by David Weber
“Perhaps I can help a bit, My Lord,” the tall stranger said. Styvyn’s eyes whipped to his face, and the stranger placed one hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “Permit me to introduce myself. Men call me Cennady Frenhines.”
Styvyn frowned, puzzled by the outlandish name, and Lady Karyl squeezed him gently.
“Actually, Styvyn, this is Seijin Cennady Frenhines. He’s here on behalf of Their Majesties.”
“He’s—?”
Styvyn swallowed hard, but Frenhines only shook his head, the expression on his bony face oddly gentle.
“My Lord, we already know everything you were about to tell us about Duke Rock Coast. In fact, we know quite a bit more than you do, because I very much doubt he was stupid enough to tell you he’d realized from the beginning that he’d have to kill your grandmother to get what he wanted.” Styvyn sucked in air and his arms tightened convulsively about Lady Karyl. “I’m quite sure he didn’t discuss some of his other plans with you, either. Rest assured, however, that my … colleagues and I know about all of them. So does Her Majesty.”
“The … the Empress knows I.…”
Styvyn’s voice trailed off in horror, and Frenhines smiled.
“Her Majesty knows you’re young, that your cousin went to great lengths to flatter you into agreeing with him … and that in the end you’d refuse to join his treason. Everyone makes mistakes, My Lord, especially when we’re young. Their Majesties know that, and the fact that you came of your own free will to inform your grandmother of their plans—and that you were willing to do it in front of witnesses—proves Her Majesty was right about your refusal to join him.”
“But … but if you already knew what they were planning, why haven’t you done anything about it?!”
“We’re about to do something about it, dear,” Lady Karyl replied. “We’ve just been waiting until all the roaches were ready to scurry out into the light. And you know what you do with a roach when that happens, don’t you?”
He stared at her as he heard the cold, sharp-edged steel in her tone, a steel he’d never heard from her before.
“No, Grandmother,” he said slowly.
“You step on it, Styvie,” she told him in that same icy voice. “You step on it.”
* * *
“Think the boy beat us home, Fraizhyr?” Daivyn Mahkrum asked as he drew rein at the upper end of the street leading down to Rydymak Keep.
“Just about have to’ve,” Fraizhyr Mahkynyn replied almost absently, steadying his spyglass to study the town below them. “Can’t think of any other reason we wouldn’t see somebody on the streets.”
He lowered the spyglass. Holding the thing steady enough to see anything from the back of a horse was always a challenge, but he really hadn’t needed it, anyway. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. There wasn’t even any smoke rising from chimneys … or dogs or cat-lizards on the street, for that matter.
“No, the old woman knows we’re coming,” he said thoughtfully as he cut a plug of chew leaf and popped it into his mouth. “She’ll have that keep closed up tighter’n a landlord’s heart on rent day. Be a right pain in the arse digging her out of it, too.”
“Can’t be too bad,” Mahkrum objected. He was Mahkynyn’s second in command, and the two of them had known one another since boyhood. “She can’t have more’n thirty, thirty-five men in there to cover the walls, even counting those old crocks she took in over the winter, and we’ve got five hundred. All of ’em with rifles, come to that.”
“Five hundred outside the frigging walls,” Mahkynyn pointed out, jaw working steadily as he chewed.
“And we brought ladders!” Mahkrum shook his head. “I’ll take a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty of the lads and make all sorts of noise outside the gatehouse. Might even get her to agree to talk to me, try and ‘work things out,’ might say. And while I’m doing that, you take the rest of the boys, sneak around to that blind part of the wall on the south side, and throw the ladders up.” He shrugged. “Might get hurt a little bit, but not enough to matter.”
“You think?” Mahkynyn cocked his head, then jerked one thumb at the town’s deserted streets. “You figure she’s got thirty-five armsmen in there. More’n one of the Old Earl’s soldiers retired to Cheshyr, you know. Could be she’s got a few of them, too.”
“And what’s she going to arm them with? Maybe they had a decent armory in there back in the Old Earl’s day, but now?” He snorted derisively and touched the butt of the prized Trapdoor Mahndrayn riding in his saddle scabbard. He had only fifty rounds for it, but every other man in their force had one of the older-style rifles, and they had plenty of ammunition for those. “You know damned well she hasn’t had the marks to buy any new-model weapons! Besides, most of those ‘retired soldiers’ are getting as long in the tooth as her. Probably haven’t even touched a sword in ten, twenty years. Not the kind of thing to keep a man up worrying at night.”
“You’re probably right,” Mahkynyn acknowledged after a moment. “All right, since you’re feeling all talkative, you get the front gate. Give me a couple of hours to swing around to the south.”
He pointed at a stretch of hillside, just visible from their present position. It was unfortunately exposed, and once upon a time it had been a wheatfield. But that had been long ago, and there were at least some clusters of young trees that might be used for cover.
“If the boy did get home and they’re watching for us, like as not they’ll see us well before we get to the foot of the wall. Won’t be a whole hell of a lot they can do about it even if they do have some arbalests or matchlocks, but the truth is we’re not real likely to surprise them. So you take a half dozen of the ladders with you, too. You can hide ’em by coming in down that side street that comes in from the west.” He pointed, and Mahkrum moved to look along his arm, then nodded as he found the street in question. “You can probably get to within a couple hundred yards without anyone seeing ’em from inside. Once they decide you’re only a diversion and start worrying about me, your lads bring their ladders out and throw them up against the gatehouse. We’ll come at them from two sides at once and swamp them.”
“Works for me,” Mahkrum said. “Put a man up there in the church steeple with a flag to tell me when you’re in position?”
“Done,” Mahkynyn agreed laconically.
* * *
“There’s the flag,” the lookout said, and Mahkrum nodded.
It had taken longer than expected for Mahkynyn to get into position, but it wasn’t like there was any rush. The old lady wasn’t going anywhere, and anyone in that gatehouse had to have seen the forty men at his back. He’d decided to let them see at least that much of his force on the theory that it didn’t hurt anything to give Lady Cheshyr a little extra time for worry to soften her resolve. From everything he’d ever heard, Countess Cheshyr’s resolve would need more softening than most people, and the fact that no one had even looked in their direction, so far as he could tell, didn’t seem promising.
No skin off my nose if she wants to be stubborn, he thought as he nodded to his own second and sent his horse walking steadily down the street towards the closed gatehouse. Truth of the matter is, I’m pretty sure the Duke won’t shed any tears if something pretty permanent happens to the old biddy—to the boy, too, come to that. Better if it’s an accident, but I think he figures Cheshyr’d make a nice addition to the Duchy. Wouldn’t be surprised if he and Black Horse plan on carving it up like a stuffed wyvern on God’s Day!
He snorted at the thought as he stopped his horse thirty yards from the closed gate and looked up at the gatehouse battlement. It was a more impressive old pile of stone from this close, and he was suddenly just as happy they weren’t thirty or forty men with new-model weapons atop its walls.
“Hello, the keep!” he called.
There was silence for a moment, aside from the crackle and pop of the no less than three imperial standards flying from the keep’s staffs. Then a head appeared over one of the merlons
. He didn’t recognize its owner—a tall, blond-haired fellow—but the man was unarmored and appeared to be armed only with a sword. He wasn’t even wearing a helmet.
“Hello, yourself,” he called back in a deep voice.
“Can I ask where everyone’s gone?” Mahkrum inquired.
“Well, let’s see,” the stranger said in a thoughtful, musing tone. “Four or five hundred armsmen come riding into town in Rock Coast colors all uninvited.” He shrugged. “May be silly of me, but I’d say that was probably grounds for a little concern, wouldn’t you?”
“Only if it has to be,” Mahkrum replied.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning that if Lady Cheshyr—or whoever’s in charge in there—is inclined to be reasonable, nobody has to get hurt.”
“Why, that’s remarkably generous of you, Master Mahkrum! I can’t tell you how touched we all are by your deep concern over our safety.”
The stranger’s tone was no longer thoughtful, and its scorn cut like the flick of a whip. That was Mahkrum’s first thought. Then something else registered.
“How’d you know my name?” he demanded sharply, right hand falling to the butt of the rifle at his knee.
“We know quite a lot about you … and why you’re here,” the stranger said. “In fact, we’ve been expecting you. So since you’ve been so concerned about not hurting any of us, I’ll return the compliment. If you’d care to lay down your arms now and surrender without any unpleasantness, we won’t hurt you, either.”
“Surrender?” Mahkrum stared at the solitary lunatic in disbelief. “You’re right, we’ve got five hundred men out here. Standing room only, you couldn’t fit more’n a couple of hundred into that heap of rocks! If anyone’s doing any surrendering around here, it won’t be us.”
“No, probably not. Or not immediately, anyway. That would take something remotely approaching brains. The survivors may change their minds about that in a bit, though. Unfortunately, you’ll have to excuse me for a minute. Master Mahkynyn and his lads just came over the crest of the hill, and he’s just as stupid as you and Rock Coast. Too far away for me to ask him if he’d like to surrender, though, so I’d better go welcome him to the party, too.”
Mahkrum stiffened at the fresh evidence that the stranger knew far too much about his orders. On the other hand, there was that saying about how difficult dead men found it to tell any tales.
“You do that thing!” he shouted up at the parapet as the stranger turned away. Then he turned in the saddle and waved at the crouched men still hidden by the nearest houses, waiting to charge the wall with their scaling ladders.
* * *
“Do all seijins have nasty senses of humor?” Zhaksyn Ohraily inquired as Cennady Frenhines stepped back from the battlements. “You know you just guaranteed they’ll go for it, don’t you?”
Despite the question, Sergeant Ohraily didn’t seem particularly disapproving. At thirty-eight, he was far and away the youngest of the “gray lizards” Karyl Rydmakyr had taken in. And, unlike the others, he was an Old Charisian, not a Chisholmian. Had he been in the uniform to which he was entitled, it would have borne the crossed rifle and bayonet of a scout sniper surmounted by the stylized peep sight of a designated marksman, and he’d removed the eyepatch which had covered the left eye that had supposedly been lost in the training accident that mandated his retirement.
“Nothing nasty about it,” Frenhines replied, dropping down below the level of the merlons. “I didn’t say a single thing that wasn’t completely true. And as for attacking, I specifically advised him not to. Is it my fault if he doesn’t listen to advice?”
“I do believe you have a point, Seijin Cennady,” Ohraily said, working the bolt on his M96 rifle. “We’ve got this. Go have fun.”
Frenhines slapped him on the shoulder and went trotting down the gatehouse’s internal stair towards the keep’s courtyard.
* * *
“All right, boys!” Fraizhyr Mahkynyn shouted. “Let’s get a move on! And remember—we don’t want to kill anybody we don’t need to, but I’d a hell of a lot rather lose one of them than one of us!”
Someone shouted a somewhat obscene agreement, and the storming party started forward in a leisurely sort of a charge. After all, it wasn’t like this was going to be difficult.
Sloppy, Mahkynyn thought, trotting along with the rest of them. Probably nothing to worry about today, but it’s not all going to be this easy. Guess I need to do a little arse-kicking when we’re done. Well, won’t be the first—
He heard a sudden, strange sound—an almost hollow noise, muffled by the keep’s walls. Then he heard another sound, a strange, warbling sound, and his face went white.
* * *
“Fire!” Dynnys Mykgylykudi barked, and all four of the M97 mortars lined up on the keep’s front courtyard coughed out round, perfect rings of powder smoke as their 32-pound bombs went rocketing upwards.
It really wasn’t fair, Mykgylykudi reflected. Which was just fine with him; he wasn’t the one planning on committing treason and probably murder at the orders of a traitor. What he was, was one of the Imperial Charisian Army’s best mortar men. Up until his “injury,” he’d been the senior instructor on the M97 at Maikelberg, and once they’d gotten everyone safely evacuated from the town, he’d ranged in on each of the surrounding hillsides with smoke rounds that left no betraying craters. He knew exactly what elevation and deflection to set.
* * *
“What the—?” someone began.
Daivyn Mahkrum never found out how whoever it was had intended to complete the question. He was still trying to figure out what the concussive thumping sound on the far side of the gatehouse had been when Zhaksyn Ohraily and the other twelve men of his squad leveled their M96 rifles across the gatehouse parapet.
At such a ludicrously short range, Ohraily could have taken the shot without removing his eyepatch.
Mahkrum was dead before he hit the ground; a second and a half later the first of the mortar bombs exploded above Fraizhyr Mahkynyn’s assault party.
* * *
Well, that didn’t go very well, did it, Master Mahkrum? Cennady Frenhines thought coldly as he loped down the stairs from the gatehouse. Pity about that. And I’m afraid it’s about to get worse.
There was no way in the universe Sharleyan Ahrmahk would have trusted Karyl Rydmakyr’s safety to anyone besides Merlin Athrawes … or perhaps Cennady Frenhines. Personally, he’d been quite confident the “gray lizards” were more than competent to see to her safety, but he hadn’t objected at all. For someone who’d been born in the Terran Federation and raised as the citizen of a representative democracy, Merlin Athrawes had discovered he’d done a remarkable job of internalizing the far more personal bonds of loyalty that governed Safeholdian realms, and he’d never liked traitors. He liked them even less now, especially when they threatened the people he loved … and that was about to be very unfortunate for the treasonous armsmen outside Rydymak Keep.
He reached the keep’s courtyard, staying close to the outer curtainwall as the mortars continued to cough. Twenty men were waiting for him, along with twenty-one nervous horses who obviously objected to the sounds of mortar and riflefire. Fortunately for the equine members of the group, they wouldn’t have to put up with it for very much longer.
Frenhines vaulted into the empty saddle of the twenty-first horse, unbuttoned the retaining strap of his revolver’s holster, and drew the katana which was very like—but not identical to—Merlin Athrawes’ legendary weapon.
“All right!” he called, and young Styvyn Rydmakyr personally threw up the bar on the keep gates, then leapt aside as the mounted men thundered through the gatehouse tunnel towards the stunned and utterly disorganized armsmen who’d so fatally underestimated the task before them.
.IX.
Coast Road,
Earldom of Cheshyr;
HMS Maikelberg
Cheshyr Bay;
Sharylstown,
Duchy
of Lantern Walk;
Sheryyn Waterfront,
Earldom of Saint Howan;
and
Maryksberg,
Duchy of Black Horse,
Kingdom of Chisholm,
Empire of Charis.
“Shan-wei, but I miss the barracks,” Rahnyld Myketchnee announced, scratching one armpit with his left hand while he held out his tea mug with the right. “Miss kitchens, too, come to that,” he added sourly, glancing at the designated cooks frying bacon and eggs over the smoky morning fires.
“Some people’d bitch if they got hanged with a golden rope,” Dahnel Kyrbysh replied, but his tone was a bit absent.
“Not me,” Myketchnee said firmly. “Got standards, I do. Golden rope sounds about right to me.”
“I’ll be sure to pass that along,” Kyrbysh promised, and Myketchnee chuckled.
The man had developed the soldier’s traditional right to bellyache into a fine art, but he was also Kyrbysh’s most reliable company commander. Now he grunted his thanks as one of the cooks poured tea into his mug. He sipped, made a face as he burned his tongue, and then ambled across to stand beside Kyrbysh.
The senior armsman glanced up, then returned his attention to the map spread out across the rock in front of him. The sky above the hill crests to their east offered just enough light for him to see it, although the predawn gloom still covered the waters of Cheshyr Bay to the west like a blanket, and he frowned as he ran an index finger down the inked line of the coast road while he tried to scratch a mental itch he couldn’t quite pin down.
In some ways, the … expedition, for want of a better word, had gone well. He and his mounted armsmen were eighty miles inside Cheshyr now, halfway between the towns of Tylkahm and Dahryk, and they hadn’t lost a man. Hadn’t even lost a horseshoe! He couldn’t remember a single time, even in a training exercise, when everything had gone this smoothly.
Unfortunately, one reason it had worked out that way this time was that Tylkahm had been completely deserted when they got there. So had each of the farms they’d passed en route to their present bivouac. He tended to doubt that all those people had just coincidentally decided to take a long vacation at the very moment their earldom was invaded by its neighbors.