In addition, he’d decided it was time to take advantage of Commander Mahndrayn’s work with his breech-loading rifle and the percussion caps he’d developed for it, and he and Owl had used some of the free time to redesign his own sidearms. Those were going to come as a nasty surprise to someone—possibly sometime soon—he thought, and they wouldn’t violate a single clause of the Proscriptions. Father Paityr had already made that abundantly clear, although none of the Empire’s gunsmiths had yet come up with the design he and Owl had built.
The truth was, though, that as much as he’d enjoyed having time to tinker and putter, he’d gotten bored. Unfortunately, he’d had no choice but to go on marking time for at least another five-day or two if he didn’t want to raise all sorts of eyebrows about the truly miraculous, not simply mysterious, speed with which Seijin Merlin could cover distances of six or seven thousand miles. That was why he’d landed here in the mountains after Zhevons’ chat with Coris, sent the recon skimmer back to Owl, ordered his nannies to regrow Seijin Merlin’s hair, and then gone to standby mode for fifty minutes of every hour.
Of course, even with that, if anyone ever started adding up times, they were bound to come to the conclusion that seijins must know some magic spell to give them command of wind and wave.
In theory, he’d sailed from the Earldom of West Harding, the Island of Charis’ westernmost headland, rather than Tellesberg, which had at least reduced the length of his supposed voyage to the Desnairian Empire’s Crown Lands from over ten thousand miles to “only” fifty-seven hundred. He’d actually turned up in West Harding, publically (and noisily) “borrowed” a forty-foot single-masted schooner, and put to sea in order to make sure everyone “knew” how he’d gotten where he was going in the fullness of time.
That schooner, unfortunately, was now on the bottom of the Parker Sea. He regretted that. It had been a sweet little craft, and Nimue had always loved single-handing her sloop back on Old Terra whenever she’d had the chance. In fact, he was increasingly irked with himself for having abandoned the schooner as quickly as he had. With so much time to kill, he might as well have spent some of it doing something he’d always enjoyed so much before.
You need a vacation, he told himself. Well, to be fair, I guess you needed a vacation. You’d really have to call the last month or so something like a vacation, after all, but you’re just too damned contrary to actually take time off, aren’t you? Always have to be doing something. Everything depends on you. He snorted mentally. You need Sharley or Cayleb closer to hand to kick you in the butt when you get too full of your own importance.
It was amazing how comforting it was to be able to think that. The loss of so many colleagues left a special aching wound at the center of the theoretically immortal “seijin’s” heart, yet the inner circle had survived, even continued to grow. Best of all, he wasn’t indispensable any longer, and that was a greater relief than he’d ever imagined it might be. If something happened to him, the others would still have access to Owl and the technology hidden away in Nimue’s Cave. Not that he planned on anything happening to him, of course. It was just—
“Excuse me, Lieutenant Commander Alban.”
Merlin twitched internally, although his physical body never moved, as Owl’s voice invaded his thoughts.
“Yes?”
“The sensor net deployed to cover Talkyra has reported a situation which programming parameters require me to call to your attention.”
“What sort of situation? No, scratch that. I assume you have the raw take from the sensors for me, yes?”
“Affirmative, Lieutenant Commander Alban.”
“Then I suppose you’d better show it to me.”
* * *
“Tobys.”
Tobys Raimair looked up from the dagger edge he’d been carefully honing and cocked an eyebrow at the man who’d just poked his head into his spartan little bedchamber. Corporal Zhak Mahrys was one of his small guard force’s noncoms. Normally a calm, almost phlegmatic sort, he looked more than a little anxious at the moment.
“What is it, Zhakky?”
“There’s something going on,” Mahrys said. “You know Zhake Tailyr?”
“Sure.” Raimair nodded; Tailyr was one of King Zhames’ guardsmen. He was also a drinking buddy of Mahrys’, and Raimair and Earl Coris had encouraged the corporal to pursue the friendship. “What about him?”
“He says there’s been a lot of going back and forth between Colonel Sahndahl’s office and Father Gaisbyrt’s office since lunchtime. A lot, Tobys.”
Raimair’s face stiffened. Father Gaisbyrt Vandaik was a Schuelerite upper-priest attached to Bishop Mytchail’s office in Talkyra.
“What kind of back and forth?” Raimair asked.
“Dunno. He said it was Brother Bahldwyn mostly, though … and Vandaik came back to the castle with him about an hour ago.”
Better and better, Raimair thought. Bahldwyn Gaimlyn was attached to the king’s household—technically as a “secretary,” although there was precious little evidence King Zhames had requested his services.
“Did Tailyr have any idea what it was about?” he asked.
“If he did, he wasn’t telling me.” Mahrys looked even more concerned. “He’s somebody to hoist a few beers with, Tobys, not my blood brother. He may know—or suspect—a lot he’s not telling me. On the other hand, at least he dropped some warning on me.”
Raimair nodded, although he had to wonder if Tailyr’s decision to “warn” Mahrys had really been his own. Raimair could think of a couple of scenarios in which a particularly devious Schuelerite—and they were all devious, sneaky, underhanded bastards—might arrange to have a “warning” passed in order to manipulate someone he suspected into incriminating himself.
“Thanks, Zhakky,” he said now, standing and sliding the dagger into its belt sheath. “Pass the word to the rest of the lads. No one makes any moves, no one does anything to suggest we’re worried, but check your equipment and be sure you keep it handy. I want them ready to move fast and hard if we have to. Got it?”
“Got it.” Mahrys nodded and disappeared, and Raimair walked down a short hallway, up a half-flight of stairs, and knocked on another door.
“Yes?” a voice responded.
“Could I have a minute of your time, My Lord?”
* * *
“I don’t know, Irys,” Phylyp Ahzgood said, looking out the turret window into the darkness. “I can’t think of any good reason for Vandaik to be talking to Colonel Sahndahl. Or not any reason that would be good for us, anyway.”
“Can we go ahead and run now?” Irys asked, watching his back, seeing the tension in his shoulders.
“Maybe. But we weren’t supposed to run for another two days, and we don’t even know for sure what’s happening. Making a break for it now might be the worst thing we could do!” The frustration in his voice was evident, and he turned to her with a sour expression. “I’m not used to having things like this sneak up on me.”
“I know you’re not,” Irys said with a lopsided smile. “And I count on it not happening. But you’re only human, Phylyp, and the truth is—”
“And the truth is,” a much deeper voice neither of them had ever heard before said calmly, “that everyone makes mistakes occasionally. Even me.”
Irys and Coris whipped back around to the window just as a tall man with blue eyes, fierce mustachios, and a dagger beard swung lightly over the windowsill and into the room. The fact that they were three stories up and that the wall fell sheer from the window would have made that astonishing enough, but to make bad worse, the stranger wore the livery of the Charisian Imperial Guard in the middle of the capital of the Kingdom of Delferahk.
The earl and the princess gaped at the apparition, and he bowed gracefully.
“Please excuse my unceremonious arrival,” he said, straightening from the bow and stroking his mustache. “Captain Merlin Athrawes, at your service.”
“But … but how—?”
&nb
sp; The imperturbability of even a Phylyp Ahzgood had its limits, and the Earl of Coris couldn’t seem to get the question finished. He only stared at the newcomer, and Merlin chuckled. Irys Daykyn was made of sterner stuff, though.
“Captain Athrawes,” she acknowledged, bending her head in a gracious nod. “I won’t say the Empire of Charis is especially near and dear to my heart, but at this moment, I’m most happy to see you.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” He bowed more deeply. “And please accept Their Majesties’ greetings. They look forward to seeing you safely out of Delferahk.”
“And into Tellesberg, of course,” she riposted in a slightly barbed tone.
“Well, of course, Your Highness, but I’m trying not to be tacky,” Merlin murmured with a slight smile, and Irys’ lips quivered for just a moment. Then she cleared her throat.
“It would appear you’ve arrived at an opportune moment, Seijin Merlin,” she said then. “Of course, we don’t know why it’s an opportune moment or how you’ve managed to arrive at it, now do we?”
“In answer to the second half of your question, Your Highness, everyone insists on calling me a seijin, so it’s only reasonable I should act like one on occasion, including arriving at opportune moments. If I recall my fairy tales correctly, Seijin Kody did a lot of that sort of thing.” He smiled more broadly, but then his expression sobered. “And in answer to the question you and Earl Coris were discussing when I arrived—I hope you don’t mind that I spent a moment or two listening outside your window before I intruded—it turns out Master Seablanket wasn’t the only spy planted on you by the Inquisition, after all.”
“He wasn’t?” Coris came back to life, his eyes narrowing. He sounded more than a little affronted by Merlin’s explanation, and Merlin smiled at him.
“It’s not really your fault, My Lord,” he said. “As you may know from your discussion with my friend Ahbraim, we seijins have our own means of gathering intelligence. That’s how I discovered Bishop Mytchail had decided to insert one of his own agents into King Zhames’ household to keep an eye on you. He wasn’t instructed to, and his agent reports only to him, not to Rayno or Clyntahn, but I’m afraid he’s come to the conclusion that you’re … well, up to something. He doesn’t know what, but he’s decided it’s probably something you shouldn’t be doing. So he’s sent Father Gaisbyrt to order Colonel Sahndahl to take your own armsmen into custody and replace them with members of King Zhames’ Guard … under Father Gaisbyrt’s direct command. Just for your own safety, of course.”
“And the King?” Irys asked, gazing at Merlin intently. “Is he party to all this?”
“No, and so far as I’m aware, neither is Baron Lakeland or Sir Klymynt,” Merlin told her. “On the other hand, none of them will attempt to overrule Bishop Mytchail, Your Highness. And, to be honest, you can’t really blame them, can you?”
“My heart certainly can, Seijin Merlin!” she said tartly, but then she shook her head. “My head, unfortunately, can’t. Not knowing what that butcher Clyntahn would do to anyone who helped us slip out of his clutches.”
“Slip out of his clutches alive, Your Highness,” Merlin corrected gently.
“Correction accepted, Seijin Merlin.”
“How much time do we have before Sahndahl moves?” Coris demanded.
“None,” Merlin replied calmly. “There are forty Royal Guardsmen on their way right now, along with half a dozen inquisitors. And their instructions are to use whatever force is necessary to make sure none of you go anywhere.”
“Forty!” Coris exclaimed in dismay.
“All we have to do is get out of the castle, reach the stable where you’ve had those horses waiting for a week, and then ride for the rendezvous,” Merlin replied with a shrug, as if he were discussing a simple picnic outing.
“Past forty Royal Guardsmen?”
“And the inquisitors, My Lord,” Merlin reminded him. The earl glared at him, and the seijin shrugged. “Sergeant Raimair has his people ready, My Lord,” he pointed out, “and they’re all good, solid men. They’ll take care of twenty or twenty-five of Zhames’ armsmen if they have to, I’m sure.”
“And the other twenty armsmen and the half-dozen inquisitors?” Coris inquired more than a bit acidly.
“Ah, them.” Merlin shrugged again. “Well, for them, My Lord, you have me.”
.VII.
Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk
“Father, are you sure this is something we want to do?” Colonel Fraimahn Sahndahl asked.
“Are you questioning the Inquisition, my son?” Father Gaisbyrt Vandaik asked in a gentle, silky tone.
“Never, Father,” Sahndahl replied as calmly as he could. “I simply don’t have any orders from His Majesty, and it would only take an hour or so to send a messenger after him.”
“My orders are from Bishop Mytchail,” Vandaik pointed out. “And were His Majesty here, I’m sure he would remind you secular forces are required to assist Mother Church’s Intendant when he calls upon them.”
Sahndahl did his best not to glare at the smiling Schuelerite. He’d met priests like Vandaik before, more often than he might have wished, and he knew exactly how Vandaik’s report to his own superiors would be written if Sahndahl didn’t do exactly what he wanted. Yet the colonel’s oaths hadn’t been sworn to the Inquisition; they’d been sworn to King Zhames of Delferahk, and he wasn’t at all certain the king would have approved of the notion of seizing his own relatives and handing them over to the Inquisition “for their own safety.”
Especially when he’d been ordered to do the seizing by force. And extra especially when Vandaik had told him—orally—that this mission was important enough to risk endangering Princess Irys’ or Prince Daivyn’s lives … and declined to include that in his written instructions.
The colonel was a simple soldier, disinterested in politics, and a loyal son of Mother Church, but he wasn’t stupid, and he’d served as the second in command of King Zhames’ Guard for almost seven years. Whether he’d wanted to or not, he’d developed political feelers over those years, and every one of them quivered with warning now. The waters around him had suddenly become deep and murky, and he found himself much more seriously considering a ridiculous suspicion which had crossed his mind some time ago when he pondered who might have assassinated Prince Hektor if it hadn’t been Cayleb Ahrmahk.
“Of course I realize His Majesty’s Guard is obligated to assist Mother Church in time of need, Father,” he said with all the dignity he could summon up. “I’m sure you can understand that as King Zhames’ man, I’d really prefer to get his instructions, as well, however.”
“If there were time for that, I would have no objections at all,” Vandaik assured him. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe there is time. And in that regard, Colonel, I’m afraid I have to point out that we’re wasting time discussing this.”
He glanced pointedly out Sahndahl’s office window at the tower in which the Corisandian exiles were housed, and the colonel’s jaw tightened. There were limits to what he could ignore, however, and he gave the Inquisitor a jerky nod.
“Point taken, Father,” he said, then raised his voice. “Captain Mahgail!”
“Sir?” a tall but stocky officer replied, opening the office door and stepping through it.
“Get them ready, Byrt,” Sahndahl said.
“Yes, Sir!”
Mahgail saluted and disappeared, and Sahndahl heard him giving orders in a loud, clear voice. Mahgail was a good man, but he was a bit too prone (in Sahndahl’s opinion) to take a churchman’s word at face value. If the Inquisition said Princess Irys and Prince Daivyn were in danger from their own retainers, then Mahgail was perfectly prepared to kill as many of those retainers as necessary to “rescue them.” He obviously wasn’t going to lose one bit of sleep over his orders, either … unlike Sahndahl. The colonel had recognized the kind of man Tobys Raimair was the moment he laid eyes on him, and he knew that kind of man would die in defe
nse of his prince or princess. The thought that he might somehow threaten them was ludicrous.
But no one was interested in Fraihman Sahndahl’s opinion … except, perhaps, for his liege lord, who he wasn’t going to be allowed to ask about it.
I’m sorry, Your Majesty, he thought now, rising heavily and reaching for his own swordbelt. I knew I should’ve drowned that little weasel Brother Bahldwyn months ago when I realized why Zhessop planted him on you. Secretary—ha!
Unfortunately, he hadn’t, and he buckled the swordbelt, settled it in place, and strode slowly and deliberately out of his office.
* * *
“The good news is that over half the regular Palace Guard detachment is off with the King and Queen tonight,” Tobys Raimair said to the tall, blue-eyed Charisian guardsman.
Right offhand, Raimair couldn’t think of anything he’d ever done that felt … stranger than taking orders from a Charisian when it was the Charisian Empire which had conquered his own homeland. And the man had to be crazy as a Harchong serf drunk on that incredibly vile rice-based “whiskey” they distilled to go wandering around the middle of the Kingdom of Delferahk in Charisian livery. He had heard about the Ferayd Massacre and why most Delferahkans believed it had happened, hadn’t he?
On the other hand, “Seijin Merlin” was obviously accustomed to being obeyed. And crazy or not, something about him—something that spoke to Raimair’s well-honed noncom’s instincts—made Raimair grateful he was here.
Hell, some of the best combat officers I’ve ever known were bug-ass crazy, come to that, he reflected. Not necessarily the safest ones to serve under, maybe, but the kind who always seemed to get the job done somehow. And that’s what it’s all about tonight, isn’t it? The job.