by David Weber
He glanced at the empty place at Sharleyan’s left elbow. All of their other children were present, but Alahnah was sick today. She’d discovered her thespian talents simply didn’t extend to projecting the proper joyous focus for God’s Day Mass when she knew the Rakurai might be preparing to strike even as she sat there.
He wondered how even Maikel Staynair’s serenity would survive celebrating that same mass in Tellesberg Cathedral when today’s sun reached Old Charis. As far as he could tell, Staynair was the only member of the inner circle who was truly prepared to accept whatever happened today. There were times when Emperor Cayleb found the depth of his old friend’s personal faith hard to comprehend … and more than a little irritating.
On the other hand, even though mass might be particularly hard today, given the truth about the “archangels,” at least it kept them from sitting around and fretting. And he and Sharleyan had plenty of other things to keep them occupied, as well. Unlike their eldest daughter, both of them had learned to be excellent actors over the last twenty-three years, and concentrating on their lines would undoubtedly help them at least pretend they weren’t actually anxious, after all.
He only wished there’d been a way he could have thanked Hauwyl Chermyn for that.
Chermyn had turned eighty in March, and his health had taken a turn for the worse. His once-powerful physique had eroded sadly, the tremor in his hands was ever more noticeable, and he’d begun walking with a pronounced stoop … and a cane. He was spending more time with the healers, and the people of Zebediah were preparing themselves as best they could for the loss of their beloved grand duke. No one expected him to go tomorrow, but no one thought he had all that many tomorrows left, either, and his eldest son, Rahz, had resigned his army commission and returned home to take as much as possible of the load off of him … and to be at hand when the moment came for him to inherit his father’s title.
Under the circumstances, any reasonable grand duke would have stayed at home, in his palace, where his healers could keep an eye on him. Hauwyl Chermyn, however, had other plans. He’d brought his entire family to Court in Cherayth, ostensibly for Rahz to reaffirm his own oath of fealty as his father’s heir to Cayleb and Sharleyan on God’s Day. What not even Rahz knew was that Hauwyl intended for rather more than that to happen. In fact, today would be his final day as Grand Duke Zebediah when he announced to the Court—and to his son—that he was abdicating in Rahz’s favor. The hoopla and consternation that would cause would keep everyone occupied. And, just for good measure, the Chermyns would be celebrating their youngest grandchild’s birthday. Young Allyn was a “God’s Child,” one of the children born on God’s Day—in his case, the year before, which made him a “miracle baby” in every way, since there were fifteen years between him and his older brother, Hauwyl Cayleb … and eighteen between him and his oldest sister, Enylda. Today would see his place in the Zebediahan succession formally recognized … and an energetic birthday party on his behalf. One where everyone who was anyone would be paying his or her formal respects to the abdicating grand duke.
And one thing we can all damned well use is a birthday party, he thought. Can’t hurt a thing to remember life goes on.
AUGUST YEAR OF GOD 915
.I.
Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark.
“Here now! I’ve a right to vote! You can’t—!”
The protest broke off in a harsh sound of pain as one of the guardsmen grabbed the man’s right arm and twisted it so high behind him his wrist touched his shoulder blades. He bent over, gasping, and the guardsman’s partner reached into his tunic and removed the short-barreled revolver from the holster hidden inside it.
“And I suppose this is what you meant to mark your ballot with?” the senior guardsman said.
“Man’s got a right to protect himself on the streets, especially these days!” the civilian got out through gritted teeth. “No law against carrying a gun for self-protection!”
“There is a law against carrying any weapon into a polling place.” The guardsman’s voice was hard, flat. “And the penalty’s three years. Hope you’ll think it was worth it when they let you back out.”
“You can’t just—!”
“The hell we can’t,” the guardsman told him and jerked his head at his partner. “Cuff this … gentleman and see about finding him a ride.”
“Can do, Sarge.” The junior guardsman tweaked the hard-held wrist a fraction of an inch higher. “Gonna give me any problems about the cuffs?” There was no response, so he tweaked it again, high enough his prisoner squealed and shook his head violently. “Didn’t think so,” the guardsman observed with obvious satisfaction, and marched the offender away.
Myltyn Fyshyr watched them go and wondered where this was all going to end. This was his fourth protector’s election as a poll watcher, and he’d never seen anything like it. Polling places normally had a guardsman or two handy to help keep order, and there were usually street guardsmen to keep traffic flowing outside. This year, there were almost a dozen guardsmen inside the polling place, and this was the third arrest he’d seen. At least none of the others had been for bringing weapons into the polling place, though. They’d been because someone had “only” started a physical brawl, usually because they’d decided someone else was there to vote against Zhermo Hygyns. The Myllyr voters seemed far more interested in just keeping their heads down, voting, and getting out again. Hygyns’ supporters were just a bit more … proactive than that.
Judging by the sounds drifting in from the street, there’d been quite a lot more of that outside. In fact, given the ugly mood of the electorate, the fellow with the revolver actually might have had a point about self-protection. Which didn’t mitigate the gravity of his offense one bit, of course.
“Your name?” he asked as pleasantly as he could as a man who looked gaunt and whose tunic and boots had obviously seen better days stepped up in front of him.
“Bryttyn,” the man replied, presenting his certificate. “Dezmynd Bryttyn.”
“Thank you,” Fyshyr said, turning to the proper page of his precinct roll. He found Bryttyn’s name, checked the certificate’s details, and handed it and the printed ballot back to him.
“Through the arch,” he said for at least the two hundredth time that day.
“Thanks,” Bryttyn said, which there’d been precious little of today.
He took his ballot and departed, and Fyshyr looked after him for a moment, thinking about his worn boots, the hollows in his cheeks. The poll watcher had seen too many faces like that, and the sullen desperation which gripped the capital like a fist seemed deeper with each one he saw.
A fresh ruckus broke out outside the polling place and two or three of the internal guardsmen drifted—not particularly unobtrusively—towards the front doors. Their streetside fellows had been reinforced by detachments of Army troops, but everyone knew it would be far better to let the Guard handle everything it could without involving the Army. The mood was ugly enough without that.
He shook his head, praying for Langhorne’s help to make it through the day without actual bloodshed, then looked up at the next voter.
“Your name?”
“Sahlahmn Breyk.”
Fyshyr nodded and started turning pages again.
* * *
“Let me be one of the first to congratulate our new Lord Protector!” Ghustahv Phaiphyr said loudly as he walked into the smoke-filled suite.
Zhermo Hygyns turned quickly from his conversation with Zhaikyb Fyrnahndyz and Ahlahnzo Mykgrady, the owner of one of the capital city’s biggest chain of groceries, and opened his mouth. But he closed it again, quickly, Fyrnahndyz observed with a sense of approval. It wouldn’t do for him to look too eager even here, in front of his core supporters.
“Surely that’s premature,” Fyrnahndyz said instead for him now. “The polls only closed three hours ago. The tally won’t be in until tomorrow evening, at the earliest!”
“Doesn’t matter
,” Phaiphyr said confidently. “My people’ve been spread out to half the polling places in the city, and the other papers’ve covered the rest. We’ve been asking people who they voted for when they left. A lot of them wouldn’t say, of course, but we’ve tallied the ones who did. The General’s leading by over—over, Zhaikyb—two-to-one among the ones who will say. We’ve seen that clear across the capital. Can’t say for sure what the other major cities look like, but going into the vote it was pretty damned clear which way the wind was setting here in the East after people finally realized how Myllyr and Ashfyrd had fucked up the economy. And we already knew the General commanded a hefty lead in Tarikah and Cliff Peak.”
“But not in Glacierheart,” Fyrnahndyz pointed out. “And Thesmar’s been a tossup, too.”
In fact, Glacierheart was going against Hygyns by a substantial majority, he suspected. And Thesmar wasn’t a “tossup,” either. Hygyns didn’t want to hear about that, since he fancied himself “a man of the West,” but his anti-Charis rhetoric had played very poorly in both those provinces. The good news from his perspective was that Thesmar remained very thinly populated and that Glacierheart’s resistance would be more than compensated for by the vote tallies in Tarikah and Cliff Peak. In fact, that would have been true even without the … creative accounting the Western Syndicate’s political allies could be relied upon to provide.
“Doesn’t matter!” Phaiphyr repeated even more emphatically. “No lord protector in history’s ever won election without carrying the Capital, and Myllyr’s losing it in a landslide. The only real question’s how big a landslide, and the one we’re looking at would probably bury Mount Olympus!” He crossed the room to Hygyns, holding out both hands. “Congratulations, General.” He clasped both forearms with the other man. “I mean, congratulations, Lord Protector Zhermo!”
.II.
Imperial Palace, City of Cherayth, Kingdom of Chisholm, Empire of Charis.
“Well, that’s about as ugly as it gets,” Duke Delthak sighed over the com. “I figured he was going to lose, but he didn’t just lose; he got hammered.”
“Not like we didn’t see it coming,” Cayleb replied, as philosophically as he could.
“Do we have any better read on Hygyns’ probable policies once he’s sworn in, Nahrmahn?” Sharleyan asked.
She sat in the warm sunlight with her embroidery hoop, needle flashing back the sun, while Domynyk Maikel gravely chalked a rather lopsided dragon on the flagstones at her feet. No one had ever actually seen a bright purple dragon, but that didn’t seem to bother the almost-seven-year-old one bit.
“Not the specifics, no,” Nahrmahn replied. “Nynian, Owl, and I have been looking that over, but I think he’s still trying to catch up on that himself. Before the crash, he didn’t expect to win any more than we expected him to, so he was fairly safe talking in generalities. Now?”
His avatar shrugged.
“To be fair, he is trying to catch up,” Nynian pointed out. “And he has until February to do that. I’d be happier if he was turning to more qualified—and more honest—advisors, and I don’t think he’s being as effective as he could be, but he’s definitely not letting the grass grow under his feet, either. It’s just that he hasn’t had time to enunciate any specifics yet.”
“Not where long-term policy’s concerned, no,” Nahrmahn agreed. “Some things we do know, though. For one thing, Gahdarhd, Ashfyrd, and Brygs will all be headed out the door with indecent haste on inauguration day. And I’ll be damned surprised if Daryus doesn’t follow them.” He shook his head. “I know the Seneschal’s supposed to be confirmed or fired only with the consent of the Chamber of Delegates, but that could be no more than a formality this time around.”
Sharleyan nodded as she continued setting the neat stitches. Cayleb was in his study, ostensibly reading the latest dispatches from Mahlkym Preskyt. No one needed to know he had rather more recent data on the Republic than their ambassador could provide. Now he grimaced, pushed back his comfortable chair, and rose to pace angrily around the quiet study, because Nahrmahn was right. Hygyns hadn’t just won the protectorship. His allies had won a narrow but decisive margin in the Chamber, as well. Worse, quite a few of the other delegates who’d survived the bloodletting knew better than to cross him and those allies. At least for the first few months of his protectorship, just about anything he wanted was going to pass the Chamber with ease.
Including Daryus Parkair’s dismissal. The blunt-spoken seneschal had made his disdain for General Hygyns too clear during Hygyns’ military service—and been too loyal a servant of both Henrai Maidyn and Klymynt Myllyr. In fact, he’d been a servant of the Republic, but someone like Hygyns would never recognize that distinction. And so, after thirty-plus years commanding the Republic of Siddarmark’s armed forces, Parkair would find himself kicked to the curb by someone who wasn’t worthy to carry his helmet.
“I’m more worried about Fyrnahndyz, to be completely honest,” Nynian said. “That man’s too good at hiding his tracks, and I don’t think Hygyns even begins to suspect how many strings his ‘good friend Fyrnahndyz’ has attached to him.”
“He’s going to have to be careful how he pulls those strings, if he doesn’t want Hygyns figuring it out,” Delthak said.
“He’s been pretty successful so far,” Nynian retorted. “And he and his friends—like Mykgrady—are already starting to turn the tap to siphon more money into their purses. Once Hygyns is formally in office, the trickle they’re getting now’s going to turn into a flood.”
“And despite all Hygyns’ promises, he’s not going to turn the economy around anytime soon,” Cayleb said glumly. He stopped pacing so abruptly he rocked on his heels and stood glaring out the window into the palace gardens. “Doesn’t mean there won’t be plenty of slops for the hogs, of course. In fact, there’ll probably be more opportunities for graft, thanks to the relief programs.”
Several people nodded at that.
Klymynt Myllyr had organized the largest civilian relief effort since the Sword of Schueler. The Church was heavily involved as well, but this went beyond the scope of the Church’s resources in Siddarmark, and it wouldn’t be too many more five-days before winter began moving in on the both Havens. Myllyr had recognized that and had already set up programs to subsidize fuel and food, especially for families with children. Given human nature, it was almost inevitable that Hygyns would receive the credit for those programs, since he’d been careful to rail against their inadequacy during the closing five-days of his campaign. The inner circle could count on him to pour even more funding into that once he was in office and then claim he’d turned around Myllyr’s “failing, ineffectual measures.” And they could just as surely count on men like Fyrnahndyz and Mykgrady to batten on the flood. In fact, Mykgrady had snapped up scores of additional grocers from desperate small business owners all across Siddar City to add to his already large empire. He was also very privately salivating over the opportunities that would provide when the time came to procure and distribute emergency food aid, and Fyrnahndyz was already providing Hygyns with the names of “loyal” businessmen to could replace the “pro-Charis lackeys” running those assistance programs.
The inner circle weren’t the only ones who could read the writing on the wall, either. Their SNARCs might give them an enormous advantage, but private Charisian investors in Siddarmark saw what was coming with stark clarity. They were liquidating their investments, often at significant losses, and fleeing the Republic’s worsening economic situation. And, predictably, Hygyns used that as another pretext to blame them for that economic situation. They’d only been interested in the Republic’s marks all along and they’d been sucking Siddarmark’s economic life’s blood for two decades now! Obviously, now that their predatory conduct had finally brought the Republic’s economy down in crashing ruin, they were looting any final marks they could squeeze out of the wreckage and heading home with their ill-gotten gains.
The fact that the Charisian Quarters in
most of the Republic’s cities had never recovered from the Sword of Schueler only made it easier for him to sell that vile and preposterous allegation. The expatriate Charisian families with ties of blood and marriage to non-Charisian families in the Republic had been largely wiped out, which left them with far fewer voices to speak in their defense. Siddar City’s Charisian Quarter had survived the Sword and the Jihad. In fact, it had grown significantly. But people who’d survived the Sword saw ominous similarities between the vilification directed at them by Hygyns’ supporters and the rabble-rousing invective which had driven the Sword’s ferocity.
“All we can do is hope for the best—or, for the least worst, at any rate,” Sharleyan sighed at last. “And at least the ‘archangels’ haven’t returned yet.”
“There is that, love,” Cayleb acknowledged with a smile. “Mind you, I’m not holding any celebrations for at least another three or four months. They could’ve gotten their sums wrong, after all! But I have to consider the fact that we’re all still alive a major plus. And if they aren’t coming back this year, at least we ought to have plenty of time to deal—or try to deal—with this ungodly mess in Siddarmark.”
“You’re right,” Nahrmahn agreed. “And, speaking of archangels that haven’t turned up yet, Owl and I would like to show you what we’ve been working on with Paityr and Nynian to kick off the final phase of the ‘Nahrmahn Plan.’” His avatar’s smile was remarkably broad … and evil. “Somehow, I think the real Schueler’s going to be spinning in his grave.”
FEBRUARY YEAR OF GOD 916
.I.
Chamber of Delegates, Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark, and Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis, Charisian Empire.
