by David Weber
It was a novel notion, and one which had occurred to Cayleb entirely on his own. As he’d pointed out, one of the better ways to defeat the Group of Four’s propaganda was to earn the trust of those people actually in contact with Charis by concrete deeds instead of printed broadsides.
“Let me get this straight,” he said now. “You’re telling me the Corisandian farmers are refusing to accept the receipts our foragers are handing out?”
“More or less, Your Majesty.” Rohzhyr shrugged slightly. “Some of them take them, but they don’t make much effort to keep track of them. And others, I’m afraid, are selling them to anyone ‘foolish enough’ to offer them hard cash on the spot for them.”
“At what sort of exchange rate?” Cayleb asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Most of them are prepared to settle for a hundredth piece on the mark, Your Majesty,” Rohzhyr sighed, and Cayleb’s jaw tightened ominously.
“And are these so-generous speculators Charisians?” he inquired icily.
“Some of them,” Rohzhyr admitted. “Possibly most of them. I really don’t know. I only know the locals don’t think our receipts are worth the paper they’re written on. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if some of them are using them in their outhouses, Your Majesty.”
“I see.”
It was obvious to Merlin from Rohzhyr’s expression and body language that he, personally, believed Cayleb’s quest to actually reimburse the citizens of a land with which he was currently at war was quixotic, at best. In fact, the Commissary seemed to find the entire notion almost immoral. An unnatural act on a par with incest, perhaps. He wasn’t about to come out and say it in Cayleb’s presence, but it was pretty clearly his opinion that if the Corisandians chose not to accept or hang on to the receipts they’d been offered, that was their lookout, not his.
“Listen to me carefully, Colonel,” Cayleb said after a moment. “The policy of the Imperial Navy and the Imperial Marines is going to be that we pay civilian owners for what we seize from them. Civilian owners, Colonel. I’m not going to pay a pack of greedy Charisian speculators instead of the people whose property we actually took.”
“Your Majesty, I understand that, but—”
“I wasn’t quite finished speaking, Colonel.”
Rohzhyr’s mouth closed with an almost audible click, and Cayleb favored him with a frosty smile.
“I’m afraid your clerks are going to find their workload just got a bit heavier,” the emperor continued. “From this moment on, receipts for confiscated property are not transferable. They will be honored only when presented by the individual to whom they were initially issued or, in the event of his death, his legal heirs. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Majesty! But . . . how are we going to be able to prove the individual presenting the receipt is the one who actually received it in the first place? And what happens if someone loses a receipt?”
“That’s why your clerks are going to be working a bit harder, Colonel. First, I want a duplicate copy of every receipt we issue, complete with date, time, and place, filed by every foraging party every day, in addition to the entries in your ledger books. And I want the recorded names of at least two witnesses to attest that the name of the individual to whom the receipt was issued is correct on the receipt. Those same two witnesses will be available to identify that individual before a disbursing officer, if that’s necessary.”
Rohzhyr’s face had grown steadily longer as he visualized the additional labor involved, but one look at the emperor’s expression warned him against arguing. Cayleb let him marinate for several moments, then leaned back in his camp chair and cocked his head.
“Was there anything else we needed to discuss, Colonel?” he asked pleasantly.
Rohzhyr shook his head almost convulsively, and the emperor smiled.
“In that case, Colonel, I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you have a great many things that need doing.”
. X .
Royal Palace,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Charis
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Sharleyan?”
Empress Sharleyan paused, her wineglass halfway to her lips, and her eyes narrowed as she cocked her head at the Duke of Halbrook Hollow.
Her relationship with her uncle hadn’t so much improved over the past few months as settled into one of mutual exhaustion. He continued to make no pretense about his disapproval of her marriage and decision to embrace Charis’ cause against the Temple as her own. Nor did either of them pretend any longer that Sharleyan hadn’t brought him with her to Tellesberg specifically because of that disapproval. Despite her conversation with Archbishop Maikel, their estrangement caused her more pain than she could possibly have expressed, and she made a conscientious effort to at least maintain their familial relationship, since it was obvious their political relationship had been largely destroyed. She knew he still loved her, and they both pretended during their twice-a-five-day suppers together that politics didn’t exist.
Which made his question unexpected, and also explained why she found herself fighting to suppress an instinctive spike of automatic, resentful exasperation.
“Which idea, Uncle Byrtrym?”
She worked hard to keep that exasperation out of her tone, but it was far harder to dissemble with someone who’d always been so close to her, and his lips tightened for just a moment. Then he sat back from the table and propped his elbows on the arms of his chair.
“Actually, Sharley,” he said, using her childhood nickname for the first time in far too long, “I wasn’t talking about any of your, um, political decisions. Or not specifically about their political aspects, at any rate.” He smiled thinly, but with an edge of affection. “I was talking about this field trip of yours.”
“Oh. You mean the one to Saint Agtha’s?”
“Yes.” He shook his head. “I’m not happy about it, Sharley. In fact, I’m starting to regret ever having mentioned the convent to you in the first place. There’s too much chance for something to go wrong if you insist on visiting it.”
“I think that between them, Colonel Ropewalk, Wyllys, and Edwyrd are quite capable of dealing with anything that does go wrong, Uncle Byrtrym.”
“I know you think that. And, frankly, I hope you’re right and I’m wrong. But I think, perhaps, I may understand the feelings of those who don’t wish to see this schism prosper a bit better than you do.”
He shook his head again as her face tightened.
“I’m not trying to open that entire jar of worms, Sharley. Promise!” He managed a crooked smile, and she relaxed again . . . mostly. “I’m simply saying that emotions on either side are passionate, and what with the interdict and the excommunication, those who wish you ill are altogether too likely to feel justified in taking some sort of desperate action. Cayleb may be safe with his army, but you aren’t. I don’t want to see you taking unnecessary risks.”
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes warming at his concern for her safety, despite the differences between them. “But I’m not going to allow fear of my own subjects to turn me into a prisoner in the Palace. I especially can’t afford to do that while I’m still ‘that foreign woman’ to altogether too many of them. This ‘field trip,’ as you call it, is one way of showing them I trust them enough to travel among them. And the fact that Saint Agtha was born in Chisholm but chose to spend almost all of her life here in Charis won’t be lost on them, either. Besides, I’ve been fascinated by her biography. I really want to see the convent where she worked all those miraculous healings.”
And, she did not add out loud, because I’m exhausted. I think Rayjhis, Maikel, and I have done a good, solid job of hammering the Imperial Parliament together, and I can’t believe how well Maikel’s managing to integrate Archbishop Pawal’s archbishopric into the new hierarchy, even with Braynair’s active cooperation. But it didn’t come easy for any of us. And people like your “good friend” Kairee didn’t exactly help, either,
Uncle Byrtrym. I need this trip.
“All that may be true,” he replied, “but it doesn’t change a single thing I’ve said, either. I wish you’d at least take more of your personal guard from home with you.”
“I can’t do that, either, Uncle Byrtrym.” Her tone had hardened slightly, and she grimaced, unhappy with herself at the change. “The last thing I can afford to do,” she continued, trying to soften her impatience, “is to give the impression that I trust Chisholmians more than I trust Charisians. That’s the entire reason for integrating my guardsmen and Cayleb’s in the first place.”
“But—”
“Uncle Byrtrym,” she interrupted gently, “I appreciate your concern. I truly do. Believe me, the fact that I know you still love me, despite our present political differences, is more important to me than I can say. But as you yourself helped Mahrak teach me when I was a girl, once a decision’s been made, the worst thing you can do is try to second-guess yourself. And let’s be honest with one another, please. My reasons for the decisions I’ve made can’t possibly be acceptable to you. I know that, and I regret it, but it’s a fact we both simply have to accept. And that means you’re looking at all of those decisions from a radically different perspective. Of course we’re not going to agree. If you’ll forgive me, I think we both need to take it as a given that you’re motivated by your love for me to worry about my safety, but that I can’t allow your worries to change my mind. And on that basis, I think it would be far better if we agreed to discuss something else.”
He gazed at her across the table for a second or two, then sighed.
“All right, Sharley,” he said. “You’re probably right. And speaking of discussing ‘something else,’ ” he continued in a determinedly brighter tone, “what do you think of that new chestnut of mine?”
. XI .
Emperor Cayleb’s Headquarters Encampment,
Duchy of Manchyr,
League of Corisande
Merlin Athrawes sat in the darkened tent, leaning back in a folding camp chair with his eyes closed. He really ought to have been lying down, with his “breathing” programmed to be slow and deep, pretending to be asleep if anyone should wander in, but that was much less likely to happen here than it had been aboard ship. Besides, he’d discovered that he actually thought better sitting or standing. Which had to be purely psychological, but made it no less true.
Unfortunately, the posture in which he chose to do his thinking did nothing to add more hours to the lengthy Safeholdian day, and as he’d told Cayleb, there was simply too much he had to keep track of. Initially, that hadn’t been that much of a problem, but as the repercussions of Charis’ defiance of the Group of Four reechoed around the globe, it had become a nightmare task, even with Owl’s help. The fact that he’d been forced to concentrate so heavily on Corisande once Cayleb began active operations against Hektor had only made the nightmare worse, and when he dropped a stitch, the consequences could be dire. Not to mention frustrating as hell.
He was still . . . irritated with himself for not picking up on Hektor’s plans to get his daughter and younger son out of Corisande in time, for example. The fact that the schooner Dawn Star had actually stopped and boarded the ship with the two of them—and Earl Coris—aboard only made his irritation worse. If there’d just been time to warn Dawn Star and the other cruisers that some suitably anonymous informant had told them members of Hektor’s family might be attempting to flee the princedom, then her boarding officer would undoubtedly have taken a much closer look at Wing’s passenger list instead of concentrating on her cargo. Her completely legitimate-seeming cargo.
Still, he had to admit that Cayleb had been right to order him to take regular breaks each night. Two hours was probably more than he actually needed, but he could recognize a significant difference in his mental sharpness since Cayleb had handed down his diktat.
His lips twitched in a smile as he wondered just how Cayleb would be able to tell whether he was “awake” or “asleep” if the emperor came to check and make certain he was getting the prescribed “downtime” each night.
I suppose the point is that he doesn’t have to check. I told him I’d do it, and he took my word for it. Sneaky bastard. It’s so much easier to creep around behind the back of someone who doesn’t simply expect you to be as honorable and trustworthy as he is. Besides, I might as well admit that he’s got about as much “command presence” as anyone I ever served under, including Commodore Pei.
It was peculiar how his original attitudes towards Charis and Charisians had changed, he reflected. He’d respected both Cayleb and his father from the beginning, but as he’d told King Haarahld in their very first interview, his loyalty had been to the future of Safehold, not to any specific monarch or even realm. Yet that was no longer strictly true. Since then, somehow, he’d become a Charisian himself, and he wasn’t certain that was a good thing. His responsibility was to the entire human race, not to the House of Ahrmahk, however personable, likable, and charismatic the current head of that house might be. He couldn’t afford to allow himself to begin identifying with the interests of Charis in a way which might distract him from his overarching duty.
But I’m not—not really, he told himself in one corner of his brain while most of his attention was concentrated on the summary of the day’s take from the SNARCs which Owl was transmitting to him. Or, rather, at this point in time, the interests of Charis are identical with those of the human race in general. There’s certainly no one else prepared to take the stand Cayleb, Maikel, and Sharleyan are taking, at any rate! Even from the most cold-blooded perspective, I can’t afford to lose this particular team. If I did, I’d probably never find its equal again.
Sure, another corner of his brain replied sardonically. You go right on convincing yourself that way.
Oh, shut up! the first corner snapped peevishly.
He snorted. These little internal conversations of his would undoubtedly have worried any psychologist who’d been prepared to take on the challenge of analyzing an electronic pattern of memories and emotions which stubbornly persisted in thinking of itself as a human being. It wasn’t as if—
His thoughts broke off abruptly and he twitched upright in his chair.
“Owl!” he subvocalized.
“Yes, Lieutenant Commander Alban?”
“Replay that last segment.”
“Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” the AI replied obediently, and Merlin swore silently and viciously as a dagger of ice seemed to go through his nonexistent heart.
Damn it. Damn it! I told Cayleb I had too many things to do!
Yes, he had. And as Cayleb had suggested to him, that was as inevitable as the next sunrise. He simply had to prioritize, which was why he’d been concentrating on matters here in Corisande and events which might directly impinge on Cayleb’s operations. Besides, he knew the quality of the people Cayleb had left behind in Tellesberg, and he couldn’t have personally affected anything that happened there from this far away, anyway.
Every single word of that was true, and he knew it . . . which didn’t make him feel a single bit better.
He stood abruptly, still watching behind his eyelids as the SNARC routinely sweeping Sharleyan’s physical location and tracking her movements detected the armed men moving steadily towards the Convent of Saint Agtha.
He didn’t know who they were, but he knew they weren’t her guardsmen or anyone else associated with her security force. That only left one real possibility for why they might be closing in on the convent. Obviously, he’d missed even more than he’d realized. Neither he nor Owl had tagged any of the men the SNARC was watching as potential threats; they weren’t even in the database they’d been constructing. But they had to have contact with someone who was, or else they wouldn’t have known Sharleyan’s agenda well enough and sufficiently in advance to prepare as well as they obviously had.
Those thoughts flashed through his molycirc brain, and then he shook himself. However interesting a
ll this speculation might be, it wasn’t doing him any good. And it wasn’t doing Sharleyan any good, either.
He stood very still, considering alternatives and consequences. It was roughly four in the morning in Corisande, which made it eighteen hundred in Charis, and he was the next best thing to seven thousand air-miles from Tellesberg. There was no way he could possibly warn Sharleyan or any of her guardsmen. But there was one possibility, only . . .
It’s those kids and the krakens all over again, he thought. Only this time, it’s even worse. I can’t do this. I can’t risk this. It can undo every single thing we’ve accomplished so far, and I don’t have any right to run that kind of risk, however much I want to.
He knew he was right. Knew he couldn’t take such an enormous chance. Knew—
“Get the recon skimmer airborne!” he snapped to Owl.
. XII.
Convent of Saint Agtha,
Earldom of Crest Hollow,
Kingdom of Charis
“I think the Abbess expected me to object to the rule about servants,” Sharleyan commented as Father Carlsyn, Captain Gairaht, and Sergeant Seahamper escorted her from the refectory to the Convent of Saint Agtha’s guesthouse.
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, Your Majesty, you ought to have objected,” Gairaht replied, just a bit sourly. “It’s not fitting.”
“Oh, stop fussing, Wyllys!” Sharleyan scolded affectionately. “I knew about the convent’s retreat rules before I ever asked the Abbess to allow me to come. And my imperial dignity isn’t so fragile that it has to be buttressed every moment, especially on a retreat. Besides, a reputation for piety isn’t a bad thing under the present circumstances, now is it?”
