Through Fiery Trials

by David Weber

  The Chamber of Delegates hummed with excited background conversations.

  The Chamber itself was a vast expanse of marble and paneled wood, tucked away at the heart of a magnificent structure overlooking the Siddar River where it flowed through the capital toward North Bedard Bay. One entire wall of the Chamber was glass, looking out over the river and filling it with natural light. Normally, at least. Today, the skies were dark, the river a broad stripe of dull pewter absorbing the drifting snow without even a ripple. The wall which faced the windows was an immense mosaic in faceted tiles, tracing the history of the Republic from the day of its inception, and greater-than-life-size figures of most of its great heroes looked out of it with stern and noble eyes upon their present-day successors.

  Chamber Hall had taken almost ten years to build and been completed only fifteen years before the Jihad. There were those who believed its construction had been a mistake. That the old, wooden, cramped Chamber Hall which had survived almost three and a half centuries of wind, weather, and warfare should have been retained. That the Chamber’s resplendent new home was sadly out of touch with the ideals of the Republic’s Founders, even if those Founders had been given places of honor upon its walls.

  No one had paid the gloomy wet blankets much attention, and the Delegates had settled happily into their new surroundings.

  Whatever its possible philosophical failings, however, the Chamber’s acoustics were superlative. Someone speaking in normal tones from the raised podium at its northern end could be easily heard in the last seat, closest to the patterned bronze doors at its southern end. At the moment, those acoustics were bouncing back the rumbling mutter of conversations, filling the spaciousness like the sound of a none-too-distant sea, as the delegates waited to be gaveled to order.

  “Can you believe this shit?” Wahlys Mahkhom muttered in Rahskho Gyllmyn’s ear as the two of them stood just inside the antechamber door, watching the slow flow of conferring delegates swirl around the Chamber.

  “Of course I can believe it,” Gyllmyn replied, equally quietly. “I’d really prefer for it to all be a bad dream, but it’s not.”

  Mahkhom’s nod was glum as he wondered—not for the first time—what lapse of sanity could have led a mountain boy from the Gray Walls here, of all places. He wanted to say it was his wife’s fault. Or maybe he should have blamed Bishop Gharth. Glorya had insisted he could be anything he wanted to be, but it was Gharth Gorjah, Glacierheart’s auxiliary bishop, who’d turned the screws of duty on him when old Holystyr died in office. And the ease with which he’d been elected by his fellow veterans had seemed to validate Glorya’s view. For that matter, he’d enjoyed a solid sense of accomplishment during his first term as a delegate.

  He didn’t expect to experience the same thing this time, but at least he’d have one tried and tested ally outside his own delegation.

  “Got my orders from Governor Landoll yesterday,” he said now. “Don’t think I’m going to enjoy following them, though.” He grimaced. “Doesn’t mean I think the Governor’s wrong; just saying I’m going to get hammered by Ohlsyn’s crowd as soon as I open my mouth and tell them to put Hygyns’ proposals where the sun don’t shine.”

  “You and me both,” Gyllmyn replied philosophically. “Kydryc’s view’s about the same as Governor Landoll’s. But Thesmar’s the newest kid on the block, so I don’t have the kind of clout a Glacierhearter’s supposed to have. I’m supposed to have your back with all the clout we do have, though. The question, of course, is who’s got my back, because I don’t think we’ve got a lot of other friends in the room right now.”

  He smiled with a flash of true humor, but the smile vanished into something bleaker and his eyes hardened as a silver-haired man entered the Chamber from a side door, accompanied by a red-haired upper-priest in the black cassock of the Order of Langhorne, and made his way toward the podium.

  “I suppose we should find our seats,” he said. “This is going to be painful.”

  * * *

  Zhefytha Trumyn climbed the shallow steps to the speaker’s podium through a sudden, singing silence. It was an ascent he’d made more times than he could count over the last seventeen years. That was how long he’d been Speaker of the Chamber, and he’d worked with three lords protector during those years.

  He would not be working with a fourth.

  He reached the top of the steps and crossed to the lectern in front of the high-backed, leather-padded Speaker’s chair. He stood there for a moment, looking out over the sea of delegates, missing so many familiar faces … and seeing all the new faces with more than a hint of despair. If only what everyone had taken to calling “The Collapse” had held off even a few months longer! Just until after the election! But it hadn’t, and those new faces were the result.

  And God only knew where it was all going to end.

  He picked up the gavel, brought it down on the polished square of ironwood. The sharp “crack” was clearly audible, and he laid the gavel down once more.

  “Gentlemen, the Chamber will come to order,” he announced. He looked out across them for another second, then turned courteously to the upper-priest at his side. “Father Ansyn, if you would open us in prayer, please?” he invited.

  “Thank you, Master Speaker,” Father Ansyn Ohmahly, the Chamber of Delegates’ chaplain, replied.

  It was his turn to look out at the Chamber for a long, still moment, before he said, “Let us pray.”

  Chairs scraped on the marble floors as the assembled delegates rose, bowing their heads even as he bowed his own.

  “Oh, most Holy Langhorne,” he said then, “we beseech you to look down upon these men gathered here, called to follow in your blessed footsteps as the givers and the keepers of our Republic’s laws. Touch them with your wisdom that they may decide aright upon the manifold difficult issues which will come before them. In these unhappy days, their duty is graver, their burden heavier, than that of many Chambers which have come before them. We ask you to help them bear it in the service of all God’s children within Siddarmark. Amen.”

  “Amen,” rumbled back from the Chamber, and Trumyn bowed gratefully to Ohmahly.

  “Thank you, Father. I hope the Archangel will hear you and truly touch us with his wisdom in this difficult time,” he said with quiet sincerity.

  Ansyn returned the bow with a courteous nod, then withdrew to the chair beside the Speaker’s and seated himself while Trumyn turned back to the assembled delegates.

  “The Chamber’s first order of business,” he said, “will be the formal certification of the results of the recent election and the seating of our new Delegates. After which,” he smiled bleakly, “the Chair will entertain nominations for the post of Speaker.”

  He looked at the Clerk of the Chamber, seated behind his desk at floor level at the base of the podium. The leather folder on that desk was bound shut by scarlet ribbons fastened with a lead seal bearing the impression of the Republic’s great seal where they crossed one another.

  “If you would be good enough to read the Chamber the results, Master Gahnzahlyz,” Trumyn requested.

  “Of course, Master Speaker,” the clerk replied, and the sound as he used his pen-sharpening knife to cut the ribbon was loud in the silence.

  * * *

  “The Chamber will come to order!” Maikel Zhoelsyn announced, cracking the gavel rather more loudly than Zhefytha Trumyn had cracked it. Then again, Zhoelsyn was a rather more … flamboyant sort in many ways.

  Feet shuffled and paper rustled as the Chamber obeyed its new Speaker, and he felt a rush of power. This was what he’d worked for all those years, he’d been confirmed by an overwhelming majority, and not even the knowledge that he’d been his patrons’ second choice could dim that moment of triumph. A lot of people had expected Mahthyw Ohlsyn to seek the Speakership, and several of the Western Syndicate’s members had wanted him in it. Cooler heads had prevailed, however. Ohlsyn had weathered too many allegations of corruption for some of their E
astern allies to swallow. Zhoelsyn had his fingers as deeply into the pie as Ohlsyn, but he’d always been the number two member of the Tarikah delegation, hiding in Ohlsyn’s shadow. As such, he’d stayed below the horizon more successfully than his companion.

  Ohlsyn didn’t like it, but he was too pragmatic to deny the logic. Besides, he still got to call the plays, and he clearly thought he could be more effective as the man giving the Speaker his instructions without ever emerging into the open himself.

  Of course, Ohlsyn might not have contemplated the future implications for their working relationship inherent in Zhoelsyn’s new position quite as thoroughly as his loyal accomplice had. For now, however—

  “Master Speaker!”

  Mahthyw Ohlsyn shot to his feet right on cue, raising his hand as he sought recognition, and Zhoelsyn nodded gravely.

  “The Chair recognizes the honorable senior delegate from Tarikah,” he announced.

  “Thank you, Master Speaker,” Ohlsyn said. He walked down the central aisle to the lectern beside the Clerk’s desk and turned to face the seated delegates.

  “Fellow delegates,” he began, “this is normally the time at which the senior members of the Chamber would take turns welcoming our new members, following which those new members would make their maiden addresses to the Chamber. Today, however, our Republic faces an unprecedented challenge, one which has brought untold suffering to our citizens and which threatens to bring still worse. Under those circumstances, I believe it’s far more important for us to deal—to the best of our ability, at any rate—with that challenge, and I request that the Chamber suspend the normal rules of procedure in order to do so.”

  “It has been requested that the rules be suspended,” Ohlsyn intoned. “Is there a second?”

  “Master Speaker, I second the motion!” Bahrtolohmayo Zheffyrsyn, one of the new delegates from Westmarch, called loudly.

  “The request has been seconded,” Ohlsyn announced. “The Chair calls for a voice vote. All in favor of the request, please signify by saying ‘aye.’”

  A response rumbled back, although it was clear several of the senior delegates were less than happy that he’d allowed no debate.

  “All those opposed, will signify by saying ‘nay.’”

  A second response rumbled, and Ohlsyn cocked his head for a moment. Then—

  “The ayes have it,” the new Speaker declared, and he was probably right, although the vote had been close enough most speakers would have opted for a roll call vote to confirm it. Ohlsyn was taking no chances, however, and no one cared—or dared—to demand one.

  “Master Zhoelsyn, you may continue,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master Speaker,” Zhoelsyn said with becoming gravity, then turned back to the Chamber.

  “Fellow delegates,” he said again, “all of us know the nature of our beloved Republic’s current crisis. I realize there’s been a great deal of debate over the causes of the financial and economic turmoil sweeping Siddarmark, but its gravity cannot be denied. Neither can the fact that the damage appears to be growing steadily worse even as we watch. And I would submit to the Chamber that the results of the recent election make clear the electorate’s view of its causes and who bears the responsibility for it. The margin of victory for Lord Protector Zhermo was almost three-to-one, and many of our new members enjoyed similar margins in their home provinces. Under the circumstances, I believe it’s clearly our paramount duty to our constituents, the purpose for which we were elected and sent to Siddar City, to enact the Lord Protector’s agenda. I know some members of this chamber question the wisdom of Lord Protector Zhermo’s proposals, and I anticipate the debate may wax lively. Nonetheless, I believe—as I believe many of you believe—that the time for talk is long past. It is time for action, my friends! For action which will address our Republic’s many bleeding wounds … and also hold accountable those responsible for those wounds! Master Speaker, I move that the Expropriation and Public Relief Act be laid before the Chamber for debate and speedy enactment.”

  * * *

  “Well, that’s one way to make bad worse,” Rahskho Gyllmyn said disgustedly to Wahlys Mahkhom across the dinner table. He shook his head. “And the bastards—pardon my language, Glorya—” he looked apologetically at Glorya Mahkhom, “are going to get away with it.”

  “I’m married to someone who used to be a soldier, too, Rahskho,” Glorya said dryly. “And before that, he was a Gray Walls trapper who spent much too much time in taverns and saloons. I’ve heard the word before. Not infrequently prefaced by a very inelegant term reserved for young men who are just a bit too close to their mothers.” Gyllmyn’s lips twitched. Glorya Mahkhom had considerably more formal education than her husband, but she’d never looked down on Wahlys or his veteran friends. “And in this case, I think you’re being too kind to them,” she continued, once again confirming her own awareness of the stakes. “In fact, I think you should have applied that inelegant term to them, because that’s exactly what they are. Not to mention being dumber than rocks if they really want to do this.”

  “You may be insulting rocks, then,” he sighed, “because they’re still going to do it.

  Glorya cocked her head, then looked at Mahkhom with an arched eyebrow.

  “Rahskho’s right,” he said, replying to the unvoiced question. “They’re going to ram it through, and they’d probably have the votes they needed even if the rest of the survivors had the guts to stand up with me and him on the Chamber floor. Which, not surprisingly, I guess, they don’t and won’t.”

  Glorya’s lips tightened, but she only nodded in understanding. It was scarcely a surprise that the non-Hygyns delegates who’d survived the election had a pretty shrewd idea what the new majority would do to anyone who bucked it.

  “And is this ‘Hygyns Program’ as bad as we thought it would be?” she asked, looking back and forth between the two delegates. “Or should I assume from what Rahskho just said that it’s even worse?”

  “Worse, I think,” Mahkhom said glumly. “The way the act’s worded, I’m not sure we can even protect the Charisians in Glacierheart!”

  “Wahlys, the Governor promised—” she began, her expression distressed, and he laid a hand on the back of hers where it rested on the table.

  “I know what Tompsyn promised,” he said quietly. “I know. And I also know we’ll do our damnedest and that both Archbishop Ahskar and Bishop Gharth will stand with us. For that matter,” he twitched his head in Gwylym’s direction, “Governor Fyguera’s going to do his damnedest in Thesmar, too. But Hygyns is out for blood, all these new delegates who rode his coattails want to give it to him, and I think the election showed that way too many voters are panicky enough to go along with it.”

  “But even an idiot—even Zhermo Hygyns—should be able to understand what this will do to the prospects for a recovery! It may offer a quick fix of cash, but it’ll also kill one of our most important—and strongest—long-term revenue sources deader than Zhasphar Clyntahn! How can they not see that?” she demanded. It was a rhetorical question born of frustration and anger, and Mahkhom knew it, but he shrugged.

  “Because Hygyns is a clever fool and a bigot,” he replied, “and because the delegates in the Syndicate’s pocket or beholding to the guilds in the East know which side their personal bread’s butter is on. And because the people who voted them into office are too scared, too confused, and—sometimes for reasons that are actually legitimate—too pissed off at all the changes—and now The Collapse—to see where this has to lead. At the moment, our wonderful new Lord Protector’s pretty much got the go-ahead to do whatever the hell he wants.”

  “And it’s going to take years—more likely decades—to undo the damage,” Gyllmyn said bitterly. “Which doesn’t even consider what this will do to hundreds, even thousands, of perfectly honest, hard-working people.”

  “Or how completely the arsehole is about to piss off Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk,” Mahkhom added. “You’d think even th
is idiot would be smart enough not to do that after what happened to Clyntahn and the Inquisition!”

  * * *

  “—and then, your godson turned around, looked Hairyet straight in the eye, and said ‘The seijins must have snuck in and broken it!’” Sharleyan told Merlin Athrawes.

  “And exactly why is it that I’m to blame for this?” Merlin asked quizzically.

  “Because—”

  She paused, clearly searching for an appropriate answer. He only sat there, head cocked, politely waiting, until she shook herself and glared at him.

  “Because someone, by example, has taught him to prevaricate,” she said, “and I know it wasn’t me.”

  “Oh, of course not! Perish the thought!” Merlin rolled his eyes.

  “None of the other four ever did anything like this,” Sharleyan pointed out.

  “Never ‘prevaricated’ to save their buns when they were caught red handed?” Merlin’s tone was skeptical.

  “Well, never so … badly.” Sharleyan shook her head. “You’d think that with mine and Cayleb’s genes, he’d be better at it.”

  “Sharley, he won’t be eight for another five-day and a half! There’s plenty of time. For all you know, by the time he’s twelve he’ll be as good a liar as Nahrmahn was!”

  “And this is supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Of course it is! A royal or imperial dynasty never has enough skilled diplomats. Just think of what a negotiator he’ll make if he has this kind of gall already and can just acquire the skill set to go with it!”

  “My God,” she said. “You actually think you’re funny!”

  “Oh, no. I don’t think I’m funny,” he told her with a smile, and she chuckled.

  “Well, given how handy you are with assassins and great lizards, I think we’ll keep you around anyway. After all—”

  “Sorry I’m late!” another voice interrupted as Trahvys Ohlsyn dropped into the com circuit. “I thought that meeting would never end!”