At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.VIII.

Rock Coast Keep,

Duchy of Rock Coast;

Maryksberg,

Duchy of Black Horse;

and

Rydymak Keep,

Earldom of Cheshyr;

Kingdom of Chisholm,

Empire of Charis.

“I don’t know, Cousin Zhasyn.…”

Styvyn Rydmakyr’s voice trailed off, and his gaze was troubled as it moved away from the Duke of Rock Coast’s face and out the window to the Rock Coast Keep gardens. Bright sunlight spilled down over the fresh green of new leaves, and breeze sent blossoming shrubbery and spring flowerbeds dancing. It was about as peaceful a scene as could have been imagined, but Rock Coast doubted his youthful cousin even saw it.

“I know it’s a big decision, Styvyn,” the duke said somberly, deliberately avoiding the affectionate “Styvie” he’d accustomed the boy to hearing from him. Adolescent pride could be touchy, and this was a time to convince Styvyn to take a man’s position and make a man’s choice. “And I know it’s come at you more quickly—and sooner—than you expected. Well, the opportunity’s surprised all of us. But if we don’t take it, it’s unlikely we’ll see another one.”

“I understand that.” Styvyn’s eyes moved back to Rock Coast, and the duke was struck again by how very much like his grandmother’s those eyes were. At this moment, that was not an encouraging reflection. “It’s just that … well, I’ve been thinking a lot about Grandmother. I’ve sounded her out a little, you know.” Rock Coast’s expression tightened a bit, but Styvyn didn’t seem to notice. “She’s pretty firm about her beliefs. Even more ‘set in her ways’ than we thought, I guess. I don’t think we’ll be able to convince her to support us.”

“Styvyn, she’s the dowager countess, not the countess. I truly hate to say it, but given your father’s … invalidism, you really ought to have been confirmed as Earl Cheshyr long ago, and I told the Council that last year.” The boy’s eyes darkened, and Rock Coast went on quickly. “I’m not wishing your father ill, and however much I may disagree with your grandmother, I certainly respect her! I’m simply saying that whatever she feels as your father’s regent, this really ought to be your decision. If she refuses to see reason, you can appeal directly to your people, and I’m willing to bet most of them would support you.”

In fact, given how completely—and how long ago—Karyl Rydmakyr had won her husband’s people’s hearts, Rock Coast was confident nothing of the sort would happen. But if the old biddy realized her precious grandson had committed treason by openly declaring his allegiance to the anti-Sharleyan conspiracy, she might also realize the only way to save the little twerp’s neck was to throw her own support to the conspirators and do everything she could to ensure their success.

Some things were more likely than others, and he was prepared to go to whatever length she drove him. Yet if he and Black Horse had to start right out by crushing Cheshyr, it could get … messy. He could live with that just fine, given what a pain in the arse Lady Karyl had been, and he could always use a little more coastline along Cheshyr Bay. On the other hand, the outright conquest of a neighbor as their very first move might undermine some of their fellow nobles’ faith in their principled defiance of the Crown’s tyranny.

“I don’t think that would be a very good idea, Cousin,” Styvyn said rather more coolly. “I’m not as confident as you are that they’d listen to me instead of her. After all, they still think of me as ‘just a kid.’”

Of course they do, Rock Coast thought tartly. You won’t even be sixteen until the end of August!

“Styvyn, there’s an awful lot riding on what happens in the next few months. At the moment, practically every trained soldier in the Kingdom’s been sent off to Siddarmark. That gives us our best opportunity to do this without any serious fighting. That means less people will get hurt, whether they’re on our side or the Crown’s. If we miss this chance, that won’t be true next time around.”

“I understand that.” Styvyn’s voice was sharper than it had been. “I’m only saying Grandmother isn’t going to care about how good an opportunity it is, and I don’t think I’ll be able to change her mind in the next couple of five-days.”

“One way or the other, we need Cheshyr’s support.” Rock Coast shook his head. “Your earldom’s in a critical position—you know that; we’ve talked about it before. You know how concerned I am about your grandmother’s safety—about your entire family’s safety! I don’t want anything bad to happen to her, to you, to your father, or anyone else in Cheshyr. But I’m not the only one involved in this. I don’t know how well I could … restrain some of the others if they decided Cheshyr isn’t going to join us willingly.”

Something flashed in young Styvyn’s eyes, and for just a moment they looked more like his grandmother’s than ever. Then he drew a deep breath.

“I see your point,” he said. “And I’m glad you’ve explained it to me so clearly. I just don’t think she’s going to agree to any of your proposals.”

“Well, if she won’t, she won’t.” Rock Coast made himself smile. “It’s not like we have to have an answer tomorrow. I mean, nobody’s going to be able to recall any of those troops from Siddarmark next five-day! So we’ve got some time—at least a month, I’d guess—before we absolutely have to know where Cheshyr’s going to stand. Go home and think about it. You’re family, and so is your grandmother—by marriage, anyway—and I really, really don’t want to see my family get hurt. So go home, think about it, and use one of the messenger wyverns to let me know how things are going by, oh, Thursday of next five-day. I promise nothing’s going to happen between then and now. Okay?”

“That sounds like a really good idea.” The young man’s relief was obvious. “Thank you, Cousin Zhasyn. Thank you a lot.”

* * *

“The little bastard’s going to weasel,” Rock Coast said grimly. “Boy doesn’t have an ounce of steel in his spine!”

“Are you certain, Your Grace?” Sedryk Mahrtynsyn said. “The last time I spoke to him, he seemed fully prepared. I won’t say he was happy about it, but he assured me of his readiness to stand with God and the Archangels!”

“He’s a teenager, Father.” Rock Coast rolled his eyes. “At his age, it’s not all that hard to believe two completely contradictory things. And if it’s escaped your attention, teenagers in general—and young Styvyn in particular—tend to avoid telling their elders things they think are likely to piss those elders off.” The duke shook his head. “No, now that it’s starting to look like it’s really going to happen, not something he can daydream about happening sometime off in the future, he’s going to weasel.”

Mahrtynsyn frowned and toyed with his pectoral scepter. He’d spent months working his way into Styvyn Rydmakyr’s confidence, and the Order of Schueler knew a lot about … engendering faith in the fainthearted. He’d been careful not to terrify the boy, but there’d been no doubt in his mind that young Styvyn had become thoroughly aware of how close to the lip of hell Sharleyan and Cayleb Ahrmahk’s apostasy was bringing every one of their subjects. Including, of course, one Styvyn Rydmakyr. Mahrtynsyn had been confident the boy’s regenerated and strengthened faith would carry him to the decision point, despite his deep and obvious affection for his apostate grandmother.

“That could be … unfortunate, Your Grace,” he said at last, slowly, his eyes worried.

“You mean he could go home, fling himself onto his grandmother’s bosom, and confess all?” Rock Coast said derisively.

“Actually, that’s very much what I’m concerned about,” the under-priest replied just a bit sharply.

“Relax. I didn’t time the invitation for this visit by accident, you know. First, like I said, he’s a teenager. He won’t want to go running to his grandmother to tell her he’s been hobnobbing with potential traitors for the last year and a half. I think he’ll probably do it in the end, if only on the theory that he’ll get at least a little credit for coming clean before someone else outs him. Second, I think those talks and devotionals of yours went more than skin deep, so he’s going to be worrying about pissing off God and the Archangels by betraying our confidence, too. And, finally, I’ve told Lahndysyl to set a new record for a slow passage. He can’t be too obvious about it. The boy’s been playing around in boats since he could walk and Ahmiliya’s a fast sailor. If Lahndysyl’s too obvious about going slow, Styvyn’s likely to notice.” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the end of the world from our perspective, since there’d be damn-all he could do about it aboard ship if he did notice, but I am fond of the boy. I’d hate for Lahndysyl to find himself forced to drop him over the side with an anchor tied to his ankles.”

Mahrtynsyn winced internally at the image. Rhobair Lahndysyl was about as hard-boiled and ruthless as a man came. He was also an ardent Temple Loyalist, which was one reason the under-priest had recommended him to Rock Coast, but if he decided his employer’s instructions—or the protection of his own neck—required Styvyn Rydmakyr’s death, he wouldn’t even blink.

“It’s an eight-hundred-mile sail,” the duke continued. “That’s a three-day passage at the best of times. I’m confident Lahndysyl can add at least another full day or so to it without anything … untowards happening. So that gives us what amounts to an entire five-day before he has the chance to unburden himself.”

“And, Your Grace?”

“And every word I said to the little prick about the opportunity we’ve got was absolutely true. I’ve already passed the word to the others.”

Mahrtynsyn stiffened, his expression of alarmed, but Rock Coast only shrugged dismissively, and his own expression was hard.

“I know we didn’t discuss my decision—not specifically, at any rate. God knows we’ve talked about it long enough, though! We’ll never have another chance like this, and some of the others have been wavering, fluttering their hands and wondering if we won’t get an even better opening. Well, we won’t, and I mean to take this one. And to make sure no fainthearts have a different idea, I’ve informed them that Mahkynyn’s already mustering the troops.”

Mahrtynsyn’s expression segued from alarm to completely blank. Fraizhyr Mahkynyn was the senior of Rock Coast’s armsmen. He’d been with the duke since Rock Coast’s boyhood and headed his personal guard for the last ten years, and he’d been the one in charge of quietly recruiting and drilling the additional men the duke had sworn to his service in defiance of King Sailys’ Edict, the royal decree which proscribed the raising of private armies upon pain of death. If he’d ever felt a single qualm about defying that edict—or anything else the Crown might decree—Mahrtynsyn had never seen it, and if Rock Coast told him to attack Rydymak Keep tomorrow, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

In fact, judging from the duke’s expression, that was almost certainly what Rock Coast had told him to do.

That was the under-priest’s first thought. His second was that any notion he’d ever had of controlling Rock Coast no longer applied. He hadn’t so much as mentioned this to him, far less discussed it, and by informing the others that Mahkynyn was already in motion, he’d made certain they’d follow suit. They had no choice. If he failed, their association with him was certain to come to light, so any qualms they might have felt had suddenly become dead letters.

“Well, in that case, Your Grace, I suppose we’d best see to getting those proclamations printed and distributed, hadn’t we?” he said.

* * *

“Could wish we’d had just a mite more warning, Your Grace,” Dahnel Kyrbysh growled. He stood by his saddled horse in the courtyard of Black Horse Keep, the ancient pile of stone which served as the principal seat of the dukes of Black Horse at the heart of the city of Maryksberg. “Getting all this moving—especially moving in the right direction at the right time—on two minutes’ notice isn’t the easiest thing in the world!”

“A point of which I’m well aware, Dahnel,” Pait Stywyrt, the Duke of Black Horse, said sourly. “I think all this has gone to Zhasyn’s head! Somebody had to be in charge, and he seemed like the logical choice at the time, but he’s been feeling his oats here lately.”

“As may be, Your Grace,” Kyrbysh said with the candor of a man who’d spent close to forty years in the service of Black Horse. “And I’ll not say you’re wrong about that. But happen I’m not as unhappy about lack of warning as I’d be about worrying if the others’re going to shy away and leave us holding the lizard.”

He had not said “leave you holding the lizard,” Black Horse reflected, and reached out to clout his armored shoulder.

“There is that,” he acknowledged with something very like a grin. “None of the others’ll have any more choice about dancing to his piping than we do, are they?”

“Not if they like their heads where they are,” Kyrbysh replied bluntly. “Speaking of which, I suppose I’d best be on the way.”

“You do that,” Black Horse approved. “And try not to kill anyone you don’t have to.”

“Not any fonder of killing than the next man, Your Grace,” the armsman replied. “Just as happy to leave Rydymak Keep to Mahkynyn, come to that.” He grimaced. “Lady Cheshyr’s a stubborn old woman. She’ll not open her gates without a lot of … convincing.”

“Probably not,” Black Horse agreed, and stepped back as Kyrbysh swung up into the saddle.

The armsman had only a short ride before him … today, at any rate. The small coasting vessels Black Horse had quietly assembled were waiting to carry him and his six hundred armsmen three hundred and fifty miles from Maryksberg to the town of Swanyk, twelve miles inside Black Horse’s border with Cheshyr. Swanyk lay on the west side of Nezbyt Point, under forty miles from Tylkahm, just inside Cheshyr Bay and the closest major town of the earldom. Of course, calling either Swanyk or Tylkahm “towns” was stretching the noun. Better to call them large fishing villages, the duke supposed. But almost all of Cheshyr’s larger villages and towns lay along the shore of the bay. Most supported fishing fleets, and even for those that didn’t, water transportation was always easier and cheaper than moving goods and people by land. Those towns and villages were connected by the coastal road that ran all the way around the bay, however, and the earldom’s farms and freeholds were either threaded along that road or connected to it by dirt tracks that stretched up into the rugged hills that separated Cheshyr from its eastern neighbors.

The neutralization of the Bay’s eastern shore in the likely event that Lady Karyl declined to join them had been assigned to Black Horse. In some ways, it would’ve been closer for Duke Black Bottom, but crossing the hills would have been slow going, and he had other wyverns to look to in reinforcing Swayle and Lantern Walk. So Kyrbysh would go ashore at Swanyk in two or three days and work his way north around the bay while Mahkynyn dealt with Rydymak Keep.

And welcome to it, Black Horse thought. He was scarcely a squeamish man, but the thought of what Rydymak Keep could turn into wasn’t something he cared to contemplate.

* * *

“I’m so proud of you, Wahlys,” Rebkah Rahskail said.

She stood beside her son on the walls of Swaylehold, the fortified seat of the earls of Swayle on the western edge of Swayleton. The fortress had been built on a steep hill in a bend of the Lantern River three hundred years earlier and enlarged two or three times since. The river that surrounded it on three sides made it highly defensible, but it also meant its inhabitants had to deal with the inconvenience of spring floods entirely too often, and the earldom’s capital city had spread steadily farther east, away from those floods, over the centuries.

Now the banner of the Empire of Charis had been hauled down from the staff on Swaylehold’s central keep and replaced by the old flag of the Kingdom of Chisholm. It was possible the cheers of the citizens of Swayleton had sounded a little uncertain—even a bit forced—when Earl Swayle read the proclamation setting forth the grounds upon which he and his sworn companions had bidden defiance to the tyranny of Sharleyan and Cayleb, but no voice had been raised in opposition. That wouldn’t have been wise, given the large number of armsmen in the colors of Swayle who’d unexpectedly appeared here in the capital. There’d been far too many of those armsmen—under the terms of King Sailys’ Edict, at least—and they’d been far too well armed for anyone to even think about arguing with them. Most of them might be armed only with swords and arbalests, although there were quite a few matchlocks and a few dozen pistols in evidence, but that was more than Swayleton’s inhabitants had possessed. And there were more—and better—weapons en route to the capital.

Rebkah had known better than to try stockpiling new-model rifles—or any weapons, really—in her capital. If there was one person in the entire Kingdom of Charis Sharleyan Ahrmahk’s minions must realize hated her with every fiber of her being, it was Rebkah Rahskail. She’d had no intention of providing those minions with the evidence to justify her arrest.

Because of that, she’d trained her armsmen up near the border with Lantern Walk, in the backcountry where she could control access, and she’d stored her modern weapons there, as well. True, she hadn’t acquired as many of them as she’d suggested she had to her fellow conspirators, but they didn’t need to know that. Thinking she was better armed than she was could only help dissuade any faintheartedness on their part. She’d have had more of them if she’d had more marks, of course, and she’d tried not to feel jealous about the greater numbers of weapons flowing to Rock Coast and Black Horse when she’d been the one who’d established contact with Colonel Ainsail in the first place.

But once Elahnah Waistyn hands us the arsenal in Halbrook, we’ll have lots more guns, she told herself fiercely. Elahnah hadn’t promised to do that—not in so many words—but surely she would! They’d certainly talked around the point enough in their correspondence, and after what had happened to her own husband, how could God not move Elahnah to offer her full-blooded support?

“I have to admit I’m a little … nervous, Mother,” Wahlys Rahskail said. The current Earl of Swayle was only eighteen years old, and at the moment he looked considerably younger. And frightened. “Once the Council hears about this, they’re going to come straight after us with everything they’ve got.”

“Would you rather worry about the Royal Council or about God?” Rebkah demanded a bit more sharply than she’d intended to. Wahlys looked at her reproachfully, and she touched his arm in apology. “I’m sorry, Wahlys. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I suppose I’m a little ‘nervous’ myself! But what we’ve begun is bigger than any mortal power. Surely you understand that.”

“Of course I do, Mother.” Wahlys nodded sharply and his voice was much firmer than it had been. “Father Zhordyn and I have discussed that very point more times than I could count.”

“I know you have.” She patted his arm. “And, I don’t blame you for worrying that Sharleyan’s lickspittles will devote special attention to us here in Swayle.” Her spine straightened proudly. “We’re one of the few great families who’ve had the courage to stand up for Mother Church. You know what that cost your father.” Wahlys’ jaw tightened, and she nodded. “So of course they’ll want to ‘deal with us’ as quickly as they can. But they’ll have to fight their way clear across Holy Tree or Lantern Walk to reach us, and without the Army, they’ll find that just a little bit difficult.” She smiled thinly. “And when the rest of the Kingdom realizes what’s happening—when the others who’ve been forced to hide their loyalty to Mother Church, their opposition to Sharleyan’s tyranny—seize the opportunity we’ve offered, the ‘Royal Council’ will be far too busy putting out fires closer to home to worry about us.”

* * *

“Where’s Grandmother?” Styvyn Rydymak demanded as he burst into Father Kahrltyn Tyrnyr’s small study. “I need to talk to her—now!”

“And what might the rush be?” Father Kahrltyn asked calmly, looking up from his book and removing his reading glasses so that he could see his longtime student more clearly. He was almost seventy years old and growing increasingly frail, but he sported a thick head of white hair and a magnificent mustache, and his mind was as keen as it had ever been.

“I have to … tell her something,” Styvyn said after a moment, downcast eyes studying something on the floor that only he could see with great intensity.

“And that might be—?” Father Kahrltyn prompted, and young Rydymak actually squirmed.

The Langhornite under-priest hid a sigh and let the reading glasses hang from the black riband around his neck as he leaned back in his chair. He’d been Styvyn’s tutor almost since the lad could walk, and he loved the boy dearly. But that was rather the point, wasn’t it? At almost sixteen, he shouldn’t still be thinking about the heir to one of the kingdom’s earldoms as a “boy.”

“Since you’ve just gotten back from Rock Coast, should I assume this has something to do with your cousin, the Duke?” he prompted after a moment, and Styvyn flushed. Father Kahrltyn had never approved of his close association with his magnificent cousin, and he knew it.

“Well, yes,” Styvyn said finally. Then he inhaled deeply and looked up to meet his tutor’s eyes. “I’ve done something … really stupid, Father. Stupid enough you’ll probably assign me a heavy penance once you find out about it. But right now, I’ve got to talk to Grandmother! I can’t believe how long it took Ahmiliya to make the trip, and I don’t think I have a lot of time.”

“I see.” Father Kahrltyn contemplated him for a moment longer, then shrugged. “I believe she’s gone down to the armsmen’s quarters to talk to Sergeant Major Ohdwiar.”

“Oh.” Styvyn’s expression fell, and Father Kahrltyn hid a smile.

The youngster had been rather in awe of Ahzbyrn Ohdwiar ever since he’d discovered the sergeant major had served with his grandfather. He obviously didn’t want to share the news that he’d been “really stupid” with his grandmother in front of someone whose respect mattered to him as much as Ohdwiar’s did. But the boy inhaled again, squared his shoulders, nodded to his tutor, and marched back out the door.

He made his way through the familiar halls, still uncertain how to broach the topic with Lady Karyl. “Hi, Grandmother! Look, I don’t want you to worry or anything, but I think I’ve committed treason. By the way, what’s for lunch?”

Somehow he doubted Lady Karyl would be amused, and he’d discovered—or rediscovered—that that mattered to him. It mattered a lot, and the thought of what he was about to see in her eyes when he confessed that all her warnings about his magnificent cousin had been right made him want to throw up.

He reached the armsmen’s quarters and his pace slowed, despite his determination. This section of Rydymak Keep was newer than much of the rest, built largely at the Crown’s expense when his grandfather had been one of King Sailys’ generals. There’d been far more men stationed in Cheshyr then, keeping an eye on Cheshyr’s neighbors. Which probably should have told him his grandmother knew what she was talking about when she warned him to be wary of what those neighbors were currently up to, he thought. Given their size, they seemed almost empty, even with the thirty-odd retired soldiers Lady Karyl had provided with living space over the winter just past, and she’d put Sergeant Major Ohdwiar in what had been an officer’s quarters.

He climbed the stone stairs to the sergeant major’s assigned chambers, braced himself, and knocked sharply.

The door opened, and he found himself facing not Ohdwiar, but Sergeant Ohsulyvyn. That wasn’t much better than facing the sergeant major himself, but he squared his shoulders.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant,” he said politely but firmly. “I understand my grandmother is visiting the Sergeant Major. I’m afraid I need to speak to her.”

“Of course, My Lord.” Ohsulyvyn stepped back. “Come in.”

Styvyn obeyed the invitation, then paused as his grandmother turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. She sat at Sergeant Major Ohdwiar’s small table, with what looked like a map of the Sunset Hills spread out before her. The sergeant major stood at her right shoulder, but Styvyn had never seen the very tall, blond-haired man on her left. The stranger had a full beard, trimmed close to the jaw, and a long braid. He also had a bony face, a nose any hawk might have envied, and very, very blue eyes. Bluer even than Sergeant Mykgylykudi’s.

“Styvyn!” Lady Karyl smiled. “I didn’t expect you back until Monday.”

“I … I had to come home early, Grandmother,” he said. “I’m … I’m afraid there’s something I need to tell you. Something—” He looked at the two retired soldiers and the complete stranger and his courage almost failed, but he made himself continue. “Something … bad,” he finished in a small voice

“It can’t be all that bad, dear,” Lady Karyl said, rising from her chair to hold out her arms to him.

“Yes, it can.” The words wavered and his eyes burned as his grandmother enveloped him in a tight hug. “It can. Because you were right. You were right about Cousin Zhasyn, about what he wanted, about everything.” He raised his head, making himself meet her eyes. “I’ve been so stupid. I’ve—”

His voice broke completely, and he stared at her, trying to find the words.

“Perhaps I can help a bit, My Lord,” the tall stranger said. Styvyn’s eyes whipped to his face, and the stranger placed one hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “Permit me to introduce myself. Men call me Cennady Frenhines.”

Styvyn frowned, puzzled by the outlandish name, and Lady Karyl squeezed him gently.

“Actually, Styvyn, this is Seijin Cennady Frenhines. He’s here on behalf of Their Majesties.”

“He’s—?”

Styvyn swallowed hard, but Frenhines only shook his head, the expression on his bony face oddly gentle.

“My Lord, we already know everything you were about to tell us about Duke Rock Coast. In fact, we know quite a bit more than you do, because I very much doubt he was stupid enough to tell you he’d realized from the beginning that he’d have to kill your grandmother to get what he wanted.” Styvyn sucked in air and his arms tightened convulsively about Lady Karyl. “I’m quite sure he didn’t discuss some of his other plans with you, either. Rest assured, however, that my … colleagues and I know about all of them. So does Her Majesty.”

“The … the Empress knows I.…”

Styvyn’s voice trailed off in horror, and Frenhines smiled.

“Her Majesty knows you’re young, that your cousin went to great lengths to flatter you into agreeing with him … and that in the end you’d refuse to join his treason. Everyone makes mistakes, My Lord, especially when we’re young. Their Majesties know that, and the fact that you came of your own free will to inform your grandmother of their plans—and that you were willing to do it in front of witnesses—proves Her Majesty was right about your refusal to join him.”

“But … but if you already knew what they were planning, why haven’t you done anything about it?!”

“We’re about to do something about it, dear,” Lady Karyl replied. “We’ve just been waiting until all the roaches were ready to scurry out into the light. And you know what you do with a roach when that happens, don’t you?”

He stared at her as he heard the cold, sharp-edged steel in her tone, a steel he’d never heard from her before.

“No, Grandmother,” he said slowly.

“You step on it, Styvie,” she told him in that same icy voice. “You step on it.”

* * *

“Think the boy beat us home, Fraizhyr?” Daivyn Mahkrum asked as he drew rein at the upper end of the street leading down to Rydymak Keep.

“Just about have to’ve,” Fraizhyr Mahkynyn replied almost absently, steadying his spyglass to study the town below them. “Can’t think of any other reason we wouldn’t see somebody on the streets.”

He lowered the spyglass. Holding the thing steady enough to see anything from the back of a horse was always a challenge, but he really hadn’t needed it, anyway. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. There wasn’t even any smoke rising from chimneys … or dogs or cat-lizards on the street, for that matter.

“No, the old woman knows we’re coming,” he said thoughtfully as he cut a plug of chew leaf and popped it into his mouth. “She’ll have that keep closed up tighter’n a landlord’s heart on rent day. Be a right pain in the arse digging her out of it, too.”

“Can’t be too bad,” Mahkrum objected. He was Mahkynyn’s second in command, and the two of them had known one another since boyhood. “She can’t have more’n thirty, thirty-five men in there to cover the walls, even counting those old crocks she took in over the winter, and we’ve got five hundred. All of ’em with rifles, come to that.”

“Five hundred outside the frigging walls,” Mahkynyn pointed out, jaw working steadily as he chewed.

“And we brought ladders!” Mahkrum shook his head. “I’ll take a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty of the lads and make all sorts of noise outside the gatehouse. Might even get her to agree to talk to me, try and ‘work things out,’ might say. And while I’m doing that, you take the rest of the boys, sneak around to that blind part of the wall on the south side, and throw the ladders up.” He shrugged. “Might get hurt a little bit, but not enough to matter.”

“You think?” Mahkynyn cocked his head, then jerked one thumb at the town’s deserted streets. “You figure she’s got thirty-five armsmen in there. More’n one of the Old Earl’s soldiers retired to Cheshyr, you know. Could be she’s got a few of them, too.”

“And what’s she going to arm them with? Maybe they had a decent armory in there back in the Old Earl’s day, but now?” He snorted derisively and touched the butt of the prized Trapdoor Mahndrayn riding in his saddle scabbard. He had only fifty rounds for it, but every other man in their force had one of the older-style rifles, and they had plenty of ammunition for those. “You know damned well she hasn’t had the marks to buy any new-model weapons! Besides, most of those ‘retired soldiers’ are getting as long in the tooth as her. Probably haven’t even touched a sword in ten, twenty years. Not the kind of thing to keep a man up worrying at night.”

“You’re probably right,” Mahkynyn acknowledged after a moment. “All right, since you’re feeling all talkative, you get the front gate. Give me a couple of hours to swing around to the south.”

He pointed at a stretch of hillside, just visible from their present position. It was unfortunately exposed, and once upon a time it had been a wheatfield. But that had been long ago, and there were at least some clusters of young trees that might be used for cover.

“If the boy did get home and they’re watching for us, like as not they’ll see us well before we get to the foot of the wall. Won’t be a whole hell of a lot they can do about it even if they do have some arbalests or matchlocks, but the truth is we’re not real likely to surprise them. So you take a half dozen of the ladders with you, too. You can hide ’em by coming in down that side street that comes in from the west.” He pointed, and Mahkrum moved to look along his arm, then nodded as he found the street in question. “You can probably get to within a couple hundred yards without anyone seeing ’em from inside. Once they decide you’re only a diversion and start worrying about me, your lads bring their ladders out and throw them up against the gatehouse. We’ll come at them from two sides at once and swamp them.”

“Works for me,” Mahkrum said. “Put a man up there in the church steeple with a flag to tell me when you’re in position?”

“Done,” Mahkynyn agreed laconically.

* * *

“There’s the flag,” the lookout said, and Mahkrum nodded.

It had taken longer than expected for Mahkynyn to get into position, but it wasn’t like there was any rush. The old lady wasn’t going anywhere, and anyone in that gatehouse had to have seen the forty men at his back. He’d decided to let them see at least that much of his force on the theory that it didn’t hurt anything to give Lady Cheshyr a little extra time for worry to soften her resolve. From everything he’d ever heard, Countess Cheshyr’s resolve would need more softening than most people, and the fact that no one had even looked in their direction, so far as he could tell, didn’t seem promising.

No skin off my nose if she wants to be stubborn, he thought as he nodded to his own second and sent his horse walking steadily down the street towards the closed gatehouse. Truth of the matter is, I’m pretty sure the Duke won’t shed any tears if something pretty permanent happens to the old biddy—to the boy, too, come to that. Better if it’s an accident, but I think he figures Cheshyr’d make a nice addition to the Duchy. Wouldn’t be surprised if he and Black Horse plan on carving it up like a stuffed wyvern on God’s Day!

He snorted at the thought as he stopped his horse thirty yards from the closed gate and looked up at the gatehouse battlement. It was a more impressive old pile of stone from this close, and he was suddenly just as happy they weren’t thirty or forty men with new-model weapons atop its walls.

“Hello, the keep!” he called.

There was silence for a moment, aside from the crackle and pop of the no less than three imperial standards flying from the keep’s staffs. Then a head appeared over one of the merlons. He didn’t recognize its owner—a tall, blond-haired fellow—but the man was unarmored and appeared to be armed only with a sword. He wasn’t even wearing a helmet.

“Hello, yourself,” he called back in a deep voice.

“Can I ask where everyone’s gone?” Mahkrum inquired.

“Well, let’s see,” the stranger said in a thoughtful, musing tone. “Four or five hundred armsmen come riding into town in Rock Coast colors all uninvited.” He shrugged. “May be silly of me, but I’d say that was probably grounds for a little concern, wouldn’t you?”

“Only if it has to be,” Mahkrum replied.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that if Lady Cheshyr—or whoever’s in charge in there—is inclined to be reasonable, nobody has to get hurt.”

“Why, that’s remarkably generous of you, Master Mahkrum! I can’t tell you how touched we all are by your deep concern over our safety.”

The stranger’s tone was no longer thoughtful, and its scorn cut like the flick of a whip. That was Mahkrum’s first thought. Then something else registered.

“How’d you know my name?” he demanded sharply, right hand falling to the butt of the rifle at his knee.

“We know quite a lot about you … and why you’re here,” the stranger said. “In fact, we’ve been expecting you. So since you’ve been so concerned about not hurting any of us, I’ll return the compliment. If you’d care to lay down your arms now and surrender without any unpleasantness, we won’t hurt you, either.”

“Surrender?” Mahkrum stared at the solitary lunatic in disbelief. “You’re right, we’ve got five hundred men out here. Standing room only, you couldn’t fit more’n a couple of hundred into that heap of rocks! If anyone’s doing any surrendering around here, it won’t be us.”

“No, probably not. Or not immediately, anyway. That would take something remotely approaching brains. The survivors may change their minds about that in a bit, though. Unfortunately, you’ll have to excuse me for a minute. Master Mahkynyn and his lads just came over the crest of the hill, and he’s just as stupid as you and Rock Coast. Too far away for me to ask him if he’d like to surrender, though, so I’d better go welcome him to the party, too.”

Mahkrum stiffened at the fresh evidence that the stranger knew far too much about his orders. On the other hand, there was that saying about how difficult dead men found it to tell any tales.

“You do that thing!” he shouted up at the parapet as the stranger turned away. Then he turned in the saddle and waved at the crouched men still hidden by the nearest houses, waiting to charge the wall with their scaling ladders.

* * *

“Do all seijins have nasty senses of humor?” Zhaksyn Ohraily inquired as Cennady Frenhines stepped back from the battlements. “You know you just guaranteed they’ll go for it, don’t you?”

Despite the question, Sergeant Ohraily didn’t seem particularly disapproving. At thirty-eight, he was far and away the youngest of the “gray lizards” Karyl Rydmakyr had taken in. And, unlike the others, he was an Old Charisian, not a Chisholmian. Had he been in the uniform to which he was entitled, it would have borne the crossed rifle and bayonet of a scout sniper surmounted by the stylized peep sight of a designated marksman, and he’d removed the eyepatch which had covered the left eye that had supposedly been lost in the training accident that mandated his retirement.

“Nothing nasty about it,” Frenhines replied, dropping down below the level of the merlons. “I didn’t say a single thing that wasn’t completely true. And as for attacking, I specifically advised him not to. Is it my fault if he doesn’t listen to advice?”

“I do believe you have a point, Seijin Cennady,” Ohraily said, working the bolt on his M96 rifle. “We’ve got this. Go have fun.”

Frenhines slapped him on the shoulder and went trotting down the gatehouse’s internal stair towards the keep’s courtyard.

* * *

“All right, boys!” Fraizhyr Mahkynyn shouted. “Let’s get a move on! And remember—we don’t want to kill anybody we don’t need to, but I’d a hell of a lot rather lose one of them than one of us!”

Someone shouted a somewhat obscene agreement, and the storming party started forward in a leisurely sort of a charge. After all, it wasn’t like this was going to be difficult.

Sloppy, Mahkynyn thought, trotting along with the rest of them. Probably nothing to worry about today, but it’s not all going to be this easy. Guess I need to do a little arse-kicking when we’re done. Well, won’t be the first—

He heard a sudden, strange sound—an almost hollow noise, muffled by the keep’s walls. Then he heard another sound, a strange, warbling sound, and his face went white.

* * *

“Fire!” Dynnys Mykgylykudi barked, and all four of the M97 mortars lined up on the keep’s front courtyard coughed out round, perfect rings of powder smoke as their 32-pound bombs went rocketing upwards.

It really wasn’t fair, Mykgylykudi reflected. Which was just fine with him; he wasn’t the one planning on committing treason and probably murder at the orders of a traitor. What he was, was one of the Imperial Charisian Army’s best mortar men. Up until his “injury,” he’d been the senior instructor on the M97 at Maikelberg, and once they’d gotten everyone safely evacuated from the town, he’d ranged in on each of the surrounding hillsides with smoke rounds that left no betraying craters. He knew exactly what elevation and deflection to set.

* * *

“What the—?” someone began.

Daivyn Mahkrum never found out how whoever it was had intended to complete the question. He was still trying to figure out what the concussive thumping sound on the far side of the gatehouse had been when Zhaksyn Ohraily and the other twelve men of his squad leveled their M96 rifles across the gatehouse parapet.

At such a ludicrously short range, Ohraily could have taken the shot without removing his eyepatch.

Mahkrum was dead before he hit the ground; a second and a half later the first of the mortar bombs exploded above Fraizhyr Mahkynyn’s assault party.

* * *

Well, that didn’t go very well, did it, Master Mahkrum? Cennady Frenhines thought coldly as he loped down the stairs from the gatehouse. Pity about that. And I’m afraid it’s about to get worse.

There was no way in the universe Sharleyan Ahrmahk would have trusted Karyl Rydmakyr’s safety to anyone besides Merlin Athrawes … or perhaps Cennady Frenhines. Personally, he’d been quite confident the “gray lizards” were more than competent to see to her safety, but he hadn’t objected at all. For someone who’d been born in the Terran Federation and raised as the citizen of a representative democracy, Merlin Athrawes had discovered he’d done a remarkable job of internalizing the far more personal bonds of loyalty that governed Safeholdian realms, and he’d never liked traitors. He liked them even less now, especially when they threatened the people he loved … and that was about to be very unfortunate for the treasonous armsmen outside Rydymak Keep.

He reached the keep’s courtyard, staying close to the outer curtainwall as the mortars continued to cough. Twenty men were waiting for him, along with twenty-one nervous horses who obviously objected to the sounds of mortar and riflefire. Fortunately for the equine members of the group, they wouldn’t have to put up with it for very much longer.

Frenhines vaulted into the empty saddle of the twenty-first horse, unbuttoned the retaining strap of his revolver’s holster, and drew the katana which was very like—but not identical to—Merlin Athrawes’ legendary weapon.

“All right!” he called, and young Styvyn Rydmakyr personally threw up the bar on the keep gates, then leapt aside as the mounted men thundered through the gatehouse tunnel towards the stunned and utterly disorganized armsmen who’d so fatally underestimated the task before them.