their favorite younger sister. They respected her, and they admired her, and they loved her, but they weren’t in awe of her … and she saw absolutely no reason why they should be.
He thought about that now, glancing away from her while she turned to say something to the tiny fair-haired girl riding to her right.
Gladys Frymyn was five months younger than Alahnah, and much shyer. Not that there was anything wrong with her brain! Her mother had invented the double-glass, the angle glass, and the Imperial Navy’s “rangefinder.” She continued to forge ahead in optics of every sort, and Gladys was just as smart as Doctor Zhain Frymyn. Her interests lay elsewhere, however, and she’d become one of Dahnel Vyrnyr’s star students and research assistants. Outside the Royal College, though, she was much less self-assured, and the fact that she was as petite as her mother, which made her look even younger than her age, didn’t help. It was like Alahnah to make sure she was included in the conversation rather than let her withdraw into what she herself called her “nerd corner.”
Whytmyn had no idea who’d invented that word—“nerd.” He suspected it had been Seijin Merlin, although Cayleb tended to leave new words and mangled language in his wake, as well. Whoever had invented it, though, it was the perfect way to describe Gladys, and he was glad Alahnah was unwilling to let her withdraw.
“She does that well, doesn’t she?” a voice asked.
“I didn’t realize you’d noticed me noticing,” he replied, smiling at the young woman riding on his other side. Her hair was far darker than Gladys’, her eyes were gray, not blue, and she was seven years older and five inches taller.
“I’m Seijin Merlin’s daughter,” Stefyny Athrawes replied with a rather broader smile, “and she’s my crown princess, not just my friend. It’s my job to notice things where she’s concerned.”
Her smile faded and she looked at Alahnah’s back as the princess laughed at something Gladys had said.
Whytmyn wondered if she realized how much her own expression revealed in that moment. How much true and deep affection … and how much protectiveness. He’d heard the stories about her, had some idea—intellectually, at least; he knew damned well that no one who’d been there could truly understand—of what she’d endured in the Inquisition’s concentration camp. And he knew how, after surviving all that, she’d still lost the birth-father she’d challenged the Punishment itself to save.
Yet all of it had left her unbroken. Not unscarred, he knew that had to be true, but unbroken. And perhaps it was what she’d experienced, what she’d lost, as much as the example of the adoptive father she clearly loved just as deeply, that made her so fiercely protective herself.
“You love her a lot, don’t you?” he heard himself saying, and her eyes flipped back to him.
“She’s my friend,” she repeated after a moment. “And I guess you might say looking after the Ahrmahks is the family business.”
“And the world’s a lot better off because you’re so good at it,” he said quietly. She arched an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. “They’re the reason Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s Inquisition didn’t win,” he said, “and Merlin is the reason they lived to stop him.” His own expression was somber. “I never experienced anything like you and your brother went through, Lady Stefyny, but without Seijin Gwyliwr and Seijin Cleddyf, my entire family would probably be dead. You might say—” he grinned suddenly “—that the Whytmyns and Mahkswails are big seijin supporters!”
“Really?” She shook her head and smiled back at him. “Imagine that! It seems you and I have something in common. Besides—” her smile turned a bit impish “—liking Alahnah, I mean.”
* * *
“Princess looks like she’s having a good time,” Corporal Strathmohr commented. He and Sergeant Adkok had the rear of the small party, riding along behind the crown princess and her guests. Lieutenant Bynyt and Corporal Wynstyn Draifys rode at the head of the party with one of the guides Baron Deep Valley had provided, and Corporal Ohtuhl took point, a hundred yards ahead of them and well out of sight on the winding trail, with the second Deep Valley guide.
“Does appear that way,” Sergeant Adkok agreed. Like Strathmohr’s, the sergeant’s eyes never stopped their regular sweep of the woodland to either side of the trail. At forty, Jyrohm Adkok was the oldest member of Crown Princess Alahnah’s personal detail, and he’d known her literally since babyhood.
“Have to wonder if she thinks she fooled anyone, though,” Strathmohr said.
“You mean having Lady Stefyny invite him along?” Adkok said dryly. “Might be one or two reindeer herders up in the Snow Crests she fooled. Somehow I don’t think she put anything over on Their Majesties. And I know she didn’t fool the Seijin!”
“Well, of course not!” Strathmohr’s lips twitched as he looked off into the woods. “Nobody fools the Seijin, Sarge!”
“Guess not,” Adkok agreed. “Probably just as well, don’t you think?”
“Do I look stupid?”
“Maybe not that stupid,” the sergeant said in a thoughtful tone, and Adkok chuckled. But then his expression sobered a bit.
“I don’t like these woods, Sarge,” he said.
“Me neither,” Adkok acknowledged. “Visibility’s a lot lower than the Lieutenant and I thought it’d be from the descriptions.” He frowned, then shrugged. “I guess the good news is it’s not real likely anyone’d be stupid enough to try anything with the Seijin riding herd on us.” He snorted. “Didn’t work out real well, the last couple of times somebody did.”
* * *
“Damn it,” Cayleb said mildly, releasing his horse’s cannon. The big gray lowered its forehoof, but it didn’t put it back down on the trail. Instead it kept its lower leg cocked, the hoof just off the ground, and turned its head to snuffle his hair affectionately as he sheathed the knife he’d used to pry the small stone from its hoof. The emperor shook his head and patted the gelding’s neck, then looked up at Baron Deep Valley.
“The damned rock was caught in the collateral groove and the frog’s bruised pretty badly,” he said, tossing the baron the stone. “If Gray Wind weren’t so stubborn, he’d have pulled up lame at least fifteen minu
tes ago.”
“Would’ve been nice if he’d let us know when he picked it up,” Merlin agreed. The seijin stood on the trail beside Cayleb and shook his head. “And speaking of stubborn, I wouldn’t want to say anything about horses taking after their riders or anything.”
“Really?” Cayleb looked at him. “That would be a first.” He patted the gelding’s shoulder and frowned. “I don’t like how much he’s favoring it. I think the bruise’s even worse than I thought it was at first.”
“Hairahm!” Baron Deep Valley called, and a grizzled-looking man in hunting leathers touched a heel to his horse to trot up beside him.
“Yes, My Lord?”
“His Majesty’s not going to be riding that horse anymore this afternoon.”
“No, My Lord,” Hairahm Fyrnahndyz, Deep Valley’s senior huntsman agreed, and swung down from the saddle. “Take mine, Your Majesty,” he said.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Cayleb replied. “This is why Nanny Merlin insisted on bringing along remounts even for a jaunt this short. I, in my infallible wisdom, knew we wouldn’t need them. You may have noticed, however, that Merlin’s just a bit smarter than me sometimes?”
Fyrnahndyz darted a quick look at Merlin, who only shook his head, his expression resigned.
“Don’t answer that,” Cayleb said with a grin. “Her Majesty keeps telling me I shouldn’t put people in positions where they have to choose between diplomacy and honesty. At the moment, however, what matters is that because of the Seijin’s foresight, we brought along extra horses, so there’s no need for me to take yours.”
“But—” Deep Valley began, then stopped as Cayleb shook his head.