How Firm a Foundation

by David Weber

  “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 momen
t, 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.”