How firm a foundation s-5

by David Weber

  “Of course he does, and the Charisians know it, too. That’s why they went after Iythria. Because it’s closer to Siddarmark-and to Silkiah, of course-and it’s going to have more impact in Siddarmark. They could care less what the effect in Desnair is! They want to show the Republic that they can go anywhere the hell they want and do anything the hell they choose to encourage the ‘Reformists’ to turn against Mother Church openly and to reassure Stohnar that they can assist him militarily when he seizes the opportunity to finally bury his dagger in Mother Church’s back.”

  Rayno started to reply, then stopped and considered. He wasn’t at all sure he shared the logic process which had led the Grand Inquisitor to his conclusion, and he was even less confident that the possibility of a direct military alliance with Siddarmark had played any part in the Charisian decision to attack Iythria. As far as he could see, that had been purely an example of their going after the most immediately valuable-and most immediately threatening-military objective they could strike.

  Yet none of that meant their triumph wasn’t going to have exactly the effect Clyntahn had just described. Not instantly, perhaps, but in the fullness of time. And while Rayno had always been less than convinced that Greyghor Stohnar was simply biding his time until the moment was ripe to move against the Border States and the Temple Lands, that had been when the entire world wasn’t already at war. Not only that, it had been before the Inquisition began preparing the Sword of Schueler against the Republic. Unless the Lord Protector was far, far stupider than Rayno could bring himself to believe, Stohnar had to have become at least partially aware of the Sword. It was unlikely he realized everything Clyntahn and Rayno had in mind, and even if he did, it was even less likely he’d be able to survive. But he was almost certainly picking up at least some warning signs, and if he did decide what had happened at Iythria strengthened his hand-and especially if it encouraged the Siddarmarkian Reformists-he probably would begin cautiously exploring options with Charis.

  “I see your thinking now, Your Grace,” he said. “Of course, it’s unlikely Stohnar will be able to act on the opportunity before the Sword strikes.”

  “I know that’s the plan,” Clyntahn said. “And hopefully, Rakurai’s going to have knocked the bastard Charisians back on their heels, at least for a little bit, too. But they surprised us with this one, Wyllym. Let’s not pretend they didn’t. And everything we’re hearing suggests the ‘Reformists’ are gaining ground steadily in Siddarmark. At least some of those bastards are likely to come out openly in support of Stohnar when the coin finally drops. For that matter, they’re gaining ground in other places, too.”

  He glowered at Rayno across the table, and the archbishop nodded. Despite what the Church was reporting, the truth-which had a nasty tendency of leaking out through the producers of those accursed anti-Church broadsheets the Inquisition still couldn’t run to ground-was that the Church of Charis wasn’t being “heroically and defiantly resisted” in the “conquered territories.”

  That was to be expected in Old Charis itself, and probably to some extent in Emerald, as well, if only due to the princedom’s proximity to the original source of the contagion. Yet the truth was that Chisholm, which definitely wasn’t right next door to Old Charis, had reacted with appalling calmness to its renegade queen’s decision to actually marry the heretic King of Charis. Still worse, in some ways, Zebediah had done the same. In fact, from all reports, Zebediah was actively embracing the Charisian Empire, and if that meant accepting the Church of Charis as well, its subjects seemed perfectly willing to do that, too. No doubt that was largely an inevitable reaction to how cordially hated Tohmys Symmyns had been, but that wasn’t keeping it from happening. And, worst of all…

  “You’re thinking about Corisande, Your Grace?”

  “I’m thinking about everywhere the goddamned Charisians go,” Clyntahn said sourly, “but, yes, Corisande was the other major ulcer I had in mind. I know our reports from Manchyr are always out of date by the time they get here, and I know you’ve been trying to put the best face on the ones we do get,” he shot Rayno a moderately frigid look, “but the goddamned ‘Reformists’ are obviously gaining ground in Corisande. And the dog-and-lizard show that bitch Sharleyan put on when she was down there’s only pushing that process along. The damned Corisandians are going over to Charis, just like the Chisholmians and the Zebediahans, and you know it, Wyllym.”

  Unfortunately, Rayno did know it. And he had been trying to “put the best face on” his reports from Corisande, for that matter. It would have been nice if there’d been some actual good news in any of them, though.

  It seemed evident to him (although even now he didn’t propose to point it out to Clyntahn) that there’d always been a much greater Reformist sentiment in Corisande than anyone in Zion had realized. That sentiment hadn’t extended-initially, at least-to actually embracing schism and heresy, yet it had been there. And it had grown only stronger after Clyntahn broke the Reformist Circle in Zion itself. Rayno understood why the Grand Inquisitor had done it, yet there was no point pretending Corisande-insulated from the object lesson by all of the salt water between it and the mainland-hadn’t reacted with revulsion and anger. That had helped push more Corisandians into the arms of the Church of Charis, and the careful way in which Cayleb and Sharleyan had handled their occupation, coupled with Sharleyan’s display of mercy in pardoning so many who’d been convicted of treason, had drastically undermined the purely secular anger evoked by Hektor’s murder. Especially when she’d gone right on displaying mercy after she’d so nearly been killed on her throne! For that matter, the original outrage engendered by Hektor’s assassination had begun to fade even before Northern Conspiracy’s leaders had been arrested, far less convicted.

  So, yes, the “damned Corisandians” were going over to Charis.

  “The other thing we have to face here, Wyllym,” Clyntahn continued flatly, “is that we’re getting our ass kicked every time we go up against the Charisians at sea. Don’t think anybody inclined to consider heresy’s missing that point, either. Hopefully, the Rakurai are going to have demonstrated by now that we’re not powerless when it comes to striking back, but the military momentum’s clearly on the heretics’ side for right now, and that’s giving them the impetus where morale’s concerned, as well. We need to grab that momentum back, regain the upper hand psychologically, the way we had it after we snuffed out the Wylsynns’ conspiracy. Finally getting around to Punishing those bastards Thirsk captured was a start. Rakurai’s going to be another step on the same journey, too, and the Sword’s going to be a huge stride in the right direction. But I want to hit them in as many places as possible. I think it’s time to poke up the fire in Corisande.”

  “Prince Daivyn?” Rayno asked, tilting his head while he considered options and possibilities.

  “Exactly. And I want it to coincide with the Sword. I want those bastards in Tellesberg to take as many good, heavy kicks in the balls, from as many directions as we can manage, in the shortest time period possible.”

  “If you actually want to coordinate the two operations, Your Grace, we’re going to have to tinker with the timing.”

  “What do you mean, ‘tinker’?”

  “Forgive me, Your Grace. That was the wrong word. I should have said we’re going to have to consider the timing carefully. If we hold to our current planning and send in a team of ‘Charisian’ assassins, it’s going to take at least a few five-days-possibly an entire month-to get them into position in Delferahk, so the question becomes how closely we want the assassination to coincide with the Sword. Do we want to delay events in Siddarmark in order to coordinate them with the assassination, or do we want to move as quickly as possible in Siddarmark and settle for approximate coordination between the Sword and the assassination?”

  “I want them to happen as close to simultaneously as possible,” Clyntahn said after a moment’s thought. “I want Cayleb and Sharleyan to know we timed them to happen that way.” He s
miled unpleasantly. “After all, they’re going to know they didn’t kill Daivyn, no matter what happens. So let’s just underscore the statement for them and see how they like that!”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” Rayno bowed across the table again. “I’ll get started on that immediately.”

  Queen Frayla Avenue, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

  “I have a priority alert, Lieutenant Commander Alban.”

  Merlin Athrawes’ head snapped up as Owl’s voice spoke calmly over his built-in com. He stood in the window of his palace bedchamber, looking out into the steadily gathering twilight, and his expression was grim. Tellesberg-even Tellesberg, the city which never slept, which was never quiet-seemed hushed and somber. Lanterns and lamps were already beginning to illuminate the oncoming night, and his enhanced vision could see the longshoremen and the ships still loading and unloading cargo along the waterfront. But the city’s tempo had clearly dropped, and people went about their business more quietly than usual, with a degree of fearfulness which grieved his heart.

  The Gray Wyvern Avenue attack wasn’t the only one Tellesberg had endured, although it had been the most costly of them all.

  Another wagon loaded with explosives had been intercepted as it rolled through the gates of the Tellesberg dockyard. In the wake of Gray Wyvern Avenue, an alert Marine sentry had taken it upon himself to question all incoming deliveries unless the driver was known to him personally. His initiative had irritated the dockyard authorities immensely, since it had resulted in confusion and delays in the dockyard’s always bustling movement of supplies and deliveries. In fact, his company commander had dispatched a sergeant with orders for him to cease and desist. Fortunately, the sergeant hadn’t arrived yet when the officious sentry stopped an articulated freight wagon almost as large as the one used in Gray Wyvern Square. Unfortunately, that wagon driver had arranged one of the flintlock pistol-based detonators where he could reach it from his high box seat.

  The explosion had killed another fifty-six people, including the sentry, and wounded over a hundred more, but it would have been far worse if the driver had managed to reach his intended destination.

  Two more, similar explosions had racked Tellesberg in the next twelve hours. Fortunately, they’d been smaller, but they’d created something entirely too much like panic for Merlin’s taste. They’d also led to the declaration of martial law and a decree freezing all wagon traffic until the authorities could put some sort of security system into place.

  The attackers’ tactics had been shrewdly chosen to hit Tellesberg where it was most vulnerable, Merlin thought grimly. Not only had they targeted the leaders of the Empire’s government-what had happened to Gray Harbor, Waignair, and Nahrmahn was proof enough of that-but Tellesberg’s commerce was its very life’s blood. The city’s coat of arms, quartered with galleon and freight wagon, was nothing but accurate in that regard, and the grating, rumbling roar of those heavy wagons was both the bane of Tellesberg’s repose and the source of a perverse pride.

  Now those wagons had become a source of fear, not civic pride, for who knew which of them might be yet another bomb rolling towards its destination?

  Cayleb and Sharleyan had seen no option but to impose unprecedented controls on the movement of freight through the city. No system could be perfect, but they’d moved quickly to begin issuing permits and licenses which were to be carried at all times and displayed upon demand. Moreover, every cargo load would now have to be documented, with a detailed bill of lading that would be inspected before it was allowed into the waterfront area or access to any cathedral, church, or public building.

  Fortunately, the majority of the capital’s freight was moved by professional drayage firms, all of which were already required to be bonded and inspected twice a year. Given those records’ existence, they’d been able to move far more rapidly than someone like Clyntahn probably would have expected, and at least limited wagon traffic had been allowed to resume within two days of the initial attack. The smaller independents, who hadn’t been in the records, were another matter, and some of them were suffering severe economic hardship while they tried to get the documentation and licensing which had never before been required. Baron Ironhill, aware both of the hardship for them and the consequences for the city’s economic sector in general, had already set aside a fund to help reimburse some of those independent drayers’ losses.

  Even under the best circumstances, however, all the new inspections and regulations and licenses had begun imposing a significant drag on the Tellesberg economy. The cost of stationing City Guardsmen and Marines to do the inspecting was going to be a non-trivial budget item, as well. Yet even worse was the pervasive apprehension, the fear that yet another attack was inevitable. Tellesbergers refused to be cowed, and their anger at the indiscriminate slaughter of men, women, and children far eclipsed their fear, yet that fear was there, and Merlin was sadly certain it wasn’t going away anytime soon.

  “What sort of priority alert?” he asked Owl tersely now.

  “A wagon has just entered one of the primary surveillance zones,” the AI replied in that same calm tone. “As per your standing instructions, I have placed a parasite sensor in the wagon bed. It confirms the presence of high concentrations of gunpowder.”

  ***

  Tailahr Ahndairs suppressed a highly inappropriate urge to swear as he turned the wagon down Queen Frayla Avenue and one wheel bumped jarringly over the cut-granite curb between the roadway and the sidewalk.

  He’d been selected for his mission because of his religious fervor and his Charisian accent, both of which were completely genuine. Unfortunately, he was a tinker by trade, not a drayman, and there’d been less time to teach him the rudiments of managing a heavy freight wagon than he might have wished. The traffic in Tellesberg was also far, far heavier than he’d ever really anticipated, which only made things worse, but at least there were some advantages to the controls on movement the heretics had slapped down. Operation Rakurai’s planners hadn’t counted on their being able to do that as quickly as they had, and Tailahr was unhappily aware that he had neither permit nor license. If he was stopped, there was no way he could pretend to be anything but what he was. On the other hand, there was far less traffic than there had been, so even if he had no license, he also had fewer other wagons to contend with and-hopefully-his own poor driving would be less of a problem.

  It had been so far, at least, and he didn’t have much farther to go.

  He looked along the street ahead of him. Quite a few heads turned, eyes watching him warily as he rumbled past, and he exulted inside at that proof the heretics had been hurt. They were afraid now, and well they should be! It bemused him that they should go through their lives showing so little concern for the eternity of punishment their actions were storing up in Shan-wei’s hell, yet react so strongly-exactly as Archbishop Wyllym and Vicar Zhaspahr had predicted they would-to a threat to their merely mortal, transitory bodies. He didn’t-couldn’t-understand that sort of thinking, but he didn’t have to understand to recognize the effect, and he smiled grimly at the proof of what he and his fellows had already accomplished.

  Lights were beginning to glow in the establishments around him. Most of them were shops or eateries, and he saw couples and families gathering around the tables of the open-air cafes in the comfort of the cool, breezy evening. The traffic around him was primarily pedestrian, with a smattering of private vehicles and an occasional dragon-drawn streetcar. There were very few freight wagons in the area, however, which made Tailahr’s wagon stand out even more. That was also the reason his wagon was so much smaller than the others had been, because there was nothing here to justify the presence of one of the huge, articulated vehicles. The fact that he only had to manage a simple pair of draft horses instead of one of the dragons was an additional plus, but mostly it was because he needed to appear as unthreatening as possible until the moment came. He was simply one more driver, obviously there to drop off deliveries of f
resh vegetables for the restaurants, and he reminded himself to smile and wave reassuringly at the pedestrians who stopped as they saw him passing.

  Ahead of him, on the left, he saw the sentry box and the Imperial Charisian Marines standing guard at the open wrought-iron gate of his target. He wasn’t going to be able to get as close as he would have liked, but that had been factored into his plan. His wagon wasn’t loaded just with gunpowder; it had been packed with bits and pieces of scrap iron, old nails, cobblestones, and anything else he could find to use as projectiles. When he set off the charge, it would turn the vehicle into an enormous shotgun, hurling its improvised grapeshot for hundreds of yards-inaccurately, but with lethal power.

  He felt the tension coiling tighter at his center as the moment approached. To be chosen for this particular attack had been an enormous honor. His chances of successfully killing his primary target were probably less than even, given how far from the building he’d be when he detonated his weapon, but he could always hope. And according to their best information, the apostate traitor’s office faced on the street and he normally worked far later into the night than this. So there was at least a chance, and even if he missed Wylsynn, he’d get scores of the bastard’s assistants. He was about to strike a devastating blow at the center of all those accursed perversions of the Proscriptions, and that Tailahr’s thoughts broke off abruptly as a man materialized out of nowhere. One instant he wasn’t there; the next he was reaching up, catching the driver’s seat’s grab rail, and vaulting up beside Tailahr with impossible, fluid speed.

  Tailahr flinched away, instantly and automatically, instead of immediately reaching for the cocked and ready pistol grip concealed in the seat beside him, and before he could even begin to recover, a hand moving with blurring speed had caught his left wrist. He screamed as that same hand effortlessly twisted his arm up until the back of his wrist pressed his shoulder blades; then another demonically strong hand gripped the nape of his neck, and Tailahr screamed again as his captor stood upright on the wagon seat, dragging him with him.