How Firm a Foundation (Safehold)

by David Weber

  Doyal gazed at him for a moment, then nodded, and Gahrvai nodded back while his mind replayed the chaos and confusion of the assassination attempt.

  The only thing he’d been able to think when the would-be killer shouted was that Cayleb Ahrmahk would never forgive Corisande for allowing his wife to be murdered on her very throne. There’d been no way the man could miss, not from a range of no more than fifteen feet. Gahrvai would have been one of the first to admit that it was far harder to fire a pistol accurately than most people probably believed, especially when someone was gripped by the excitement and terror of a moment like that. Still, at that range? The man could almost have reached out and touched her with the pistol’s muzzle before he pulled the trigger!

  But his fears—like the assassin, apparently—had failed to reckon with Merlin Athrawes. Despite all the stories Gahrvai had heard, and despite the things he knew firsthand were true, he would never have believed any mortal man could move that quickly. The seijin clearly hadn’t seen anything coming before the assassin produced his weapon. Despite that, the first two shots had sounded as one, and his bullet had hit the man who’d been identified as Bahrynd Laybrahn (although Gahrvai sincerely doubted that had been his true name) before “Laybrahn” could fire his second shot. The smear of lead where Laybrahn’s second bullet smashed into the marble floor was barely two feet in front of where his body had fallen, and Spynsair Ahrnahld’s left shoulder had been grazed by the ricochet before it buried itself in the ceiling.

  Gahrvai had been in more than his fair share of chaotic, violent situations. He knew how impressions could blur, how a man could be absolutely positive of what he’d seen … and yet absolutely wrong about what had actually happened. And Merlin had reacted so quickly, moved with such speed once he did see the weapon, that he’d seemed almost to have been teleported by a wizard’s spell out of some children’s tale. But still, granting all of that, it simply didn’t seem possible Sharleyan could have been missed.

  Yet when Captain Athrawes rolled aside, coming up on one knee from where he’d covered her protectively with his own body, she’d been unhurt. Well, perhaps not totally unhurt, which certainly shouldn’t surprise anyone. Merlin had been more concerned with protecting her from assassins than gentleness, and the weight of an armored man his size coming down that hard would have been enough to knock the breath out of anyone.

  From Sharleyan’s expression and the tightness of her shoulders when Merlin assisted her to her feet, Gahrvai had been certain for one heart-stopping moment that she had been hit. She’d leaned to her left, left hand pressed hard against her ribs, and her face had been pale and strained. But then she’d straightened, drawn an obviously cautious breath, and shaken her head—hard—at something Merlin must have said into her ear.

  Shouts and screams had still filled the huge chamber, and no one else had been close enough to hear what the seijin might have said, anyway, but Gahrvai had no doubt at all what Merlin had advised. Unfortunately, even seijins had their limits, and one of those limits, clearly, was Sharleyan Tayt Ahrmahk.

  “Be seated!” she’d shouted, and somehow she’d managed to pitch her voice so that it could be heard. Not by very many people at first, but those closest to her first stared at her in disbelief and then started repeating her command at the top of their lungs. In less than two minutes, by some sorcery Gahrvai didn’t come close to understanding, she’d actually managed to restore something like order as she stood almost straight, one hand still pressed to her side.

  Merlin Athrawes had stood beside her, his pistol still in his right hand, merciless sapphire eyes scanning the witness-filled benches, and Sergeant Seahamper had stood on her other side with an expression which could only be described as murderous. Gahrvai hadn’t blamed either of them at all. God only knew if there was another assassin out there. It didn’t seem possible, but then Gahrvai wouldn’t have believed the first one could have gotten in unchallenged. And if there was another assassin, the slender white-and-blue-clad figure who’d lost her crown and whose long hair had come tumbling down about her shoulders would be a perfect target.

  She’d seemed unaware of that, however, just as she’d seemed unaware of the bruise already darkening her left cheek. She’d simply stood there, exposed to any follow-up shot, willing the Corisandians back onto their benches. Only after the last of them sat had she seated herself once more, sitting very erect, her left elbow beside her and her upper arm still pressed against those ribs.

  “Thank you,” she’d said in a calm voice whose normality seemed utterly bizarre under the circumstances. Then she’d actually managed a smile, and if it was a bit shaky and passed quickly, who should blame her? She’d reached up with her right hand, tucking a strand of that fallen, glorious sable hair behind her ear and shaken her head.

  “I deeply regret that this should have happened,” she’d said, looking down at the body in the pool of blood as four of Gahrvai’s guardsmen prepared to remove it. Her eloquent brown eyes had been shadowed, and she’d shaken her head sadly. “Surely God weeps to see such violence loosed among His children.”

  Stillness had seemed to flow outward from her. The scraping sound of the corpse’s heels as the guardsmen picked up the body had seemed shockingly loud in the silence, and the empress had turned her head, watching as the man who’d tried to kill her was carried from her presence. A trail of blood droplets had followed him, dark in the lamplight as the guardsmen and their burden vanished through the double doors, and she’d gazed at those doors for a handful of heartbeats before she’d turned once more to look out at the assembled witnesses.

  “There are times,” she’d told them quietly, almost softly, “when all the killing and all the hatred strike me to the heart. When I wonder what sort of world my daughter will inherit? What kind of men and women will decide how the people of that world live? What they’re allowed to believe?”

  Gahrvai’s eyes had widened as he realized she’d abandoned the royal “we.” And they’d gone even wider as he saw those benches filled with Corisandians leaning towards a Chisholmian queen who was also a Charisian empress and listening intently. She’d no longer been a conquering monarch dispensing justice and retribution; she’d been something else. A young mother worried about her own child. A young woman who’d just survived a murder attempt. And a voice of calm when she should have been demanding vengeance upon those who had allowed such a thing to happen.

  “Is this what we truly wish?” she’d asked in that same quiet voice. “To settle our differences with murder? For those of us on one side to leave those on the other no option but to kill or to be killed? It grieves my soul to know how many people—some of them known personally to me, some of them beloved friends and kinsmen, and far more who I never met but who were someone’s kinsmen or kinswomen or beloved—have already died, yet the death toll is only starting. Yesterday I sat here in front of you and sent thirty-nine people to the headsman. Tomorrow and the next day I’ll send still more, because I have no choice, and those decisions, those confirmations of the sentences of those brought before me, will live with me for the rest of my own life. Do you think any sane woman wants to order the deaths of others? Do you truly believe I wouldn’t rather—far rather—pardon, as I’ve just pardoned Master Ibbet, Master Pahlmahn, Master Lahmbair, and young Dobyns? Despite anything the Group of Four may say, God does not call us to exult in the blood and agony of our enemies!”

  She’d paused, her expression sad, her eyes dark in the shadows yet lit by the lamplight while the stink of blood and voided bowels and the brimstone reek of gunsmoke drifted like Shan-wei’s perfume, and then she’d shaken her head.

  “I wish I had some magic wand that could make all this go away, but I don’t, and I can’t. The only ‘peace’ someone like Zhaspahr Clyntahn will ever accept is the destruction of everything I know and love and hold dear. The only ‘agreement’ he will ever tolerate is one in which his own twisted, vicious perversion of God’s will rules each and every one of God’
s children. Charis didn’t start this war, my friends; Charis simply survived the war someone else launched at her like a slash lizard crazed by blood. And Charis will continue to do what she must to go on surviving, because that’s what she owes to her own people, to her own children, and to God Himself.

  “Which is what brings me to this throne in this room, delivering and confirming sentences of death. Many of these people amply deserve those sentences. For others the case is less clear-cut, however clear the law itself may be. And in still other cases, what the law decrees is neither true justice nor what compassion and mercy require. I must err on the side of caution in the cause of protecting that which I’m charged to protect, but where I can, where the chance exists, I’ll grant that mercy whenever and however I may. I won’t be able to do that as often as I wish, or as often as you could wish, but I’ll do it as often as I can, and I’ll ask God’s help to live with the many times when I cannot.”

  A ripping sound had been loud in the stillness as Edwyrd Seahamper tore open Spynsair Ahrnahld’s sleeve and applied a dressing of fleming moss from the emergency case each of her Imperial Guardsmen carried at his belt. She’d looked down, watching her secretary’s pale face as the bandage was adjusted, then cocked her head at him.

  “Can you continue, Spynsair?” she’d asked him, and Ahrnahld’s hadn’t been the only eyebrows which rose in astonishment at her question.

  “Yes—I mean, of course, Your Majesty. If that’s your wish,” he’d said after a moment.

  “Of course it’s my wish,” she’d replied with a crooked smile, that elbow and upper arm still pressed against her ribs. She’d sat very erect, but she’d also sat very still, and Gahrvai suspected it had hurt her to breathe. Yet if that was so, she’d allowed no sign of it to cross her expression or shadow her voice.

  “We have much still to do today,” she’d told her secretary, her eyes rising across the puddle of her assailant’s blood to include the gathered witnesses in the same statement. “If we refuse to let Clyntahn and the Group of Four stop us, then we won’t allow this to, either. Let us proceed.”

  * * *

  And proceed she had, Koryn Gahrvai thought now. For another four hours, until lunch. She’d seemed unaware her hair was steadily tumbling into looser and looser falls about her shoulders, just as she’d seemed unaware when Merlin Athrawes picked up the crown which had fallen from her head and stood holding it in the crook of his left arm like a paladin’s helmet. There’d been the slightest, barely perceptible breathlessness in her voice, like a catch of pain, yet it was so faint Gahrvai suspected most of those watching her never heard it at all.

  Seventeen more people were sent to execution that morning … but another six were pardoned. And in each case, Empress Sharleyan—still without notes—had recited the extenuating circumstances which led her to grant mercy in those cases. She’d continued unhurriedly, calmly, as if no one had ever attempted to harm her at all, and by the end of that morning, she’d held that audience of Corisandian witnesses in the palm of one slender hand.

  The bell announcing the end of the morning session had sounded at last, and the empress had looked up with a wry smile.

  “We trust no one will be disappointed if we adjourn for the day at this time,” she’d said. “Under the circumstances, we believe it might be excusable.”

  There’d actually been an answering mutter of laughter, and her smile had grown broader.

  “We’ll take that as agreement,” she’d told them, and stood.

  She’d stepped down from the dais, and Gahrvai’s eyes had narrowed as she took Merlin Athrawes’ left arm. She’d swayed slightly, and her nostrils had looked pinched as she’d seemed to stumble for a moment. Her elbow had still pressed against her ribs, and there’d been a certain fragility to her normally graceful carriage, yet she’d smiled graciously at him and at the others who bowed as she passed them.

  And then she’d been gone.

  * * *

  “How many women do you know who could’ve done what she did today?” Gahrvai asked now, looking around at his father and the others.

  “Shan-wei!” Anvil Rock retorted. “Ask me how many men I know who could’ve done what she did today!”

  “Either way, men or women, the answer is damned few,” Tartarian said. “And don’t think for a moment all those witnesses didn’t realize it, too. Oh, I’m sure a lot of it was political calculation. She had to know how it would affect all of us. But even if that’s true, she managed to do it, and I think it was at least as sincere as it was calculated. Probably more, to be honest.”

  “I think you’re right,” Gahrvai said. “And I have to ask myself whether or not those reports about her being ‘uninjured’ are truly accurate.”

  “Her ribs, you mean?” Windshare asked. Gahrvai nodded, and the dashing young earl shrugged. “I noticed that, too. Not that surprising, I suppose, with Merlin landing on top of her that way! Must’ve bruised the hell out of her.”

  “I think they were more than just bruised,” Doyal said quietly. “I think it’s entirely possible they were broken.”

  “Nonsense!” Anvil Rock objected. “I’m as impressed with her as any of you, but let’s not get too carried away. Broken ribs are no joke, I’ve had my share of them over the years, by God! If she’d had that on top of almost being killed, not even she would have just sat there.”

  “With all due respect, My Lord,” Doyal replied, “don’t forget that this isn’t the first time she’s almost been killed. Think about that affair at Saint Agtha’s. According to my reports, she picked up her dead Guardsmen’s rifles and killed at least a dozen of the attackers herself!” He shook his head. “Whatever else Sharleyan Ahrmahk may be, she’s no hothouse flower. In fact, I’m coming to the opinion that she’s even tougher than we thought she was.”

  Gahrvai started to say something, then changed his mind and sat back in his chair. His father didn’t seem to notice, but one of Tartarian’s eyebrows quirked slightly. He looked a question at the younger Gahrvai, but Sir Koryn only shook his head with a smile and listened while Earl Anvil Rock disposed of the notion that even Empress Sharleyan would have continued to dispense justice with broken ribs.

  Tartarian let the moment pass, and Gahrvai was just as happy he had. After all, there was time to double-check his men’s report in the morning. The would-be assassin’s first bullet had to have gone somewhere, and the fact that no one had been able to find it—yet!—proved nothing. He’d been certain they were going to find it embedded in the massive throne somewhere, but they hadn’t, which meant it had to have hit the rear wall, instead, didn’t it? Of course it did!

  Still, probably better to keep his mouth shut until they did manage to find it. If his father found Doyal’s notion that Sharleyan had managed to go right on with broken ribs ridiculous, he would have found the suggestion that perhaps—just perhaps—that bullet hadn’t completely missed its mark after all ludicrous.

  Because it is ludicrous, Koryn, Gahrvai told himself firmly. Absolutely ludicrous!

  * * *

  “I never want to hear another word about how stubborn Cayleb is,” Merlin Athrawes said severely as he helped Sharleyan across her bedchamber. The rush of pouring rain and the rumble of thunder half drowned his voice, but she heard him and looked up with a battered, bruised, but still game smile.

  He was glad to see it, but he’d been less than amused when he’d first gotten her back here.

  The adrenaline, determination, and sheer willpower which had carried her from Princess Aleatha’s Ballroom to her own suite had deserted her once she crossed the threshold. She’d virtually collapsed into Merlin’s arms, and Sairaih Hahlmyn had fluttered around the seijin in shocked dismay as he’d scooped her up, carried her to her sleeping chamber, and deposited her gently on the enormous bed.

  Sairaih’s dismay had turned into something very like outrage as Merlin began calmly unbuttoning and unlacing the empress’ gown.

  “Seijin Merlin! What do you think
you’re doing?”

  “Oh, hush, Sairaih!” Sharleyan had said weakly, her voice much thinner and breathless than usual. “The seijin’s a healer as well as a warrior, you ninny!”

  “But, Your Majesty—!”

  “I am not going to have a Corisandian healer in here examining me,” Sharleyan had said flatly, sounding much more like her usual self for a moment. “The last thing we need is some wild rumor about how I was actually shot after all, and you know that’s what would happen if word got out that I’d summoned healers to my bedchamber. By Langhorne’s Watch, they’d have me on my deathbed!”

  “But, Your Majesty—!”

  “There’s no point arguing with her, Sairaih,” Merlin had said in a resigned voice. “Trust me, if there is any serious damage, Edwyrd and I will have a healer in here in a heartbeat, whatever she says. But she’s probably right about the rumor potential, so if it’s only bruising.…”

  “But, Your Majesty—!”

  The third attempt had been little more than pro forma, and Sharleyan had actually smiled as she shook her head.

  “I won’t say I’m as stubborn as Cayleb, no matter what Merlin thinks,” she’d said. “But I am stubborn enough to win this argument, Sairaih. So why don’t you just concentrate on brewing me some tea with lots of sugar? Trust me, I could use it.”

  “Very well, Your Majesty.” Sairaih had finally conceded defeat. She’d given Merlin one last, moderately outraged look, then marched out past Sergeant Seahamper. The sergeant had looked at Sharleyan for a moment, shaken his head with a pronounced air of resignation, and moved his gaze to Merlin.

  “Good luck getting her to see reason,” he’d said a bit sourly. Then he’d tapped the ear holding his own com earplug. “And somehow I don’t think His Majesty’s going to hold off on yelling at her very much longer, even if it is the middle of the night in Tellesberg.”