Even under the best circumstances, however, all the new inspections and regulations and licenses had begun imposing a significant drag on the Tellesberg economy. The cost of stationing City Guardsmen and Marines to do the inspecting was going to be a non-trivial budget item, as well. Yet even worse was the pervasive apprehension, the fear that yet another attack was inevitable. Tellesbergers refused to be cowed, and their anger at the indiscriminate slaughter of men, women, and children far eclipsed their fear, yet that fear was there, and Merlin was sadly certain it wasn’t going away anytime soon.
“What sort of priority alert?” he asked Owl tersely now.
“A wagon has just entered one of the primary surveillance zones,” the AI replied in that same calm tone. “As per your standing instructions, I have placed a parasite sensor in the wagon bed. It confirms the presence of high concentrations of gunpowder.”
* * *
Tailahr Ahndairs suppressed a highly inappropriate urge to swear as he turned the wagon down Queen Frayla Avenue and one wheel bumped jarringly over the cut-granite curb between the roadway and the sidewalk.
He’d been selected for his mission because of his religious fervor and his Charisian accent, both of which were completely genuine. Unfortunately, he was a tinker by trade, not a drayman, and there’d been less time to teach him the rudiments of managing a heavy freight wagon than he might have wished. The traffic in Tellesberg was also far, far heavier than he’d ever really anticipated, which only made things worse, but at least there were some advantages to the controls on movement the heretics had slapped down. Operation Rakurai’s planners hadn’t counted on their being able to do that as quickly as they had, and Tailahr was unhappily aware that he had neither permit nor license. If he was stopped, there was no way he could pretend to be anything but what he was. On the other hand, there was far less traffic than there had been, so even if he had no license, he also had fewer other wagons to contend with and—hopefully—his own poor driving would be less of a problem.
It had been so far, at least, and he didn’t have much farther to go.
He looked along the street ahead of him. Quite a few heads turned, eyes watching him warily as he rumbled past, and he exulted inside at that proof the heretics had been hurt. They were afraid now, and well they should be! It bemused him that they should go through their lives showing so little concern for the eternity of punishment their actions were storing up in Shan-wei’s hell, yet react so strongly—exactly as Archbishop Wyllym and Vicar Zhaspahr had predicted they would—to a threat to their merely mortal, transitory bodies. He didn’t—couldn’t—understand that sort of thinking, but he didn’t have to understand to recognize the effect, and he smiled grimly at the proof of what he and his fellows had already accomplished.
Lights were beginning to glow in the establishments around him. Most of them were shops or eateries, and he saw couples and families gathering around the tables of the open-air cafés in the comfort of the cool, breezy evening. The traffic around him was primarily pedestrian, with a smattering of private vehicles and an occasional dragon-drawn streetcar. There were very few freight wagons in the area, however, which made Tailahr’s wagon stand out even more. That was also the reason his wagon was so much smaller than the others had been, because there was nothing here to justify the presence of one of the huge, articulated vehicles. The fact that he only had to manage a simple pair of draft horses instead of one of the dragons was an additional plus, but mostly it was because he needed to appear as unthreatening as possible until the moment came. He was simply one more driver, obviously there to drop off deliveries of fresh vegetables for the restaurants, and he reminded himself to smile and wave reassuringly at the pedestrians who stopped as they saw him passing.
Ahead of him, on the left, he saw the sentry box and the Imperial Charisian Marines standing guard at the open wrought-iron gate of his target. He wasn’t going to be able to get as close as he would have liked, but that had been factored into his plan. His wagon wasn’t loaded just with gunpowder; it had been packed with bits and pieces of scrap iron, old nails, cobblestones, and anything else he could find to use as projectiles. When he set off the charge, it would turn the vehicle into an enormous shotgun, hurling its improvised grapeshot for hundreds of yards—inaccurately, but with lethal power.
He felt the tension coiling tighter at his center as the moment approached. To be chosen for this particular attack had been an enormous honor. His chances of successfully killing his primary target were probably less than even, given how far from the building he’d be when he detonated his weapon, but he could always hope. And according to their best information, the apostate traitor’s office faced on the street and he normally worked far later into the night than this. So there was at least a chance, and even if he missed Wylsynn, he’d get scores of the bastard’s assistants. He was about to strike a devastating blow at the center of all those accursed perversions of the Proscriptions, and that—
Tailahr’s thoughts broke off abruptly as a man materialized out of nowhere. One instant he wasn’t there; the next he was reaching up, catching the driver’s seat’s grab rail, and vaulting up beside Tailahr with impossible, fluid speed.
Tailahr flinched away, instantly and automatically, instead of immediately reaching for the cocked and ready pistol grip concealed in the seat beside him, and before he could even begin to recover, a hand moving with blurring speed had caught his left wrist. He screamed as that same hand effortlessly twisted his arm up until the back of his wrist pressed his shoulder blades; then another demonically strong hand gripped the nape of his neck, and Tailahr screamed again as his captor stood upright on the wagon seat, dragging him with him.
Even through the pain in his arm and shoulder, the anguish of the iron vise locked around the back of his neck, Tailahr’s eyes bulged in disbelief as he realized the man who’d leapt into the wagon with him was actually holding him at arm’s length with his toes an inch in the air. Then, without even a grunt of effort, the monster who’d sprung upon him leapt effortlessly down from the high seat.
Tailahr’s scream was a shriek this time. Something crunched noisily and agonizingly in his shoulder socket, sending lightning bolts exploding through his entire body, as they hit the ground and his hand was wrenched abruptly even higher. And then the hand on his neck was driving him down. He found himself flat on the paving stones, his useless left arm thumping down beside him with a fresh stab of agony, as if it belonged to someone else, and a knee slammed painfully into his spine while his right arm was captured and twisted up behind him as casually as the other one had been.
Voices were beginning to shout in alarm, and he heard the clatter of boots as at least one of the Marine sentries ran towards them, shouting a challenge, but he managed somehow to turn his head. He looked up, and his entire body jerked in disbelief and terror as he saw the sapphire eyes, gleaming in the glow of his own wagon’s driving lights, and recognized the livery of the Imperial Guard.
“I think you and I have a lot to talk about,” Captain Merlin Athrawes told him coldly.
OCTOBER,
YEAR OF GOD 895
.I.
Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis
“I, Nahrmahn Gareyt Baytz, do swear allegiance and fealty to Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan of Charis,” the young man said, kneeling before the side-by-side thrones with his hand on the cover of the Holy Writ, “to be their true man, of heart, will, body, and sword. To do my utmost to discharge my obligations and duty to them, to their Crowns, and to their House, in all ways, as God shall give me the ability and the wit so to do. I swear this oath without mental or moral reservation, and I submit myself to the judgment of the Emperor and Empress and of God Himself for the fidelity with which I honor and discharge the obligations I now assume before God and this company.”
Cayleb and Sharleyan looked down at him, seeing the unshed tears behind those brown eyes, hearing the grief in the young voice which refused to re
main completely steady despite all its owner could do. Cayleb felt his own throat closing, and he glanced at Sharleyan, saw the tears glistening in her eyes, as well, as they stretched out their hands to cover the boy’s.
“And we, Sharleyan Ahdel Alahnah Ahrmahk and Cayleb Zhan Haarahld Bryahn Ahrmahk,” Sharleyan said, her voice clear but soft, “do accept your oath. We will extend protection against all enemies, loyalty for fealty, justice for justice, fidelity for fidelity, and punishment for oath-breaking. May God judge us and ours as He judges you and yours.”
There was a moment of intense silence as the three of them gazed into one another’s eyes, their hands still joined atop the Writ. Then Cayleb cleared his throat.
“There was a day,” he told the young prince kneeling before him, “just over three years ago this month, when another Prince of Emerald named Nahrmahn knelt where you are today, Your Highness. He came as a defeated foe, making the best terms he could for his House and his people, knowing my wife and I, as his sworn enemies, might well have demanded his head in return. He came anyway, despite that danger, and knelt on the same cushion and swore the same oath you’ve sworn this day. I’d been raised all of my life knowing Emerald was the enemy of Charis. There’d been decades of spying and maneuvering for position and—finally—war between us. We had every reason to hate one another, and very little reason not to.
“Last month, that prince died.” Cayleb had to pause and clear his throat again, and despite himself his voice was husky when he continued. “He died protecting his wife—and your mother—with his own body. He died at the hands of an assassin who murdered thirty-seven other people with the same bomb. He died having fought with all his marvelous intelligence and wisdom, at my side and Sharleyan’s, for three years. Having fought for that in which he believed, for that which he loved … and for that for which he gave his life. And my lifelong enemy died not simply as our vassal, but as my friend, my ally, and my brother. In a few more years, my younger brother will wed your older sister, but know this—our Houses are already joined, and while Sharleyan and I weep at bidding your father go with God, we rejoice at welcoming you to the throne you now assume. I know how much your father loved you, Nahrmahn Gareyt, and I know how much you loved him. Remember him, as we will, and follow the example he set for you. If you do that you’ll become not simply a prince to be respected and obeyed, but a man to be loved and celebrated.”
The young man who would be sixteen Safeholdian years old—fourteen and a half, in the years of Old Terra—in four more five-days gazed up at his emperor and empress. Then he bent his head, his forehead on their clasped hands until Sharleyan withdrew hers and rested it on his dark, curly hair. Nahrmahn Gareyt’s shoulders quivered, ever so slightly, and the empress’ smile trembled as she stroked his hair. Then she drew a deep breath.
“Rise, Prince Nahrmahn Gareyt, Nahrmahn III of Emerald. You are summoned to our Imperial Council, and we have much of which to speak.”
* * *
Nahrmahn Gareyt was already taller than his father had been. He was also athletic and muscular, without Nahrmahn the Elder’s undeniably portly physique. His eyes were much the same, however—dark and sharp. It remained to be seen if the brain behind them was the equal of his father’s, but the signs were hopeful, Sharleyan thought. The young man had never expected or wanted to take a throne so young, yet his parents had trained him well, both as a potential ruler and as a boy growing steadily into manhood, and those sharp eyes drank in every detail of the council chamber.
He was also clearly aware of his youth as he sat in the chair which had belonged to his father. There was a definite nervousness in the ever so slightly too erect posture, in the way he watched whoever was speaking. There was still too much grief in that youthful face, as well, and every so often his left hand touched the black mourning band on his right arm. Yet he showed far more composure than many a man twice his age might have, and Sharleyan remembered a girl child, even younger than he, who’d also come to a throne untimely because her father had been assassinated. She’d always felt close to Nahrmahn Gareyt, and now that common bond of murder had drawn them closer still.
“I meant what I said in the throne room, Nahrmahn Gareyt,” Cayleb said, looking down the table to where Nahrmahn Gareyt sat at its foot. “I didn’t expect even to like your father before we met, but both of us were rulers, both of us knew the survival of our realms and our people required us to find an accommodation. I never anticipated how much we’d come to treasure one another, or how valuable his wisdom and counsel would be. I’m sure you know Sharleyan and me well enough by now to realize how sincerely attached we were—and are—to your entire family, little though any of us expected that outcome. And despite your youth, you’re a full voting member of the Imperial Council. You are the Prince of Emerald, the second ranking noble of the Charisian Empire, and we’ll value your input and opinions. I’m sure you’ll be more hesitant than your father was to offer an opinion.” Despite the solemnity of the moment, Cayleb’s lips twitched. “God knows Nahrmahn was never shy about offering opinions!”
A mutter of laughter ran around the council chamber, and even Nahrmahn Gareyt smiled at the emperor’s wry expression.
“That hesitancy is only to be expected, given the combination of your age and how recently come to your throne you are,” Cayleb continued more seriously as the moment’s humor ebbed. “When you do wish to speak, however, you have not only the right but the responsibility to do so. I trust you understand I mean every word I’ve just said?”
“I do, Your Majesty. And Your Grace,” Nahrmahn Gareyt said, bowing down the length of the table to Sharleyan. His voice hadn’t yet settled completely into its adult register, but he met his monarchs’ eyes steadily. “And you’re right. For at least a while I’m going to take my mother’s advice.”
“Oh?” Sharleyan cocked her head. “And what advice did Princess Ohlyvya give you, Your Highness?”
“To keep my mouth shut in official settings even if I think people are going to assume I don’t know what they’re talking about rather than open it and prove I don’t,” Nahrmahn Gareyt told her with something approaching his normal grin. “She, ah, suggested it would be wise of me to mostly listen until I actually have a clue what the people around me are discussing.”
“A wise woman, your mother, Your Highness,” Cayleb observed with an answering smile.
“I think so most of the time myself, Your Majesty. Although there have been times when her idea of ‘wisdom’ and mine weren’t exactly the same.”
“I can imagine,” Cayleb said feelingly. Then he shook his head and looked around at the other councilors seated at that table, and his amusement—welcome though it had been—disappeared.
Some of the faces had changed. Nahrmahn’s left a painful gap, but much as Cayleb would miss the plump little Emeraldian, the gap where Sir Rayjhis Yowance had sat for so long was even more painful to him. And yet, as bitterly as he missed the man who’d been his friend, mentor, unofficial uncle, adviser, and, finally, servant, he felt no qualms when he looked at the man who’d replaced him.
Trahvys Ohlsyn, the Earl of Pine Hollow, had been Prince Nahrmahn’s first councilor for many years, but he would be unavailable to Prince Nahrmahn Gareyt in that role, because Cayleb and Sharleyan had stolen him for the Empire. Quite a few Charisian noses had been put out of joint by their decision to name Pine Hollow to succeed Gray Harbor, yet no one had complained too loudly. Partly that was because the people who might have done the complaining suspected how little patience the emperor and empress would have shown their protests. Perhaps equally importantly, however, was the irreproachable job Pine Hollow had done managing Emerald’s affairs while Nahrmahn was distracted by his responsibilities as Sharleyan and Cayleb’s imperial councilor for intelligence.
In the process of doing that job, Pine Hollow had also spent a great deal of time in Tellesberg, conferring with Gray Harbor and the council members permanently based there. He’d gotten along particularl
y well with Gray Harbor himself, and they’d carried on a lively correspondence even when he wasn’t in Tellesberg. As a result, he was very much a known quantity, with a command of the issues he would confront in his new position which very few of his new colleagues on the council could have matched and none could have excelled.
There were other reasons to name him to that position as well, of course. One was to demonstrate Cayleb and Sharleyan’s willingness to step outside their own realms of Old Charis and Chisholm to fill such a vital position. It was another proof they’d genuinely meant it when they declared that the Empire of Charis was to be an empire of all its peoples. In addition, Pine Hollow had the advantage of having understudied one of the most skilled, cunning, and devious rulers in Safehold’s history, which would undoubtedly prove valuable. And, finally, in the wake of Nahrmahn’s death, the Brethren of Saint Zherneau had finally (if tardily) accepted the Emeraldian’s recommendation that Pine Hollow be added to the inner circle.
Cayleb would have given literally anything to have Gray Harbor still sitting in that chair, but if he couldn’t have that, at least he had someone who was every bit as determined and every bit as intelligent as Gray Harbor had been himself. And one who knew the full truth about the struggle they confronted … and who had access to Owl and the coms which tied the inner circle together.