by David Weber
“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 in 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. “An
d 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-fe 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 before 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.
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 we
dding, 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.”
