by David Weber
It was a simple, reliable arrangement whose greatest vulnerability was the possibility that the chain might break. The gearing needed a change of lubricating oil about once a year, but aside from that the only other real maintenance concern was the durability of the flexible gaskets fitted to the edge of each lifter to ensure a good seal with the sides of the lift shaft. The gaskets were made from the sap of the rubber plant with which the Archangel Sondheim had gifted mankind at the Creation (and whose cultivation was a major income source for Corisande) and wore out only slowly, but eventually they did have to be replaced.
The Guildhall pump had shown no signs of excessive wear, however, even though it was delivering progressively less water despite running almost constantly. So the answer had to be that the water was escaping somewhere between the inlet and the cistern, but where? A diligent search had revealed no obvious leaks, but Hainree had known there had to be one, so he’d persevered until he finally found it. What had made it so difficult was that it was quite high, yet there’d been no signs of leakage … because the break in the shaft wall had occurred where it passed through a stone wall directly adjacent to the roof drainage system. Given the intensity of the rainstorms which frequently smote Manchyr, the Guildhall’s downspouts and gutters were designed to handle a lot of water, and at the point where the break had appeared one of the main drain channels had been separated from the shaft only by a single relatively thin layer of cement. Once the shaft started leaking through the dividing cement, it had simply discharged itself down the drain, where no one ever saw it and there was no telltale seepage on any walls or gathering in the cellars.
It had also happened to be one of only two sections of the shaft which couldn’t be eyeballed in a routine inspection, which ought to have suggested something to someone, since “routine inspections” had so singularly failed to find the problem. Hainree had been forced to lower himself down the outer edge of the building, pry loose two large building blocks, and then chip his way through the drainage channel’s inch-thick wall before he could confirm his suspicions. Actually getting to the problem and fixing it had been relatively straightforward after that, although that didn’t mean it hadn’t still required plenty of hard work and sweat. In fact, he damned well deserved Grahsmahn’s praise.
“Well, I just wish more of our people tried as hard to do their jobs as you do,” the supervisor said now. “We’d be in a lot better shape, let me tell you! Not that we’re having much luck getting the budget we need out of the Regency Council.” He shook his head disgustedly. “We need someone on the Council who understands engineering problems—the kind that keep cities like Manchyr running and not just the ones that go into making newfangled weapons!”
Hainree nodded vigorously. It was one of Grahsmahn’s recurrent refrains, and the supervisor probably had a point, although Hainree’s own problems with the Regency Council focused on rather different concerns. However.…
“I meant to ask you for your impression of this Empress Sharleyan,” he said, forcing himself to speak the hated name in an almost normal tone.
“I think she’s … impressive.” Grahsmahn leaned back in his chair, scratching the back of his neck, and shook his head slowly. “Somebody said she was beautiful, but me, I’m not so sure. She’s a handsome woman, I’ll give her that, but beautiful?” He shook his head again. “Too much nose, and those eyes of hers … Trust me, Bahrynd—she’s got a temper that would make a slash lizard run for cover!”
“So was she ranting and raving?” Hainree asked.
“No, no, she wasn’t.” Grahsmahn stopped scratching the back of his neck and looked up at Hainree, his eyes unfocused with memory. “In fact, that’s the reason she’s so impressive, if you ask me. It’s not natural for a young woman that age, and one who’s hated the House of Daykyn so long, to not lose her temper at a time like this. I mean, here she’s in a perfect position to hammer us after what those idiots tried to pull, and she’s cool as a cucumber. Not wishy-washy, don’t misunderstand me. I think she was madder than Shan-wei’s Hell at Craggy Hill, at least. But she didn’t scream, she didn’t shout, and she just ordered them beheaded. Didn’t have them tortured, didn’t send their family members after them on general principle, didn’t even have them hanged. Just a short, sharp appointment with an ax and it was all over.” He shook his head again. “I’ll be honest with you, Bahrynd, I can’t see the Old Prince letting them off that easy. I’d say she’s got a short way with people who cross her, but she’s not going out of her way to be any nastier about it than she has to.”
“You sound as if you actually admire her.” Hainree couldn’t quite keep the disapproval out of his voice, and Grahsmahn’s eyes refocused as the supervisor looked up at him.
“Didn’t say that,” he said a bit testily. “Mind you, I’m of the opinion we could do worse, if only her damned husband hadn’t had Prince Hektor murdered. For that matter, if young Daivyn were to come home—and assuming the Regency Council could keep his head on his shoulders when he did—I don’t think she’d go out of her way to be nasty to him, either. Not so long as he didn’t cross her, leastways.”
“Maybe.” Hainree shrugged. “And I’m no noble, or a member of Parliament, either. All the same, Master Grahsmahn, it seems to me that sooner or later there’d come a time when Prince Daivyn would have to ‘cross her’ if he was going to be true to Corisande. And from what you’re saying.…”
He let his voice trail off, and Grahsmahn nodded unhappily.
“I’m inclined to think you’ve got a point,” he sighed. “Hopefully, though, it’s not anything that’s going to happen soon, and if I were young Daivyn, I’d be staying far, far away from Corisande until Mother Church gets done sorting out what’s going to happen with this Empire of Charis and Church of Charis.”
It was Hainree’s turn to nod, although he’d come to suspect Grahsmahn was at least mildly Reformist at heart himself. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t as outraged as Hainree at Sharleyan Ahrmahk’s presence here in Manchyr.
“You’re probably right,” he said. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow?”
“Not really.” Grahsmahn’s expression was troubled. “I mean, I know it’s an honor and everything, but I don’t really like watching men being sentenced to death. Langhorne knows they spent long enough on the trials. If they weren’t doing their best to be sure everything was done right and proper, they sure used up a lot of time doing something else! And I didn’t hear any of them yesterday claiming they hadn’t been given a fair trial, except maybe that sorry piece of shit Barcor. But I still don’t like watching. Funny thing is, I don’t think she likes being there any better than I do!” He gave a brief laugh. “I guess she’s got even less choice about it than I do, though.”
Hainree nodded again, though he doubted “Empress Sharleyan” was as bothered by all of this as Grahsmahn seemed to think. The supervisor really didn’t have a choice, though. He was one of the randomly selected city professionals who’d been chosen to witness what happened, and attendance wasn’t optional. Sharleyan and the Regency Council seemed determined to make certain there were plenty of eyes to see—and tongues to tell—what happened to whoever dared to raise his hand against their tyranny and treason.
“Well, Master Grahsmahn,” he said now, “it may be you won’t have to be there tomorrow after all. Things can change, you know.”
“I wish it would,” Grahsmahn said feelingly, pushing his chair back and starting around the end of his desk. “I’ve got enough other things I could be doing, and like I say, I don’t like watch—”
His eyes widened in stunned horror as Hainree’s right hand came up from his side and the short, keen-edged dagger drove home at the base of his throat. His voice died in a horrible gurgle and his hands reached up, clutching at Hainree’s wrist. But the strength was flowing out of him with the flood of his blood, and Hainree twisted the blade as he drew it sideways. The flood became a torrent, and he stepped back as Grahsmahn thudded to the office floor
with his eyes already glazing.
“I’m sorry,” Hainree said. He knelt beside the body for a moment and signed Langhorne’s Scepter on the supervisor’s forehead. “You weren’t a perfect man, but you deserved better than this. I’m about God’s work, though, so perhaps He’ll forgive both of us.”
He patted Grahsmahn on the shoulder, then started going through the dead man’s pockets. He needed only a handful of minutes to find what he sought, and he stood once more. He gazed down at the body again briefly as he slipped the ornately engraved summons into his pocket, then turned and stepped out of the office and used the key he’d also taken from Grahsmahn to lock the office door before he started down the stairs. He went the back way, reasonably confident he wouldn’t be running into anyone this late. He’d managed to avoid most of the blood spray, anyway, and once he got out into the settling gloom the few drops he hadn’t been able to avoid shouldn’t be very noticeable.
If he was spotted before he got clear, or if someone should enter Grahsmahn’s office despite the locked door between now and morning, that would be the end of his plan, but he knew in his heart of hearts it wouldn’t happen. As he’d told Grahsmahn, he was about God’s work, and unlike mortal men, God did not suffer His work to go undone.
* * *
Sharleyan Ahrmahk sat once again on the dais in Princess Aleatha’s Ballroom. They’d gotten an earlier start today, and even less sunlight came in through the ballroom’s windows, so lamps had been lit in niches around the walls. Despite their brightly polished reflectors, they didn’t shed a great deal of light, so stands of candles had been placed at either end of the document table for Spynsair Ahrnahld and Father Neythan’s use. Once the sun finally cleared the roof of the palace wing shading the windows things should get better, she told herself, then nodded to Ahrnahld to strike the gong.
“Draw nigh and give ear!” the same chamberlain called as the musical note vibrated its way back into silence. “Give ear to the Crown’s justice!”
The double doors opened once more, and four men—or perhaps three men and a boy, since one of them was clearly not yet out of his teens—were ushered through it. One of the older men wore the subdued finery of a minor noble, or at least a man of substantial wealth. The second looked as if he was probably a reasonably well-off city merchant, and the third—the oldest of the group, with iron-gray hair and a spade beard—was clearly an artisan of some sort, possibly a blacksmith, from his weathered complexion and powerfully muscled arms. The youngest was very plainly clothed, but someone—his mother, perhaps—had seen to it that plain though his garments might be, they were scrupulously clean and neat.
She studied their expressions as the guards ushered them—firmly, but without brutality—to their place in front of the dais. Despite the dimness of the light, she could see them quite clearly, thanks to the multi-function contact lenses Merlin and Owl had provided her, and she recognized the apprehension in their faces only too plainly.
I don’t blame them for that in the least, she thought grimly. And I hadn’t realized how badly yesterday was going to depress me, either. I know it had to be done, and I knew it was going to be bad, but even so.…
Her own expression was serene and calm with years of discipline and training, but behind that mask she saw again the previous day’s unending procession of convicted traitors. Craggy Hill and his companions had received the “honor” of appearing before her first, but twenty-seven more men and six women had followed them. Followed them not simply before Sharleyan’s dais, but to the executioner.
Thirty-nine human beings in a single day—the first day, she thought, trying not to dwell on how many days of this were yet to go. Not many compared to the number that get killed on even a small battlefield, I suppose. And unlike the people who get killed in battles, every single one of them had earned conviction and execution. But I’m the one who pronounced their sentences. I may not have swung the ax, but I certainly wielded the sword.
Her own thoughts before her arrival in Zebediah came back to her, and the knowledge that she’d been right then was cold comfort now.
But at least I don’t have to send them all to death, she reminded herself, squaring her shoulders as the quartette of prisoners halted before her.
Spynsair Ahrnahld stood and opened another of those deadly folders, then turned to Sharleyan.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “we bring before you, accused of treason, Zhulyis Pahlmahn, Parsaivahl Lahmbair, Ahstell Ibbet, and Charlz Dobyns.”
“I attest that all of them were tried before a court of Church, Lords, and Commons and that all rights and procedures were carefully observed,” Father Neythan added. “Each had benefit of counsel and was allowed to examine all the evidence against him and each was permitted to summon witnesses of his choice to testify on his behalf.”
It was obvious the Langhornite was repeating a well-rehearsed formula, Sharleyan thought, yet it wasn’t a routine formula. He and his two assistants actually had examined each of the court dockets and case records individually.
“Upon what grounds were they accused?”
“Upon the following specifications, Your Majesty,” Ahrnahld said, consulting yet another folder. “Master Pahlmahn stands accused of extending letters of credit upon his banking house and of contributing his personal funds to the raising, equipping, and training of armsmen in the service of Earl Craggy Hill’s conspiracy. He also had personal knowledge of the Earl’s plans to assassinate Earl Anvil Rock and Earl Tartarian as the first step of their coup.
“Master Lahmbair stands accused of allowing ships and freight wagons owned and employed by him to transport pikes, swords, muskets, and gunpowder for the purpose of arming the forces with which Earl Craggy Hill’s conspiracy intended to seize control of the city of Lian in the Earldom of Tartarian.
“Master Ibbet stands accused of joining the armed band intended to seize control of Lian. He is also accused of lending his smithy as a place in which to conceal weapons and of assuming the acting rank of captain in the band being raised in that place.
“And Master Dobyns stands accused of helping to plan, organize, and train the individuals who, in accordance with Bishop Executor Thomys Shylair’s instructions, were to attack the garrison from within in a ‘spontaneous uprising’ here in Manchyr should Craggy Hill’s forces approach the city.”
Sharleyan sat for a moment, looking at all four of them. Ibbet and Pahlmahn looked back at her with hopeless but unyielding defiance. Lahmbair seemed sunk in resignation, his eyes fixed on the floor, his shoulders sagging. Dobyns, the youngest of the three by a good fifteen years or more, looked frankly terrified. He was fighting to conceal it, that much was obvious, but she could see it in the taut shoulders, the hands clenched into fists at his sides, the lips tightly compressed to keep them from trembling.
“And has the court which heard their cases reached a verdict?” she asked.
“It has, Your Majesty,” Ahrnahld replied. “All of them have been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against them.” He extracted a thin sheaf of documents from his folder. “The verdicts have been signed, sealed, and mutually witnessed by every member of the court, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” Sharleyan said, and silence echoed as she swept her brown eyes once again across all four of those faces.
“One of a monarch’s duties is to punish criminal actions,” she said finally. “It’s a grim duty, and one not lightly to be embraced. It leaves its weight here.” She touched her own chest. “Yet it may not be shirked, either. It must be dealt with by any ruler worthy of the crown he or she wears. The courts here in your own Princedom have weighed the evidence against you and found all of you guilty of the crimes charged against you. And, as all of you are painfully aware by this time, the sentence for your crimes is death. There is no lesser sentence we may impose upon you, and so we sentence you to die.”
Lahmbair’s shoulders twitched, and young Dobyns closed his eyes, swaying slightly, but Ibbet and Pahlmahn only lo
oked back at her. Clearly the sentence had come as no surprise to any of them.
“Yet having passed that sentence,” Sharleyan said after a moment, “we wish to make a brief digression.”
Lahmbair’s gaze rose from the floor, his expression confused, and Dobyns’ eyes popped open in surprise. The other two looked less confused than Lahmbair, but the wariness in their expressions only intensified.
“Father Neythan has reviewed every case, every verdict, to be brought before us for the sad duty of rendering sentence. Yet we have reviewed these cases, these verdicts, as well, and not simply with the eye of a law master whose duty it is to see that all the stern requirements of the law he serves have been faithfully observed. And because we’ve reviewed those cases, we know, Master Ibbet, that you joined the rebellion against the Regency Council not simply because of your religious beliefs—which are deeply and sincerely held—but because your brother and your nephew died in the Battle of Darcos Sound, your eldest son died in Talbor Pass … and your youngest son died in the Battle of Green Valley.”
Ibbet’s strong, weathered face seemed to crumple. Then it solidified into stone, yet Sharleyan’s aided vision saw a tear glimmer in the dim light as she reminded him of all he’d lost.
“As for you, Master Pahlmahn,” she continued, turning to the banker, “we know you asked nothing from Craggy Hill or the other conspirators when you provided them with the money they sought from you. We know you ruined yourself providing those funds, and we know you did it because you are a devout Temple Loyalist. But we also know you did it because your son Ahndrai was a member of Prince Hektor’s personal guard who gave his life saving his Prince from an assassin’s arbalest bolt … and that you believe that assassin was sent by Charis. He wasn’t.” She looked directly into Pahlmahn’s eyes. “We give you our word—I give you my word, as Sharleyan Ahrmahk, not as an empress—that that assassin was not sent by Charis, yet that doesn’t change the fact that you believed he was.
