by David Weber
Her imagination was unequal to the task.
“There’s not really that much to talk about, is there?” she said after a moment. “We’ve made our decisions. All we can do now is carry them out and trust God to get the details straight.”
“I don’t think He’d object too much if we did a little to kick things along in the right direction ourselves,” he observed with another of those smiles she’d come to watch for. “I know I’m just a simple sailor, but one thing a midshipman learns when it comes to getting seamen three or four times his age to do what he wants is that however scared to death he may actually be he needs to look confident. I don’t imagine it’s a lot different for princes and princesses.”
“It’s no different at all,” she agreed. “That’s probably one of the things that makes sending princes to sea good training.”
“I think that’s the way Charis has always seen it,” he acknowledged. “Of course, I was no prince at the time, but I don’t see how the early training’s hurt anything now that I’ve become a duke.”
He elevated his nose with a pompous expression, and she laughed and punched his shoulder with her free hand as she recognized the excellent imitation of Emperor Cayleb at his worst. There were those—many of those, in fact—who believed Cayleb showed far too little consciousness of the dignity of his crown and far too much readiness to laugh at himself and his many titles. Irys wasn’t one of them. In her opinion, Hektor could’ve chosen a far less desirable model than his adoptive father, and she treasured his levity even more because of his humble origins. A princess saw far too many nobles take themselves far too seriously. The temptation for someone who’d been catapulted from commoner to the very highest ranks of what was arguably the most powerful empire on all of Safehold to succumb to that sort of self-image must have been great.
Or they must’ve been great for anyone but Hektor, at least, she told herself, hugging his right arm against her side. He looked down at her quizzically, and she shook her head.
“Just a passing thought,” she told him. “Not that you’re not right. And when we get to Manchyr I promise I’ll carry it all with a bold face! But just between the two of us, I’m not really as brave as Sharleyan. So if it’s all right with you, I’ll probably go right on sharing the odd moment of anxiety with you. Maybe even leaning—maybe even crying a bit—on your shoulder about it when there aren’t quite so many eyes around.”
“It’s your shoulder, too, now,” he pointed out, eyes smiling into hers. “I’ll be perfectly happy to make it available whenever it’s needed.”
* * *
Sharleyan Ahrmahk smiled slightly.
She sat back in her chair at the head of the council table, watching the imagery projected on her contact lenses as Owl’s SNARCs showed her the squadron of galleons making sail for Corisande. She wished Irys and Hektor had Maikel Staynair along to support them, but Cayleb and Pine Hollow had been right about that. Sending Irys and Daivyn home to Corisande with no one “looking over their shoulder” was an essential subtext, and very few people would be able to regard Archbishop Maikel as anything but an official presence. Staynair’s pastoral visit to Chisholm gave them a perfectly good reason to keep him there while they sent the exiled prince and his sister on to their homeland as speedily as possible. And if they didn’t have Staynair, at least Hektor and Irys had each other. She wished she could take credit for the understanding flowing between them, and she’d certainly done all she could to encourage it, but there were some things not even empresses could command, and the human heart was foremost among them.
They’ll do well together, she told herself. Unless we’ve misread the situation in Corisande badly, Irys and Daivyn will do well in Manchyr, too, but however that works out, Hektor and Irys will be there for each other. That matters. That matters a lot.
Her throat tightened as she recalled how much—and how often—that had mattered for her and Cayleb. The Book of Bédard said that shared strength made light loads, and for all she’d come to despise the cynical calculation which had created the Holy Writ of the Church of God Awaiting, there were countless truths embedded with its lies.
She allowed herself another few seconds to contemplate the young woman and the even younger man on Destiny’s quarterdeck, then returned her attention to the council chamber.
“—still not showing anything like common sense, though,” Sir Dynzayl Hyntyn, the Earl of Saint Howan, was saying. He shook his head. “I’m beginning to think nothing short of assassinating Rydach’s going to change that!”
Sharleyan shook a scolding finger at him.
“We’re not going to start down that road, My Lord,” she said. “However tempting it may be.”
The other three men seated around the table with her and Saint Howan chuckled. It was a rather select gathering—Braisyn Byrns, the Earl of White Crag, Sharleyan’s first councilor; Sylvyst Mhardyr, Baron Stoneheart, her lord justice; and Sir Ahlber Zhustyn, her spymaster. If any of the rest of the council had been present, Saint Howan would probably have expressed himself in rather more circumspect tones.
Probably. Given his opinion of the Earl of Swayle and his spiritual adviser Sharleyan was less than certain of that.
“Well, if he’s not, he’s not,” White Crag said rather more philosophically than he obviously felt. “And at least Mountain Heart’s starting to show signs of reason.”
“Reason!” Stoneheart snorted. “More like greed, if you ask me!”
“Not entirely,” Sharleyan corrected the lord justice. “Trust me, there’s a little fear mixed into that ‘reasonableness’ of his, too.” Her smile was thin. “Not that greed isn’t also a perfectly satisfactory motivator where he’s concerned.”
“And an effective one,” Saint Howan agreed a bit sourly. As the Kingdom of Chisholm’s Chancellor of the Treasury he was acutely aware of just how many marks the project to improve the Shelakyl River was going to cost. None of which the Grand Duke of Mountain Heart was going to have to come up with.
“Effectiveness is what makes it satisfactory.” Sharleyan shrugged. “And he has agreed to drop the level of the tolls he was insisting upon for the rest of the river. In fact,” she showed her teeth, “he doesn’t quite realize just yet exactly how far he’s going to end up dropping them before I’m through with him.”
“Your Majesty?” Saint Howan tilted his head at her, his eyes questioning. He knew that tone of old.
“One of the reasons I asked Sir Ahlber to sit in with us today concerns the Grand Duke’s current political associations,” Sharleyan said. She looked at the spymaster. “Sir Ahlber?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Zhustyn dipped his head to her in a respectful bow, then looked at the other three councilors.
“What Her Majesty is referring to, My Lords, are certain reports I’ve received concerning Mountain Heart, Duke Rock Coast, Duke Black Horse, and Earl Dragon Hill. It would seem they’ve been corresponding rather more closely than usual over the last two or three months. And just recently, Earl Swayle—or more probably the Dowager Countess—has been dispatching quite a few letters and couriers, as well.”
White Crag and Saint Howan looked less than happy to hear that. Stoneheart’s expression was considerably grimmer than either of the other two’s, and he looked sharply at Zhustyn.
“Is there a reason this is the first I’m hearing about all this correspondence, Ahlber?” His tone was crisp, but Sharleyan lifted a hand before Zhustyn could reply and met her lord justice’s gaze herself.
“Much of the evidence which has reached Sir Ahlber in this matter has come from … irregular sources,” she said, and saw the flicker of understanding in the others’ eyes. “Irregular sources” were code words for information provided by the network of seijins all of the House of Ahrmahk’s closest councilors now knew reported to her and Cayleb regularly. “The information was delivered to me first, and I handed it to Sir Ahlber with a specific injunction to keep his inquiries as confidential as possible and to sha
re his investigators’ findings solely with me until we’d confirmed enough of that information to feel confident of its reliability. I apologize for instructing him to keep you in the dark, My Lord, but I felt it was essential to make that determination before allowing any hint of my suspicions to spread any further than was absolutely unavoidable. While I trust everyone seated in this council chamber implicitly, there’s little point pretending Mountain Heart—and certain other parties—don’t have sympathizers and informants scattered more widely than any of us might prefer.”
Stoneheart looked at her for a moment longer, then nodded.
“Point taken, Your Majesty,” he said a bit heavily. “I apologize for my tone, Ahlber.”
“No need, My Lord.” Zhustyn smiled wryly. “I imagine I’d’ve been a little irritated myself if the positions had been reversed.”
“Perhaps so,” White Crag said. “Now that the matter’s been broached, however, Your Majesty, might we know just what Mountain Heart and the others are up to?”
Cataracts had turned the white-haired first councilor’s blue eyes a misty shade of gray, but they could still be disconcertingly sharp, Sharleyan observed.
“Sir Ahlber?” she invited.
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Zhustyn squared his shoulders. “At this time, My Lords, we have no definite or admissible evidence of wrongdoing on their parts. Without an official warrant from the Lord Justice, we can’t legally intercept any of their letters, and I have reason to believe”—he deliberately avoided Stoneheart’s eyes—“that even if we were to intercept any of their correspondence they’d probably be expressing themselves in sufficiently circumspect terms to deny us any actionable evidence.”
“Oh, I’m quite certain they’d be ‘circumspect’ in any discussions they might be holding, although I quite understand that all of this is pure speculation at this point.” Stoneheart’s tone was so dry Sharleyan’s lips twitched involuntarily. But the lord justice went on. “If, however, they weren’t being circumspect—or if, Langhorne forbid, you should find yourself, through no fault of your own, in a position to, ah … examine the personal correspondence of peers of the realm without having first obtained a warrant from me and Her Majesty—what sorts of things might they be discussing, do you think?”
“The state of the Kingdom and the Empire, My Lord,” Zhustyn replied. “And of their responsibility to protect and preserve the Kingdom.”
“Not the Empire?” White Crag said softly.
“No, My Lord.”
“And I feel sure their definition of protecting and preserving the Kingdom would have quite a lot to do with preserving the nobility’s role as a check on the overweening ambitions of the Crown,” Stoneheart suggested.
“I feel confident they wouldn’t allow themselves such disrespectful adjectives as ‘overweening,’ My Lord, but you’ve grasped the essential thrust of their discussion, I believe.”
“That’s … worrisome, Your Majesty,” Saint Howan said into the silence which followed the spymaster’s reply. “Especially after we send almost all the rest of the Army to Siddarmark when the transports get here next month.”
“I can’t escape the suspicion that the Army’s deployment schedule has quite a bit to do with the emergence of this correspondence, My Lord,” Sharleyan observed almost whimsically. “So far there’s no evidence—or there wouldn’t be any evidence if we were actually able to examine their correspondence, I mean—that any of them have entered into discussions with the guilds about the impact of importing Charisian manufactory methods, though. Not yet, at any rate. And without being able to count on at least some support from an influential segment of the Commons, they’d be fools to attempt any sort of open action against the Crown. Rock Coast and Black Horse, unfortunately, have demonstrated that they’re quite capable of being fools, but Mountain Heart’s a lot more cautious than they are, and Dragon Hill’s too isolated from the others to cherish any illusions about what would happen to him in an open confrontation. I’m afraid Swayle is the real threat at the moment. Countess Swayle’s bitterness over what happened to her husband is likely to push her into something … intemperate. Especially with Rydach getting behind that bitterness and pushing.”
“All the more reason to arrange an accident for him, Your Majesty,” Stoneheart growled, and the cold-blooded, pragmatic ruler in Sharleyan agreed wholeheartedly.
Rebkah Rahskail, the Dowager Countess of Swayle, would never forgive Sharleyan for her traitorous husband’s execution, and Zhordyn Rydach, her Chihirite confessor, was a past master at playing upon that bitterness. Removing him from the equation would probably simplify things, but she couldn’t be sure of that. Rydach was a careful man; even if she’d been prepared to sanction his assassination out of hand—which she wasn’t … yet—managing it in a way which didn’t strike the dowager countess as highly suspicious would be difficult. And if Rebkah decided the Crown had ordered the murder of her beloved and trusted confessor, it was more likely to push her into precipitate action than to cause her to rethink her position.
“I follow your reasoning, Sylvyst,” she said, speaking even more informally than was her wont. “I think it might be better to take a page from the way we dealt with Swayle and Zebediah the first time around, though.”
“Give them enough rope, you mean, Your Majesty?” White Crag said.
“Essentially.” Sharleyan nodded. “Now that Ahlber’s actively monitoring the situation, and bearing in mind the input we may yet receive from those irregular sources, they’re unlikely to surprise us. And, to be honest, I’d prefer to deal with the situation without giving any of the other great nobles cause to think the Crown may be looking in their directions. I’m entirely confident of the loyalty of the East and of the extreme West, and I’d like to keep it that way. So from my perspective, the ideal solution would be to catch only one or two of them actively conspiring against the Crown. Make an example of them—one none of the other great nobles could argue is anything but an open-and-shut case—and then quietly use any damning evidence of … tangential involvement with the plotters to convince someone like Mountain Heart to be even more reasonable about something like river tolls.”
All four of her councilors sat back in their chairs, their expressions intent, and Sharleyan could almost physically hear the thoughts ticking through the brains behind those narrowed eyes. What she was proposing could be a risky game, especially with virtually the entire Imperial Charisian Army (which just happened to include the entirety of the old Royal Chisholmian Army) off fighting in Siddarmark. But if she could pull it off, pinch out one or two of the most dangerous—and restive—members of the nobility and use the same opportunity to call others to heel.…
“It’s a bold notion, Your Majesty,” White Crag said finally. “One that rather reminds me of your father and Baron Green Mountain, as a matter of fact.” The first councilor smiled in memory. “I’m sure you can see the possible downsides even more clearly than I do, but if it works—and especially if it works without becoming general knowledge—the advantages would certainly be considerable.”
“I agree,” Stoneheart said firmly, and Saint Howan simply nodded.
“In that case, we’ll proceed with it until and unless something causes us to reconsider our options,” Sharleyan said. “In the meantime, I’d like to take a look at the manufactory site negotiations in Eastshare and Terayth. I know we’d all like to spread those sites as broadly as we can, but I’m still pleased by how well Duke Eastshare’s representatives and Earl Terayth have responded. It seems to me—”
AUGUST
YEAR OF GOD 896
.I.
Ahstynwood Forest, Glacierheart Gap, Westmarch Province, Republic of Siddarmark
Cahnyr Kaitswyrth glared at the map spread across the wall of his river barge office. There were enough red pins in that map to make it look as if it were bleeding, and each of them indicated a spot where the Army of Glacierheart had lost men to one heretic ambush after another.
His jaw tightened at the thought, because the truth was that it was the Army of Glacierheart that was bleeding, not the Shan-wei damned map. Every one of those pins represented a half dozen infantrymen ambushed here, two dozen over there, and a score of cavalry cut down by a storm of fire from riflemen, invisible until the instant they squeezed their triggers as they cantered along the high road in yet another spot, far behind his forward pickets.
And all for nothing. The thought grated its way through his brain. We don’t know any more about that bastard Eastshare’s deployments than we knew when we started. And there’s no way in Shan-wei’s darkest hell I’m going to get artillery around to close the river behind him.
His teeth ached from the pressure of his jaw muscles as he remembered the one patrol he had gotten clear to the riverbank behind the heretics’ position. In retrospect, it was obvious the heretics had known all about the “unguarded ravine” one of his patrols had survived long enough to discover. He reminded himself not to ascribe omniscience to his enemies, but the patrol which had found the gully had gotten far deeper than anyone else and then out again without a shot fired. It was possible the heretics hadn’t deliberately let them in … but they’d certainly been waiting when he pushed a regiment through that same ravine to secure a lodgment for his guns. That was when he’d found out for certain that Eastshare did, indeed, have the invisible cannon Wyrshym had reported from the Sylmahn Gap. The heretics had moored three barges opposite the point at which the ravine intersected the Daivyn, and those three barges had been packed with field guns and whatever it was they used to launch shells on those steep, arching trajectories to explode overhead and shower their victims with shrapnel balls. Of the four hundred and seventy men he’d sent down the ravine, eighty-six had made it back to the Army of Glacierheart’s lines, a quarter of them wounded, and they’d been hunted and harassed by those damned vanishing riflemen every step of the way.