Assassin's Price

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Both men nodded.

  Vaelln gestured to the circular conference table. “I thought Vice-Marshal Maurek and I would give you a brief overview of the army and navy, then answer any questions you might have. After that, Subcommander Luerryn will give you a complete tour of headquarters with even more detailed information.”

  “That sounds exactly like what I was looking for, Marshal.” As he settled into the chair that Vaelln had pointed out, Charyn just hoped he could remember everything that he heard.

  “I’ll detail the aspects of the navy, and Vice-Marshal Maurek will go over the army…” Vaelln squared himself in his chair and continued. “At present, the navy has forty ships of the line, and fifty-four other warships of various classes, including the twenty-two war sloops used to combat coastal piracy…”

  All told, Vaelln and Maurek each spoke for about a quint.

  Then Vaelln smiled and asked, “Do you have any questions?”

  “I have a few,” admitted Charyn, “possibly not nearly so many as I should have. I’ve heard that there might be a problem with Jariolan and Ferran privateers boarding more merchant ships. How serious is that?”

  Vaelln nodded. “The Jariolans in particular pose a problem. Not only do they have more ships of the line than do we, but the Oligarch has commissioned over a hundred privateers.”

  “For what? We aren’t at war with them.”

  “They’re empowering them to board ships to seek out Jariolan deserters.” Vaelln’s tone turned dryly ironic. “They always find some, even when there aren’t any. That’s how they’re supplementing the crews for their warships. That’s not surprising, given that they have sixty ships of the line.”

  “Isn’t anyone doing anything about it?”

  “Your father sent an envoy to Jariolt last summer. The Oligarch insisted that they have the right to seek out deserters. They were very firm about that. If we attempt to stop them by force, that will mean war.”

  “What about the Ferrans?”

  “Since Ferrum borders Jariola and has some thirty ships of the line, as well as a large army, the Jariolans don’t touch Ferran ships. Everyone else’s ships are fair game. Any merchant ships that resist are attacked, and the survivors taken prisoner and pressed into service. Those who object are thrown overboard.”

  Charyn hadn’t heard about the privateers impressing merchant sailors … and even killing them. “What are we doing?”

  “We’re somewhat limited, Lord Charyn. Your father has provided more funds for warships, but we’re only able to build three new ships a year, four at times. We only had twenty-some ships of the line at the time of the revolt. That means we can keep the privateers well away from Solidar—most of the time—but our merchanters engaged in the spice trade with the lands of Otelyrn are largely at the mercy of the privateers. That’s why some of them have built special ships—clippers—that can outrun almost any privateer.”

  “The privateers don’t build faster ships?”

  “The clippers are built narrower and lighter. Naval guns and shells are heavy. Boarding crews require more space.”

  “If they already have sixty ships, and we can only build four a year…”

  “You can see the problem.”

  Charyn asked several more questions, including several about the location of army posts, and the rationale for those locations, before deciding that he’d asked enough to show interest, and hopefully not to have revealed the depth of his ignorance. “Thank you. You’ve given me a great deal to think about. Once I have, I may have additional questions.” He turned to Subcommander Luerryn. “Then it’s likely that the subcommander will provide even more information.” Realizing that the officers were all looking to him, he rose. “Again, I must thank you.”

  “It was our pleasure, Lord Charyn,” returned Vaelln.

  Charyn got the impression that the marshal honestly felt that way. But does he feel that way, or does he just want you to feel that way?

  For the next three glasses, Subcommander Luerryn and Alastar rode through every lane in headquarters and even out to the area where cannon were tested and ranged. Luerryn explained everything so clearly that Charyn had almost no questions.

  When they finally rode back and reined up outside the headquarters building, Charyn turned in the saddle. “I have to thank you for all the time you’ve spent with me, Subcommander, and for everything you’ve tried to impart to me. I just hope I can remember it half as well as you presented it.”

  “You’ve been very attentive, Lord Charyn.”

  Far more attentive than expected. That was the feeling Charyn got from both Luerryn’s words and his expression.

  “If you were in my boots,” said Charyn casually, “what would be the most important things for me to know?”

  “In your boots, sir?” The subcommander shook his head. “I wouldn’t even pretend to imagine that.”

  “Then … what would you say makes the difference between an adequate marshal and a good marshal?”

  “A good marshal knows what every field-grade officer can do and what duties they’re best suited to. He also knows who to trust with what.”

  “What about military skills?”

  “In a good army, officers shouldn’t be promoted to field grade without those skills. Marshal Vaelln’s army and navy are good.”

  “Some of the army wasn’t so good at the time of the revolt,” suggested Charyn.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Lordship … the army and its officers all had good military skills. That wasn’t the question. The question was of loyalty and trust.” Luerryn smiled pleasantly.

  “Were the imagers as effective as people say?”

  “Without the imagers, sir, you and I would be long dead.”

  “You were there? At the last battle?”

  “I had command of a battalion of mounted infantry. We were outnumbered at least four to one, and we had only eight cannon…”

  Charyn listened to the subcommander’s summary of the battle, trying not to frown when Luerryn described what he said was the turning point.

  “… the rebels had drawn most of our reserves into the center, and then they charged our southern flank. We couldn’t disengage quick enough, but Maitre Alastar threw all the imagers into the flank. They managed to blunt the attack—until the rebel imagers threw a huge ball of that yellow-green Antiagon Fire. It looked like it was going to swallow our whole left side … until two of the imagers charged it. How they did it, I don’t know. One moment, we were about to be burned to cinders, and the next there was this brilliant lance of yellow-green so bright that none of us could see … and there was an explosion, nearly ripped me from the saddle. When I could see again, snow and ice was falling and that whole half of the rebel force was gone. All that was left was ice, just ice. It must have stretched a half a mille on a side. Nothing else. No horses, no bodies, no weapons, nothing … just ice…” Luerryn shook himself. “You don’t forget something like that. The imagers lost about a third of their number, but they turned, and Maitre Alastar led them straight through the remaining fighting to the pretender’s force. Some say he killed the pretender himself. I couldn’t say. Then they rode back. I never saw anything like that before. Never want to see anything like it again.” Abruptly, the pleasant smile returned. “I’d say you’d rather not, either.”

  “I’ll take your word. I saw three imagers destroy two companies right in front of the chateau.”

  “You were watching, sir?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to, but I wanted to see what happened.”

  Luerryn nodded, but did not say more for several moments, then asked, “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  There was, but not anything he wanted to ask. “No, thank you. All of you have given me a great deal to consider.”

  As he rode back toward the Chateau D’Rex, Charyn’s thoughts drifted back to the subcommander’s description of the last battle of the revolt. Half an army or more destroyed in an instant … yellow
-green fire and then nothing but ice? He’d never actually heard the battle described by someone who had been there before … but to hear it that way, from a stolid career officer who had clearly come up through the ranks … that gave him even more to think about.

  The clouds had finally begun to disperse by the time Charyn reined up in the chateau courtyard, but the light from the white sun didn’t seem to add much warmth to the late afternoon as he walked through the sunlit center of the courtyard and into the shadows to the center rear door to the chateau. The guard by the door inclined his head as Charyn passed.

  Once inside, he could hear someone playing the clavecin, and, wincing, realized that what he heard was Bhayrn. He made his way to the door of the music room, but stopped outside, waiting until Bhayrn stopped playing … or Palenya stopped him—because Bhayrn never practiced unless he had to.

  The comparative silence, followed by a brief passage of far more nuanced notes, confirmed that belief.

  With the next silence, after Bhayrn’s largely unsuccessful attempts to emulate Palenya, Charyn opened the door and stepped inside. Bhayrn looked up from the clavecin hopefully, but his face fell as he saw Charyn.

  “No, I’m not about to rescue you. You need to stop pounding the keys, as I’m certain Musician Palenya has already told you.”

  Bhayrn looked away, glowering.

  Charyn turned to Palenya. “I need to talk to you when you’re finished, but please do not cut short your instructional with Bhayrn. His playing needs all the help he can get. I’ll be in my sitting room.”

  Bhayrn looked up and glared at Charyn, who offered a pleasant smile in return.

  Then he turned and left the music room, closing the door quietly, and headed for the kitchen, where he made certain arrangements.

  By the time Palenya arrived almost a glass later, the late afternoon tea and refreshments were waiting, and he gestured to the empty chair across the small table from him. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “You didn’t have to do this.”

  “No. But I thought you would like, if not need, some refreshments and company after spending more than a glass with Bhayrn.”

  “He dislikes playing.”

  “But he fears displeasing Mother even more.”

  “That’s wise of him.”

  “Especially since you’re very skilled, and Mother knows it.”

  “There are other clavecinists who are just as skilled.”

  “I don’t know of any others,” bantered Charyn.

  “You haven’t looked. Here in L’Excelsis, there are many without positions.”

  “Positions for musicians are limited, I know.”

  “Especially for women. Your mother met with half a score.”

  She did? That did surprise Charyn.

  “You know I’m only here at your mother’s pleasure and for yours.”

  Charyn didn’t like to think about that. “You make it sound…” He wasn’t quite sure what to say that wouldn’t be even worse.

  “You see?” Palenya’s voice was gentle. “This is the best I could ever do.”

  “You play so well, and you know so much. You’ve taught me more than I could have imagined. About music,” he added quickly.

  “About both,” she added. “It’s not an accident that I’m five years older than you, and widowed. Where else could the third daughter of a musician go that wouldn’t be even worse? One who can’t have children and wants to remain a musician?”

  That was another thing Charyn didn’t want to think about … but he did understand. “You’ll always have a place.”

  “Don’t make promises. What your family has granted me is more than I could have hoped … and Aloryana is still young.”

  Meaning that I don’t yet control my destiny or yours and that there may be some years you can remain as her teacher. “I can certainly plan.”

  “Sometimes, what we plan works out. Sometimes…” Palenya shrugged.

  Charyn lifted the pot and poured the tea. Then he edged the platter toward her plate. “The almond biscuits are quite good.”

  Palenya smiled. “I’m sure they are.”

  7

  Charyn slept slightly later than usual on Jeudi morning, as he sometimes did when Palenya spent the night with him, then hurried through breakfast, and spent some time in the covered courtyard practicing with his pistols, after which he met briefly with Norstan. The only addition to Meredi’s appointments list was Marshal Vaelln, who had met with his father late in the day, most likely when Charyn had been with Palenya. That meeting suggested that something more might have come up with the Jariolans.

  He was just returning to his quarters to ready himself to leave the chateau when the guard usually posted outside his father’s study hurried toward him. “Lord Charyn! Your sire requests your presence.”

  Now what? It was seldom a good thing when he was summoned. He turned and followed the guard back to the study.

  “Lord Charyn, Your Grace.”

  That form of address was definitely not good.

  Charyn stepped into the study, and the guard quickly closed the door.

  “Young man. Get! Over! Here!”

  Charyn took measured steps and sat down in the middle chair of the three facing the goldenwood desk. “You summoned me, sir?”

  “Yesterday, you met with Marshal Vaelln and his staff. I won’t have you going behind my back! I won’t. You will not do anything like that again! Is that understood?”

  “Sir,” replied Charyn calmly, although he didn’t feel as calm as his voice was, “my intent was not to go behind your back. I requested a briefing on the army and the navy. I even suggested that a junior officer was most appropriate to convey the basic information that I did not know—”

  “That makes me seem incompetent in your education! I will not have it.”

  “Sir, how am I supposed to learn things? You’ve spent a lifetime learning. You weren’t that much older than I am now when you became rex. You’re going to live longer than your father did, and that means I have to learn things while you’re still rex.”

  “By going behind my back?”

  “I have asked you. Your answer is always the same. ‘You’ll have time.’ I ask if I can attend meetings. You say no. You tell me a few words about a problem, but half the time, when I ask more, you tell me I know enough.”

  “That’s enough, Charyn. You will not go around me again. If you ever talk to senior officers again…”

  “Sir, I said nothing about what you or I thought. I only listened and asked questions. Not leading questions, either. Just factual questions. About the kind of basics you know and think I should know and that I don’t. The marshal welcomed me. He talked for less than a quint. Then a subcommander gave me a complete tour of the headquarters post. I have a much better idea of what is there now. I asked nothing about any direction you may have given, and they asked nothing about you.”

  “Were they ever critical of me?”

  “No, sir. Never. They even said that you were building warships as fast as possible to deal with the Jariolan privateers and warships.”

  “Not fast enough for the factors. They want me to spend more golds than any rex ever had just to build ships. What else did Vaelln say?”

  “He said you’d sent an envoy—”

  “Young High Holder Meinyt. Stronger than his father. That didn’t do any good. The Oligarch told him that Jariola had the right to seek out deserters, by force if necessary. He even sent a very polite communiqué that implied the same thing. It’s somewhere here. The only way to stop that is to fight. The last thing we can afford is a war. I can’t even get the High Holders and the factors to pay enough tariffs to fund what needs to be done in Solidar.”

  “If the Jariolan merchants can build and arm ships, why don’t our factors arm their own ships?”

  “There are a few who do. There’s a family in Westisle that does, and another out of Nacliano or Estisle, I forget which. Most don’t. It costs golds,
for the cannon, for the shells and powder, and for men trained to use them. The High Holders don’t trade that much outside Solidar, and they don’t want to pay higher tariffs to help the factors. The factors don’t want to spend the golds themselves. They want me to, but they don’t want to pay higher tariffs to provide the golds so that I can build more ships. Greedy bastards.”

  “What has the Factors’ Council said?”

  “That I should increase tariffs slowly, because most factors will be angry if I do so more quickly.” Lorien snorted. “Slow increases means slow building of ships, and any increase means angry High Holders.”

  “What about tariffing goods landed in our ports?”

  “The factors claim that higher tariffs will just increase smuggling. Unless I build more war sloops to patrol our own coasts. There’s no easy answer to any of this, Charyn. There never was and there never will be…”

  For the next half glass, Charyn mostly listened, slipping in an occasional question, all designed to let his father reveal more.

  Abruptly, there was a knock on the study door. “Maitre Alastar, Your Grace.”

  “You may greet the Maitre, Charyn, then depart.”

  “Yes, sir.” Charyn immediately stood and moved away from the desk and the chairs before it.

  “Have the Maitre come in.”

  Charyn inclined his head to the broad-shouldered imager as Alastar entered the study, although he couldn’t help but notice that the Maitre’s once-silver-gray hair was more streaked with white than even the last time he had seen him several months ago. “Maitre.”

  “Lord Charyn.”

  “It’s good to see you. I was just leaving.”

  “I wish you a pleasant day.”

  Charyn slipped out of the study and down the grand staircase, heading toward the music room. With luck, his father wouldn’t even recall just how angry he’d been at Charyn. He frowned as he thought about the Maitre’s appearance. Alastar didn’t usually come to the chateau two days in three unless there was a problem.

  “Message for the rex!” one of the guards called, loud enough that the words carried from the entry hall.