How Firm a Foundation (Safehold)

by David Weber

  At the same time, there’d been an undeniable dread of what the late Prince Hektor’s most deadly enemy might have in mind for his princedom, since he himself was beyond her vengeance. In light of her reputation, and even more in light of the way Hektor’s propagandists had emphasized her hostility to his subjects, it had been no surprise the Corisandians had hoped, even prayed, Emperor Cayleb had meant his promises that there would be no violent repression, no unnecessary or casual reprisals, and that the rule of law would be respected. And, for that matter, that Sharleyan would consider herself bound by anything Cayleb might have promised. After all, she was his coruler, and no one in Corisande had any way of knowing exactly how the two of them thought that worked. She and Cayleb had said all the right things, but still.…

  The fact that those accused of treason had been tried in Corisandian courts, before the peers and clergy of Corisande, rather than hauled before a Charisian occupation court, had been hopeful, yet everyone behind those cheers of greeting and the banners hung out to welcome her had known that if she chose, Sharleyan Ahrmahk could have decreed whatever fate she chose to order.

  And that was what was different about today’s cheers. She could have decreed whatever fate she chose … and she’d chosen to abide by the law, as her husband had sworn Charis would. No secret arrests, no condemnations on the basis of tortured confessions, no secret accusers who never had to face the accused, open trials and open verdicts openly arrived at. True, virtually all those verdicts had been guilty, yet even that was different in this case, because the evidence—the proof—had been overwhelming and utterly damning. No one doubted for a moment that anyone accused of treason against Prince Hektor would also have been found guilty, but neither did anyone doubt that Hektor would have seen little reason to worry about things like evidence and proof.

  True, she had set aside some of those verdicts, yet unlike Hektor, it hadn’t been to condemn those who’d been acquitted. Instead, almost a quarter of those who’d been convicted had been pardoned. Not because there’d been any question about their guilt, but because she’d chosen to pardon them. It wasn’t even the general blanket, prison-emptying amnesty some rulers proclaimed as a grand gesture on assuming the throne, or for a wedding, or for the birth of an heir. No, she’d pardoned specific individuals, and in every instance she’d personally enumerated the reasons she’d chosen to show mercy.

  And she’d gone right on doing it despite the attempt to murder her on her very throne.

  Corisande wasn’t used to that. For that matter, virtually no Safeholdian realm was used to that, and Corisande still didn’t know what to make of it. But Corisande knew one thing—Sharleyan Ahrmahk, the archenemy and arch-hater of Corisande, was a very different proposition from someone like Zhaspahr Clyntahn or even Hektor Daykyn. Perhaps she was still—technically, at least—an enemy, and certainly she remained one of the foreign potentates who’d conquered their own princedom, but she’d conquered something else during her visit to Manchyr, as well.

  She’d conquered their hearts.

  * * *

  “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, Your Majesty,” General Hauwyl Chermyn said, looking out the window of the carriage. He’d wanted to accompany Sharleyan on horseback as part of the security escort, but she’d insisted on his joining her in the carriage, instead. Now he shook his head and waved one hand at the cheering crowds who lined the streets all the way from the palace to quayside. “I remember what these people were like right after Hektor was killed. I wouldn’t have given a Harchong copper for your life if you’d come to Manchyr then.”

  The weathered-looking Marine’s expression was grim, and Sharleyan smiled fondly at him. There were lines in Chermyn’s face that hadn’t been there before Cayleb installed him as the Empire’s viceroy general here in Corisande. His dark hair had gone entirely iron-gray during his stay, as well, and his bushy mustache had turned almost entirely white. Yet his brown eyes were as alert as ever, and his heavyset, muscular body was still undeniably solid-looking, she thought. And well it should be, because if she’d had to come up with a single word to encapsulate Hauwyl Chermyn, it would have been “solid.”

  “Well, from all the reports I’ve seen, we owe a lot of the improvement to you, General,” she said, then winced as the carriage hit an uneven paving stone and sent a stab of pain through her still knitting ribs.

  “And if I’d done my job a bit better, Your Majesty,” he growled, obviously not having missed her wince, “I’d have had that bastard Hainree—begging your pardon for the language—before he ever came that close to killing you.” His face was briefly as iron-like as his hair color. “His Majesty’d never have forgiven me for letting something like that happen!”

  “What you mean is you’d never have forgiven yourself,” Sharleyan said, leaning forward to pat him on the knee as they sat facing each other. “Which would have been foolish of you, since no one could possibly have done a better job than the one you’ve done, but that wouldn’t have changed a thing, would it?” It was her turn to shake her head. “You’re not exactly a reasonable man where your own duty is concerned, General.”

  “Good of you to say so, anyway, Your Majesty,” Chermyn said, “but you’re being too kind. Letting me off too easily, too, for that matter. If not for Seijin Merlin, he’d have had you. For that matter, I thought at first he had hit you, and so did nearly everyone else, I understand.”

  “Cayleb and I both owe Merlin a great deal,” Sharleyan agreed. “It’s not the sort of debt you can really pay, either.”

  “Not the sort of debt you’re supposed to pay, Your Majesty,” Chermyn replied. “That’s what duty’s all about. The only way you can ‘repay’ that sort of service—the only service that really matters, if you’ll pardon my saying so—is by being worthy of it. And I’d say”—he looked directly into her eyes—“that so far you and His Majesty have done a pretty fair job of that.”

  “As you say, General, ‘Good of you to say so, anyway,’” Sharleyan said demurely and watched his lips twitch on the edge of a smile under the overhanging mustache.

  Sharleyan glanced out the window again. They were approaching Ship Chandler Quay at last, and she saw Dawn Star moored against the fenders. She would really have preferred going out to her galleon by boat—somehow it seemed the proper “Charisian” way to do things—but Merlin, Seahamper, and Sairaih Hahlmyn had flatly refused to contemplate it. So had General Chermyn, for that matter, although the disapproval of a mere viceroy general had scarcely counted compared to that trio’s united front! As Merlin and Sergeant Seahamper had pointed out, the trip in an undoubtedly pitching barge, followed by the journey up the ship’s side, even in a bosun’s chair, would have risked reinjuring the ribs which still had more than a little healing to do. And as Sairaih had unscrupulously thrown into the mix, it would be far safer for Crown Princess Alahnah to be carried from the carriage across a nice, solid stone quay and up a sturdy gangplank than to subject the child to all the risks of a boat trip.

  I suppose someone who used to be your nurse really does know all the levers to pull, Sharleyan reflected now. And it was damned underhanded of her to actually be right about it, too!

  She reached across to the bassinet in Sairaih’s lap and touched her daughter’s incredibly soft cheek. Alahnah’s eyes were bright and wide, and she reached happily for her mother’s hand. She was such a good baby—most of the time, anyway—and she was taking the carriage trip nicely in stride. Of course, she was probably going to make her sense of outraged betrayal loudly apparent the first time Dawn Star hit a patch of rough weather on the trip to Tellesberg.

  Definitely your mother’s daughter, not your father’s, in that regard, aren’t you, love? Sharleyan thought.

  She looked up to see Chermyn smiling at her, and she smiled back at him.

  “Been a while, Your Majesty,” the general said with a twinkle, “but I still remember what the first one was like.”

  “And I un
derstand you and Madam Chermyn are about to become grandparents?”

  “Aye, that we are, Your Majesty. My oldest boy, Rhaz, is expecting his first. In fact, unless Pasquale’s changed the rules, the baby’s already arrived. I’m sure Mathyld’s letter’s on its way to tell me all about it.”

  “Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

  “Doesn’t matter to me, Your Majesty. As long as the baby’s healthy and got all the right number of arms and legs and what-have-you, I’ll be a happy man. Although,” he looked down at Alahnah who was still hanging on to her mother’s hand and cooing, “I guess if I had to be completely honest, I think I’d like a girl. Mathyld and I had the three boys, and they’ve been joys—most of the time, anyway.” He rolled his eyes. “But I think most men, if they’ll be honest about it, want at least one daughter or granddaughter to spoil. And”—his smile faded slightly—“I’ve three sons in harm’s way. I could wish I had at least one daughter who wasn’t.”

  “I can understand that.” Sharleyan touched his knee again. “But it’s sons like yours who stand between everyone’s daughters and men like Zhaspahr Clyntahn, General. Be proud of them, and tell them, the next time you have the chance, how grateful Cayleb and I are for all four of you.”

  “I will, Your Majesty,” Chermyn said a bit gruffly, then cleared his throat.

  “I see we’re almost at shipside, Your Majesty,” he said in a deliberately brisker voice, and she nodded.

  “So we are. Well, I suppose it’s time for all of the ridiculous departure ceremony.”

  “I’d as soon miss it myself, truth be told,” Chermyn admitted. “And I don’t envy you and His Majesty for having to put up with so much of it. To be honest,” he looked at her with an undeniably hopeful expression, “I’d like to think it might be possible for someone else to take over as viceroy general and let me get away from all the fuss and folderol and back to being an honest Marine. Or even transfer to the Army.”

  “I don’t know, General,” Sharleyan said, furrowing her brow pensively while she tried not to chuckle out loud at the opening he’d given her. “You’ve done so well here. And while I know the situation’s improved, it’s still going to be … delicate for quite some time to come.”

  “I know, Your Majesty,” Chermyn sighed. He obviously hadn’t expected to convince her.

  “Still,” Sharleyan said, drawing out the word as the carriage came to a halt and Merlin Athrawes and Edwyrd Seahamper swung down from their horses beside it. “I suppose I can think of one other duty Cayleb and I really need a good, experienced military officer and proven administrator to deal with. I’m afraid it’s not a combat assignment, although for all I know there may be some fighting entailed, but it would get you out of Corisande,” she ended hopefully, raising her eyebrows at him.

  “I’d be honored to serve you and His Majesty in any way I could, Your Majesty,” Chermyn said, although he couldn’t quite hide his disappointment at the words “it’s not a combat assignment.”

  “Well, I suppose in that case we could send Baron Green Valley down here to replace you, at least temporarily,” Sharleyan said.

  “Are you certain about that, Your Majesty?” Chermyn sounded a little startled. “I understood the Baron was going to be fully occupied in Zebediah for quite some time.”

  “Oh, he’s been doing a very good job there,” Sharleyan agreed with a nod. “And Duke Eastshare wants him back in Maikelberg, of course, so we may not be able to send him as your replacement, after all. Still, I’m sure we’ll be able to find someone. In fact, now that I’ve thought about it for a moment, I think your Colonel Zhanstyn could probably hold the fort for you, possibly even on a semi-permanent or a permanent basis. But as far as Baron Green Valley is concerned, he was never going to be our permanent viceroy in Zebediah.”

  “He wasn’t?” Chermyn looked at her in surprise as Seahamper moved to open the carriage door and let down the steps while Merlin stood facing outward, eyes scanning the crowd. She cocked her head at the Marine, and he half raised one hand. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I must have misunderstood.”

  “The Baron’s a very good man, General, but he was only there to keep a lid on the island until we could decide who to name to succeed Symmyns as grand duke. That was hardly an easy decision, of course. We needed a man of proven ability and loyalty. Someone we knew we could absolutely rely upon, and to be honest, someone who deserved the recognition and the rewards which were going to come along with all the undeniable pains of straightening out the mess Symmyns left behind. Trust me, the position’s not going to be a sinecure for a long time to come, General!”

  Chermyn nodded in understanding, and she shrugged.

  “And once we did make up our mind who to choose, naturally we’d have to notify the new grand duke before we could even think about recalling Baron Green Valley … which I’ve just done, now that I think about it, Grand Duke Zebediah.”

  Her timing was perfect, she thought delightedly. The door opened right on cue as Chermyn suddenly stopped nodding and stared at her in stupefied shock. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, and Sharleyan nodded at Sairaih, who looked as if her grin were about to split her face in two as she gathered up Princess Alahnah’s bassinet and diaper bag.

  “Well, I see we’re here, Your Grace, if I may be a little premature,” Empress Sharleyan Ahrmahk said, bestowing a brilliant smile on the thunderstruck Marine, and then she held out her hand to Seahamper and descended the carriage steps into a hurricane of cheers, trumpets, and the thud of saluting guns.

  JULY,

  YEAR OF GOD 895

  .I.

  Hospice of the Holy Bédard and The Temple, City of Zion, The Temple Lands

  “Langhorne bless you, Your Grace. Langhorne bless you!”

  “Thank you, Father,” Rhobair Duchairn said. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not as if I’ve been working as hard at this as you have. Or”—the vicar’s smile carried an odd edge of bitterness—“for as long, either.”

  He laid a hand on Father Zytan Kwill’s frail shoulder. The Bédardist upper-priest was far into his eighties and growing increasingly fragile with age, yet he burned with an inner intensity Duchairn could only envy.

  “That may be true, Your Grace,” Kwill replied, “but this winter…” He shook his head. “Do you realize we’ve had only thirty dead reported in the Hospice this winter from all causes? Only thirty!”

  “I know.” Duchairn nodded, although he also knew considerably more than thirty of Zion’s inhabitants had perished over the previous winter. Yet Kwill had a point. The Order of Bédard and the Order of Pasquale were responsible for caring for Zion’s poor and indigent. Well, technically all Mother Church’s orders had that duty, but the Bédardists and the Pasqualates had shouldered the primary responsibility centuries earlier. They jointly administered the soup kitchens and the shelters, and the Pasqualates provided the healers who were supposed to see that the most vulnerable of God’s children had the medical care to survive Zion’s icy cold.

  The problem, of course, was that they hadn’t been doing that.

  Duchairn looked out the window of Kwill’s spartan office. The Hospice of the Holy Bédard was in one of Zion’s older buildings, and the office had a spectacular view over the broad blue waters of Lake Pei, but it was as bare and sparsely furnished as an ascetic’s cell in one of the meditative monasteries. No doubt that reflected Father Zytan’s personality, but it was also because the priest had poured every mark he could lay hands on into his hopeless task for the last forty-seven years. With so many desperate needs, the thought of spending anything on himself would never even have crossed his mind.

  And in all that time, Mother Church has never supported him the way she should have, the Treasurer thought grimly. Not once. Not a single time have we funded him and the others the way we ought to have.

  The vicar crossed to the window, clasping his hands behind him, looking out at the leaves and blossoms which clothed the hills striding down f
rom Zion to the huge lake. A cool breeze blew in through the opening, touching his face with gentle fingers, and the sails of small craft, barges, and larger merchant ships dotted the sparkling water under the sun’s warm rays. He could see fishing boats farther out, and perfectly formed mountains of cloud sailed across the heavens. On a day like this, it was easy even for Duchairn, who’d spent the last thirty years of his life in Zion, to forget how savage north central Haven’s winters truly were. To forget how the lake turned into a blue and gray sheet of ice, thick enough to support galleon-sized ice boats. To forget how snow drifted higher than a tall man’s head in the city’s streets. How some of those drifts, on the city’s outskirts, climbed as much as two or even three stories up the sides of buildings.

  And it’s even easier for those of us who spend our winters in the Temple to forget that sort of unpleasantness, he acknowledged. We don’t have to deal with it, do we? We have our own little enclave, blessed by God, and we don’t venture out of it … except, perhaps, on the milder days when the wind doesn’t howl and fresh blizzards don’t go screaming around our sanctified ears.

  He wanted to believe that was the reason for his own decades of inactivity. Wanted to think he’d been so busy, so focused on his manifold responsibilities that he’d simply gotten distracted. That he’d honestly forgotten to actually look out his window and see what was happening to those outside the Temple’s mystically heated and cooled environment because he’d been so preoccupied with his personal duties and obligations. Oh, how he wanted to think that!

  You were “preoccupied,” all right, Rhobair, he told himself, filling his lungs with the cool air, inhaling the scent of the blossoms in the planter under Father Zytan’s window. You were preoccupied with fine wines, gourmet cooking, charming feminine companionship, and all the arduous tasks of counting coins and managing your alliances within the vicarate. Pity you didn’t stop to think about what the Archangels themselves told you were any priest’s true obligations and duties. If you had, Father Zytan might’ve had the money and the resources he needed to actually do something about those responsibilities.