How Firm a Foundation

by David Weber

  “Maybe we can at least get Owl to give them a private channel,” Merlin had said hopefully. Seahamper had snorted, given Sharleyan one last look, then closed the door.

  “It’s not like I’m a complete idiot,” the empress had said plaintively, then gasped as Merlin lifted her gently into a sitting position to peel the gown down from her shoulders. “Even if there’d been another one of them out there, it’s not like I was running the kind of risk Maikel ran in the Cathedral.”

  “There shouldn’t have been any of them,” Merlin had said through his teeth. “How in God’s name did they get a damned pistol past Gahrvai’s guards?”

  “I’ve been checking the record from the SNARCs’ sensors,” Seahamper had said over the com from the other side of the bedchamber’s closed door. “Owl’s managed to pick up the moment he was admitted. He was carrying the real Grahsmahn’s summons; Grahsmahn was on the list from the first session; and it never occurred to any of us to tell them to look for firearms concealed inside someone’s tunic because it hadn’t occurred to us that anyone could fit one inside his tunic. And if you want something to make you feel even better, Merlin, Owl’s run the imagery through his facial recognition software. Underneath all that beard and the tattoo, it was none other than our elusive friend Paitryk Hainree.”

  The sergeant’s tone had been almost conversational, and Merlin had known he was almost certainly right about the confluence of factors which had allowed the gunman to get past Gahrvai’s guardsmen. No one on Safehold had ever heard of a “photo ID,” so unless Hainree had run into someone who’d remembered the real Grahsmahn from the previous session, there was precious little way anyone could have spotted the deception. Besides, if Owl was right and it had been Hainree, they’d already had ample evidence he was (or had been, at any rate) fiendishly good at getting into (and out of) places where he wasn’t supposed to be. But Seahamper’s calm tone hadn’t fooled him. The sergeant was probably even more upset with himself than Merlin was with himself. This was exactly the sort of thing they were supposed to prevent.

  “Don’t the two of you pick on yourselves over this!” Sharleyan had scolded as Merlin gently eased down her chemise. “In a crowd that size? One man? And a man who had the exact documentation he was supposed to have?” She’d shaken her head. “Ideally, maybe you and the SNARCs should have spotted him. In fact, though, it’s not at all surprising to me that someone managed to get past you. For that matter, Merlin, you and Edwyrd argued against this approach from the beginning exactly because you were afraid of something like this. So why aren’t you simply saying ‘I told you so’ and letting it go at that?”

  “Because you damn near got yourself killed this morning!” Merlin had snapped. He’d paused, looking down into her face, his sapphire eyes dark. “I’ve lost too many of you already, Sharley. I’m not about to lose any more!”

  “Of course you’re not,” she’d said softly, laying one hand on his mailed forearm. “And I didn’t mean to sound flip. But that doesn’t make anything I just said untrue, does it? Besides,” she’d smiled impishly, “at least we’ve just demonstrated that Owl’s tailoring works!”

  “More or less,” Merlin had conceded, and grimaced as he ran his fingertips lightly across the huge discolored bruise on Sharleyan’s rib cage. “On the other hand, it didn’t spread the kinetic energy as well as I could have wished. You’ve got at least two broken ribs here, Sharley. Probably three. I’m seriously tempted to whisk you off to the cave tonight and let Owl’s auto doc take a look at you.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to be nec—Ow!”

  Sharleyan had flinched as he’d pressed just a bit harder. He’d shaken his head in apology, and she’d sucked in a deep breath.

  “I don’t think that’s going to be necessary,” she’d said. “Even if they’re broken, I mean. Isn’t this one of the reasons you inoculated us with the medical nanotech?”

  “It’ll help you heal faster; what it won’t do is heal this overnight,” Merlin had retorted. “And it’s not going to help much with the pain, either. If you think this is bad now, you just wait till you wake up and try to move in the morning!”

  “I know,” she’d said glumly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve broken them.”

  “You and that damned pony,” Seahamper had muttered over the com, and she’d giggled, then gasped in pain.

  “Exactly,” she’d said, and looked up at Merlin. “I’m perfectly prepared to be ‘indisposed’ in the morning, at least as long as I can get to breakfast with the Regency Council without looking too much like I’ve been beaten with a stick. I figure they’ll expect at least a little morning-after reaction out of me. So if we just strap up my ribs tightly, I can get through that much, I think. Then I promise I’ll come straight back here and spend the day resting while all those busy little nanites work on fixing me.”

  “What do you think, Edwyrd?” Merlin had asked.

  “Unless you’re ready to knock her on the head, that’s probably as close to a reasonable attitude as you’re likely to get out of her,” Seahamper had said sourly. “Besides,” he’d gone on a bit grudgingly, “it might not be a very good idea to have her ‘incommunicado’ after something like this. I doubt anyone’s going to come calling in the middle of the night, but the two of you would be gone for hours, and if something does come up I won’t be able to fob people off the way I might get away with in Cherayth. ‘I’m sorry, the Empress is unavailable’ isn’t going to cut it after something like this morning.”

  “You’re probably right,” Merlin had sighed, then looked down at Sharleyan and shaken his head. “Too bad current Safeholdian fashion doesn’t include corsets,” he’d said with a lurking smile. “They’re probably the most fiendish device this side of the Inquisition, but just this once they’d actually come in handy! Since we don’t have them, though, let’s get you the rest of the way out of your clothes and see what we can do about strapping up those ribs.”

  * * *

  That had been the better part of six hours ago, and Seahamper had been right about Cayleb’s reaction. The emperor had, indeed, gotten Owl to give him a private connection to Sharleyan, but her side of the conversation had been remarkably monosyllabic, consisting primarily of “Yes” or “No” interspersed with an occasional “Of course I won’t” and even a single “Whatever you say.” It had all been most unlike her, and it probably said a great deal about how deeply she’d been shaken, however composed she might have seemed on the surface.

  Now Merlin helped her the last few feet from the bathroom. She made two or three false starts on getting herself turned around and folding down to sit on the bed, then gasped as Merlin scooped her up and effortlessly laid her down again.

  “Thank you.” She smiled tightly up at him as lightning whickered beyond her window, briefly etching his profile against the panes, and thunder crashed. “As a matter of fact, this is quite a bit worse than the falling-off-the-pony episode.”

  “You don’t say?” Merlin replied dryly, then sighed, looking down at the ugly bruise on the left side of her face. His elbow had done that, he knew, and it was almost as dark as the one on her rib cage, he thought as he touched it with a gentle fingertip. They were lucky he hadn’t broken her cheekbone, as well.

  “Sorry about that,” he said with a sad little smile.

  “Why? For saving my life the second time?” She reached up and caught his hand, holding it for a moment. “This seems to be getting to be quite a habit for you where Ahrmahks are concerned, doesn’t it? Look—there’s even a thunderstorm! Do you think you could get over it by the time Alahnah grows up?”

  “I’ll try, Your Majesty. I’ll certainly try. And when she’s a bit older,” Merlin reached into his belt pouch, “maybe she’d like a little memento of her first trip to Corisande with you.”

  “Memento?” Sharleyan repeated, then looked down as he laid something small and heavy in the palm of her hand. The pistol bullet was an ugly, flattened lump that gleamed dully i
n the light from her bedside lamp.

  “Sure.” Merlin looked into her eyes again. “It’s not every mother who’s already survived two separate assassination attempts before her first child’s even a year old. But you know, it’s all pretty fatiguing for us poor bodyguards, so let’s try not going for number three until Alahnah’s at least, oh, seven, let’s say. All right?”

  .X.

  Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

  King Gorjah of Tarot was not a large man.

  He was a little taller than Prince Nahrmahn (not a difficult achievement) but far less … substantial. Of course, he was also considerably younger, only a few years older than Cayleb himself, and he hadn’t spent as many years in self-indulgence as Nahrmahn had. He was exquisitely tailored, his steel thistle silk tunic rustling as he moved, and his “kercheef,” the traditional headwear of Tarot, was beautifully embroidered and glinted with the scattered flash of faceted gems. All in all, he was the perfect dictionary illustration of a well-groomed, wealthy young monarch perfectly turned out for an important social occasion. He was not, needless to say, the sartorial equal of the waiting emperor, whose crown of state flashed blue and red fire from rubies and sapphires, and whose ornate, embroidered, jeweled (and infernally hot) robes of state were trimmed with the winter-white fur of the mountain slash lizard.

  Still, Cayleb had to give him what Merlin would have called “points for style,” especially under the present circumstances. He’d obviously taken great pains to get his appearance exactly right for the occasion.

  At the moment, however, he also had the look of a man who was distinctly nervous but doing surprisingly well at concealing it. He’d entered the throne room behind the chamberlain who’d announced his arrival, and he walked sedately towards the paired thrones at its end, ignoring the clusters of courtiers, councilors, and clerics who’d been assembled for his arrival.

  It couldn’t have been easy to do that, Cayleb reflected, watching Gorjah come. Of the five realms which had attacked Charis at the beginning of the war, Tarot was the only one who’d ever been a Charisian ally. As a matter of fact, Gorjah had been bound by a solemn mutual defense treaty to come to Charis’ aid, and what he’d actually done was to pretend he intended to do exactly that even as he sent his own navy to rendezvous with the Dohlaran galley fleet sailing to complete Charis’ ruin.

  Needless to say, the Kingdom of Tarot—and its monarch—were less than universally beloved in Tellesberg.

  At least the Guard’s managed to keep anyone from throwing rotten vegetables at him, Cayleb thought dryly. Under the circumstances, that’s doing pretty well, given the … fractiousness of Charisians in general. And then there’s probably the odd Temple Loyalist who’d love the opportunity to stick a knife in his ribs for turning around and “betraying” Clyntahn in turn by signing back up with us! Poor bastard can’t win for losing, can he?

  Actually, the emperor found it difficult to blame Gorjah. Not that he intended to admit anything of the sort until he was positive the Tarotisian monarch would never even contemplate reprising his treason.

  Which is one place where Clyntahn’s reputation’s actually going to work for us, Cayleb thought with considerably less amusement. Only a frigging idiot would even think about coming back into his reach after crossing him this way!

  Gorjah reached the foot of the dais, stopped, and bowed deeply.

  “Your Majesty,” he said.

  Cayleb allowed the silence to stretch out for four or five seconds, letting Gorjah remain bent in his formal bow, then cleared his throat.

  “King Gorjah,” he replied at last. “Until quite recently, I hadn’t anticipated the possibility of your visiting here in Tellesberg.”

  “Ah, no, Your Majesty.” Gorjah straightened and coughed delicately. “I don’t suppose either of us expected to see one another again quite so soon.”

  “Oh, I’d anticipated visiting you very soon now,” Cayleb assured him with a pointed smile, and Gorjah’s expression wavered for a moment. Then he squared his shoulders and nodded.

  “I suppose I deserved that,” he said with what Cayleb privately thought was admirable calm. “And while I won’t pretend I would have enjoyed the sort of visit you had in mind, Your Majesty, I doubt any reasonable man could have quibbled with your motivation.”

  “Probably not,” Cayleb agreed, sitting back in his throne and wishing Sharleyan was in the empty throne beside him rather than stretched out on a sofa in her suite in Manchyr nursing her broken ribs.

  “But you’re here now,” he continued, “and it would be churlish to treat you discourteously. Or, for that matter, to pretend you had a great deal of choice when the Group of Four sent you your marching orders. After all,” he reached out and touched the arm of that empty throne, “not even Queen Sharleyan saw a way to refuse the ‘Knights of the Temple Lands’ ’ demands. What matters are the present and the future, not the past.” He nodded at where Nahrmahn Baytz, the golden chain of an imperial councilor around his neck, stood watching. “What’s done is done, and past enmities are something none of us can afford in the face of the threat we all face.”

  “I agree, Your Majesty.” Gorjah met his gaze levelly. “And while I’m not pretending things, I won’t pretend the thought of openly defying Mother Church isn’t frightening. Leaving aside the spiritual aspects of all this, the Church’s power in the mortal world is enough to give anyone pause. But I’ve seen the other side from inside the belly of the beast, as it were.” He shook his head, his expression grim, and Cayleb saw nothing but sincerity in his brown eyes. “If I’d ever doubted Clyntahn was mad, his purges and executions and his autos-da-fé have proven he is. Whatever he may have thought when he started this, by now he’s convinced that anyone who’s not totally subservient to him—to him, not to Mother Church or God—has no right even to exist. Confronting someone who thinks that way and controls all the power of the Inquisition is enough to terrify anyone, but the thought of what this world will become if someone like him wins is even more terrifying.”

  Cayleb looked back at him in silence, letting his words settle into the corners of the throne room. He thought the Tarotisian was sincere, although he also knew Gorjah was less than pleased, to put it mildly, at the present turn of events. It was true he couldn’t realistically have resisted the Group of Four’s demand that he betray Charis, but it was equally true he hadn’t even been tempted to try. He’d always resented that treaty, the way in which he’d felt it turned Tarot into little more than a dependency of the Kingdom of Charis. And now he found himself forced to make formal submission, to turn his kingdom into a mere province of the Empire of Charis. That had to stick in his craw like fish bones, and perhaps that was the most fitting vengeance of all for his “treachery.” Especially since there was no possible path back from the step he was about to take as long as the Group of Four breathed.

  “In that case, King Gorjah,” he said, “I suppose we should get on with it.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Gorjah bowed again, then waited while a page placed an elaborately embroidered cushion on the uppermost step of the dais before Cayleb’s throne. The page bowed to him and walked backwards away from the throne, and Gorjah knelt gracefully. Archbishop Maikel stepped forward on Cayleb’s right and held out the gold and gem-clasped copy of the Holy Writ, and the king kissed the book, then laid his right hand upon it and looked up at Cayleb.

  “I, Gorjah Alyksahndar Nyou, do swear allegiance and fealty to Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan of Charis,” he said, his voice unflinching, if not joyous, “to be their true man, of heart, will, body, and sword. To do my utmost to discharge my obligations and duty to them, to their Crowns, and to their House, in all ways, as God shall give me the ability and the wit so to do. I swear this oath without mental or moral reservation, and I submit myself to the judgment of the Emperor and Empress and of God Himself for the fidelity with which I honor and discharge the obligations I now assume befor
e God and this company.”

  Cayleb reached out and laid his right hand atop Gorjah’s and met the kneeling king’s eyes levelly.

  “And we, Cayleb Zhan Haarahld Bryahn Ahrmahk, in our own name and in that of Sharleyan Ahdel Alahnah Ahrmahk, do accept your oath. We will extend protection against all enemies, loyalty for fealty, justice for justice, fidelity for fidelity, and punishment for oath-breaking. May God judge us and ours as He judges you and yours.”

  They stayed that way for a handful of seconds, hands touching, eyes meeting, and then Cayleb withdrew his hand and nodded.

  “And that’s that,” he said with an off-center smile. “So now that we’ve got it out of the way,” he stood, waving one hand in invitation to his newest vassal as he started down from the dais, “why don’t we get down to work … and let me get out of this damned outfit?”

  .XI.

  Ship Chandler Quay, City of Manchyr, Princedom of Corisande

  It was rather different from her arrival, Sharleyan Ahrmahk thought as the carriage rolled down Prince Fronz Avenue towards Ship Chandler Quay behind its escort of Corisandian cavalry. Then the cheers had been undeniably tentative—loud enough, but uncertain. The southeastern portion of Corisande had settled into firm loyalty to the Regency Council months earlier, and it had accepted that the Charisian occupation forces were genuinely doing their best to be no more repressive than they must. But the House of Ahrmahk was still saddled in all too many minds with the blood guilt for Hektor Daykyn’s murder, and all the world knew how bitterly Sharleyan of Chisholm had hated the man and—by extension—the princedom she blamed for her father’s death.

  Those cheers of greeting had come from people who’d been grateful for the restoration of order and stability and the relative gentleness of the Charisian occupation … so far, at least. That wasn’t remotely the same as being resigned to permanent Charisian domination, or becoming loyal Charisian subjects, but it had reflected their willingness to at least wait and see.