by David Weber
She wondered, sometimes, if Nimue Alban’s personality had always been that … direct, and she simply hadn’t realized it because all of her attention had been so focused on the hopeless, losing war against the Gbaba. Or was it the ultimate futility of that war—the knowledge that it could end only one way, whatever she might do—which had made her so direct?
Of course, Lady Swayle was going to be in for a few unhappy surprises. For example, Colonel Brekyn Ainsail, that friend of hers who was supplying her with the Trapdoor Mahndrayns out of the goodness of his heart and loyalty to her husband’s memory. Ainsail was actually just a bit more mercenary than that, and Duke Rock Coast’s marks spoke much more convincingly to him than any appeal to loyalty, whether to a friend’s memory or to the Temple. And he didn’t realize the ghost of a dead Emeraldian prince and an electronic being who’d never breathed had carefully tracked every payment, every piece of forged paperwork, every diversionary order, and every shipment of arms. They knew exactly where every rifle was, where it had come from, and how it had gotten there. Explaining how they knew in open court might be just a tad awkward, but she suspected Ainsail would be more than willing to help out. Once they showed him proof of his complicity, he’d accept any deal the Crown offered just as quickly as he could get the words out of his mouth. He’d be just delighted to show the investigators exactly where all of those weapons caches were, which would neatly solve the question of how the Crown had found them.
Now that’s going to leave a mark on someone, Merch thought with an unpleasant smile. And if it should happen that a bunch of traitorous bastards turn up to collect their rifles and find a platoon or so of infantry waiting for them, won’t that be sad?
There were still a lot of ways this could go south, she reflected as the Sunset Hills appeared below her. Given her own preferences, she’d pounce the instant they had enough evidence to identify the key players, but Sharleyan had other plans. Merch understood the empress’s thinking, and she agreed it was time to draw out the traitors in Sharleyan’s nobility and … eliminate them once and for all rather than deal with a fresh crop every ten or twenty years. She just couldn’t help worrying about how many innocent people might get hurt in the process.
That concern explained her presence here this evening, actually.
* * *
The weather was marginally better in Cheshyr than in Swayle. But it was only marginally better, and coal cost more in Rydymak than in Swayleton. Or, rather, the citizens of Rydymak had far fewer marks in their pockets when it came time to pay for it.
Things had gotten a little better of late, though. No one had any more money, but Lady Cheshyr had managed to get some of the coal originally destined for the steamers in the Gulf of Dohlar diverted to Cheshyr Bay. She might not have much money, but she clearly still had friends in Cherayth, and she’d made that coal available to her people for barely a tenth of its market price. Unless they couldn’t afford even that much, of course … in which case, it was free.
There was a reason the people of her earldom loved Karyl Rydmakyr.
Sergeant Major Ahzbyrn Ohdwiar understood that. He’d known Lady Karyl—Lady K, she’d been to the entire regiment, then—for the better part of thirty years. Ohdwiar was a muscular, dauntingly fit forty-five-year-old, with black hair, very dark brown eyes, a scarred cheek, and a limp. He’d been born with the first two; the scar and the limp he’d acquired fighting under Styvyn Rydmakyr in King Sailys’ army. Twenty-six years he’d given the Army, until the training accident that finally retired him. He’d drifted then, until he washed up here, in Rydymak, where his old CO’s widow had taken him in, put a roof over his head, and found him a comfortable semiretirement as an “armsman,” even if he was to crippled up to be much good.
Of course, he reflected as he pushed himself through the two hundredth push-up, there was crippled and then there was crippled.
He went right on pumping, lowering himself smoothly—spine absolutely straight—until his nose just touched the floor, and then pushing himself equally smoothly back up again. Despite his limp, he really preferred jogging for cardio exercise—one of his cousins was a Pasqualate healer who’d helped design his own personal exercise program over a decade ago—but that was out of the question after his “training accident.” And so, like most of the other “crippled” armsmen who’d drifted into Rydymak, he did his exercising in private.
Fortunately, despite its draftiness, Rydymak Keep had indoor plumbing and Chisholmian winters guaranteed that its communal bathhouse was efficiently heated. Well, it had been designed to be efficiently heated, anyway, since that was the only way to keep it from freezing solid four months out of the year, and with the influx of good, Glacierheart coal it was heated once again.
He finished his exercises and came to his feet, stretching carefully as he cooled down and already contemplating the bathhouse’s welcome. This late at night, he’d have it all to himself, unless Clairync Ohsulyvyn or Dynnys Mykgylykudi—both of whom he’d known for the better part of twenty years—drifted in. Zhaksyn Ohraily, on the other hand, was a mere babe in arms, barely thirty-eight years old. Because of that, he got the late-night duty outside Lady K’s chamber door, while the creaky old bones of his elders got a good night’s sleep.
Ohdwiar chuckled and opened the door from his small sleeping chamber into the barely larger sitting room attached to it, reaching for the towel he’d hung across his single chair before beginning his nightly calisthenics. He’d just—
“Looking for this, Sergeant Major?”
Ohdwiar froze at the totally unexpected soprano question. Then he stepped through into the sitting room and reached out to accept the towel from his equally unexpected guest. He gave her a less-than-approving look, but she only smiled impishly, and her blue eyes—even darker than Dynnys Mykgylykudi’s—twinkled mischievously.
“I’d not like to sound like I was complaining or anything, Seijin Merch,” he said ever so slightly repressively, “but there’re reasons a man’s quarters have doors. Doors with locks, now that I think on it.”
“Well, of course they do, Ahzbyrn. I wouldn’t have anything to pick if they didn’t!”
Ohdwiar sighed. Estimating any seijin’s age was probably pointless, but he was reasonably certain Merch O Obaith was a very young example of the breed. He’d known too many young smart arses not to recognize one when he saw it.
For that matter, he’d seen it looking out of his own mirror at him for far too many years, now that he thought about it.
“I suppose that’s true,” he said rather than any of several rather pithier utterances which suggested themselves to him, and toweled his sweaty, graying—and thinning, damn it—hair dry. “And would it happen you’ve not dropped by just to practice picking my lock?”
“Aren’t you happy to see me, Ahzbyrn?” She managed to put an edge of wistful longing into her tone. For that matter, it looked as if she’d actually gotten her lower lip to quiver.
“As a mist wyvern in springtime, lassie,” he assured her.
“That’s better, then,” she said with such earnest relief that, despite himself, he chuckled.
It had been her companion, Seijin Cennady, who recruited Ohdwiar and the others for their present duty, but ever since they’d arrived here in Cheshyr Bay, Seijin Merch had been their primary contact with the seijin network which served Their Majesties. He had no doubt she was death incarnate on two feet. That was true of every seijin ever born, as far as he could tell. But she did remind him of his long dead wife. Not physically—Mahrglys had been a tall woman, towering at least five inches higher even than Seijin Merch, who was scarcely a midget, with golden hair and gray eyes. But under the skin … there the two of them were so much alike it hurt sometimes.
“Seriously, My Lady,” he said, using the honorific he knew irked her, and not simply because it irked her. She was a seijin, for Langhorne’s sake! “I’m guessing there’s more to it than a social call?”
“Yes, there is,” she ackno
wledged, hopping up to sit tailor-fashion on his rickety desk. He regarded the arrangement with trepidation, having discovered some time ago that Seijin Merch was just as solid and muscular as she looked. “I’m here mainly to visit with Lady Karyl, really. I have a couple of messages for her from Her Majesty, and another from Earl White Crag. While I was here, though, I thought I’d check in with you and the other gray lizards.”
Ohdwiar snorted. He wasn’t sure which of the seijins had dubbed him and his companions the “gray slash lizards,” but the truth was, he approved. It was the sort of backhanded compliment an old soldier appreciated.
“There’s not much to report since your last visit,” he said after a moment. “We’ve kept a sharp eye out, and it’s a good thing we’d that note of yours.” He shook his head, expression disgusted. “Rock Coast seems a right slow learner.”
“It’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of other potential spies where the last one came from,” Seijin Merch pointed out. “He figures that sooner or later he’s bound to get someone onto Lady Karyl’s staff if he just keeps trying. After all—” she grinned at Ohdwiar “—everyone knows she’s a notoriously soft touch for taking in stray puppies and gray lizards.”
Ohdwiar snorted again, rather more harshly.
“How difficult was it to discourage the most recent candidate?” the seijin asked.
“Not so difficult as all that.” Ohdwiar returned her grin with a nasty little smile. “Strangest thing happened. When Lady K was interviewing her, Zhorzhyna came in to announce that the silver salt cellar had disappeared out of the kitchen while the young lady was waiting to see the Mistress. Turned out it was in her bag. No clue how it got there.”
“Oh, that was wicked, Ahzbyrn! I like it.”
“Well, it might be the lass was a miserable treacherous spy, but the lads and I didn’t have the stomach to go breaking her kneecaps. So it seemed best all round. Besides, you’ve reminded us often enough to keep a low profile. Hard to do that when you’re tossing young women off the battlements every other five-day.”
“I imagine it would be, yes.” Merch nodded gravely, blue eyes sparkling. She did like Sergeant Major Ohdwiar. He reminded her forcibly of a couple of tough-as-nails Terran Marine sergeants she’d known a thousand years ago.
“Well, in addition to making sure you aren’t tossing any dishonest, salt cellar–stealing maids off any battlements, and besides dropping in on Lady Karyl for a cup of tea, I did have one other thing on my mind.”
“And what might that be?” Ohdwiar asked warily.
“It’s just that I hope you’ve found that hiding place we were talking about last time I was here, because in about two five-days, a fishing boat’s going to turn up here in Cheshyr Bay. The only ‘fisherman’ aboard will be a fellow named Dagyr Cudd, so he’ll need a little help to get his catch ashore.”
“And what sort of catch might we be speaking of, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Oh, a few crates of rifles. A few more crates of ammunition. That sort of thing,” she said with an airy wave of her hand. “Oh! And I think Dynnys will be especially happy. Unless I’m mistaken, there should be two or three mortars, as well.” She smiled seraphically at him. “I do hope you boys will take proper care of your toys, Ahzbyrn.”
* * *
“Have you deciphered the letter, Your Grace?” Sedryk Mahrtynsyn asked.
“Just finished, Father,” Zhasyn Seafarer replied, sitting back in his chair before the roaring fire. He tilted the several sheets of paper to catch the lantern light as he read back over them in silence for several minutes. Then he looked up from them with a smile.
“I can’t really thank you enough for agreeing to serve as our messenger, Father,” he said warmly. “Rebkah asked me to tell you she appreciates your services just as deeply as I do. We understand the risk you’re running for us.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace, I’m not running those risks solely for you,” the under-priest pointed out with a slightly crooked smile. “Mind you, it’s my honor to assist you, but I’m not certain I’d be quite so eager to run them for any merely mortal reward.”
“No one could argue with that,” Duke Rock Coast said simply.
“May I ask if Lady Swayle’s written good news?”
For his own safety, Mahrtynsyn never knew the contents of the encrypted letters he carried back and forth. As far as he knew, they were simply the correspondence of the cousins for whom he was honored to deliver them. That was his story, and if he didn’t know their content, he couldn’t be tricked into betraying himself by revealing that knowledge under interrogation.
“Quite a bit, actually. I’ll keep most of it back, I’m afraid. It’s not my information to reveal without her permission, but she’s confirmed that Holy Tree’s climbed down off the fence.”
“That’s wonderful, Your Grace!” Mahrtynsyn exclaimed.
The Schuelerite had wondered which way Sir Bryndyn Crawfyrd would jump in the end. He was only in his late thirties and he’d never been very active in resisting the Crown’s power. Nor was he an especially fervent Temple Loyalist. He was, however, concerned by the social changes he saw sweeping towards him, and his status as the current Earl of Swayle’s future brother-in-law had probably been the decisive factor. If he brought his duchy into the conspiracy, it would cover Swayle’s eastern border and extend their territorial reach another three hundred miles towards Cherayth. Perhaps even more to the point, it would outflank the Earldom of Saint Howan, trapping it between Holy Tree and Swayle to the north and the Duchy of Black Horse to the west, and they could absolutely rely upon Sir Dynzayl Hyntyn, the Earl of Saint Howan’s loyalty to Sharleyan Ahrmahk. He was the Chancellor of the Treasury, after all.
“Yes, it is good news,” Rock Coast acknowledged. “But there may be better.”
“Better, Your Grace?” Mahrtynsyn’s eyes glowed, and Rock Coast smiled.
“First, while you were away, I hosted a snow lizard hunt. Lantern Walk was part of the party, and he and I had a long talk sitting in one of the hunting blinds.”
“Has the Duke agreed to join us, Your Grace?” Mahrtynsyn asked eagerly.
“Not quite … yet, at any rate. He’s a careful sort, you know. I suspect he’s been involved in more than one earlier attempt to … restrain the Crown, but no one’s ever been able to prove anything of the sort. So it’s not too surprising that he hasn’t rushed to fling himself into our arms.”
Mahrtynsyn nodded. Calling Sir Bahnyvyl Kyvlokyn “a careful sort” was a massive understatement. He was in his early forties and remarkably untrammeled by anything approaching a fundamental principle. He did have some concerns about the erosion of aristocratic privilege, but he was willing to accept that … so long as he wound up on top of whatever system replaced it.
“I don’t know if we’ll be able to involve him fully, but at least he’s prepared to declare his ‘neutrality’ when we make our move. Under the right circumstances, I believe he’ll do more. He’s been in contact with both Lady Swayle and Black Horse, as well as with me, without reporting any of us to Zhustyn or Stoneheart.”
“Your Grace!” Mahrtynsyn looked alarmed, but Rock Coast waved it away.
“It’s not like any of us have said anything outwardly actionable in front of anyone else, Father. And none of us have committed anything to Bahnyvyl in writing. So even if he’d been inclined to betray us, there’s no evidence he could hand over, and hearsay evidence has never been enough to convict a peer of the realm, even under Sailys and Sharleyan. Besides, he may be under more pressure to join us than he thinks when the time comes.”
“Why, Your Grace?”
“I’ve spoken very cautiously with Mountain Heart. He’s burned his fingers a couple of times before, so he’s more than a little cautious about going back for another try, especially now that that bastard Cayleb’s been added to the mix. He pointed out that even if we succeed in taking the entire Kingdom, Sharleyan can always borrow an army—or at least a navy�
��from her husband and come back for another try. Of course, if we succeed and disband the current army, I’m sure we can produce one of our own big enough to give any number of Marines more than they want to handle. More to the point, I think Mountain Heart suspects Black Bottom’s agreed to join us this time.”
Mahrtynsyn nodded slowly. Sir Vyrnyn Atwatyr, the Duke of Black Bottom, was an aristocrat of the very old school. He’d avoided any previous plots against the Crown, however, because he’d had a lively respect for the Royal Army and no desire to see it marching across his lands. But he was also seventy-eight years old, and unbeknownst to the majority of his fellow aristocrats, he was secretly a fierce Temple Loyalist. More than that, both his sons and his only grandson had predeceased him, which made the current heir to his duchy a grandnephew he didn’t particularly like, and his health was declining rapidly. He felt the cold wind of mortality on his spine, urging him to make his peace with God, and this time around he had very little to lose in this world.
“Well, I sort of intimated to Mountain Heart that Lantern Walk’s more … enthusiastically committed to us than he actually is at the moment. Mountain Heart’s too cautious an old wyvern to go bleating to Lantern Walk about it, and Lantern Walk’s too cautious to ask Mountain Heart which way he’s leaning. So at the moment, both of them are inclined to believe the other one’s already signed on with us. And that, obviously, gives each of them multiple borders to worry about. Lantern Walk already had Swayle and Holy Tree on his frontier; if Mountain Heart and Black Bottom both come in, he’ll be surrounded on three sides. As for Mountain Heart, if Lantern Walk comes in, he’ll have Black Bottom to the southeast, Cheshyr—one way or the other—on the south, and me right on the other side of Lake Land. Once upon a time, I’d’ve counted on Lake Land’s support, but that was before old Symyn died last year. After the way Paitryk stabbed us in the back in Tellesberg—and the way he’s been sucking up to Sharleyan and Cayleb ever since—things have changed, unfortunately. I could be wrong about Paitryk now that he’s formally inherited the title and started dealing with the realities of Sharleyan’s tyranny, but I’m damned sure not saying a word to him ahead of time! On the other hand, he’s got less than a third of the population I have and no more than twenty or thirty armsmen, courtesy of Sailys’ damned restrictions. I, on the other hand, have close to a thousand of them training out in the back of beyond. If I have to, I’ll go through his duchy like shit through a wyvern, and he—and Mountain Heart—both know it.”
