At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  “If you’ll accompany me, Sir,” he said, turning back to Ahbaht, “I’ll escort you to your quarters. Unless you’d care to address the ship’s company?”

  Ahbaht looked at him, head slightly cocked, but Tohmys looked back steadily. The line between the authority of a flag officer and the captain of his flagship was drawn very clearly for a great many reasons. A commodore or an admiral could order his captain to do anything he wished with his flagship; he had no authority over how the captain did it. There could be only one commander aboard any ship, especially any warship, and it was essential that there never be any question in anyone’s mind who that one commander was.

  Because of that, the ICN tradition was that flag officers addressed their flagship’s companies only at their flag captains’ invitation. It would take a hardy captain to refuse a commodore or admiral permission to address his crew, but there was a distinct difference between granting permission and extending an invitation.

  “I would, indeed—with your permission, Captain,” Ahbaht said after a moment. “And I thank you for the indulgence.”

  “Sir Bruhstair,” Tohmys said, still meeting his eyes levelly, “it will be my honor—and my men’s.”

  Ahbaht might have colored ever so slightly, but he nodded and stepped up onto the raised coaming of the midships hatch. The elevation raised his head above shoulder level on Captain Tohmys, but not by much, and the flag captain stepped back. Ahbaht wondered whether he was tactfully … deemphasizing the altitude differential.

  “Ship’s company, tennnnn-huttt!” the officer of the deck barked.

  The Imperial Charisian Navy placed rather less emphasis on immaculate military drill and formality than most armies did. It was a … practical sort of service, the Navy—one which prided itself on getting the job done and on thumbing its collective nose at the aristocratic Mainlander realms’ punctilio. But it was also completely capable of executing that drill whenever the mood took it, and Floodtide’s company snapped to attention with a precision not even the Temple Guard could have bettered.

  “Stand easy,” Ahbaht said, raising his voice to be heard through the wind humming in the shrouds and the seabirds circling the anchorage, and feet moved, again with that same precision, coming down on the deck in a single, crisp movement as they folded their arms behind themselves. It wasn’t the position of “stand easy”; it was the far more respectful position of “parade rest,” and Ahbaht felt a suspicious prickle at the corners of his eyes. He wondered if Tohmys had drilled them especially for this moment, yet somehow he doubted it.

  “I thank you and Captain Tohmys for your welcome,” he told them, clasping his own hands behind them and letting his eyes sweep slowly across those hundreds of attentive faces, “and I won’t keep you long. All of us have a great deal to do, and I know all of you know just as well as I do why we’re here.”

  He took one hand from behind himself to wave it in a circle that indicated the crowded waters of Rahzhyr Bay. Half of Admiral Sarmouth’s squadron was at sea; the other half was right here at anchor, and Admiral Darys’ arrival had filled the hundred and sixty square miles of Rahzhyr Bay to capacity. The truth was, he reflected, that the ICN was going to need a larger, more commodious forward base. Or even, if things went well, several of them. Personally, he was in favor of Stella Cove on Jack’s Land, at least as an interim measure. Of course, they’d have to take it away from the Royal Dohlaran Navy first, but that only made it more attractive to Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht … and Floodtide and her consorts might just give Baron Sarmouth the wherewithal to do that taking.

  Unless, of course, he has something even more … adventurous in mind.

  “All of you know what happened in the Kaudzhu Narrows last July,” he continued, his voice harder and harsher, and a quietly ugly sound hovered above the listening seaman and officers. “Well, that’s what we’re out here to do something about, and I’m deeply honored that Earl Sharpfield and Baron Sarmouth have seen fit to give me this division. There was never any question in my mind which of its units I wanted as my flagship, either … and that was before I saw the handsome way you brought her into Rahzhyr Bay. Seamanship alone doesn’t make an effective warship, but good seamen do.”

  He let that sink in for a moment, then continued.

  “We have a great deal to do, and I’m going to demand a great deal of you. I’m going to drive this division, and I won’t settle for less than the very best you can give me. And don’t forget—we’re the Imperial Charisian Navy. I know what you can give me, so don’t expect to fob me off with anything less than the finest navy God ever put on the surface of Safehold’s seas. That’s what you are,” the words came slowly, measured, “and that’s what you’re going to be for me, because the Charisian Navy has a debt to collect and the Dohlaran Navy’s account is about to come due. When that time comes—when that bill’s presented and that account is rendered; not just for Dohlar but for everyone in the Group of Four’s service—this division—and HMS Floodtide—will be in the van, and there’s not a man or an officer in Dohlaran service who will ever forget that day.”

  He paused once more, letting his eyes sweep those silent faces once more, seeing the grim determination, the fire in the eyes, and he nodded slowly.

  “That’s what I’m going to demand of you,” he told them, his voice like hammered iron. “And when you give it to me, we’ll teach the Dohlaran Navy not to fuck around with the ICN … and show that fat, fornicating pig in Zion what God really has in mind for him!”

  The roar that went up from Floodtide’s deck should have stunned every bird and wyvern in Rahzhyr Bay unconscious.

  .IV.

  Protector’s Arms Hotel

  and

  Aivah Pahrsahn’s Townhouse,

  Siddar City,

  Republic of Siddarmark.

  “You’re late!”

  The very attractive young woman smiled and pointed accusingly at the clock outside the restaurant’s entrance as the dark-haired colonel came through the street door into the hotel lobby vestibule.

  “Nineteen-thirty, that’s what you said!” she continued. “I’ve been waiting here an entire twelve minutes, I’ll have you know.”

  She elevated her nose with a distinctly audible sniff, and the colonel grinned at her.

  “Considering the weather, you’re lucky it wasn’t at least a couple of hours,” he told her, stamping snow off his boots. He took off his heavy greatcoat, handed it to one of the bellmen, and crossed the lobby to wrap his arms around her. She snuggled against his chest and he pressed a kiss to the part in her hair.

  “Miss me?” he asked in a much softer voice, and she snorted.

  “If I had, the last thing I’d do would be to admit it! Can’t have you taking me for granted, you know.”

  “Never!”

  He laughed and tucked one arm around her and they started for the restaurant. The maître d’ was waiting for them with a broad smile.

  “Should I assume our regular table’s available. Gyairmoh?” the colonel asked.

  “Of course, Colonel Fhetukhav. It is Friday,” the maître d’ pointed out.

  “Are we really that predictable?”

  “Only to some of us, Sir.”

  “Well, please make sure this gets into the hotel strongroom till I leave,” Fhetukhav said much more seriously, handing across his briefcase.

  “Of course, Sir. I’ll take it myself. And in the meantime,” the maître d’ accepted the briefcase and snapped his fingers, and a waiter materialized out of thin air at his elbow, smiling just as broadly in greeting as he had, “Ahndrai will see you to your table and take your drink orders.”

  “Your efficiency never ceases to amaze me, Gyairmoh.”

  “The Protector’s Arms has a reputation to maintain, Sir,” the maître d’ said, and bowed gracefully as the waiter escorted them to their table.

  * * *

  Airah Sahbahtyno sat at his own table, watching through the diamond-paned glass wall which separated th
e restaurant from the lobby, as Gyairmoh Hahdgkyn crossed to the elevated, pulpit-like front desk. The good-looking young woman behind it looked up at his approach and shook her head with a smile as she saw the briefcase.

  “I take it the Colonel’s arrived?”

  “It’s Friday,” Hahdgkyn said with an answering twinkle.

  “You know they’re discussing marriage?” the desk clerk asked.

  “I think that would be wonderful.” Hahdgkyn’s expression was more sober than it had been. “They’re good people, Sairaih. And it would certainly be a happier ending than a lot of things have been in the last few years.”

  “It certainly would,” she agreed, and reached out to accept the briefcase from him.

  She stepped back through the open wicket gate to the massive, iron-strapped door of the hotel strongroom and used the key hanging from the chain around her neck to open the door. She stepped inside and slid the briefcase into one of the numbered heavy cabinets against the back wall, then closed and locked the cabinet door—also reinforced with iron—behind it. Then she closed the strongroom door, relocked it, as well, and returned to the desk, where she pulled a slip of paper from a pigeonhole, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and wrote in a quick, neat hand. She blew on the ink to dry it, then handed it to Hahdgkyn.

  “Here’s his receipt,” she said, then spurted a little laugh as the maître d’ accepted it. “Not that he really needs one anymore. Charlz knows that briefcase as well as I do by now!”

  “The light’s usually a little better when the Colonel collects it in the morning, though, I imagine.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it is,” she agreed, and Hahdgkyn headed back to the restaurant to deliver the receipt.

  Sahbahtyno watched him go, waited thirteen minutes by the clock—last time he’d waited only five, but the time before that he’d waited for thirty-three—then stood, folded his newspaper, signed the check lying beside his dessert plate, and ambled out of the restaurant. He crossed to the desk, and the clerk greeted him with a smile.

  “Good evening, Master Sahbahtyno. How was dinner?”

  “Excellent, as always,” Sahbahtyno replied with a matching smile. “Would you happen to have any mail for me, Sairaih?”

  “I don’t believe we do tonight, actually,” she said. “Let me check.”

  She ran her fingertip along the long row of wall mounted pigeonholes until it came to the one for Room 312, then turned back to him.

  “I’m afraid not. Were you expecting something? I can have one of the bellboys run it up to your room when it arrives, if you are.”

  “No, no.” He shook his head. “Just checking. There’s some routine paperwork en route from one of my suppliers, but nothing urgent. If anything does come this late, it’ll keep until tomorrow. No point sending one of the boys upstairs. Besides, I’m going to be turning in early tonight, I think.” He glanced out through the double-paned lobby windows as the snow driving along Lord Protector Ludovyc Avenue at a sharp angle and shivered theatrically. “I always sleep better on nights like this. I think listening to the wind howl on the other side of the wall makes the bed feel warmer.”

  “It seems that way to me, sometimes, too,” she agreed. “Sleep well.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded pleasantly, turned from the desk, and headed across the lobby.

  As one of the Republic’s capital’s premier hotels, the eight-floor Protector’s Arms boasted no less than three elevators, and he took the center one to the third floor, then strolled to his room, unlocked the door, and turned up the wick on the lit lamp housekeeping had left on the small table just inside it. A small, banked fire burned on the small grate—housekeeping always laid one for him promptly at sixteen o’clock, at the same time they lit the doorside lamp for him—and he closed the door behind himself and locked it. He crossed to the fireplace, setting the small lamp on the mantel while he poked up the fire and settled three or four lumps of fresh Glacierheart coal into the suddenly crackling flames. Then he lit a taper from the jar on the mantel and used it to light the larger lamp on the pleasant little sitting room’s table and the still larger one suspended from the coffered ceiling on a chain. The Protector’s Arms used only the finest first-quality kraken oil, and the lamps burned brightly and steadily as he settled into the armchair parked in front of the cheerfully dancing fire.

  Despite his conversation with the desk clerk, he had no intention of sleeping. Not anytime soon, anyway. It would be—he pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it—another three hours or so before Sairaih Kwynlyn handed the desk over to Charlz Ohbyrlyn, her relief. And it would probably be at least another hour after that before Ohbyrlyn knocked ever so quietly at Sahbahtyno’s door.

  He sat back in the chair, opened his personal copy of the Holy Writ, and resumed his study of the Book of Chihiro while he waited.

  * * *

  It was actually closer to five hours than four, but the knock came eventually.

  Sahbahtyno marked his place, set the Writ on the table, and crossed quickly to open the door.

  The man in the hall was at least ten years older than Sairaih, with brown hair and eyes, and his expression was nervous. It was also determined, however, and he held out a very large briefcase—almost large enough for a small suitcase, actually, and monogramed with the initials “ARS”—without a word. Sahbahtyno took it, the brown-haired man turned and walked quickly away, and the door closed and locked behind him.

  Sahbahtyno moved with the smoothness of long practice as he opened the briefcase with his initials on it—the one which had been parked in the strongroom since the day before—and removed the considerably smaller briefcase which had been concealed within it He picked the locks securing the straps on the second briefcase, opened it, and gazed down into it, touching absolutely nothing for well over a minute while he carefully memorized how its contents were arranged. It would never do to put them back in a different order.

  Finally he nodded to himself and extracted the neatly banded folders. He stacked them on the table, careful to maintain their order, and arranged a pad of paper and a pen at his elbow. Then he drew a deep breath, opened the first folder, and began to read.

  Halfway down the first page, he paused, eyes widening. His gaze darted back up to the heading, rereading it carefully, and his nostrils flared as he reached for the pen and began jotting shorthand notes at a furious pace.

  * * *

  “Well, so far so good,” Merlin Athrawes murmured.

  He and Nynian Rychtyr sat side-by-side on a comfortable, deeply upholstered couch in “Aivah Pahrsahn’s” luxurious townhouse. A carafe of hot chocolate sat on the small side table at Nynian’s end of the couch, but Merlin nursed an outsized mug of cherrybean tea. He hadn’t actually realized how much he’d missed Nimue Alban’s favorite hot beverage until he’d rediscovered it here in the Republic, and he wondered sometimes why it had taken him so long to reacquire Nimue’s addiction.

  Probably because I’d spent so much time going cold turkey in Charis, he reflected. Wasn’t exactlty common there, and Seijin Merlin was already odd enough without adding that to the equation. And it’s not as if caffeine—or the lack thereof—has much effect on a PICA, either, so it wasn’t like I needed the stuff to stay awake the way Nimue did when she had the bridge watch.

  “I told you and Cayleb that Sahbahtyno would be more useful alive than dead someday,” Nynian replied with a decided note of triumph.

  “I still say it would’ve been more satisfying just to kill the bastard.”

  “You see, that’s the difference between us,” Nynian told him with a twinkle. “You believe in brute force solutions, whereas I prefer more … subtle approaches. And unlike you, I understand that pleasure deferred is often much greater because of the wait. From where I sit, it’s far more satisfying to put Master Sahbahtyno to work for us. Just think about his reaction when we finally do arrest him and explain exactly how he’s been played!” She smiled seraphically. “The only thing bett
er than that would be to find a way to send him home to report personally to Rayno and Clyntahn after they find out how we’ve used him but before he figures it out. I’m sure what they’d do to him would satisfy even someone as bloodthirsty as you and Cayleb!”

  “Probably,” he conceded. “But we’re not giving up the opportunity to watch him hang right here in Siddar City when the time comes.” He shrugged, his sapphire eyes far bleaker than his almost whimsical tone. “Sometimes tradition is important, and if anybody ever damned well deserved to hang, it’s Sahbahtyno.”

  “I can’t argue with you there,” Nynian acknowledged, her own tone rather more serious than it had been. “But, all jesting aside, this is exactly why I argued against arresting him when we first identified him.”

  “And, as usual,” Merlin turned smiled warmly at her, “you were right. Have I ever mentioned that you have a habit of being that way?”

  “From time to time,” she said, leaning closer to rest her head on his shoulder. “From time to time.”

  He tucked an arm around her and sipped cherrybean, then snorted a laugh.

  “What?” she asked without lifting her head from his shoulder, and he chuckled.

  “I was just thinking about Mahrlys and Rahool,” he said. “I wonder if either of them ever expected this to turn out the way it looks like it’s going to?”

  “You mean in front of an altar?” It was Nynian’s turn to chuckle warmly. “I doubt it, but it couldn’t happen to two nicer people!”

  “No, it couldn’t. And I hope you don’t mind that Seijin Aibram will always have a warm spot in his heart for Mahrlys.”

  “I’d be astonished if he didn’t. She wasn’t simply one of the most … accomplished young ladies in Madame Ahnzhelyk’s employ, she was also one of the sweetest. And the smartest. There was a reason—besides Aibram’s charming Silkiahan accent—that I suggested her for him that first night, you know. She always was one of my favorites.”