“Now, about the way you program the communicator—” Merlin began, then stopped abruptly as Cayleb raised his left hand and waggled his index finger under the seijin’s nose.
“You told me you’d only need a few minutes to explain all of that to her,” the emperor said. “And, now that I think about it, you could walk her through it using that ‘audio relay’ even while we were flying back to Chisholm, couldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Merlin replied. “And you’re mentioning this because—?”
“Because it’s time for you and Edwyrd to find that deck of cards,” Cayleb told him tartly. “I haven’t seen my wife in the better part of six months. I intend to make up for a little bit of that lost time before you and I head back to Chisholm. Starting now.”
“Oh.”
Merlin glanced at Seahamper. The sergeant was grinning openly, and Merlin shrugged.
“Do remember we have to get back while it’s still dark in Corisande, Cayleb,” he said mildly.
“Oh, I will. But you’re the one who told me we could have made the flight in only ninety minutes if we’d had to.”
“What I said was that we could make the flight in an hour and a half in an emergency,” Merlin corrected.
“And if my having a couple of hours to spend with my wife doesn’t constitute an ‘emergency,’ then it damned well ought to.”
Sharleyan was trying very hard not to giggle, and Seahamper shook his head at Merlin.
“There are some things not even a seijin can fight, even if he actually is an eight- or nine-hundred-year-old ‘PICA,’ ” the guardsman said.
“So I see,” Merlin said with a smile of his own.
“Come on.” Seahamper twitched his head in the direction of Sharleyan’s balcony. “If you didn’t remember to bring any cards, Her Majesty has a couple of decks in her sitting room.”
JULY,
YEAR OF GOD 893
. I .
Prince Hektor’s Palace,
Manchyr,
League of Corisande
“I think it’s time,” Prince Hektor said sourly.
He and Earl Tartarian were alone in the small, private council chamber. The prince stood with his hands clasped behind him, looking out the tower window across the roofs of his capital city. Still farther out, across the broad, blue waters of the harbor, his naked eye could just make out the tiny white flaws on the horizon. Sails. The sails of Charisian schooners, hovering, watching, waiting to whistle up their larger, more powerful sisters if any ship of Tartarian’s navy should be foolish enough to venture out from under the protection of the shore batteries.
At least it beats looking out in the other direction, he thought sourly. Siege lines and artillery emplacements are so much more . . . intrusive.
“My Prince, I—” the earl began.
“I know what you’re going to say, Taryl,” Hektor interrupted, never looking away from the harbor, “and you’re right. At the rate things are going, we can hold out here in the capital for at least another three or four months. Probably longer, in fact. So, no, things aren’t exactly desperate yet. But that’s my point, really. If I offer to open negotiations with Cayleb now, it’ll be from the closest thing to a position of strength I’m likely to find. And,” he smiled thinly, “at least Irys and Daivyn are out of his reach.”
Despite his best effort, Tartarian’s expression betrayed him, and Hektor barked a laugh.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re safely in Delferahk with Phylyp by now, Taryl! Either that, or else,” his own expression tightened for a moment, “they’re at the bottom of the sea, at any rate, and if Captain Harys could bring Lance home after Darcos Sound, he can get Wing to Shwei Bay. And I trust Phylyp to get them the rest of the way to Delferahk.” He inhaled deeply, then shook himself, like a man brushing off his worst nightmare. “Besides, if their ship had been taken, Cayleb would have told me about it by now! He certainly wouldn’t be keeping it a secret, given the way he’d know telling me they were in his hands would increase the pressure on me.”
Tartarian nodded, and Hektor shrugged.
“As I say,” the prince continued, “they’re out of his reach. Unfortunately, I’m not, and I’m not going to be, either. Which means that from this point on, my position will only weaken.”
“No doubt that’s true, My Prince,” the earl said, his expression troubled, “but surely Cayleb also realizes that. If I were he, I’m afraid I’d be inclined to ignore any suggestion of negotiations until the other side’s position was closer to desperate.”
“There’s always that possibility,” Hektor conceded. “But there are countervailing considerations, as well. Cayleb hates my guts. Well, that feeling’s mutual, and he’s not likely to forget that. In fact, he’ll probably figure—accurately, I might add—that I’ll betray him at the earliest possible moment. So you’re undoubtedly right that he’s going to be strongly inclined to let me stew in my own juices for at least a while longer.
“But he’s also got to be looking towards what’s going to happen after he wins. Let’s face it,” Hektor bared his teeth briefly, “one way or the other, he is going to win. That’s not your fault, or Rysel’s, or Koryn’s. If it’s anyone’s, it’s my own, but the real reason is that we just never have had time to adjust to each of those little surprises of his.
“On the other hand, as you yourself once pointed out to me, Corisande isn’t exactly a small territory. Especially with Irys and Daivyn out of his reach, he’ll have to be worrying about how he’s going to pacify the princedom afterward, and his best chance for any sort of peaceful surrender will be a negotiated settlement with me.”
“But if he doesn’t expect you to . . . remain conquered any longer than you must, he’s not going to leave you with any more power than he can help,” Tartarian pointed out.
“No. In fact, he’s going to insist on everything he can think of to cut off my legs,” Hektor agreed grimly. “And I’m not going to be able to resist most of the terms he chooses to impose. The best I can realistically hope for at this point is that he’ll leave me technically on the throne, with ‘advisers’—or possibly even an outright viceroy with a hefty garrison force—looking over my shoulder and watching every move I make like a wyvern watches a rabbit. He’s no fool, Taryl, and he knows I’ve already killed his father and that I really don’t care who takes his head . . . as long as someone finally gets around to it.” His smile was thin and ugly. “If he leaves me on the throne at all, it’ll be under conditions which make me little more than his pensioner, at best.
“But even after he conquers Corisande, even if he actually incorporates Corisande into this ‘Charisian Empire’ of his, he’ll still have the Church to confront. At the moment, there’s not a great deal the Church can do to him—not directly, not without a new model navy of its own. One of these days, though, the Church is going to have that kind of navy. It’ll have the time to build one, anyway, because there’s no way in this world Cayleb could possibly hope to conquer Howard and Haven, and once it does, there won’t be any more uneven fights like Darcos Sound. So, at some point, our dear friend Cayleb is going to find himself fighting for his life with every man and ship he can scrape up. It may not happen tomorrow, or next five-day, but it will happen, Taryl. And when it does, when he’s forced to reduce whatever garrison strength he thinks he can maintain in Corisande, when his attention is entirely focused on a mortal threat somewhere else, then—then, Taryl!—his precautions will weaken. They’ll have to. And when they do, however long it takes for that to happen, I’ll be ready.”
Tartarian looked into his prince’s hard, hating eyes, and read the savage determination simmering in their depths. If Cayleb Ahrmahk could have seen what Taryl Lektor saw in that moment, he would never have settled for anything short of Hektor Daykyn’s head.
For just a moment, Tartarian found himself wishing he served Cayleb, not Hektor. It wasn’t Cayleb’s ambition which had created the enmity between Corisande and Charis, and the fashion in whic
h Cayleb had made peace with Nahrmahn at least proved the Charisian emperor was willing to let the past bury the past under some circumstances. Tartarian rather doubted that any honest man could legitimately complain about the fashion in which Hektor had always governed his own people. Ruthless, yes, but also just and surprisingly fair-minded. If only he could have settled for that, forgotten his grand ambition, forsworn the “great game.” . . .
But the longing lasted only for a moment. Whatever Tartarian might have wished couldn’t change what was, and however they had arrived at their present situation, he was a Corisandian, not a Charisian. Hektor was his prince. Tartarian owed him fealty, and the way in which Hektor had ruled Corisande meant his subjects were almost as willing to stand by him as Cayleb’s Charisians were willing to stand by the House of Ahrmahk.
Maybe he’s right, the earl thought. Maybe Cayleb will recognize that loyalty, realize how disastrous it would be to depose or execute him. God knows Cayleb’s obviously smart enough to recognize it . . . assuming he can manage to hate Hektor at least a little less than Hektor hates him.
Tartarian thought once more about the terms Cayleb had offered Nahrmahn and decided to hope for the best.
. II .
A Warehouse,
City of Manchyr,
League of Corisande
“He’s sent a herald to Cayleb.”
“You’re sure?” Father Aidryn Waimyn asked, rather more sharply than he’d intended to.
“Of course I’m sure.” The other man wore the embroidered tunic of a minor court functionary or petty noble, and his voice was tart. “You don’t think I’d be here, having this conversation, if I weren’t, do you?” he demanded, his expression tight.
“Of course I don’t.” Waimyn shook his head apologetically, then looked around the dusty office of one of the many warehouses which had been idled by the Charisian blockade of Manchyr. If he was searching for something, he didn’t find it, and he looked back at his companion.
“It’s just . . . It’s important that I be certain, that’s all,” he said.
“Why?” the other man asked, then shook his own head, much more quickly and harder than Waimyn had shaken his. “No. Don’t tell me. I think I’d really rather not know.”
“So do I,” Waimyn agreed with a crooked smile. “In fact, I think it would be better for both of us if you never remembered this conversation at all.”
“I’ll take that as a command of Mother Church,” the other man told him. He, too, looked around the dusty office, then shrugged.
“I’ll be going now,” he said, and eased his way out through the office door into the unused warehouse’s huge, quiet emptiness.
Waimyn watched him go, then drew a deep breath and said a quiet prayer.
An intendant often found himself doing things which somehow lay outside the official parameters of his duties. Sometimes those additional tasks could provide a priest with a solid feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment. Other times, they weighed heavily upon him, like the hand of Schueler itself.
This was one of those other times. Bishop Executor Thomys knew nothing about Waimyn’s private instructions from the Grand Inquisitor. Or, at least, Waimyn thought he didn’t. It was always possible the bishop executor knew all about them and simply had no intention of admitting that he did. Not that it mattered one way or the other to Waimyn. Not really.
He drew another deep breath, then squared his shoulders, stepped out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him, and followed the other man into the warehouse’s silence.
. III .
City of Manchyr,
League of Corisande
Hektor Daykyn closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the feel of the breeze. Although it might technically be autumn, July had come in hot and humid, especially for the past five-day or so, which was what made today’s weather so welcome. It was still undeniably on the warm side, but the morning’s thunderstorms had broken the humidity, and the breeze sweeping in off the harbor was a welcome relief.
It was good to be out of the palace, he thought. It was too easy for his thoughts and his emotions, not just his body, to become trapped inside those palace walls. He needed this open air, the sunlight and cloud patterns, and the feel of the horse moving under him. His regular inspection trips were important to the morale of his soldiers and sailors. He knew that, yet today he was much more aware of how important getting out of the palace was to his morale, and he didn’t feel the least bit guilty about it, either.
He glanced over his shoulder at the youngster riding along behind him. Hektor the Younger had shown rather less enthusiasm for this particular outing, once he found out it was going to require him to climb around aboard one of the navy’s galleons and look interested yet again. Now he was busy practicing his “sullen obedience” look. For some reason, he seemed to find his obligatory participation in the inspection of naval units even more of a burden than his trips to tour the fortifications facing Cayleb’s army on the landward side of the capital.
Hektor wondered if it was because the crown prince was remembering the brief, pointed lecture he’d delivered to him on the bloodstained deck of the galley Lance. If so, that was too bad, and the boy had better get over it. In fact, he’d better get over a lot of things.
The crown prince had been moody and depressed, especially since the surrender of Koryn Gahrvai’s army. Well, that was hardly surprising. Not even a spoiled, self-absorbed, petulant prince who’d just turned sixteen could be totally blind to the peril in which he stood. Sometimes that could even be a good thing, if it made the spoiled, self-absorbed prince in question actually begin attending to his duties. Unfortunately, what young Hektor appeared to feel was mainly resentment and a sullen unhappiness if anyone asked him to exert himself in any way.
You aren’t being fair to him, the disappointed father told himself, turning back in the saddle to look ahead down the broad avenue towards the navy yard once again. Irys would tell you that . . . and she might even be right. When a sword’s not tempered properly, should you blame the sword . . . or the swordsmith?
He didn’t know how to answer his own question. Was the fault his? Had he gone about the task of raising his son the wrong way, somehow? Or was it, indeed, something in the boy? Something lacking, that no amount of proper rearing could have magically instilled?
Sometimes he was convinced it had been his fault, but other times he looked at Irys and Daivyn. Whatever it was that Hektor lacked, his older sister and his younger brother both appeared to possess it in ample measure. And if Hektor had managed to raise two children, either of whom he could have seen seated on his throne after him without a qualm, then what could he have done so wrong in Hektor’s case to have caused the child who actually was his heir to turn out so differently?
Is it that he knows you don’t love him as much as Irys? Is that what it is? But you wanted to. You tried to. It’s your disappointment in him that makes it so hard, and you didn’t begin to feel that until he was—what? Ten? Eleven?
It was hard for a father to admit that he wasn’t even certain he loved his own son any longer. Yet he wasn’t just a father. He was also a ruler, and it was a ruler’s responsibility to train up his successor. To feel confident his rule would be passed to someone prepared to assume that burden. And when he couldn’t feel that way, when a parent’s natural disappointment found itself coupled with a ruler’s recognition of his heir’s unfitness, the anger and the worry were all too likely to poison that same parent’s natural affection.
I don’t need to be worrying about this right now, Hektor told himself firmly. There are so many other things I need to be dealing with. If I can’t somehow convince Cayleb that it would be more dangerous to remove me than to leave me in place, it’s not going to matter whether or not Hektor would have made a competent ruler after me, because he’ll never have the chance.
Of course he won’t, another corner of his brain replied. And how many times in the past have you used the excuse o
f “other things” to avoid dealing with this?
The Prince of Corisande grimaced, feeling his enjoyment of the morning sunlight, breeze, and salt-freshened air slipping away from him. And mostly, he knew, that was because he knew that biting corner of his mind was right. He did have to “deal with this.” It was easier to admit that than it was to figure out exactly how he was going to go about it, of course, but there were many aspects of being a ruler, or, for that matter, a parent, that were as important as they were unpleasant, and—
This time, things had been better arranged. There weren’t two crossbowmen; there were twelve, and not one of Hektor’s guardsmen saw them in time.
Four of the steel-headed quarrels ripped into Prince Hektor. Any one of the wounds they inflicted would have been fatal, and the brutal impacts hammered him from the saddle. It was like being hit in the chest and belly with white-hot spikes, and he felt himself falling, falling, falling. . . . It was as if he were tumbling headfirst through some impossibly deep gulf of air, and then he cried out in anguish as he hit the ground at last and time resumed its passage. Hot blood pulsed, soaking his tunic, filling his universe with pain and the awareness that death had come for him at last.
And yet, dreadful though that pain was, he barely noticed it in the face of an agony deeper than any anguish of the flesh.
Even as he fell, his eyes were whipping towards the horse behind his, and it wasn’t pain that ripped that cry from him when he hit the ground. No. It was that deeper, far more dreadful anguish as he saw the three crossbow bolts sprouting from the chest of the Crown Prince of Corisande and knew too late that he did—and always had—loved his son.