by David Weber
“I recognize the handwriting-both Earl Anvil Rock’s and his secretary’s,” he pointed out.
He looked down at them for a moment, then shrugged and walked across to his bookcase. He ran his finger down the spines of the shelved books until he found the one he wanted, then took it from the shelf, sat down at his desk, and unfolded Anvil Rock’s letter to Daivyn. The chapter and verse notations Anvil Rock had included in his letter were exactly the sort to which a considerably older kinsman and a regent might want to direct a youthful charge’s attention, especially if they had no opportunity for personal contact with the boy. A little somber and weighty for a lad Daivyn’s age, perhaps, but the boy was the legitimate ruler of an entire princedom. Something a bit more serious than the sorts of verses most children memorized for catechism might well be in order, given those circumstances.
Coris wasn’t particularly interested in looking up the passages indicated to check their content, however. Instead, he was turning pages in the cheap novel (printed in Manchyr) he’d taken from the shelf, selecting page numbers, then lines down the page, then words in the lines. Langhorne 6:21-9, for example, directed him to the sixth page, the twenty-first line, and the ninth word. He tracked down each passage’s indicated words, jotting each of them down quickly on a sheet of paper. Then he sat gazing at the sheet for a moment, frowning, before he dropped it into the fire on his sitting room’s hearth, stood, and crossed to the traveling cage. Its gilded bars were topped with ornamental finials, and he counted quickly around them from left to right until he got to the thirteenth. He gripped it, careful to keep his fingers out of reach of the wyverns’ saw-toothed beaks, and twisted, but it wouldn’t budge.
“You’ve got stronger wrists than I do, Tobys,” he said wryly. “See if you can get this thing to screw off. It turns clock-wise to loosen, not counter-clockwise.”
Raimahn raised an eyebrow, then reached out. His powerful hand closed on the finial and he grunted with effort. For a moment, nothing happened; then it yielded. Once it started turning, it went on turning easily until he’d screwed it completely off, revealing that the bar was hollow and contained two or three tightly rolled sheets of paper.
“Well, well, well,” Coris murmured, reaching in and extracting the sheets.
He unrolled them and began to read, then stopped abruptly. His eyes widened in shock, and he looked quickly at Raimahn.
“My Lord?” the guardsman asked quickly.
“It’s… just not from who I thought it would be from,” Coris said.
“Is it bad news, then, My Lord?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Coris managed a smile, beginning to come back on balance with the practice of decades as a spymaster. It was, he admitted to himself, rather harder this time than it had ever been before, however. “ Unexpected news, yes, but not bad. At least, I don’t think so.”
He looked back down at the note, trying to wrap his mind around all it implied. The handwriting in the correspondence was definitely Anvil Rock’s, but if the note in his hand was to be believed, Anvil Rock had never written it. Never even seen it, although exactly how the man who had written it-and had the sheer audacity to personally deliver it to Talkyra-had managed to forge the correspondence so perfectly and gained access to the code book Anvil Rock and Coris had arranged so long ago were certainly… interesting questions.
“Earl Coris,” it began, “First, I beg your pardon for a slight deception on my part. Two of them, to be more accurate. First, I’ve never actually met Captain Harys, I’m afraid, nor has any portion of Prince Daivyn’s ‘gift’ ever been within a thousand leagues of Corisande. And, second, I’m afraid my name isn’t actually Ahbraim Zhevons. It serves me well enough when needed, however, and while I’m aware you’ve never heard of me, I’m an associate of someone I’m certain you have heard of: Merlin Athrawes. I do the occasional odd job for Seijin Merlin when it would be impolitic for him to handle them himself, and he asked me to deliver these wyverns to you as a gift from Earl Gray Harbor. I’m sure you’ve noticed they’re a bit larger than most messenger wyverns, and there’s a reason for that. You see-” . II.
Tellesberg Palace and Tellesberg Cathedral, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis
“God, it’s good to be home! ” Sharleyan Ahrmahk sighed, curling up against her husband’s side and resting her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes, feeling as if she were expanding the pores of her skin to absorb the gentle night breeze breathing through the bedchamber’s open windows. Exotic insects she hadn’t heard in too many months sang in the moon-silvered darkness, the brilliant stars of the southern hemisphere hung overhead like ornaments from some cosmic glassblower, and the part of her which had been missing for far too long was back beside her.
“So Tellesberg is ‘home’ now, is it?” Cayleb teased gently, and she nodded.
“At the moment, at least.” She raised her head long enough to kiss him on the cheek, then snuggled back down and wrapped one arm around his chest, all without ever opening her eyes again. “Don’t let this go to your head, but home is wherever you are.”
His own arm tightened around her and he pressed his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair and savoring its silken texture.
“Works both ways,” he told her. “Except, for me, home is wherever you and Alahnah are.”
“Correction accepted, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Sharleyan giggled.
“What’s so funny?” Cayleb demanded. “You’ve got something against formality and courtesy?”
“Under most circumstances, no, I don’t. But under these…”
Her hand slid down under the light thistle silk sheet covering them to the waist, and Cayleb smiled.
“Courtesy is never wasted,” he informed her. “I’m courteous to every naked lady I find in my bed. In fact-”
He broke off with a sudden twitch, and she raised her head from his shoulder to smile sweetly at him.
“I’d consider my next sentence very carefully if I were you,” she said.
“Actually, my brain doesn’t seem to be working very well at the moment,” he replied, scooping her up and draping her diagonally across his body while he smiled up into her eyes. “I think this may be one of those moments when silence is golden.”
***
The mood was rather different as the two of them headed for the council chamber they used as a working office whenever both of them happened to be in Tellesberg at the same time.
Not the most exacting of their subjects-and not even the two of them, for that matter-could have demanded they give themselves over to official business the day before. Not after that same “official business” had separated the two of them for over four months. HMS Dawn Star ’s arrival in Tellesberg on yesterday afternoon’s tide had been greeted even more tumultuously than Cayleb’s return from Chisholm. In some ways, the citizens of Old Charis had taken Sharleyan even more deeply to their hearts than Cayleb. They loved both of them, but they adored her, which (as Cayleb put it) indicated the soundness of their taste. And like the majority of their subjects, Charisian and Chisholmian alike, the citizens of Tellesberg were entranced by the deep and obvious love between the handsome young king and beautiful young queen who had married for reasons of state. Half the city had crowded the waterfront to watch Dawn Star being nudged gently up against the Royal Quay’s pilings, and they’d seen Emperor Cayleb go bounding up the gangplank almost before the galleon was fully moored. And when he swept Empress Sharleyan up into his arms, tossed her over one shoulder, and carried her back down the gangplank while she laughed and whacked him on the back of his head, the entire huge crowd had erupted in cheers and whistles. Anyone who had suggested that the two of them should do anything besides take themselves off immediately to the palace would probably have been tarred and feathered on the spot.
It had all been most improper, of course, as Sharleyan was well aware. On the other hand, she didn�
�t much care. And, on a more pragmatic note, she knew the short shrift she and Cayleb often gave protocol and formal state occasions was part of the legend that made them not simply respected but beloved by their subjects.
She knew Earl Gray Harbor had also decided yesterday belonged to them, not to the Empire, but that had been then. This was now, and she wasn’t looking forward to the news he’d delayed giving them that first, precious day.
They reached the council chamber door, Merlin following at their heels, and Sergeant Seahamper saluted before he opened it for them and stood aside. Cayleb smiled at the sergeant, resting one hand briefly on his shoulder, then escorted Sharleyan into the chamber where the waiting ministers and councilors stood respectfully to greet them.
“Oh, sit back down.” Cayleb waved them back into their seats. “We can get all formal later, if we need to.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course.”
Gray Harbor managed to sound simultaneously patient, amused, and long-suffering, and Cayleb made a face at him while he pulled Sharleyan’s chair back from the table and seated her. The first councilor smiled back, although there truly were times when he found Cayleb’s informality-even by Charisian standards, which were far more flexible than most-a little disconcerting.
All in all, he vastly preferred it to the sort of ego-aggrandizing formality, bowing, and scraping with which too many monarchs (and far too many lesser nobles, for that matter, in his opinion) surrounded themselves. It wasn’t that he had any objection to the way in which Cayleb and Sharleyan handled themselves; it was that the part of him which looked to the future worried, sometimes, about the traditions they were establishing. The two of them had the strength of will, ability, and self-confidence-and the sheer charisma-to handle their roles and responsibilities without taking refuge in strictly regulated, well-worn formality, but what happened when the Empire found itself ruled by someone without those strengths? Someone who wasn’t able to laugh with his councilors without undermining his authority? Someone who lacked the confidence to pick up his wife in public or make jokes at his own expense in formal addresses to Parliament? Someone who couldn’t allow herself to be scooped up without sacrificing one iota of her dignity when she needed it? Someone who lacked the focused sense of duty that prevented informality and tension-releasing humor from degenerating into license and frivolity?
A kingdom was fortunate to have a single monarch of Cayleb or Sharleyan Ahrmahk’s caliber in a century; no realm could count on having two of them at the same time… still less on producing a third to follow in their footsteps. Indeed, much as Gray Harbor loved the baby crown princess, it had been his observation that the children of the towering rulers who dominated the history books had a distinct tendency to disappear in their parents’ shadows. And what soul could have the hardihood to stand in the shadows of rulers like these two without feeling diminished-even angry-under the weight of their subjects’ expectations? No wonder the heirs of so many great kings and queens had ended up giving their lives over to dissolution and sensuality!
You must be feeling more confident about the outcome of this minor war of ours if you’re wasting time worrying about things like that, Rayjhis, he told himself dryly. Cheerful, too. Alahnah’s just turned one and you’re already worrying about her having drunken orgies after her parents are gone? About the way the Empire’s going to fall apart after them? Neither of them is thirty yet, for Langhorne’s sake! It’s not like you’re going to be around for the transition.
No, he wasn’t-God willing-but it was one of a first councilor’s jobs to worry about things like that. Besides, he’d been making a conscious effort to stand back and consider the long view whenever he could. It was entirely too easy to get trapped up in the day-to-day concerns of simply surviving against an opponent the size of the Church of God Awaiting, and when that happened, unhappy consequences could sneak up on someone.
And it also keeps you from thinking about what you’re going to have to tell them on their very first full day together in almost five months, doesn’t it? he asked himself grimly.
Cayleb sat in his own chair, laid his folded hands on the table in front of him, and glanced at Maikel Staynair, sitting at its foot.
“Maikel?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Staynair looked once around the table, then bent his head. “Oh God, maker and keeper of the universe, author of all good things, our loving creator and father, bless these Your servants Cayleb and Sharleyan and all of their advisors. Let us all hear Your voice and be guided by Your council, and let our Emperor’s and Empress’ decisions be worthy of their responsibility to the subjects who are also Your children, even as they are. Amen.”
No one seemed to notice the absence of any reference to the “Archangels,” Cayleb reflected as he opened his own eyes once more. Ever since he’d been elevated to archbishop, Staynair had focused even more directly upon every human being’s personal relationship with God rather than on the intermediary role of the Archangels. By now, people scarcely noticed the subtle but deeply significant shift, and the majority of the Church of Charis’ clergy seemed to be taking their own stance and practices directly from their archbishop’s.
Maikel always did think in terms of long-term strategy, didn’t he? And speaking of long-term thinking…
The emperor looked directly across the table at Gray Harbor.
“Would you care to go ahead and share with us what you were sparing me and Sharley yesterday, Rayjhis?” he asked dryly.
“Your Majesty?” Gray Harbor raised his eyebrows, and Cayleb snorted.
“I’ve known you since I was a boy, Rayjhis. I don’t want to get into anything about books and reading, but it was obvious to both me and Sharley that you had something on your mind yesterday. And since you didn’t bring it up, it seemed equally obvious it had to be something you didn’t think was going to make us happy.” The emperor shook his head. “Trust me, we appreciate that. Still, it’s a new morning and we might as well get down to it.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
Gray Harbor smiled involuntarily at Cayleb’s tone, but it was a fleeting smile, quickly faded, and he drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders.
“I regret to inform you, Your Majesty, that we’ve received letters from Admiral Manthyr. One contains a complete roster of the officers and men who surrendered to Earl Thirsk-and of those who died in captivity after surrendering.”
It was very quiet and still, the humor of only a moment before fading as quickly as the earl’s smile. No one else spoke, and he looked steadily at his monarchs as he continued.
“There’s also Sir Gwylym’s formal report. It’s very brief-he had none of his logs or records to consult when he prepared it, and for reasons his other letters make clear, very little time in which to write it. It confirms most of what we already knew and suspected about his final engagement… and also something we’ve all feared.”
Gray Harbor’s eyes flitted briefly aside to Captain Athrawes, standing just inside the council chamber’s door. He’d been taking Merlin’s “visions” into his calculations for years now, but not everyone in the chamber was cleared for that information. And, of course, Merlin had been away from Tellesberg for the better part of a year, during which he’d been unable to provide any updated reports on Gwylym Manthyr’s situation.
“King Rahnyld has formally surrendered custody of Sir Gwylym and all of his officers and men to the Inquisition.” The earl’s voice was flat and harsh now. “They left Gorath overland for Zion either late in May or in the first five-day of June. Given the length of the journey and the quality of mainland roads, they must have already reached the Temple.”
The stillness became absolute. Every man and woman in that chamber knew what that meant, and most of the councilors turned their heads to look at Maikel Staynair. By any traditional reckoning, he was the senior member of the Imperial Council as Charis’ archbishop. His should have been the most important of the opinions offered on any subject, and
especially anything touching upon the Church and religion. But Staynair had worked hard to make the Council as independent of the Church of Charis as it possibly could be in what was, after all, a religious war. His position throughout had been that the Church’s proper role was to teach, not to enforce, and more than one of them wondered how he would react to news of this fresh atrocity decreed in God’s name.
He sat motionless for several seconds, then sighed and shook his head heavily, his eyes dark with sadness.
“May God have mercy on them and gather them in arms of love,” he said softly. A quiet chorus of amens ran around the table, and then the others sat respectfully waiting while the archbishop closed his eyes in brief, silent prayer, took a deep breath, sat back in his chair, and looked at his old friend.
“May I ask how these letters come into our possession after all these months of silence, Rayjhis?”
“I can’t answer that question-not completely, at any rate,” Gray Harbor replied. “As nearly as I can tell, they must have traveled by courier from Gorath to Silk Town, where they were handed over to one of the ‘Silkiahan’ merchantmen to be delivered to us here. That part’s fairly obvious. What I can’t tell you is who authorized their delivery, although I have my suspicions.”
“Sir Gwylym didn’t say?” Baron Ironhill asked.
“Reading between the lines, he was very careful not to say, Ahlvyno.” Gray Harbor smiled tightly. “No doubt he knew what would happen to anyone who’d ‘aided and abetted heretics’ if his letters should fall into the Inquisition’s hands.”
“I’m sure he did,” Baron Wave Thunder said. “Of the other hand, I don’t think there’s any doubt your ‘suspicions’ are accurate, Rayjhis. The only person who could have authorized it-who conceivably might have authorized it, from what we know of him-is Earl Thirsk.”
