At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.IV.

Royal Palace,

City of Cherayth,

and

Braigyr Head,

Duchy of Rock Coast,

Kingdom of Chisholm,

Empire of Charis;

and

Symyn’s Farm,

Duchy of Thorast,

Kingdom of Dohlar.

Rebkah Rohsail sat in the comfortably furnished chamber, staring out the window at the palace gardens, hands folded in her lap, and tried to understand how it could all have gone so wrong.

It’s as if they knew exactly what we planned the entire time, she thought. They were waiting for us. And that bitch Elahnah—!

White-hot rage fisted her hands in her lap as that familiar thought went through her once again. She knew now why Elahnah Waistyn hadn’t promised her support. She’d been back over their correspondence a thousand times in her mind, and her teeth ground together as she went through it yet again. She’d read what she’d wanted to see into Elahnah’s letters—she knew that now—but she also knew Elahnah had realized exactly what she was reading into them. That without ever quite committing perjury, the Dowager Duchess of Halbrook Hollow had encouraged her plans without actually committing to support them in any way. That would have been bad enough, a great enough sin against God, but the traitorous bitch hadn’t stopped there. She must have been passing Rebkah’s letters directly to White Crag and Stoneheart, as well!

She wanted, desperately, to believe Elahnah’s treachery was what had given the entire conspiracy away, but deep inside she knew it couldn’t have been. The Crown’s response had been too devastating, too complete, and far too well planned to have been based solely on the vague hints and suggestions Rebkah had penned to her. No, they’d been betrayed from within—they had to have been … unless.…

She inhaled deeply. No, it couldn’t have been the false seijins. No matter what they might claim, she knew who they truly served, and God would never have permitted Shan-wei’s minions to cast down His champions this way!

But it didn’t really matter what had begun the chain of disasters leading to this palace chamber and its genteel confinement. What mattered was the chain itself, and the totality of the trap which had closed upon her and her allies.

Virtually all of them were in custody now. The speed and decisiveness with which Sir Ahlber Zhustyn’s agents had pounced was almost as breathtaking as the obviously preplanned military movements which had crushed their motley collection of armsmen in less than two five-days. Every one of the senior guildsmen who’d corresponded with her or with Zhonathyn Clyntahn had been arrested in the space of less than twenty-six hours. Brekyn Ainsail, the man she’d trusted to divert weapons to the cause, had not only been arrested, but he’d personally led Zhustyn’s agents to the weapons caches he’d set up for her. Father Zhordyn was in custody, as well, and so were more than two dozen clerics who’d secretly pledged their loyalty to the Temple and promised to bring their congregations with them.

It was disaster, total and complete. A handful of the conspirators had so far eluded arrest, although she couldn’t imagine how. The most prominent was Rock Coast himself, and she found herself torn between the hope that at least one of them would escape the Crown’s net and a vengeful desire for the man who’d obviously botched the entire plan to share his fellows’ fate.

In the meantime, though—

Someone knocked on her chamber door, and the maid assigned to her—not her own maid from Swayleton—opened it. Voices murmured, and then a captain in the uniform of the House of Ahrmahk bowed to her.

“Excuse me, Milady, but your presence is required,” he said courteously.

She gazed at him for a moment, considering a spiteful refusal to accompany him. To make him drag her through the halls, spitting her defiance the entire way. But then she squared her shoulders defiantly, ran her hands over her braided hair, and stood.

“Of course, Captain,” she said in a voice of ice.

* * *

The council chamber was rather more crowded than usual, with half a dozen Imperial Charisian Guardsmen standing respectfully, silently, but very watchfully against the wall. Rebkah glanced around and her mouth tightened as she realized Duke Lantern Walk, Duke Black Horse, Duke Holy Tree, and Duke Black Bottom were already present. And, unlike her, all of them were in chains.

They stood before the council table, facing Sylvyst Mhardyr, the Baron of Stoneheart, across it. Sir Ahlber Zhustyn sat at the Lord Justice’s right elbow, and Stoneheart’s brown eyes were as hard as his barony’s name.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” Lantern Walk raised his manacled hand. “I’m a peer of the realm—a duke! How dare you treat me like a common felon?!”

“Actually,” Stoneheart said coldly, “it’s easy. You are common felons.”

Lantern Walk’s face turned beet-red, but Holy Tree was obviously terrified, hovering on the brink of collapse, and Rebkah felt a deep, searing contempt for her prospective son-in-law. The least he could do was be a man now that they’d been found out! Still, he hadn’t completely collapsed yet, which was more than she could say for some.

“There’s been a terrible misunderstanding!” Black Horse said. “I realize this looks bad—looks terrible—My Lord! But, surely, when you’ve reviewed all of the evidence, you’ll realize I was coerced. This was … this was all Rock Coast’s idea! His and Lady Swayle’s! I wanted nothing to do with it, but they told me all my neighbors were already committed to their treason! That if I didn’t join them, they’d attack me, force me to support them! The first I heard of it was barely a month ago, and by then their plans were already in motion! It was too late for me to tell anyone or do anything except—”

“Save your breath, Your Grace.” Stoneheart’s cold contempt shut Black Horse’s mouth with a snap. “The Crown knows you were one of the two original instigators of this entire plot. It was at least as much of your making as of Duke Rock Coast’s or Lady Swayle’s. And unlike Lady Swayle, neither you nor Rock Coast were inspired by the depth of your faith, whatever you have told her. We have documentary evidence of your involvement at every step, Your Grace, and this time, you—all of you—will face the penalties laid down for treason.”

Rebkah felt her face pale, Holy Tree swayed, and Black Horse stared at Stoneheart as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Black Bottom only shrugged—the thought of any mortal penalties clearly meant little to a man of his age in his health—but Lantern Walk ony laughed scornfully.

“Don’t be a fool,” he sneered. “And don’t think we’re fools, either! You’re talking to four of the Kingdom’s six ranking dukes! We failed, and of course there’ll be consequences. But not even Sharleyan—not even Cayleb of Charis—is stupid enough to think they could execute all of us without bringing the entire rest of the nobility down around their ears!”

“I beg to differ, Your Grace. I very much doubt the other peers will be particularly fond of self-serving traitors who attempted to provoke outright civil war. You might want to consider that the first and fourth ranking dukes of this Kingdom live in Tayt and Eastshare. Neither of them will raise a hand in your defense. Nor, I venture to suggest, will anyone else, when the full scale of your treason is revealed.”

“Full scale?” Lantern Walk jeered. “You actually think you can convince the House of Lords of all these ridiculous charges? Where’s your proof? And don’t tell me about ‘eyewitness testimony’ from our ‘fellow conspirators’! Everyone knows what can be coerced or tortured out of someone accused of this sort of crime!”

“Unfortunately for you, Your Grace, we don’t need eyewitness testimony.” Stoneheart smiled thinly. “We’ll be presenting quite a lot of it, but we don’t need it, because we have your correspondence—all of it. We have complete copies of your secret files, and we can demonstrate every step of your communications chains. We know which days Father Sedryk carried letters to Lady Swayle, what day one of Rock Coast’s messenger wyverns arrived in your wyvern cot. We have the names of your couriers, copies of the written promises you made to Master Clyntahn and the other guilds, and every bit of Lady Swayle’s correspondence with Colonel Ainsail. We have the serial numbers of the stolen weapons that were diverted to your purposes, and we know when and where you recruited your armsmen in violation of King Sailys’ Edict. Trust me, Your Grace—we have more than enough evidence to prove our case against you five times over.”

Even Lantern Walk had paled at that devastating catalog, but he shook himself and glared at Stoneheart.

“Prove it and be damned!” he snapped. “You may be able to threaten the others into tearful confessions to escape the noose, but Sharleyan knows the entire Kingdom will go up in flame if she executes this many peers!”

“Indeed?” Stoneheart cocked his head, then opened the folder on the table before him and extracted several sheets of paper.

“This is a letter from Her Majesty to her Council. In case you’re interested, the date is February ninth. Allow me to share a short passage from it.

“‘My Lords, it has come to Our attention through the service of Our loyal servants and, particularly, through the offices of Our especial servant, Seijin Merlin, and his companions that certain nobles of Our Realm of Chisholm have once more set their hands to the commission of foulest treason. We append in a separate letter the names of twenty-seven peers, major and minor, who have signified to one another their willingness to raise armed insurrection against Our Crown and Our subjects.’”

An invisible fist punched Rebkah in the belly. If that letter truly had been written in February, and if it really had been accompanied by that list of names, then Sharleyan had known—known for months—exactly what the conspirators were doing … and who they were.

“‘These traitors,’” Stoneheart continued, “‘have expressed to one another their readiness to murder those loyal to Our throne, be they noble or common, and to overthrow the rights and prerogatives Our Crown has most solemnly vouchsafed to Our loyal House of Commons. They have chosen to do this at a time when Our Empire is locked in life or death struggle with the very embodiment of evil, a struggle in which thousands of Our subjects have already died and in which thousands more will die before the victory is won. It was Our hope, when last treason reared its head, that a few salutary executions might teach Our great nobles the lesson of Our unwillingness to tolerate such blatantly criminal acts. Clearly, they have not done so, and it is Our firm purpose to finally and forever break the cycle of rebellion and treason among Our nobility. More, it is Our intention that this time, not only they but all Our subjects, will learn that the law applies to all. That those proven and adjudged guilty will pay the full penalty set forth by law, regardless of state or birth. Their lives and their lands are forfeit by their own actions, and We will have the head of every individual who has personally set his or her hand to this enterprise. Those of noble birth will be first attainted of their treason, and their titles will escheat to the Crown to be held in trust by Us until they be bestowed upon those worthy of such honor. There will be no exceptions, no exemptions, because of high birth. It is Our hope that this time others will learn from example so that We need never again root out rebellion, treason, and betrayal among those who have sworn their most solemn fealty “of heart, will, body, and sword” upon their immortal souls and the Holy Writ.’”

He laid the letter back on the table in a ringing, stunned silence. Then he leaned back and looked into the shocked eyes of a slack-jawed Lantern Walk.

“Is there any part of Her Majesty’s letter you failed to understand, Your Grace?”

* * *

Zhasyn Seafarer, who dared not use his own name or even whisper the words “Rock Coast,” crouched over the small fire, stirring a battered, blackened pot of pork and dried beans. It was a far cry from the palatial life of the Duke of Rock Coast, and his jaw tightened as he thought about the disaster which had engulfed all he’d ever held dear.

He looked up to watch Sedryk Mahrtynsyn tend to their horses, if one could call such miserable beasts horses. Rock Coast would have sent them straight to the knackers if they’d been found in his stables, but he supposed it was better than walking … and certainly no one would ever suspect that the rider of such a wretched excuse for a mount might be a duke of the realm.

Mahrtynsyn no longer wore his cassock, his priest’s cap, or his ring of office. Instead, he was as roughly dressed as Rock Coast himself, and they were free and alive—so far, at least—only because the priest had planned for all eventualities. The sorry horses and the farmer’s clothing had been tucked away in a barn on the outskirts of Rock Coast Keep long before the galleons loaded with Charisian Marines sailed into Rock Coast Sound behind HMS Carmyn.

The priest finished with the horses, settled onto a rock on the far side of the fire, and started getting out their battered Army-style mess kits.

“I should’ve stayed,” Rock Coast growled, glaring down into the pot. “I should’ve taken personal command of the water batteries and damned well shown them how a Duke of Rock Coast dies!”

Mahrtynsyn managed not to roll his eyes, but it was difficult. The duke had been carrying on about what he should have done almost from the moment the sound of the ironclad’s guns had faded in the distance behind them. He’d evinced no desire to die gloriously when Carmyn’s captain called his bluff and opened fire on the waterfront batteries, however. Still, he was a duke, and a Chisholmian duke, at that. That made him a very valuable piece—a duke of the realm driven from heretic Chisholm for his steadfast faith in Mother Church and his noble defiance of the apostate rulers who’d led so many millions of their subjects into the very shadow of Shan-wei’s wings. The Inquisition could do quite a lot with a hero like that … assuming Mahrtynsyn could get him to safety. And since he had to get himself to safety, anyway.…

“Your Grace,” he soothed, “I understand your feelings, but, truly, it took more courage to come away with me than it would have taken to stay. Perhaps you could have … negotiated your surrender. After all, you are a duke, not some nobody Sharleyan and Cayleb could simply sweep under the carpet. But once we reach Desnair and find a way to get you to Zion, the Grand Inquisitor himself will greet you as a true son of Mother Church. Believe me, you’ll find the respect your birth and your sacrifices in God’s cause deserve, and the time will come when Mother Church’s victorious armies will restore all you’ve lost and more.”

“Well,” Rock Coast half-mumbled, “I suppose.…”

His voice trailed off, and Mahrtynsyn finished unpacking the mess kits with a sigh of relief.

* * *

Night wind hissed in the tall seagrass and waves roared softly, rhythmically, across the rocky strand. Braigyr Head, on the border between Rock Coast and the Earldom of MaGuire, loomed above the beach like a sentinel, shielding the bonfire burning above the high tide line from inland eyes. Or Sedryk Mahrtynsyn certainly hoped it did, anyway.

“You’re sure they’re out there?” Rock Coast demanded.

“They’ve been here every Monday, Tuesday, and Friday night for the last three five-days, and they’ll be here for the next two if they miss our fire tonight, Your Grace,” Mahrtynsyn told him … for no more than the thirtieth time. “It’s not that terrible a hardship for them, and they won’t raise any suspicion. The fishing off Braigyr Head is actually quite good.”

“As long as someone hasn’t slipped them enough marks to betray us,” the duke growled fretfully.

“That isn’t going to happen,” Mahrtynsyn said rather more flatly than he normally spoke to the duke. Rock Coast looked at him in the fire-spangled darkness, and the priest shrugged. “These are faithful sons of Mother Church, Your Grace, tried and tested in the fire. Believe me, they would never betray me—I mean, us.”

The duke looked skeptical and started to say something else when Mahrtynsyn laid one hand on his forearm and pointed out to sea with the other.

“And here they are, Your Grace!” he announced, and felt Rock Coast’s taut muscles relax under his grip as the dinghy came through the surf and grated on the rocky beach.

One of the small boat’s two-man crew climbed nimbly over the side and waded the rest of the way ashore. He carried a bull’s-eye lantern, and light glowed as he opened the slide and trained it on the two men waiting for him.

“That you, Father?” he asked in a rough MaGuire accent.

“It is, my son,” Mahrtynsyn assured him, turning his head to let the fisherman see his face clearly even as he signed Langhorne’s Scepter in blessing. “Langhorne and Schueler bless you for your faithfulness!”

“Thank you, Father.” The fisherman ducked his head, but he also peered suspiciously at Rock Coast. “And this would be…?” he said dubiously.

Rock Coast started to reply to the insolent familiarity with a sharp setdown, but Mahrtynsyn squeezed his forearm again.

“He’s a friend, my son, another son of Mother Church. I vouch for him.”

“That’s good enough for me, Father,” the fisherman declared, and closed the lantern slide. “Best be getting into the boat, then.”

The four of them filled the dinghy pretty much to capacity. Rock Coast clearly didn’t think much of the battered, paint-peeling little boat, but at least he came from a coastal duchy, and he’d spent enough time in small craft to manage not to encumber the oarsmen.

The boat waiting for them was larger than the dinghy. That wasn’t saying a great deal, however, for it was little more than thirty feet long, and the smell of fish was overpowering. Rock Coast gagged quietly on it as he climbed aboard, but he made no complaints. Mahrtynsyn’s grip on his forearm had warned him that the fishing boat’s crew didn’t know who he was, and the duke approved of keeping them in ignorance. He had rather less faith in the goodness of men’s hearts than Mahrtynsyn appeared to cherish. If they realized they had the fugitive Duke of Rock Coast in their hands, they might just decide they could retire as rich men after selling him to the Crown.

“What’s next?” he asked Mahrtynsyn quietly as the boat came onto the wind and headed farther out to sea.

“Now we make rendezvous at dawn with something a bit larger and more comfortable than this, Your Grace,” the priest replied equally quietly, standing with him in the bow. “I’m afraid it still won’t be the sort of passenger galleon you’re accustomed to, but it will be fast and well armed.”

“Really?” Rock Coast raised an eyebrow, and Mahrtynsyn chuckled.

“Technically, Your Grace, what we’re meeting is a privateer out of Desnair.”

“A privateer?” the duke repeated sharply and frowned when the priest nodded. “Given what the Navy’s been doing to privateers, what makes you so confident this one will have survived to be waiting for us?”

“Because, as I said, it’s only technically a privateer. In fact, it’s been chartered by Mother Church and paid—paid very handsomely, as a matter of fact—not to take prizes. Its only job for the past month has been to wait for me—for us, now—at this rendezvous on the proper nights.”

“And how did it know to be waiting here this month?” Rock Coast sounded skeptical, and Mahrtynsyn shrugged.

“Your Grace, I didn’t know precisely when you and the others would make your attempt, but I knew roughly what the window of opportunity had to be. So last month, a different ‘privateer’ was waiting. The month before that, it was yet another ‘privateer’ … and next month, it would have been still a fourth.”

Rock Coast looked at him narrowly, and Mahrtynsyn hid a smile as he watched the duke reevaluating just how high in Mother Church’s hierarchy his “chaplain” actually stood. Or how high in the confidence of the adjutant of Mother Church’s Holy Inquisition, at least.

“Trust me, Your Grace,” the priest soothed. “The ship will be there, and once we’re aboard, her crew will see that both of us arrive safely in Desnair.”

* * *

“Sail on the larboard bow!”

Duke Rock Coast sat up from where he’d actually managed to fall asleep against the side of the fishing boat’s wretched little deckhouse. The fishermen had offered to let him go below, but he’d declined. The stench was bad enough on deck; he didn’t even want to think about what it must be like below decks.

Now he rubbed his eyes, peering in the indicated direction, and poked Mahrtynsyn in the ribs. The priest snorted awake and jerked upright, then stretched hugely.

“Yes, Your Grace?” he half yawned, and Rock Coast pointed.

“Unless I’m mistaken, that’s your ‘privateer,’ Father.”

Mahrtynsyn shielded his eyes with his hand, then nodded sharply as the two-masted schooner tacked in their direction. Desnair’s black horse on a yellow field flew from its foremast head, and he was pleased to note that it was even larger than he’d expected. Ideally, no one would even see them on the voyage to Desnair, but the big, obviously well-armed schooner looked more than capable of taking care of itself if it had to.

“About twenty minutes, I’d say,” Rock Coast said, estimating times and distances with an experienced eye, and grimaced. “I’m sure these fellows truly are the loyal sons of Mother Church you called them, Father, but I hope you won’t take it wrongly if I say I’ll be happy to be shut of their boat.”

“To be honest, Your Grace, I can’t fault you,” Mahrtynsyn admitted with a smile. “They’re fine fellows, but it is a bit … fragrant, isn’t it?”

“Nothing burning our clothes as soon as we get out of them won’t cure,” Rock Coast said dryly.

* * *

As it happened, Rock Coast’s time estimate had been almost perfect, and the big schooner rounded up into the wind as she hove-to with a smooth professionalism that drew a nod of approval from him. It was nine thousand miles to Desnair. Having a crew skilled enough to get them there struck him as a very good idea.

The fishing boat ran up into the schooner’s lee and took in its single baggy sail.

“Hello there!” Mahrtynsyn called through his cupped hands, standing at the fishing boat’s rail. “We’re glad to see—”

His voice broke off as nine blunt carronades snouted out of the schooner’s gunports. At the same instant, the Desnairian colors plummeted from the masthead and another flag—this one a terrifyingly familiar black-quartered silver-and-blue checkerboard—shot upwards in their place. A dozen riflemen in the uniform of the Imperial Charisian Navy appeared at the quarter deck rail, and a wiry young man in a lieutenant’s uniform raised a speaking trumpet.

“I think you might consider surrendering, Your Grace!” he called.

Rock Coast stared at him in horrified recognition, and the lieutenant shrugged. He was barely thirty yards away, and the movement was easy to see.

“I’m afraid your schooner ran afoul of the Navy some five-days ago, Father Sedryk,” he said. “Her secret orders made interesting reading, and once the Duke’s little rebellion failed, it wasn’t difficult to guess who would be traveling with you. Earl White Crag and Baron Stoneheart decided it would be rude to leave the two of you stranded, and I just happened to have delivered Baron Sarmouth and Earl Sharpfield’s latest dispatches to Port Royal, so they sent me to provide you with transportation. Unfortunately, I can’t take you to Desnair right now.” The Duke of Darcos smiled coldly. “I’m afraid we have an errand in Cherayth, first.”

* * *

“Excuse me, Sir.”

The Earl of Hanth looked up from the ribeye steak, fork paused in midair, and his expression was not happy. Too many of his meals got interrupted for one reason or another, and he’d missed lunch completely. He’d been looking forward to supper ever since, and his steak was done exactly the way he liked it, with a cool red center, and smothered in sautéed mushrooms. He was … less than eager for some last-minute detail to interfere with it while it—and the baked potato steaming gently beside it—got cold.

“Yes?” he said just a bit repressively, and Major Karmaikel grimaced.

“I regret interrupting you, My Lord, but there’s someone here to see you, and I’m pretty certain you wouldn’t want me to keep him waiting.”

“Who the hell could be so frigging important I can’t even finish this first?” Hanth demanded waving the bite of steak on his fork irately. “Couldn’t you have … I don’t know, delayed whoever it is for fifteen whole minutes?”

“Yes, My Lord. And if I had, you’d have taken my head off.”

“I find that rather difficult to believe,” Hanth sighed. “But you don’t usually do things that are totally insane.” He contemplated the morsel of steak mournfully, then drew a deep breath. “At least give me long enough to chew and swallow one bite,” he said, and popped the steak into his mouth.

“Of course, My Lord,” Karmaikel murmured with a hint of a smile.

The tall, broad-shouldered major withdrew, and Hanth chewed slowly—it was just as delicious as he’d expected, of course—then swallowed. He’d just lifted his beer stein to take a sip when the door opened again.

“I apologize for interrupting your supper, My Lord,” the brown-haired, bearded man in the uniform of a Royal Dohlaran Army colonel said. “My name is Mohrtynsyn, Ahskar Mohrtynsyn. I have the honor to be General Sir Lynyrd Iglaisys’ chief of staff, and he’s sent me to request a cease-fire while my King’s ministers—and Earl Thirsk—negotiate with Admiral Sarmouth in Gorath.”