by David Weber
He stepped back and watched the wheelwright and his assistant get to work. They were good, he admitted, as Charisian workmen tended to be, but they were in for a surprise. Well, two surprises, if he was going to be accurate, although they probably wouldn’t have time to appreciate the second one. But that spare wheel of theirs wasn’t going to fit. Ainsail had taken some pains to make sure no standard Charisian wheel hub was going to fit that axle, just as he’d very carefully arranged for the wheel to break precisely where-and when-it had. Fortunately no one had noticed the sharp rap with the hand sledge which had been required to knock out the wedge he’d fitted to keep the wheel rim properly tensioned against the steel tire until he reached exactly the right spot. Hopefully, the wheelwright wasn’t going to notice that the “break” was suspiciously straight edged and clean, either. Ainsail was a little worried about that, but only a little.
God wouldn’t have let him come this far only to fail at this point.
***
“You worry too much, Rayjhis,” Bishop Hainryk Waignair said teasingly. “If it weren’t the Gulf of Jahras, it would just be something else. Admit it! You’re a fussbudget! ”
The white-haired, clean-shaven Bishop of Tellesberg leaned forward to tap an index finger on Earl Gray Harbor’s chest, brown eyes gleaming with amused challenge. He and Gray Harbor had known one another almost as long as Gray Harbor had known Maikel Staynair, and Waignair, as the second-ranking prelate of the Church of Charis, often sat in for the archbishop on meetings of the Imperial Council when Staynair-as today-was otherwise occupied with the responsibilities of his own ecclesiastic office.
“I am not a ‘fussbudget,’” Gray Harbor said with immense dignity as the carriage moved steadily along the street. “I’m simply a conscientious, thoughtful, insightful-don’t forget insightful! – servant of the Crown. It’s my job to worry about things, just like it’s your job to reassure me that God is on our side.”
“ ‘ Insightful!’ ” Waignair snorted. “Is that what you call it?”
“When I don’t feel an even stronger term is appropriate, yes,” Gray Harbor said judiciously, and the bishop laughed.
“I guess there might be a little something to that,” he said, holding up the thumb and forefinger of his right hand perhaps a quarter of an inch apart. “A little something!” His eyes glinted at his old friend. “Still, with Domynyk in command and Seijin Merlin’s visions assuring us everything went well, can’t you find something better to worry about than the Gulf of Jahras?”
Gray Harbor considered for a moment, then shrugged.
“Of course I can. In fact, I think probably one reason I’m worrying about the Gulf is that we do know it worked out well.” Waignair looked perplexed, and Gray Harbor chuckled. “What I mean is that ‘worrying’ about something I know worked pretty much the way we had in mind distracts me from worrying about the other somethings out there that we don’t know are going to work out the way we have in mind. If you take my meaning.”
“You know, the frightening thing is that I do understand you,” Waignair said. “Probably says something unhealthy about my own mind.”
Gray Harbor chuckled again, louder, and the bishop shook his head at him. The truth was, of course, that both of them knew about the good news Gray Harbor was going to be able to announce in the next five-day or so. Waignair, as a member of the inner circle, had actually watched the battle through Owl’s remotes for several hours. He’d spent most of that time praying for the thousands of men who were being killed or maimed in that cauldron of smoke and fire and exploding ships, and he knew exactly what price Domynyk Staynair’s fleet had paid to purchase that victory. Gray Harbor hadn’t been able to watch personally, but the first councilor was an experienced naval officer, with firsthand experience of what that sort of carnage was like. And he’d long since grown accustomed to taking Merlin’s “visions” as demonstrated fact. He’d been planning how best to use the destruction of the Desnairian Navy ever since the battle had been fought, and he was looking forward to putting those plans into motion as soon as the news officially reached Tellesberg.
“The problem’s not with your mind, Hainryk,” Gray Harbor told him now. “The problem’s with-”
***
Ainsail stood on the narrow, constricted space of open sidewalk beside his wagon, between it and the building he’d managed to park alongside, and watched the traffic flow past while the wheelwright and his apprentice swore with feeling and inventiveness. They’d just discovered the non-standard dimensions of the wagon axle, and as soon as the two of them got done expressing their feelings, Ainsail was sure they’d get around to working out ways to deal with the problem.
Or they would have if they’d had time, he thought as he finally spotted the vehicle he’d been waiting for. It was a good thing he had made sure the repairs were going to be more time-consuming than the wheelwright had originally thought, since the carriage making its way slowly along the crowded street was substantially behind its regular schedule. And, as it drew closer, Ainsail felt his mouth tighten in disappointment. It was unaccompanied by the guardsmen in the orange-and-white livery of the archbishop who normally escorted it.
Why today? he demanded silently. Today, of all days! Would it have been too much to ask for the bastard to keep to his own-?
He cut that thought off quickly. The fact that God and Langhorne had seen fit to bring him this far, grant him the degree of success he’d achieved, was more than any man had a right to demand. He had no business complaining or berating God just because he hadn’t been given still more!
Forgive me, he prayed humbly as he opened the small, carefully concealed panel he’d built into the side of the wagon bed. It’s not my place to set my wisdom above Yours. I’m sure it’s all part of Your plan. Thank You for the opportunity to be part of Your work.
He reached into the hidden compartment and cocked the flintlock. Then his hand settled around the pistol grip and he stood, shoulders relaxed, watching with a calm tranquility he was a little surprised to realize was completely genuine, as the carriage rolled steadily closer.
“We’re going to have to go back to the shop, Master Gahztahn,” the wheelwright was saying. “It looks like we’ll need to-”
He went on talking, but Ainsail tuned him out. He nodded, pretending he was listening, but his attention was on another voice. His mother’s voice, reciting the catechism with a much younger Ainsail as he sat on her lap in her kitchen. And then there was Archbishop Wyllym’s voice, and other voices, all with him at this moment, bearing him up on their strength. He listened to them, embraced them, and as the carriage drew even with the wagon, Ainsail Dahnvahr smiled joyously and squeezed the trigger. . III.
Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis, and Cathedral Square, City of Eraystor, Princedom of Emerald
“I came as quickly as I could, Cayleb,” Maikel Staynair said as a stone-faced Edwyrd Seahamper escorted him into the royal couple’s private chambers. The archbishop crossed the room quickly and knelt beside Sharleyan, who sat hunched in a chair, clasping her daughter in her arms while tears ran down her cheeks.
Cayleb only nodded curtly as Staynair put a comforting arm around Sharleyan’s shoulders. There were no tears in his eyes, only fury, and the archbishop hid a stab of concern as he recognized his emperor’s rage.
There’s only so much provocation any man can take before he starts forgetting he’s not the kind of animal his opponents ar e, Staynair thought quietly. Please, Cayleb. Please! Step back from this. Draw a deep breath. Don’t lash out in some way you’ll regret in days to come .
“We should’ve taken more precautions,” the emperor grated. “We were too predictable. They knew where to find you and Rayjhis, Maikel. That’s what this is all about-the only reason they managed to pull it off. They knew where to find you because we let you use the same route every time you come to the palace.”
“Cayleb-” Staynair began, but Cayleb cut him off.
“No, it’s not your fault.” The emperor glared at him. “No, you didn’t tell your driver or your escort to take alternate routes, but neither did anyone else. Neither did Merlin and neither did I, and we damned well should have. Damn it to hell, Maikel! We know Clyntahn thinks assassination’s a perfectly acceptable tool. And unlike you, Nahrmahn,” he said to the distant Prince of Emerald, “he doesn’t give a spider-rat’s ass how many innocent bystanders he kills along the way. Hell, there aren’t any innocent bystanders! Either they’re fucking heretics who deserve whatever the hell they get, or else they’re noble martyrs to God’s plan! Either way, he can kill however the hell many of them he wants ‘in God’s name’ and feel nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done!”
Staynair winced. Not because he disagreed with a single thing Cayleb had just said, but because of the magma-like fury that filled every syllable.
“Cayleb-” he began again, only to be stopped by a choppy wave of the emperor’s hand. Cayleb turned away, fists clenched at his sides as he glared out a window and fought for self-control. His eyes didn’t see the peaceful garden outside his window; they were watching the imagery projected on his contact lenses as Merlin and a party of Imperial Guardsmen worked their way through the bloody wreckage of Gray Wyvern Avenue.
There must’ve been at least a ton of gunpowder in that wagon, he thought bitterly. Where the fuck did they get their hands on that? And how in hell did they get it into Tellesberg? And how did none of us spot them at it?
He already knew Merlin was going to blame himself for it, just as he blamed himself, but his brain, unlike his emotions, knew both of them would be wrong. They weren’t the only ones with access to Owl’s SNARCs, and responsibility for surveillance here in Old Charis lay primarily with Bynzhamyn Raice, with Prince Nahrmahn as his backup. Both of them were undoubtedly already savaging themselves over what had happened, but Cayleb knew exactly what their procedures were, the sort of information they had access to, and he couldn’t think of a single thing they could have done differently.
“What’s the latest death toll estimate?” he said out loud, his voice flat, never turning from the window.
“I don’t think anyone knows,” Staynair replied quietly. “Bynzhamyn is at Saint Marzhory’s. It’s chaos there, of course. And I ought to be there, not here.”
Cayleb turned his head just long enough to stab a single glance at the archbishop, then returned to the window again. There was no way in the universe he was going to allow Maikel Staynair outside the confines of Tellesberg Palace until they had a far better handle on what had just happened. Staynair looked at his rigid, unyielding spine for a long moment, then sighed.
“As I say, it’s chaos,” he continued. “So far, they’ve admitted over three dozen patients, and they’re sending the less badly hurt to some of the smaller hospitals. How many of the ones they’re keeping are going to live…”
He shrugged helplessly. Saint Marzhory’s Hospital was the main hospital of the Order of Pasquale in Tellesberg. Only six blocks from Tellesberg Palace, the savage attack had happened almost outside the enormous complex’s front door. That was the one mitigating aspect of this entire murderous day, because Saint Marzhory’s had the finest healers and the best surgeons in all of Old Charis. But despite all the medical knowledge and “healing liturgies” tucked away in The Book of Pasquale, Saint Marzhory’s was no trauma center. Those healers would do the best they could, but they were going to lose a heartbreaking percentage of the maimed and broken bodies which had inundated them.
“Merlin says they’ve already confirmed at least two hundred dead on-site,” Nahrmahn Baytz said from Eraystor. He and Princess Ohlyvya had been visiting his uncle Hanbyl, the Duke of Salomon, when the attack occurred. Now their carriage was on its way back to their palace, and Ohlyvya was pressed tightly against his side, her face resting on his shoulder.
“I don’t want to distract him by pestering him with questions at the moment,” the chubby little Emeraldian continued flatly, “so I don’t have a better count than that. I’m sure there are more bodies-or parts of them, anyway-waiting to be found, though. Midday on Gray Wyvern Avenue?” He barked a harsh, angry laugh that was more than half snarl. “We’re going to be lucky if the final count doesn’t top three hundred! And you’re right, Cayleb; they couldn’t have pulled this off if we hadn’t let ourselves get too predictable.”
“I don’t think that was the only reason they got away with it,” Sharleyan said, raising her head as she cuddled a silent, big-eyed Alahnah against her shoulder. The little girl didn’t have a clue what was going on, but she was obviously sensitive to the emotions of the adults around her.
“What do you mean?” Cayleb asked, raising an eyebrow at her.
“I mean our own confidence turned around and bit us in the ass, as Merlin might put it,” she said. “We know what an advantage we have with the SNARCs and with Owl to manage them for us. Oh, we also know things can leak through-like what happened in Manchyr, for example. But despite that, we know we still have better security than anyone else in the entire world. Right?”
“You’re saying we let ourselves be lulled into overconfidence.” Cayleb shrugged. “That’s the same reason we let ourselves get too predictable, Sharley.”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Or it’s not everything I’m saying, anyway.” Sharleyan drew a deep breath. “I guess what I really meant is that we know what an advantage we have, but sometimes we forget the other side’s figuring it out, too. They’re finding ways to work around it, and we didn’t expect them to.”
There was silence for a moment, and then Nahrmahn nodded as his carriage began making its way through the heavier traffic in Cherayth.
“Like they did with that misinformation about which way Harpahr was actually going to be sent with his fleet, you mean?” he asked.
“I think, yes,” she replied. “But this goes further than that.” She was obviously working her way through her own analysis as she spoke, and Cayleb folded his arms across his chest, watching her intently. “That was more… passive. Or defensive, perhaps. It was misinformation, as you said, Nahrmahn; this is something a lot more active. They managed to get whoever put that wagon in position into Tellesberg, and they managed to provide him with the gunpowder he needed, and we never saw a thing. Not a thing! How did they do that? How could they build an organization that could coordinate something like that without us seeing a thing?”
“They couldn’t,” Cayleb said slowly, and she nodded.
“Which is why I don’t think they did anything of the sort,” she said flatly. “I don’t know how, but God knows the Inquisition’s been managing spies and informants and agents provocateurs forever, and Clyntahn already proved in Manchyr that he could engineer the assassination of a reigning prince without anyone catching him at it! They managed to get this assassin and his weapon into position somehow, too, and the only way I can think of for them to’ve done that without our catching them at it is to organize it the same way they must have organized their misinformation gambit before the Markovian Sea.”
“They planned it and put it together inside the Temple, where we can’t get SNARCs in to snoop on them,” Nahrmahn said. “That’s what you’re saying. And because they’ve figured out our spies are better than theirs, even if they don’t have a clue why that’s true, they sent their man in unsupported.”
“Unsupported by anyone he had to contact here, anyway,” Sharleyan corrected. “I don’t think there’s any way anyone could have set this all up on his own after he was here. There had to be some spadework before they sent him in. But I’ll bet you any contact with anyone here in Tellesberg or Old Charis went through the Temple, not through anyone else here.”
“Limiting themselves to communications channels that go directly from one person back to the Temple and then from the Temple back to that one person?” Cayleb could have sounded dismissive, but he didn’t, and his expression was thoughtful. “How in hell could they pull that off
?”
“That depends on how willing they’d be to use things like the semaphore system and ciphers,” Nahrmahn responded. “We’re still using it to communicate with Siddarmark and Silkiah. In fact, we’re allowing greater access to it than the Church ever did, so if they feel confident of their cipher system, they could be sending their correspondence back and forth that way easily enough. For that matter, we’re not the only people with messenger wyverns, Cayleb.” The Emeraldian shook his head. “That’d be slow and cumbersome and not very responsive, but they could have set up a system that would do the job without ever going near the sempahore.
“The key point isn’t how they get messages back and forth, though. It’s the point Sharley’s raised: the probability that they’re sending out solo operatives. Our ability to detect them depends in large part on Owl’s ability to recognize key words in conversation and direct our attention to the people who used them, or on our ability to identify one agent and then work outward until we’ve found all the members of his network. A single assassin, especially one who’s prepared or even eager to die in the attempt, the way this fellow certainly was, is going to be one hell of a lot harder to spot and stop.”
“That’s true,” Cayleb agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “On the other hand, a single assassin’s going to be able to do a lot less damage than a full-blown conspiracy if we can keep the bastard away from wagonloads of gunpowder. And nothing anyone’s brought up so far suggests how they got that big a load of explosives through our customs inspections. If they’re avoiding building or working with a large organization, then surely they wouldn’t have tried to bribe the inspectors, and I doubt they’d use smugglers if they’re worried about the potential for being betrayed to the authorities! So how-?”
