The king eased into an eerie smile. “Everything I did, I did for you. You can condemn me for it, if you wish, but it changes nothing. I had a vision of the future and worked for it. And if I had won, if I had returned to Tyre in victory rather than defeat, you would all be groveling at my feet, begging for forgiveness. You didn’t even have the courage of your convictions. There isn’t a single one of the ducal families that didn’t send messages to Caledonia, readying themselves to switch sides if I won the war. You are not condemning me because I was wrong. You’re condemning me because I was right.”
His face became stoic. “Now, why don’t you put an end to this farce?”
Peter frowned. The king did have one final trick up his sleeve, one no one had expected. The files would be released, sooner rather than later. The public would hear the king’s final statement and . . . some of them, he supposed, would think he was right. It would be easy to think it, with the king himself safely dead. Who knew? Peter shrugged. His father had always said that the ends didn’t justify the means. The means made the ends. The king had meant well, perhaps, but it didn’t matter. He’d allowed himself to fall from grace long ago.
Harrison clearly agreed. His voice was thick with anger. “You did not work for anyone but yourself. You passed up countless opportunities to work out compromises that would have solved the problems you noted, without leaving you with power. You exploited political and military crises to gain power and hold it. And when you were threatened with losing everything, you resorted to violence. You’ve long since abandoned all claim to being on the right side. You fought a war to impose yourself and lost.
“Your supporters were the dregs of society; the power-hungry, the desperate, the lost. You cared nothing for them. Millions of people died in the occupied zone, after the war, because of you. Millions more suffered over the last year as the civil war swept through the Commonwealth like an avenging fire. And millions more perished in the attacks you authorized on two colonial worlds. And, when the war was clearly lost, you sought to establish a pocket statelet under foreign protection. You could have fought and died in defense of your ideals. That you fled tells us everything we need to know about your character.”
The king shrugged. “Am I always to be surrounded by ankle-biters?”
Harrison spoke with cold fury. “You have chosen to waive most of your legal rights, despite the seriousness of the charges leveled against you,” he said. “Do you have anything else you wish to say before we pass sentence?”
Peter leaned forward, curious. They were rushing things. He had no doubt future generations would say as much, even though they had to be sure the king was safely dead. The charges against him were proven, thankfully. The king hadn’t tried to mount a real defense. It might have worked if he’d won the war, but . . . the king wasn’t going to survive the next few days. And he knew it.
“I have only one thing to say,” the king said. “My wife is pregnant with my first child. My only child. That child is the legal heir to the throne. I ask that you place my son on the throne.”
“We’ll consider it,” Harrison said stiffly. “Your unborn son is an innocent. He will not suffer for the sins of his father.”
“Thank you.” The king bowed. “That’s all I ask.”
Peter frowned. It was going to be an interesting legal battle. The king and Drusilla hadn’t been legally married, not by Tyrian Law, but the child was the king’s. He—Peter assumed the king had chosen the child’s gender—was the legitimate heir. There weren’t many others with a claim to the throne, certainly no one so close. And yet, the House of Lords would be reluctant to crown the king’s son. They hated the poor kid’s father too much.
It might be better to give the child up for adoption, where he would grow up unaware of his identity, Peter mused. Or arrange for him to be fostered in an aristocratic household.
Harrison took a breath. “You have been found guilty of all the charges leveled against you,” he said. The decision had been made a long time ago, although the king’s refusal to answer the charges and put forward a defense had spared them a long and utterly pointless trial. “It is the judgment of this court that you will be taken from this room to a place of execution and put to death. You may write a final statement, if you wish, or spend your final hours in prayer and contemplation. May God have mercy on your soul.”
The king swayed, just slightly, but said nothing. Peter watched as the guards appeared from the shadows, escorting the king back to his cell. There would be a final meal, whatever he wanted to eat, and pen and paper if he wanted to write letters to his wife and family. And a priest, if the king wished to call for one. Peter had never thought the king to be particularly religious, but death was coming for him. Who knew? Maybe he’d find comfort in a priest’s words at the end of his life.
“Well,” Duke Rudbek said, once the lights had come up. “That’s the end of that.”
“I’ll wait until we see his body dangling from the gallows,” Duchess Zangaria said. “He may have one last trick up his sleeve.”
“Maybe,” Peter said. “But we’ve covered all the bases.”
“We think,” Duke Rudbek said. “We never knew he was building an army under our noses either.”
Peter nodded. In hindsight, the signs had been clearly visible. The king had raised soldiers, trained them for a year or two, then sent them into the reserves to wait until they were called. In hindsight . . . He scowled. Whoever took the throne, after the king’s death, wouldn’t have anything like the same freedom of action. The ducal families were already taking steps to separate the monarchy from its corporate power base. The next monarch would be nothing more than a figurehead, with no power to influence events beyond his words.
“You read my proposals,” he said calmly. “Do I have your support?”
“Smacks of letting most of the bastards off,” Duke Rudbek commented. “Do you really want to set such a precedent?”
Peter looked back at him, evenly. “Do you really want to restart the war a few decades down the line?”
“No,” Duke Rudbek said. “But rebellion should be punished.”
“It isn’t as if they’re going to get away with it,” Peter said. “Not completely. The ones who are guilty of outright atrocities—Admiral Ruben, for example—will face justice. But the ones who did nothing more than believe what they were told . . . they’ll have a chance to go home and slip back into society. Mercy will serve us better than harsh punishments.”
He looked around the chamber, silently gauging support. The war was effectively over. The ducal families were already resuming the competition for power. He’d have to pay a price for their backing, both for dealing with the king’s unwitting supporters and the ones who’d known what they were doing when they joined the wrong side. If the war had gone the other way, he would be on the wrong side. Might didn’t make right, as his father had pointed out time and time again, but it did determine what happened.
“And your sister is a problem you’ll have to solve,” Duchess Zangaria said. “I like your thinking though.”
“It would be awkward to hang her, after she ended the war for us,” Peter pointed out. “And she probably saved us from another interstellar war.”
“True,” Duke Rudbek said. “But we’re going to have to ready ourselves to fight anyway.”
“All the more reason to lay the king’s side to rest as quickly as possible,” he said, finally feeling as if he’d grown into his father’s role. “Do I have your support?”
“I believe so,” Duchess Turin said. “You can handle it as you see fit.”
Thank you, Peter thought sourly. He wasn’t blind to the implications. If he failed, or if the policy produced unwanted consequences, he’d get the blame. But there was no way to avoid it. I’ll just have to make sure the results are satisfactory.
“That does leave us with the problem of Drusilla,” Duke Rudbek said. “What do we do with her?”
Peter let out a long breath. The
king himself had kept his silence, but some of his supporters had pointed the finger at his wife. They’d claimed that Drusilla had made the king worse. Much worse. Peter didn’t buy it. The king had started scheming for power long before he’d known Drusilla even existed, let alone fallen in love with her. Drusilla hadn’t said much of anything either. The doctors had confirmed that she was pregnant, but nothing else.
“Send her into exile, if she wishes.” Peter knew what the Theocracy would have done, but he liked to think Tyre was a little more civilized. “There’s probably little to be gained by punishing her.”
“Particularly after she has the kid,” Duke Rudbek growled. “What do we do with the king’s brat?”
“A question for another time, perhaps,” Peter said. His terminal bleeped. “I have a meeting with Admiral McElney. I’ll see the rest of you tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Duke Rudbek said. “I wouldn’t miss the hanging for the world.”
“Speak for yourself,” Duchess Turin said. “There’s something distasteful in watching a man die.”
You gave orders that sent people to their deaths, Peter thought coldly. He’d done it too, time and time again. And yet, all of those people were just numbers to you. Weren’t they?
He dismissed the thought. The war was over. And now they had to win the peace.
If William and Kat help me, it should be possible. And if they don’t . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
TYRE
There had been a gallows in the center of Kirkhaven, the closest town to his village on Hebrides. William had watched three people die as a young boy, two men and a woman who’d been convicted of serious crimes and sentenced to death. His tutors had told him to watch and learn, perhaps thinking it would scare him and the other children straight. Now . . . he studied the metal gallows, in the center of a large metal room, and shuddered. There were no crowds jeering and hurling moldy vegetables, but otherwise the chamber felt very much like the gallows he recalled. The handful of watching aristocrats and the former ambassador from Marseilles were very quiet. They didn’t quite believe it was over.
The king was marched into the chamber. His hands were cuffed behind his back, his feet shackled to make it difficult to walk and impossible to run, but his head was uncovered. William had been told the king had rejected the offer of a blindfold, even though he knew he was walking to his death. The king looked calm, composed, his face a picture of martyrdom. He was deliberately shaping his own legacy, as much as he could. The recordings might just change the public’s perception of him after they were released.
Maybe, William thought sourly. Or maybe they’ll see him as a fool.
The king walked up the steps to the gallows and stood placidly as the noose was fixed around his neck. He’d had a chance to file an appeal, or request a different method of execution, but he’d done neither. William wasn’t surprised. Given how much the king had done, and how much more was already being blamed on him, there hadn’t been any doubt about his fate. His execution warrant had been drawn up well before the final battle, just awaiting the names in the right places. But he could have delayed things a little longer . . .
“It’s time,” the executioner said. “Do you have anything you wish to say before your sentence is carried out?”
“I did my duty,” the king said.
William kept his face under tight control as the trapdoor opened. The king fell, the noose tightening around his neck with terrifying speed. There was a snapping sound as it broke, his body dangling like a sack of potatoes over the abyss. The executioner waited, counting the seconds. In theory, if a man managed to live through his intended execution, he had to be allowed to go free. In practice . . . William had never heard of it happening, not in real life. And here, of all places, there would be no mistakes that would force the House of Lords to let the king go.
Don’t bet on it, he thought. The king might have one last card to play.
The executioner scanned the body. “He’s dead. It’s over.”
William heard a rush of air as everyone exhaled at once. The executioner ignored them, carefully cutting down the body and placing it in a sealed coffin. Members of the royal family were traditionally buried on a hill overlooking their country estates, but this time . . . he had a feeling the body would be cremated and the ashes dumped at sea. There would be no burial ground someone might turn into a center of opposition, now that the king was safely dead.
Duke Peter stepped up beside him as the remainder of the audience left the chamber. “Did you think about my offer?”
William nodded stiffly. There’d been rumors he’d be promoted to grand admiral, particularly after Grand Admiral Rudbek had ended up with egg on his face. There would be people who’d insist he’d been deprived of his reward, although he hadn’t wanted to be promoted into a desk job. The grand admiral wasn’t allowed to command ships, lead men into battle, or fly anything more exciting than a desk. There was a peerage, if the grand admiral wasn’t already an aristocrat, but it wasn’t enough to make up for being permanently grounded. He intended to suggest that policy be changed, if the House of Lords was still listening to him now the war was over. A grand admiral who lost touch with the realities of naval warfare was a grand admiral who’d be worse than useless when the shooting restarted.
“I did,” he said. “It would mean a demotion, but . . . I’ll take it.”
Duke Peter smiled. “I’ll be sending you as many of the king’s former supporters as possible,” he said. “I think . . . if there’s anyone who can bring them back into the fold, it’s you.”
“Thanks,” William said. “I suppose the real question, Your Grace, is how much power and political support you’re willing to give me. May I ask . . . ?”
“I’ve discussed it extensively with the others,” Duke Peter said. “Your formal written orders will be upheld, to the hilt. You’ll have extensive authority, at least until the StarCom network is up and running. And you’ll be assured of the fleet deployment for at least five years.”
“Because the ships and personnel will be drawn from the remnants of the king’s fleet,” William said. He had to admit it was a neat solution. On one hand, those who’d supported the king would be permitted to work their way back to favor; on the other, they’d be unable to cause real trouble if they started to plan a second revolt. “And supplies and suchlike?”
“You’ll have everything you reasonably need,” Duke Peter said. “I trust this won’t cause problems with Asher Dales?”
“They’ve probably already replaced me,” William said. “There wasn’t any shortage of prospective officers before the civil war and . . . well, there isn’t any shortage now.”
“I suppose not,” Duke Peter said. “I have to visit Kat this afternoon. I’d speak to you after then, if you don’t mind.”
And if I do, it doesn’t matter, William told himself.
He considered the offer again for a long moment. He’d been knighted. His pension would keep him afloat if he wanted to retire. Or . . . he could stay in the navy. They could hardly fire him after he’d won the war. He could keep command of Home Fleet or request assignment to the border stars. God knew what Marseilles would do in the next few years. Things might simmer down or explode into war. He’d seen the plans for border defenses. If anything, they were more elaborate than anything the king had planned. But then, Marseilles would be a more serious enemy than the Theocrats. The war could get very unpleasant indeed.
And yet, going to the liberated sector would be one hell of a challenge. And someone had to do it. And William knew, without false modesty, that he was the most qualified officer for the role.
“I’ll do it,” he said, again. “When do you want me to depart?”
“Depends on Kat,” Duke Peter said. “But within a week, no more.”
He shrugged. “We’re clearing your personnel as fast as possible. Captain Sarah Henderson appears to be the senior surviving officer . . . at least, among those who didn�
��t commit suicide or flee if they weren’t killed in the final battle. She’ll probably be your second. How much trust you want to rest in her is up to you.”
“Understood,” William said, with the rather cynical thought he’d get the blame if Captain Henderson proved unworthy of his trust. “I’ll speak to her before departure.”
“And I’ll speak to Kat,” Duke Peter said. “Good luck, Admiral.”
William bowed. “And to you, Your Grace.”
Francis hadn’t expected to feel quite so numb when, as a semiwilling guest, he’d been forced to watch King Hadrian being marched to the gallows and executed. The king had been teetering on the brink of madness well before the final battle, well before Kat Falcone had boarded his ship and brought his reign to an end. Francis had been all too aware that the king was growing increasingly unstable, that he might prove to be a dangerous puppet if things went badly wrong . . . In some ways, Francis was relieved the matter had ended so quickly. Marseilles had been able to extract itself from the morass without being dangerously exposed. The House of Lords knew what Marseilles had done, but . . . the matter hadn’t become public. They weren’t going to be pushed into war.
He kept his thoughts to himself as a pretty dark-skinned woman led him away from the execution chamber and up into a small office that was so bare and barren of any personality that he knew it wasn’t in regular use. The chairs were comfortable, but functional; the desk naked, without papers or datapads or anything else the owner could fiddle with in the hopes of putting his guests in their place. Francis was experienced enough to read the underlying message, the grim warning that he was on thin ice. A friendly meeting would be handled by the foreign officer in nicer surroundings. This meeting was going to be very unfriendly indeed.
Debt of War (The Embers of War) Page 37