At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.I.

Swayelton,

Earldom of Swayle;

Rydymak Keep,

Earldom of Cheshyr;

Rock Coast Keep,

Duchy of Rock Coast,

Kingdom of Chisholm,

Empire of Charis,

and

Nimue’s Cave,

The Mountains of Light.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Milady.”

The tall, dark-haired man had gray-green eyes, dramatic silver sideburns, and a strong, distinguished face. He was well dressed and elegantly groomed, though clearly not of noble station, and looked every inch what he was: a skilled craftsman, confident in his competence and accustomed to the respect due a senior member of the Gunmakers Guild.

And those gray-green eyes were dark and bitter as he straightened from kissing Rebkah Rahskail’s hand.

“You are most welcome, Master Clyntahn. Please, be seated,” the Dowager Countess of Swayle replied, and waved the hand he’d just released in a graceful gesture at the comfortable chair facing her own across the cast-iron stove ducted into what had been a massive, old-fashioned, and hideously inefficient fireplace.

It was the month of May, but May was often the cruelest month in Chisholm, and the weather had turned vile again. A nasty mix of sleet and snow rattled against the solar’s glass, and her visitor’s boots were wet. He settled into the indicated chair with only a hint of uneasiness at sitting in the presence of a noblewoman to betray his commoner origins and the countess studied him thoughtfully and unobtrusively.

Anger radiated off of him in waves even stronger than the heat rolling off the stove, but she suspected it was so obvious to her only because of the matching hatred radiating from her. She rather doubted his motives were the same as hers, yet that scarcely mattered. What mattered was that in addition to a name which had become increasingly unfortunate here in Chisholm, he carried the burden of a trade which was about to disappear, taking not simply his wealth but his status with it.

Zhonathyn Clyntahn had been narrowly defeated for the office of Master of the Gunmakers Guild in Cherayth three years back. He hadn’t enjoyed that defeat, but he’d actually taken it fairly well, especially when the Crown offered him one of three supervisor’s positions at the Maikelberg Rifle Works. As a supervisor, working directly with Styvyn Nezbyt, the Old Charisian manager of the Maikelberg Works, he’d earned almost twice his previous income, although it might have been a bit less than he could have earned as an independent contractor, given the incredible press of orders for firearms. Of course, there weren’t very many of those “independent contractors” anymore, and as Maikelberg hit its stride, there would be even fewer of them. That had quite a bit to do with Clyntahn’s presence here in Swayleton on this icy May afternoon.

“With your permission, Master Clyntahn,” Rebkah said now, “I’ll dispense with the customary circumlocutions and cut straight to the heart of the matter. I understand from our … mutual friend that you’re less than enthralled with the state of affairs here in the Kingdom.”

She watched him narrowly as she deliberately used the word “Kingdom” instead of “Empire.” A flicker of alarm warred with the deep-seated anger in his eyes, but it was a brief battle.

“You understand correctly, Milady.” He lifted his chin, meeting her gaze as anger won. “And I understand from our ‘mutual friend’ that you’re a lot less ‘enthralled’ with it than I am. Although, much as it pains me to disagree with a man of the cloth,” he smiled thinly, “I find it a little hard to believe that anyone could be less enthralled than I am at the moment.”

“Perhaps that would be true for most people.” More than a hint of frost crept into Rebkah’s voice. “But most people didn’t see their husband hanged like a common criminal by that traitorous bitch on the Throne.”

The words came out evenly, almost conversationally but for that edge of ice, yet all the more potent for her restraint, and Clyntahn’s face tightened.

“I beg your pardon, Milady. That wasn’t meant to sound churlish or uncaring. If it did, I do most humbly apologize.”

“No apologies are necessary, Master Clyntahn. And if I gave the impression that they were, that was never my intention. It’s just that … some wounds cut deeper than others.”

“I can understand that.” Clyntahn shook his head. “I haven’t suffered the same loss, so I’m sure I can’t truly appreciate the depth of your pain, but I’ve always been cursed with an active imagination.”

Rebkah nodded, but she also reminded herself of Father Zhordyn’s warning. Despite his last name, Clyntahn was far more sympathetic to the Reformists than to the Temple Loyalists. His dissatisfaction with Sharleyan and Cayleb Ahrmahk had much less to do with religious conviction than with the wave of disruptions sweeping through Chisholm’s social fabric.

But that’s all right, she told herself. A true daughter of God can build with whatever bricks He sends her.

“At any rate,” she said more briskly, “I was most interested when our mutual friend suggested you and your friends in Cherayth might have more in common with us than I’d realized. Of course, the deplorable state to which the Kingdom’s being reduced would be enough to give anyone of goodwill deep concern at this moment.”

“Absolutely, Milady.” Clyntahn nodded sharply. “I suppose some people would find the notion of an … alliance between the Kingdom’s nobility and commoner craftsmen such as myself unlikely, but there’s order and balance in everything. It’s taken centuries for Chisholm to reach the level of prosperity—and decades for it to reach the state of peace and security—we enjoyed before this accursed jihad. Bad enough that men and women should be slaughtering one another in God’s name, but the damage being done to the very fabric of our society is simply impossible to overestimate. Every professional and economic relationship is being disrupted, broken—thrown away like so much garbage!” His eyes glittered hotly. “It’s unnatural. It’s worse than unnatural! It’s going to open the door to the sort of Leveler madness they scream about on the streets of Siddar City! And as if that weren’t enough, the effect these new child labor laws and all the rest of that crap will have on the order God decreed for the family will be absolutely disastrous. I can understand getting them out of these accursed manufactories and away from all that insane machinery, but abolishing the guilds’ control of their own apprenticing practices? Insisting we open our crafts to just anyone? And then denying our ancient right to set our own journeyman and apprentice salaries, as if we were no more than—!”

Rebkah nodded gravely as she listened to his onrushing tirade, although it was difficult to keep her lip from curling as Clyntahn exposed the true reasons for his visit. Rebkah Rahskail liked social disruption no more than the next woman, but what really drove Clyntahn was the realization that his guild’s privileged position—and his position, as a member of that guild—was in the process of becoming totally irrelevant.

I wonder if it’s the money or the prestige he’ll miss the most? I’d bet it’s the prestige more than the income. He looks like that sort of man. But I don’t really care why he’s willing to serve as our go-between with the other craftmasters.

She very much doubted that Clyntahn and his associates had any clear notion of exactly what her cousin Zhasyn had in mind for them and all of their other “uppity” commoner friends after the Crown’s overweening power had been broken to bridle. That didn’t matter either, though, and Rebkah cared very little about what might happen then. Her purpose, the only one left to her, was to destroy Sharleyan Ahrmahk. It was only too likely that the murderess herself would escape Rebkah, hiding with her apostate husband in Old Charis at least until Zhaspahr Clyntahn and Mother Church dragged them out for the Punishment. Rebkah was realist enough to recognize that long ago. But that was fine. In fact, in some ways it would be even better. Dying would be an easy out for the bitch; watching the demolition of every single thing to which she and her father had dedicated their lives, though. That would be hard.

And if we can’t manage that, we can damned well make her slaughter enough people in the process of putting us down that the Crown will never rest easy on her head again. After all, when you come down to it, we’re the legacy of King Sailys’ war on the nobility. By the time I’m done with her, that apostate whore’s hands will be so bloodstained her great grandchildren will be seeing plots under every carpet, courtesy of “Sharleyan the Butcher’s” reign of terror.

She made herself sit calmly, listening attentively to Clyntahn’s diatribe, and schooled her expression to show no sign of her own volcanic fury. Not even Father Zhordyn recognized the true depth of her hatred. She knew that, from many of the things her confessor had said to her. And she intended to keep it that way. If she could restore Chisholm to Mother Church and God’s true plan for Safehold, then she would, and rejoice in the accomplishment. But the truth was that Mother Church’s victory was secondary. If the cost of Sharleyan Ahrmahk’s destruction was Rebkah Rahskail’s immortal soul, she would pay it in an instant and spend eternity laughing as she stood in hell at Shan-wei’s shoulder.

“… so I spoke with the others—carefully, of course,” Clyntahn said, winding down at last, “and they agreed that I should accept Father Zh—ah, our mutual friend’s—invitation to … exchange views with you, Milady.”

“I’m honored by your trust,” Rebkah said, exactly as if she’d actually been listening to him rather than dwelling in her own thoughts. Of course, she hadn’t really needed to listen. Father Zhordyn had briefed her fully on Clyntahn and his motivations. “And I hope you’re prepared to go beyond a mere exchange of views.”

“I can’t commit the others until I know more about your plans, Milady.” Clyntahn met her gaze levelly. “For myself, I’d made up my mind before I climbed into the coach to come speak to you. I don’t know how much good I can do you if the others decline to commit themselves, but whatever I can do, I will. You have my word on that.”

“Yes, I believe I do,” she said slowly, smiling at him with the first true warmth she’d felt since he’d entered the solar.

She sat for a moment, listening to the rattle of sleet and the moan of wind, feeling the warmth radiating from the iron stove—the Charisian iron stove—while the coal burned in its belly like an echo of the rage burning in her own. Then she inhaled sharply.

“What we propose to do,” she began crisply, “is to overthrow the tyranny of the House of Tayt once and for all. We don’t expect it to be easy, but we have powerful allies in this. I’m not in a position to name names any more than you are, but I can assure you that they include some of the most powerful nobles in the entire Kingdom. Unfortunately, their lands—and thus their power base—lie outside Cherayth or the lands immediately around it. When we raise the standard of defiance, we’ll have an extensive base of operations in the western part of the Kingdom—a springboard for additional expansion which will also be compact enough to be easily defended at need. What we won’t have is the same reach into the eastern fiefdoms or into the towns and cities. You craftmasters, on the other hand, dominate the town and city councils. As respected members of your town and city governments, you have exactly the sort of reach our western allies lack.”

Clyntahn paled so slightly at her devastating frankness, but his expression never flinched, and she felt a fresh flicker of approval as he nodded gamely.

“Obviously, we have to be concerned about the Army,” she continued, “but most of the newly raised troops have already departed for Siddarmark or will board ship within the next few five-days. The training cadres will remain, but they’re overwhelmingly concentrated in Eastshare, Cherayth, Lake Shore, and Port Royal. By the time they could be combined to mount an expedition against our allies in the west, we’ll have consolidated our positions there. Indeed, all indications are that since we’ll be the ones choosing the time and place to proclaim our defiance and strike, we may well … neutralize many of those training cadres before they realize what’s happening.

“I’m sure your position in the Maikelberg Works makes you even more aware than most of the advantages of the new-model weapons. I assure you that we are, at any rate. Because of that, I’ve used some of my late husband’s contacts in the Army. Not everyone’s forgotten him or Duke Halbrook Hollow or the price they paid for their principles. One of those who remember, in the Quartermaster Corps, has arranged to divert several thousand rifles to our use. They aren’t the very latest weapons. They’re what he calls ‘Trapdoor Mahndrayns,’ and he’s been very forthright in his warning that they don’t fire as rapidly as the newer rifles. They’re enormously better than nothing—or muzzleloaders—however, and he should be able to provide nearly enough of them to offset the weapons remaining in the hands of the Army’s training cadres. And, of course, there’s also the possibility that at least two or three of the training regiments will join us, given all of my husband and Duke Halbrook Hollow’s remaining friends in the Army. After all,” she bared her teeth in a humorless smile, “they’ve been left home because they’re ‘tainted’ by their past friendships and not fully trusted in the field.”

Clyntahn nodded, his eyes intent, obviously reassured—to some extent, at least—by her calm, confident manner.

“We intend, assuming you and your friends decide to join us, to have several hundred of those rifles ‘misplaced’ in Cherayth itself. We don’t want you to go anywhere near them until and unless we’re in a position to threaten the capital. Then—then, when every man they have is mustered and sent out to meet us in the field—you and your friends will arm yourselves, seize the capital, and close its gates against the Army until we’ve destroyed it in battle. We’re confident we can take Cherayth in the end, with or without friends inside the walls, but it would obviously be easier—and many fewer innocent civilians would be injured or killed—if someone else takes control of it for us while we deal with the Army.”

She paused, then sat back in her chair with her hands folded in her lap.

“Those are only the bare bones, of course. Should your friends be interested, I can provide the detail to put flesh and muscle onto them. Trust me, we’ve given this a great deal of thought over the last several years, and none of us are interested in glorious failures. We intend to succeed, Master Clyntahn, and I’m confident we will.

“So, tell me. Do you think ‘your friends’ will want to hear more?”

* * *

Oh, I’m sure they will, Milady, Merch O Obaith thought, listening through the remote on the flu of Lady Swayle’s stove as she guided the recon skimmer towards Rydymak Keep. And thank you ever so much for drawing them out into the open for us! I’ll be interested to see how many of Master Clyntahn’s “friends” Sir Ahlber’s already identified. I’m willing to bet Nahrmahn and Owl have most of them, even if he doesn’t, but you can never ID too many of the rats in the woodwork when it comes to spotting traitors.

There were moments when she actually felt a little guilty for taking such shameless advantage of Owl and the SNARCs. But those moments were few and far between. She’d become just as fierce a partisan of Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk—and all their friends—as Merlin Athrawes ever had, and, like Merlin, she didn’t much care for anyone who wanted to murder the people she loved.

She wondered, sometimes, if Nimue Alban’s personality had always been that … direct, and she simply hadn’t realized it because all of her attention had been so focused on the hopeless, losing war against the Gbaba. Or was it the ultimate futility of that war—the knowledge that it could end only one way, whatever she might do—which had made her so direct?

Of course, Lady Swayle was going to be in for a few unhappy surprises. For example, Colonel Brekyn Ainsail, that friend of hers who was supplying her with the Trapdoor Mahndrayns out of the goodness of his heart and loyalty to her husband’s memory. Ainsail was actually just a bit more mercenary than that, and Duke Rock Coast’s marks spoke much more convincingly to him than any appeal to loyalty, whether to a friend’s memory or to the Temple. And he didn’t realize the ghost of a dead Emeraldian prince and an electronic being who’d never breathed had carefully tracked every payment, every piece of forged paperwork, every diversionary order, and every shipment of arms. They knew exactly where every rifle was, where it had come from, and how it had gotten there. Explaining how they knew in open court might be just a tad awkward, but she suspected Ainsail would be more than willing to help out. Once they showed him proof of his complicity, he’d accept any deal the Crown offered just as quickly as he could get the words out of his mouth. He’d be just delighted to show the investigators exactly where all of those weapons caches were, which would neatly solve the question of how the Crown had found them.

Now that’s going to leave a mark on someone, Merch thought with an unpleasant smile. And if it should happen that a bunch of traitorous bastards turn up to collect their rifles and find a platoon or so of infantry waiting for them, won’t that be sad?

There were still a lot of ways this could go south, she reflected as the Sunset Hills appeared below her. Given her own preferences, she’d pounce the instant they had enough evidence to identify the key players, but Sharleyan had other plans. Merch understood the empress’s thinking, and she agreed it was time to draw out the traitors in Sharleyan’s nobility and … eliminate them once and for all rather than deal with a fresh crop every ten or twenty years. She just couldn’t help worrying about how many innocent people might get hurt in the process.

That concern explained her presence here this evening, actually.

* * *

The weather was marginally better in Cheshyr than in Swayle. But it was only marginally better, and coal cost more in Rydymak than in Swayleton. Or, rather, the citizens of Rydymak had far fewer marks in their pockets when it came time to pay for it.

Things had gotten a little better of late, though. No one had any more money, but Lady Cheshyr had managed to get some of the coal originally destined for the steamers in the Gulf of Dohlar diverted to Cheshyr Bay. She might not have much money, but she clearly still had friends in Cherayth, and she’d made that coal available to her people for barely a tenth of its market price. Unless they couldn’t afford even that much, of course … in which case, it was free.

There was a reason the people of her earldom loved Karyl Rydmakyr.

Sergeant Major Ahzbyrn Ohdwiar understood that. He’d known Lady Karyl—Lady K, she’d been to the entire regiment, then—for the better part of thirty years. Ohdwiar was a muscular, dauntingly fit forty-five-year-old, with black hair, very dark brown eyes, a scarred cheek, and a limp. He’d been born with the first two; the scar and the limp he’d acquired fighting under Styvyn Rydmakyr in King Sailys’ army. Twenty-six years he’d given the Army, until the training accident that finally retired him. He’d drifted then, until he washed up here, in Rydymak, where his old CO’s widow had taken him in, put a roof over his head, and found him a comfortable semiretirement as an “armsman,” even if he was to crippled up to be much good.

Of course, he reflected as he pushed himself through the two hundredth push-up, there was crippled and then there was crippled.

He went right on pumping, lowering himself smoothly—spine absolutely straight—until his nose just touched the floor, and then pushing himself equally smoothly back up again. Despite his limp, he really preferred jogging for cardio exercise—one of his cousins was a Pasqualate healer who’d helped design his own personal exercise program over a decade ago—but that was out of the question after his “training accident.” And so, like most of the other “crippled” armsmen who’d drifted into Rydymak, he did his exercising in private.

Fortunately, despite its draftiness, Rydymak Keep had indoor plumbing and Chisholmian winters guaranteed that its communal bathhouse was efficiently heated. Well, it had been designed to be efficiently heated, anyway, since that was the only way to keep it from freezing solid four months out of the year, and with the influx of good, Glacierheart coal it was heated once again.

He finished his exercises and came to his feet, stretching carefully as he cooled down and already contemplating the bathhouse’s welcome. This late at night, he’d have it all to himself, unless Clairync Ohsulyvyn or Dynnys Mykgylykudi—both of whom he’d known for the better part of twenty years—drifted in. Zhaksyn Ohraily, on the other hand, was a mere babe in arms, barely thirty-eight years old. Because of that, he got the late-night duty outside Lady K’s chamber door, while the creaky old bones of his elders got a good night’s sleep.

Ohdwiar chuckled and opened the door from his small sleeping chamber into the barely larger sitting room attached to it, reaching for the towel he’d hung across his single chair before beginning his nightly calisthenics. He’d just—

“Looking for this, Sergeant Major?”

Ohdwiar froze at the totally unexpected soprano question. Then he stepped through into the sitting room and reached out to accept the towel from his equally unexpected guest. He gave her a less-than-approving look, but she only smiled impishly, and her blue eyes—even darker than Dynnys Mykgylykudi’s—twinkled mischievously.

“I’d not like to sound like I was complaining or anything, Seijin Merch,” he said ever so slightly repressively, “but there’re reasons a man’s quarters have doors. Doors with locks, now that I think on it.”

“Well, of course they do, Ahzbyrn. I wouldn’t have anything to pick if they didn’t!”

Ohdwiar sighed. Estimating any seijin’s age was probably pointless, but he was reasonably certain Merch O Obaith was a very young example of the breed. He’d known too many young smart arses not to recognize one when he saw it.

For that matter, he’d seen it looking out of his own mirror at him for far too many years, now that he thought about it.

“I suppose that’s true,” he said rather than any of several rather pithier utterances which suggested themselves to him, and toweled his sweaty, graying—and thinning, damn it—hair dry. “And would it happen you’ve not dropped by just to practice picking my lock?”

“Aren’t you happy to see me, Ahzbyrn?” She managed to put an edge of wistful longing into her tone. For that matter, it looked as if she’d actually gotten her lower lip to quiver.

“As a mist wyvern in springtime, lassie,” he assured her.

“That’s better, then,” she said with such earnest relief that, despite himself, he chuckled.

It had been her companion, Seijin Cennady, who recruited Ohdwiar and the others for their present duty, but ever since they’d arrived here in Cheshyr Bay, Seijin Merch had been their primary contact with the seijin network which served Their Majesties. He had no doubt she was death incarnate on two feet. That was true of every seijin ever born, as far as he could tell. But she did remind him of his long dead wife. Not physically—Mahrglys had been a tall woman, towering at least five inches higher even than Seijin Merch, who was scarcely a midget, with golden hair and gray eyes. But under the skin … there the two of them were so much alike it hurt sometimes.

“Seriously, My Lady,” he said, using the honorific he knew irked her, and not simply because it irked her. She was a seijin, for Langhorne’s sake! “I’m guessing there’s more to it than a social call?”

“Yes, there is,” she acknowledged, hopping up to sit tailor-fashion on his rickety desk. He regarded the arrangement with trepidation, having discovered some time ago that Seijin Merch was just as solid and muscular as she looked. “I’m here mainly to visit with Lady Karyl, really. I have a couple of messages for her from Her Majesty, and another from Earl White Crag. While I was here, though, I thought I’d check in with you and the other gray lizards.”

Ohdwiar snorted. He wasn’t sure which of the seijins had dubbed him and his companions the “gray slash lizards,” but the truth was, he approved. It was the sort of backhanded compliment an old soldier appreciated.

“There’s not much to report since your last visit,” he said after a moment. “We’ve kept a sharp eye out, and it’s a good thing we’d that note of yours.” He shook his head, expression disgusted. “Rock Coast seems a right slow learner.”

“It’s not like he doesn’t have plenty of other potential spies where the last one came from,” Seijin Merch pointed out. “He figures that sooner or later he’s bound to get someone onto Lady Karyl’s staff if he just keeps trying. After all—” she grinned at Ohdwiar “—everyone knows she’s a notoriously soft touch for taking in stray puppies and gray lizards.”

Ohdwiar snorted again, rather more harshly.

“How difficult was it to discourage the most recent candidate?” the seijin asked.

“Not so difficult as all that.” Ohdwiar returned her grin with a nasty little smile. “Strangest thing happened. When Lady K was interviewing her, Zhorzhyna came in to announce that the silver salt cellar had disappeared out of the kitchen while the young lady was waiting to see the Mistress. Turned out it was in her bag. No clue how it got there.”

“Oh, that was wicked, Ahzbyrn! I like it.”

“Well, it might be the lass was a miserable treacherous spy, but the lads and I didn’t have the stomach to go breaking her kneecaps. So it seemed best all round. Besides, you’ve reminded us often enough to keep a low profile. Hard to do that when you’re tossing young women off the battlements every other five-day.”

“I imagine it would be, yes.” Merch nodded gravely, blue eyes sparkling. She did like Sergeant Major Ohdwiar. He reminded her forcibly of a couple of tough-as-nails Terran Marine sergeants she’d known a thousand years ago.

“Well, in addition to making sure you aren’t tossing any dishonest, salt cellar–stealing maids off any battlements, and besides dropping in on Lady Karyl for a cup of tea, I did have one other thing on my mind.”

“And what might that be?” Ohdwiar asked warily.

“It’s just that I hope you’ve found that hiding place we were talking about last time I was here, because in about two five-days, a fishing boat’s going to turn up here in Cheshyr Bay. The only ‘fisherman’ aboard will be a fellow named Dagyr Cudd, so he’ll need a little help to get his catch ashore.”

“And what sort of catch might we be speaking of, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Oh, a few crates of rifles. A few more crates of ammunition. That sort of thing,” she said with an airy wave of her hand. “Oh! And I think Dynnys will be especially happy. Unless I’m mistaken, there should be two or three mortars, as well.” She smiled seraphically at him. “I do hope you boys will take proper care of your toys, Ahzbyrn.”

* * *

“Have you deciphered the letter, Your Grace?” Sedryk Mahrtynsyn asked.

“Just finished, Father,” Zhasyn Seafarer replied, sitting back in his chair before the roaring fire. He tilted the several sheets of paper to catch the lantern light as he read back over them in silence for several minutes. Then he looked up from them with a smile.

“I can’t really thank you enough for agreeing to serve as our messenger, Father,” he said warmly. “Rebkah asked me to tell you she appreciates your services just as deeply as I do. We understand the risk you’re running for us.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, I’m not running those risks solely for you,” the under-priest pointed out with a slightly crooked smile. “Mind you, it’s my honor to assist you, but I’m not certain I’d be quite so eager to run them for any merely mortal reward.”

“No one could argue with that,” Duke Rock Coast said simply.

“May I ask if Lady Swayle’s written good news?”

For his own safety, Mahrtynsyn never knew the contents of the encrypted letters he carried back and forth. As far as he knew, they were simply the correspondence of the cousins for whom he was honored to deliver them. That was his story, and if he didn’t know their content, he couldn’t be tricked into betraying himself by revealing that knowledge under interrogation.

“Quite a bit, actually. I’ll keep most of it back, I’m afraid. It’s not my information to reveal without her permission, but she’s confirmed that Holy Tree’s climbed down off the fence.”

“That’s wonderful, Your Grace!” Mahrtynsyn exclaimed.

The Schuelerite had wondered which way Sir Bryndyn Crawfyrd would jump in the end. He was only in his late thirties and he’d never been very active in resisting the Crown’s power. Nor was he an especially fervent Temple Loyalist. He was, however, concerned by the social changes he saw sweeping towards him, and his status as the current Earl of Swayle’s future brother-in-law had probably been the decisive factor. If he brought his duchy into the conspiracy, it would cover Swayle’s eastern border and extend their territorial reach another three hundred miles towards Cherayth. Perhaps even more to the point, it would outflank the Earldom of Saint Howan, trapping it between Holy Tree and Swayle to the north and the Duchy of Black Horse to the west, and they could absolutely rely upon Sir Dynzayl Hyntyn, the Earl of Saint Howan’s loyalty to Sharleyan Ahrmahk. He was the Chancellor of the Treasury, after all.

“Yes, it is good news,” Rock Coast acknowledged. “But there may be better.”

“Better, Your Grace?” Mahrtynsyn’s eyes glowed, and Rock Coast smiled.

“First, while you were away, I hosted a snow lizard hunt. Lantern Walk was part of the party, and he and I had a long talk sitting in one of the hunting blinds.”

“Has the Duke agreed to join us, Your Grace?” Mahrtynsyn asked eagerly.

“Not quite … yet, at any rate. He’s a careful sort, you know. I suspect he’s been involved in more than one earlier attempt to … restrain the Crown, but no one’s ever been able to prove anything of the sort. So it’s not too surprising that he hasn’t rushed to fling himself into our arms.”

Mahrtynsyn nodded. Calling Sir Bahnyvyl Kyvlokyn “a careful sort” was a massive understatement. He was in his early forties and remarkably untrammeled by anything approaching a fundamental principle. He did have some concerns about the erosion of aristocratic privilege, but he was willing to accept that … so long as he wound up on top of whatever system replaced it.

“I don’t know if we’ll be able to involve him fully, but at least he’s prepared to declare his ‘neutrality’ when we make our move. Under the right circumstances, I believe he’ll do more. He’s been in contact with both Lady Swayle and Black Horse, as well as with me, without reporting any of us to Zhustyn or Stoneheart.”

“Your Grace!” Mahrtynsyn looked alarmed, but Rock Coast waved it away.

“It’s not like any of us have said anything outwardly actionable in front of anyone else, Father. And none of us have committed anything to Bahnyvyl in writing. So even if he’d been inclined to betray us, there’s no evidence he could hand over, and hearsay evidence has never been enough to convict a peer of the realm, even under Sailys and Sharleyan. Besides, he may be under more pressure to join us than he thinks when the time comes.”

“Why, Your Grace?”

“I’ve spoken very cautiously with Mountain Heart. He’s burned his fingers a couple of times before, so he’s more than a little cautious about going back for another try, especially now that that bastard Cayleb’s been added to the mix. He pointed out that even if we succeed in taking the entire Kingdom, Sharleyan can always borrow an army—or at least a navy—from her husband and come back for another try. Of course, if we succeed and disband the current army, I’m sure we can produce one of our own big enough to give any number of Marines more than they want to handle. More to the point, I think Mountain Heart suspects Black Bottom’s agreed to join us this time.”

Mahrtynsyn nodded slowly. Sir Vyrnyn Atwatyr, the Duke of Black Bottom, was an aristocrat of the very old school. He’d avoided any previous plots against the Crown, however, because he’d had a lively respect for the Royal Army and no desire to see it marching across his lands. But he was also seventy-eight years old, and unbeknownst to the majority of his fellow aristocrats, he was secretly a fierce Temple Loyalist. More than that, both his sons and his only grandson had predeceased him, which made the current heir to his duchy a grandnephew he didn’t particularly like, and his health was declining rapidly. He felt the cold wind of mortality on his spine, urging him to make his peace with God, and this time around he had very little to lose in this world.

“Well, I sort of intimated to Mountain Heart that Lantern Walk’s more … enthusiastically committed to us than he actually is at the moment. Mountain Heart’s too cautious an old wyvern to go bleating to Lantern Walk about it, and Lantern Walk’s too cautious to ask Mountain Heart which way he’s leaning. So at the moment, both of them are inclined to believe the other one’s already signed on with us. And that, obviously, gives each of them multiple borders to worry about. Lantern Walk already had Swayle and Holy Tree on his frontier; if Mountain Heart and Black Bottom both come in, he’ll be surrounded on three sides. As for Mountain Heart, if Lantern Walk comes in, he’ll have Black Bottom to the southeast, Cheshyr—one way or the other—on the south, and me right on the other side of Lake Land. Once upon a time, I’d’ve counted on Lake Land’s support, but that was before old Symyn died last year. After the way Paitryk stabbed us in the back in Tellesberg—and the way he’s been sucking up to Sharleyan and Cayleb ever since—things have changed, unfortunately. I could be wrong about Paitryk now that he’s formally inherited the title and started dealing with the realities of Sharleyan’s tyranny, but I’m damned sure not saying a word to him ahead of time! On the other hand, he’s got less than a third of the population I have and no more than twenty or thirty armsmen, courtesy of Sailys’ damned restrictions. I, on the other hand, have close to a thousand of them training out in the back of beyond. If I have to, I’ll go through his duchy like shit through a wyvern, and he—and Mountain Heart—both know it.”

Mahrtynsyn nodded slowly, and his respect for Rock Coast went up another notch. No one would ever call the duke a brilliant man, but he clearly meant business. The under-priest was impressed by the sheer focus he’d brought to the task, and this time around he’d taken remarkably few missteps.

“But the other bit of good news from Lady Swayle is that she’s been in contact with Elahnah Waistyn.”

“Was that wise, Your Grace?”

Waistyn found himself wondering abruptly if he’d been overly optimistic about missteps. Elahnah Waistyn, the Dowager Duchess of Halbrook Hollow, was Empress Sharleyan’s maternal aunt by marriage. She was also the Duke of Eastshare’s sister. To be sure, her husband had been convicted of treason after his death, so she and Rebkah Rahskail had that much in common. More, their husbands had been close friends for many years. But venturing into the complex stew of Elahnah’s understandably conflicted loyalties did not strike him as a prudent move.

“Oh, don’t worry! First, Elahnah contacted Rebkah, not the other way around. They hadn’t actually spoken since Barkah’s execution, so she was a little surprised by the invitation to visit Halbrook Hall. And she didn’t say a word about any conspiracies while she was there. But Elahnah made it quite clear that she would ‘look favorably’ upon the restoration of Mother Church’s proper authority here in Chisholm. I’m sure she’s still in a great deal of pain over Byrtrym’s death, and especially over the way he died. But her faith’s solid, and if we approach her properly when the time comes, there’s an excellent chance she’d lend us at least her passive support. And Sailys is the spitting image of Byrtrym in more than one way. You know he shared Byrtrym’s beliefs, and there’s been very little contact between him and Sharleyan since his father’s death. I know which way his heart will pull him, and if it looks like the entire West is coming over to us—and if his mother pushes him just a bit—I don’t think it will matter a lot which way his head pulls.”

Mahrtynsyn breathed a surreptitious sigh of relief. He wasn’t as convinced as Rock Coast that the young Duke of Halbrook Hollow’s heart was that thoroughly with the Temple Loyalists, but he could be wrong. Halbrook Hollow’s proximity to the Crown had made him far too dangerous for any of the Inquisitor General’s agents to contact, so Mahrtynsyn had no personal impression one way or the other. But it was certainly possible Rock Coast had a point, especially if, as he said, it looked like the entire southwest was falling into line. And if Halbrook Hollow did join them, it would be huge.

It was already clear that Ahdem Zhefry, the Earl of Cross Creek, would never join them willingly. Bad enough he’d always staunchly supported Sharleyan and the monarchy in his own right, but Earl White Crag, who’d become the kingdom’s First Councilor after Baron Green Mountain was crippled by one of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s assassins, was his brother-in-law! Yet if Holy Tree, Lantern Walk, and Halbrook Hollow all came in, not only would Cross Creek be hemmed in on three sides by hostile territory, but so would three-quarters of the Duchy of Tayt eastern border.

It really looks like Rock Coast’s going to pull this off, the Schuelerite thought almost wonderingly.

He’d worked towards that end for over two years, yet he’d never really believed it was going to happen. He’d been willing to make the effort, despite the dangers, for at the end of the day he was not simply a man of the Church, but a man of deep and abiding faith. A man had to know what he was willing to die for, and Sedryk Mahrtynsyn had decided that the day the Jihad officially began. But only now did he truly realize that he’d never actually expected it to work.

Not until this very day.

“Your Grace, I’m deeply impressed. Especially that this is all coming together now. Surely it’s an indication of God’s approval that this should be happening at the very moment that General Kahlyns is in the process of sending all the new regiments to the front!”

“Of course it is,” Rock Coast agreed. “But let’s not forget that God and the Archangels help those who help themselves, Father! No matter how many people we can recruit before we strike, we’ll represent only a minority of the Kingdom, at least to start. I’ve discussed it with Black Horse, and we’re in agreement that what we need is for the two of us to declare our defiance of the Crown first and then bring the others in in a sort of rolling cascade. Have them make it clear to everyone that they’re responding to the inherent justice of our demands only after we’ve made them rather than part of some preconcerted plot. It shouldn’t take more than a five-day or so for all of them to make their ‘decisions of conscience,’ and doing it that way will create a wave of momentum in our favor.”

“I can see that, Your Grace,” Mahrtynsyn said, impressed yet again.

“So far, Black Horse and I have boiled it down to five principal points,” Rock Coast continued, unlocking an iron-reinforced desk drawer and extracting a single sheet of paper. “I’ve discussed most of these with you, at least in principle before, but we’ve hammered it into a semi-final shape and I’d like your opinion.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Mahrtynsyn leaned back in his chair, tucking his hands into the arms of his cassock and cocking his head attentively.

“First,” Rock Coast said, glancing down at his sheet of notes, “we begin by declaring that Sharleyan’s marriage to Cayleb is null and void because it was patently illegal, since the House of Lords’ ancient and customary right to approve the betrothal or marriage of the heir to the throne was flouted. Langhorne! It wasn’t simply flouted; it was completely ignored! She simply stood up in Parliament and told us all what she’d already decided!

“Second, since the merger of the two kingdoms was a part of the illegal and hence void marriage contract, it was also illegal, which means Chisholm’s never legally been a part of this Charisian Empire abortion.

“Third, not content with flouting the constitution through an illegal marriage and merger, Sharleyan and Cayleb have conspired to further curtail the ancient rights and privileges of the peers of the Realm, continuing the process King Sailys began illegally by brute force of arms all those years ago.

“Fourth, this illegal mockery of a marriage has involved the Kingdom in a needless war against Mother Church, leading directly to the deaths of thousands upon thousands of Sharleyan’s subjects who need not have died. And, even if it be granted that Mother Church—or some of her vicars, acting in her name—have been guilty of crimes of their own, the commission of still more crimes is no way to address the problem! Certainly not before first seeking redress through the ecclesiastic courts provided by the Holy Writ and the blessed Archangels themselves for that very purpose.

“And fifth, Sharleyan and Cayleb, in order to whip up support for this entire illegal, obscene edifice they’ve constructed, are encouraging the dregs of society—not just peasants and the rabble of the street but actual ex-serfs—to combine in an unholy alliance against the stability and property rights of the Kingdom, creating a … a mobocracy, for want of a better term, that pits their base-born ‘allies’ against not simply the nobility, but also against the small property owners, the shopkeepers, and the skilled craftsmen who, along with our farmers, have always been the true bone and sinew of Chisholm.”

He folded the sheet of paper and handed it across to the under-priest.

“I’m sure it needs a little polish, Father, and I’m much more comfortable with actions than with words. But at least it’s clear, and at least it’s a starting point. And between you and me,” he met Mahrtynsyn’s eyes levelly, “a man could die for a lot worse principles than these.”

* * *

“If you think those are principles worth dying for, Your Grace, I’ve got a nice little floating island in Hsing-wu’s Passage I’d like to sell you for a summer vacation home,” Nahrmahn Baytz said sourly. “Of course, you’d better get it built before it melts!”

At the moment, he was “visiting” in Owl’s main CPU. The AI had enabled the link as part of the support he—Owl had decided he definitely preferred the masculine pronoun—provided to maintain Nahrmahn’s incomplete gestalt. Since the two of them had become so … intimately connected, Owl had built what amounted to a guesthouse for Nahrmahn’s virtual personality, and the two of them conducted quite a bit of their intelligence analysis there in hyper heuristic mode.

“I have observed that humans historically have been capable of embracing any number of illogical ‘principles worth dying for,’” Owl observed now. “I believe Duke Rock Coast’s are no more foolish than a great many others.”

“Now there, Owl, I’m afraid you may have a point,” Nahrmahn admitted. “Of course, I may be just a bit prejudiced, since I was never so foolish as to decide to die for a principal.”

“My analysis suggests that that was simply because you never had to choose whether or not to do so,” Owl corrected gently. “Although, I will concede that when you did choose to die, it was for something rather more important than an empty, self-serving political ‘principle.’”

“There wasn’t a great deal of ‘choosing’ to it, really. It was more a matter of automatic reaction.”

“And, looking back, would you have chosen any other way?” Owl challenged with a smile.

“No,” Nahrmahn acknowledged. He rested one electronic hand on the AI’s equally immaterial shoulder and shook him gently. “No, I wouldn’t have. So I suppose you win this one.”

“When it is a matter of logic and analysis, I almost always win,” Owl pointed out. “Unfortunately, dealing with humans, logic and analysis are usually the last resort of scoundrels.”

“A joke!” Nahrmahn laughed delightedly. “I’m corrupting you, Owl! Next thing, you’ll be producing puns!”

“At which point I trust Commander Athrawes will be compassionate enough to order a complete memory purge,” Owl replied.

Nahrmahn laughed again, then returned his attention to the task at hand.

Quite a bit of written correspondence was passing back and forth as the conspirators moved into the end game. They didn’t have much choice about that, although most of it was being conscientiously burned after it was read by its recipient. The SNARCs’ remotes got solid imagery of almost all of it before it was consigned to the flames, and the people who’d burned it were going to be dreadfully surprised when perfect replicas of it turned up as evidence against them. Not all of it, of course—only the most incriminating bits. And only when there was a convincing way to explain—to someone else, at least—how it might have come into the prosecution’s hands. Which meant, among other things, that it had to be correspondence no witness had seen burned.

It’s really fortunate that most traitors prefer to dispose of the really incriminating evidence in splendid solitude, he thought now. That’s going to make it just a little difficult for Rock Coast and his friends. It’s not as if it’s going to make things a lot better for them if they announce we can’t possibly have that evidence because they destroyed it, since the fact that they destroyed it confirms it once existed, anyway. For that matter, destroying it in the first place would constitute admission of guilt, wouldn’t it?

He chortled quietly to himself as he contemplated the potential law masters’ arguments. The possible consequences for Safehold’s jurisprudence might be … interesting. Not that it was going to matter much in the end.

They’ll have open, scrupulously fair trials before we hang them, he thought. Which, his expression darkened, is one hell of a lot more than they’re planning on giving anyone on the other side.

And meanwhile, it was time for the mysterious seijins to write up their latest discoveries. He sat back in a virtual chair, leafing through his notes while he decided which sections to put into which seijin’s handwriting.

It was almost worth having died to be able to play the Great Game at this level, he decided.