by David Weber
Zhouhan Husan looked just as nervous—and just as out of place in his tailored tunic—as Syngpu felt. At least Yanshwyn had supported him when he put his foot down and insisted that he’d been born a peasant and he’d dress like a peasant. A well-off, prosperous peasant, perhaps, but still a peasant, without the elaborately cut tunic or the fancy hat of a noble or even a squire like Miyang Gyngdau. Not that he’d managed to make that stand up completely. His “peasant” tunic was made of finer cloth than he’d ever owned before, and the embroidery on it was incredible. He’d never imagined anything like it! It was far too splendid for the likes of him, and creating it had made hours of work for Yanshwyn, Madame Gyngdau, and at least half a dozen other women of Zhutiyan.
He’d argued about it, of course. They’d had far better things to waste their time on than trying to pretty up a battered old peasant like him, and he’d told them exactly that. But he’d also retreated in ignominious defeat at the outcry he’d provoked. They’d insisted, and they’d made it clear they weren’t brooking any defiance on his part, either. And when he’d commented on it to Yanshwyn, shaking his head in bafflement, she’d only shaken her own head and smiled at him through a glitter of unshed tears.
“No,” she’d said. “I don’t suppose you do understand why it’s so important to them, do you?” She’d risen on her toes to kiss his weathered cheek, then leaned her own cheek against his chest. “I love you very much, you know,” she’d said, and after that, all the embroidery and all the fuss hadn’t bothered him at all.
But now—!
“Stop fidgeting, Tangwyn!” Husan hissed in his ear. “You look like you’ve got ants in your breeches!”
“I’m not fidgeting!” he hissed back.
“Are, too!”
“Am not!”
“Are!”
“Am—!”
“Both of you shut up,” Father Yngshwan said severely. They looked at him quickly, like guilty little boys, and he shook his head. “There are times I’d rather herd cat-lizards than you two,” he continued in a quiet voice no one could hear through the background murmur of conversation that filled Saint Sanzhung’s. “If I didn’t know how it would piss off Yanshwyn, I’d kick both of you out of my church and you wouldn’t get back into it without at least a five-day of penance!”
“He started it,” Syngpu muttered.
“Not … one … more … word,” Father Yngshwan growled, but his lips quivered on the edge of a smile.
Syngpu nodded and started fiddling with the cuffs of his tunic, instead. He didn’t know what was taking so long, but it always seemed to work this way. When he’d married Shuchyng all those years ago—God, had they both really been only sixteen?—she’d been late then, too. Was it some sort of conspiracy? A tradition nobody let the men in on? The tiny, tiny chapel in which he and Shuchyng had exchanged their vows without benefit of clergy had been cold and windy that day. He remembered the way her cold cheeks had flushed, how she’d been bundled up against the cold, how she’d smiled as the two of them promised the Archangel Bédard they would love and cherish one another.
And they had, until the Mighty Host took him away from her. Until she died, while he was half a continent away. The remembered grief, the anger, the self-hatred rose up in his throat again for a moment, but then he heard another voice.
“Let it go, Tangwyn,” Yanshwyn said gently in the back of his mind, and now there was another voice. Shuchyng’s, he realized, whispering his name. It was the first time he’d heard her voice in over five years. He’d heard it often—in his mind, in his heart—after the Mighty Host claimed him. But not since he’d learned of her death. Not since he hadn’t been there when she’d needed him most. She’d left him, then, and his eyes burned as he heard her now. Heard her telling him exactly what Yanshwyn had … and heard the love in her voice, too.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there, he told her. I would have been, if I could have. Truly I would!
I know that, that loving ghost told him. I knew that then. How could I not have? And you came for Pauyin. You came for her, Tangwyn.
But it wasn’t enough.
Yes, it was. And now it’s time for you to let me go.
No, never!
Not that way, the voice was almost laughing this time. I didn’t say forget me, Tangwyn. But let me go so that you can go on. Don’t you know that’s what I’ve always wanted for you?
He blinked against the sudden blur of tears, and she was gone. Had she ever really been there? Or had it all been his imagination? Just a way for him to lie to himself, let himself off the hook?
No. Perhaps she hadn’t really come to him once more, but what he’d heard was what she would have said if she had. He knew that now. He knew that this was what she would have wanted for him, just as she would have wanted Baisung for her daughter.
The faintest echo of a loving laugh ghosted through his mind, and he smiled despite the tears.
And then the organ soared into life, the choir’s voice rose, and he turned towards the back of the church as the doors opened and Yanshwyn Gyngdau came through them on her brother-in-law’s arm. She was past the bloom of her youth, just as he was. Life had left its marks upon her, the first streaks of white had touched her hair, and her face would never have spurred a poet’s pen, even when she’d been a young woman. But she moved with regal grace, her small head carried high and proud. The faint lines around her eyes spoke of character and wisdom, laughter and tears, and those eyes—those beautiful eyes—were only for him as she glided towards him down the central nave. There were flowers in her hair, a bouquet in her arms, her gown the white of mountain spike-thorn, even more magnificently embroidered with highland lilies than his own tunic, and she was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.
His heart went into his throat, and he knew she couldn’t be for him. Surely she couldn’t! He was a peasant, a shepherd, rough and unfinished. And she … she—
The bridal party reached him, and Miyang took her hand from his forearm and placed it on Syngpu’s.
“Take care of her,” he said softly, under the music and the voices. “My brother was a fine man. I never thought I’d see her find another just as fine, Tangwyn.”
He touched Syngpu’s upper arm lightly, then stepped back beside his wife. Rouchun was already dabbing at happy tears, and she smiled at Syngpu as she nodded agreement with her husband.
Then Yanshwyn was beside him, and the two of them turned, standing side by side, to face Father Yngshwan. She was so tiny, half Shuchyng’s size, if that, and a part of him wanted to enfold her in his arms and wrap himself around her like a fortress. But another part of him felt the strength of her, the strength which had reached out to him and told him there was love enough in the world for them, too. That they neither needed to forget they’d both loved others before they met nor doubt their love for one another now.
The choir reached the end of its anthem. The organ fell silent, and Saint Sanzhung’s Church was suddenly still and very, very quiet.
“My children,” Father Yngshwan said into that stillness, “Tangwyn and Yanshwyn have come before you to pledge their lives to one another. We live in perilous and frightening times, and all of us know how much of our safety we in the Valley owe to Commander Syngpu. Just as we know how tirelessly Yanshwyn has labored as both scholar and healer, the endless miles she’s traveled to distribute food and medicines wherever they were most needed. And so the joy they’ve found in one another is our joy, as well. Yanshwyn was born here in the Valley; Tangwyn came to us from far away, in the hour of our greatest need. Now both of them are ours, so let us join them and rejoice as they make one another their own.”
He raised his hand in benediction, signing the Scepter of Langhorne. And then he began from memory, without so much as glancing at the prayer book the acolyte held beside him.
“And now, dearly beloved,” he told Saint Sanzhung’s hushed church, “we have gathered together here in the sight of God and the Archangels, and in the face of this
company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God and the Archangels, signifying unto us the mystical union that is between God and His Church; which is a holy estate which the Archangel Langhorne adorned and beautified with his presence in his time here upon Safehold, and is commended of the Archangel Bédard to be honorable among all men: and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly; but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, soberly, and in the fear of God. Into this holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
AUGUST YEAR OF GOD 910
.I.
Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark, and Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis, Empire of Charis.
Rain drummed on roofs, gurgled along gutters and splashed down downspouts, and battered pedestrians and freight wagons. Umbrellas moved along the sidewalks, many of them bright splashes of color against the rain-washed gray and brown of stonework or the dark umber brick of Siddar City. Ever-increasing numbers of “bicycles” had made their way to the Mainland, and their riders swerved in and out of more traditional traffic, bumping up onto and off the sidewalks, as often as not, with their customary lack of concern for others. The rain was heavy enough to reduce visibility significantly, which made their normal antics even more disruptive, and Dustyn Nezbyt grimaced out the boardroom window at them.
“This weather sucks,” he growled to the man standing next to him.
“I’m not too partial to it myself,” Zhak Hahraimahn acknowledged, “but is there a particular reason it bothers you today?”
“Well, mostly because Mahtylda and Aileen and I are supposed to take Triumph out on the Bay tomorrow.” Nezbyt looked at the taller Hahraimahn and twitched his head out the window. “You really think Mathylda’s going to enjoy herself sailing around out there in weather like this?”
“No, not really.” Hahraimahn’s lips twitched, although his voice remained admirably grave.
Mahtylda Nezbyt was an attractive woman, but she did have a temper and she regarded Nezbyt’s 150-foot sloop with mixed feelings at the best of times. The fact that she suffered from seasickness was a factor in that, of course. On the other hand, she obviously saw the yacht as a symbol of her husband’s success, and she was well known in their marina for the parties she threw … as long as she didn’t have to actually take Triumph out to sea. Her daughter, Aileen, on the other hand, was an enthusiastic sailor.
“It may clear,” he said helpfully. Nezbyt rolled his eyes, and Hahraimahn chuckled. “I didn’t say it would clear; I said it might.”
“I believe the proper response is ‘Not a chance in hell,’” the other man said glumly, turning back to the window. “About the only way it could get worse would be to have one of those damned bicycles of yours run me down on the way home to face her. Although, come to think of it, that might be the better alternative!”
“Don’t get me started on those things!” Hahraimahn snorted. “They’re making me buckets of marks, and the Pasqualates love them. Apparently, riding the damned things is really, really good for your heart. But they have got to be the worst ‘improvement’ Charis ever inflicted on us!”
“Might be putting it a little strongly,” Nezbyt disagreed, but it was also his turn to chuckle, and Hahraimahn gave him a moderate glare as he realized he’d risen to his friend’s bait. But, damn it, it was true.
And the fact that quite a few of those bicycles did come from his own manufactory didn’t make him any happier about their irritation quotient. The damned things were a menace, and draft dragons hated their jingle-jangling bells. For that matter, he didn’t much care for the racket, either! Besides, even with the “home-field advantage”—and the eight percent import duty the Chamber of Delegates had slapped on imported goods—Charisian-made bicycles were very competitively priced, even here in Siddar City.
And everybody knows Charisian products are better than anyone else’s, he thought grumpily. Idiots will pay a premium for the Charisian name, and especially the Delthak label! And their local dealers aren’t shy about playing that up, either.
The truth, he knew, was that most often Charisian products, and especially those bearing the Delthak label, were better than anyone else’s. Even worse, from the perspective of Delthak’s competitors, the Charisian duke required any of his Siddarmarkian representatives to have what he called “service departments” in-house. If one of their products broke or needed routine repair, they were expected to handle it, and their fees were lower than most Siddarmarkian artisans would have charged. Not only that, many of their products were guaranteed for up to a full year from date of purchase. Indeed, some were guaranteed for as much as five years! If they broke during that period, Delthak would repair or replace free of charge, unless it was obvious the product had been grossly abused by the buyer.
How was anyone supposed to compete with that?
Sneaky bastards, he thought, with a smile that was only half humorous. Probably couldn’t get away with it without the head start they got during the Jihad.
Hahraimahn’s father had been Greyghor Stohnar’s senior representative on the Council of Manufactories he’d established to fight the Jihad. That was where Hahraimahn and Nezbyt had met, actually. Nezbyt had been an up-and-coming young manager with the Exchequer and he’d worked with both Zhak Hahraimahn, senior, and an army officer named Klymynt Myllyr while Zhak Hahraimahn, junior, had been his father’s chief assistant.
The elder Hahraimahn had also worked closely with Ehdwyrd Howsmyn before Howsmyn became the Duke of Delthak, and he’d always spoken warmly and admiringly of the man. Well, Zhak, junior, respected and admired Delthak, too, but he’d always been a bit less comfortable than his younger brother, Ghordyn, with the headlong pace of innovation. Obviously, they had to adapt themselves, but the sheer rate of change was enough to make anyone nervous, and Hahraimahn more than suspected that it had contributed a great deal to Siddarmark’s … erratic performance over the last ten or twelve years. You simply couldn’t overheat a realm’s entire banking and investment structure, not to mention its manufactories, by cramming such fundamental change at it that way without consequences.
Ghordyn, predictably, pointed out that Charis had managed that quite nicely. Of course, Charis also had the Mohryah Lode, didn’t it? And Charis was the one driving the entire rush forward as if there were some sort of time limit on it. If they’d only slow down, even briefly, the rest of the world—and the Republic of Siddarmark, in particular—might get a chance to draw a deep breath and settle down.
Ghordyn preferred to shoot the rapids right along with the Charisians, so he and his older brother had divided their father’s holdings between them. So far, it seemed to be working out for Ghordyn. He’d certainly been more fortunate than many another investor, at any rate. The older Hahraimahn brother, on the other hand, had opted for slow and steady. He’d expanded his manufactory base, but at a considerably slower pace than he might have, with the result that he hadn’t been badly hurt by any of the seemingly inevitable swings between boom and bust.
And that’s why Myllyr had picked him for this, he thought sourly. He wished he could have figured out a way to decline the “honor,” but that had never been going to happen. And Hahraimahn couldn’t really blame him. The lord protector wanted people he knew weren’t going to go dragon wild, which was why he’d tapped Nezbyt as chairman and Hahraimahn as vice-chairman.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and he looked away from the window. The chairs around the long, polished table behind them had filled steadily while they stood gazing out into the rain, and he nudged Nezbyt’s shoulder. The shorter, auburn-haired man looked over his shoulder, inhaled, then gave Hahraimahn a resigned look.
“Time to get this dog-and-dragon show on the road,” he muttered, then squared his shoulders and walked to his place at the ta
ble’s head.
“Gentlemen,” Nezbyt said as Hahraimahn settled into his own chair at the other end of the table, and a chorus of murmured responses came back to him. He smiled with more cheer than he actually felt, picked up the gavel, and rapped it once, lightly, on the table.
“As they say in the Chamber,” he said, “this first meeting of the General Board of the Trans-Siddarmark Railroad will come to order.” He glanced at Zhasyn Brygs, the board’s secretary. “I know we don’t have any minutes to read, Zhasyn, but I don’t think it would hurt a thing for us to go over the Lord Protector’s instructions before we start making any actual plans.”
* * *
“I could wish Myllyr had picked someone else to chair this thing,” Merlin Athrawes said.
It happened to be raining in Tellesberg, as well, although it was a far gentler rain than Siddar City’s drenching downpour, and the windows were open to admit the damp, cooling breeze. He sat tipped back in his armchair with a foaming beer stein in his right hand and a bowl of his favored fried potato slices at his left elbow, and wiggled the toes of his sock feet at his wife.
“Really?” she said as the toes waved at her. “This is what the mighty Seijin Merlin does when there’s no one around to be impressed? Sits around drinking beer and waving his feet in the air?”
“I am not ‘waving them in the air,’” he said with meticulous accuracy. “They are, in fact, propped on an ottoman. And I trust you will note that there aren’t even any holes in my socks.” He sniffed. “It doesn’t get much more genteel than that, Madam!”
“Not in your case, anyway,” she agreed with a smile, and someone chuckled over the com link. It sounded like Ehdwyrd Howsmyn.
“I find myself more in agreement with Merlin than with you on this one, Nynian,” Cayleb Ahrmahk said. “Sorry. And I’m sure Sharleyan will take your side when she gets here. For now, though,” his tone turned more serious, “I think I agree with him about Nezbyt and Hahraimahn, too.”
