“The fact that we can’t act openly against him and his fellow conspirators—yet—doesn’t mean we aren’t aware of their plans in far greater detail than they could possibly suspect.” Obaith shrugged. There may be some small details of their strategy we don’t know about, but if so, there are very few of them. And we’ve been sharing our information—fully—with Earl White Crag, Baron Stoneheart, and Sir Ahlber Zhustyn.”
“Thank God.” Despite herself, Lady Karyl sagged in her chair. She inhaled deeply, then ran both hands over her still thick and luxuriant silver hair. “I’ve shared what little I’ve been able to glean with them, as well, although finding ways to get that information to them without anyone’s suspecting I’ve done it hasn’t been the easiest thing in the world. But I’ve always realized I’m seeing only bits and pieces of whatever it is they ultimately intend.”
“Her Majesty realizes that. And although your grandson—Young Styvyn—doesn’t dream for a moment that his glamorous cousin might do anything that could endanger you personally, I’m afraid Her Majesty—and His Majesty, for that matter—are less confident of that. Especially given how much time the Duke spends with Father Sedryk.”
“That mangy son-of-a-bitch.” The cold, searing anger in Lady Karyl’s voice made the icy wind outside Rydymak Keep seem almost balmy for a moment. “If I could find a way to tie a rope to that bastard’s ankles and drop him into Cheshyr Bay with a hundred-pound rock for ballast, I’d die a happy old woman.”
Obaith chuckled.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to accomplish that minor chore for you, My Lady. Unfortunately, Father Sedryk’s rather more central to the conspirators’ plans than it might appear. I know you must especially hate the way he’s made himself Young Styvyn’s newest best friend, but, trust me, that’s only a small part of his role. Among other things, he’s most definitely not the Chihirite he pretends to be. The truth is—although it’s one of those things we can’t prove without resorting to those ‘irregular methods’ of ours—he’s actually a Schuelerite … and an Inquisitor. In fact, he was dispatched to Chisholm from Zion by Wyllym Rayno in person.”
Lady Karyl’s jaw tightened. She’d known Sedryk Mahrtynsyn was far more than the “simple priest” he tried to pass himself off as, but not even she had suspected he was a direct agent of the Office of Inquisition!
“My Lady,” Obaith’s expression was very serious, “we need Mahrtynsyn to implicate and incriminate Rock Coast and as many of the others as possible. So far, they’ve all been very cautious about anything that might be set down in writing, and we don’t anticipate their suddenly getting careless now. But as their plans move into the end game, they’ll have steadily more opportunities to create the chain of documentary evidence—or eyewitness testimony—we need. He’s only one of the people we’re hoping will do that for us, but he’s one of the bigger fish in that particular pond, and Her Majesty believes he’ll play a pivotal role in the actual exchange of any written messages.”
“And the longer you wait to net him, the more likely he is to draw my grandson into that pond with him to drown,” Lady Karyl said grimly. “He’s charming, he’s suave, and he flatters the hell out of a fifteen-year-old.”
“We know,” Obaith acknowledged unflinchingly, “and we don’t like it. Her Majesty intends to bear in mind every mitigating circumstance she possibly can where Young Styvyn is concerned, however. And from what we’ve seen, it’s highly likely that in the end, Rock Coast and Mahrtynsyn will make a serious mistake in his case. He’s young enough, and—forgive me—foolish enough to see something romantic and exciting about pitting himself against the Crown in the service of Mother Church. But he also loves you very much, My Lady. The time’s going to come when he realizes that whatever Rock Coast and Mahrtynsyn may tell him, they must know that when they demand you join them, you’ll tell them to go to hell. And when he realizes that, he’ll also realize they must have planned for that eventuality. Which means they’ve lied to him from the start when they promised no harm would come to you.” The seijin smiled. “He was very adamant about that from the very beginning, My Lady,” she said gently. “Far more adamant than Rock Coast ever expected he might be.”
Lady Karyl’s eyes softened and her mouth trembled for just a moment. Then she nodded sharply.
“Thank you for telling me that.” Her voice was husky, and she paused to clear her throat. “Thank you for telling me that,” she repeated. “I told myself that had to be the case, but—”
“But there’s been so much treachery,” Obaith finished for her. “And when someone like Rock Creek or Mahrtynsyn plays the ‘will of the Archangels’ card with a fifteen-year-old, the consequences can get very ugly very quickly.”
“Exactly.”
They gazed at each other for a moment, and then the seijin shrugged.
“While I’m speaking with you here, My Lady, another of Seijin Merlin’s friends is in Cherayth, where he’s delivering Her Majesty’s messages to Earl White Crag. As a consequence of those messages, you’re going to be in a position to augment your personal armsmen in the very near future. I realize you aren’t as plump in the purse as you’d like to be, and that you’ve been worrying that anyone willing to accept service with a small, out of the way earldom like Cheshyr—especially for the wages you’d be able to pay—might very well have been sent to you by someone who … wishes you ill.
“As far as the first of those points is concerned, Her Majesty sent along this,” the seijin said, and the saddlebags she’d held draped over one slim forearm clunked heavily as she set them on the floor.
She opened one of them, and Lady Karyl inhaled sharply as she saw the neatly rolled golden marks gleam in the dim lamplight. If both bags were equally full, she was looking at well over two years of Cheshyr’s revenues. How in Langhorne’s name had even a seijin carried that much weight as if it were a mere nothing?!
“There’ll be more funding if you need it, My Lady,” Obaith continued. “Obviously, you’ll need to be careful about revealing the fact that you’ve got it, but His Majesty observed that there are very few problems in ‘human relations’ that can’t be smoothed with a little gold, and it’s always nice to be able to outbid the opposition when you need to. Especially when the opposition doesn’t think you can.”
The seijin dimpled again, then sobered.
“You won’t need it to pay the armsmen who’ll begin trickling in to find work over the winter in the next few months, however. And you won’t have to worry about where they come from. I assure you they’ve been thoroughly vetted. Or they will’ve been, by the time they’re sent, at any rate.”
“They will?” Lady Karyl sat straighter again, and her hazel eyes began to glow in the firelight. “And just how many of these wandering armsmen are likely to come Cheshyr’s way, Seijin Merch?”
“How interesting that you should ask, My Lady.” The seijin’s smile would have turned a kraken green with envy. “As a matter of fact—”
* * *
“—so it’s essential, in Their Majesties’ view, that Lady Karyl’s security be bolstered at the earliest possible moment,” the tall, blond-haired man emphasized, leaning slightly forward over the conference table towards Braisyn Byrns, the Earl of White Crag and First Councilor of the Kingdom of Chisholm. Sylvyst Mhardyr, Baron Stoneheart, who served as Chisholm’s Lord Justice, sat beside White Crag, and Sir Ahlber Zhustyn, Sharleyan’s domestic spymaster, stood at the First Councilor’s shoulder.
“I’d rather just move in, round them up, and detach a few heads,” Stoneheart said flatly. “I’d think that would ‘bolster’ Lady Karyl’s security quite nicely!”
“Now, Sylvyst!” White Crag shook his head, his cataract-cloudy eyes gleaming with grim amusement in the lamplight. “Aren’t you the person in this room who should be most concerned with little things like due process?”
“I’ll be perfectly prepared to get back to due process the instant the blood stops spurting,” Stoneheart repli
ed, and it was obvious he wasn’t even half jesting.
“I understand exactly why you feel that way, My Lord,” the man who’d introduced himself as Cennady Frenhines said.
Although his accent was that of Chisholm—indeed, he sounded as if he was from Serpent Hill, in the Earldom of Shayne—that was a name no Chisholmian had ever borne. Which was hardly surprising. As nearly as White Crag, Stoneheart, or Zhustyn could tell, every single one of the seijins who’d offered their services to the Empire of Charis had equally outlandish names.
“Her Majesty is adamant about this, however,” Frenhines continued very seriously. “It may not be my place to say this, but I think His Majesty would prefer to do it your way, because he’s worried about how many people may get hurt before this is over. But the Empress is determined to cut out this cancer once and for all. For that, she needs any nobleman as senior as Duke Rock Coast to implicate himself too thoroughly for anyone to question his guilt. I believe the phrase she used to the Emperor was ‘I need my own Zebediahs.’”
“And she’s right, with all due respect, My Lord,” Zhustyn told Stoneheart grimly. “This problem’s crept out of the shadows every few years from the moment King Sailys began the Restoration. And it’s going to keep on creeping until the people who want to turn back the clock finally get it through their heads—those of them who still have heads—that it isn’t going to happen. Her Majesty’s never been hesitant about doing what needs doing, but she’s in a far stronger position today than she ever was before. I understand exactly why Her Majesty wants these people to make their move. And I also understand why she wants enough object lessons to be sure the lesson finally goes home.”
Stoneheart looked back at the spymaster for several seconds while the midnight wind prowled restlessly around the eaves of the King Tayrens Chancellery. That wind was just as cold as the one whining outside a drafty library in Rydymak Keep, two thousand and more miles west of Cherayth, but this one was heavy with snow flurries turning rapidly into something much more like a blizzard.
“Sir Ahlber’s put his finger on exactly what Her Majesty hopes to accomplish,” the hawk-faced Frenhines agreed somberly, his wrist-thick braid gleaming under the lamps which were considerably brighter than those in Lady Karyl’s library. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want precautions taken.”
“What sort of precautions, Seijin Cennady?” White Crag asked.
“She’s sent along written instructions for General Kahlyns.”
Frenhines reached into the imperial courier’s shoulder satchel he’d carried into the chancellery and extracted a heavy canvas envelope. He passed it across to the First Councilor, who handed it on to Stoneheart without comment. The Lord Justice glanced at the label—unlike White Crag, his vision was still clear and sharp—and nodded to his colleague as he recognized Sharleyan Tayt Ahrmahk’s personal handwriting and seal.
“And did she summarize those instructions for you?” White Crag inquired, and smiled thinly when Frenhines nodded. “It’s unfortunate the General can’t hear your impression of them directly.”
“My Lord, it’s over two hundred miles from Cherayth to Maikelberg.” The seijin shook his head with a smile, sapphire eyes glinting. “Not even Seijin Merlin could be in both places at once when he was here with Their Majesties! And if there happened to be some way I might actually accomplish that, you know what Clyntahn would say the instant he heard about it!”
The other three chuckled, albeit a bit sourly. And Frenhines didn’t really blame them for that sourness. There wasn’t a more reliable, more honest man than Sir Fraizher Kahlyns in the entire Kingdom of Chisholm, but he wasn’t the Imperial Charisian Army’s most brilliant officer. It was unfortunately true that he was more comfortable with written orders when they were accompanied by the opportunity to clarify any ambiguities by personally discussing those orders with whoever delivered them.
“Sir Fraizher won’t have any qualms about these instructions, My Lord,” Frenhines assured White Crag, although he was actually speaking to all three of them. “The important thing is to keep Rock Coast, Black Horse, Countess Swayle, and Dragon Hill from realizing how many of the reinforcements he’s sending forward will have rather different actual destinations. And Their Majesties would really prefer for none of them to realize how many Marines will ‘just happen’ to be in Chisholmian waters come spring, either.”
“Oh, I like that,” Zhustyn murmured, and Stoneheart gave a sharp nod.
“In the meantime, however, we need to increase Lady Karyl’s personal security,” Frenhines continued. “One of my colleagues has been sent to discuss this with her, and Her Majesty suggests it might be possible for Sir Fraizher to release a few highly skilled, highly experienced, career Army noncoms from active service after … training accidents or some other mishap leaves them unsuited to arduous duty in the field. Obviously, men such as that will have limited skills for civilian life. So it should hardly be surprising if a few score of them were to trickle slowly into a place like Cheshyr—hitching rides on some of the coasting trade vessels, perhaps. And if men who’ve loyally and ably served the Kingdom find themselves out of work due to no fault of their own, I doubt anyone would be surprised if someone like Lady Karyl, given her own husband’s long Army career, found a way to put roofs over their heads. For that matter, she’d probably even find the invalids token positions in her own household—just to satisfy their self-respect, you understand.”
“That’s devious,” Stoneheart said approvingly.
“Her Majesty can be that way,” Frenhines agreed with a thin smile. “And His Majesty’s contribution was to observe that the frantic efforts to increase weapons output at Maikelberg almost have to have resulted in some clerical errors. Why, it’s entirely possible enough modern rifles, shotguns, and pistols to equip forty or fifty armsmen—perhaps even a mortar or two—could simply have been lost. And if that’s happened,” Frenhines’ smile turned even thinner and far, far colder, “there’s no telling where all those … mislaid weapons—and possibly even the ammunition for them—might eventually turn up, is there, My Lords?”
.VIII.
Merlin Athrawes’ Chamber,
The Charisian Embassy,
Siddarmark City
“Got a minute, Merlin?”
Merlin Athrawes looked up from the revolver he’d been carefully cleaning and oiling.
Sandrah Lywys had finally gotten her new “smokeless” powder—they’d actually gone ahead and called it cordite, since it was extruded in narrow rods that looked exactly like the Old Earth propellant of the same name—into production. The field armies had several million rounds of old-fashioned black powder ammunition to use up, but the Imperial Guard had already switched completely to the new propellant. In addition to virtually no smoke, it produced far less fouling than gunpowder had, but the ICA’s fulminating primers still left a corrosive residue which could damage a weapon if it wasn’t promptly cleaned after firing, and Merlin had spent over an hour at the range this afternoon, putting several hundred rounds downrange. Not because a PICA’s programmable muscle memory needed the practice, but because he’d discovered how much he enjoyed it. And because he’d figured he was due the downtime. He’d been back from Cherayth for barely a five-day, and this was the first opportunity to do something remotely like relaxing that had come his way.
“I’m not especially busy right this minute, if you don’t mind my going ahead and finishing this—” he told the image projected across his vision as he waved the oil-soaked swab in his hand “—while we talk. Nynian and I are having dinner tonight, and I want to grab a shower first. I’d really rather not smell like I’ve been bathing in gun oil when we sit down to eat.”
“Dinner with Nynian, is it?” Nahrmahn Baytz murmured with a smile. Merlin gave him a moderate glare, and the dead, rotund little Emeraldian’s expression straightened quickly. “Well, I don’t see any reason you shouldn’t go on playing with your toys,” he said more briskly. “I’ve just had a tho
ught about Rainbow Waters and Maigwair’s troop deployments, though.”
“Oh?” Merlin cocked his head. “What sort of thought would that be?”
“Well, as I understand Kynt and Eastshare’s plans for this summer, they’d really like to be able to hook around an open flank, right?”
“Except for the minor fact that there’s not going to be an open flank, yes, they certainly would,” Merlin agreed a bit sourly.
By all rights, there should have been open flanks, he reflected. The Church’s defensive front stretched from Hsing-wu’s Passage in the north all the way south to the Bay of Bess and the northern border of Dohlar. That was considerably better than two thousand miles—more than eight hundred miles farther than the Russian Front in 1942, when it had stretched all the way from Murmansk to the Caucasus Mountains. No one could hold a contiguous front line that long. Even if the Church met its full three-million-man target, Rainbow Waters and Maigwair would have less than fifteen hundred men per mile of front, and that was assuming the front was a straight line, unaffected by any terrain features, which it most definitely was not.
Some of those terrain features—like the Snake Mountains and the Black Wyvern Mountains on the western borders of Cliff Peak and Westmarch—would actually help economize on manpower, of course. Others would consume it voraciously, however, so that was pretty much a wash. Still, there was plenty of relatively firm, flat (or at least firmer and flatter) ground out there.
What there wasn’t was an intact road net and internal combustion engines. Dragons bestowed a degree of mobility and flexibility on Safeholdian armies for which any preindustrial Old Terran general would cheerfully have sold his firstborn child, but they weren’t magic. And the dirt roads which served local communities once one got off the magnificent high roads didn’t make things a lot better. The farther one got from canals or navigable rivers, the harder it became to keep an army supplied, and there was damn-all in the way of forage for an army trying to live off the land in western Siddarmark. The Sword of Schueler had been a huge head start towards making sure of that, and Rainbow Waters had spent the last several months moving every remaining civilian farmer within two hundred miles of his front line still farther west. There would be no crops, no livestock, to support an attacking army anywhere in that zone.