“Merlin,” Aivah said, “don’t do anything hastily.”
Her eyes had flared with anxiety at the words “a danger you have to neutralize,” and she reached out to grip Sandaria’s hand firmly.
“I—” she continued, but Merlin shook his head at her gently.
“Neither Nimue nor I have any intention of doing anything hasty, Nynian.” His tone was as gentle as his headshake. “There’s no reason to, and no need.” He returned his gaze to Sandaria. “No one will attempt to force you to believe or do anything that violates your own inner convictions. There’s a reason Cayleb and Sharleyan have guaranteed the religious freedom of even Temple Loyalists in the Empire, and if they can do that there, how could they—or I—justify not respecting your religious freedom?
“Obviously, we can’t allow someone to share what we’ve just revealed to you with the Group of Four,” he said more somberly, “but at this moment, you couldn’t do that even if you wanted to. You’re here, in the Cave, with no way to communicate with anyone outside it. Under those circumstances, we’re prepared to give you all the time you need to decide what you believe. In fact, that’s the main reason we brought you and Nynian here in the first place; so that our hands wouldn’t be forced if either of you decided you couldn’t accept what we had to tell you.
“We’re willing to leave you here where you can discuss the true history of Safehold with Owl and Nahrmahn, if you wish. To allow you unfettered access to Owl’s libraries and the ability to discuss their contents with any other member of the inner circle—including Nynian—for however long you like. And if, in the end, you decide you can’t become a part of the inner circle, we’ll give you the choice between remaining what you might think of as a prisoner of state here in Nimue’s Cave, in comfort and physical safety, with all the companionship we can provide, or of being placed in the same sort of cryo-sleep in which the colonists originally traveled to Safehold. No subjective time would pass for you from the moment you fell asleep to the moment you were once again awakened. The only thing we’d take from you would be the opportunity to actively oppose us, and that, I’m afraid, is a position at which, as Cayleb put it, ‘We can do no other.’”
Silence fell once more, and he let it linger while a half-dozen slow, oozing minutes ticked into eternity. Then, still looking at her with that gentle smile, he said, “The choice is yours, Sandaria. We refuse to be one iota more ruthless than we have to, and this time, we have a choice, just as you do.”
.VI.
The Seridahn River, The South March, Republic of Siddarmark
“What the hell is that?”
Lieutenant Ahrnahld Bryahnsyn stopped rubbing his hands together in a vain attempt to convince them they were warm and looked up, his expression baleful as he tried to identify the anonymous voice. It sounded like Corporal Kaillyt, who damned well ought to know better than to say something like that without identifying who was speaking.
That was his first thought. The second thought was that as reports went, it was a pretty piss poor excuse.
“Who said that?” Bryahnsyn snapped. “And what the hell are you talking about? What’s ‘what’ and where did you see it?”
“Uh, sorry, Sir.” Yes, it was Kaillyt. “It was me. And I don’t know what it was. Something moved down there in the water—moved upstream, not down.”
“What?”
Bryahnsyn climbed to his feet, careful of his footing in the icy darkness, and made his way towards Kaillyt’s position. The corporal was perched on the muddy riverbank above the sunken river barge closest to the western edge of the Seridahn River, and slithering down the slick slope into the water wasn’t high on Bryahnsyn’s list of priorities. South March winters were considerably milder than those farther north, but the temperature hovered barely above freezing, and that gave the damp night a bone-gnawing chill. The current around the half-submerged hulk made soft chuckling and bubbling noises that seemed incongruously gay and cheerful under the circumstances. There were over a dozen more barges out there, stretching across the river in a more or less straight line, most of them in deeper water, where they’d been scuttled to block the navigable channel for reasons Bryahnsyn really didn’t want to think about too closely. The last thing the Army of the Seridahn needed was for the demon-spawned armored ship reported at Thesmar to come upriver to support an infantry attack on its new positions the way it had ravaged the Army of the Sylmahn’s rear areas last summer.
“Show me,” he hissed, crouching beside Kaillyt.
“Don’t see it now, Sir,” the noncom said apologetically. “It was right about there, whatever it was.”
The corporal was difficult to see in the darkness. The waning moon which had been visible earlier through the scudding overcast had all but set, but there was still enough light to burnish the low-lying river mist with silver, and Bryahnsyn jockeyed around behind Kaillyt until he could pick out the corporal’s arm and pointing hand against the dim glimmer. That at least allowed him to orient himself, and he peered in the indicated direction, straining his eyes.
“Out there by the third barge?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir. Well, more between there an’ number two, maybe. A bit closer in than that.”
“Describe what you saw.”
“Didn’t rightly see anything, Sir. Not clear, if you know what I mean. There was something black, an’ I thought it was a stick or a piece of driftwood. But then I realized it was movin’ the wrong direction. It was goin’ against the current.”
Bryahnsyn glowered at the inoffensive river, staring until his eyes ached, but he saw no sign of anything Kaillyt might have seen, or thought he’d seen, or imagined, or whatever. He’d never thought of the corporal as a particularly imaginative individual, but the miserable light, the moving river, the thickening mist, the eyestrain, and the gnawing uncertainty were more than enough to make anyone start seeing things if he looked long enough.
“There was only the one of whatever it was?” he asked after a minute.
“Only saw one, yes, Sir. Might’a been more of ’em, I guess. If there really was one of ’em to begin with, that is.”
At least Kaillyt was honest, Bryahnsyn reflected. And it was better to have someone report things he thought he’d seen when he hadn’t than keep his mouth shut when he truly had.
“Well, keep an eye peeled,” he said finally.
“Yes, Sir.”
The corporal watched the lieutenant disappear back into the shadows, then settled back down on his haunches, peering at the river. Had he seen anything? He truly didn’t know, but he found himself hoping he hadn’t. The longer things stayed quiet and unremarkable, the better he’d like it.
The heretics had punched a column out of the “besieged” port of Thesmar last month and driven southwest to take Somyr, cutting all overland connection between the Desnairian Empire and East Haven. Almost simultaneously, another column had stormed Cheryk without even slowing. True, the Cheryk garrison had been significantly reduced when the Army of Shiloh’s primary supply line shifted to the St. Alyk River, but the defensive works had been formidable and there were ugly rumors the garrison had panicked when the surprise attack rolled in, supported by a hurricane bombardment from the small, mobile angle-guns no one had suspected Hanth had.
With Cheryk lost, General Rychtyr had ordered the batteries at Yairdyn on the Seridahn withdrawn and pulled all but a token delaying force back from his main position at Trevyr. The Yairdyn commander had been unable to block the entire river, but he’d scuttled a handful of barges in the deepest channel, which had been enough to prevent the heretic ironclad’s passage at least briefly. There’d been another, heavier barricade twenty miles north of Yairdyn, as well, but the terrain at that point was flat as a table, totally unsuited to a serious defense even if there’d been some way to get enough men and guns there in time. The Yairdyn CO had kept right on retreating past it, using it to delay any riverborne pursuit, and it seemed to have worked.
But now Hanth’s troo
ps had moved up the Seridahn’s western bank from the south, closing on General Rychtyr’s new position, and there were reports they’d barged their artillery upriver with them. If barges could get that far upriver, could the ironclad be far behind?
Combined with what had happened at Cheryk and the disaster which had overwhelmed the Army of Shiloh, that possibility was more than enough to give anyone a few disquieting thoughts.
* * *
“Headcount?” Lieutenant Klymynt Hahrlys whispered harshly.
“Everybody’s back but Edwyrds, Sir,” Platoon Sergeant Gyffry Tyllytsyn hissed back.
“Damn.” Hahrlys muttered the single word quietly enough no one besides the platoon sergeant could have heard him. Then he inhaled deeply and thumped his senior noncom on the shoulder. “Well done. All the boys did well. Now get your arse back over to the warming tent.”
“All the same to you, Sir, think I’ll bide a bit. Wouldn’t do t’ let Edwyrds think I didn’t care, now would it?”
The platoon sergeant’s casual tone didn’t fool Hahrlys, but he’d felt the icy wetness when he touched the other man’s shoulder. Tyllytsyn hadn’t been assigned as one of the swimmers, but clearly his own adventures hadn’t gone exactly as planned, and Hahrlys heard the chatter of his teeth. He was shivering violently, as well, and the cutting wind wasn’t making that any better.
“Trust me, he knows you care. Now get over there and warm yourself, damn it! Last thing I need is you going down sick on me.”
There was a moment of silence, as if the platoon sergeant was weighing additional stubbornness. Then he drew a deep breath.
“Happen you’re right ’bout that, Sir. I’ll be over yonder if you need me.”
“Fine. Now go get warm!”
Tyllytsyn touched his chest in a half-seen, half-guessed salute, turned, and made his way through the dense, ribbon-like fire willow leaves which screened the warming tent. Hahrlys watched him go, then pounded his gloved fists together and settled his chin deeper into his muffler, shivering as the wind keened across the river. It was out of the east, unusual for this time of year in the South March, and it wasn’t very strong. He was grateful for the way it helped carry sounds away from the Temple Boys on the farther bank; he was not grateful for the effect of even a light wind’s chill factor upon his men, and he felt a fresh stab of guilt. He knew it was irrational—he was the platoon’s commanding officer and he swam like a rock, two very good reasons for him to have stayed right where he was—yet that impeccable logic did precious little to assuage his stubborn conviction that he should have been out there on the river leading his men.
Oh, don’t be any stupider than you have to be, Klymynt! he snapped at himself. All you’d’ve managed would’ve been to drown yourself. Assuming you didn’t give away the entire operation splashing around before you went under. You could always’ve added that to your accomplishments. And wouldn’t the Earl have been just delighted when you did?
He took a quick turn along the bank, a dozen paces either way, elbows brushing the fire willows’ leaves, eyes straining across the black water into the rising mist while he worried about his sergeant. Mahthyw Edwyrds was a good man, one of his best. He’d volunteered for his part of tonight’s mission, and despite his present anxiety, Hahrlys was glad he had. There wasn’t another man in the entire battalion as well qualified for it.
Most of the charges had been placed by four-man teams operating from the Imperial Charisian Army’s folding canvas boats. Placing the charges themselves had been tricky—not to mention cold and dangerous—in the darkness, but their experience clearing the channel at Yairdyn had helped a lot, and the boats had been effectively invisible.
There’d never been any possibility of using a boat—especially one that large—for the charge Edwyrds had volunteered to place, however. The outpost Hahrlys had spotted the day before was within thirty yards of where it had to go, and the pickets were undoubtedly alert, since the line of scuttled river barges was critical to Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr’s defensive plans, and Rychtyr wasn’t about to let anyone catch him napping.
Especially now.
He’d demonstrated his ability as one of the Church’s better generals even before Duke Harless marched off to his rendezvous with disaster, and he’d clearly been informed of the arrival of HMS Delthak at Thesmar. That was almost certainly the reason he hadn’t opted to hold Trevyr. The Seridahn was much narrower where it flowed through the town, but it was also deeper, with too strong a current to be blocked easily. It would have split his defensive position, and if Delthak had gotten into his rear it would have been impossible to withdraw his troops from the Seridahn’s eastern bank under fire. Besides, the town’s position at the Seridahn’s confluence with the St. Alyk had lost its strategic importance with the fall of Brahnselyk.
That was why he’d pulled his main force another twenty miles upriver, to a point where the Seridahn broadened to the next best thing to a mile. The current was slower, the water was shallower, and the navigable channels were constricted. All of that had made it easier to sink blocking barges where he needed them, and the river narrowed once more as it passed between steep bluffs immediately upstream. He’d erected a massive twenty-four-gun battery atop the western bluffs, protected by a curved earthwork and positioned to cover the barricade with fire. Its height gave it good command, and the narrower river meant its guns could engage anything that got by the barge line at ranges of as little as a hundred yards.
It would be difficult to miss anything the size of an ironclad at that range.
Earl Hanth, however, had no intention of letting Rychtyr lock down the river, which was why Klymynt Hahrlys and his engineers were out here. It was also why Mahthyw Edwyrds had undertaken the riskiest part of the entire mission, because unlike any other member of Hahrlys’ platoon, he was an experienced salvage diver. Not only that, he was an experienced Chisholmian salvage diver, and the water around Chisholm was at least as cold as the Seridahn River in March. Edwyrds had been instructed to bring his equipment with him when he deployed to the Republic, no doubt for moments just like this one, and he’d seemed confident he could handle tonight’s mission.
Of course he did, Hahrlys thought bitterly. If he wasn’t confident, he’d never have admitted it. Besides, he knew as well as you did that he was the best man for the job. Just like he knew you were counting on him to be stupid enough to step up and volunteer.
That was how it always was with the good ones. They stepped up, took the chances, and too damned many of them got killed doing it.
The lieutenant made himself stop pacing and raised one hand, shading his eyes as if that could help him see through the darkness.
Edwyrds had gone about his preparations calmly. In addition to his training as a diver, he was a skilled kayaker, like many Chisholmians, and he’d borrowed one of the light one-man craft from Major Mahklymorh’s scout snipers for the mission. The scout snipers’ kayaks were designed for stealthy incursions, made of black canvas which would be all but invisible in the darkness. After that, he’d enlisted two members of his squad to smear thick, insulating sea dragon grease over his tight-fitting canvas diver’s coverall with its lining of Corisandian rubber, double- and triple-checked the seal of his diving glasses, and stood patiently while his assistants greased his face as well. Then he’d strapped the air bladder of heat-treated rubber to his back, checked the mouthpiece—the “regulator,” he’d called it—and adjusted his weight belt and canvas and rubber gloves, climbed into his kayak, and paddled away into the night.
He couldn’t take the kayak all the way across without being spotted by the Dohlaran sentries, so the plan had been for him to moor it in the shadow of one of the half-awash hulks farther from the bank, go over the side, and swim the rest of the way. That should at least get him close enough to reduce the total swim and the risk of hypothermia. But something must have gone wrong. He should have been back twenty minutes ago, and—
Hahrlys froze as something splashed. He strained
his eyes, peering into the dark, and it splashed again. He stood a moment longer, then went tearing down the bank, wading out into the icy water. It was more than waist-deep, and he felt himself half-floating and half-wading, felt the dangerous pull of the current, but he refused to stop. Another step. Just one more, and then—
A gloved hand rose feebly from the water, and he grabbed hard with both his own hands. His right hand slipped on a thick layer of sea dragon grease, but his left hand caught the other man’s glove and he heaved backward. Silt shifted treacherously underfoot and the current plucked at Edwyrds’ body, prying, levering, trying to drag both of them out into the river’s grasp. It was far stronger than Hahrlys was, and he felt himself being sucked deeper and deeper. The water was shoulder-deep now, slopping at his chin, but this was one of his men. If the river took one of them, then it took—
“Hold on, Sir!”
His head whipped around, startled out of the intensity of his battle with the river, as Platoon Sergeant Tyllytsyn grabbed his pistol belt from behind.
“Don’t let go, Sir! Not yet!”
Something went around Hahrlys’ body. The cold had already numbed his extremities, but he felt the rope jerk tight. Then—
“One more second, Sir!”
Tyllytsyn thrashed past the lieutenant. He was a shorter man. While Hahrlys’ feet were still on the bottom, the platoon sergeant was swimming, but he stroked strongly and the lieutenant felt a sudden easing of the current’s pressure as Tyllytsyn got a firm grip on Edwyrds’ weight belt.
“Got him!” the platoon sergeant gasped. “Now let go and let them haul you in, Sir!”
“No.” Hahrlys didn’t recognize his own voice. Was that because it sounded so hoarse and breathless or because his cold-numbed brain wasn’t working very well? “You’ll need help pulling him out of—”