Like a Mighty Army

by David Weber

  Despite his concern, Cayleb chuckled. Over a score of Merlin’s “informants” were now reporting directly to Aivah Pahrsahn. Every one of them had completely different handwriting, and with Nahrmahn looking over Owl’s shoulder, the AI had incorporated personal quirks and turns of phrase into each of those agents’ writing styles, as well.

  “The truth is,” Merlin continued, “that we’re in a better position than ever to feed information from the SNARCs to people who need to have it. And it doesn’t hurt anything for Aivah to be able to share Nahrmahn’s original ‘written reports’ with other people, either.”

  “Which doesn’t say a thing about whether or not Seijin Merlin, Seijin Ahbraim, and Seijin Whoever’re going to keep their various personalities straight,” Cayleb pointed out. “Not to mention the fact that at least some people are starting to wonder why no one ever realized there were dozens of seijins running around before you turned up in Old Charis. For that matter, they’re wondering where all the rest of those seijins are, and there’s a real limit on the number of them you can give faces to, Merlin.”

  “I know.” Merlin gave Cayleb another of his crooked smiles. “Overall, I think the advantages outweigh the disadvantages, though.”

  “So do I, but that doesn’t mean we don’t need to be aware of what those disadvantages are and disaster proof ourselves against them as well as we can.”

  “Agreed.”

  There were times, Merlin reflected, when he had trouble remembering Cayleb Ahrmahk had turned twenty-six barely four months earlier. That youthfulness helped explain Cayleb’s impatience and resentment when he couldn’t personally lead his navy or army in the field, but Merlin was more than prepared to put up with that as a minor price for the rest of the emperor’s personality. As a general rule, one didn’t normally associate the sort of careful analysis and forethought Cayleb habitually produced with someone as young as he was. Especially since a Safeholdian twenty-six-year-old was barely twenty-four and a half standard years old. For that matter, Sharleyan was only twenty-eight Safeholdian years old, which was a long way short of ancient and decrepit, now that he thought about it. Perhaps it didn’t strike him that way more often because Merlin himself was only thirty-three T-years old. Subjectively, at least; the PICA in which he resided was the next best thing to a thousand years old.

  People grow up fast on this planet, he thought. Especially people like Cayleb and Sharleyan, who don’t have much choice about it. Maybe that’s one reason I feel so comfortable with them, because God knows Nimue had to grow up pretty damned fast, too.

  He snorted suddenly as he realized what he’d just thought. Maybe he really was becoming too many different people? He seemed to be finding partitions between his various personalities in the damnedest places!

  Lord. I hate to think what a good Bédardist would think if he figured out how many people’re running around inside what passes for my brain!

  “What?” Cayleb asked, and Merlin shook his head.

  “Just thinking about some of the differences between Safehold and the Federation,” he said, mostly honestly. “You do realize you and Sharleyan scarcely qualify as gray-haired elder statesmen by the Federation’s standards, don’t you?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” Cayleb said dryly. “We tend to do a lot of things younger than the Federation did, though.”

  “That’s exactly what had occurred to me.” Merlin grinned. “I imagine it’s going to occur to Hektor and Irys before very much longer, too.”

  “No, it’s not.” Cayleb chuckled. “They never heard of the Federation, remember? Not that I expect any objections from them—especially Hektor! That would require him to be able to think rationally about the subject, and I don’t really think ‘thinking’ is what he’s doing at the moment. Mostly, I mean.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk!”

  “I know,” Cayleb agreed cheerfully, and Merlin laughed.

  The emperor had a point, though, he reflected. Eighteen—sixteen and a half T-years—was the age of majority in most Safeholdian realms. It was nineteen in Siddarmark and twenty in the Temple Lands and Corisande, but eighteen was more common. Nor was it unusual to marry even earlier than that, at least among the upper classes.

  Merlin had been a bit surprised to discover that marrying age among the middle class actually averaged several years higher than among its social superiors, but it made sense when he looked at it. Mother Church discouraged marriages between couples who would be unable to support themselves or their families. That was one reason betrothals lasted as long as they often did; Mother Church was making sure the prospective groom would be sufficiently well established to provide for his bride and the brood of children they were supposed to produce as part of their responsibility to fruitfully multiply. That held as true for yeoman farmers as it did for artisans, merchants, fishermen, and sailors, too. As a consequence, middle-class and lower-class couples tended not to marry until their mid to late twenties. It was only among the very poor, where unions tended to be more … informal, and among the relatively wealthy, where the wherewithal to support a family was readily available, that younger marriages were common. And they were commonest of all among the aristocracy, where the provision of heirs—the sooner the better—was one of the overriding reasons to wed in the first place, as the birth of one Princess Alahnah Ahrmahk demonstrated.

  “I have to admit Gairlyng’s reaction to your and Sharleyan’s terms took me by surprise,” Merlin said thoughtfully. “He really knocked the opposition to them on the head, didn’t he?”

  “It looks like he did, anyway.” Cayleb’s tone was cautious. “It’s only been seven days, Merlin; there’s plenty of time for it to come apart. I agree the Council’s not going to balk, but don’t forget Parliament has to sign off on it, too.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Merlin demanded.

  “Ours,” Cayleb acknowledged. “Although, if I recall correctly, you agreed with us.”

  “Who am I to argue with experienced, devious, Safeholdian Machiavellians? Besides, Nahrmahn thought it was a good idea, too.”

  “Which only demonstrates that, dead or not, he can still read politics and diplomacy better than ninety-nine percent of the human race,” Cayleb pointed out, and Merlin nodded.

  The truth was that he’d had his own doubts about Cayleb and Sharleyan’s insistence that Charis’ terms had to be ratified by Prince Daivyn’s Parliament, not simply by his Regency Council and the Royal Council. After Klairmant Gairlyng’s head-on attack there was little doubt the Royal Council would endorse the Regency Council’s decision to accept Charis’ conditions, but there’d been no way to predict that ahead of time. That was one reason Sharleyan had specifically required Daivyn and his guardians to submit her proposed conditions directly to Parliament, where a small collection of powerful individuals would find it far more difficult to block their acceptance.

  But that was only one of the reasons, and not the most important one. And despite his own fears about the political and religious hand grenade a parliamentary debate could turn into, Merlin had ultimately decided she was right. Cayleb had agreed with her from the outset, which would have made any of Merlin’s objections moot, anyway, of course. Merlin was perfectly prepared to advise the Empire’s corulers when they asked him to, but the ultimate decisions were theirs. In this case, though, the more he’d thought about it, the more he’d come to agree that placing the decision before the entire Parliament—the closest thing Corisande had to a genuine national forum—for an open, public vote would cut the legs out from under any charge that a corrupt cabal of ambitious and apostate aristocrats had sold Corisande to Charis in return for the bribes of personal power and wealth. No one doubted Clyntahn and the Group of Four would insist that was exactly what had happened, anyway, but the people of Corisande would know better.

  Merlin had never disagreed with the desirability of establishing that, but he’d been more than a little worried over how close he’d expected the vote
to be. If the margin of approval was razor thin, it would emphasize the shakiness of the new arrangement. Worse, it might inspire those who’d opposed acceptance to resort to extra-legal means of reversing the decision. God knew they’d already seen enough of that in Corisande! And even if they avoided that, the Group of Four could be counted upon to argue that despite all the corruption and all the pressure brought to bear upon the people of Corisande’s representatives, the vicious heretics and servants of evil had been able to muster only a tiny majority to vote in favor of the heretics’ blasphemous demands … assuming, of course, that any true child of God could believe for a moment that the vote count had been honest in the first place!

  Of course, if Parliament comes through with a strong majority in favor of the terms, it’ll provide every single advantage Sharleyan and Cayleb—and Nahrmahn—argued that it would, he thought. And it looks like Gairlyng’s provided just that sort of majority to accept all of them, including Hektor and Irys’ marriage. I was really afraid that might be the sticking point for a lot of them, but Gairlyng’s last sermon seems to’ve put that fear to rest, too! When the Archbishop of Corisande spontaneously announces from his own pulpit that he’s prepared to solemnize the wedding the instant Parliament approves it—that he’s not simply willing to but positively looking forward to it because he’s convinced it will be “a true marriage of heart and soul”—it’s just a tad difficult for anyone to argue that Sharleyan held a dagger to Irys’ throat.

  “You do realize Hektor didn’t expect to be getting married for at least another year or so?” he asked.

  “Of course he didn’t, but I guarantee he’s not going to argue about it!” Cayleb retorted with a laugh. “Didn’t you just love his expression when he heard Gairlyng’s sermon?”

  “I’ll admit the phrase ‘poleaxed’ came to mind.”

  “And didn’t Irys look like a cat-lizard with a fresh bowl of milk?” Cayleb shook his head. “If I hadn’t known better from the SNARCs, I’d’ve sworn she’d put Gairlyng up to it!”

  “Actually, what made me happiest was how few other people in the Cathedral looked unhappy over that sermon,” Merlin said more seriously. “Admittedly, there weren’t many Temple Loyalists in the congregation, and anyone who was there was probably already inclined to go along with whatever Gairlyng had to say, but it still struck me as a good omen.”

  “It’s certainly not a bad one, anyway,” Cayleb agreed, then cocked his head as the clock tower in Protector’s Palace began to chime the hour.

  “We need to get over there,” he said, climbing out of his chair. “Is there anything else you can think of that we should be bringing up?”

  “Not really.” Merlin shook his head. “That old phrase about ‘sufficient unto the day’ comes to mind at the moment. Besides, I don’t want to suggest anything that could turn this into one of those all-hours meetings you and the Lord Protector seem to be so fond of.”

  “I am not ‘fond’ of them!” Cayleb said severely. “Although,” he conceded in a magisterial tone, “the quality of Greyghor’s beer does go a fair way to reconciling me to the arduous demands of my weighty—my many weighty—responsibilities.”

  “Is that what they are?” Merlin rounded his eyes, then nodded with an air of sudden understanding. “Weighty, are they? That probably explains why you seem so heavy when I end up carrying your semi-conscious imperial carcass back to the embassy afterward.”

  “You do not!” Cayleb said with a laugh, and Merlin sighed.

  “So sad that you’re so far gone in drink you can’t even remember it.”

  “I think we’d better leave this particular topic right where it is, Seijin Merlin,” Cayleb announced as they started down the stairs.

  “I bow to your tyrannical authority,” the seijin murmured.

  “And so you should. But why are you so concerned about how late I’m planning to stay out carousing—I mean, consulting—with Greyghor and Daryus?”

  “Because I have an errand to run.” Merlin’s voice was much more serious, and Cayleb paused and looked back at him, one eyebrow arched.

  “Today is Nahrmahn and Ohlyvya’s anniversary,” Merlin said softly. “I promised Nahrmahn I’d deliver his anniversary present to her in person.”

  Cayleb stood gazing at him for several seconds, then reached out and touched him very gently on the arm.

  “In that case, I promise to be home in time for supper,” the Emperor of Charis told his personal armsman.

  .XIII.

  Royal Palace, Eraystor, Princedom of Emerald, Empire of Charis

  “You know you really didn’t have to deliver this in person, Merlin. Owl’s remotes could’ve brought it to me just fine.”

  “I promised a certain somewhat overweight virtual personality I’d put it into your hands my very own self.” The tall, blue-eyed seijin smiled down at Ohlyvya Baytz on the real world original of Nahrmahn Baytz’ favorite balcony. “He was fairly insistent. Besides,” the smile softened, “I’m sort of fond of you myself, you know.”

  “Yes.” The Dowager Princess of Emerald was no taller than her husband had been; she had to stand on tiptoe to kiss Merlin on the cheek. “Yes, I know.”

  She turned to gaze out over the moonlit waters and Merlin stood beside her, drinking in the quiet city-murmur of Eraystor and the patient, unceasing voice of the breeze blowing out to sea. He understood exactly why Nahrmahn had always loved this particular vantage point, and the combination of location and design gave anyone standing on it an oasis of near perfect privacy.

  Not a minor consideration when everyone knows Seijin Merlin’s thousands of miles away in Siddar City, he reflected.

  “It’s still a bit strange,” Ohlyvya mused. “Having him back, I mean. There are times when all my faith in this newfangled ‘technology’ reverts back to believing in old-fashioned magic around you, Merlin. Oh,” she waved as if brushing away something only she could see, “I understand the difference between them now. Not the way you do, since you grew up with it, but well enough that I seldom find myself walking around waiting for the Rakurai to come sizzling in the window! But that’s not remotely the same as being able to take it for granted, and being able to talk to him, to ‘see’ him over the com link, even if I really know it’s only Owl generating the image for me … that’s magic.”

  “I hope it’s good magic.”

  “It’s wonderful magic,” she said, looking up at him. “To be able to talk to him after I lost him forever? I can’t think of a greater gift you could’ve given us, Merlin.”

  “But talking to him isn’t quite the same thing, is it?” he asked gently. Her head cocked, and he shrugged. “As you say, I grew up with technology and computer-generated imagery. I take—or Nimue Alban took, anyway—that kind of communications for granted. But electronic meetings, com conversations, were never quite the same as sitting in the same room, talking across the same table. Or the same as being able to reach out and touch the person you’re talking to.”

  “Of course it’s not,” Ohlyvya agreed. “It’s just more than anyone else in the world’s ever been given.” She patted the blackened breastplate of an Imperial Guardsman, and her eyes were warm in the lamplight spilling through the glass doors onto the balcony. “Am I human enough to want still more? To wish I could touch him again? Of course I am! But that doesn’t keep me from recognizing a magnificent gift when I see it.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” He put one large, sinewy hand over the far smaller one on his cuirass. “Too many things I’ve had to do, or been able to do, here on Safehold’ve had double edges, Ohlyvya. I’m glad this isn’t one of them.”

  She smiled up at him again, and he reached into the canvas shoulder bag, bearing the emblem of an imperial courier, which he’d brought with him when the recon skimmer’s tractor beam set him soundlessly on the balcony. The package that came out of it was wrapped in brightly colored paper, and Ohlyvya laughed. That paper was the red and gold of Emerald, blazoned with the silver flying
wyvern of the House of Baytz on its dark blue shield. The wyvern was edged in red, making it the personal crest of the dowager princess, but the repeating design had been flipped so that images of the wyvern confronted one another, mirror-imaging each other in an endless procession, and the wyverns’ wings beat steadily whenever the package was moved. No printer on Safehold could have produced that paper, and she shook her head with a huge smile.

  “You’ll have to take the paper with you when you leave, but the crest is a nice touch.” She ran a fingertip over the flying wyverns, and her expression softened. “I wish Nahrmahn Gareyt knew his father was still alive, too. And Mahrya. They miss him.”

  “And he misses them. But one day, after we’ve kicked the Church’s butt.…”

  “As you say—one day,” Ohlyvya agreed.

  She hefted the package and raised one eyebrow as she realized how light it was. And how yielding.