How firm a foundation

JUNE, YEAR OF GOD 895

Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark

“Don’t be such a greedy guts!” Byrk Raimahn scolded as the wyvern swooped down and snatched the morsel of fresh bread from his fingers. “There’s plenty if you just behave yourselves!”

The triumphant wyvern only whistled smugly at him and flapped its way back up onto the green-budded branch of the apple tree from which it had launched its pounce. It seemed remarkably unmoved by his appeal to its better nature, Byrk reflected, and tore another piece from the loaf. He shredded it into smaller pieces, scattering them across the flagstone terrace for the less aggressive of his winged diners, then picked up a wedge of sharp cheddar cheese from the plate beside the bowl of grapes. He leaned back in his rattan chair, propping his heels on the matching chair which faced him on the other side of the table, and nibbled as he enjoyed the cool northern sunlight.

It wasn’t much like home, he thought, gazing out across the sparkling waters of North Bedard Bay. The locals (a label which he still had trouble applying to himself) usually called it simply North Bay, to distinguish it from the even larger Bedard Bay to the south. This far north of the equator, the seasons stood on their heads and even late spring and early summer were almost uncomfortably cool to his Charisian blood. Trees were much later to leaf, flowers were later to bloom (and less colorful when they did), and ocean water was far too cold for a Charisian boy to swim in. Besides, he missed Tellesberg’s livelier waterfront, sharper-edged theaters, and heady, bustling air of intellectual ferment.

Of course, that intellectual ferment was the main reason he was sitting here on his grandfather’s Siddar City terrace feeding bread to greedy wyverns and squabbling seagulls. It wasn’t like “So, here you are!” a familiar voice said, and he looked over his shoulder, then rose with a smile of welcome for the silver-haired, plump but distinguished-looking woman who’d just stepped out of the mansion’s side door behind him.

“I wasn’t exactly hiding, Grandmother,” he pointed out. “In fact, if you’d opened a window and listened, I’m sure you could have tracked me down without any trouble at all.”

He pulled one of the chairs away from the table with one hand while the other gestured at the guitar lying in its open case on the bench beside him.

“For that matter, if you’d only looked out the window, the fleeing birds and the small creatures running for the shrubbery with their paws over their ears would have pinpointed me for you.”

“Oh, nonsense, Byrk!” She laughed, patting him on the cheek before she seated herself in the proffered chair. “Your playing’s not that bad.”

“Just not that bad?” he teased, raising one eyebrow at her. “Is that another way of saying it’s almost that bad?”

“No, that’s what your grandfather would call it if he were here,” Sahmantha Raimahn replied. “And he’d mean just as little of it as I would. Go ahead and play something for me now, Byrk.”

“Well, if you insist,” he said in a long-suffering tone.

She made a face at him, and he laughed as he picked the guitar back up. He thought for a moment, picking random notes as he considered, then struck the opening chord of “The Way of the Widow-Maker,” one of the very first ballads he’d learned to play sitting on Sahmantha’s lap. The sad, rich notes spilled across the terrace while the sunlight struck chestnut highlights in his brown hair and the wind ruffled that hair, sighed in the branches of the ornamental fruit trees, and sent the shrubbery’s sprays of blossoms flickering in light and shadow.

He bent his head, eyes half-closed, giving himself to the ballad, and his grandmother drew her steel thistle silk wrap closely about her shoulders. She knew he thought of his music as a rich young man’s hobby, but he was wrong. It was far more than that, and as she watched him play her own eyes lost some of their usual sparkle, darkening while the lament for lost sailors spilled up from his guitar strings to circle and curtsy around the terrace. It was a haunting melody, as lovely as it was sad, and she remembered how he’d insisted she teach it to him when he’d been barely seven years old.

The year before his parents’ deaths had sent him to her more as her youngest son than her oldest grandson.

“I don’t suppose you could’ve thought of anything more depressing, could you?” she teased gently when the final note had faded away, and he shrugged.

“I don’t really think of it as depressing,” he said, laying the guitar back in the case and running a fingertip gently down the bright strings. He looked back up at her. “It’s sad, yes, but not depressing, Grandmother. There’s too much love for the sea in it for that.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded.

“Of course I am- I’m the poet, remember?” He smiled infectiously. “Besides,” his smile turned warmer, gentler, “I love it because of who it was that taught it to me.”

“Flatterer.” She reached out and smacked him gently on the knee. “You got that from your father. And he got it from your grandfather!”

“Really?” He seemed astounded by the notion and gazed thoughtfully out across the gleaming blue water for several seconds, then nodded with the air of someone who’d just experienced a revelation. “So that’s how someone with the Raimahn nose got someone as good-looking as you to marry him! I’d always wondered about that, actually.”

“You, Byrk Raimahn, are what was known in my youth as a rapscallion.”

“Oh, no, Grandmother-you wrong me! I’m sure the term you’d really have applied to me would’ve been much ruder than that.”

She laughed and shook her head at him, and he offered her the bowl of grapes. She selected one and popped it into her mouth, and he set the bowl down in front of her.

“Somehow the hothouse grapes just aren’t as good,” he commented. “They make me miss our vineyards back home.”

He glanced back out across the bay as he spoke and missed the shadow that flitted through her eyes. Or he could pretend he had, at least.

“I think they have a lower sugar content,” she said out loud, no sign of that shadow touching her voice.

“That’s probably it,” he agreed, looking back at her with another smile.

She returned the smile, plucked another grape, and leaned back, cocking her head to one side.

“What’s this about you being off to Madam Pahrsahn’s again this evening?” she asked lightly. “I hear you have at least a dozen rivals for her affections, you know.”

“Alas, too true!” He pressed the back of his wrist to his forehead, his expression tragic. “That cretin Raif Ahlaixsyn offered her a sonnet last night, and he actually had the gall to make it a good one.” He shook his head. “Quickly, Grandmother! Tell me what to do to recover in her eyes!”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll come about.” She shook her head at him. “Although, at the rate she seems to attract fresh suitors, you may yet find yourself crowded out.”

“Grandmother,” he looked at her affectionately, “I enormously admire Madam Pahrsahn. I also think she’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and bearing in mind my paternal grandmother’s youthful beauty that’s a pretty high bar for anyone to pass. Even more important, I’ve never met anyone more brilliant and cultured than she is. But she’s also somewhere around twice my age, and I think she regards me more in the light of a puppy who hasn’t yet grown into his ears and feet than anything remotely like a paramour. I promise I’m on my very best behavior at her soirees.”

“Of course you are. I know that,” she said, just that bit too quickly, and he laughed and shook a finger under her nose.

“Oh, no, you don’t know it!” he scolded. “What a fibber! You’re worried your darling grandson is going to be so enamored of the gorgeous, sophisticated older woman that he’s going to commit some indiscretion with her.” He shook his head, brown eyes glinting devilishly. “Trust me, Grandmother! When I commit youthful indiscretions, I’ll take great care to make certain you know nothing about them. That way you’ll be happy, and I’ll remain intact.”

“You’re right, ‘rapscallion’ is definitely too polite a term for you, young man!”

Her lips quivered as she fought to restrain a smile, and he laughed again.

“Which is why you’re afraid of those youthful indiscretions of mine,” he observed. “A charming, unprincipled rogue and general, all-round ne’er-do-well is far more likely to succeed in being indiscreet, I imagine.”

“That must be it,” she agreed. “But you are going to be out again this evening?” He looked a question at her, and she shrugged. “Your grandfather and I have invitations to the theater tonight-they’re presenting a new version of Yairdahn’s Flower Maiden -and I just wanted to know whether we should include you in the party.”

“It’s tempting,” he said. “That’s always been my favorite of Yairdahn’s plays, but I think I’ll pass, if you and Grandfather won’t be offended. I don’t think it’s going to be up to the Royal Company’s production. Remember the last time we saw it at the Round? I doubt they’ll be able to match that here in Siddar City.”

“Perhaps not.” She shrugged lightly. “It is an easy play to get wrong, I’ll admit,” she went on, deliberately not addressing his reference to the Round Theatre, the epicenter of the performing arts back home in Tellesberg. “And your grandfather and I won’t be at all offended by the thought that you prefer a younger, livelier set of companions for the evening. Go have a good time.”

“I’m sure I will. And I promise-no indiscretions!”

He gave her a wink, closed the guitar case, kissed her cheek, and headed off into the townhouse whistling.

She watched him go with a smile, but the smile faded as his whistling did, and she looked back out across the bay with a far more pensive expression.

Despite Aivah Pahrsahn’s indisputable beauty, Sahmantha Raimahn had never cherished the least fear Byrk might become amorously involved with her. For that matter, she wouldn’t have been terribly concerned if he had. Madam Pahrsahn was as cultured as she was lovely. If anyone would have known how to take a young lover’s ardor, treat it with gentleness, and send it on its way undamaged in the fullness of time, it would be she. And she was also wealthy enough for Sahmantha to be certain she couldn’t possibly cherish any designs upon the Raimahn family fortune. In fact, Sahmantha would actually have preferred for her grandson’s interest in her to have been far more… romantically focused than she feared it was.

She hadn’t been entirely honest with Byrk about her husband’s probable reaction to his destination for the evening, either. Claitahn Raimahn hadn’t shaken the dust of Tellesberg from his feet lightly when he moved his entire household-and all of his business investments-from Charis to the Republic of Siddarmark. Claitahn was a Charisian to his toenails, but he was also a man who took his principles seriously and a devout son of Mother Church. When it came time to choose between heretical Crown and orthodox Church, principles and belief alike had driven the inevitable outcome.

His stature among Charis’ mercantile elite, his wealth, and the fact that he’d sacrificed so much of that wealth in the process of moving it from Tellesberg to Siddar City’s Charisian Quarter gave him a standing second to none in the Charisian emigre community, yet he himself remained trapped between his two worlds. Despite his horror at the Church of Charis’ open break with the Grand Vicar, he remained too much a Charisian not to argue that the Kingdom had been grievously provoked. One sin couldn’t justify another in his view, but neither would he condemn Charis’ initial reaction to a totally unprovoked and unjustified onslaught. He’d fully supported King Haarahld’s decision to fight in self-defense; it was King Cayleb’s actions he could not condone.

Not that he blamed Cayleb entirely. Haarahld’s premature death had brought Cayleb to the throne too early, in Claitahn’s view, and the new king had found himself in a desperately dangerous position. It had been his job to protect his people-no one could dispute that-and he’d been too young, too susceptible to the pressures of his advisers and councilors when it came to doing that job. The true culprits were Maikel Staynair and the Earl of Gray Harbor, who’d pushed Cayleb into supporting open schism instead of at least trying to make a respectful appeal to the Grand Vicar’s justice first. From there to the creation of the new, bastard “Empire of Charis” had been only a single, inevitable step, in Claitahn’s opinion, and he could not support it. But by the same token, he was quick and fierce to defend Charis, as opposed to the Church of Charis, when tempers flared.

His and Sahmantha’s surviving children had accompanied them into voluntary exile, and he encouraged them to continue thinking of themselves as Charisians. Sahmantha lacked the heart to tell him, yet her own advice was quite different. In fact, she’d encouraged them to find homes outside the Charisian Quarter and do their very best to integrate into the Siddarmarkian community.

She loved her homeland as much as Claitahn ever had, but unlike him, she was able to admit-and too self-honest to deny-that the Church of Charis wasn’t going away. Claitahn would never see his dreamed-of, longed-for peaceful reconciliation with the Temple. If the heretical church was brought down, it would fall only to the sword, and the carnage-and retribution-would destroy the kingdom he remembered so lovingly. The ashes would poison the ground and bear bitter fruit for generations to come, and she would not see her family poisoned in turn by clinging to an identity which was doomed. Better, far better, for them to recognize reality and become the Siddarmarkians into which fate and their faith in God had transformed them. She and Claitahn would die here in Siddar City, be buried in the Republic’s alien soil, still dreaming of the past they could never hope to reclaim, and she would never even hint to him that she’d realized that hope could never have been more than a dream.

But not every Charisian living in the Republic shared that attitude. The fracture lines within the rapidly growing Charisian community here in Siddar City grew deeper-and uglier-with every passing day. Over a third of its members were here not because they’d fled Charis out of religious principle but because this was where trade and commerce had brought them long before the current warfare had erupted. The swelling influx of newcomers were as much Temple Loyalist as she and Claitahn could ever be, yet even a growing fraction of them were being attracted to the Reformist elements within the mainland Church, and nowhere were those Reformist elements stronger than here in the Republic. Many a Siddarmarkian-and even many of the Charisian emigrees who’d turned their backs in horror on the open schism of the Church of Charis-found the condemnations of clerics like Maikel Staynair resonating with their own disappointment in what the vicarate and the Church had become in the hands of men like Zahmsyn Trynair and Zhaspahr Clyntahn. Schism they would not condone; Reform they were prepared to respectfully demand.

Sahmantha Raimahn was a shrewd, clear-eyed observer, determined to protect her family, and the shadows were growing darker, even here in the Republic. Claitahn sensed it, too, and despite his own sympathy for much of the Reformist argument, he resolutely refused to embrace it. Neither would Sahmantha, for she’d seen only too clearly the horrors of which Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s Inquisition was capable. She recognized the danger hovering in the Reformist label, even here in the Republic, where the Inquisition’s writ ran less deeply, and that was the true reason she longed to pry her grandson gently away from Aivah Pahrsahn. She’d begun picking up whispers that the brilliant, witty, wealthy beauty who’d taken Siddar City’s society by storm looked with favor upon the Reformist movement. As always, Madam Pahrsahn spoke gently and calmly, championing peaceful reform, condemning violence, couching her murmured arguments in terms of love and compassion. No reasonable soul could possibly have accused her of the least impropriety… but these were not the times for reasonable souls.

Be careful, Byrk, she thought after the grandson she’d raised. Oh, be careful, my love! You’re too much like your grandfather. You try to hide it, but beneath that surface you show the world, you feel too deeply and there’s too much integrity for times like these. Forget you’re a Charisian and remember to be cautious. Be Siddarmarkian, please!

Thwap!

Sailys Trahskhat stiffened as the well-rotted apple smacked him squarely between the shoulder blades and then oozed down his back in trickles of brown pulp and slime. His head whipped around, looking for the hand which had thrown it, but no guilty expression gave away the culprit. Indeed, no one seemed to be looking his way… which said a great deal.

His fists clenched at his side, but he managed-somehow-to keep the fury he felt out of his expression. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. It wouldn’t be the last, either, he thought grimly. He was just lucky it had been an apple instead of a rock.

And at least this time the bastard didn’t shout a nything, he thought. Fucking coward! Brave enough when he doesn’t have to actually face someone, isn’t he? Then he gave himself a mental shake. Just as well, too. If he had said anything, pointed himself out, I’d’ve had to do something about it, and Langhorne only knows where that would’ve ended!

He bent back to his task, hoisting another bag of Emeraldian cocoa beans onto his shoulder and rejoining the line of longshoremen carrying them into the waiting warehouse. It didn’t pay all that much, but it was better than the soup kitchens, and he was lucky to have the work. Enough people didn’t, and in his calmer moments he realized that was part of the reason for the hostility he encountered every day. But still…

“See who it was?” a voice asked quietly as he entered the warehouse’s dim cavern. He hefted his bag down on a pallet, then turned towards the speaker, and Franz Shumahn, his shift foreman, raised an eyebrow at him. Shumahn was Siddarmarkian, but he was also a decent man, and he looked concerned.

“Nope.” Trahskhat shook his head and smiled, deliberately making light of it. “Just as well, I guess. Last thing we need is a riot down here on the docks just because some stupid bastard needed his head ripped off and shoved up his ass. Probably wouldn’t have done me any good with the Guard, either, now that I think about it.”

“Probably putting it lightly,” Shumahn acknowledged with a chuckle. He seemed genuinely amused, but there was a note of warning in it, too, Trahskhat thought. Not that it was necessary.

“As long as they stick to rotten fruit, it’s not going to cost anything but another washing day for Myrahm,” Trahskhat said as philosophically as he could. “If they start throwing rocks, like they did at the fish market last five-day, though, it’s going to get ugly, Franz.”

“I know.” Shumahn looked worried. “I’ll have a word with the boss. See if we can’t get a little more security down here. A couple of big bruisers with cudgels’d probably cut down on this shit a lot.”

Trahskhat nodded. It might. It might not, too. A lot would depend on whether the troublemakers thought the “big bruisers with the cudgels” were there to help Trahskhat or them.

It’s not just about you, you know, he reminded himself. There’s other Charisians down here on the docks, too. And you’re lucky Shumahn’s thinking about getting someone down here to break the troublemakers’ heads instead of how much simpler it would be to just fire your ass!

“I’m asking Horahs and Wyllym to keep an eye out for the rest of this shift,” Shumahn added. “Anybody else tries something, they’ll spot him. And if he works for us, his ass is history. The boss doesn’t like this kind of shit.”

“Thanks,” Trahskhat said with quiet sincerity, and headed back for the next crate.

The work was hard, often brutally so, and the job was a huge step down for a man who’d once been the Tellesberg Krakens’ starting first baseman. The pay was no more than two-thirds of what he’d have been making back in Tellesberg even for the same work, either. Worse yet, it cost more to live here in Siddar City than it ever had back home. His wife, Myrahm, actually made more than he did, but she was a skilled weaver. The Charisian community living in Siddarmark had always been heavily represented in the textile trade, and she’d been fortunate enough to find a job working for fellow Charisians. He was pretty sure her employers had embraced the Church of Charis, at least in private, but they were still good people, and he was glad Myrahm had found employment with them. He didn’t want to think about her having to face the kind of daily harassment he encountered down here on the docks.

It wasn’t fair, but the Writ had never promised life would be fair, only that God and the Archangels would be just and compassionate at its end. That was enough for any man, when it came down to it. But it was hard. Hard when the rotten apples came flying from anonymous hands. Hard when he had to face his older son Mahrtyn and try to explain why so many people hated him simply for being Charisian. And especially hard when someone shouted “Heretic!” or “Blasphemer!” from the cover of darkness as they passed outside the tiny apartment which was all he and Myrahm could afford, even here in the Quarter.

If they’d been heretics, they’d still be in Tellesberg, he thought grimly. Still with the neighbors they’d grown up with, not estranged from their own families. They’d come to Siddar City because they couldn’t be party to the schism, couldn’t stand by and watch while God’s own Church was torn apart. No, they didn’t like everything about the current situation in Zion. In fact, in the privacy of his own mind, Sailys regarded Zhaspahr Clyntahn as an abomination, an indelible stain on the sanctity of Mother Church. But the Writ and The Commentaries made it abundantly clear that the Church was greater than those who served her. Their sins could not diminish her authority, nor could they absolve her children from their obedience to her. They had the right to protest, to seek redress, when her servants fell short of their responsibilities. Indeed, they had a duty to insist her priesthood be worthy of their offices and the God they served. But that wasn’t the same thing as throwing defiance into the Grand Vicar’s own face! And it certainly wasn’t the same thing as setting up the judgment of a mere provincial archbishop as superior to that of the Archangels themselves!

He felt the rage building in him again and forced himself to let go of it. It wasn’t his business to judge other men. It was his job to make sure he met his own responsibilities and didn’t help others avoid theirs. Those responsibilities included standing up for what he knew was right, and they included putting up with idiots who didn’t understand, as well. As long as he did what he knew was right, he could leave final judgments to Langhorne and God.

He picked up another sack, settled it on his shoulder, and turned back towards the warehouse.

Fucking heretic, Samyl Naigail thought bitterly. Should’ve thrown a damned rock. Hell, his lips drew back in an embittered snarl as he stood in the alley between the warehouses, glaring out at the busy scene, I should’ve thrown a fucking knife!

Naigail was only seventeen, but he knew what was going on. He knew who was to blame. His father had been a sailmaker, and a good one, but never a prosperous one. That was the fucking Charisians’ fault, too. Bad enough when everyone had “known” Charisians built the best ships in the world, whether they really did or not. The shipbuilders here in Siddar City had at least managed to keep their heads above water, and at least there’d been some work those days. But then the bastards had introduced their damned “schooner rig,” and things had gotten even worse. Everybody had to have one of the new damned ships, and if you didn’t know how the sails were cut, then you were just fucking out of luck as far as new orders went, weren’t you? Besides, who could match the quality of the canvas coming out of Charis these days? And who could afford to buy the quality of canvas coming out of Charis?

Nobody, that was who! And as if that weren’t enough, then the goddamned heretics had to launch their fucking schism against Mother Church! Of course they’d driven the Grand Inquisitor into declaring an embargo against trade with them. What else had they expected? But they’d had an answer for that, too, hadn’t they? Them and their buddies the fat, sand maggot bankers. Hell, half of them were Charisians, too, weren’t they? And they got their sodomite friends in the Lord Protector’s government to go along with it.

So now everyone was using Charisian ships, with Charisian crews, financed by Charisian money, and pretending they were Siddarmarkian. Everybody knew better, but did it matter?

No, of course it didn’t! Whatever the registration papers might say, they were Charisian ships, and the Charisian privateers knew it. So they got safe passage while everyone else’s shipping got wiped off the face of the ocean. The shippers and the warehouses and the longshoremen were still doing just fine, them and their fucking Charisian friends. But the honest workers-the honest Temple Loyalist workers-who couldn’t find jobs as carpenters or sailmakers or chandlers or in the ropewalks, they were starving to death! Unless they wanted to go crawling to one of the soup kitchens, at least. But a man had his pride, and it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right for good, hardworking, believing Siddarmarkians to be thrown out of work and forced to accept charity just to survive.

His father hadn’t been able to face it. They could say what they liked about accidents, but Samyl knew better. His father had always liked his beer, yes, but he’d never have gotten so drunk he staggered accidentally off the end of the wharf in the middle of winter and drowned, assuming he hadn’t frozen to death first. And he’d been careful to arrange an apprenticeship with his older brother for Samyl first. No, it hadn’t been an accident. He’d made it look like one so Mother Church would agree to bury him in holy ground, and he’d done what he could to take care of his boy first. It wasn’t his fault Uncle Byrt’s sail loft had collapsed into bankruptcy as well.

Samyl felt the hot tide sweeping up inside him again, but he fought it down. This wasn’t the time. Master Bahzkai and Father Saimyn were right about that. If they started actually attacking Charisians, really hurting the bastards the way they deserved, they were likely to actually generate some kind of sympathy for them. The very idea seemed impossible, but the city authorities were letting the damned heretics stay right here in Siddar City, weren’t they? If they were willing to whore themselves out for Charisian gold to that extent, then who knew where they’d be willing to go in the end?

No, he thought, turning away and shoving his hands into his tunic pockets as he stamped angrily down the narrow, noisome alley, the time might come, but it hadn’t come yet. Father Saimyn promised God and the Archangels would smite the Charisians in the fullness of time, and for now-at least-Samyl Naigail would wait to see that happen.

But if it didn’t, he wasn’t going to wait forever.

“Good evening, Madam Pahrsahn,” Tobys Suwyl said. He knew he sounded more than a little stuffy, but he couldn’t help it. Pahrsahn was just as charming, witty, beautiful, and wealthy as all her champions claimed, but he caught the stink of Reform from her.

“Good evening yourself, Master Suwyl,” Pahrsahn replied, smiling at him and extending one slim hand. Appearances had to be maintained, and he bent over it, brushing it with his lips. “I hadn’t expected to see you tonight,” she continued as he straightened.

“When my wife heard Sharghati would be performing at your party, she simply had to be here,” he said.

“Ah.” Pahrsahn’s smile broadened and turned impish. “I’d rather hoped it would have that effect,” she confided. “And I have to admit any excuse to listen to her sing was worthwhile.”

Suwyl nodded. And she was right. Ahlyssa Sharghati was the most highly sought-after soprano in all of Siddarmark. She’d traveled all the way to the Harchong Empire to study voice, and even the most sturdily Siddarmarkian critic had to acknowledge opera still attained its highest expression in the Empire. She could command any venue-or fee-she chose, and the fact that this was the second party of Pahrsahn’s she’d graced said a great deal about the woman’s wealth.

Either that, or it may say some unappetizing things about Sharghati’s own religious leanings, he thought, looking around the assembled guests.

“Well, I do hope you and your charming wife will enjoy yourselves this evening,” Pahrsahn said to him. “In the meantime, however, I see the Seneschal’s wife has just come in. I’m afraid I’m going to have to meet my social obligations and greet her. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask one of my servants to see to it for you.”

She swept him a stylish half-curtsy with all the polished elegance only to be expected from someone who’d come from Zion itself. Then she moved away, smiling and gracious, strewing conversational tidbits in her wake, and Suwyl watched her go with a sense of relief.

If he was going to be honest, his dislike for her stemmed far less from religious principles than from the threat she represented. Personally, Suwyl didn’t really care who ran the Temple. As far as he was concerned, that was God’s business, and God would get around to straightening it out eventually if He wasn’t happy about it. In the meantime, however, one of Mother Church’s responsibilities was to see that people behaved themselves. And when people behaved themselves, there weren’t things like wars and violence. And when there weren’t things like wars and violence, simple bankers could engage in honest, gainful trade without having to worry about what the lunatics on either side were going to tear down, burn to the ground, or blow up next.

Suwyl considered himself as Charisian as the next man, but he’d lived here in Siddar City for almost thirty years. He was part of the city, a known man, respected and listened to throughout the business community, not just in the Quarter, with contacts at the highest level of the government. Or at least he was for now. There was no telling how long it would continue to be true, though, and it was the maniacs like Staynair and “Emperor” Cayleb who were to blame.

Remember what the healers keep telling you about your temper, Tobys, he reminded himself. The last thing you need is to work yourself into an apoplectic fit over things you can’t do anything about anyway.

He drew a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly. His wife Zhandra had taught him the technique, and it actually worked. Sometimes, anyway.

Fortunately, this was one of the sometimes, and he felt his anger ease. A business colleague nodded to him in passing, and he managed to nod back with a genuine smile. Then he accepted a goblet of wine from one of Pahrsahn’s servants and sipped.

At least the woman’s taste in wine is as good as her taste in music, he reflected morosely. That’s something, if I’m going to be stuck here all night anyway.

He took another sip and began easing his way through the crowd, looking for his wife.

“Good evening, Aivah,” a quiet voice said, and Aivah Pahrsahn turned to smile at the silver-haired man who didn’t happen to be wearing a cassock this evening.

“And good evening to you, too, Zhasyn,” she said, tactfully avoiding any last names or ecclesiastic titles. “You are aware the Seneschal and his wife are both attending tonight, aren’t you?” she added teasingly.

“I assure you, I’ll stay out of Lord Daryus’ way,” he replied with a smile. “Although according to my sources, he’ll probably be going pretty far out of his way himself to avoid noticing me. May I ask if your… negotiations with him have prospered?”

“Oh, I’m sure both the Republic and I will be making a great deal of money, Zhasyn,” she assured him. “And it really won’t hurt for Hahraimahn’s foundries to get a small infusion of capital at a time like this.”

“Small?” He raised his eyebrows in polite incredulity, and she laughed.

“Perhaps not so small on the scale of individuals,” she acknowledged, “but still relatively small on the scale of entire realms. Indeed,” her smile faded slightly, “small enough I think there’s an excellent chance none of Clyntahn’s eyes or ears will realize it’s even been made. For a while, at least.”

Zhasyn Cahnyr nodded, although his eyes were worried. “Madam Pahrsahn’s” investment was nowhere near so cut and dried as she chose to pretend, and she was playing a more dangerous game than she was willing to admit. He was less certain than she that the Inquisition wouldn’t get wind of a “private investment” which amounted to the purchase of several thousand rifled muskets and bayonets. More than that, he was more than a little frightened of exactly what she intended to do with them once she had them.

Perhaps it’s just as well she hasn’t enlightened you on that particular point, he told himself dryly. You’d probably worry even more if you did know what she was going to do with them!

“You have made it clear to your ‘special guests’ that there’s a degree of risk involved here, haven’t you?” he asked now, changing the subject.

“Of course I have, Zhasyn.” She smiled and touched his cheek gently. “I admire and respect you, my friend, but I’m not going to throw any lambs to the slash lizards without due consideration. I’m very careful about who I approach with your invitation, and after the initial flirtation-I’d be tempted to say ‘seduction’ if it wouldn’t seem too much like a bad jest, given my previous vocation-I’m very careful to warn them about the dangers. And that’s why I send them to you only one or two at a time. We can’t avoid letting you and me know who they are, but we can at least protect their identities from anyone else.”

“Forgive me.” He smiled back and cupped his left hand lightly over the fingers on his cheek. “I forget sometimes how long you’ve been doing this sort of thing. I should know better than to try to teach such a mistress of her art.”

“‘Mistress of her art’?” She shook her head, eyes dancing. “And here I went to such lengths to avoid any double entendres!”

“My dear, I know it amuses you to try, but you’re really not going to shock me or offend me by throwing your past into my face,” he pointed out.

“I know. But you’re right, it does amuse me. And it probably says something unfortunate about me, as well.” She shook her head, still smiling. “My initial involvement in this sort of thing was what you might call a reaction against the high clergy, you know. I can’t quite seem to forget that even though you’re not like the vast majority of your ecclesiastic brethren, you are an archbishop. I think that’s why I feel such a compulsion to keep trying.”

“As long as it amuses you,” he said, then looked across the room. “Not to change the subject-although that’s really exactly why I’m doing it-who’s that youngster with Sharghati?”

She turned to follow the direction of his glance.

“Which one? The younger of the two is Byrk Raimahn. He’s Claitahn Raimahn’s grandson, and I strongly suspect him of harboring Reformist thoughts. In fact, I’m not so sure he’d be happy stopping short of Church of Charis-style thinking if he had his druthers, although he’s far too astute and too well informed to come out and say anything of the sort. The fellow with him is Raif Ahlaixsyn. He’s about ten years older than young Raimahn and a Siddarmarkian. I’ve met his father. The family’s got money, and I think they’d really prefer to sit on the sidelines, but I’m not sure about Raif. Not yet.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I think there’s some potential there, but given his family connections, I’m being particularly cautious about exploring it.” She shrugged. “In the meantime, he’s really quite a good poet and making him a more or less permanent fixture at my parties is something of a social coup.”

“You actually enjoy this, don’t you?” he asked. She looked back at him, and he shrugged. “I mean all of it. The scheming, outwitting your enemies, laying the evil low, the dancing on the edge of the sword blade-not just all of that, but the parties and the gaiety, too. You do, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, Zhasyn!” She seemed surprised by the question. “It’s what I do. Oh,” her eyes hardened, although her smile never wavered, “don’t think for one moment that I’m not going to dance in that pig Clyntahn’s blood the day Cayleb and Sharleyan take his head. And string up the rest of the Group of Four, and the entire damned vicarate- what’s left of it-for that matter. Never underestimate that side of me, Zhasyn, or you may get hurt. But the rest?” The hardness disappeared and her eyes danced once more. “It’s the grandest game in the world, my friend! Beside this, anything else would be only half alive.”

He gazed at her for a moment, then shook his head, and she laughed.

“Take yourself off to the private salon now, Zhasyn,” she told him. “Your first meeting’s scheduled to begin in about ten minutes. And in the meantime,” she smiled brilliantly, “I have to go have a word with the Seneschal.” . II.

The Prison Hulks, and HMS Chihiro, 50, Gorath Bay, Kingdom of Dholar

“How is he this morning, Naiklos?” Sir Gwylym Manthyr asked, turning his back on the vista of Gorath Bay.

“Not as well as he pretends, Sir,” Naiklos Vahlain replied.

The slight, dapper valet joined the admiral at the forecastle rail and stroked his mustache gently as he, too, looked out across the bay. The sky was a blue bowl overhead, dotted with white cloud puffs, and a brisk breeze-cool, but without the bitter bite of the winter just past-blew across the deck. Wyverns and seabirds rode the breeze, their cries and whistles faint, and three-foot waves gave the deck underfoot a slight pitch as the ship’s anchor held her head to the wind.

Not that the roofed-over obsolete coastal galley was much of a ship, anymore, Manthyr reflected, gazing once more across the bay at the hateful sight of the city of Gorath’s tall stone walls. He’d had altogether too much opportunity to examine those walls over the last seven months. He’d spent endless hours picturing how vulnerable they would be to modern artillery… and regretting the fact that he’d never have the chance to see that vulnerability demonstrated.

He turned away from the familiar lava-flow anger of that thought, not that the contemplation of his remaining “command” was any more appealing. Lywys Gardynyr, the Earl of Thirsk, had done his best for his prisoners-better, to be honest, than Manthyr had anticipated, after the unyielding terms then-Crown Prince Cayleb had inflicted upon him after the Battle of Crag Reach-but he’d faced certain limitations. The greatest of which was that he appeared to be the only Dohlaran aristocrat with anything remotely resembling a sense of honor. The others were too busy hating all Charisians for the crushing humiliation of the Battles of Rock Point and Crag Reach. Either that, or they were Temple Loyalists too busy sucking up to the Inquisition-or both-to worry about little things like the proper treatment of honorably surrendered prisoners of war.

Manthyr knew his own sense of failure and helplessness when he contemplated the probable future of the men and officers he’d commanded only made his bitterness worse. But when he looked around the moldering old galleys which had been converted into prison hulks to house his personnel, when he considered how grudgingly their needs were met, how meager their rations were, how little concern even the Order of Pasquale had demonstrated for his wounded and sick, it was hard to feel anything except bitterness.

Especially when you know the only thing standing between your people and the Inquisition is Thirsk and-who would have believed it?-a Schuelerite auxiliary bishop, he thought.

He wasn’t the only Charisian that bitterness was poisoning, he reminded himself. He and his surviving officers did all they could to maintain morale, but it was hard. Charisian seamen by and large were far from stupid, and even the youngest surviving ship’s boy could figure out what was going on. Penned up in the drab, damp, barren sameness of their floating prisons day after day; denied the right to so much as send letters home to tell their families they were still alive (so far, at least); poorly fed; without exercise; with no warm clothing against a winter which would have been bitterly cold for anyone, far less men from their semi-tropical homeland, it was scarcely surprising when even Charisians found it difficult to pretend to one another that they couldn’t see what was coming.

Which is one reason we’ve got so much sickness in the hulks, Manthyr told himself bitterly. Not that there aren’t plenty of other reasons. Aside from Thirsk and Maik none of these people give a good goddamn about whether or not heretic Charisians are covered by Pasquale’s Law. Hell, most of them probably figure “heretics” don’t have any right to worry about Pasquale’s commands! They’re sure as hell not bothering themselves to provide the proper diet his law decrees, anyway. No wonder we’re actually seeing scurvy among the men! And when you crank that kind of so-called food into the living conditions-such as they are-and the despair, it’s a wonder everyone isn’t down sick!

His jaw muscles ached, and he forced himself to deliberately unclench them. None of their chaplains had survived the final battle, which was probably just as well, since the Inquisition would most certainly have demanded (and received) possession of any heretical priests who fell into their hands. Manthyr liked to think that at least some of the Dohlaran clergy would have been interested in meeting the spiritual needs of his men, but they’d been forbidden to by Wylsynn Lainyr, the Bishop Executor of Gorath, and Ahbsahlahn Kharmych, his intendant. If the rumor mill was to be believed, Bishop Staiphan Maik, the Dohlaran Navy’s special intendant, had attempted to get that ruling overturned, but if he’d tried, he hadn’t succeeded. Bishop Executor Wylsynn was willing to grant access to clergy for Charisians who were prepared to renounce-and admit- their heresy and the blasphemous rites in which they had participated in the worship of Shan-wei, but that was as far as he was prepared to go.

Which, since we haven’t had any “blasphemous rites” or “worshipped” Shan-wei, would be just a bit difficult for any of them to do honestly. And all of us know from what happened to those poor bastards the Inquisition got hold of after the Ferayd Massacre how Clyntahn would use any “confessions” against Charis. Not to mention the fact that “admitting” any such thing would make whoever “confessed” automatically subject to the Punishment of Schueler. And only a drooling idiot would believe someone like Clyntahn wouldn’t get around to applying it sooner or later, no matter what Lainyr might promise first.

Despite that, some of his men-a few; no more than a couple of dozen-had “recanted” their heresy and been “received back into the bosom of Mother Church”… for now, at least. Or so their fellows had been told, at any rate. Manthyr had his doubts about how long that was going to last, and the constancy of the rest of his people in the face of what they all knew awaited them eventually had been one of his few sources of consolation over the past months.

Yet even that consolation had been flawed with bitterness, and the despair was always there for everyone. It combined with all those other factors to drive down the men’s ability-and willingness-to resist disease, and by his latest estimate, at least a third of his remaining personnel were currently ill. It had been worse over the winter months, in some ways, but malnutrition and privation hadn’t yet reduced their resistance then. Now that spring’s milder temperatures had arrived, the sick list should have been shrinking; instead, it was climbing, and they were losing three or four men every five-day.

Men who were forbidden burial in consecrated ground as the “spawn of Shan-wei” they were. Instead, their bodies were to be taken ashore on Archbishop Trumahn’s personal order and cast into pits in the fields where the Dohlaran capital buried its garbage. Its other garbage, as the holy archbishop had put it. Which was why Manthyr and his officers had taken to dropping their dead quietly and reverently over the side under cover of night, weighted with whatever they could find for the job and accompanied by the murmured words of the burial service any captain remembered only too well.

The numbers were going to get worse. He was almost certain of that, and he was desperately worried about young Lainsair Svairsmahn, HMS Dancer ’s only surviving midshipman. Svairsmahn had lost his left leg just below the hip during the final, desperate hour of the action which had hammered four of Manthyr’s ships into wrecks before they finally struck. The boy had been barely twelve and a half when they took off his leg, yet his courage had almost broken Manthyr’s heart. He and Vahlain had cared personally for Svairsmahn over the bitter winter just past, nursing him through his recovery, slipping him extra food from their own meager rations (and denying they were doing anything of the sort whenever he asked). There’d been times, especially right after the amputation, when Manthyr had been afraid they were going to lose the boy anyway, as he’d lost so many other officers and men. But Svairsmahn had always pulled through.

Which only made his current illness even more heartbreaking to both of them, he admitted, looking back out across the bulwark, watching the guard boats row steadily, methodically around the prison hulks in their endless, unceasing circles. Not that even a Charisian seaman was going to try to swim ashore in water still fanged with winter cold from a hulk anchored the better part of a mile and a half from shore.

“I think his temperature may have come down a little, Sir Gwylym,” Vahlain offered, and Manthyr glanced at him. The valet shrugged. “I know we both want to believe that, Sir, but I really think it may be true in this case. If he just hadn’t been so weakened already…”

His voice trailed off, and Manthyr nodded. Then he laid one hand on Vahlain’s shoulder.

“We’ve gotten him this far, Naiklos. We’re not going to lose him now.”

“Of course not, Sir!” the valet agreed gamely, and both of them tried to pretend they truly believed they weren’t lying.

“My Lord, this is an act of murder,” Lywys Gardynyr said flatly.

He stood with his back to the stern windows of HMS Chihiro, his face like carven stone, and his eyes were hard. Not a large man, the Earl of Thirsk, but at that moment he seemed to fill the day cabin.

“That isn’t for you to judge, Lywys,” Auxiliary Bishop Staiphan Maik replied. His own expression was set, his eyes grim, yet his voice was remarkably gentle for a Schuelerite, under the circumstances.

“My Lord, you know what’s going to happen!” Despair flickered behind the hardness in Thirsk’s eyes.

“We’re both sons of Mother Church,” Maik said in a sterner tone. “It’s not up to us to judge her actions, but rather to obey her commands.”

This time, Thirsk’s eyes flashed, but he bit back an angry retort. He’d come to know the auxiliary bishop well-too well for either of their comfort and good, he sometimes thought-and he knew Maik was no happier with this command than he was. At the same time, the cleric had a point. It wasn’t their place to judge the Church’s actions, even if at this moment in time her policies were being decided by bloody-handed murderers.

God, the earl demanded harshly in the stillness of his own mind, how can You be letting this happen? Why are You letting this happen?! This is wrong. I know it, Bishop Staiphan knows it, yet both of us are going to watch it happen anyway because Your Church commands it. What are You thinking?

A part of him cringed from the impiety of his own questions, yet he couldn’t stop thinking them, couldn’t stop wondering what part of the inscrutable mind of God could let someone like Zhaspahr Clyntahn attain to the Grand Inquisitor’s chair. It made no sense to him, no matter how hard he tried to force it into some kind of order, some sort of pattern he could understand and accept.

But if I can’t understand why it’s happening, he thought, shoulders slumping, I damned well understand what’s happening.

He wheeled away from the auxiliary bishop, staring out the opened stern windows with his hands gripped together white-knuckled behind him while he fought his anger and tried to throttle his despair. He’d already put Maik into an invidious, even a dangerous, position and he knew it. Just as he knew all the reasons he shouldn’t have done it. There were limits to what even the most broad-minded Schuelerite could overlook at a time like this, and he’d come perilously close to that limit. Which was particularly reprehensible when the Schuelerite in question was trying so hard to do what he knew was decent despite the all too real danger into which that plunged him.

“You’re right, My Lord,” the earl said at last, still facing the panorama of the harbor beyond the windows. “We are sons of Mother Church, and we have no choice but to obey the commands of her vicarate and the Grand Inquisitor. Nor is it our place to question those commands. Yet speaking purely as a layman, and as the commander of one of Mother Church’s fleets”- and the only effective fleet she has left, he added silently-“I must express my concern about the future implications of this decision. I’d be derelict in my duty if I didn’t, and-”

“Stop, my son,” Maik interrupted, cutting him off before he could continue. Thirsk looked over his shoulder at him, and the auxiliary bishop shook his head.

“I know what you’re about to say, and based purely on military logic and the reasoning of the world, I agree with you. This is going to create a situation the heretics are only too likely to seize upon as an excuse for carrying out atrocities against the loyal sons of Mother Church, and I fully realize the way in which it’s likely to… adversely affect the other side’s willingness to grant our soldiers and sailors quarter in the first place. From that perspective, I can’t argue with a single thing you’re about to say. But as the Grand Inquisitor has reminded all of us”-his eyes stabbed Thirsk’s-“the logic of the world, even the mercy natural to any man’s heart, must sometimes give place to the letter of God’s law. That law sets one penalty, and only one, for the unregenerate, unrepentant heretic. As Schueler teaches, for the good of their souls, for the possibility of reclaiming them even at the very last moment from Shan-wei and the Pit, the Inquisition dares not relent lest the transitory illusion of mercy in this world lead to their utter damnation in the next. And as the Grand Inquisitor has also reminded us, at a time when God’s Own Church stands in such peril, we dare not ignore the requirements of His law as set forth by the Archangel Schueler.”

Thirsk’s jaw clenched, but he heard the warning, and he understood. Understood not only that Maik was telling him further protest, however logically and reasonably couched, would be unavailing and almost certainly dangerous, but that the auxiliary bishop would be unable to protect him if he drew the Grand Inquisitor’s ire down upon his own head.

“Very well, My Lord,” the earl said finally. “I understand what you’re saying, and I accept that I must obey the instructions we’ve been given. As you say, the Church stands in peril and this”-he emphasized the last word ever so slightly-“is not the time to question the Grand Inquisitor. Or the rest of the vicarate, of course.”

Maik winced. It was almost imperceptible, but Thirsk saw it anyway, and he responded with an almost equally tiny nod. The auxiliary bishop raised one hand and started to say something, then visibly changed his mind and shifted subjects.

“Turning from our instructions to the rest of the dispatch, what did you think of Vicar Allayn’s analysis of what happened, my son?” he asked instead.

“I thought it was cogently reasoned,” Thirsk replied, smiling faintly and without humor as he recognized Maik’s quest for a less volatile topic. He shrugged. “Obviously, the Charisians”-he seldom used the word “heretic” any longer in his conversations with Maik; probably another dangerous habit he was getting into-“have found some way to load their round shot with gunpowder, exactly as the Captain General is suggesting. I hadn’t considered the possibility myself, and I’ll have to have a word with the foundry masters before I could hazard a guess as to how difficult it might be to cast hollow shot that don’t simply break up when you fire them, but it’s obvious the Charisians have figured it out. How they manage to get the things to explode when they want them to is another matter, of course.”

He frowned thoughtfully, his brain and professional curiosity engaged almost despite himself.

“It’s got to be some sort of fuse,” he half murmured, “but how do they light it? The barrel’s too long to reach down and light it after they’ve loaded the gun, unless they’re firing them only from carronades, and that doesn’t seem possible given the weight of fire Father Greyghor reported. Hmmmmm…” His frown deepened. “Muzzle flash? Is that what they’re using? And if it is, how do they manage it without blowing the fuse into the shell and setting it off early?”

Staiphan Maik breathed a mental sigh of relief as Thirsk was diverted from his dangerous anger. It was only going to be temporary-the auxiliary bishop knew that-but he needed to back the admiral off before his stubborn sense of integrity dug in any deeper and left him no path of retreat. Lywys Gardynyr was too good a man to be allowed to deliver himself into the Inquisition’s hands because of the very things that made him such a good man. And even if he hadn’t been, Mother Church couldn’t afford to lose the one admiral she had who seemed to be capable of meeting the Charisians on their own terms.

“Assuming Father Greyghor’s reports are accurate,” he said out loud, “what can we do in the face of such a weapon?”

“Nothing, My Lord.” Thirsk raised both eyebrows, his tone surprised. “If they can make their cannon shot explode inside our ships, their combat advantage becomes effectively absolute. Presumably we could still get close enough to at least damage their ships, but only at the cost of coming into range at which they’ll be able to destroy ours.”

“So there’s nothing we can do?” Maik couldn’t hide his anxiety, and the earl shrugged.

“For now, My Lord, the only response I see is to attempt to learn how to make the same sorts of hollow shot for ourselves. Until we can respond in kind, we dare not meet them in battle. In some ways, however, this may actually work to our advantage. Once we’ve learned how to make the same weapon for ourselves, I mean.” He grimaced. “I don’t see how any ship could survive more than a very few hits from something like this. And that, I fear, means sea battles are about to become affairs of mutual annihilation, which will ultimately favor us, since we have so much more manpower and so much greater capability to build replacement ships. We can trade two ships, possibly even three, for each of theirs in the fullness of time. The cost in both money and lives will be atrocious, but it’s one we can pay in the end, and they can’t.”

He obviously disliked saying that, and Maik’s face tightened as he heard it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t anything the auxiliary bishop hadn’t already thought.

“It’s probably not a bad thing that we’re going to have to spend some time trying various approaches to the problem of producing and fusing hollow shot, really,” Thirsk continued. “We’re going to have to rebuild the Navy of God before we could even think about engaging the Charisians at sea again, especially given how the prizes they’ve added to their fleet will increase their own numbers. In fact, it looks to me-”

He broke off suddenly, eyes intent as they gazed at something Maik couldn’t see. He stayed that way for several seconds, then blinked twice, slowly.

“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?” Maik challenged. The earl looked at him, and the auxiliary bishop chuckled. “I’ve seen that blink of yours before, my son. Out with it!”

“Well, I don’t know how practical it might be, but one possible solution to this new weapon of theirs might be to find a way to prevent it from exploding inside our ships.”

“Prevent it from exploding? How?” Maik’s expression was perplexed, and Thirsk shook his head.

“Forgive me, My Lord. I should have phrased that more clearly. What I meant is that we have to find a way to prevent it from exploding inside our ships. To prevent it from penetrating our ships in the first place.”

“And how might we do that?”

“I’m not certain,” Thirsk acknowledged. “At the moment the only answer that suggests itself to me would be to somehow armor the sides of our vessels. I don’t think we could do it simply by increasing the thickness of their scantlings, though. That would seem to leave only some kind of protective layer-a sheath of iron, perhaps-applied to the outside of the planking.”

“Would that be possible?” Maik asked, his expression fascinated, and Thirsk shrugged again.

“That’s a question to ask the ironmasters, My Lord. What I can already tell you from our experience with arming our galleons, though, is that producing that much iron would be-if you’ll pardon the expression-hellishly expensive. I’m not at all sure what it would do to stability, either. Nonetheless, it’s the only solution that suggests itself to me at this point.”

“Expensive or not, it sounds to me as if you might be onto something here, my son.” Maik nodded enthusiastically. “Write up your thoughts on this for Vicar Allayn, please. I’d like to send them off to the Temple with my next dispatch.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Thirsk said, but the enthusiasm had vanished from his voice once more at the mention of dispatches to the Temple, and Maik cursed himself for having brought them up. Not that he had much choice. Sooner or later he was going to have to talk about reports to the Temple, and Thirsk was going to have to provide those reports.

The auxiliary bishop stood for a moment, looking at the man whose loyalty to Mother Church he was charged to safeguard. Then he inhaled deeply.

“My son,” he said carefully. “Lywys. I know you’re unhappy about the orders concerning your prisoners.” Thirsk’s eyes narrowed, but Maik went on in that same careful, deliberate tone. “I know the logical arguments in support of your position, and I’ve already acknowledged you have a point in that regard. But I also know one reason for your unhappiness is how deeply it goes against your sense of honor, your integrity, to deliver those who surrendered to you and to whom you offered quarter to someone else’s justice.”

Those narrowed eyes glittered icily at the word “justice,” but Maik allowed no answering reaction to cross his own sternly expressionless face.

“You’re a good man, Lywys Gardynyr. One of whom I feel-I know- God approves. And a good father. Your daughters are godly women, their children are beautiful, and your sons-in-law are men much like you-men of integrity and honor. But Shan-wei’s most dangerous snares appeal not to the evil side of our natures, but to the good side. She can-and will-use your goodness against you if you give her the opportunity. And if that happens, the consequences of The Book of Schueler await you. I know you’re a man of courage. You’ve faced battle-and death-scores of times without letting that danger dissuade you, and I very much doubt a man such as you would allow any threat to dissuade you from doing what you believe is the right and honorable thing. But think carefully before you set out on a course such as that. The consequences you might face at the end of your journey would affect far more people than simply yourself.”

Rage glowed at the backs of Thirsk’s eyes, flaring like a furnace and no longer icy, at the unmistakable implication, but Maik continued unhurriedly.

“I’m a bishop of Mother Church, my son. I have no choice but to obey the ecclesiastic superiors I swore to obey the day I took my priest’s vows. You’re a layman, not a priest, yet it’s your duty to obey Mother Church as well, although”-his eyes bored suddenly into Thirsk-“I’m fully aware you’ve taken no personal vow, as I have, to obey the Grand Inquisitor’s instructions. Obviously, even though you’ve sworn no oath”-he emphasized the last three words ever so slightly-“you’d be bound by duty and integrity to obey him anyway. And if, as I do not anticipate for a moment, you might be tempted not to obey him at some point, that would not absolve you of your responsibility to consider the consequences for everyone else who might be affected by your actions and to be certain the innocent do not find themselves drawn into those consequences. Recall what the Holy Bedard said in the opening verses of the sixth chapter of her book. I commend her thought to you as you grapple with the heavy and complex burden God and the Archangels have laid upon your shoulders at this time.”

The anger vanished from Thirsk’s eyes, although the rest of his expression never even flickered. Silence hovered between them for several seconds as the earl looked back at the auxiliary bishop. Then he bowed slightly.

“I appreciate your concern,” he said quietly and sincerely. “And your advice. I assure you, My Lord, that I’ll think long and hard before I allow anything to affect my duty to Mother Church. And I’ll bear your advice-and the Holy Bedard’s-in mind at all times.”

“Good, my son.” Bishop Staiphan touched him on the shoulder. “Good.”

Much later, after Maik had departed for shore once more, Lywys Gardynyr crossed to his desk. He picked up his well-thumbed copy of the Holy Writ from his blotter, opened it, and leafed to the first three verses of the sixth chapter of The Book of Bedard. He didn’t really need to read the words; like any dutiful son of Mother Church, he knew his Scripture well. Yet he read them anyway, eyes moving across the beautifully printed and illustrated page.

Behold and heed, you who are mothers and you who are fathers. Let not your actions or inactions bring calamity and evil upon your children. Be instead a roof over their heads, be walls about their safety.

The time will come when they will become parents to you in your old age, but that time is not yet. Now is the time to teach, and to nurture-to love and to guard.

When peril approaches, go forth to meet it far from them, lest it threaten them, as well. When duty calls you into danger, put them first in a place of safety. And when the threat of the ungodly draws nigh, set them beyond evil’s reach before you ride out to battle, and do not let the hand of the wicked fall upon them.

Oh, yes, My Lord, he thought, gazing down at those words, I’ll bear your advice in mind. . III.

Imperial Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis, and HMS Dawn Star, 58, Off Round Head, White Horse Reach, Princedom of Corisande

“I hate this.”

Sharleyan Ahrmahk sat on HMS Dawn Star ’s sternwalk, Crown Princess Alahnah sleeping on her shoulder, and gazed out across the galleon’s bubbling wake at blue water sparkling under a brilliant afternoon sun. Her canvas sling-chair moved gently under her with the ship’s motion, rocking her and the baby; a pleasant following breeze stirred errant strands of the long, black hair braided loosely down her back; and the green, smooth hills of Round Head rose out of White Horse Reach to her left. She was less than a hundred and fifty miles from the end of her wearisome voyage to Manchyr, and she could comfortably expect to reach it before tomorrow’s dawn.

None of which had anything to do with the wounded, sorrowful fury in her grim brown eyes.

“We all do,” Merlin said. He stood with his hands braced on the sternwalk rail, leaning over it as he, too, looked out across the calm emptiness of the reach. “And I think we hate it most of all because we’ve seen it coming for so long.”

“And because there’s so damned little we can do about it,” Cayleb agreed harshly from far distant Tellesberg.

It was much earlier in the morning there, and the skies were cloudier, with a promise of heavy rain as he sat looking out a palace window across the table set with a breakfast of which he’d eaten remarkably little. He was scheduled to meet with Earl Gray Harbor and Baron Ironhill, Keeper of the Purse for Old Charis and Chancellor of the Exchequer for the Charisian Empire. He wasn’t looking forward to that meeting, and it had nothing to do with what he expected either of them to tell him. Trying to concentrate on their reports was going to be harder than usual, but he’d have to pretend there was nothing distracting him. He certainly couldn’t tell them what was distracting him, at any rate, and that made it immeasurably worse, since both of them were Sir Gwylym Manthyr’s friends, too.

“I’m afraid you’re both right,” Maikel Staynair said from his office. “I wish to God there were something we could do, but there isn’t.”

“There has to be something,” Domynyk Staynair protested. He’d known Manthyr longer-and better-than any of the others, and anguish tightened his voice. “We can’t just let that butcher Clyntahn…”

He trailed off, and the others’ faces stiffened. They knew exactly what was going to happen to any Charisian-especially any Charisian who’d been taken in the act of armed resistance to the Group of Four-who was dragged to Zion.

And as Cayleb had said, there was nothing they could do about it.

“I could take the skimmer,” Merlin said after a moment.

“And do what? ” Cayleb demanded even more harshly. Domynyk Staynair might have known Manthyr longer, but Sir Gwylym had been Cayleb’s flag captain at Rock Point, Crag Reach, and Darcos Sound, the man who’d sunk his own ship in his desperate effort to reach Cayleb’s father in time.

“What are you going to do?” the emperor continued in that same unyielding voice. “Not even Seijin Merlin’s going to be able to rescue a couple of hundred sick, wounded, half-starved men in the middle of an entire continent! It’s a coin-toss whether they’re going to send them by road or by ship, and you know it, but say they choose the overland route. Even if you managed to singlehandedly slaughter every single guard, how do you get them out of East Haven before the rest of the damned Temple Guard and the Dohlaran Army catch up with you? Not to mention the little fact that you’d leave scores of witnesses to something which would be flat out impossible even for a seijin!

“And even if they decide to send them by sea, how are you going to help them? Blow the transports out of the water? That would at least keep them out of the Inquisition’s hands, give them a clean death-and don’t think I don’t realize what a blessing that could be, Merlin! But if Father Paityr’s right and there really are ‘Archangels’ sleeping under the Temple, don’t you think the possibility of using advanced weapons that close to the Temple is likely to wake them up?”

“That’s a valid point, but we can’t just let ourselves be paralyzed worrying about it from here on out, either,” Merlin replied.

“Merlin, I understand how badly you want to help our people,” Archbishop Maikel said. “But Cayleb’s right about the risk, too, and you know it.”

“Of course I do!” Merlin’s tone came far closer to snapping at Staynair than anyone was accustomed to hearing from him. “But Domynyk’s got a point, too. Like Cayleb says, better to at least send them to the bottom of the ocean cleanly than let Clyntahn torture them to death for some kind of spectacle!”

“Merlin.” Sharleyan’s voice was soft, and she reached out to rest one hand on his mailed forearm. “None of us wants to see that happen. And any one of us would do anything we could to prevent it. But Cayleb’s right that we’d never be able to get them off the mainland if they choose the overland route to Zion. And if they send them over-water, instead, what do you think would happen if all their transports sank in clear, calm weather? Do you really think anyone would accept that as some kind of freak coincidence?” She shook her head as he turned to look down at her. “Everybody would know it wasn’t that. So what would Clyntahn and the others do if it happened?”

“They’d proclaim Shan-wei had claimed her own,” Domynyk Staynair put in harshly. “Which is exactly what they’re going to claim after they torture them all to death, anyway!”

“But this time they’d have a clearly ‘miraculous’ disaster to back up their claim,” his older brother pointed out. “It wouldn’t make a lot of difference to any of our people, but it would be fodder for the Group of Four’s propaganda mill.”

“Frankly, that wouldn’t stop me for a moment,” Cayleb said. He picked up his chocolate mug and drained it, then set it down beside his still well-laden plate with considerably more force than usual. “My problem is that I can’t get those ‘sleeping Archangels’ out of my brain. Merlin would have to use the skimmer’s weapons, Domynyk. It’d be the only way he could put them down. And if I’d been the paranoid setting up something like Father Paityr’s suggested is under the Temple, I’d damn well have everything within hundreds of miles of my bedroom covered with sensors that could hardly miss energy fire.”

“I’m afraid he’s right, Domynyk,” Merlin sighed. “It may be plain blind dumb luck I haven’t already triggered some kind of detection wandering around Haven and Howard the way I have. I’m inclined to think it’s more likely because nothing I’ve done so far’s crossed any threat thresholds they may’ve established. The skimmer’s electronic and thermal signatures are actually a lot weaker than the ones from the regular air cars the ‘Archangels’ were flying around in at the time of the ‘Creation.’ It was designed to be extremely stealthy against first-line tactical sensors, and they weren’t. I suspect that if anyone did set up some sort of sensor perimeter, the skimmer’s signatures don’t reach whatever level they established as representing a threat. But energy weapons?” He shook his head. “If they’ve got a sensor net up at all, they couldn’t miss that.”

“Couldn’t we cobble up something else?” Ehdwyrd Howsmyn asked. The ironmaster stood on the balcony of his office, gazing sightlessly out across the sprawl of his huge and growing complex. “Surely you’ve got some missiles in inventory in the cave, Merlin! Couldn’t we use them ?”

“The only heavy projectile weapons in my cave are kinetic energy weapons,” Merlin said. “Their drives would be just as detectable as energy weapons. They might even be more detectable, frankly, depending on what thresholds they set up. Owl might be able to ‘cobble up’ something cruder and less efficient. In fact, he probably could. But anything he came up with would look even more like the Rakurai… and still might cross the line.”

“But if they don’t have a sensor net up, Gwylym and all the others are going to die-under the Question and the Punishment-when we could’ve saved them… or at least killed them cleanly,” Domynyk said flatly. “We owe him-we owe all of them-at least that much!”

“Are you prepared to take that risk when the first thing we’ll know-if there is a net and we ‘cross the line,’ as Merlin put it-is when whatever the hell is under that obscene mausoleum in Zion wakes up?” Cayleb demanded, his voice even flatter-and harder-than Rock Point’s. “I know he’s your friend, Domynyk. He’s my friend, too, and I’m his Emperor; his oaths were sworn to me, not you, and I swore oaths to him in return. If there’s a single human being on the face of this planet-including you! -who wants to save him more than I do, I can’t imagine who it is. But pretend for just a moment that you didn’t even know him and the decision was solely up to you. Would you truly risk sounding an alarm that brings a genuine ‘Archangel’ with control of Langhorne’s Rakurai back to the Group of Four’s aid?”

Silence sang and crackled over the com for endless seconds. Then “No,” Domynyk Staynair said, his voice almost inaudible. “No, I wouldn’t, Cayleb.”

“Churchill and Coventry, Merlin,” Cayleb said almost as softly, and Merlin winced. Sharleyan looked up at him, one eyebrow raised, and he shrugged.

“An episode from World War Two back on Old Terra,” he said. “It was an example I used with Cayleb once in Corisande.”

“And it’s still a good one,” Cayleb put in. “I don’t like it. Like Sharley, I hate it. But somebody’s got to make the call, and for better or for worse, it’s me. And ugly as this is, as much as it’s going to stick in my craw and choke me, I don’t see another option. For that matter, Domynyk, if we could tell Gwylym the entire truth, what do you think he’d recommend?”

“Exactly what you just have, Your Majesty.” Staynair spoke with unwonted formality, yet there was no trace of doubt in his voice.

“That’s what I think, too,” Cayleb said sadly. . IV.

Weavers Guildhall and Royal Palace, City of Manchyr, Princedom of Corisande

Paitryk Hainree stood on the walkway around the water tower cistern atop the Weavers Guildhall. The tower’s facade was a kaleidoscope of sheep, angora lizards, spinning maidens, and busy looms, all carved into the Barcor Mountain granite of which it was made. It was one of the best known tourist attractions in Manchyr, but Hainree didn’t care about that as he gazed out across the city of his birth and swore with vicious, silent venom while the galleons flying the black, blue, and white banner of the Empire of Charis edged delicately towards the Manchyr wharves. The sun was barely up, the air was still cool, with that smoky blue edge that comes just after dawn, the wind-powered pump which kept the cistern filled squeaked softly, almost musically behind him, and the air was fresh from the previous evening’s gentle rain. It was going to be a beautiful day, he thought rancorously, when it should have been ripped by tornadoes and hurricanes.

His hands clenched on the walkway railing, forearms quivering with the force of his grip, eyes burning with hatred. Bad enough that that bitch “empress” should be visiting Corisande at all, but far worse to see the city draping itself with bunting, decorating its streets and squares with cut greenery and flowers. What did the idiots think they were doing? Couldn’t they see where this was heading? Perhaps it looked for now as if the accursed Charisians were succeeding, but they’d set their puny, blasphemous wills against God, damn it! In the end, there could be only one outcome for mortal men vain and stupid enough to do that.

The air began to thud and the harbor fortresses blossomed with spurts of smoke as their guns thundered in formal salute to the arriving Empress of Charis. The waterfront was the better part of a mile from Hainree’s vantage point, yet even from here he could hear the cheers go up from the packed wharves. For a moment, his entire body quivered with a sudden urge to fling himself over the railing. To plummet down to the paving below and put an end to his own fury. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t let the bastards be shed of him that easily.

He stared at the incoming galleons for another moment, then turned his back resolutely and started towards the ladder. He had a final inspection to make before he could sign off on his current assignment, and then he had his own preparations to see to.

He descended the ladder with the confidence and ease of practice. There was little left of the silversmith he’d once been as he swung down the rungs. That Paitryk Hainree had disappeared forever fourteen months ago when Father Aidryan Wayman was arrested by the Charisians’ Corisandian flunkies. Fortunately, before that happened, Hainree had taken Father Aidryan’s advice to heart and established an escape plan all his own, one no one else had known anything about. And because he had, he’d managed to elude the terrifyingly efficient sweep of Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s guardsmen. He still wasn’t certain how he’d accomplished that, especially since they’d been hunting him by name and with a damnably accurate description, but if he’d needed any evidence that God Himself was watching out for him, he’d certainly had it as Father Aidryan’s entire organization was smashed to flinders in a matter of days… and he wasn’t.

And the other thing he’d had evidence of was that the only way to avoid arrest was to operate completely independently. To trust and recruit no one. At least a dozen other efforts to organize resistance against the occupation and the abomination of the Church of Charis had foundered in the last year. It was as if Gahrvai’s guard had eyes everywhere, ears listening to every conversation. The only way to avoid them was to say nothing to anyone, and so Hainree had found new employment with the city of Manchyr’s construction and maintenance office. He’d grown a beard, cut his hair differently, changed the way he dressed, gotten a colorful tattoo on his right cheek and the side of his neck, and found himself a room on the other side of the city where no one had ever seen or known him. He’d gone to ground and become someone else, who’d never heard of Paitryk Hainree the rabble-rouser.

But he hadn’t forgotten Paitryk Hainree, and neither had he forgotten his duty to God and his murdered prince. They’d taken everything he’d ever been from him when they forced him to flee with a price on his head, yet that had simply added to his anger and his determination. Perhaps he was only one man, but one man-properly motivated-could still change an entire princedom.

Or even an empire, he thought as he neared the ground. Or even an empire.

“Her portraits don’t do her justice, do they?” Sir Alyk Ahrthyr murmured in Koryn Gahrvai’s ear. “I hadn’t realized she was so good-looking!”

“Alyk,” Gahrvai whispered back, “I love you like a brother. But if you say one word to Her Majesty…”

He let the sentence trail off, and Ahrthyr chuckled. The dashing Earl of Windshare found beautiful women irresistible. And, unfortunately, all too many beautiful women returned the compliment. By Gahrvai’s count, Ahrthyr had fought at least eight duels with irate brothers, fiances, fathers, and husbands. Of course, those were just the ones he knew about, and since Prince Hektor had outlawed public duels over ten years ago-officially, at least-there were probably more that Gahrvai didn’t know about.

So far the earl had managed to survive all of them, and done it without killing anyone (and getting himself outlawed) in the process. How long he could keep that up was open to question. Besides, Gahrvai had met Cayleb Ahrmahk. Any woman he’d married was going to be more than a match for Windshare, and that didn’t even consider what would happen if Cayleb found out about it.

“Ah, there’s no poetry in your soul, Koryn!” the earl said now. “Anyone who could look on that face-and that figure, too, now that I think of it-and not be stirred is a confirmed misogynist.” Ahrthyr paused, cocking his head to one side. “That wouldn’t be the reason your father still isn’t a grand father, would it, Koryn? Is there something you’ve never told me?”

“I’ve never told you I was about to kill you… until now,” Gahrvai returned repressively. “That’s subject to change if you don’t shut up , though.”

“Bully,” Windshare muttered. “And party pooper, too, now that I think of it.” Gahrvai’s elbow drove none too gently into the earl’s sternum and he “oofed” at the impact. “All right,” he surrendered with a grin, rubbing his chest. “You win. I’ll shut up. See, this is me not saying a thing. Very peaceful, isn’t it? I don’t believe you’ve ever had such a restful afternoon with me arou-”

The second elbow strike was considerably more forceful than the first.

Sharleyan paced calmly up the crimson runner of carpet towards the throne. It was the first time she’d ever been in Manchyr, although she’d studied this very throne room many times since she’d gained access to Owl’s SNARCs. It was rather more impressive in person, though, and much as she’d hated Hektor Daykyn, she had to admit he’d had far better taste than the late Grand Duke of Zebediah. Sunlight spilled through tall, arched windows down its long western wall, puddling on the polished parquet floor’s inlaid marble medallions and geometric patterns. The wall itself was plastered and coffered, with the personal seals of the last half-dozen princes of Corisande worked into the recesses between the window embrasures in vibrant color, and banners hung from the high, spacious ceiling Manchyr’s near-equatorial climate imposed on local architecture. That vaulted ceiling was also coffered, with polished, richly gleaming wooden beams framing painted panels decorated with incidents from the House of Daykyn’s history, and the entire eastern wall consisted of latticed glass doors opening onto a formal garden glowing with tropical blossoms and glossy greenery.

At the moment she had rather less attention to spare than the architecture and landscaping probably deserved, however, and she concentrated on maintaining her confident expression as she processed towards the dais where the Earl of Anvil Rock, the Earl of Tartarian, and the other members of Prince Daivyn’s Regency Council waited to greet her formally.

The remaining members of the Regency Council, at any rate, she reminded herself a bit tartly. Although, to be fair, Sir Wahlys Hillkeeper, the Earl of Craggy Hill, was still technically a member. Changing that-permanently-was one of the purposes of her visit.

It was extraordinarily quiet, quiet enough for her to hear the distant sound of surf through the glass doors which had been opened onto the garden. She had no doubt there were dozens of soft, hushed side conversations all about her, but these were courtiers. They’d learned how to have those conversations without drawing attention to themselves, and most of them were probably downright eager to avoid drawing her attention at this particular moment.

She felt her lips quiver with amusement and suppressed the thought firmly, continuing her stately, not to say implacable progress along the carpet. She wasn’t as ostentatiously surrounded by bodyguards as she’d been in Zebediah, although no one was going to crowd her here, either. Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s guardsmen lined the throne room’s walls, bayoneted muskets grounded, and an honor guard of Imperial Charisian Marines had escorted her from the docks to the palace. She’d wanted to insist on a smaller, less obvious and lower-keyed presence, but she’d known better. There was no point pretending this was Chisholm or Charis. Not that there’d never been an attempt to kill her in Charis, now that she thought about it.

That reflection carried her to the end of the carpet, Merlin Athrawes pacing respectfully at her heels while Edwyrd Seahamper kept a king wyvern’s eye on the rest of her personal detail, and Sir Rysel Gahrvai bowed formally to her.

“On behalf of Prince Daivyn, welcome to Manchyr, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Thank you, My Lord,” she replied. “I wish my visit might have come under happier circumstances, yet the welcome I’ve received-not just from you, but from so many of Manchyr’s people-has been far warmer than I’d anticipated.”

He bowed again at the compliment, although there’d been a slight double edge to it. For that matter, there’d been a double edge to his greeting. The exact status of Prince Daivyn remained what diplomats referred to as “a gray area,” and for all the genuine spontaneity of the cheers which had greeted Sharleyan, not everyone in the greeting crowds had been cheering. Indeed, she suspected that no more than half of them had, and quite a few of those who hadn’t cheered had been stonefaced and grimly silent, instead.

“May I escort you to your throne, Your Majesty?” Anvil Rock asked, and she inclined her head in gracious assent before she laid the fingertips of her right hand on his forearm. He assisted her carefully (and completely unnecessarily) up the five steps to the top of the dais and she smiled at him before she turned and seated herself.

She looked out across the throne room, seeing the faces, trying to sample the emotional aura. It was difficult, despite all the hours she’d spent poring over the SNARCs’ reports from this very city. She felt confident she’d assessed Manchyr’s attitude accurately, at least in general terms, and she knew far more about the aristocrats and clerics thronging this room than any of them could possibly imagine. Yet these were still human beings, and no one could predict human behavior with total assurance.

A throat cleared itself quietly to her right, and she looked up at Archbishop Klairmant Gairlyng. He looked back at her gravely, and she smiled and pitched her voice to carry.

“Before we begin, would you be kind enough to thank God for me for my safe arrival here, Your Eminence?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he agreed with a small bow, then straightened and gazed out across the throne room himself.

“Let us pray,” he said. Heads bowed throughout the vast room, and he raised his voice. “Almighty God, the high and mighty ruler of the universe, we thank You for the safety in which You have brought our royal visitor to this court. We beseech You to smile upon her and so to show her Your favor that she walks always in Your ways, mindful of Your commands and the dictates of Your justice. Guide, we beseech You, all the nations of this Your world into the way of Your truth and establish among them that peace which is the fruit of righteousness, that they may be in truth Your Kingdom and walk in all the ways You have prepared for them. And we most especially beseech You to look down from Your throne and bless Your servant Daivyn and all who advise, guide, and guard him. Bring him, too, safely back to us, and so resolve and compose the differences between Your children that all rulers of clean heart and good intent may gather in the amity Your plan has decreed for all men. We ask this in the name of Your servant Langhorne, who first declared Your will among men to the glory of Your Name. Amen.”

That was an interesting choice of phrasing, Sharleyan thought wryly as she joined the others in touching fingertips first to her heart and then to her lips. The tightrope here in Corisande was more complicated than almost anywhere else in the youthful Empire of Charis, and Gairlyng clearly understood that. He’d managed to avoid calling Sharleyan Corisande’s ruler, and she’d noticed the “royal visitor,” as opposed to the possible “imperial visitor.” At the same time, he’d adroitly avoided calling her an interloper, either, and no one could very well take offense at his request for God’s blessing on young Daivyn. And the “resolve and compose the differences between Your children” was straight out of the Church of God Awaiting’s most ancient liturgy. Of course, the people who’d written that liturgy had never envisioned a situation quite like this one.

The stir and shuffle of feet, the rustle of clothing and clearing of throats, which always followed a moment of prayer in Sharleyan’s experience whispered through the throne room. Then Anvil Rock turned towards her and bowed, wordlessly offering her the opportunity to speak without any awkward little formalities which might have conceded-or denied-her authority to do so.

“I thank you for the welcome I received at dockside this morning,” she said, and saw one or two people look up sharply when she avoided the royal “we.” Well, there’d be time enough for that later.

“A Charisian monarch-and such I find I’ve become, much though the idea would have astounded me as little as three years ago”-she smiled and a chuckle ran through the watching courtiers-“appreciates a welcoming port, especially at the end of a winter voyage which took rather longer than I might have wished. More than that, I realize how many difficult issues remain between the Princedom of Corisande and the Crown of Charis, and I take it as a favorable sign that so many turned out to wish me well upon my arrival here.

“At the same time,” she allowed her expression and her tone to become more serious, “it’s obvious not everyone here in Manchyr was equally happy to see me.” She shook her head. “Under the circumstances, I can scarcely blame anyone who might continue to cherish reservations about the future, and it’s only natural such reservations should express themselves in reservations about me, and about Emperor Cayleb. One of the reasons for Cayleb’s visit here last year was to attempt to put some of those reservations to rest. That’s also part of the reason for my visit this year. Of course”-her expression became grimmer-“there are other and less happy reasons, as well.”

It was very quiet in the throne room, and she turned her head, surveying them all and letting them see her level eyes and firm mouth.

“It’s never pleasant to be required to yield to force of arms,” she said quietly. “Cayleb and I understand that. At the same time, I believe any fair-minded person must admit we were left very little choice. When five princedoms and kingdoms-including, I would remind all of us, my own-were required by ‘the Knights of the Temple Lands’ to league together against Old Charis, even though that kingdom had committed no crimes or offenses against any of them, Charis had no choice but to defend herself. And when it became evident that the corrupt vicars who’d seized control of Mother Church intended to continue their efforts to exterminate not just the Kingdom of Charis but any vestige of freedom of thought, the Empire of Charis had no choice but to carry the war to its enemies. And so that war came to your shores behind the banners of my Empire.”

The quiet grew more intense, and she met it squarely, her shoulders straight.

“I won’t pretend Chisholm lacked its own reasons for enmity with the House of Daykyn. I’m sure everyone in this throne room knows what they were and why they existed. But I will say that my enmity-and Cayleb’s-was directed against the head of that house, and it stemmed from his actions, not from any ingrained hatred of Corisande or all things Corisandian. We had specific reasons to confront Prince Hektor on the field of battle, and so we did, openly and directly, with none of the diplomatic fictions, lies, and masks the ‘Knights of the Temple Lands’ had employed to hide their crimes.”

She saw shoulders tighten as she took the bull firmly by the horns.

“I realize many continue to believe Cayleb ordered Hektor’s assassination, and I suppose I can even understand why that belief should have gained such currency. But my husband is not a stupid man, my lords and ladies. Do any of you believe for one instant that the son of Haarahld of Charis could have failed to understand how Prince Hektor’s murder on the very eve of his surrender would poison the hearts and minds of Corisandians against him? Can any of you think of an action better calculated to make the peaceful, orderly inclusion of Corisande in the Empire of Charis more difficult? Having sailed thousands of miles, having won his cause on the field of battle with one overwhelming victory after another, what could possibly have motivated anyone but a bloodthirsty monster to have not only Prince Hektor but his elder son murdered?”

She paused once more, for only a heartbeat this time. Then “You’ve had the opportunity to see the policies General Chermyn has administered here on our behalf, and you know that at the core of those policies lies our desire to demonstrate that the Empire of Charis respects the rule of law and has no desire to rule through terror and the iron fist of oppression. Many of you have had the opportunity to meet personally with Emperor Cayleb, and those who have must surely realize that however resolute he may be, however dangerous in battle, he is not and never has been a man who relishes the shedding of human blood. I ask you to ask yourselves if the Crown which dictated those policies and the Emperor you met would have resorted to the murder of a foe who had been vanquished and was prepared to offer honorable surrender. An honorable surrender which would have been of far more value to the Empire politically, both here in Corisande and abroad, than his murder-his martyrdom-could ever have been.”

A half-heard susurration, like a sharp breeze across a sea of reeds, ran through the throne room as more than one of those nobles and prelates realized exactly what she was implying. No one dared speak out in open rejection, however, and she sat silently, letting the thought sink home for a full ten seconds before she resumed.

“I fully realize that the Group of Four has excommunicated both me and Cayleb and laid the entire Empire of Charis under the interdict,” she said then. “As such, in the eyes of Temple Loyalists, any oaths you may swear to us or to the Church of Charis have no force. Obviously, we disagree, and we have no option but to hold those who swear to the terms of that to which they have sworn. No ruler, even in time of peace, can accept anything less; no ruler, even in time of war, has the right to demand anything more.

“I’m here in Corisande, in no small part, because of that. All of you know what I refer to when I say that. I regret that such a reason should have brought me here, and I regret that many whose only crime was loyalty to Corisande, to the House of Daykyn, and to the clergy they’d been taught to revere were caught up in the treachery and plotting of a handful of individuals who saw the opportunity to take power into their own hands for their own uses and their own purposes. I have no choice-Charis has no choice-but to exact justice, yet I will endeavor as Charis has always endeavored to mitigate justice with mercy wherever that may be possible.”

She paused yet again, the quiet so intense she could hear the surf once more, and the instincts developed in so many years on a throne tried to parse the mood of the people in the throne room. At least some of them seemed to be genuinely trying to reserve judgment, she thought. Others, however assiduously they might try to hide it, had clearly made up their minds already and weren’t about to be swayed by anyone’s words… especially hers. She couldn’t tell how many fell into which camp, but it seemed to her that the balance was tilted ever so slightly against those who had already committed themselves to hostility.

“We’ve made it clear we aren’t prepared to cavalierly strip Prince Daivyn of his birthright and inheritance,” she said finally. “Obviously, when a minor prince is in exile in a foreign court, far from his own lands, we can’t simply resign into his hands that which we’ve won on the field of battle. By the same token, we can understand why Prince Daivyn and those who genuinely have his best interests at heart should hesitate to deliver him back into the power of those many believe had his father and older brother murdered. Whether we did or not, simple prudence would dictate that he not be brought back into our reach until those responsible for guarding his life and well-being are fully satisfied it would be safe to do so. I don’t pretend we like the situation, yet I’m also well aware no one here in Corisande likes it, either.

“It was the need to bear all of those factors in mind which led Emperor Cayleb to recognize the Regency Council as representing Prince Daivyn, not the Charisian Crown. Obviously, the Regency Council must accommodate itself to the demands of Charis, just as Prince Daivyn would be required to do were he here and ruling in his own right. That, unfortunately, is the way things work in a world where disputes between realms are too often settled upon the field of battle. It’s our hope that in the fullness of time, and preferably sooner rather than later, all these issues will be resolved without further bloodshed here in Corisande, and we earnestly desire to find in that resolution a way to finally end the anger and distrust, the hostility, which has lain between Charis, Chisholm, and Corisande for so long. In the meantime, we have no intention of expropriating Prince Daivyn’s lands, whether as Prince or as Duke of Manchyr. Aside from the abolition of serfdom, we have no intention of interfering with Corisande’s traditional law or the traditional rights of her aristocracy or her commons. And aside from those actions necessary to purge Mother Church of the corruption which has infected and poisoned her, the lies which have been told in her name, we have no quarrel with her, either… and certainly not with God.

“And that, my lords and ladies, is what I’ve come here to Corisande to demonstrate for all to see. I will make no deals in secret. There will be no secret arrests and executions, just as there have been none yet. We will not torture confessions out of those we suspect of wrongdoing, and if we must inflict the death penalty, it will be carried out quickly and cleanly, without the torture in which Zhaspahr Clyntahn delights.

“In the end, you-as all of God’s children-have a choice to make. You may choose to align yourself with the Empire and Church of Charis against the evil threatening to twist Mother Church and all we believe in into something vile and dark. You may choose to stand with Corisande and the rightful Prince of Corisande, and it’s our hope that in the fullness of time Prince Daivyn will choose to stand with us. You may choose to reject the Empire and Church of Charis and fight them with all your power and all your heart, and that, too, is a choice only you can make. No Charisian monarch will ever seek to dictate your final choice to you, but we will do whatever we must to protect and nurture the things in which we believe, the causes for which we choose to fight and, if necessary, die. If our choices bring us into conflict, then so be it. Charis will not flinch, will not yield, and will not retreat. As my husband has said, ‘Here we stand; we can do no other,’ and stand we will, though all the forces of Hell itself should come against us. Yet whether you make yourselves our friends or our foes, I will promise you this much.”

The stillness was absolute, and she swept the listening throng with that level brown gaze yet again.

“We may fight you. We may even be forced to slay you. But we will never torture or terrify you into betraying your own beliefs. We will never convict without evidence. We will never ignore your right to trial and your right to defend yourself before God and the law, never capriciously sentence men and women to die simply because they disagree with us. And we will never dictate to your conscience, or murder you simply for daring to disagree with us, or torture you vilely to death simply to terrify others into doing our will, and call that the will of God.”

She looked out at those silent, listening faces, and her voice was measured, each word beaten out of cold iron as she dropped her sworn oath into the silence.

“Those things are what the Group of Four does,” she told them in that soft, terrible voice, “and we will die before we become them.” . V.

Imperial Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

“I’m going to strangle that parrot,” Cayleb Ahrmahk said conversationally. “And if I weren’t afraid it would poison me, I’d have the cook serve it for dinner.”

The parrot which had just stolen a pistachio out of the silver bowl on the wrought-iron table landed on a branch on the far side of the terrace, transferred the stolen nut from its beak to its agile right foot, and squawked raucously at him. Obviously no respecter of imperial dignities, it proceeded to defecate in a long gray and white streak down the lime tree’s bark, as well.

There were quite a few similar deposits decorating the terrace, Cayleb noticed. In fact, there were enough of them for at least two heroic sculptures. Probably even three, unless they were equestrian sculptures.

“With all due respect, Your Majesty,” Prince Nahrmahn said, reaching out and scooping up a handful of the same pistachios, “first you’d have to catch it.”

“Only if I insist on strangling it,” Cayleb retorted. “A shotgun ought to do the job permanently enough, if a little more messily. It might even be more satisfying, now that I think about it.”

“Zhanayt would be less than amused with you, Your Majesty,” Earl Gray Harbor pointed out from his seat beside Nahrmahn. The first councilor shook his head. “She’s turned that dratted bird into her own personal pet. That’s why it’s bold enough to swoop down and steal your nuts. She’s been hand-feeding them to it for months now to get it to ride on her shoulder when she comes into the garden and it thinks it owns all of them. She’ll pitch three kinds of fits if you harm a single feather on its loathsome little head.”

“Wonderful.”

Cayleb rolled his eyes while Nahrmahn and Gray Harbor chuckled. Princess Zhanayt’s sixteenth birthday would roll around in another few five-days. That meant she was about fourteen and a half Old Terran years old, and she was entering what her deceased father would have called her “difficult stage.” (He’d used a rather strong term when it had been his older son’s turn, as Cayleb recalled.)

Prince Zhan, her younger brother, was only two years behind her, but his engagement to Nahrmahn’s daughter Mahrya seemed to be blunting the worst of his adolescent angst. Cayleb wasn’t certain it was going to last, but for now at least the assurance that he would in just over three years’ time be wedding one of the most lovely young women he’d ever met appeared to be giving him a level of confidence the mere fact that his brother was an emperor (and that he himself stood third in the line of succession) wouldn’t have. Despite the inescapable political logic of the move, Cayleb had had his doubts about betrothing his baby brother to someone almost eight Safeholdian years older than he was, but so far, it was working out well. Thank God Mahrya took after her mother-physically, at least-rather than her father! And it didn’t hurt that Zhan was far more inclined to be bookish than Cayleb had ever been. Nahrmahn’s genetic contribution was obvious in Mahrya’s keen wits and love affair with the printed page, and she’d been subtly guiding Zhan’s choice of books for almost three years. He was even reading poetry now, which made him pretty nearly unique among fourteen-year-old males of Cayleb’s acquaintance.

“Oh, come now!” Gray Harbor scolded the emperor. “I remember you as a teenager, Your Majesty. And I remember your father’s description of you just before he sent you off on your midshipman’s cruise.”

“And that description would have been what?” Cayleb asked suspiciously.

“I believe his exact words were ‘A stubborn, stiff-necked young hellion ripe for hanging,’” the earl replied with a smile. “I could be wrong about that, though. It might have been ‘obstinate,’ not stiff-necked.”

“Why did everybody who knew me then persist in thinking of me as stubborn?” Cayleb’s tone was plaintive. “I’ve always been one of the most reasonable people I know!”

Gray Harbor and Nahrmahn looked at one another, then back at their liege lord without saying a word, and he snorted.

“All right, be that way.” He selected one of the roasted, salted pistachios, peeled the shell, and popped the nut into his mouth. He picked up another while he was chewing and tossed it at the parrot, which ignored the assault on its dignity with lordly disdain. The emperor shook his head and turned his attention back to Gray Harbor with a more thoughtful expression.

“So you think Coris is seriously contemplating some sort of an arrangement with us?” he asked, carefully projecting a note of skepticism. He couldn’t very well tell Gray Harbor he’d been looking over Coris’ shoulder-or that one of Owl’s remotes had been, at any rate-at the very moment the Corisandian earl wrote the message Gray Harbor had received.

“I’d say he’s definitely contemplating an arrangement, Your Majesty,” Gray Harbor replied soberly. “Whether he actually wants to consummate anything of the sort is another matter, of course.”

“You’re saying you think this is in the nature of a sheet anchor?” Nahrmahn put in.

“Something like that, Your Highness.” Gray Harbor nodded. “Whatever else he may have been, Coris was never a fool. I’ve come to the conclusion that he underestimated you rather badly, Your Highness, but then so did everyone else. And while he doesn’t come right out and say so in his note, it has to be obvious to someone as astute and as well informed as him that it would’ve made absolutely no sense to assassinate Hektor and his son.”

“I’m not sure I’d go quite that far, My Lord,” Nahrmahn said thoughtfully. “About its making absolutely no sense, I mean. It would have been uncommonly stupid to have had him assassinated at that particular moment, I’ll grant you, but I’m sure quite a few of the world’s rulers wouldn’t have shed any tears if an enemy like Hektor were to suffer a fatal accident after he’d sworn fealty… and before he could get around to violating that oath.”

“All right, that’s true enough.” Gray Harbor nodded again. “But my point about the actual assassination stands. Not only that, but he has to realize how… convenient Hektor’s murder was from the Group of Four’s perspective. Assuming he’s genuinely committed to young Daivyn’s well-being, or simply to preserving his own future access to power in Daivyn’s eventual court, he’s got to be worried about someone like Clyntahn’s deciding that Daivyn’s death might be as helpful as his father’s was. So as far as that goes, yes, I’m inclined to think he truly is looking for a way out of Delferahk if one should become necessary.”

“But you don’t think he’s going to make a move in our direction unless he does decide it’s necessary?” Cayleb asked.

“No, I don’t. And to be fair, why should he? It’s not as if we’ve done anything that would endear us to him, and for the moment at least it’s entirely reasonable for his loyalty to Mother Church as well as whatever personal loyalty he feels towards Daivyn and Irys to push him towards staying out of our grasp. He was never as precipitous as Hektor, and I don’t see any reason for that to change now. Especially when he knows that until he’s actually forced to turn to us, he’s in a far better bargaining position in Talkyra than he’d be in Tellesberg.”

“So how do you think we should respond?”

“I’ve discussed that with Bynzhamyn and also with Ahlvyno,” Gray Harbor replied, and Cayleb nodded. Bynzhamyn Raice wasn’t simply Old Charis’ spymaster and Ahlvyno Pawalsyn wasn’t simply its finance minister; they were also two of Gray Harbor’s oldest friends and most trusted colleagues.

“Both of them agree this is an opening that’s far too valuable to pass up,” the earl continued. “Obviously, we can’t know where it’s going to lead, but there’s always the possibility it really will end up with Coris forced to seek asylum with us. From a political perspective, it would be impossible to overestimate the advantage of getting our hands-metaphorically speaking-on Irys and Daivyn. Whether we’d be able to convert that into any sort of willing cooperation on their part is another matter entirely, of course, and given Princess Irys’ obvious influence with her younger brother and her evident conviction you did have her father and her older brother murdered, Cayleb, I’d say the chances were probably less than even. On the other hand, from all reports she’s smart enough to recognize that whether we’re her favorite people in the world or not, her brother probably has no option but to cooperate with us, at least officially. Especially if Coris does believe Clyntahn had Prince Hektor killed and he’s managed to convince her of that.”

“Well,” Cayleb selected another pistachio and cracked it open, “I’m inclined to go along with you, Bynzhamyn, and Ahlvyno. So the next order of business is how we go about moving this courtship along, I suppose.”

“I expect the biggest difficulty’s going to be simply communicating back and forth,” Nahrmahn said thoughtfully. “This isn’t exactly something we can discuss with him over the Church’s semaphore system, and speaking from the perspective of an experienced intriguer, that could be a real problem, especially in a case like this. How long did it take his message to get here, My Lord?”

“The better part of three months.” Gray Harbor’s sour tone acknowledged Nahrmahn’s point. “I can’t know what route it followed, but assuming it went downriver from Talkyra to Ferayd or Sarmouth before it found a ship to bring it to Tellesberg, it had over fifteen thousand miles to travel. Which means it actually made excellent time to get here as quickly as it did.”

“But that’s the sort of delay that introduces all sorts of potential ‘cooling-off periods’ into the courtship,” Nahrmahn said. “And to be honest, the sort of thing that’s most likely to force Coris’ hand is also likely to come up in a much shorter time window than that. If he suddenly discovers Daivyn’s in active danger from Clyntahn, for example, taking three months to get a message to us would make it all but impossible to coordinate any effective response with us. A six-month two-way communications time?” The Emeraldian shook his head. “That may work for the normal political seduction, but it won’t in any sort of emergency situation.”

“That’s true, of course,” Gray Harbor admitted. “We’re still better off than we were, though, Your Highness.”

“Oh, I agree!” Nahrmahn nodded vigorously. “It’s just that I think we might be able to… speed up message times. From his end to us, at least.”

“And just how might we accomplish that?” Cayleb asked, sitting back and looking rather intently at the no longer quite so plump prince.

“Well, it occurs to me, Your Majesty, that I may have forgotten to mention one small capability of my erstwhile anti-Charisian intelligence service,” Nahrmahn said with a charming smile. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Emerald’s always been famous for its racing, hunting, and messenger wyverns.”

“I do seem to recall something about a wyvern salesman right here in Tellesberg, as a matter of fact,” Cayleb replied somewhat repressively.

“Yes, that was one of our better cover arrangements, I thought,” Nahrmahn agreed reminiscently. “It worked quite well for years.”

“And the reason for this trip down memory lane?” Cayleb inquired.

“As it happens, Your Majesty, our royal wyvern breeders have been attempting to improve our messenger wyvern stock for quite a long time now, and not simply to help our wyvernries’ sales. Some years ago-during my father’s reign, as a matter of fact-we got a rather unexpected result when we crossed the Dark Hill line from Corisande with our own Gray Pattern line.”

“Surely you’re not proposing sending Earl Coris messenger wyverns, Your Highness,” Gray Harbor said.

“That’s precisely what I’m proposing, My Lord,” Nahrmahn replied, and even Cayleb looked at him in disbelief.

Messenger wyverns had been a part of Safehold’s communications system since the Creation. Now that he had access to Owl, Cayleb also knew the original messenger wyverns had been genetically engineered by Pei Shan-wei’s terraforming teams to deliberately enhance the various breeds’ natural capabilities for the specific purpose of creating a low-tech means to help tie the original, scattered enclaves together. Bigger, stronger, and much tougher than Old Terran carrier pigeons, the wyverns Shan-wei had designed had fallen into two main categories, either of which could carry considerably heavier messages than their tiny Old Terran counterparts. They could even be used to carry small packages, although it wasn’t the most reliable possible way to deliver them.

The short-range breeds were faster, smaller, and more maneuverable than their larger brethren. Capable of speeds of up to sixty miles per hour (although some of the racing breeds had been clocked at over a hundred miles per hour in a sprint), their maximum effective flight range was mostly under six hundred miles, which meant they could deliver a message to their maximum range in as little as ten or eleven hours, on average. They were the most commonly used breeds, in large part because the logistics meant there was little call for ranges longer than that. Like carrier pigeons, they were a one-way communications system, since they returned only to the wyvernry they recognized as “home,” wherever that might be, which meant they had to be transported from their home to their point of release. Shuttling them back and forth by wagon or on lizardback over distances much greater than six hundred miles simply wasn’t practical for most people, although the Church and some of the larger mainland realms maintained special relay systems to supplement and back up the semaphore towers. In addition-and unlike carrier pigeons-they could be relatively quickly imprinted with another “home” wyvernry. In fact, it was necessary to take precautions to prevent that from happening inadvertently.

The longer-range wyverns were slower, but they also were capable of flights of up to four thousand miles. Indeed, there were rumors of legendary flights of up to five thousand, although substantiation for such claims was notoriously thin on the ground. Because they were slower-and because they had to stop to hunt and roost on the way-they were capable of no more than seven hundred and fifty miles per day under average conditions, but even that meant they could deliver a message over a four thousand-mile transit in less than six days. That was slower than the semaphore (under good visibility conditions, anyway), but faster than any other means of communications available… at least to those who didn’t have the advantage of communicators and satellite relays.

“As Rayjhis just pointed out, it’s fifteen thousand miles from here to Talkyra by ship and boat,” Cayleb said. “I realize it’s shorter than that in a direct line, but it’s still close to seven thousand miles even for a wyvern, Nahrmahn!”

“Yes, it is,” Nahrmahn agreed. “And it just happens I have at my disposal a breed of messenger wyvern capable of making flights at least that long.”

“I find that difficult-not impossible, Your Highness; just difficult-to believe,” Gray Harbor said after a moment. “If we really do have wyverns with that kind of range, however, I’m entirely in agreement with you. The question becomes how we get them to Earl Coris in the first place.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too, My Lord,” Nahrmahn said with a smile, “and I think I know just the messenger, assuming we can contact him.”

He glanced at Cayleb, who raised his eyebrows.

“And exactly who were you thinking about calling upon?” the emperor inquired politely.

“It just occurred to me, Your Majesty, to wonder if you might have some means of getting into contact with Seijin Merlin’s friend Master Zhevons.” Nahrmahn smiled toothily at Cayleb’s expression. “He did so well at… motivating King Gorjah, and he’s obviously at home operating on the mainland. It just seems appropriate, somehow, to get him into touch with Earl Coris, as well. Who knows?” His smile faded suddenly, his eyes meeting Cayleb’s levelly. “It might just turn out that this is another situation that requires his special talents, Your Majesty.” . VI.

City of Gorath, Kingdom of Dohlar, and Royal Palace, Princedom of Corisande

“They’re here, My Lord,” Lieutenant Bahrdailahn said quietly.

“Thank you, Ahbail,” Lywys Gardynyr said. He inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and turned to face the cabin door. “Show them in, please.”

“Yes, My Lord.” The flag lieutenant bowed considerably more deeply than usual and disappeared. A moment later, he returned.

“Admiral Manthyr, Captain Braishair, and Captain Krugair, My Lord,” he announced unnecessarily, and Gardynyr bobbed his head to the newcomers.

“Gentlemen,” he said.

“Earl Thirsk,” Gwylym Manthyr replied for himself and his subordinates.

“I very much regret the necessity to summon you to this particular meeting,” Thirsk said levelly, “but in the name of what honor remains to me, I have no choice. Admiral Manthyr, you surrendered your ships and personnel to me after a most gallant and determined defense-one which still commands my admiration and professional respect. At that time, I promised you honorable treatment under the laws of war. I regret that I face you as a man forsworn.”

Bahrdailahn shifted slightly, face tightening in silent protest, but Thirsk continued in the same measured tone.

“I’m sure you recognized, as did I, that any promise on my part was subject to violation or outright revocation by my superiors or by Mother Church. As a loyal son of Mother Church it’s not my place to criticize or dispute her decisions; as an officer of the Royal Dohlaran Navy, I am ashamed.”

He looked directly into Manchyr’s eyes, hoping the Charisian saw the truth in his own.

“Your men have been badly enough abused in Dohlaran custody. The fact that I’ve done everything in my power to alleviate that abuse is no excuse for my failure to change it, nor will anything remove the stain of that abuse from the honor of my Navy. I once thought harshly of your Emperor and the terms he enforced upon my men; had I known then how you and your men would one day be treated by my own service, I would have gone down on my knees before him to thank him for his leniency.”

He stopped speaking, and silence lingered in the wake of his final sentence. Several seconds passed, and then Manthyr cleared his throat.

“I won’t pretend I’m not angry over the way my people have been treated, My Lord.” He held Thirsk’s gaze, and his eyes were as hard as his tone was flat. “God alone knows how many of those who died in the hulks would’ve lived if they’d been given proper food and even minimal medical care. And that doesn’t even consider the fact that now your Navy is prepared to turn us over to the Inquisition in full knowledge of what will happen.”

He saw Thirsk wince, but the Dohlaran admiral refused to look away or evade his flinty eyes, and after a moment, it was the Charisian who nodded ever so slightly.

“I won’t pretend I’m not angry,” he repeated, “and I won’t pretend I don’t agree that this is going to be an indelible stain on the honor not just of the Dohlaran Navy but of your entire Kingdom. The time will come, My Lord, when you and all Dohlarans will rue the way in which my men have been treated. I won’t be here to see it, but as surely as the sun rises in the east, my Emperor will see justice done in our names, just as he did in Ferayd. It might be well for your King to remember that day, because this time there will be no question as to where the final responsibility lies.

“Yet while all of that’s true, and while I have no doubt history will besmirch your name as surely as that of the Duke of Fern or King Rahnyld, I also know you personally did everything humanly possible to honor your word to me and see my men decently and honorably treated. I can’t forgive you for the cause you serve, but I can and will say you serve it as honorably as any man living could.”

“It’s not given to us to choose the kings we’re born to serve,” Thirsk replied after a moment, “and honor and duty sometimes lead us places we wish we’d never had to go. This is one of those places and one of those times, Admiral Manthyr, yet I am a Dohlaran. I can’t change the decisions which have been made by my King, and I won’t break my oath to him. But neither can I hide behind that oath to evade my responsibility or hide my shame from myself or from you. And that’s also the reason I asked you here this morning so that I might apologize to you personally, and through you to all of your men. I know it means very little, but it’s all I have to give and the least I can give.”

A part of Sir Gwylym Manthyr wanted to spit on the deck. Wanted to curse in Thirsk’s face for the sheer uselessness of words against the scale of what was going to happen to his men. Words were cheap, apologies cost nothing, and neither of them would save a single one of his men from a single second of the agony waiting for them. And yet…

Manthyr drew a deep breath. Perhaps Thirsk’s apology was no more than a gesture, yet both of them knew how dangerous a gesture it was. There was no way the Inquisition could fail to learn of this meeting, and given Thirsk’s efforts to protect his Charisian prisoners while they were in his custody, the inquisitors were unlikely to look kindly upon it. For the moment, at least, Thirsk was too important-probably-to the Church’s jihad to find himself the Inquisition’s guest, but that was always subject to change, and both of them knew how long a memory Zhaspahr Clyntahn had. So gesture though it might be, it was scarcely as empty as some might think.

“I’m no nobleman, My Lord,” the Charisian said bluntly. “I don’t understand all the ins and outs of a noble code of conduct. But I do understand duty, and I do know you’ve truly done all you could. I can’t absolve you of the guilt you obviously feel. I don’t know if I would if I could. But I do accept your apology in the spirit in which it’s offered and I hope that when the bill finally comes due for what your Kingdom and the Inquisition are about to do, your efforts to do the right and honorable thing will be considered in your favor.”

“You may not have been born a nobleman, Admiral, but at the moment I think that’s a mark in your favor.” Thirsk smiled humorlessly. “Perhaps if I weren’t quite so pigheaded, we-”

He broke off, waving one hand, then glanced at the clock on the cabin bulkhead, and his jaw tightened.

“I’m not supposed to know, Admiral, but you have approximately four hours before your ‘escort’ arrives.” He saw Manthyr’s face turn to stone but went on unflinchingly. “Lieutenant Bahrdailahn will return you to the prison ships. If any of you wish to send a last letter home, I give you my word I’ll personally see it delivered somehow to Charis. Please see to it that any letters are completed at least a half hour before the Navy is required to transfer you to your escort. Leave them aboard ship when you depart, and I’ll have them collected in a day or two.”

After the Inquisition’s taken you all away and I can do it without having my own men and me sent to join you, he didn’t say out loud, but Manthyr and his two captains heard it anyway.

“I thank you for that, My Lord.” For the first time emotion softened the flint of the Charisian’s voice. “I… hadn’t expected it.”

“I only wish I’d thought-” Thirsk began, then stopped. “I only wish I’d found the courage to make the offer sooner, Admiral,” he admitted. “Now go, and whatever the Inquisition may think, may God be with you.”

“So, you’re Admiral Manthyr,” the Schuelerite upper-priest sneered.

Sir Gwylym Manthyr only gazed at him wordlessly, eyes contemptuous.

It was an almost obscenely beautiful day, given what was happening. The air was cool, the breeze refreshing, and the solid quay underfoot seemed to undulate gently. After so long in the hulks, it was going to take him some time to get his land legs back.

Seabirds and sea wyverns swooped about in their unending sweeps of Gorath Bay. There was always some interesting bit of garbage, some piece of flotsam, some unwary fish or the eyes of some drifting Charisian corpse, to attract their attention, and he realized he was going to miss their antics once they’d left the harbor behind. Funny. He hadn’t thought there was anything he’d miss about Gorath Bay, but that was before the coin had finally dropped.

“Proud and silent, are you?” the Schuelerite observed, and spat on the ground just in front of Manthyr’s feet. “We’ll see how ‘silent’ you are when you reach Zion, heretic!”

The upper-priest was in his forties, Manthyr estimated, with dark hair and a close-cropped beard, and a coiled whip hung at his side. His brown eyes were hard, dark, and hating, which was scarcely a surprise. Zhaspahr Clyntahn would have handpicked the man responsible for delivering his latest victims.

“The Grand Inquisitor wants you in Zion in one piece,” the Schuelerite continued. “Personally, I’d just as soon shoot all of you and leave you in the ditch like the carrion you are, but that’s not my decision. What is my decision is how… discipline will be maintained on our journey. I’d advise you all to remember my patience is short and the men under my command understand how to deal with Shan-wei’s get. Take that as all the warning you’ll be given.”

Manthyr simply looked back at him, refusing to flinch or look away yet able to picture the thin, wasted, raggedly dressed officers and men standing behind him on the quay. He and the Schuelerite both knew they’d heard every word, but he felt their angry, hopeless defiance at his back.

The Schuelerite glared at him for another minute, then turned his head.

“Captain Zhu!” he barked.

“Yes, Father Vyktyr?” a shortish, blocky officer in the uniform of the Temple Guard replied.

Captain Zhu was obviously Harchongian, with the strongly pronounced epicanthic fold of his people. He looked to be in his late thirties, with black hair, and his Guard uniform bore the sword-and-flame of the Order of Schueler as a shoulder patch. That indicated that while he was a Guard officer, he’d been seconded to the Inquisition, which probably made sense. The Inquisition had its own small, highly trained military force, but it specialized in enforcement, not in field exercises. For an overland journey this long, they’d want someone with experience handling troops in the field.

“Put this garbage in its cages.” Father Vyktyr gestured contemptuously at the Charisians. “And I don’t see any need to be overly gentle with them.”

“As you say, Father,” Zhu agreed with an unpleasant smile, and turned to the weathered-looking, squatly muscular sergeant at his heels. “You heard the Father, Sergeant Zhadahng. Get them moving.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Well, I suppose this settles what I can-and can’t-do, after all, Merlin Athrawes thought grimly, lying back in his borrowed bed in Manchyr’s Royal Palace and watching through the SNARCs as the Charisian prisoners were driven aboard the wagons prepared to receive them.

The Temple Guardsmen were equipped with heavy, massive, old-style matchlocks, not the newer flintlocks which were beginning to trickle into the Temple’s service, and they plied their musket butts freely. He watched Charisian seamen stagger as those musket butts slammed home between their shoulder blades or drove into their rib cages. More than one man went to his knees, to be kicked and beaten until he managed to claw his way back to his feet, and if any of his comrades tried to help him, they received the same treatment.

Merlin’s sapphire eyes opened in the early morning darkness, hard with fury, as a young, one-legged midshipman fell. No one had struck him; he simply tripped as he tried to move fast enough to satisfy their captors on his single foot and obviously jury-rigged crutch. It didn’t matter. The guards closed in, battering and kicking while the boy curled in a desperate, protective knot, trying to protect his head with his arms, and Merlin’s jaw clenched as Sir Gwylym Manthyr deliberately stepped into that ring of sadistic blows. He watched the muscular admiral taking the musket butts on his own back and shoulders, never raising a hand against his assailants as he was battered to his hands and knees across the boy’s body, only using his own body to protect that fallen midshipman.

Then there was another man inside that circle, one in what was left of the uniform of a Charisian captain. And another man, slightly built, with a waxed mustache, who Merlin recognized as Naiklos Vahlain. The guards beat and kicked them harder than ever, but a handful of seamen joined them. More than one of them went down, only to rise again, faces bloodied, bodies bruised, taking those blows with silent defiance until Manthyr could climb back up from his own knees and take that semi-conscious young body in his arms. Another musket crashed into the admiral’s kidneys and he stumbled forward, face twisted with pain, but he refused to drop the midshipman.

One of the guards raised his musket high in both hands, obviously aiming a murderous butt stroke at Manthyr’s head, and the admiral glared at him, eyes of fire hard in a blood-streaked face, daring him to strike. The blow started forward, only to stop in midair-stop so abruptly the Guardsman staggered-as an auburn-haired Guard lieutenant shouted an order.

The entire scene froze, and then, grudgingly, the Guardsmen stepped back and allowed the fallen to rise. There were still blows, still shouted obscenities, still sneering promises of worse to come, but at least Manthyr was allowed to carry that slight, fallen body to the waiting transport wagons.

The wagons were big enough for fifteen or twenty men to be crammed aboard with room for perhaps six of them to lie down at any given moment. They were heavy framed, without shock absorbers, springs, or anything resembling seats, sided with iron bars and roofed with iron gratings. They were basically dungeon cells on wheels, and the only overhead cover was in the form of canvas tarps which were currently tightly rolled and stowed behind the drivers’ tall seats. Each wagon was drawn by two hill dragons, the size of terrestrial elephants but with longer bodies and six powerful legs each. They were capable of a surprising turn of speed and possessed excellent endurance.

The wagon doors were slammed and locked. Orders were shouted, and the convoy lurched into motion. There was no reason those wagons had to have been built without springs, Merlin knew. They’d been built that way deliberately, with only one object in view: to make any prisoners’ journey as unpleasant as possible… and to show any witnesses how unpleasant that journey was.

Which is the entire reason they decided not to send them by water after all, Merlin reflected bitterly. They’re sending them the long way, by land, so they can stop in every town to display their prizes, give every village the chance to watch them roll through on their way to the Temple and the Punishment of Schueler. They’re too damned valuable an object lesson for Clyntahn to waste sending them by sea… and God knows how many of them are going to die on the way. And there’s not one damn thing I can do about it. I can’t even sink them at sea to spare them from what’s waiting.

He watched that clumsy procession of iron-barred wagons lurching slowly northward from the city of Gorath and hated his helplessness as he’d seldom hated anything in Nimue Alban’s life or his own. Yet while he watched, he made himself one solemn promise.

Sir Gwylym Manthyr was right. What had happened to the city of Ferayd was nothing compared to what was going to happen to the city of Gorath. . VII.

Royal Palace, City of Manchyr, Princedom of Corisande

It wasn’t the throne room this time.

In many ways, Sharleyan would have preferred that venue, but there were traditions to break. Prince Hektor’s notion of judicial procedure had been to see to it that the accused got the proper sentence, not to worry about any pettifogging legal details like proving guilt or innocence. Trials were an inconvenient, messy formality which sometimes ended with the accused actually getting off entirely, which was scarcely the reason he’d had the culprit arrested in the first place! Far more efficient and direct to simply have him hauled in front of the throne and sentenced without all that unnecessary running around.

To be fair, the majority of Hektor’s subjects had considered his justice neither unduly capricious nor unnecessarily cruel. He’d maintained public order, prevented the nobility from victimizing the commoners too outrageously, supported the merchants and bankers’ property rights and general prosperity, and seen to it that most of his army’s killing had been done on someone else’s territory. Theoretically, there’d always been the appeal to the Church’s judgment, although it had been resorted to only infrequently… and usually unsuccessfully. But by and large, Corisandians had assumed anyone Prince Hektor wanted to throw into prison or execute probably deserved it. If not for the crime of which he stood accused, for one he’d committed and gotten away with another time.

What that also meant, unfortunately, was that being hauled in front of the prince had been tantamount to being punished. And what that meant, in turn, was that if Sharleyan dispensed justice from the throne room which had once been Hektor’s, those being brought before her would automatically assume they were simply there to learn what fate had already been decreed for them… and that “justice” actually had very little to do with the process. All of which explained why she was, instead, sitting in the magnificently (if darkly) paneled Princess Aleatha’s Ballroom.

Sharleyan couldn’t imagine anyone voluntarily holding a ball in the room. Only one wall had any windows at all, and they were small. Not only that, but more recently constructed portions of the palace cut off most of the light they would have taken in, anyway. She supposed the vast, gloomy chamber would have looked much more imposing with its dozen massive bronze chandeliers all alight, but the heat from that many candles would have been stifling, especially in Manchyr’s climate.

Probably just that northern blood of yours talking, she thought. As far as these people are concerned, it might simply have been comfortably warm. Maybe even bracingly cool!

No, she decided. Not even Corisandians could have done anything but swelter under those circumstances.

She was dithering, she told herself, looking out across the rows of benches which had been assembled to face the dais upon which she sat. The main reason she’d chosen Princess Aleatha’s Ballroom-aside from the fact that it wasn’t the throne room-was its size. It was stupendous, bigger than any other chamber in the palace complex, and almost five hundred people sat looking back at her across the open space cordoned off by Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s Guardsmen. There were nobles, clerics, and commoners in that crowd, chosen to make it as representative a mix of the population as possible, and some of them (not all commoners, by any means) seemed acutely uncomfortable in their present surroundings.

Perhaps some of that might have been due to the six members of the Charisian Imperial Guard who stood between them and her dais on either side of Edwyrd Seahamper. Or, for that matter, to the way Merlin Athrawes loomed silently, somberly, and very, very intimidatingly at her back.

The dais raised her throne approximately three feet, and it was flanked by only slightly less ornate chairs in which the members of Prince Daivyn’s Regency Council were seated. Two more chairs (remarkably plebeian compared to the Regency Council’s) sat directly before the dais at a long table placed just behind the line of Guardsmen and piled with documents. Spynsair Ahrnahld, her bespectacled, youthful secretary, sat in one of those chairs; Father Neythan Zhandor-bald head shining above its rapidly retreating fringe of brown hair, even in the ballroom’s subdued light-occupied the other.

Archbishop Klairmant was also present, but he’d chosen to stand to Sharleyan’s right rather than be seated himself. She wasn’t certain why he’d made that choice. Perhaps it was to avoid giving the impression he, too, was seated to give judgment ex cathedra, adding the Church’s imprimatur to whatever judgments she rendered. Yet his position might also lead some to think he was standing as her advisor and councilor.

And he’s going to get damned tired before the day is over, she thought grimly. Still, I suppose we’d best get to it.

She raised one hand in a small yet regal gesture, and a shimmering musical note rang through the enormous room as Ahrnahld struck the gong on one end of the document-piled table.

“Draw nigh and give ear!” a deep-voiced chamberlain-a Charisian chamberlain-bellowed. “Give ear to the Crown’s justice!”

Utter silence answered the command, and Sharleyan felt the stillness radiating outward. Many of the people seated on those rows of benches would normally have been chattering away behind their hands, eyes bright as they exchanged the latest, delicious gossip about the spectacle they were there to see. But not today. Today, they sat waiting tensely until the double doors of the ballroom’s main entrance swung wide and six men were marched through them, surrounded by guards.

The prisoners were richly dressed, jewels sparkling about their persons, immaculately groomed. Yet despite that, and even though they held their heads high, there was something beaten about them. And well there should be, Sharleyan reflected grimly. They’d been arrested over six months ago. Their trials had been concluded before a combined panel of prelates, peers, and commoners two five-days before she ever arrived in Manchyr, and they could be in little doubt about the verdicts.

They halted in front of her, and to their credit (she supposed) five of them looked her squarely in the eye. The sixth, Sir Zher Sumyrs, the Baron of Barcor, refused to raise his own eyes and she saw the gleam of perspiration on his forehead.

Ahrnahld pushed back his chair and stood, taking the top folder from the stack in front of him and opening it before he looked at Sharleyan.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “we bring before you, accused of treason, Wahlys Hillkeeper, Earl of Craggy Hill; Bryahn Selkyr, Earl of Deep Hollow; Sahlahmn Traigair, Earl of Storm Keep; Sir Adulfo Lynkyn, Duke of Black Water; Rahzhyr Mairwyn, Baron of Larchros; and Sir Zher Sumyrs, Baron of Barcor.”

“Have these men been given benefit of trial? Have all of their rights under the law been observed?” Her voice was chill, and Zhandor stood beside Ahrnahld.

“They have, Your Majesty,” he replied, his deep voice grave. “As the law requires, their cases were heard before a court of Church, Lords, and Commons which determined their guilt or innocence by secret ballot so that none might unduly influence the others. Each had benefit of counsel; each was allowed to examine all the evidence against him; and each was permitted to summon witnesses of his choice to testify on his behalf.”

There was no hesitation or question in that voice, and Sharleyan heard one of the accused-Barcor, she thought-inhale sharply. Father Neythan Zhandor wasn’t just any law master. He’d been picked by Maikel Staynair for this mission because of his reputation. A Langhornite, like most law masters, he was (or had been, before the schism, at least) widely acknowledged as one of Safehold’s two or three most knowledgeable masters of admiralty and international law. If Father Neythan said all of their rights had been observed, that was that.

“Upon what grounds were they accused of treason?”

“Upon the following specifications, Your Majesty,” Zhandor said, opening a folder of his own. “All stand accused of violating their sworn oaths of fealty to Prince Daivyn. All stand accused of violating their sworn oaths to the Crown of Charis, freely given after Corisande’s surrender to the Empire. All stand accused of raising personal armies in violation of their oaths to the Crown of Charis and also in violation of the law of Corisande limiting the number of armed retainers permitted to any peer of the realm. All stand accused of trafficking and conspiring with the condemned Tohmys Symmyns of Zebediah. All stand accused of plotting insurrection and armed violence against Prince Daivyn’s Regency Council and against the Crown of Charis. In addition, Earl Craggy Hill stands accused of violating his personal oath and abusing and betraying his authority and position as a member of the Regency Council in the furtherance of their conspiracy and his own quest for power.”

Stillness crackled in the ballroom, and Barcor licked his lips. Craggy Hill glared at Sharleyan, but it was an empty glare, little more than surface deep, for something darker and far less defiant lived behind it.

“And has the court which heard their cases reached a verdict?”

“It has, Your Majesty,” Ahrnahld said. He turned the top page in the folder before him.

“Wahlys Hillkeeper, Earl of Craggy Hill, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him,” he read in a flat, carrying voice. Then he turned a second page as he had the first.

“Bryahn Selkyr, Earl of Deep Hollow, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him.”

Another page.

“Sahlahmn Traigair, Earl of Storm Keep, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him.”

Another whisper of turning paper.

“Sir Adulfo Lynkyn, Duke of Black Water, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him.”

“Rahzhyr Mairwyn, Baron of Larchros, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him.”

“Sir Zher Sumyrs, Baron of Barcor, has been adjudged guilty of four of the five charges brought against him, but acquitted of the charge of personally trafficking and conspiring with Tohmys Symmyns.”

The last page turned and he closed the folder. Then he turned and looked up at Sharleyan.

“The verdicts have been signed, sealed, and mutually witnessed by every member of the court, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” Sharleyan said and sat back in her throne, laying her forearms along the armrests as she gazed at the men before her. The ballroom’s tension crackled higher now that the formalities were out of the way, and she felt the witnesses’ focused attention like the rays of the sun captured and concentrated by a magnifying glass. But not quite like the sun, for this focus was cold and sharp as a Cherayth icicle, not fiery.

It ought to be fiery, she thought. I ought to feel passionate satisfaction and justification at seeing these men brought to the end they deserve. But it isn’t, and I don’t.

She didn’t know precisely what she did feel, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was what she had to do.

“You’ve heard the charges against you,” she said in a voice of ice. “All of you have heard the verdicts. All of you have had ample opportunity to see the massive weight of evidence which was brought to bear against each of you. No honest-minded man or woman on the face of this world will ever be able to dispute the proofs of your crimes, and the records of your trials are open to all. Every step of the process which brings you here this day has been in accordance with the law of your own princedom, as well as the law of Charis. We will entertain no pleas or protests against the justice of the court which tried you or of the scrupulous observation of the law, your rights, or the verdicts. If any of you have anything you wish to say before sentence is passed upon you, however, now is the time.”

Craggy Hill and Storm Keep only glared, helpless fury burning in their eyes. Deep Hollow’s facial muscles quivered, although Sharleyan couldn’t have said what emotion woke those spasms. He pressed his lips together without speaking, however, and her eyes moved to Black Water. The duke’s face was dark with anger and curdled with hate, yet she actually felt a flicker of sympathy in his case. His father’s death at Darcos Sound was what had brought him into the conspiracy. At least he had the excuse of honest anger, honest outrage, not solely the cynical ambition which had served Craggy Hill and Deep Hollow.

“I wish to speak,” Baron Larchros said after a moment, and Sharleyan nodded to him.

“Then do so.”

“I can’t speak for all of my fellows,” he replied, raising his chin and looking her in the eye, “but I did what I did because I will never acknowledge the authority of the craven lickspittles of this ‘Regency Council’ of traitors you and your husband have foisted upon this Princedom. It was their willingness to sell themselves to you Charisians for personal power and advantage, not ambition on my part, which brought me to resist them! You may call it ‘treason’ if you please, but I say the treason was theirs, not mine, and that no man of conscience can be held to any oath sworn to traitors, regicides, heretics, and excommunicates!”

A stir went through the witnesses, and Sharleyan gazed back down at him for several seconds without speaking. Then she nodded slowly.

“You speak clearly, Baron of Larchros,” she said then. “And you speak with courage. You may even speak truthfully of your own motives, and we grant you their sincerity. Yet you did swear the oaths you violated. You did grant your allegiance to the Regency Council-the legally selected Regency Council, chosen by your own Parliament-as Prince Daivyn’s representatives and the guardians of his interests and prerogatives here in Corisande. And you did violate the laws of Corisande, as well as conspiring to unleash warfare here in the heart of your own Princedom. We may concede that you acted out of what you believe to have been the best of motivations. We will not concede that your motivations justify your actions, nor will we retreat one inch from the authority which is ours under the accepted law of nations by right of victory, fairly and openly won upon the field of battle, and by acknowledgment of your own Parliament following that victory. We will say this much-you, more than any of your fellows, have our respect, but respect cannot stay the demands of justice.”

Larchros’ jaw clenched. He seemed to hover on the brink of saying something more, but he stopped himself and simply stood meeting her gaze with hot-eyed defiance.

“Please, Your Majesty!” Barcor said suddenly into the silence. “I was carried away by patriotism and loyalty to Mother Church-I admit it! But as the court itself determined, I was never party to the core of this conspiracy! I-”

He broke off as Sharleyan looked at him with undisguised contempt. His eyes fell, and she smiled coldly.

“The fact that cowardice prevented you from openly declaring yourself as Baron Larchros did is no defense,” she said flatly. “You were prepared to take your share of the spoils when Craggy Hill and Storm Keep divided the new ‘Regency Council’ between themselves. You preferred to spend gold instead of blood or steel, perhaps, but you cannot separate yourself so easily from ‘the core of this conspiracy,’ My Lord. I told you we would hear no pleas, no protests of innocence. Have you anything further to say?”

Barcor’s lips trembled. His face was ashen, and his head swiveled, eyes imploring the members of the Regency Council to intervene in his behalf. There was no response, and he swallowed convulsively as his eyes came back to Sharleyan.

She waited another measured thirty seconds, but none of the convicted men spoke again, and she nodded. It was time to end this, and she could at least give them the mercy of swiftness.

“It is our judgment that, for the crimes of which you stand convicted, you be taken from this place immediately to a place of execution and there beheaded. You will be granted access to clergy of your choice, but sentence will be carried out within this very hour, and may God have mercy on your souls.” . VIII.

City Engineer’s Office and Royal Palace, Princedom of Corisande

“That was a good job you did on the Guildhall, Bahrynd,” Sylvayn Grahsmahn said as Bahrynd Laybrahn (who didn’t look a thing like Paitryk Hainree) stepped into his office. “That cistern’s been nothing but a pain in the ass for as long as I can remember.”

“It wasn’t hard once I realized the pump casing had to be leaking,” Hainree replied. He shrugged. “Actually finding the leak and getting to it was a bitch, but fixing it once I found it was pretty routine, really.”

“Well, I’ve been sending people over to look at it for the better part of half a year now,” Grahsmahn grumbled, “and you’re the first one to find the problem. I know you’re still new, Bahrynd, but if the Master Engineer will go along with me, you’re going to be a supervisor by this time next month.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Hainree said, although he was fairly certain the promotion wouldn’t come through. “I just try to do my job.”

He gazed out of Grahsmahn’s office window. Dusk was coming on quickly, and he and the supervisor should already have left for the evening. In fact, they would have if Hainree hadn’t gone to some lengths to arrange otherwise. He’d known Grahsmahn would want a detailed report on how he’d solved the problem, and he’d manipulated his own schedule to ensure he’d be late getting back to the large, rambling block of buildings on Horsewalk Square which housed the city engineer’s offices. Grahsmahn had waited for him in order to get his report firsthand, and the supervisor had listened carefully as Hainree ran through everything he’d had to do to fix it.

The truth was that he’d enjoyed the challenge, and it had been the biggest job he’d been assigned since he’d started working his way up in the city’s engineering and maintenance services. He’d begun as little more than a common laborer-a necessity, if he wanted to be certain no one asked any questions about his previous employers. It wasn’t as if the work were exceptionally difficult, however, especially for a man who’d run his own business for so many years. And the Guildhall plumbing system’s mysterious water losses had at least offered a puzzle sufficient to distract him from the future rushing rapidly towards him.

As he’d told Grahsmahn, figuring out what had to be wrong hadn’t been hard.

The city reservoir, just northwest of Manchyr’s walls, was fed by the Barcor River before the river flowed on through the city itself (becoming distinctly less potable in the process, and not just from storm runoff), and feed pipes from the reservoir flowed under the city itself. Unfortunately, there wasn’t enough head pressure in the system to move water higher than the first floor of most of the city’s buildings, which was one reason for the picturesque windmills spinning busily away on the rooftops of so many of the taller buildings all across the capital. They powered pumps which lifted water from the low-pressure mains to rooftop or water tower cisterns high enough for gravity-feed systems to develop reasonable pressure throughout the city.

The problem at the Weavers Guildhall was that the cistern level had been far below design specifications and still dropping. Obviously, there was a problem somewhere between the main and the cistern, but the pump itself had been operating perfectly. It was an ancient design, with an endless chain of flat, pivoted links traveling in a loop through a pair of shafts. Lifters-bronze saucers closely fitted to the diameter of the shafts-were set every foot or so along the chain, which traveled between the water main and the cistern. Water flowed into the inlet chamber at the bottom, which was slightly larger in diameter than the lifters. The lifters, however, formed a sort of moving cylinder inside the outflow shaft, capturing and lifting water as they moved through the inlet chamber and upward. With a good head of wind, a large enough windmill, and a wide enough pump shaft the system could move hundreds of gallons of water very quickly. Floats in the cisterns raised interrupter rods to disengage the windmill’s steadying vanes when the holding tanks were full, letting the windmills pivot off the wind and go idle to prevent the pumps from raising too much water and simply wasting it, and most of the cisterns were large enough to meet demand in their buildings for at least a couple of windless days in a row.

It was a simple, reliable arrangement whose greatest vulnerability was the possibility that the chain might break. The gearing needed a change of lubricating oil about once a year, but aside from that the only other real maintenance concern was the durability of the flexible gaskets fitted to the edge of each lifter to ensure a good seal with the sides of the lift shaft. The gaskets were made from the sap of the rubber plant with which the Archangel Sondheim had gifted mankind at the Creation (and whose cultivation was a major income source for Corisande) and wore out only slowly, but eventually they did have to be replaced.

The Guildhall pump had shown no signs of excessive wear, however, even though it was delivering progressively less water despite running almost constantly. So the answer had to be that the water was escaping somewhere between the inlet and the cistern, but where? A diligent search had revealed no obvious leaks, but Hainree had known there had to be one, so he’d persevered until he finally found it. What had made it so difficult was that it was quite high, yet there’d been no signs of leakage… because the break in the shaft wall had occurred where it passed through a stone wall directly adjacent to the roof drainage system. Given the intensity of the rainstorms which frequently smote Manchyr, the Guildhall’s downspouts and gutters were designed to handle a lot of water, and at the point where the break had appeared one of the main drain channels had been separated from the shaft only by a single relatively thin layer of cement. Once the shaft started leaking through the dividing cement, it had simply discharged itself down the drain, where no one ever saw it and there was no telltale seepage on any walls or gathering in the cellars.

It had also happened to be one of only two sections of the shaft which couldn’t be eyeballed in a routine inspection, which ought to have suggested something to someone, since “routine inspections” had so singularly failed to find the problem. Hainree had been forced to lower himself down the outer edge of the building, pry loose two large building blocks, and then chip his way through the drainage channel’s inch-thick wall before he could confirm his suspicions. Actually getting to the problem and fixing it had been relatively straightforward after that, although that didn’t mean it hadn’t still required plenty of hard work and sweat. In fact, he damned well deserved Grahsmahn’s praise.

“Well, I just wish more of our people tried as hard to do their jobs as you do,” the supervisor said now. “We’d be in a lot better shape, let me tell you! Not that we’re having much luck getting the budget we need out of the Regency Council.” He shook his head disgustedly. “We need someone on the Council who understands engineering problems-the kind that keep cities like Manchyr running and not just the ones that go into making newfangled weapons!”

Hainree nodded vigorously. It was one of Grahsmahn’s recurrent refrains, and the supervisor probably had a point, although Hainree’s own problems with the Regency Council focused on rather different concerns. However…

“I meant to ask you for your impression of this Empress Sharleyan,” he said, forcing himself to speak the hated name in an almost normal tone.

“I think she’s… impressive.” Grahsmahn leaned back in his chair, scratching the back of his neck, and shook his head slowly. “Somebody said she was beautiful, but me, I’m not so sure. She’s a handsome woman, I’ll give her that, but beautiful?” He shook his head again. “Too much nose, and those eyes of hers… Trust me, Bahrynd-she’s got a temper that would make a slash lizard run for cover!”

“So was she ranting and raving?” Hainree asked.

“No, no, she wasn’t.” Grahsmahn stopped scratching the back of his neck and looked up at Hainree, his eyes unfocused with memory. “In fact, that’s the reason she’s so impressive, if you ask me. It’s not natural for a young woman that age, and one who’s hated the House of Daykyn so long, to not lose her temper at a time like this. I mean, here she’s in a perfect position to hammer us after what those idiots tried to pull, and she’s cool as a cucumber. Not wishy-washy, don’t misunderstand me. I think she was madder than Shan-wei’s Hell at Craggy Hill, at least. But she didn’t scream, she didn’t shout, and she just ordered them beheaded. Didn’t have them tortured, didn’t send their family members after them on general principle, didn’t even have them hanged. Just a short, sharp appointment with an ax and it was all over.” He shook his head again. “I’ll be honest with you, Bahrynd, I can’t see the Old Prince letting them off that easy. I’d say she’s got a short way with people who cross her, but she’s not going out of her way to be any nastier about it than she has to.”

“You sound as if you actually admire her.” Hainree couldn’t quite keep the disapproval out of his voice, and Grahsmahn’s eyes refocused as the supervisor looked up at him.

“Didn’t say that,” he said a bit testily. “Mind you, I’m of the opinion we could do worse, if only her damned husband hadn’t had Prince Hektor murdered. For that matter, if young Daivyn were to come home-and assuming the Regency Council could keep his head on his shoulders when he did-I don’t think she’d go out of her way to be nasty to him, either. Not so long as he didn’t cross her, leastways.”

“Maybe.” Hainree shrugged. “And I’m no noble, or a member of Parliament, either. All the same, Master Grahsmahn, it seems to me that sooner or later there’d come a time when Prince Daivyn would have to ‘cross her’ if he was going to be true to Corisande. And from what you’re saying…”

He let his voice trail off, and Grahsmahn nodded unhappily.

“I’m inclined to think you’ve got a point,” he sighed. “Hopefully, though, it’s not anything that’s going to happen soon, and if I were young Daivyn, I’d be staying far, far away from Corisande until Mother Church gets done sorting out what’s going to happen with this Empire of Charis and Church of Charis.”

It was Hainree’s turn to nod, although he’d come to suspect Grahsmahn was at least mildly Reformist at heart himself. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t as outraged as Hainree at Sharleyan Ahrmahk’s presence here in Manchyr.

“You’re probably right,” he said. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow?”

“Not really.” Grahsmahn’s expression was troubled. “I mean, I know it’s an honor and everything, but I don’t really like watching men being sentenced to death. Langhorne knows they spent long enough on the trials. If they weren’t doing their best to be sure everything was done right and proper, they sure used up a lot of time doing something else! And I didn’t hear any of them yesterday claiming they hadn’t been given a fair trial, except maybe that sorry piece of shit Barcor. But I still don’t like watching. Funny thing is, I don’t think she likes being there any better than I do!” He gave a brief laugh. “I guess she’s got even less choice about it than I do, though.”

Hainree nodded again, though he doubted “Empress Sharleyan” was as bothered by all of this as Grahsmahn seemed to think. The supervisor really didn’t have a choice, though. He was one of the randomly selected city professionals who’d been chosen to witness what happened, and attendance wasn’t optional. Sharleyan and the Regency Council seemed determined to make certain there were plenty of eyes to see-and tongues to tell-what happened to whoever dared to raise his hand against their tyranny and treason.

“Well, Master Grahsmahn,” he said now, “it may be you won’t have to be there tomorrow after all. Things can change, you know.”

“I wish it would,” Grahsmahn said feelingly, pushing his chair back and starting around the end of his desk. “I’ve got enough other things I could be doing, and like I say, I don’t like watch-”

His eyes widened in stunned horror as Hainree’s right hand came up from his side and the short, keen-edged dagger drove home at the base of his throat. His voice died in a horrible gurgle and his hands reached up, clutching at Hainree’s wrist. But the strength was flowing out of him with the flood of his blood, and Hainree twisted the blade as he drew it sideways. The flood became a torrent, and he stepped back as Grahsmahn thudded to the office floor with his eyes already glazing.

“I’m sorry,” Hainree said. He knelt beside the body for a moment and signed Langhorne’s Scepter on the supervisor’s forehead. “You weren’t a perfect man, but you deserved better than this. I’m about God’s work, though, so perhaps He’ll forgive both of us.”

He patted Grahsmahn on the shoulder, then started going through the dead man’s pockets. He needed only a handful of minutes to find what he sought, and he stood once more. He gazed down at the body again briefly as he slipped the ornately engraved summons into his pocket, then turned and stepped out of the office and used the key he’d also taken from Grahsmahn to lock the office door before he started down the stairs. He went the back way, reasonably confident he wouldn’t be running into anyone this late. He’d managed to avoid most of the blood spray, anyway, and once he got out into the settling gloom the few drops he hadn’t been able to avoid shouldn’t be very noticeable.

If he was spotted before he got clear, or if someone should enter Grahsmahn’s office despite the locked door between now and morning, that would be the end of his plan, but he knew in his heart of hearts it wouldn’t happen. As he’d told Grahsmahn, he was about God’s work, and unlike mortal men, God did not suffer His work to go undone.

Sharleyan Ahrmahk sat once again on the dais in Princess Aleatha’s Ballroom. They’d gotten an earlier start today, and even less sunlight came in through the ballroom’s windows, so lamps had been lit in niches around the walls. Despite their brightly polished reflectors, they didn’t shed a great deal of light, so stands of candles had been placed at either end of the document table for Spynsair Ahrnahld and Father Neythan’s use. Once the sun finally cleared the roof of the palace wing shading the windows things should get better, she told herself, then nodded to Ahrnahld to strike the gong.

“Draw nigh and give ear!” the same chamberlain called as the musical note vibrated its way back into silence. “Give ear to the Crown’s justice!”

The double doors opened once more, and four men-or perhaps three men and a boy, since one of them was clearly not yet out of his teens-were ushered through it. One of the older men wore the subdued finery of a minor noble, or at least a man of substantial wealth. The second looked as if he was probably a reasonably well-off city merchant, and the third-the oldest of the group, with iron-gray hair and a spade beard-was clearly an artisan of some sort, possibly a blacksmith, from his weathered complexion and powerfully muscled arms. The youngest was very plainly clothed, but someone-his mother, perhaps-had seen to it that plain though his garments might be, they were scrupulously clean and neat.

She studied their expressions as the guards ushered them-firmly, but without brutality-to their place in front of the dais. Despite the dimness of the light, she could see them quite clearly, thanks to the multi-function contact lenses Merlin and Owl had provided her, and she recognized the apprehension in their faces only too plainly.

I don’t blame them for that in the least, she thought grimly. And I hadn’t realized how badly yesterday was going to depress me, either. I know it had to be done, and I knew it was going to be bad, but even so…

Her own expression was serene and calm with years of discipline and training, but behind that mask she saw again the previous day’s unending procession of convicted traitors. Craggy Hill and his companions had received the “honor” of appearing before her first, but twenty-seven more men and six women had followed them. Followed them not simply before Sharleyan’s dais, but to the executioner.

Thirty-nine human beings in a single day-the first day, she thought, trying not to dwell on how many days of this were yet to go. Not many compared to the number that get killed on even a small battlefield, I suppose. And unlike the people who get killed in battles, every single one of them had earned conviction and execution. But I’m the one who pronounced their sentences. I may not have swung the ax, but I certainly wielded the sword.

Her own thoughts before her arrival in Zebediah came back to her, and the knowledge that she’d been right then was cold comfort now.

But at least I don’t have to send them all to death, she reminded herself, squaring her shoulders as the quartette of prisoners halted before her.

Spynsair Ahrnahld stood and opened another of those deadly folders, then turned to Sharleyan.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “we bring before you, accused of treason, Zhulyis Pahlmahn, Parsaivahl Lahmbair, Ahstell Ibbet, and Charlz Dobyns.”

“I attest that all of them were tried before a court of Church, Lords, and Commons and that all rights and procedures were carefully observed,” Father Neythan added. “Each had benefit of counsel and was allowed to examine all the evidence against him and each was permitted to summon witnesses of his choice to testify on his behalf.”

It was obvious the Langhornite was repeating a well-rehearsed formula, Sharleyan thought, yet it wasn’t a routine formula. He and his two assistants actually had examined each of the court dockets and case records individually.

“Upon what grounds were they accused?”

“Upon the following specifications, Your Majesty,” Ahrnahld said, consulting yet another folder. “Master Pahlmahn stands accused of extending letters of credit upon his banking house and of contributing his personal funds to the raising, equipping, and training of armsmen in the service of Earl Craggy Hill’s conspiracy. He also had personal knowledge of the Earl’s plans to assassinate Earl Anvil Rock and Earl Tartarian as the first step of their coup.

“Master Lahmbair stands accused of allowing ships and freight wagons owned and employed by him to transport pikes, swords, muskets, and gunpowder for the purpose of arming the forces with which Earl Craggy Hill’s conspiracy intended to seize control of the city of Lian in the Earldom of Tartarian.

“Master Ibbet stands accused of joining the armed band intended to seize control of Lian. He is also accused of lending his smithy as a place in which to conceal weapons and of assuming the acting rank of captain in the band being raised in that place.

“And Master Dobyns stands accused of helping to plan, organize, and train the individuals who, in accordance with Bishop Executor Thomys Shylair’s instructions, were to attack the garrison from within in a ‘spontaneous uprising’ here in Manchyr should Craggy Hill’s forces approach the city.”

Sharleyan sat for a moment, looking at all four of them. Ibbet and Pahlmahn looked back at her with hopeless but unyielding defiance. Lahmbair seemed sunk in resignation, his eyes fixed on the floor, his shoulders sagging. Dobyns, the youngest of the three by a good fifteen years or more, looked frankly terrified. He was fighting to conceal it, that much was obvious, but she could see it in the taut shoulders, the hands clenched into fists at his sides, the lips tightly compressed to keep them from trembling.

“And has the court which heard their cases reached a verdict?” she asked.

“It has, Your Majesty,” Ahrnahld replied. “All of them have been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against them.” He extracted a thin sheaf of documents from his folder. “The verdicts have been signed, sealed, and mutually witnessed by every member of the court, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” Sharleyan said, and silence echoed as she swept her brown eyes once again across all four of those faces.

“One of a monarch’s duties is to punish criminal actions,” she said finally. “It’s a grim duty, and one not lightly to be embraced. It leaves its weight here.” She touched her own chest. “Yet it may not be shirked, either. It must be dealt with by any ruler worthy of the crown he or she wears. The courts here in your own Princedom have weighed the evidence against you and found all of you guilty of the crimes charged against you. And, as all of you are painfully aware by this time, the sentence for your crimes is death. There is no lesser sentence we may impose upon you, and so we sentence you to die.”

Lahmbair’s shoulders twitched, and young Dobyns closed his eyes, swaying slightly, but Ibbet and Pahlmahn only looked back at her. Clearly the sentence had come as no surprise to any of them.

“Yet having passed that sentence,” Sharleyan said after a moment, “we wish to make a brief digression.”

Lahmbair’s gaze rose from the floor, his expression confused, and Dobyns’ eyes popped open in surprise. The other two looked less confused than Lahmbair, but the wariness in their expressions only intensified.

“Father Neythan has reviewed every case, every verdict, to be brought before us for the sad duty of rendering sentence. Yet we have reviewed these cases, these verdicts, as well, and not simply with the eye of a law master whose duty it is to see that all the stern requirements of the law he serves have been faithfully observed. And because we’ve reviewed those cases, we know, Master Ibbet, that you joined the rebellion against the Regency Council not simply because of your religious beliefs-which are deeply and sincerely held-but because your brother and your nephew died in the Battle of Darcos Sound, your eldest son died in Talbor Pass… and your youngest son died in the Battle of Green Valley.”

Ibbet’s strong, weathered face seemed to crumple. Then it solidified into stone, yet Sharleyan’s aided vision saw a tear glimmer in the dim light as she reminded him of all he’d lost.

“As for you, Master Pahlmahn,” she continued, turning to the banker, “we know you asked nothing from Craggy Hill or the other conspirators when you provided them with the money they sought from you. We know you ruined yourself providing those funds, and we know you did it because you are a devout Temple Loyalist. But we also know you did it because your son Ahndrai was a member of Prince Hektor’s personal guard who gave his life saving his Prince from an assassin’s arbalest bolt… and that you believe that assassin was sent by Charis. He wasn’t.” She looked directly into Pahlmahn’s eyes. “We give you our word- I give you my word, as Sharleyan Ahrmahk, not as an empress-that that assassin was not sent by Charis, yet that doesn’t change the fact that you believed he was.

“And you, Master Lahmbair.” The greengrocer’s gaze snapped to her face. “You aided the conspirators because they needed your wagons and your barges and they took steps to see they had them. Your sister and her family-and your parents-live in Telitha, do they not?” Lahmbair’s eyes flared wide. “And Earl Storm Keep’s agents told you what would happen to them if you chose not to cooperate?” Lahmbair nodded convulsively, almost as if it were against his will, and she tilted her head to one side. “That was what you told the court, yet there wasn’t a single witness to confirm it, was there? Not even your sister, as much as she longed to. For that matter, we very much doubt Earl Storm Keep, for all the crimes of which he was most assuredly guilty, would truly have murdered an elderly couple, their daughter, their son-in-law, and their grandchildren simply because you refused to cooperate. Yet we believe the threat was made, and there was no way you might have known it hadn’t been made in all sincerity.”

She looked into Lahmbair’s face, seeing the shock, the disbelief, that anyone-especially she-might actually have believed his story. She held his gaze for several seconds in the dim light, and then turned to Dobyns.

“And you, Master Dobyns.”

The young man twitched as if she’d just touched him with a hot iron, and despite the gravity and grimness of the moment, she felt her lips try to smile. She crushed the temptation and looked sternly down at him from her throne.

“You lost no one in battle against Charis, Master Dobyns,” she told him. “You lost no one to an assassin’s bolts, and no one threatened your family. For that matter, we rather doubt your religious convictions run so deep and so fiercely as to have compelled you to join this conspiracy. Yet it’s obvious to us that the true reason for your complicity, the true flaw which brings you to this place this day, is far simpler than any of those: stupidity.”

Dobyns jerked again, his expression incredulous, and for a moment the entire ballroom seemed frozen in place. Then someone cracked a laugh, and others joined him, unable not to, be the moment ever so grim. Sharleyan smiled herself, briefly, but then she banished the expression and leaned forward slightly.

“Do not mistake us, Master Dobyns,” she said coldly through the last ripples of amusement. “This is no laughing matter. People would have died had you succeeded in the task the Bishop Executor had assigned you, and you knew it. But we believe you’d also strayed into dark and dangerous waters before you truly understood what you were doing. We believe that thoroughly though your actions merit the sentence we’ve passed upon you, your death will accomplish nothing, heal nothing-have no effect but to deprive you of any opportunity to learn from your mistakes.”

She sat back in the throne, looking down at all four of them, then looked beyond them to the watching spectators.

“It’s a monarch’s duty to judge the guilty, to sentence the convicted, and to see to it that punishment is carried out,” she said clearly. “But it’s also a monarch’s duty to temper punishment with compassion and to recognize when the public good may be served as well by mercy as by severity. In our judgment, all of you-even you, Master Dobyns-did what you did in the sincere belief that God wanted you to. It’s also our belief that none of you acted out of ambition, or calculation, or a desire for power. Your actions were crimes, but you committed them out of patriotism, belief, grief, and what you genuinely believed duty required. We can’t excuse the crimes you committed, but we can-and we do-understand why you committed them.”

She paused once more, and then she smiled again. It was a thin smile, but a genuine one.

“We would like for you and everyone to believe that we understand because of our own saintliness. Unfortunately, while we may be many things, a saint is not one of them. We try as best we may to live as we believe God would have us live, yet we must also balance that desire against our responsibilities and the practical considerations of a crown. Sometimes, however, it becomes possible for those responsibilities and practical considerations to march with the things we believe God would have us do, and this is one of those moments.”

She watched hope blossom on four faces, newborn and fragile, not yet able-or willing-to believe in itself.

“We must punish those responsible for evil, and we must show to all the world that we will punish our enemies,” she said softly, “yet we must also prove- I must prove-that we are not the mindless slaves to vengeance who currently hold Mother Church in their grasp. Where we may exercise mercy, we will. Not because we are such a wonderful and saintly person, but because it is the right thing to do and because we realize that while we may destroy our foes with punishment, we can win friends and hearts only with mercy. It’s our belief that all four of you would make better friends and subjects than enemies, and we wish to find out if our belief is accurate. And so we commute your sentences. We grant you pardon for all those crimes of which you were convicted and bid all four of you go, return to your lives. Understand us: should any of you ever stand before us again, convicted of new crimes, there will be no mercy the second time.” Her brown eyes hardened briefly, but then the hardness passed. “Yet we do not think we will see you here again, and we will pray that the hurt and the fear and the anger which drove you to your actions will ease with the passage of time and God’s love.”

Grahsmahn had been wrong, Paitryk Hainree decided. Empress Sharleyan was a beautiful woman, and not simply because of the magnificence of her clothing or the crown of state glittering on her head under the lamplight. Hate churned in his belly whenever he looked at her, yet he couldn’t deny the simple truth. And physical beauty, when it came down to it, was one of Shan-wei’s most deadly weapons. It was easy for a young and beautiful queen to inspire loyalty and devotion where some twisted crone whose physical envelope was as ugly as her soul would have found it far more difficult.

She had a commanding presence, too. Despite her youthfulness, she was clearly the dominant figure in the huge ballroom, and not simply because every witness knew she was there to send those brought before her to the headsman. Hainree had learned more than a few of the orator’s and politician’s tricks building his resistance movement here in Manchyr, and he recognized someone who’d mastered those skills far more completely than he had.

Especially now.

Total silence had fallen as she told the foursome in front of her to simply go home. No one had expected it, and her knowledge of each of the four convicted men had startled everyone. She’d consulted no notes, needed no memorandums; she’d known what each of them had done and, even more, she’d known why he’d done it. Corisandians were unaccustomed to monarchs or nobles or clerics who looked that deeply into the lives of those brought before them for judgment. And then she’d pardoned them. Their guilt had been proven, the sentence had been passed… and she’d exercised an empress’ prerogative and pardoned them.

Even Hainree, who recognized a cynical political maneuver when he saw one, sat stunned by the totally unanticipated turn of events. But the silence didn’t linger. He didn’t know who started it, but the single pair of clapping hands somewhere among the benches of witnesses was joined in a rippling, swelling torrent by more. Then more. Within seconds Princess Aleatha’s Ballroom was filled with the thunder of applause, and Paitryk Hainree made himself come to his own feet, sharing that applause even as he cringed inside when someone so deceived by Sharleyan’s ploy actually shouted “God save Your Majesty!”

It took the guardsmen stationed throughout the ballroom several minutes to even begin restoring order, and Hainree took advantage of the confusion to change his position. Still clapping, obviously lost in his enthusiasm for Empress Sharleyan’s compassion and mercy, he stepped forward, shouldering his way through other applauding witnesses. He’d been seated three benches back; by the time the applause began to die away, he’d reached the front row.

The thunder of clapping hands faded, not instantly and quickly but into smaller clusters that gradually slowed and then ceased, and Paitryk Hainree’s right hand slid into the formal tunic which had cost him every one of the hard-earned marks he’d managed to save up over the past six months. It was probably better than any the real Grahsmahn had owned, but it had been worth every mark he’d paid. Coupled with Grahsmahn’s summons to attend, his respectable garb had gotten him waved past the sentries stationed outside the ballroom. The sergeant who’d checked his summons had actually nodded respectfully to him, unaware of the way Hainree’s heart had hammered and his palms had sweated.

Yet there was no sweat on those palms now, and he felt a great, swelling surge of elation. Of accomplishment. God had brought him to this time and this place for a reason, and Paitryk Hainree would not fail Him.

Merlin Athrawes stood at Sharleyan’s back, watching the crowd. Owl had deployed sensor remotes at strategic points, as well, but even with the AI’s assistance there were too many people for Merlin to feel comfortable. There were simply too many bodies packed into the ballroom.

I wish Edwyrd and I had argued harder against this entire idea, he thought as the clapping and cheers began to die away. Oh, it’s a masterstroke, no question! But this is a damned nightmare from a security perspective. Still, it looks like -

“ Death to all heretics! ” Hainree shouted, and his hand came out of his tunic.

Merlin might no longer be human, but he felt his heart freeze as the shrill shout cut through the fading cheers. Even a creature of mollycircs, with a reaction speed far greater than any flesh-and-blood human, could be paralyzed-however briefly-by shock. For the tiniest sliver of an instant, he could only stand there, his head snapping around, eyes searching for the person who’d shouted.

He saw the bearded man standing in the front row, well dressed but obviously not an aristocrat. Then he saw the man’s right hand, and his own hand flashed towards the pistol at his side even as he leapt forward and his other hand reached for Sharleyan.

But that instant of shock had held him just too long.

The double-barreled pistol in Hainree’s hand had been made in Charis. He’d found that grimly appropriate when one of his original followers ambushed and murdered a Marine officer and brought him the weapon as a trophy.

It had been surprisingly difficult to acquire any sort of accuracy with the thing, and he’d quickly used up all of the ammunition which had been captured with it. A silversmith had no problem preparing the mold he needed to cast his own bullets, however, and he’d practiced hard even before Sir Koryn Gahrvai had arrested Father Aidryan and broken Hainree’s own organization. He’d also sawed two inches off its barrel in order to make it more easily concealable and he’d devised a canvas scabbard to carry it under his left arm, hidden inside his generously cut tunic. There’d been times he’d wondered why he’d bothered, and why he’d kept a weapon which would automatically have convicted him of treason against the Regency Council if it had been found in his possession.

Now, as the heel of his left hand cocked both locks in a single, practiced swipe, his right hand raised the weapon, and he squeezed the trigger.

Flame flashed from the pistol’s priming pan and Merlin heard the distinctive “chuff-CRACK!” of a discharging flintlock in the instant before he reached Sharleyan.

His own pistol fired in the same fragment of time. It all happened far too quickly, too chaotically, for even a PICA to sort out. The two shots sounded as one, the assassin’s second barrel discharged into the floor, Merlin’s fingertips touched Sharleyan’s shoulder… and he heard her sudden sharp grunt of anguish.

Impossible.

The single word had time to flash through Paitryk Hainree’s mind before the sapphire-eyed Imperial Guardsman’s bullet exploded through his right lung a quarter inch from his heart. No human being could move that quickly, react that quickly!

Then the agony ripped him apart. He heard himself cry out, felt the pistol buck in his hand as the second barrel fired uselessly, felt himself going to his knees. He dropped the smoking weapon, both hands clawed at the brutal chest wound, he felt blood spraying from his mouth and nostrils in a choking, coppery tide, and a sudden terrible fear roared through him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d come here knowing he was going to his death, succeed or fail, so what was wrong with him? Why should the actual approach of death terrify him this way? What had happened to his faith, his belief? And where was God’s comfort and courage when he needed Him most?

There were no answers, only the questions, and he felt even them pouring out of him with his blood as he swayed and then toppled weakly from his knees.

But I did it, he told himself, his cheek pressed into the floor in the hot pool of his own blood as the blackness came for him. I did it. I killed the bitch.

And somehow, in that last bitter moment of awareness, it meant nothing at all. . IX.

Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s Townhouse and Royal Palace, City of Manchyr

“So what do you think of her now, Alyk?”

Koryn Gahrvai sat back in his comfortable chair, listening to rain drum on the roof. The lanterns illuminating the garden at the heart of the square-built townhouse were barely visible through the pounding raindrops, and thunder rumbled intermittently, still somewhere to the south but rolling steadily closer.

“I’d ask her to marry me, if she weren’t already married to an emperor,” Alyk Ahrthyr said. He reached out to the punch bowl on the table and stirred it gently with the silver ladle, then snorted. “And if she didn’t scare me to death!” he added.

“Now why should she do a thing like that?” Gahrvai’s father asked sardonically. He sat at the head of the table, in the chair which would normally have been his son’s, nursing a glass of Chisholmian whiskey. “It’s not like she’s done anything extraordinary lately, now is it?”

All five of the men sitting around that table looked at one another as a louder peal of thunder grumbled its way across the heavens. Lightning flickered, and Gahrvai raised his own glass in an acknowledging salute to his father before he looked at the Earl of Tartarian and Sir Charlz Doyal.

“Did either of you see that coming?” he asked.

“Which ‘that’ did you have in mind?” Tartarian inquired dryly. “Her performance, the assassination attempt, Seijin Merlin, or the fact that she survived?”

“How about all the above?” Gahrvai retorted.

“ I didn’t see any of it coming, at any rate,” Doyal admitted. “Just for starters, she certainly hadn’t discussed any pardons that I knew of.”

He raised his eyebrows at Earl Anvil Rock and Earl Tartarian, but both of the older men shook their heads.

“Not with us,” Anvil Rock said. “And I had a word with Archbishop Klairmant afterward, too. She hadn’t mentioned anything about it to him, either.”

“I didn’t think she had,” Doyal said. “And something I find almost as interesting is that she didn’t ask anyone for a copy of their trial transcripts, either. Despite which she seemed to know more about all of them than we did.”

“That might actually be the most easily explained part of it,” Tartarian observed. Doyal looked at him with an expression of polite incredulity, and the earl chuckled. “Don’t forget, it was Seijin Merlin’s agents here in Corisande that put us onto the plot in the first place, and we still don’t have any idea how they gathered some of the information they gave us.” He shrugged. “All we do know is that every bit of that information checked out when we investigated. I think it’s entirely possible they may have kept back some facts and suspicions they figured couldn’t be proven in a court, and I don’t imagine Merlin would have many reservations about sharing something like that with Empress Sharleyan.”

“I suppose that could explain it,” Doyal said in a tone which implied he believed nothing of the sort, and Tartarian pointed an index finger at him.

“Don’t you go shooting holes in my perfectly good theory unless you’ve got one to replace it with, young man,” he said severely. Doyal, who wasn’t that many years Tartarian’s junior, laughed, and Tartarian shook his head. But then his expression sobered. “And don’t go shooting holes in my theory until you’ve got an explanation that won’t scare the shit out of me when you come up with it, either.”

“She really is more than a little frightening, isn’t she?” Gahrvai said into the small silence Tartarian’s last sentence had produced. Lightning flashed again overhead, close enough this time that the thunderclap seemed to rattle the opened garden windows in their frames.

“I’m not sure frightening is exactly the right word,” his father objected, but Tartarian made a moderately rude noise in his throat.

“It’ll do until we can come up with a better one, Rysel,” he said.

“I think a lot of it was Archbishop Maikel’s fault,” Doyal put in. The others looked at him and he raised his right hand, palm uppermost as if he were releasing an invisible bird. “Remember how he reacted after that assassination attempt in Tellesberg Cathedral. According to the reports, he didn’t even hesitate-just went ahead and celebrated mass with the assassins’ blood and brains splashed all over his vestments. Frankly, I had my doubts about the stories at the time; now I’m starting to think it must be something in the water in Charis!”

“You may be righter about that than you think you are, Charlz,” Gahrvai said ruefully. Doyal raised an eyebrow, and Gahrvai shrugged. “Don’t forget, before he celebrated mass, he also rebuked the members of his congregation who wanted to go out and start stringing up Temple Loyalists in revenge. Does that remind you of anything?”

Doyal gazed at him for a moment, then nodded, and Gahrvai nodded back while his mind replayed the chaos and confusion of the assassination attempt.

The only thing he’d been able to think when the would-be killer shouted was that Cayleb Ahrmahk would never forgive Corisande for allowing his wife to be murdered on her very throne. There’d been no way the man could miss, not from a range of no more than fifteen feet. Gahrvai would have been one of the first to admit that it was far harder to fire a pistol accurately than most people probably believed, especially when someone was gripped by the excitement and terror of a moment like that. Still, at that range? The man could almost have reached out and touched her with the pistol’s muzzle before he pulled the trigger!

But his fears-like the assassin, apparently-had failed to reckon with Merlin Athrawes. Despite all the stories Gahrvai had heard, and despite the things he knew firsthand were true, he would never have believed any mortal man could move that quickly. The seijin clearly hadn’t seen anything coming before the assassin produced his weapon. Despite that, the first two shots had sounded as one, and his bullet had hit the man who’d been identified as Bahrynd Laybrahn (although Gahrvai sincerely doubted that had been his true name) before “Laybrahn” could fire his second shot. The smear of lead where Laybrahn’s second bullet smashed into the marble floor was barely two feet in front of where his body had fallen, and Spynsair Ahrnahld’s left shoulder had been grazed by the ricochet before it buried itself in the ceiling.

Gahrvai had been in more than his fair share of chaotic, violent situations. He knew how impressions could blur, how a man could be absolutely positive of what he’d seen… and yet absolutely wrong about what had actually happened. And Merlin had reacted so quickly, moved with such speed once he did see the weapon, that he’d seemed almost to have been teleported by a wizard’s spell out of some children’s tale. But still, granting all of that, it simply didn’t seem possible Sharleyan could have been missed.

Yet when Captain Athrawes rolled aside, coming up on one knee from where he’d covered her protectively with his own body, she’d been unhurt. Well, perhaps not totally unhurt, which certainly shouldn’t surprise anyone. Merlin had been more concerned with protecting her from assassins than gentleness, and the weight of an armored man his size coming down that hard would have been enough to knock the breath out of anyone.

From Sharleyan’s expression and the tightness of her shoulders when Merlin assisted her to her feet, Gahrvai had been certain for one heart-stopping moment that she had been hit. She’d leaned to her left, left hand pressed hard against her ribs, and her face had been pale and strained. But then she’d straightened, drawn an obviously cautious breath, and shaken her head-hard-at something Merlin must have said into her ear.

Shouts and screams had still filled the huge chamber, and no one else had been close enough to hear what the seijin might have said, anyway, but Gahrvai had no doubt at all what Merlin had advised. Unfortunately, even seijins had their limits, and one of those limits, clearly, was Sharleyan Tayt Ahrmahk.

“Be seated!” she’d shouted, and somehow she’d managed to pitch her voice so that it could be heard. Not by very many people at first, but those closest to her first stared at her in disbelief and then started repeating her command at the top of their lungs. In less than two minutes, by some sorcery Gahrvai didn’t come close to understanding, she’d actually managed to restore something like order as she stood almost straight, one hand still pressed to her side.

Merlin Athrawes had stood beside her, his pistol still in his right hand, merciless sapphire eyes scanning the witness-filled benches, and Sergeant Seahamper had stood on her other side with an expression which could only be described as murderous. Gahrvai hadn’t blamed either of them at all. God only knew if there was another assassin out there. It didn’t seem possible, but then Gahrvai wouldn’t have believed the first one could have gotten in unchallenged. And if there was another assassin, the slender white-and-blue-clad figure who’d lost her crown and whose long hair had come tumbling down about her shoulders would be a perfect target.

She’d seemed unaware of that, however, just as she’d seemed unaware of the bruise already darkening her left cheek. She’d simply stood there, exposed to any follow-up shot, willing the Corisandians back onto their benches. Only after the last of them sat had she seated herself once more, sitting very erect, her left elbow beside her and her upper arm still pressed against those ribs.

“Thank you,” she’d said in a calm voice whose normality seemed utterly bizarre under the circumstances. Then she’d actually managed a smile, and if it was a bit shaky and passed quickly, who should blame her? She’d reached up with her right hand, tucking a strand of that fallen, glorious sable hair behind her ear and shaken her head.

“I deeply regret that this should have happened,” she’d said, looking down at the body in the pool of blood as four of Gahrvai’s guardsmen prepared to remove it. Her eloquent brown eyes had been shadowed, and she’d shaken her head sadly. “Surely God weeps to see such violence loosed among His children.”

Stillness had seemed to flow outward from her. The scraping sound of the corpse’s heels as the guardsmen picked up the body had seemed shockingly loud in the silence, and the empress had turned her head, watching as the man who’d tried to kill her was carried from her presence. A trail of blood droplets had followed him, dark in the lamplight as the guardsmen and their burden vanished through the double doors, and she’d gazed at those doors for a handful of heartbeats before she’d turned once more to look out at the assembled witnesses.

“There are times,” she’d told them quietly, almost softly, “when all the killing and all the hatred strike me to the heart. When I wonder what sort of world my daughter will inherit? What kind of men and women will decide how the people of that world live? What they’re allowed to believe?”

Gahrvai’s eyes had widened as he realized she’d abandoned the royal “we.” And they’d gone even wider as he saw those benches filled with Corisandians leaning towards a Chisholmian queen who was also a Charisian empress and listening intently. She’d no longer been a conquering monarch dispensing justice and retribution; she’d been something else. A young mother worried about her own child. A young woman who’d just survived a murder attempt. And a voice of calm when she should have been demanding vengeance upon those who had allowed such a thing to happen.

“Is this what we truly wish?” she’d asked in that same quiet voice. “To settle our differences with murder? For those of us on one side to leave those on the other no option but to kill or to be killed? It grieves my soul to know how many people-some of them known personally to me, some of them beloved friends and kinsmen, and far more who I never met but who were someone’s kinsmen or kinswomen or beloved-have already died, yet the death toll is only starting. Yesterday I sat here in front of you and sent thirty-nine people to the headsman. Tomorrow and the next day I’ll send still more, because I have no choice, and those decisions, those confirmations of the sentences of those brought before me, will live with me for the rest of my own life. Do you think any sane woman wants to order the deaths of others? Do you truly believe I wouldn’t rather- far rather-pardon, as I’ve just pardoned Master Ibbet, Master Pahlmahn, Master Lahmbair, and young Dobyns? Despite anything the Group of Four may say, God does not call us to exult in the blood and agony of our enemies!”

She’d paused, her expression sad, her eyes dark in the shadows yet lit by the lamplight while the stink of blood and voided bowels and the brimstone reek of gunsmoke drifted like Shan-wei’s perfume, and then she’d shaken her head.

“I wish I had some magic wand that could make all this go away, but I don’t, and I can’t. The only ‘peace’ someone like Zhaspahr Clyntahn will ever accept is the destruction of everything I know and love and hold dear. The only ‘agreement’ he will ever tolerate is one in which his own twisted, vicious perversion of God’s will rules each and every one of God’s children. Charis didn’t start this war, my friends; Charis simply survived the war someone else launched at her like a slash lizard crazed by blood. And Charis will continue to do what she must to go on surviving, because that’s what she owes to her own people, to her own children, and to God Himself.

“Which is what brings me to this throne in this room, delivering and confirming sentences of death. Many of these people amply deserve those sentences. For others the case is less clear-cut, however clear the law itself may be. And in still other cases, what the law decrees is neither true justice nor what compassion and mercy require. I must err on the side of caution in the cause of protecting that which I’m charged to protect, but where I can, where the chance exists, I’ll grant that mercy whenever and however I may. I won’t be able to do that as often as I wish, or as often as you could wish, but I’ll do it as often as I can, and I’ll ask God’s help to live with the many times when I cannot.”

A ripping sound had been loud in the stillness as Edwyrd Seahamper tore open Spynsair Ahrnahld’s sleeve and applied a dressing of fleming moss from the emergency case each of her Imperial Guardsmen carried at his belt. She’d looked down, watching her secretary’s pale face as the bandage was adjusted, then cocked her head at him.

“Can you continue, Spynsair?” she’d asked him, and Ahrnahld’s hadn’t been the only eyebrows which rose in astonishment at her question.

“Yes-I mean, of course, Your Majesty. If that’s your wish,” he’d said after a moment.

“Of course it’s my wish,” she’d replied with a crooked smile, that elbow and upper arm still pressed against her ribs. She’d sat very erect, but she’d also sat very still, and Gahrvai suspected it had hurt her to breathe. Yet if that was so, she’d allowed no sign of it to cross her expression or shadow her voice.

“We have much still to do today,” she’d told her secretary, her eyes rising across the puddle of her assailant’s blood to include the gathered witnesses in the same statement. “If we refuse to let Clyntahn and the Group of Four stop us, then we won’t allow this to, either. Let us proceed.”

And proceed she had, Koryn Gahrvai thought now. For another four hours, until lunch. She’d seemed unaware her hair was steadily tumbling into looser and looser falls about her shoulders, just as she’d seemed unaware when Merlin Athrawes picked up the crown which had fallen from her head and stood holding it in the crook of his left arm like a paladin’s helmet. There’d been the slightest, barely perceptible breathlessness in her voice, like a catch of pain, yet it was so faint Gahrvai suspected most of those watching her never heard it at all.

Seventeen more people were sent to execution that morning… but another six were pardoned. And in each case, Empress Sharleyan-still without notes-had recited the extenuating circumstances which led her to grant mercy in those cases. She’d continued unhurriedly, calmly, as if no one had ever attempted to harm her at all, and by the end of that morning, she’d held that audience of Corisandian witnesses in the palm of one slender hand.

The bell announcing the end of the morning session had sounded at last, and the empress had looked up with a wry smile.

“We trust no one will be disappointed if we adjourn for the day at this time,” she’d said. “Under the circumstances, we believe it might be excusable.”

There’d actually been an answering mutter of laughter, and her smile had grown broader.

“We’ll take that as agreement,” she’d told them, and stood.

She’d stepped down from the dais, and Gahrvai’s eyes had narrowed as she took Merlin Athrawes’ left arm. She’d swayed slightly, and her nostrils had looked pinched as she’d seemed to stumble for a moment. Her elbow had still pressed against her ribs, and there’d been a certain fragility to her normally graceful carriage, yet she’d smiled graciously at him and at the others who bowed as she passed them.

And then she’d been gone.

“How many women do you know who could’ve done what she did today?” Gahrvai asked now, looking around at his father and the others.

“Shan-wei!” Anvil Rock retorted. “Ask me how many men I know who could’ve done what she did today!”

“Either way, men or women, the answer is damned few,” Tartarian said. “And don’t think for a moment all those witnesses didn’t realize it, too. Oh, I’m sure a lot of it was political calculation. She had to know how it would affect all of us. But even if that’s true, she managed to do it, and I think it was at least as sincere as it was calculated. Probably more, to be honest.”

“I think you’re right,” Gahrvai said. “And I have to ask myself whether or not those reports about her being ‘uninjured’ are truly accurate.”

“Her ribs, you mean?” Windshare asked. Gahrvai nodded, and the dashing young earl shrugged. “I noticed that, too. Not that surprising, I suppose, with Merlin landing on top of her that way! Must’ve bruised the hell out of her.”

“I think they were more than just bruised,” Doyal said quietly. “I think it’s entirely possible they were broken.”

“Nonsense!” Anvil Rock objected. “I’m as impressed with her as any of you, but let’s not get too carried away. Broken ribs are no joke, I’ve had my share of them over the years, by God! If she’d had that on top of almost being killed, not even she would have just sat there.”

“With all due respect, My Lord,” Doyal replied, “don’t forget that this isn’t the first time she’s almost been killed. Think about that affair at Saint Agtha’s. According to my reports, she picked up her dead Guardsmen’s rifles and killed at least a dozen of the attackers herself!” He shook his head. “Whatever else Sharleyan Ahrmahk may be, she’s no hothouse flower. In fact, I’m coming to the opinion that she’s even tougher than we thought she was.”

Gahrvai started to say something, then changed his mind and sat back in his chair. His father didn’t seem to notice, but one of Tartarian’s eyebrows quirked slightly. He looked a question at the younger Gahrvai, but Sir Koryn only shook his head with a smile and listened while Earl Anvil Rock disposed of the notion that even Empress Sharleyan would have continued to dispense justice with broken ribs.

Tartarian let the moment pass, and Gahrvai was just as happy he had. After all, there was time to double-check his men’s report in the morning. The would-be assassin’s first bullet had to have gone somewhere, and the fact that no one had been able to find it-yet!-proved nothing. He’d been certain they were going to find it embedded in the massive throne somewhere, but they hadn’t, which meant it had to have hit the rear wall, instead, didn’t it? Of course it did!

Still, probably better to keep his mouth shut until they did manage to find it. If his father found Doyal’s notion that Sharleyan had managed to go right on with broken ribs ridiculous, he would have found the suggestion that perhaps-just perhaps-that bullet hadn’t completely missed its mark after all ludicrous.

Because it is ludicrous, Koryn, Gahrvai told himself firmly. Absolutely ludicrous!

“I never want to hear another word about how stubborn Cayleb is,” Merlin Athrawes said severely as he helped Sharleyan across her bedchamber. The rush of pouring rain and the rumble of thunder half drowned his voice, but she heard him and looked up with a battered, bruised, but still game smile.

He was glad to see it, but he’d been less than amused when he’d first gotten her back here.

The adrenaline, determination, and sheer willpower which had carried her from Princess Aleatha’s Ballroom to her own suite had deserted her once she crossed the threshold. She’d virtually collapsed into Merlin’s arms, and Sairaih Hahlmyn had fluttered around the seijin in shocked dismay as he’d scooped her up, carried her to her sleeping chamber, and deposited her gently on the enormous bed.

Sairaih’s dismay had turned into something very like outrage as Merlin began calmly unbuttoning and unlacing the empress’ gown.

“ Seijin Merlin! What do you think you’re doing? ”

“Oh, hush, Sairaih!” Sharleyan had said weakly, her voice much thinner and breathless than usual. “The seijin’ s a healer as well as a warrior, you ninny!”

“But, Your Majesty-!”

“I am not going to have a Corisandian healer in here examining me,” Sharleyan had said flatly, sounding much more like her usual self for a moment. “The last thing we need is some wild rumor about how I was actually shot after all, and you know that’s what would happen if word got out that I’d summoned healers to my bedchamber. By Langhorne’s Watch, they’d have me on my deathbed!”

“But, Your Majesty-!”

“There’s no point arguing with her, Sairaih,” Merlin had said in a resigned voice. “Trust me, if there is any serious damage, Edwyrd and I will have a healer in here in a heartbeat, whatever she says. But she’s probably right about the rumor potential, so if it’s only bruising…”

“But, Your Majesty-!”

The third attempt had been little more than pro forma, and Sharleyan had actually smiled as she shook her head.

“I won’t say I’m as stubborn as Cayleb, no matter what Merlin thinks,” she’d said. “But I am stubborn enough to win this argument, Sairaih. So why don’t you just concentrate on brewing me some tea with lots of sugar? Trust me, I could use it.”

“Very well, Your Majesty.” Sairaih had finally conceded defeat. She’d given Merlin one last, moderately outraged look, then marched out past Sergeant Seahamper. The sergeant had looked at Sharleyan for a moment, shaken his head with a pronounced air of resignation, and moved his gaze to Merlin.

“Good luck getting her to see reason,” he’d said a bit sourly. Then he’d tapped the ear holding his own com earplug. “And somehow I don’t think His Majesty’s going to hold off on yelling at her very much longer, even if it is the middle of the night in Tellesberg.”

“Maybe we can at least get Owl to give them a private channel,” Merlin had said hopefully. Seahamper had snorted, given Sharleyan one last look, then closed the door.

“It’s not like I’m a complete idiot,” the empress had said plaintively, then gasped as Merlin lifted her gently into a sitting position to peel the gown down from her shoulders. “Even if there’d been another one of them out there, it’s not like I was running the kind of risk Maikel ran in the Cathedral.”

“There shouldn’t have been any of them,” Merlin had said through his teeth. “How in God’s name did they get a damned pistol past Gahrvai’s guards?”

“I’ve been checking the record from the SNARCs’ sensors,” Seahamper had said over the com from the other side of the bedchamber’s closed door. “Owl’s managed to pick up the moment he was admitted. He was carrying the real Grahsmahn’s summons; Grahsmahn was on the list from the first session; and it never occurred to any of us to tell them to look for firearms concealed inside someone’s tunic because it hadn’t occurred to us that anyone could fit one inside his tunic. And if you want something to make you feel even better, Merlin, Owl’s run the imagery through his facial recognition software. Underneath all that beard and the tattoo, it was none other than our elusive friend Paitryk Hainree.”

The sergeant’s tone had been almost conversational, and Merlin had known he was almost certainly right about the confluence of factors which had allowed the gunman to get past Gahrvai’s guardsmen. No one on Safehold had ever heard of a “photo ID,” so unless Hainree had run into someone who’d remembered the real Grahsmahn from the previous session, there was precious little way anyone could have spotted the deception. Besides, if Owl was right and it had been Hainree, they’d already had ample evidence he was (or had been, at any rate) fiendishly good at getting into (and out of) places where he wasn’t supposed to be. But Seahamper’s calm tone hadn’t fooled him. The sergeant was probably even more upset with himself than Merlin was with himself. This was exactly the sort of thing they were supposed to prevent.

“Don’t the two of you pick on yourselves over this!” Sharleyan had scolded as Merlin gently eased down her chemise. “In a crowd that size? One man? And a man who had the exact documentation he was supposed to have?” She’d shaken her head. “Ideally, maybe you and the SNARCs should have spotted him. In fact, though, it’s not at all surprising to me that someone managed to get past you. For that matter, Merlin, you and Edwyrd argued against this approach from the beginning exactly because you were afraid of something like this. So why aren’t you simply saying ‘I told you so’ and letting it go at that?”

“Because you damn near got yourself killed this morning!” Merlin had snapped. He’d paused, looking down into her face, his sapphire eyes dark. “I’ve lost too many of you already, Sharley. I’m not about to lose any more!”

“Of course you’re not,” she’d said softly, laying one hand on his mailed forearm. “And I didn’t mean to sound flip. But that doesn’t make anything I just said untrue, does it? Besides,” she’d smiled impishly, “at least we’ve just demonstrated that Owl’s tailoring works!”

“More or less,” Merlin had conceded, and grimaced as he ran his fingertips lightly across the huge discolored bruise on Sharleyan’s rib cage. “On the other hand, it didn’t spread the kinetic energy as well as I could have wished. You’ve got at least two broken ribs here, Sharley. Probably three. I’m seriously tempted to whisk you off to the cave tonight and let Owl’s auto doc take a look at you.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be nec- Ow! ”

Sharleyan had flinched as he’d pressed just a bit harder. He’d shaken his head in apology, and she’d sucked in a deep breath.

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” she’d said. “Even if they’re broken, I mean. Isn’t this one of the reasons you inoculated us with the medical nanotech?”

“It’ll help you heal faster; what it won’t do is heal this overnight,” Merlin had retorted. “And it’s not going to help much with the pain, either. If you think this is bad now, you just wait till you wake up and try to move in the morning!”

“I know,” she’d said glumly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve broken them.”

“You and that damned pony,” Seahamper had muttered over the com, and she’d giggled, then gasped in pain.

“Exactly,” she’d said, and looked up at Merlin. “I’m perfectly prepared to be ‘indisposed’ in the morning, at least as long as I can get to breakfast with the Regency Council without looking too much like I’ve been beaten with a stick. I figure they’ll expect at least a little morning-after reaction out of me. So if we just strap up my ribs tightly, I can get through that much, I think. Then I promise I’ll come straight back here and spend the day resting while all those busy little nanites work on fixing me.”

“What do you think, Edwyrd?” Merlin had asked.

“Unless you’re ready to knock her on the head, that’s probably as close to a reasonable attitude as you’re likely to get out of her,” Seahamper had said sourly. “Besides,” he’d gone on a bit grudgingly, “it might not be a very good idea to have her ‘incommunicado’ after something like this. I doubt anyone’s going to come calling in the middle of the night, but the two of you would be gone for hours, and if something does come up I won’t be able to fob people off the way I might get away with in Cherayth. ‘I’m sorry, the Empress is unavailable’ isn’t going to cut it after something like this morning.”

“You’re probably right,” Merlin had sighed, then looked down at Sharleyan and shaken his head. “Too bad current Safeholdian fashion doesn’t include corsets,” he’d said with a lurking smile. “They’re probably the most fiendish device this side of the Inquisition, but just this once they’d actually come in handy! Since we don’t have them, though, let’s get you the rest of the way out of your clothes and see what we can do about strapping up those ribs.”

That had been the better part of six hours ago, and Seahamper had been right about Cayleb’s reaction. The emperor had, indeed, gotten Owl to give him a private connection to Sharleyan, but her side of the conversation had been remarkably monosyllabic, consisting primarily of “Yes” or “No” interspersed with an occasional “Of course I won’t” and even a single “Whatever you say.” It had all been most unlike her, and it probably said a great deal about how deeply she’d been shaken, however composed she might have seemed on the surface.

Now Merlin helped her the last few feet from the bathroom. She made two or three false starts on getting herself turned around and folding down to sit on the bed, then gasped as Merlin scooped her up and effortlessly laid her down again.

“Thank you.” She smiled tightly up at him as lightning whickered beyond her window, briefly etching his profile against the panes, and thunder crashed. “As a matter of fact, this is quite a bit worse than the falling-off-the-pony episode.”

“You don’t say?” Merlin replied dryly, then sighed, looking down at the ugly bruise on the left side of her face. His elbow had done that, he knew, and it was almost as dark as the one on her rib cage, he thought as he touched it with a gentle fingertip. They were lucky he hadn’t broken her cheekbone, as well.

“Sorry about that,” he said with a sad little smile.

“Why? For saving my life the second time?” She reached up and caught his hand, holding it for a moment. “This seems to be getting to be quite a habit for you where Ahrmahks are concerned, doesn’t it? Look-there’s even a thunderstorm! Do you think you could get over it by the time Alahnah grows up?”

“I’ll try, Your Majesty. I’ll certainly try. And when she’s a bit older,” Merlin reached into his belt pouch, “maybe she’d like a little memento of her first trip to Corisande with you.”

“Memento?” Sharleyan repeated, then looked down as he laid something small and heavy in the palm of her hand. The pistol bullet was an ugly, flattened lump that gleamed dully in the light from her bedside lamp.

“Sure.” Merlin looked into her eyes again. “It’s not every mother who’s already survived two separate assassination attempts before her first child’s even a year old. But you know, it’s all pretty fatiguing for us poor bodyguards, so let’s try not going for number three until Alahnah’s at least, oh, seven, let’s say. All right?” . X.

Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

King Gorjah of Tarot was not a large man.

He was a little taller than Prince Nahrmahn (not a difficult achievement) but far less… substantial. Of course, he was also considerably younger, only a few years older than Cayleb himself, and he hadn’t spent as many years in self-indulgence as Nahrmahn had. He was exquisitely tailored, his steel thistle silk tunic rustling as he moved, and his “kercheef,” the traditional headwear of Tarot, was beautifully embroidered and glinted with the scattered flash of faceted gems. All in all, he was the perfect dictionary illustration of a well-groomed, wealthy young monarch perfectly turned out for an important social occasion. He was not, needless to say, the sartorial equal of the waiting emperor, whose crown of state flashed blue and red fire from rubies and sapphires, and whose ornate, embroidered, jeweled (and infernally hot) robes of state were trimmed with the winter-white fur of the mountain slash lizard.

Still, Cayleb had to give him what Merlin would have called “points for style,” especially under the present circumstances. He’d obviously taken great pains to get his appearance exactly right for the occasion.

At the moment, however, he also had the look of a man who was distinctly nervous but doing surprisingly well at concealing it. He’d entered the throne room behind the chamberlain who’d announced his arrival, and he walked sedately towards the paired thrones at its end, ignoring the clusters of courtiers, councilors, and clerics who’d been assembled for his arrival.

It couldn’t have been easy to do that, Cayleb reflected, watching Gorjah come. Of the five realms which had attacked Charis at the beginning of the war, Tarot was the only one who’d ever been a Charisian ally. As a matter of fact, Gorjah had been bound by a solemn mutual defense treaty to come to Charis’ aid, and what he’d actually done was to pretend he intended to do exactly that even as he sent his own navy to rendezvous with the Dohlaran galley fleet sailing to complete Charis’ ruin.

Needless to say, the Kingdom of Tarot-and its monarch-were less than universally beloved in Tellesberg.

At least the Guard’s managed to keep anyone from throwing rotten vegetables at him, Cayleb thought dryly. Under the circumstances, that’s doing pretty well, given the… fractiousness of Charisians in general. And then there’s probably the odd Temple Loyalist who’d love the opportunity to stick a knife in his ribs for turning around and “betraying” Clyntahn in turn by signing back up with us! Poor bastard can’t win for losing, can he?

Actually, the emperor found it difficult to blame Gorjah. Not that he intended to admit anything of the sort until he was positive the Tarotisian monarch would never even contemplate reprising his treason.

Which is one place where Clyntahn’s reputation’s actually going to work for us, Cayleb thought with considerably less amusement. Only a frigging idiot would even think about coming back into his reach after crossing him this way!

Gorjah reached the foot of the dais, stopped, and bowed deeply.

“Your Majesty,” he said.

Cayleb allowed the silence to stretch out for four or five seconds, letting Gorjah remain bent in his formal bow, then cleared his throat.

“King Gorjah,” he replied at last. “Until quite recently, I hadn’t anticipated the possibility of your visiting here in Tellesberg.”

“Ah, no, Your Majesty.” Gorjah straightened and coughed delicately. “I don’t suppose either of us expected to see one another again quite so soon.”

“Oh, I’d anticipated visiting you very soon now,” Cayleb assured him with a pointed smile, and Gorjah’s expression wavered for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and nodded.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he said with what Cayleb privately thought was admirable calm. “And while I won’t pretend I would have enjoyed the sort of visit you had in mind, Your Majesty, I doubt any reasonable man could have quibbled with your motivation.”

“Probably not,” Cayleb agreed, sitting back in his throne and wishing Sharleyan was in the empty throne beside him rather than stretched out on a sofa in her suite in Manchyr nursing her broken ribs.

“But you’re here now,” he continued, “and it would be churlish to treat you discourteously. Or, for that matter, to pretend you had a great deal of choice when the Group of Four sent you your marching orders. After all,” he reached out and touched the arm of that empty throne, “not even Queen Sharleyan saw a way to refuse the ‘Knights of the Temple Lands’ ’ demands. What matters are the present and the future, not the past.” He nodded at where Nahrmahn Baytz, the golden chain of an imperial councilor around his neck, stood watching. “What’s done is done, and past enmities are something none of us can afford in the face of the threat we all face.”

“I agree, Your Majesty.” Gorjah met his gaze levelly. “And while I’m not pretending things, I won’t pretend the thought of openly defying Mother Church isn’t frightening. Leaving aside the spiritual aspects of all this, the Church’s power in the mortal world is enough to give anyone pause. But I’ve seen the other side from inside the belly of the beast, as it were.” He shook his head, his expression grim, and Cayleb saw nothing but sincerity in his brown eyes. “If I’d ever doubted Clyntahn was mad, his purges and executions and his autos-da-fe have proven he is. Whatever he may have thought when he started this, by now he’s convinced that anyone who’s not totally subservient to him-to him, not to Mother Church or God-has no right even to exist. Confronting someone who thinks that way and controls all the power of the Inquisition is enough to terrify anyone, but the thought of what this world will become if someone like him wins is even more terrifying.”

Cayleb looked back at him in silence, letting his words settle into the corners of the throne room. He thought the Tarotisian was sincere, although he also knew Gorjah was less than pleased, to put it mildly, at the present turn of events. It was true he couldn’t realistically have resisted the Group of Four’s demand that he betray Charis, but it was equally true he hadn’t even been tempted to try. He’d always resented that treaty, the way in which he’d felt it turned Tarot into little more than a dependency of the Kingdom of Charis. And now he found himself forced to make formal submission, to turn his kingdom into a mere province of the Empire of Charis. That had to stick in his craw like fish bones, and perhaps that was the most fitting vengeance of all for his “treachery.” Especially since there was no possible path back from the step he was about to take as long as the Group of Four breathed.

“In that case, King Gorjah,” he said, “I suppose we should get on with it.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Gorjah bowed again, then waited while a page placed an elaborately embroidered cushion on the uppermost step of the dais before Cayleb’s throne. The page bowed to him and walked backwards away from the throne, and Gorjah knelt gracefully. Archbishop Maikel stepped forward on Cayleb’s right and held out the gold and gem-clasped copy of the Holy Writ, and the king kissed the book, then laid his right hand upon it and looked up at Cayleb.

“I, Gorjah Alyksahndar Nyou, do swear allegiance and fealty to Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan of Charis,” he said, his voice unflinching, if not joyous, “to be their true man, of heart, will, body, and sword. To do my utmost to discharge my obligations and duty to them, to their Crowns, and to their House, in all ways, as God shall give me the ability and the wit so to do. I swear this oath without mental or moral reservation, and I submit myself to the judgment of the Emperor and Empress and of God Himself for the fidelity with which I honor and discharge the obligations I now assume before God and this company.”

Cayleb reached out and laid his right hand atop Gorjah’s and met the kneeling king’s eyes levelly.

“And we, Cayleb Zhan Haarahld Bryahn Ahrmahk, in our own name and in that of Sharleyan Ahdel Alahnah Ahrmahk, do accept your oath. We will extend protection against all enemies, loyalty for fealty, justice for justice, fidelity for fidelity, and punishment for oath-breaking. May God judge us and ours as He judges you and yours.”

They stayed that way for a handful of seconds, hands touching, eyes meeting, and then Cayleb withdrew his hand and nodded.

“And that’s that,” he said with an off-center smile. “So now that we’ve got it out of the way,” he stood, waving one hand in invitation to his newest vassal as he started down from the dais, “why don’t we get down to work… and let me get out of this damned outfit?” . XI.

Ship Chandler Quay, City of Manchyr, Princedom of Corisande

It was rather different from her arrival, Sharleyan Ahrmahk thought as the carriage rolled down Prince Fronz Avenue towards Ship Chandler Quay behind its escort of Corisandian cavalry. Then the cheers had been undeniably tentative-loud enough, but uncertain. The southeastern portion of Corisande had settled into firm loyalty to the Regency Council months earlier, and it had accepted that the Charisian occupation forces were genuinely doing their best to be no more repressive than they must. But the House of Ahrmahk was still saddled in all too many minds with the blood guilt for Hektor Daykyn’s murder, and all the world knew how bitterly Sharleyan of Chisholm had hated the man and-by extension-the princedom she blamed for her father’s death.

Those cheers of greeting had come from people who’d been grateful for the restoration of order and stability and the relative gentleness of the Charisian occupation… so far, at least. That wasn’t remotely the same as being resigned to permanent Charisian domination, or becoming loyal Charisian subjects, but it had reflected their willingness to at least wait and see.

At the same time, there’d been an undeniable dread of what the late Prince Hektor’s most deadly enemy might have in mind for his princedom, since he himself was beyond her vengeance. In light of her reputation, and even more in light of the way Hektor’s propagandists had emphasized her hostility to his subjects, it had been no surprise the Corisandians had hoped, even prayed, Emperor Cayleb had meant his promises that there would be no violent repression, no unnecessary or casual reprisals, and that the rule of law would be respected. And, for that matter, that Sharleyan would consider herself bound by anything Cayleb might have promised. After all, she was his coruler, and no one in Corisande had any way of knowing exactly how the two of them thought that worked. She and Cayleb had said all the right things, but still…

The fact that those accused of treason had been tried in Corisandian courts, before the peers and clergy of Corisande, rather than hauled before a Charisian occupation court, had been hopeful, yet everyone behind those cheers of greeting and the banners hung out to welcome her had known that if she chose, Sharleyan Ahrmahk could have decreed whatever fate she chose to order.

And that was what was different about today’s cheers. She could have decreed whatever fate she chose… and she’d chosen to abide by the law, as her husband had sworn Charis would. No secret arrests, no condemnations on the basis of tortured confessions, no secret accusers who never had to face the accused, open trials and open verdicts openly arrived at. True, virtually all those verdicts had been guilty, yet even that was different in this case, because the evidence-the proof-had been overwhelming and utterly damning. No one doubted for a moment that anyone accused of treason against Prince Hektor would also have been found guilty, but neither did anyone doubt that Hektor would have seen little reason to worry about things like evidence and proof.

True, she had set aside some of those verdicts, yet unlike Hektor, it hadn’t been to condemn those who’d been acquitted. Instead, almost a quarter of those who’d been convicted had been pardoned. Not because there’d been any question about their guilt, but because she’d chosen to pardon them. It wasn’t even the general blanket, prison-emptying amnesty some rulers proclaimed as a grand gesture on assuming the throne, or for a wedding, or for the birth of an heir. No, she’d pardoned specific individuals, and in every instance she’d personally enumerated the reasons she’d chosen to show mercy.

And she’d gone right on doing it despite the attempt to murder her on her very throne.

Corisande wasn’t used to that. For that matter, virtually no Safeholdian realm was used to that, and Corisande still didn’t know what to make of it. But Corisande knew one thing-Sharleyan Ahrmahk, the archenemy and arch-hater of Corisande, was a very different proposition from someone like Zhaspahr Clyntahn or even Hektor Daykyn. Perhaps she was still-technically, at least-an enemy, and certainly she remained one of the foreign potentates who’d conquered their own princedom, but she’d conquered something else during her visit to Manchyr, as well.

She’d conquered their hearts.

“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, Your Majesty,” General Hauwyl Chermyn said, looking out the window of the carriage. He’d wanted to accompany Sharleyan on horseback as part of the security escort, but she’d insisted on his joining her in the carriage, instead. Now he shook his head and waved one hand at the cheering crowds who lined the streets all the way from the palace to quayside. “I remember what these people were like right after Hektor was killed. I wouldn’t have given a Harchong copper for your life if you’d come to Manchyr then.”

The weathered-looking Marine’s expression was grim, and Sharleyan smiled fondly at him. There were lines in Chermyn’s face that hadn’t been there before Cayleb installed him as the Empire’s viceroy general here in Corisande. His dark hair had gone entirely iron-gray during his stay, as well, and his bushy mustache had turned almost entirely white. Yet his brown eyes were as alert as ever, and his heavyset, muscular body was still undeniably solid -looking, she thought. And well it should be, because if she’d had to come up with a single word to encapsulate Hauwyl Chermyn, it would have been “solid.”

“Well, from all the reports I’ve seen, we owe a lot of the improvement to you, General,” she said, then winced as the carriage hit an uneven paving stone and sent a stab of pain through her still knitting ribs.

“And if I’d done my job a bit better, Your Majesty,” he growled, obviously not having missed her wince, “I’d have had that bastard Hainree-begging your pardon for the language-before he ever came that close to killing you.” His face was briefly as iron-like as his hair color. “His Majesty’d never have forgiven me for letting something like that happen!”

“What you mean is you’d never have forgiven yourself,” Sharleyan said, leaning forward to pat him on the knee as they sat facing each other. “Which would have been foolish of you, since no one could possibly have done a better job than the one you’ve done, but that wouldn’t have changed a thing, would it?” It was her turn to shake her head. “You’re not exactly a reasonable man where your own duty is concerned, General.”

“Good of you to say so, anyway, Your Majesty,” Chermyn said, “but you’re being too kind. Letting me off too easily, too, for that matter. If not for Seijin Merlin, he’d have had you. For that matter, I thought at first he had hit you, and so did nearly everyone else, I understand.”

“Cayleb and I both owe Merlin a great deal,” Sharleyan agreed. “It’s not the sort of debt you can really pay, either.”

“Not the sort of debt you’re supposed to pay, Your Majesty,” Chermyn replied. “That’s what duty’s all about. The only way you can ‘repay’ that sort of service-the only service that really matters, if you’ll pardon my saying so-is by being worthy of it. And I’d say”-he looked directly into her eyes-“that so far you and His Majesty have done a pretty fair job of that.”

“As you say, General, ‘Good of you to say so, anyway,’” Sharleyan said demurely and watched his lips twitch on the edge of a smile under the overhanging mustache.

Sharleyan glanced out the window again. They were approaching Ship Chandler Quay at last, and she saw Dawn Star moored against the fenders. She would really have preferred going out to her galleon by boat-somehow it seemed the proper “Charisian” way to do things-but Merlin, Seahamper, and Sairaih Hahlmyn had flatly refused to contemplate it. So had General Chermyn, for that matter, although the disapproval of a mere viceroy general had scarcely counted compared to that trio’s united front! As Merlin and Sergeant Seahamper had pointed out, the trip in an undoubtedly pitching barge, followed by the journey up the ship’s side, even in a bosun’s chair, would have risked reinjuring the ribs which still had more than a little healing to do. And as Sairaih had unscrupulously thrown into the mix, it would be far safer for Crown Princess Alahnah to be carried from the carriage across a nice, solid stone quay and up a sturdy gangplank than to subject the child to all the risks of a boat trip.

I suppose someone who used to be your nurse really does know all the levers to pull, Sharleyan reflected now. And it was damned underhanded of her to actually be right about it, too!

She reached across to the bassinet in Sairaih’s lap and touched her daughter’s incredibly soft cheek. Alahnah’s eyes were bright and wide, and she reached happily for her mother’s hand. She was such a good baby-most of the time, anyway-and she was taking the carriage trip nicely in stride. Of course, she was probably going to make her sense of outraged betrayal loudly apparent the first time Dawn Star hit a patch of rough weather on the trip to Tellesberg.

Definitely your mother’s daughter, not your father’s, in that regard, aren’t you, love? Sharleyan thought.

She looked up to see Chermyn smiling at her, and she smiled back at him.

“Been a while, Your Majesty,” the general said with a twinkle, “but I still remember what the first one was like.”

“And I understand you and Madam Chermyn are about to become grandparents?”

“Aye, that we are, Your Majesty. My oldest boy, Rhaz, is expecting his first. In fact, unless Pasquale’s changed the rules, the baby’s already arrived. I’m sure Mathyld’s letter’s on its way to tell me all about it.”

“Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

“Doesn’t matter to me, Your Majesty. As long as the baby’s healthy and got all the right number of arms and legs and what-have-you, I’ll be a happy man. Although,” he looked down at Alahnah who was still hanging on to her mother’s hand and cooing, “I guess if I had to be completely honest, I think I’d like a girl. Mathyld and I had the three boys, and they’ve been joys-most of the time, anyway.” He rolled his eyes. “But I think most men, if they’ll be honest about it, want at least one daughter or granddaughter to spoil. And”-his smile faded slightly-“I’ve three sons in harm’s way. I could wish I had at least one daughter who wasn’t.”

“I can understand that.” Sharleyan touched his knee again. “But it’s sons like yours who stand between everyone’s daughters and men like Zhaspahr Clyntahn, General. Be proud of them, and tell them, the next time you have the chance, how grateful Cayleb and I are for all four of you.”

“I will, Your Majesty,” Chermyn said a bit gruffly, then cleared his throat.

“I see we’re almost at shipside, Your Majesty,” he said in a deliberately brisker voice, and she nodded.

“So we are. Well, I suppose it’s time for all of the ridiculous departure ceremony.”

“I’d as soon miss it myself, truth be told,” Chermyn admitted. “And I don’t envy you and His Majesty for having to put up with so much of it. To be honest,” he looked at her with an undeniably hopeful expression, “I’d like to think it might be possible for someone else to take over as viceroy general and let me get away from all the fuss and folderol and back to being an honest Marine. Or even transfer to the Army.”

“I don’t know, General,” Sharleyan said, furrowing her brow pensively while she tried not to chuckle out loud at the opening he’d given her. “You’ve done so well here. And while I know the situation’s improved, it’s still going to be… delicate for quite some time to come.”

“I know, Your Majesty,” Chermyn sighed. He obviously hadn’t expected to convince her.

“Still,” Sharleyan said, drawing out the word as the carriage came to a halt and Merlin Athrawes and Edwyrd Seahamper swung down from their horses beside it. “I suppose I can think of one other duty Cayleb and I really need a good, experienced military officer and proven administrator to deal with. I’m afraid it’s not a combat assignment, although for all I know there may be some fighting entailed, but it would get you out of Corisande,” she ended hopefully, raising her eyebrows at him.

“I’d be honored to serve you and His Majesty in any way I could, Your Majesty,” Chermyn said, although he couldn’t quite hide his disappointment at the words “it’s not a combat assignment.”

“Well, I suppose in that case we could send Baron Green Valley down here to replace you, at least temporarily,” Sharleyan said.

“Are you certain about that, Your Majesty?” Chermyn sounded a little startled. “I understood the Baron was going to be fully occupied in Zebediah for quite some time.”

“Oh, he’s been doing a very good job there,” Sharleyan agreed with a nod. “And Duke Eastshare wants him back in Maikelberg, of course, so we may not be able to send him as your replacement, after all. Still, I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone. In fact, now that I’ve thought about it for a moment, I think your Colonel Zhanstyn could probably hold the fort for you, possibly even on a semi-permanent or a permanent basis. But as far as Baron Green Valley is concerned, he was never going to be our permanent viceroy in Zebediah.”

“He wasn’t?” Chermyn looked at her in surprise as Seahamper moved to open the carriage door and let down the steps while Merlin stood facing outward, eyes scanning the crowd. She cocked her head at the Marine, and he half raised one hand. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I must have misunderstood.”

“The Baron’s a very good man, General, but he was only there to keep a lid on the island until we could decide who to name to succeed Symmyns as grand duke. That was hardly an easy decision, of course. We needed a man of proven ability and loyalty. Someone we knew we could absolutely rely upon, and to be honest, someone who deserved the recognition and the rewards which were going to come along with all the undeniable pains of straightening out the mess Symmyns left behind. Trust me, the position’s not going to be a sinecure for a long time to come, General!”

Chermyn nodded in understanding, and she shrugged.

“And once we did make up our mind who to choose, naturally we’d have to notify the new grand duke before we could even think about recalling Baron Green Valley… which I’ve just done, now that I think about it, Grand Duke Zebediah.”

Her timing was perfect, she thought delightedly. The door opened right on cue as Chermyn suddenly stopped nodding and stared at her in stupefied shock. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, and Sharleyan nodded at Sairaih, who looked as if her grin were about to split her face in two as she gathered up Princess Alahnah’s bassinet and diaper bag.

“Well, I see we’re here, Your Grace, if I may be a little premature,” Empress Sharleyan Ahrmahk said, bestowing a brilliant smile on the thunderstruck Marine, and then she held out her hand to Seahamper and descended the carriage steps into a hurricane of cheers, trumpets, and the thud of saluting guns.