How firm a foundation

NOVEMBER, YEAR OF GOD 895

. I.

HMS Destiny, 54, Schueler Strait, and Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming.”

Most of the faces around the polished wooden table in Sir Dunkyn Yairley’s day cabin were worn with weariness, grooved with lines of fatigue, and adorned with at least a day or two of stubble. Yairley, however, was clean-shaven and brisk, his eyes bright, without any sign of exhaustion, which was something of a miracle under the circumstances.

Somehow (and most of his captains didn’t know how, really, even now) his squadron had made its departure time, sailing on the evening tide almost exactly five five-days earlier. Since then, for reasons none of them knew, Yairley had driven them as if Shan-wei herself were in pursuit and gaining steadily. He’d informed them that he intended to be off Schueler Strait within twenty-eight days, which most of them had regarded as an outright impossibility. Instead, he’d done it in only twenty- six, which had required him to maintain an average speed of almost eight and a half knots. Topgallants, royals, staysails, studding sails-he’d set every scrap of canvas that would draw, and refused to reduce sail until he absolutely had to. He’d even ignored the Navy tradition of “reefing down,” reducing sail and taking a precautionary reef in his topsails every night, lest some squall, unseen in the darkness, overtake a ship under too much canvas and rip the masts out of her or even drive her bodily under.

He hadn’t told them why, he’d only told them how and then driven them like a slave master, and to their total astonishment, they’d actually done it. Now the squadron’s ships lay hove-to in the mouth of the strait, their crews sunning on deck despite the brisk, chill weather while they luxuriated in the brief, well-earned (and badly needed) respite and all his captains repaired aboard Destiny where, just perhaps, they might finally learn what all of this was about.

One captain was missing. Captain Daivyn Shailtyn’s Thunderbolt had lost her main topgallant and royal masts when she’d been hit by a sudden gust before she could reduce sail. Some of Yairley’s officers had expected him to take Shailtyn’s head off for letting that happen, but the admiral wasn’t a fool. He knew whose fault it was, and so he’d simply signaled Shailtyn to continue at his best speed to a rendezvous point fifty miles south of Sarm Bank in the approaches to Sarmouth Keep, although why anyone in his right mind would want to go there was something of a puzzle.

Hopefully, they were about to discover that puzzle’s answer.

“I’m sure all of you have wondered what could have possessed me to push our people this hard,” Sir Dunkyn said, as his steward and flag lieutenant silently and efficiently provided each captain with a snifter of brandy. “I can now tell you at least part of the reason, although there are other portions of our orders which must remain confidential for a while longer.”

The captains glanced at each other. Secret orders weren’t exactly unheard of, but they were more heard of than actually seen. And orders whose contents couldn’t be shared aboard vessels hundreds of miles from anywhere in particular were even rarer. Who was going to overhear any careless talk out here, after all?

Yairley watched those thoughts go through his officers’ minds, then cleared his throat gently, recalling their attention to him.

“The squadron is ordered to attack, seize, and destroy Sarmouth Keep,” he told them. “This isn’t simply a raid, Gentlemen; it’s an all-out attack which will leave nothing but rubble where the fortifications are now. In addition, it will include the seizure of any shipping we may encounter in Sarmouth itself and the destruction of the city’s docks, wharves, and warehouses.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Captain Lathyk took a sip of brandy and broke it.

“Excuse me, Sir Dunkyn, but may we know why we’re to destroy Sarmouth?”

His tone could not have been more respectful, yet his expression made it clear he couldn’t think of any conceivable reason for the operation. Sarmouth, in the Earldom of Charlz, was, admittedly, the second-largest seaport of the Kingdom of Delferahk, but that wasn’t saying much. The Sarm River, which emptied into the Southern Ocean at Sarmouth, was over three hundred miles long, flowing all the way from the Sarman Mountains in the Duchy of Yarth. It was navigable (by anything larger than a rowboat, at any rate) for only about a third of its length, however, and Sarmouth itself was little more than a sleepy fishing port with occasional delusions of grandeur when a particularly ambitious Earl of Charlz started trying (usually with a depressing lack of success) to attract trade away from Ferayd. At the moment, it was probably even more of a ghost town than Ferayd, thanks to the systematic Charisian destruction of the Delferahkan merchant marine and Clyntahn’s embargo. Nor was Sarm Keep any more impressive than the “city” it had been built to protect.

“I can’t answer that question completely at this time, Rhobair,” Yairley said after a moment. “I will tell you, however-and this is not to be discussed aboard your ships, even with your first officers-that the primary purpose of the attack is to serve as a distraction. While everyone’s attention is hopefully focused on our noisy efforts to properly wreck everything in sight, we’ll be sending a small party up the Sarm River in boats. The reason I say this isn’t to be discussed outside this cabin is that I want none of our men who might be going ashore during the raid itself to know anything about it. I trust their hearts completely; I’m a little less confident about their tongues.” He smiled briefly. “I want no careless comments ashore to alert any Delferakhan that we might be hanging about to recover those boats.”

The captains glanced at each other again. It was amazing how gaining additional information hadn’t left them any less in the dark.

“I realize you’re all puzzled by the purpose of our orders,” Yairley continued. “I promise I’ll inform you more fully as soon as my own instructions permit. In the meantime, however, it’s vital that we carry out our attack no later than twelve days from today.” One or two sets of eyes widened, and he smiled thinly. “Perhaps you can see now why haste has been so imperative.”

“I think you could safely say that, Sir Dunkyn, yes,” Lathyk said dryly, and two of the others chuckled. Even at the insane rate of speed Yairley had maintained, it would require another six or seven days just to reach Sarmouth, and there was no guarantee they’d be able to maintain that speed. In fact, the odds were against it.

“I thought I could,” Yairley said in an equally dry tone. “Still, I believe we can probably spend the time to properly enjoy the dinner Sylvyst promises me will be the high point of our entire voyage before we get back underway. I’ve taken the liberty of informing your first officers by signal that you’ll be remaining aboard to dine, and I’m confident they’ll take the opportunity to see to it that your people are properly fed, as well. Of course, we’ll be driving as hard as ever as soon as you’ve returned to your ships. I’m sure-Charisians being Charisians-that there’ll be quite a bit of grumbling among your ships’ companies when the people realize that. However, you may inform them that Their Majesties have graciously consented to pay head money for every member of the garrison taken into temporary custody and to pay prize money for destroyed vessels and warehoused goods, based upon a fair valuation.” It was his turn to chuckle. “I know it won’t be much, but I also know Charisian seamen. Telling them they’ll have a few extra marks rattling around in their pockets if they do well always seems to cheer them up, doesn’t it?”

“What is it, Merlin?”

Cayleb Ahrmahk’s question was broken in the middle by a prodigious yawn. He pushed himself up in bed, careful to avoid disturbing Sharleyan, and grimaced as he looked out the bedchamber window.

“What time is it?” he demanded in a mildly ominous tone.

“It’ll be dawn in another hour,” Merlin replied over the com earplug.

“I’m going to assume there’s a good reason I’m not still blissfully asleep,” Cayleb remarked, climbing out of bed and shrugging into a light robe as he walked across the room and sat on the windowsill, looking out at the peaceful predawn garden. “I don’t think I’m quite as ready to assume there’s a good reason you’re not still blissfully asleep, however. Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we in the middle of that ‘compulsory down time’ you’re supposed to take every night? Do I have to go ahead and sic Owl on you to report you when you don’t take it?”

“Actually, we’re not halfway through it,” Merlin replied with scrupulous accuracy. “We’re closer to two-thirds of the way through it, if you want to be persnickety about it.”

“Oh, that’s much better.” Cayleb’s lips twitched, but he firmed them back up in a disapproving frown. “There was a reason I promulgated that particular arrogant imperial decree, if you’ll recall, Seijin Merlin. And it just happens we have several other people now who can cover things while you ‘sleep.’”

“That’s true,” Merlin admitted. “In rebuttal, however, I’ll just point out that all of them happen to be in the same time zone at the moment. So I told Owl that if anything urgent comes up in the middle of the night, he’s supposed to give it to me rather than wake up one of you flesh-and-bloods-who need actual sleep, not just the opportunity to rest your diodes. Besides, I’ve gotten quite a bit of rest since I got back to the Cave, you know. In fact, I’m getting too damned much rest at the moment.”

Cayleb folded his arms and glowered at the garden, looking for some logical way to attack Merlin’s reasoning. Unfortunately, none occurred to him.

“All right,” he said finally. “You got me. This time. Now, what’s so damned urgent you decided to wake this flesh-and-blood up at this godforsaken hour? I could’ve gotten at least another solid hour of sleep, you know.”

“Owl’s just spotted what looks an awful lot like it must be Clyntahn’s assassination team.” Any trace of humor had disappeared from Merlin’s tone, and Cayleb sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not absolutely positive, but we’ve planted a couple of parasites on them. If these are the people we’re looking for-and I can’t think of why anyone else would be traveling to Delferahk from the Temple Lands this time of year, especially with snow all over the roads in both Havens-they’re bound to say something to confirm it.”

“What makes Owl think this could be them? Aside from the fact that they’re riding through the snow and ice, that is?”

“There are fifteen of them, all in a single party, and twelve of them have Charisian accents. They’re making it a point to stop at Church hostels along the way, and when they do, they make sure the staff hears those accents of theirs. And they’re dropping the occasional Charisian mark when they pay their tab before they head on down the road. And, just as another little indicator that they’re probably the people we’re looking for, they’re being very careful to let people know-or think, anyway-that they came out of the Republic. Obviously Clyntahn’s decided that suggesting active collusion between Lord Protector Greyghor and Charis may give his operation there an extra boost. Unfortunately, whatever they may be suggesting to the people they meet along the way, Owl has the same crew getting off a Harchong-registry ship-whose immediately previous port of call was in Malansath, not the Republic-in the Duchy of Malikai two five-days ago. Now, I suppose really sneaky Siddarmarkian assassins might have decided to travel a couple of thousand miles west overland to get aboard a ship in the Harchong Empire and then sail back east for fifteen hundred miles before they head south for their real destination, but… I don’t know, Cayleb. It seems a little roundabout to me.”

“Was Nimue Alban as much of a smartass as you are?” Cayleb inquired pleasantly.

“Probably not. She was a lot more junior than I am, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Cayleb agreed with a nod, and rubbed his chin for a moment, thinking.

“How did you put all of that together?” he asked after a moment. “I’m not complaining, you understand, but…?”

He let his voice trail off and sensed Merlin’s distant shrug.

“It’s not really all that surprising. I’ve had Owl conducting continual reconnaissance of all three continents. I don’t want him wasting processor power trying to actually monitor that much area on any real-time basis, but he’s got a sub-routine set up to store the imagery in Romulus ’ computer core as it comes in. That way it’s available for us to backtrack just about anything we want to if it turns out there’s a reason we should. Things like individual horsemen don’t even show up in the raw imagery, but once he starts enhancing and manipulating it, he can turn up a surprising amount of detail and do a lot about backtracking targets once they’ve been pointed out to him.

“He’s beginning to show more initiative within his assigned parameters, too. Bynzhamyn and I instructed him to cover inns and hostels in Delferahk with parasites and listen for key words that might identify the assassins, and he decided on his own to place parasites in the Temple hostels on the main roads into Delferahk from Sodar and the Desnairian Empire, as well. Then he started moving farther back up the line without mentioning it to us. One of the ostlers in a hostel he’d wired for sound waited until this particular group had left and then described them as ‘Langhorne-damned Charisians, probably heretics the lot of them,’ to one of his coworkers. That popped through Owl’s filters and he started going through the data-including what he had of the group this fellow was describing talking to each other from his other parasites-until he could locate and positively ID them. Once he had them, he simply ran back through the recorded imagery, backtracking them until the first time he picked them up. Which, as I say, was in Malikai. He was able to track the ship back to Malansath, but it looks like they must have gone aboard during one of the blizzards that rolled through there last month.”

“It sounds to me like we got lucky,” Cayleb said.

“We got lucky because Owl’s getting better. Still, you’re right. On the other hand, we’ve got a lot denser fence along the Delferahkan border, and Owl’s keeping a real-time watch over Talkyra itself. If we hadn’t picked them up now, we’d have picked them up then. I think.”

“You hope, you mean,” Cayleb snorted. He thought again for several more seconds. “So what does this imply for your plans?” he asked after a moment.

“My biggest concern is the fact that they’re moving sooner than we thought they would-or faster, anyway,” Merlin pointed out. “By my calculations, they’ll reach Talkyra sometime around the fifteenth, a good two days earlier than we’d allowed for. For that matter, Yairley’s squadron isn’t even supposed to hit Sarm Keep until the thirteenth. I realize he’s a little ahead of schedule, but whether or not the wind will let him stay that way is another question. And then there’s the minor fact that nobody in Talkyra’s heard back from us yet.” Cayleb sensed another of those distant shrugs. “I think I’m going to have to go ahead and move down to the Sunthorns to be a little closer to the scene, just in case. And it’s probably time I went and had that conversation with Earl Coris, too. In a manner of speaking, of course.” .

Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk

Phylyp Ahzgood was a light sleeper.

He always had been, and his tendency to sleep less soundly than most had only grown stronger over his years as a spymaster. Hektor Daykyn had teased him about it, once upon a time, pointing out that it was probably the result of an increasingly guilty conscience. The Earl of Coris had responded that it had far less to do with guilty consciences than with a growing familiarity with-and appreciation for-the versatility of assassins.

Whatever the reason, he tended to wake up quickly and completely… and without moving.

Now he lay very still and let one hand steal slowly, slowly under his pillow. Its fingers settled around the dagger hilt, and his nostrils flared as he drew a deep, silent breath and prepared to fling himself out of the bed and away from the direction from which he thought the slight sound had come.

“I do hope you’re not planning to do anything hasty with that dagger, My Lord,” a voice said politely out of the darkness. “This is a new tunic. I’d hate to have to have it patched so soon.”

Coris froze, eyes narrowing. There was something about that voice. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but he knew he’d heard it before somewhere…

“If you don’t mind, My Lord, I’m going to strike a light,” the voice continued as pleasantly as if it held conversations in someone else’s bedchamber in the middle of the night on a regular basis.

“Go ahead,” the earl invited, trying to match the voice’s conversational tone.

“Thank you, My Lord,” the voice replied.

There was a scratching sound, and then sudden, painful light smote Coris’ eyes as something flared and guttered blindingly. He smelled a stink of brimstone, and despite himself, flipped out of bed and landed in a half crouch on its other side, dagger ready.

The intruder paid him no attention. He simply lifted the glass chimney from a lamp, lit the wick, and then blew out the flaming sliver of wood he’d used to do the lighting.

“What in Langhorne’s name was that?” Coris demanded, his voice considerably more shaken than he would have liked.

“The Charisians call it a ‘Shan-wei’s candle,’” the other man said in an amused tone. “Personally, I think they could’ve come up with a more tactful name, given Vicar Zhaspahr’s current attitude towards the Empire and the Church of Charis.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, given how… enthusiastically it takes fire-and the stink-it is an appropriate name, don’t you think? Besides, I don’t think they’re especially concerned by the thought of hurting the Grand Inquisitor’s tender feelings these days.”

“Zhevons,” Coris said, eyes going wide as his orderly memory put a face-and a name-together with the oddly familiar voice. “Ahbraim Zhevons.”

“At your service,” Zhevons acknowledged with a bow. It was clearly the same man and the same voice, but the accent and dialect had changed completely. Unlike the smuggler Coris had met earlier, this man could have stepped straight off a street-an expensive street-in Zion itself.

“What are you doing here? And how the hell did you get into my bedroom?” the earl demanded, his dagger still raised between them.

“As to how I got in, let’s just say King Zhames’ guards aren’t the most alert lot in the world. In fact, they’re pretty pathetic,” Zhevons said in a judicious tone. “Sergeant Raimair’s lads are much better than that, but there aren’t very many of them. And, frankly, I’m a lot better at creeping around in the shadows than anyone else they’re likely to meet.”

“You are, are you?” Coris straightened from his crouch, lowering the dagger. “Given the fact that you’re here, I’m inclined to take your word for that. On the other hand,” his eyes narrowed, “that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“You sent a message to Earl Gray Harbor last month,” Zhevons said, his voice suddenly flat and serious, without the edge of humor which had marked it. “I’m the response.”

The tip of an icicle ran down Coris’ spine. It was an instant, instinctive reaction, born of his awareness of just how precarious his position truly was. But he pushed the instant hollowness of his stomach aside quickly. If Zhevons were an agent of the Inquisition, there’d be no point in any sort of elaborate charade designed to entrap him. And he was the man who’d delivered the messenger wyverns in the first place.

“As it happened, I was in a position to get to Talkyra rather more quickly than anyone else could have done it,” Zhevons continued. “So Seijin Merlin asked me to deliver the reply to your message.”

“Merlin?” Coris repeated.

He’d collected a great deal of information about Merlin Athrawes over the last three or four years. Most of it was preposterous and obviously grossly exaggerated. On the other hand, there was so much of it he’d been forced to accept that as ridiculous as it seemed, Athrawes truly was a seijin. Of course, no one seemed to be exactly sure what a seijin really was, and the old fairy tales about them didn’t help a lot in that regard, so simply pinning a label on Athrawes didn’t accomplish a great deal. On the other hand, the fact that this Zhevons had slipped-apparently effortlessly-through not simply Zhames of Delferahk’s admittedly inferior guardsmen but also past Tobys Raimair’s sentries, suggested “Should I assume you’re a seijin, too, Master Zhevons?”

“People keep asking me that,” Zhevons replied with an edge of exasperation. “They keep asking Merlin, too, I’m sure. And I think his response is probably the same as mine. I wouldn’t call myself a seijin, but I have to admit that Merlin and I both have some of the abilities legend ascribes to seijins. So if you absolutely have to have a label, I guess that one’s as good as any.”

“I see.” Coris smiled thinly, only too well aware of the surreal quality of this entire conversation. “On the other hand, according to my research, very few supposed seijins have ever called themselves seijins during their own lifetimes.”

“So I’ve heard,” Zhevons agreed pleasantly. “Now, about that message I’m here to deliver-?”

“By all means.” Coris tossed the dagger onto the bed, where it settled into the soft mattress, then seated himself in his dressing-table chair and crossed his legs as urbanely as a man surprised in his nightshirt could manage. “I’m all ears.”

“So I see.” Zhevons smiled briefly, but then his expression sobered. “First, the bad news: Earl Gray Harbor is dead.” Despite himself, Coris jerked upright, his mouth opening, but Zhevons continued speaking. “He was assassinated, along with several other members of the Imperial Council and prominent churchmen. Bishop Hainryk in Tellesberg, Archbishop Pawal in Cherayth, Bishop Stywyrt in Shalmar… they almost got Archbishop Fairmyn in Eraystor, too. And they did kill Prince Nahrmahn.”

Coris inhaled deeply, unable to hide his shock. He’d never met any of those men, but he’d corresponded frequently with Nahrmahn, back in the days when he and Hektor had been so consistently underestimating the little Emeraldian.

“How in God’s name-?”

“God had very little to do with it, although that probably won’t be Clyntahn’s version. Let’s just say there were several very large explosions-explosions that killed well over fifteen hundred men, women, and children in addition to the men I’ve just mentioned.” Zhevons’ expression was cold and bleak now. “The youngest victim we’ve identified so far was eighteen months old. Or would have been, if she’d lived another five-day.”

“Langhorne.” Revulsion twisted Coris’ face. “The man’s completely mad!”

“I’m afraid he’s just getting started, My Lord,” Zhevons said grimly. “Which is rather the point of this dramatic little visit, when you come down to it.”

“Yes, of course.” Coris gave himself a shake. “You say Earl Gray Harbor was killed. Obviously someone’s stepped into his shoes. May I ask who?”

“Earl Pine Hollow.”

“Ah!” Coris nodded. “An excellent choice, I think. I was always impressed by his correspondence.”

“My impression is that he’s more than competent,” Zhevons replied with a slight, amused smile. “At any rate, he’s read your message to Earl Gray Harbor, and he’s prepared to offer you, Princess Irys, and Prince Daivyn asylum. Obviously, there are going to be a few strings attached.”

“Obviously,” Coris agreed rather sourly, and Zhevons chuckled.

“It’s only reasonable, My Lord,” he pointed out.

“Knowing a tooth has to be pulled doesn’t make the trip to the dentist enjoyable, however ‘reasonable’ it may be,” Coris responded, then inhaled. “What would the ‘few strings’ be in this instance?”

“First, Their Majesties will require you to ‘go public,’ as I believe Emperor Cayleb put it, about Clyntahn’s involvement in the effort to assassinate Prince Daivyn and hand over any evidence you might have implicating him in Prince Hektor’s assassination.” He looked sharply at the earl. “Earl Pine Hollow and Their Majesties are assuming that since you’ve seen fit to request their protection for Irys and Daivyn against Church assassins you’ve come to the conclusion they didn’t have Hektor murdered after all.”

“To be honest,” Coris admitted with a sigh, “I’ve never thought Cayleb was behind that assassination. For a time I thought it might have been someone-a particularly stupid someone-trying to curry favor with him, but the more I thought about it, the more unlikely even that seemed. And I know Anvil Rock and Tartarian. There’s no way they would have been party to Hektor’s murder, whatever the Church’s propagandists have said about them since they agreed to sit on Daivyn’s Regency Council. Which only left one suspect, really, when it came down to it.” He shrugged. “I’m afraid, though, that I don’t have any evidence he ordered Hektor’s assassination. I do have the orders to… facilitate Daivyn ’s murder which my valet, Rhobair Seablanket, and I were sent by Archbishop Wyllym. They’re a bit obliquely phrased, but their meaning’s clear enough if you read between the lines. Of course, Rayno and Clyntahn are obviously going to denounce them as forgeries and us as paid liars.”

“Of course.” Zhevons shrugged. “On the other hand, given the way they’ve just assassinated over a dozen Charisians and murdered almost two thousand more of them, whereas Hektor is the only person Cayleb’s been accused of assassinating, I think you might say the preponderance of the evidence is going to be on Charis’ side in the court of public opinion.”

“It damned well is for anybody with a working brain, anyway,” Coris agreed grimly. “Very well, I can agree to that ‘string’ readily enough. And the next?”

“Cayleb and Sharleyan personally undertake to guarantee Irys’ and Daivyn’s safety. In fact, they propose to place both of them in the personal care of Archbishop Maikel. I think you know that, despite all the lies told about him by the Group of Four, Maikel would die himself before he permitted anyone under his protection to be harmed.”

Coris nodded silently.

“Whether or not Irys and Daivyn-especially Daivyn-will be allowed to leave Tellesberg is going to depend on a lot of different factors,” Zhevons continued. “According to the information I’ve received from Merlin, Their Majesties, Earl Pine Hollow, and Archbishop Maikel would all vastly prefer to see Daivyn returned to his father’s throne in accordance with the terms of the peace settlement signed in his name by his Regency Council.” His eyes met the earl’s. “If he can’t accept that in good conscience, no one will attempt to compel him to do so. However, under those circumstances he’ll remain Their Majesties’ ‘guest’ in Tellesberg indefinitely. I’ve been told to assure you he’ll be treated with all the respect his birth and title command, and that his person will be sacrosanct, but I’m afraid that stipulation is non-negotiable.”

“I assumed it would be,” Coris said heavily. “And I won’t pretend I’m delighted to hear it. Irys won’t like it, either. I think she’s genuinely accepted that Cayleb didn’t order her father killed, but in many ways, she still holds him responsible for Hektor’s death. If Charis hadn’t invaded Corisande, he’d still be alive, after all. That’s how she sees it, at any rate. I think she’s probably even prepared to admit-intellectually, and only under duress, possibly, but to admit-that Cayleb didn’t have much choice about invading, but what the head understands is sometimes difficult for the heart to accept, especially when you’re only twenty years old.”

“Trust me, if there’s anyone in this world who understands that, it’s Empress Sharleyan,” Zhevons said quietly. “I won’t presume to speak for the Empress, but I believe she’ll be as gentle with both Irys and Daivyn as she possibly can.”

“Despite our anti-Sharleyan propaganda in Corisande, that’s what I’d expect, as well,” Coris admitted. “To be honest, it’s one reason I was prepared to approach her and Cayleb in the first place. Although, if I’m going to be completely honest, the fact that they were the only people in the world who might be able to protect my Prince and his sister from the people bent on murdering both of them was an even bigger factor in my thinking.” He smiled humorlessly. “What’s that old saying about any port in a storm? Especially if it’s the only port available?”

“Then I should assume you-and Irys-are willing to accept the conditions I’ve just described?”

“You should,” Coris affirmed. “I’d already warned Irys that Cayleb and Sharleyan would require what you’ve just described at a minimum. Her brother’s all she has left, Master Zhevons. She’s prepared to swallow far worse than that as the price of keeping him alive. In fact-”

He broke off, waving one hand in a dismissing gesture, and Zhevons cocked an eyebrow at him.

“You were about to say something, My Lord?”

“I was going to observe,” Coris said after a long, thoughtful moment, “that from everything I’ve ever learned of Empress Sharleyan, she and Irys have a great deal in common, including an absolute, unswerving determination to avenge their fathers’ murders. I don’t say Irys is going to be prepared to accept Charisian dominion over Corisande, because, frankly, she is her father’s daughter and she’s thinking in terms of protecting her brother’s birthright. But I will say that in so far as she can without prejudicing Daivyn’s claim to the Corisandian throne, she’s probably at least as hungry to see Clyntahn’s blood as any Charisian could possibly be. I think there’s at least the possibility of an… understanding in that.”

“That would be most welcome, My Lord,” Zhevons said frankly. “On the other hand, within the conditions I’ve already described, Their Majesties’ decision stands, whether she and Daivyn are ever prepared to accept an accommodation with the Charisian Crown or not.”

“And, to be honest, those conditions are more generous than I would have anticipated,” Coris admitted. “I’m beginning to suspect that honesty, compassion, and fairness are much more dangerous weapons than most of us duplicitous diplomats have begun to realize even now. Probably because until Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan came along, we’d had so little exposure to them. It’s going to take a while for us to develop proper immunity to them.”

“Their Majesties do seem to have that effect on people, My Lord,” Zhevons acknowledged with a grin. Then he turned serious again.

“The other message I’m here to deliver is that your proposed plan for getting Irys and Daivyn out isn’t going to work.”

“I realize it’s a little risky,” Coris began, “but I’ve done some preliminary spadework, and-”

“I’m aware of that, My Lord. I’m afraid, however, that both Duke Perlmann and Earl Ashton have been more thoroughly infiltrated by the Inquisition than they realize. I’m also aware that neither of them knows at this point that they’re actually dealing with you or that the ‘two Delferahkan nobles’ you’re trying to sneak out are Irys and Daivyn. Once the hue and cry goes up after you disappear from Talkyra, however, it isn’t going to take either of them long to realize who you-and the children-really are, and at that point even if they don’t decide to hand you over to the Inquisition-which, frankly, I think they probably would-you’re bound to be spotted by the Inquisition and taken into custody.”

“But-” Coris began, his expression worried.

“My Lord, I said your original plan wouldn’t work, not that we can’t get you out,” Zhevons said calmly, and the earl closed his mouth abruptly.

“At this time, a Charisian naval squadron is on its way to Sarmouth,” the seijin continued. “When it arrives there, it will seize the port and spend some time wrecking it from one end to the other. While it’s doing that, a party of Charisian seamen and Marines will take advantage of the confusion and general hullabaloo to head up the Sarm by boat. They should be able to make it all the way to Yarth, and a lot faster than they could make the same trip overland. You’ll meet them in the Sarman Mountains, then travel downriver to the naval squadron, which will deliver you to Tellesberg.”

“That… might work,” Coris said slowly, his eyes thoughtful. “It’s, what, about two hundred and fifty miles from Talkyra to Yardan, isn’t it?”

“By road, yes,” Zhevons agreed. “It’s only about a hundred and eighty miles in a straight line, though. And, frankly, if you try to go by road, they’ll run you down long before you get there. For that matter, they’ll simply send word ahead to Bishop Chermahk in Yardan by semaphore and have him-or Duke Yarth’s armsmen-waiting when you get there.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to go cross-country.”

“That’s going to be hard with a boy Daivyn’s age,” Coris pointed out. “He was a good horseman for his age before we left Corisande, but he’s had very little opportunity to ride since we got here. I think we can deal with that, but none of us know the terrain between here and Yarth.” His expression was worried. “I don’t like the thought of having to recruit a guide on such short notice.”

“That won’t be necessary, My Lord.” Zhevons smiled. “I’m afraid I’m going to be occupied elsewhere, but Their Majesties have decided getting you, Daivyn, and Irys safely to Tellesberg takes precedence over almost anything else. That being the case, they’re prepared to commit whatever resources it takes, and Seijin Merlin’s been on his way here almost since the moment your message arrived in Tellesberg. In fact, he’s probably a lot closer already than you’d believe he could be. You’d be astonished by how quickly he can cover ground when he needs to.”

“ Merlin will be our guide?” Coris repeated very carefully.

“Among other things, My Lord. Among other things.” Zhevons smiled oddly. “I think you’ll find he’s a handy fellow to have around in a lot of ways… and”-the smile disappeared-“he has a remarkably short way with assassins.” .

Sarmouth Keep and HMS Destiny, 54, Sarmouth, Kingdom of Delferahk

“Shit!”

Colonel Styvyn Wahls, Royal Delferahkan Army, clutched wildly at the railing as the entire fortress of Sarmouth Keep seemed to buck under a fresh wash of explosions. He smelled stone dust, powder smoke, wood smoke, blood, and fear, and he shook his head, trying to clear his brain and figure out what the Shan-wei was happening.

He managed to stay on his feet and dragged himself the rest of the way up the internal stair while those infernal guns were reloading. He reached the top of the elevated battery covering the Sarm River estuary and crouched low as he scuttled out towards the dubious shelter of the crenellated battlements.

The sky was salmon and rose in the east, still dark blue in the west, and streaked with blue-gray clouds which hadn’t yet caught the sunlight overhead. The predawn twilight made the blinding fury of the long tongues of flame spurting from the broadsides of the Charisian galleons even more terrifying, and he wondered if that was one of the reasons for their timing.

Bastards have more guts than sense to sail straight up the estuary in the dark, he thought as their royal masts began to catch the dawn light, gleaming golden above the low-lying fog bank of gunsmoke rolling slowly north on the wind blowing in from the sea. The galleons had just enough sail set to hold them motionless against the river’s current while they flailed his fortress with their guns. Damned Charisians! Think they can go any damned where they’ve got three inches of water to sail in!

The thought would have been more comforting if the Charisian Navy didn’t regularly demonstrate that it could go anywhere it had three inches of water to sail in. And Charisian arrogance or not, they were damned well here now.

Another salvo rippled down the side of the third galleon in the Charisian line, each gun obviously individually laid and fired, and Wahls ducked instinctively, trying to ooze out flat on the gun platform behind the battlements’ protection as the exploding shot streaked towards the fortress. An artillerist himself by training, the colonel was almost as astonished by the elevation of the ship’s guns as by what they were firing at him. Their damned, incredible exploding shot arced upward, tracing lines of fire across the half-dark, and dropped neatly over the top of the curtain wall. He kept his head down and prayed the rest of his men were doing the same. He’d already almost gotten himself killed gawking at the round shot skittering around the parade ground like Shan-wei’s bowling balls while sparks and flame spat from them. He’d realized those sparks had to be coming from fuses of some sort barely in time and flung himself to the ground just as they began exploding.

At least fifty of Sarmouth Keep’s understrength garrison had been less fortunate… or slower to react. Half his total manpower had to be out of action by now, and the fury of the Charisian bombardment was only mounting.

He’d tried to man his own artillery and return fire, but Sarmouth Keep wasn’t-or hadn’t been-considered a likely target. King Zhames’ purse was shallower than usual these days, and Wahls’ garrison was made up of old men past their prime, young men who didn’t yet have a clue, and gutter-scraping mercs the Crown could pick up cheap. He did have a reasonably solid core of noncoms, but the total surprise when the first Charisian ship opened fire had panicked most of his men. He didn’t suppose he could blame them for that, since he’d felt pretty damned panicked himself, yet he’d been in the process of restoring order when that first broadside of exploding shot came over the curtain wall and exploded… just as his sergeants had gotten them fallen in on the parade ground. They’d gone down like tenpins-except, of course, that tenpins didn’t roll around on the grass screaming while they tried to hold their own ripped-out guts in place.

The handful of men who’d actually gotten to their guns and tried to man them had fared almost worse than the ones on the parade ground as the Charisians swept in close and hammered the battery embrasures with storms of grapeshot. Sarmouth Keep’s artillery had never been updated, and Colonel Wahls had never encountered the new-style guns the Charisians had introduced. Now he had, and none of the reports he’d heard about them had done them justice. He couldn’t believe the rapidity of those galleons’ fire or the tempest of grapeshot which had silenced his own guns in such short order.

“Sir!” his second-in-command shouted in his ear, shaking him by the shoulder. “Sir, this is useless! The second barracks block’s on fire, and it’s right next to the main magazine! We’re not even getting a shot off, and they’re blowing us to hell!”

The colonel stared at the other man, unwilling to accept what he was saying. But then another wave of exploding shot slammed into his command and he heard fresh screams. His jaw tensed, and he nodded once, choppily.

“Haul down the flag,” he grated. “Then get our people into the best cover we can find- if we can find any!-until they stop shooting at us.”

“Well, that was using a hammer to crack an egg, wasn’t it?” Sir Dunkyn Yairley said mildly as the flag above the battered, smoking, burning keep came down like a shot wyvern.

“Personally, I’m in favor of doing just that, Sir Dunkyn,” Captain Lathyk replied, grinning fiercely. “Not any more eager to kill people than the next fellow, you understand, Sir. But if somebody’s got to get killed, I’d a lot rather it was the other fellow’s people!”

“I can’t argue with that, Rhobair. And Captain Rahzwail did us proud, didn’t he?” the admiral continued, turning to look at HMS Volcano as her crew began securing her guns.

“He did, indeed, Sir. A useful fellow to have along.”

“Agreed.” Yairley gazed at the bombardment ship for a moment, then beckoned to his flag lieutenant. Aplyn-Ahrmahk crossed the quarterdeck and stood waiting respectfully while the admiral examined him.

“I assume you’re ready and-like every young lieutenant who’s yet to develop a working brain-eager to go, Hektor?” he said finally.

“I wouldn’t say eager, Sir,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk replied, “but my boat crew’s waiting. Well, actually I suppose, your boat crew.”

“They’re yours for the moment,” Yairley reminded him. “And keep an eye on that rascal Mahlyk. Don’t let him damage my paintwork!”

“I’ll make sure he behaves himself, Sir,” the flag lieutenant promised.

“See that you do. Now, go! I believe you have a little trip to make.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

The lieutenant touched his chest in salute, first to Yairley, then to Captain Lathyk, and headed for the boat hooked onto Destiny ’s main chains. He didn’t look back, and Yairley watched him go, then shook his head.

“Young Hektor will do just fine, Sir Dunkyn,” Lathyk said quietly, and Yairley cocked his head at his flag captain.

“That obvious, was I?”

“Well, we’ve served together for a while now, you and I, Sir. And young Hektor, for that matter.” Lathyk shrugged. “I don’t think everyone in Destiny ’s guessed how you feel about the lad, though. Why, I’m sure there’s some assistant cook’s mate who hasn’t noticed at all!”

“I see why the men think so highly of your sense of humor, Captain,” Yairley said dryly, but Lathyk only smiled, saluted, and turned away to see to conning his ship the rest of the way up the estuary to the town of Sarmouth itself.

Yairley watched him go, and the truth was that the flag captain’s humor had helped… a little, at least. On the other hand, if anything happened to Aplyn-Ahrmahk, the admiral knew he’d spend the rest of his life second-guessing himself. He’d had no specific orders to send the youngster upriver, and he was quite certain any number of other captains and flag officers would have been horrified by his decision to detail a member of the imperial family-even an adoptive member of the imperial family-to such a risky venture. But the Charisian Navy’s tradition was that neither birth nor rank exempted a man from the risks everyone else ran, and trying to wrap the boy-the young man, now-in cotton silk to protect him would have done no one any favors. All the same, he wondered sometimes if some perverse streak inside him kept goading him into sending Aplyn-Ahrmahk into danger in an effort to prove, possibly only to himself, that he was willing to do it. Or as some sort of bizarre counterweight for how fond of the boy he’d become.

In this case, however, given who the boat party was supposed to pick up, Aplyn-Ahrmahk was actually a logical choice. In some ways, at any rate. And as long as one could overlook the probability of getting a member of the imperial family killed, of course. Not likely to enhance a flag officer’s future career, that.

Oh, stop it, Dunkyn! The boy’s in no more danger than anyone else you’re sending with him! The experience will do him good, and Lieutenant Gowain’s a good, competent officer. He’ll keep Hektor out of trouble.

Sir Dunkyn Yairley took a deep breath, clasped his hands behind him, put Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk firmly out of his mind, and began to pace slowly up and down the weather hammock nettings while he watched his squadron advance on the hapless little town they’d come to destroy. . IV.

Siddar City, Republic of Siddarmark

“ Kill the heretics! Burn the bastards out!”

The raucous shout went up from somewhere deep inside the mob, and other voices took up the refrain, bellowing the words in an ugly, hungry rhythm. It sounded like the snarl of some huge beast, not something born of human throats. It was still several blocks away, but Byrk Raimahn’s heart plummeted as he heard it coming.

“Come on, Grandfather!” he said, reaching out and actually grasping Claitahn Raimahn’s arm as if to drag him bodily out of the courtyard.

The old man-he was in his sixties, his hair shining like snow in the cold winter sunlight-was still powerfully built, and he jerked his arm out of his grandson’s grasp.

“Damn it, Byrk!” he snarled. “This is our home! I’m not handing it over to a mob of street scum!”

For a moment, Byrk seriously contemplated knocking him unconscious and simply hauling his limp body down the street. Claitahn might still be a fit, muscular man, but Byrk had spent the last five years sparring with some of the finest boxing coaches available in Tellesberg’s and now Siddar City’s gymnasiums. A quick jab to the solar plexus to bring his grandfather’s hands down, then a right hook to the jaw would do the trick, he thought grimly.

But he couldn’t do that, of course. Not to his grandfather. And because he couldn’t, he stepped back, drew a deep breath, and made his voice come out flat and hard.

“We’ve got to go. Go now, while there’s still time.”

“This is our home,” Claitahn repeated, “and it’s a lot safer place to be than getting caught in the street by those thugs! The City Guard’s bound to turn up soon, and when it does-”

“The Guard isn’t going to get here-not in time to do any good,” Byrk said, hating himself for the words as he saw the look in his grandfather’s eye. Yet they had to be said. “And we’re in the richest part of the Quarter. Those bastards out there will make burning us out a priority. I know you don’t like the thought, but we’ve got to go.”

“And where do you propose we go to?”

“I know a place. A place where we’ll be safe-or, at least, if we’re not safe there, we won’t be safe anywhere in Siddar City!”

“Then go!” Claitahn snapped. “Take your Grandmother and go. But I didn’t give up everything in Tellesberg just to let gutter trash and street scum drive me out of my home here! ”

“Grandfather, they may be street scum,” Byrk said as reasonably as he could, “but there are hundreds of them. You wouldn’t stand a chance of stopping them. All you’d manage to do is get yourself killed.”

“And if I choose-” Claitahn began, but for the first time since he’d been a passionate, adolescence-driven fifteen-year-old, Byrk cut him off in midsentence.

“And if you choose to stay here and get yourself killed, Grandmother will stay with you! There’s no way she’ll run away and leave you… and neither will I, you stubborn, stiff-necked, obstinate -!”

He made himself stop and glared at his grandfather. Eyes of Raimahn brown locked with eyes of Raimahn brown, and after a brief, titanic moment, it was Claitahn’s which fell.

“I…”

“Grandfather, I understand.” Byrk reached out again, resting his hands on Claitahn’s shoulders. “You’ve never run from anything in your life, and giving ground before a mob comes hard. I know that. But I don’t want to see you die, and I know you don’t want to see Grandmother die, so, please, can we get out of here, you stubborn old… gentleman?”

Claitahn stared at him for a moment, then surprised himself with a harsh laugh. He put his right hand over the younger, stronger hand resting on his left shoulder, just for a moment. Then he nodded sharply.

“My legs aren’t as young as they used to be,” he said. “So if we’re going to be running away, what say we see if we can’t get a good head start?”

Samyl Naigail gave a yell of delight as he used the smoldering slow match to light the rag stuffed into the neck of the bottle of lamp oil and threw the incendiary through the display window. Glass shattered, and a moment later he smelled smoke and saw the spreading pool of fire flickering in the depths of the shop. Racks of dry goods and bolts of cloth began to smolder, taking flame quickly, and Naigail’s eyes glowed.

This was better even than bedding a woman! There was a power- a wild fierce freedom-in finally freeing the anger which had boiled inside him for so long. Smoke rose from other shopfronts all around him as the mob rampaged through the Charisian Quarter, torching everything in sight. Fortunately, the wind was out of the northwest. It would blow the wind and cinders away from the central part of the city, and if they happened to set fire to the harborside tenements where the filthy Charisians lived like so many spider-rats in a city garbage dump, so much the better!

He turned away from the burning shop, reaching into his satchel, and heard a shrill scream. He looked up just in time to see three or four more young men-his age or a little older-run down a girl who couldn’t have been more than fifteen. They trapped her against the wall of a building, and she cowered back against it, head darting around frantically, looking for any escape. Then she made a desperate dash for an alley mouth, but one of her pursuers caught up with her first. She cried out again, in mingled terror and pain as he wrapped his hand in her hair and jerked her off her feet. Naigail heard her crying out-begging, pleading, imploring anyone to help her-and he smiled. He watched them dragging her by the hair down the alley where the little Charisian bitch had thought she might find safety, and then he drew another bottle from his satchel, lit the rag, and threw it through another shop window.

“Behind me- now! ” Sailys Trahskhat snapped.

Myrahm Trahskhat looked up, then gasped and stumbled back behind her husband. She clutched three-year-old Sindai, their youngest in her arms, while seven-year-old Pawal clung to her skirts, their eyes huge with terror as the bedlam thundered around them. Thirteen-year-old Mahrtyn pushed himself in front of her, behind her father, his face white and frightened but determined. Behind the boy, Myrahm darted her head around, looking for any escape, but with two small children, outdistancing pursuit was out of the question.

Trahskhat knew exactly what was going through his wife’s mind, and his own terror was as deep as her own. Not for himself, but for her and the children. Only he couldn’t let that terror paralyze him, and he glared at the three men sauntering arrogantly towards them. He knew two of them-longshoremen, like himself, but definitely not Charisians, and both of them with knives thrust through their belts. The third was a stranger, but he carried a sword and there was a cruel, eager glitter in his eyes.

“Stay with your mother, Mahrtyn,” he said quietly, his voice iron with command, never taking his own eyes from the other men. “Whatever else happens, look after your mother and the babies.”

“Well, well, well,” the sword-armed man called mockingly. “What do we have here?”

“Pretty wife you’ve got there, Trahskhat,” one of the longshoremen said, reaching down and rubbing his crotch suggestively while his fellow leered and drew the foot-long knife from his belt, testing its edge with a gloating thumb. “Gonna enjoy showing her a really good time.”

Trahskhat’s face tightened, and he brought up the baseball bat. He’d had that bat for more years than he could remember. He’d broken plenty of others over the years, but never this one. It had always been his lucky bat, and he’d brought it with him from Tellesberg when he left the Krakens behind with the rest of his heretical homeland.

Somehow, he didn’t feel lucky today.

“Ooooh! What’s he gonna do with the big bad baseball bat?” the sword-armed man taunted in a high-pitched falsetto. He raised his own weapon, smoky light gleaming on its point. “Come on, baseball man! Show us what you’ve got.”

“Sailys?” Myrahm’s voice was frightened, and he heard his younger children weeping in terror. But he never took his eyes from the men in front of him.

“Now!” the swordsman shouted, and the hunting pack charged.

Sailys Trahskhat had a lifetime professional batting average of. 302. He’d always been a strong man, but not especially fast, so he’d been forced to hit for power rather than rely on speed on the bases. Over the years, he’d developed rather amazing bat speed, and the longshoreman with the drawn knife made the mistake of getting a little in front of the others.

The same bat which had hit twenty-three home runs in Sailys Trahskhat’s last season with the Tellesberg Krakens hit him squarely in the forehead with a terrible crunching, crushing, squashing sound. He didn’t even scream; he simply flew backward, knife spinning away through the air, blood spraying from his shattered forehead, and Trahskhat stepped to his left.

The baseball bat slashed over and around in a flat, vicious figure-eight. The other longshoreman saw it coming. His eyes flared with sudden panic as his right hand fumbled frantically at the hilt of his knife and the other arm rose to fend off the blow. But he was too slow, and the panic in his eyes disappeared as they went unfocused and forever blank as the end of the bat caved in his right temple with contemptuous ease.

That quickly, that suddenly, Trahskhat found himself facing only one opponent, and the swordsman looked down at the two corpses sprawled untidily in the street. His eyes darted back up to Trahskhat and the blood-dripping bat poised in the big Charisian’s powerful hands, and Trahskhat smiled at him.

“That’s what I’m going to do with the big bad baseball bat, you bastard, ” he said, all the resentment and anger he’d felt since coming to Siddar City roaring up inside him with his terror for his family’s safety. “You want a piece of me? A piece of my family? You bring it on, goddamn you! You bring it on! ”

The swordsman stared at him, then stepped back, retreating. But it was only a feint. The instant Trahskhat’s bat started to dip, the man threw himself forward again.

Yet he wasn’t the only one who’d been capable of feinting. As he came forward, the bat which had been waiting the entire time came up again, arcing from below belt level, catching his sword on the flat of the blade and flinging it to one side, then crunching into the underside of his jaw. The swordsman screamed, teeth and blood flying. He dropped the sword, clutching at his shattered face with both hands as he stumbled the rest of the way forward, and Trahskhat stepped out of his path. The man lurched, starting to go to his knees, and that terrible baseball bat slammed into the back of his skull like the Rakurai of Langhorne.

He hit the pavement in a puddle of blood, and Trahskhat looked down at him, breathing hard.

“Threaten my family, will you?” he hissed, and kicked the dead man in the ribs. Then he looked at his wife and children. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

Myrahm nodded mutely, her eyes huge, shaking with terror and reaction. Mahrtyn, he saw, had already pounced on the knife his first victim had lost, and if the foot of steel shook in his hand, his eyes were grim and determined. Those eyes were shocked by what they’d just seen, but they met his father’s levelly, and Trahskhat’s heart filled with pride.

And then young Pawal, still clinging to his mother’s skirt with one hand, pointed with the other.

“Daddy,” he said, seven-year-old voice quivering with fear and yet reaching for some comforting familiarity in a world which had gone insane. “Daddy, you broke your bat!”

“Come on!” Major Borys Sahdlyr barked. “We’re behind schedule already!”

“So what?” Kail Kaillyt shot back. He waved his sword at the smoke belching from burning shops and tenements, the motionless bodies littering the streets and sidewalks, and laughed drunkenly. “This is the most fun we’ve had in years! Give the lads a little slack!”

Sahdlyr glared at him, but Kaillyt only looked back at him unrepentantly. The major’s second-in-command was intoxicated with violence and the release of long-held hatred, and in some ways that was worse than anything wine or whiskey might have produced.

Damn Father Saimyn! Sahdlyr thought bitterly, even though he knew he shouldn’t. But still…

He made himself draw a deep breath of smoky air. As one of the handful of Inquisition Guardsmen who’d been smuggled into Siddar City as part of the planning for the Sword of Schueler, Sahdlyr had done his best to instill some sort of discipline into the volunteers Father Saimyn and Laiyan Bahzkai were recruiting. Unfortunately, his superiors had been too enthralled by Father Saimyn’s reports to listen to his own warnings that the loyal sons of Mother Church were far more enthusiastic than organized… or experienced. It was one thing to smuggle in weapons; it was quite another to train civilians in their use. Even people like Kaillyt, who’d served as a member of the Capital Militia, had strictly limited training compared to their regular army counterparts.

Nor had it been possible for Sahdlyr to rectify those shortcomings. Actually training any large body of men required space and time, and it wasn’t something which could be done in secret in the middle of a Shan-wei-damned city. He’d done his best, but the unfortunate truth was that he’d been largely restricted to lecturing Father Saimyn’s “officers” on theory, and that was no substitute for hands-on time working with their weapons and their troops. He’d deeply envied his fellows who’d been sent to less citified parts of the operation. Scattered around the estates of Temple Loyalists in the Republic’s central and western provinces, where farmers, foresters, miners, and rural craftsmen already resented the wealth of the eastern provinces’ urban populations, they’d been able to actually drill the men they were responsible for leading. They’d been able to put them together and train them as units, accustomed to taking orders and obeying them.

Sahdlyr had warned Father Saimyn-and even Father Zohannes-that without the same opportunity, he and his subordinate commanders were unlikely to retain control of their units here in the capital when the day finally came. It wasn’t the men’s motivation he mistrusted. It wasn’t even their willingness to take orders; it was their… reliability. They’d never been given the chance to acquire the habit of obeying their officers when the violence actually began.

But had Father Saimyn listened? Of course he hadn’t! And neither had Father Zohannes. Or Sahdlyr was confident neither of them had allowed it to color any of their reports to Archbishop Wyllym or the Grand Inquisitor, at any rate. And Father Saimyn was probablyprobably -right that it wasn’t going to matter in the end.

It had become apparent over the last few five-days that the government had started to realize, at least dimly, that trouble was brewing. They obviously hadn’t guessed how deep their danger truly was, however, or they’d have taken more precautions. True, Daryus Parkair’s decision to empty most of the Capital Militia’s arsenals and send the weapons to be held under guard at Fort Raimyr, the main Army base north of the city, had deprived the insurgents of arms Father Saimyn had assumed would be available. But Fort Raimyr was fifteen miles from the capital and the Army was understrength at the moment. Despite a few belated troop movements, there couldn’t be more than five thousand men stationed at Raimyr, and they were peacetime soldiers with a peacetime mentality. They’d need time to get themselves organized and move, and they’d be badly outnumbered if even two-thirds of the men Father Saimyn had promised would join the insurgency actually turned up.

There was time, Sahdlyr told himself, and so far the uprising’s sheer suddenness and ferocity were carrying everything before them, but it was messy. And it was throwing him behind schedule. He should already have reached Constitution Square and the Lord Protector’s Palace, and here he was instead, trying to drag his men away from the arson and looting-and, undoubtedly, rape, he thought bleakly, looking at a half-naked young woman lying sprawled in death almost at his feet-going on throughout the Charisian Quarter.

Damn it, Father Saimyn and Bahzkai had other groups poised and ready for that part of the operation, and they were doing it. The smoke and screams-and bodies-were proof enough of that! He was supposed to be making certain Stohnar and his accursed minions didn’t manage to escape. The last thing they needed was for those bastards to get away to someplace like Charis and try to foment trouble back here on the mainland from their safe, comfortable exile!

“They can have all the slack they want once we’ve got Stohnar and his Council in the bag!” he snapped now, glaring at Kaillyt. “Are they here to do God’s will, or simply to steal anything they can’t burn?!”

The question came out with deliberate, sneering contempt, and Kaillyt’s eyes flashed with anger. Which was exactly what Sahdlyr had wanted.

“We’re not just a bunch of thieves!” he shot back furiously.

“No?” Sahdlyr matched him glare for glare for a moment, then allowed his own expression to soften… slightly. “I don’t think you are,” he said, “but that’s what we’re acting like, and we’ve got more important things to do!” He held the other man’s eyes for another heartbeat, then hardened his voice again. “So let’s get them moving again, shall we?”

Kaillyt looked around, as if truly seeing the confusion and the chaos for the first time. Then he gave himself a visible shake and looked back at Sahdlyr.

“Yes, Sir!” His sword flipped up in salute. “I’ll do that little thing.”

He turned away and started bellowing orders at their smaller unit commanders, and Sahdlyr nodded in satisfaction.

“Langhorne!” Greyghor Stohnar muttered, standing on the balcony of one of the Lord Protector’s Palace’s ornate towers.

The official seat of the Republic’s government had never been designed as a serious fortification. Its defense was the Siddarmarkian Army and its pikemen, not stone and mortar. Now, as he watched smoke rising over the city-and not just over the Charisian Quarter, any longer-he found himself wishing its architects had given just a little more attention to stopping blood-maddened street mobs short of the Chamber of the Senate and the Hall of Records.

And don’t forget about short of your own hide, Greyghor, he reminded himself grimly.

“Where the hell are they all coming from?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Henrai Maidyn admitted. The Chancellor pointed out across the city at the scores of smoke columns rising from the Charisian Quarter. “I didn’t think they had enough manpower to do that and come after the Palace.” He shook his head, and his expression was grim.

Stohnar nodded. Part of him wanted to lash out at Maidyn and point out that it had been his job to determine what was actually coming, but it would have been pointless. It would have been unfair, too, for that matter. The Chancellor had brought Stohnar regular reports, and the Lord Protector had agreed with his conclusions. Only it appeared they’d both been wrong.

“We should have detailed more troops to protect the Palace,” Maidyn continued. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who-”

“It’s not ‘your fault,’ Henrai,” Stohnar interrupted. “I agreed with you and Samyl that we had to give priority to protecting the Quarter.” He laughed harshly. “Not that it appears we’re doing a lot of good over there, either!”

“Where the hell is Daryus?” Maidyn demanded, wheeling to glare towards the north. “What the hell is taking him so long?”

“Probably more of that, ” Stohnar replied, gesturing disgustedly at the burning tenements of the Charisian Quarter. “Or more crap like it.” He shrugged angrily. “I was wrong not to go ahead and muster the Regulars right here in the city and the hell with keeping them out at Raimyr.”

“Without a better indication the wyvern was about to take flight, you couldn’t risk warning-”

“Spare me the excuses,” Stohnar said wearily.

Unlike Maidyn, the Lord Protector had risen to regimental command before he left the Army, returned to his native Siddar City, and entered politics. He should have remembered, he told herself. Whatever the arguments in favor of making certain Clyntahn was clearly guilty of the first move, he should have paid more attention to Daryus Parkair’s argument that it was even more important they hang on to the capital in the first place. They could always argue over who’d started what later-assuming they survived to do the arguing-the Seneschal had observed acidly. And nobody who was inclined to believe Clyntahn in the first place would be impressed by any claims the Republic was an innocent victim of the Grand Inquisitor’s lust for vengeance, no matter how truthful they were.

And I shouldn’t have detailed so many of the troops we do have in the city to protect the Quarter, he told himself even more grimly. He hated to even think thoughts like that, yet there was a cold, bitter edge of truth to it. You wanted to prevent massacres? Well, holding on to the damned capital would have helped a lot in that little endeavor! Instead, you parceled your troops out in tenth-mark packets trying to protect the Charisians, and look at it! Accomplished one hell of a lot, didn’t you? Now you’re going to lose both of them!

He forced himself to straighten his shoulders as he looked down into Constitution Square at the single regiment of pikemen deployed to cover the approaches to the Palace. There weren’t enough of them to cover all the entrances into the square, so they’d been stationed along the huge plaza’s eastern edge to protect the enormous arched gate through the Palace’s ornamental outer wall. The wall would probably help some, but that regiment simply wasn’t big enough to cover its entire length, and then there was that damned, wide-open gate. If enough rioters came storming across the square It’s not as bad as you think it is, Greyghor, he told himself harshly. You don’t have a single reliable report about what’s going on out there. Daryus could be a lot closer than you think he is, and all that smoke is bound to make the situation in the Quarter look worse than it really is. And however many men they may have in the streets, most of the population’s staying home and keeping its head down. It’s not like the entire damned city is really up in arms, so if you can just hang on long enough for Daryus to get here…

Byrk Raimahn looked back and swore with bitter, savage venom. They’d been lucky so far, but their luck had just run out.

The outriders of the mob had spotted the small band of refugees he and his grandfather had collected on their flight towards the docks. Part of him had never wanted to slow down for a moment, but he’d been unable to harden his heart enough to ignore the tattered drifts of terrified people-more often than not women or children-who’d clustered around them. He suspected they’d been drawn by his grandparents’ well-to-do appearance and the general aura of composure and command they couldn’t help projecting even in the middle of a murderous riot. But perhaps it had simply been the fact that the Raimahns were obviously going somewhere, not simply fleeing. It certainly couldn’t have been because of how well armed and numerous they were!

He’d realized immediately that the larger their group got, the slower it would become… and the more likely it would be to attract the human slash lizards rampaging through the streets. But his grandparents would never have forgiven him for trying to shake off those terrified fugitives, and another part of him had been glad it was so. He knew he would never have forgiven himself later… not that it seemed he was likely to have the opportunity to worry about that after all.

He looked around quickly. There were perhaps a half-dozen other men his age or a few years older in their group. Fathers, most of them, he thought sickly, seeing how their wives and children clung to them. Another three or four were somewhere between them and his grandfather’s age. That was it, and there had to be at least a hundred men in the mob spilling into the avenue behind them.

He stood for just a moment, then turned to his grandfather.

“Give me your sword,” he said.

Claitahn Raimahn’s hand fell to the hilt of the old-fashioned cutlass at his side. The one he’d carried as a young man on long-ago galleon decks-twin to the one hanging from the baldric slung over his grandson’s shoulder.

“Why?” he demanded, and managed a strained smile. “Looks like I’m going to need it in a minute or so!”

“No, you’re not,” Byrk said flatly. “You’re going to take Grandmother-and all the rest of these women and children-to Harbor Hill Court. Number Seven, Harbor Hill Court.” Claitahn’s eyes widened as he recognized Aivah Pahrsahn’s address. “There are… arrangements to protect them there.” Byrk stared into his grandfather’s eyes. “And you’re going to get them there, Grandfather. I’m depending on you for that.”

“Byrk, I can’t-” Claitahn’s voice was stricken, but there was no time for that, and Byrk reached out and drew the older man’s cutlass from its scabbard.

“I love you, Grandfather,” he said softly. “Now go!”

Claitahn stared at him for a moment longer, then dragged in a ragged breath and turned to his weeping wife.

“Come with me,” his voice frayed around the edges. “He’s… he’s right.”

Behind him, Byrk was looking at the other men in their small group.

“Who’s with me?” he demanded. Two of the men about his own age looked away, their expressions shamed. They refused to meet his eyes, and he ignored them, looking at the others.

“I am,” a roughly dressed fellow in his forties said, hefting a truncheon he’d picked up somewhere along the way. He spat on the paving. “Legs’re getting tired, anyway!”

Someone actually managed a laugh, and the others looked at Byrk with frightened, determined faces.

“Here,” he offered his grandfather’s cutlass to a stocky, roughly dressed man carrying a badly cracked baseball bat crusted with blood. There was more dried blood on the fellow’s tunic, although it was obvious none of it was his. Byrk had no idea whether or not the other man had a clue about how to use a sword, but he was obviously determined enough to make a good try.

The man looked at his bat. He hesitated for a moment, then grimaced.

“Thanks.” He dropped the bat and took the cutlass, and Byrk’s eyebrows rose as he took two or three practiced cuts, obviously getting the weapon’s feel. “Militiaman back home,” he explained.

“Good. Glad to meet you, by the way. Byrk Raimahn.” Byrk tapped his chest, and the other man snorted.

“Sailys, Sailys Trahskhat,” he said, then glanced down the street, where the mob had clearly finished coalescing and was beginning to flow towards them. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Byrk drew a deep breath and looked around at his small band. “It’s pretty simple,” he told them. “We slow them down, right?”

“Right,” the fellow with the truncheon said with a grim smile. “And we take as many of the bastards with us as we can!”

The others snarled in agreement and drew into a tighter knot around Byrk in the center of the street.

Byrk’s heart thundered and his hands felt sweaty. Despite all the songs, he’d never really believed battle and killing were glorious, and the truth was that he wanted nothing in this world so much as to run away. Well, either run away or throw up, he thought. But he couldn’t… and, he realized, he wouldn’t have if he could have.

Something else rose up inside him to join the terror and the determination. Something hot and angry and bitter tasting that seemed to quiver in his limbs. There were a lot of things he’d intended to do in his life, and regret flowed through him as he realized he wasn’t going to get them done after all, yet that savage eagerness to get on with it was stronger still.

“Wait for it,” he heard a stranger saying with his own calm voice as the front of the mob accelerated towards them. “Let them come to us . And stay together as long as we can.”

“Die hard,” the truncheon-armed man growled. “Die hard, boys!”

The mob swept towards them, baying its blood hunger, and the tiny knot of Charisians settled even more solidly in place. Byrk watched the Siddarmarkians moving from a walk into a trot, and from a trot into a run, and “Fire!” another voice shouted suddenly, and the mob’s howls of fury turned into sudden shrieks of terror as something exploded deafeningly behind Byrk and twenty-five rifled muskets poured fire into them. Men went down, screaming and twisting on the pavement, blood erupting, as the heavy bullets plowed furrows through them.

“Second rank- fire! ” the same voice shouted, and more thunder erupted. Byrk spun towards the sound and saw a double line of men in civilian dress-one kneeling; the other standing-all armed with bayoneted rifles. Smoke spewed from the standing line’s weapons, and more of the mob went down. The musketeers were still outnumbered at least three or four to one, but that commanding voice never hesitated.

“At the charge, boys!” it shouted, and the musketeers howled-howled the terrifying war cry of the Charisian Marines-as they lunged forward in a compact, deadly mass behind their bayonets.

The mob was too tightly packed to evade them, and the hungry, hating shouts which had whipped it along only seconds before turned into screams of panic as it disintegrated into individual terrified men desperately trying to get out of the way of those lethal, glittering bayonets.

Bayonets that ran red moments later.

“Well, Byrk?” the voice of command shouted. “Going to just stand there all day?” Byrk looked at the man who’d shouted, and Raif Ahlaixsyn grinned fiercely at him, then pointed at the fleeing mob with his ornately chased, blood-dripping rapier. “Get a move on, man!”

“Kill the heretics!”

“Death to all traitors!”

“Holy Langhorne and no quarter!”

“Down with tyranny!”

“Kill the bloodsuckers!”

“Kill the Charisian lackeys!”

“God wills it!”

Well, it would’ve been nice if Daryus had made it in time, Greyghor Stohnar thought as the mob began to pour into Constitution Square from the west behind the yammering thunder of its shouted slogans. There were at least five or six thousand of them, he judged with the eye of an ex-military officer who knew what five or six thousand men standing in one place really looked like. There were quite a few men in cassocks and priest’s caps, as well. He couldn’t make out colors very well from this distance, but he was willing to bet most of them were badged with the purple of the Order of Schueler.

He saw pikes and halberds waving here and there, but mostly swords, clubs, some pitchforks… weapons which could be easily concealed or improvised when the moment came. Maybe that was the reason he and Maidyn had underestimated the potential numbers available to Pahtkovair and Airnhart. They’d had their agents focused on looking for stores of heavier, more sophisticated weapons.

Should’ve remembered they can kill you just as dead with a cobblestone as a pike, Greyghor, he told himself. Of course, it is basically a mob, not an army. No telling how good their morale is. They may not have the stomach for it when they come up against formed troops. Then again, he thought as the screaming tide of humanity reoriented itself, coalesced, flowed together, and started across the square, maybe they will.

He glared at that accursed, ornamental gate in the Palace’s outer wall. What he wanted was a massive portcullis, preferably with murder holes and huge cauldrons of boiling oil and naptha waiting for the torch; what he had was nothing at all. It had always been the Republic’s boast that its citizens had access to the center of its government without let or hindrance, which meant there was no gate set into that gleaming, sculpted archway. The damned thing was so wide it took an entire company of pikemen just to cover it, too, and that was an entire company who’d had to be taken off the wall itself.

The mob obviously recognized just how undermanned that wall was, and it seemed to be under at least rudimentary control by its leaders. Its center hung back slightly, threatening the gate arch but keeping its distance while its flanks flowed forward. It was gradual, at first, but the flanking groups moved more and more rapidly, charging for the extreme ends of the wall in an obvious effort to spread the single defending regiment even thinner.

The bastards are coming over it, he told himself, resting one hand on the hilt of the Republic’s Sword of State, hanging from the baldric looped across his right shoulder. That sword had belonged to Lord Protector Ludovyc Urwyn, the Republic’s founder. He’d carried it through a dozen campaigns and at least twenty battles, and despite all the gold and cut gems that had been added to it over the last four centuries, it was still a fighting man’s weapon. If it had been good enough for the Republic’s first Lord Protector, it would be good enough for the Republic’s last Lord Protector when someone pried it from his dead hand.

Best be getting down there, Greyghor. You’ll get a chance to kill more of them at the wall than you will once they’re inside and -

His thoughts broke off as a sudden crashing roll of thunder exploded from the southern edge of the square.

Borys Sahdlyr whipped around in shocked disbelief as the unmistakable sound of a musket volley crunched down on the mob’s baying shouts like an iron boot. Gunsmoke spurted, rising all along the south side of Constitution Square, and for just an instant, the shattering, totally unexpected concussion of at least a couple of hundred muskets seemed to stun the mob into silence.

Then the screams began again, but they were different this time.

Sahdlyr looked around, unable to see over the men packed between him and that wall of smoke. Then he turned and bulled his way through the shocked, motionless bodies around him until he reached the towering bronze equestrian statue of Ludovyc Urwyn. The complex tracery of its elaborate fountains hadn’t been turned off for the winter yet, and he ignored their icy coldness as he hurdled the wall around the catch basin. He splashed through the knee-deep water, then clambered up onto the base of Urwyn’s statue, getting his head high enough to look across the square.

He was only halfway there when the second volley roared out, and he’d just reached the knees of Urwyn’s horse when a third volley exploded.

Impossible! he thought, listening to that thunder of gunfire. We know exactly how many muskets they had in the city arsenals, and they sent all of them to Fort Raimyr! They can’t have that many of the damned things!

But they did, and his blood ran cold as he finally got high enough to see.

At least a thousand men had poured into Constitution Square from the south while the mob’s attention was concentrated on the Lord Protector’s Palace. There wasn’t a single pike among them, either-every one of them was armed with a musket, and Sahdlyr’s belly twisted with sudden nausea as he realized they weren’t matchlocks. They were the new model flintlocks, and they had the new bayonets, as well, and that was just as impossible as all the rest of it. Mother Church had forbidden the Republic to purchase more than five thousand of the new weapons, and Father Saimyn’s agents knew where all five thousand of those weapons had gone. Over three thousand were at Fort Raimyr, but that wasn’t where these had come from. The men carrying them were no Army musketeers; they wore civilian clothing of every imaginable color and cut, but every single one of them also wore an identifying white sash from right shoulder to left hip.

Sahdlyr clung to his vantage point, and his eyes went cold and bleak as a fourth volley crashed out. There were only three ranks of the newcomers, which meant the first rank had fired and then reloaded in no more than twenty or twenty-five seconds, and that was vastly better than matchlocks could have done. Worse, the successive, deafening, smoky cracks of thunder had carpeted a sixth part of the square with dead, dying, and wounded men.

The newcomers were still outnumbered-badly-but they were a formed, cohesive unit, with all the organization his own mob lacked. Worse, they were far better armed, and their sudden, totally unanticipated appearance had stunned his own men. However willing the “spontaneous” mob might have been when it started out, no amount of willingness could armor it against that kind of surprise.

And once a mob like this breaks, Schueler himself couldn’t get it back together again, Sahdlyr thought numbly. If it breaks once, it’ll turn into a rabble forever, and then -

A fifth volley roared, and then came an even more dreadful sound-the unmistakable high, baying howl of the Imperial Charisian Marines.

No! Sahdlyr shook his head in wild denial. Those can’t be Marines! There’s no way they could have gotten here, even if the Charisians had figured out what was coming, and-!

But it didn’t matter whether or not Charisian Marines could be in the heart of Siddar City. What mattered was that the mob, already worse than simply decimated by those deadly, crashing volleys, recognized the Marines’ war cry when they heard it. And they knew what they and their fellows had already done to the Charisian Quarter… and how Charisian Marines would react to that.

Four hundred and seventeen of the “spontaneous rioters” were trampled to death by their fellows trying to get out of Constitution Square in time.

Little more than half of them made it.

Greyghor Stohnar passed through the Lord Protector’s Palace’s gate with a guard of thirty pikemen. They had to pick their way carefully over Constitution Square’s corpse-littered, blood-slick paving stones. No one had even begun to count the bodies yet, but there had to be at least a couple of thousand of them.

He approached the command group of the mysterious musketeers who’d appeared in the proverbial nick of time, and his eyebrows rose as a slender figure stepped forward to meet him. Slim hands rose, pushing back the hood of a heavy coat, and he inhaled deeply. They’d never been introduced, but he recognized her without any trouble at all.

“Madam Pahrsahn, I see,” he said as calmly as he could.

“Lord Protector,” she replied with a masculine bow some people might have criticized as scandalously abbreviated and informal, given Stohnar’s exalted position. Considering the circumstances under which he was alive to receive it, however, Stohnar had no bone to pick with it.

“This is a surprise,” he observed, and she laughed as if they were at one of her soirees rather than knee-deep in bodies in the heart of the Republic’s capital.

“I’m sure Lord Henrai’s been keeping you apprised of most of my activities, My Lord,” she replied. “All of the ones he knew about, anyway.” She gave him a dimpled smile. “Obviously, he didn’t know about quite all of them.”

“We were aware you’d acquired a… modestly substantial number of rifled muskets, My Lady,” he responded. “Obviously we didn’t know everything we should have, of course. For example, none of us realized you’d somehow managed to train men to use them without anyone’s noticing.”

“Well, just buying guns and not learning how to use them properly would be pretty silly, don’t you think?” She smiled again. “I’m sure Master Qwentyn told you I’ve been heavily invested in agriculture for years now, as well. An interesting thing about a big, commercial farm, My Lord-it’s got a lot of empty space. Plenty of room for five or six retired Charisian Marines to train men one company or so at a time without drawing a great deal of attention. Especially if you’ve taken pains over the years to turn any ears that might overhear them into friends of yours by seeing to it that the local freeholders and their families are treated well.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Stohnar said. “And it would appear to be fortunate the Group of Four clearly underestimated you even more badly than we did.”

“They’ve had more experience underestimating me than you might expect, My Lord,” she agreed, and this time her smile was cold and ugly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve crossed swords, so to speak, with the Grand Inquisitor.”

“No?” He considered her for a moment, head cocked, then barked a laugh. “Somehow I find that easy to believe, My Lady! Might I assume that your opportune rescue of myself and my government indicates you intend to continue ‘crossing swords’ with him?”

“Oh, I think you could, My Lord.” She smiled that cold, ugly smile again. “I think you could.” .

Sarm River, Kingdom of Delferahk

“Easy,” Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk said quietly as the boat moved slowly towards the riverbank in the dim predawn gloom. The water gleamed faintly as the first blush of yellow and rose touched the eastern horizon, and a wyvern whistled querulously from somewhere ahead of them.

“Over the side and find the bottom, Braisyn!” he continued. “Can’t be too deep this close in.”

“Easy for you to say, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, Sir,” Braisyn, a tall young topman who’d been part of Mahlyk’s boat crew for over two years, replied feelingly.

“Oh, nonsense! Pretend it’s beer-I know that’ll make you feel better about it!”

Several members of the boat crew chuckled, and Braisyn grinned at the lieutenant.

“Does that mean you’re buying when we get back to the ship, Sir?” he asked, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk laughed.

“For you? ” The lieutenant shook his head. “I’d rather buy water for fish at whiskey prices. It’d cost me less!”

Braisyn’s grin got even bigger, and then he slipped over the side of the boat, hanging on to the gunwale while his feet felt for the bottom.

“Don’t like my beer quite this cold, Sir,” he informed Aplyn-Ahrmahk. “And it’s a mite- Ow! ” He yelped, hauling himself higher in the water and shaking his head. “Found the bottom, Sir. Little rocky for my taste!”

“Then next time, keep your shoes on, you stupid bugger!” Stywyrt Mahlyk suggested helpfully.

“Don’t like squelching around in soggy shoes, Cox’in,” Braisyn replied cheerfully.

“Just take us in, Mahlyk,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said in a tone of exaggerated patience. “Lieutenant Gowain wants us hidden again before sunrise.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Mahlyk said. “Give way all. And you, Braisyn-keep your damned delicate tootsies out of the rocks so you don’t bruise ‘em!”

“Keep that in mind I will, Cox’in,” Braisyn assured him with another grin.

Aplyn-Ahrmahk shook his head, yet the banter between Mahlyk and the members of his boat’s crew was the best possible (and welcome) proof that the men’s morale was doing just fine.

They were just over a hundred and eighty miles up the Sarm River, two-thirds of the way across the sparsely populated Earldom of Charlz, and that was a long, twisty way from the salt water that was a Charisian sailor’s natural element. True, rivers were full of water, but they were also full of rocks, bugs, and shallows where boats had to be dragged across sandbars or portaged around rapids. Fortunately, they hadn’t encountered any waterfalls-yet, at least-but they’d done extraordinarily well to average three miles per hour during the fourteen or fifteen hours of darkness and twilight available to them each day. He was glad they weren’t doing this later in the spring, when the days would be longer, but there were downsides to rowing and sailing your way up an unknown river in the dark… especially for the boat Lieutenant Gowain had decided should scout ahead for the others. They seemed to spend a lot of time hopping in and out of it when it went aground, for example.

Still, everyone seemed cheerful enough so far, and unusually (in Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s experience) everything was actually going according to plan and more or less on schedule.

Which obviously means something’s bound to go wrong sometime soon , he reflected, glancing over his shoulder at the silhouettes of the other, larger boats behind them.

No one had noticed them when they first started upriver. The sun still hadn’t risen when they went rowing past the Sarmouth waterfront, and given the dozens of other boats from the squadron which had been headed towards the waterfront with fell intent, it probably wasn’t too surprising no one had paid them any attention.

As an added touch, Admiral Yairley had ordered the boats repainted in mismatched shades of dirty white, gray, and black, and then scuffed the new paint in ways no Navy boatswain would ever have tolerated. They’d passed several small towns and isolated farms as they headed upstream from Sarmouth, and every time they’d shouted their warning that the Charisian heretics were attacking up the river. Sarmouth was on fire! Sarmouth Keep had been reduced to rubble! Run! Run for your lives, the Charisians are coming!

Frankly, Aplyn-Ahrmahk had thought that particular touch would be too much when Sir Dunkyn came up with it. In fact, it had worked beautifully. It had allowed them to row straight through the daylight hours for the first day and a half and get over a hundred miles upriver without anyone wondering what six ship’s boats were doing that far north of the port.

After that, they’d restricted themselves to the night hours and progress had slowed, but even so His thoughts chopped off as something flashed blindingly in the shadows ahead of them. There was a solid, meaty thumping sound and Braisyn grunted explosively, then turned his head and looked up at Aplyn-Ahrmahk with an incredulous expression. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but all that came out was a gush of blood and then he disappeared into the river as his hands released the gunwale.

“Out of the boat!” Aplyn-Ahrmahk heard his own voice bark even before the topman lost his grip. “Cutlasses and tomahawks! No muskets! Move, damn you! ”

He was talking to an empty boat by the time he got to “move,” and he heard another bullet “thunk” into the wood as he snatched up his own sword baldric, then rolled over the side into the icy water. They’d gotten closer to the shore, and the water was less than armpit deep, but he crouched, keeping just his head above the surface as he hurriedly slung the baldric over his shoulder.

“Stywyrt, hang on to the painter-don’t you dare lose this boat!” he hissed at the coxswain. “The rest of you-with me!”

More gunshots exploded out of the darkness ahead of them, and he swore silently as he heard screams from farther out on the river. He had no idea who was behind those shots or what in God’s name anyone was doing out here on the riverbank in the middle of nowhere an hour before dawn. What mattered was that the boats on the open river were far more visible than the men hiding in the impenetrable shadows under the willows, alders, and conewood along the bank.

“Stay low!” he commanded, pitching his voice as low as possible. “Keep in the water as long as you can and follow me!”

Wading through ice-cold, neck-deep water would have been a slow, exhausting process even without the current. They couldn’t possibly move as quickly as he wanted to, and with gunshots continuing to crack from the darkness, it seemed to be taking even longer. Then someone in one of the boats managed to begin returning fire, which added the delightful possibility of being shot in the back by their own people. The good news-for Aplyn-Ahrmahk and his people, at least-was that there seemed to be at least three times as many bullets headed out from the bank at the other boats and away from them.

He felt the river bottom underfoot smoothing as it shallowed, more sand mixed among the rocks and gravel, and breathed a silent prayer of thanks as the footing improved. He’d picked his destination more by instinct than by anything resembling deliberate thought, but that instinct had served him well, he realized. He and his boat crew were coming up on the river side of a huge, fallen conewood trunk that screened them completely from anyone on shore.

He stopped for a moment, looking around, making sure the rest of his people were with him. There were only ten of them, and he bared his teeth while the muskets continued to fire out of the darkness. He saw the blink-lizard glow of slow matches scattered under the trees, and his eyes narrowed.

“Matchlocks, boys,” he told them in a low voice. “Nice little lights to help us find the bastards, and it sounds like they’re loading loose powder. They’re going to be slow. Get in close and rip their guts out, got it?”

A chorus of growls answered him, and he nodded sharply.

“And while you’re at it, howl like you’re all damned Marines!” he said with a savage grin. “Now- after me, lads! ”

His boat crew exploded out of the water, vaulting over the conewood trunk with naked steel in hand. Aplyn-Ahrmahk carried his sword in his right hand and a wicked, spike-backed boarding tomahawk in his left, and the high, baying warcry of the Imperial Marines came with him. It sounded as if there were at least fifty of them, he thought wildly, and then a figure loomed up in front of him.

A cavalryman, he thought, taking in the dimly seen helmet. But armed with a matchlock. That meant a dragoon, not a lancer or a hussar, probably, and Delferahkan dragoons didn’t have breastplates, and that meant Charisian cutlasses had chisel points, as well adapted to thrusting as to slashing, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk felt the jerking quiver of someone else’s muscles transmitted up the blade as he drove a foot of steel into the man’s chest. The dragoon shrieked, clutching at the impaling blade, but Aplyn-Ahrmahk kicked him away and went charging past him, screaming like a madman just like the rest of his boat crew.

The dragoons who’d been waiting in ambush reared up from their firing positions, turning towards the demons who’d suddenly materialized in their midst, and shocked astonishment turned almost instantly into panic. It was impossible for either side to know how many enemies it actually faced, and surprise-and fear-didn’t lend themselves well to making accurate estimates.

Aplyn-Ahrmahk hacked down another opponent. A third man came at him desperately, matchlock clubbed, completely forgetting the sword at his own side in his panic. The lieutenant ducked under the musket, but the dragoon was on the wrong side for his cutlass. The tomahawk lashed out, coming up from below, driving its sharpened, spur-like hook up through the man’s jaw and into the roof of his mouth. The Delferahkan’s scream chopped off in a hot spray of blood, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk lost his grip on the suddenly slippery tomahawk as the body fell.

Another dragoon loomed up-this one an officer who’d remembered his sword. It was several inches longer than Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s cutlass, but the lieutenant had served under Sir Dunkyn Yairley. That meant every midshipman (and ensign) spent a solid hour at sword drill every single day, and the instincts Sylvyst Raigly had helped pound into Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s muscle memory took over. He twisted away from the Delferahkan’s frantic, clumsy thrust and his left hand lashed out, capturing the wrist of the dragoon’s sword arm. The Delferahkan was bigger, taller, and broader-shouldered than Aplyn-Ahrmahk, but the lieutenant’s wiry strength and the advantage of surprise were enough to shove the other man’s arm almost straight up as they slammed together, chest-to-chest. At which point Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s cutlass drove into his belly with all the elegance of a meat ax.

The officer went down with a bubbling scream, and suddenly there was no more fighting. Instead, there were only moans, sobs, and-in the distance-the thud and thunder of galloping hooves disappearing into the darkness.

“Anybody with a prisoner, hang on to him!” Aplyn-Ahrmahk barked, and then turned back to the river.

“That’s the best I can do, Sir,” Lywys Taibor said. The healer’s mate looked drawn and weary, and well he should. The ambush had cost the boat party heavily, with five dead and twice that many wounded. Now he stood up, rubbing his back, and looked glumly down at Lieutenant Fairghas Gowain, who lay unconscious on the rough pad made of captured Delferahkan saddle blankets.

“How soon is he going to wake up?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk asked. He felt as tired as the healer’s mate looked, but he couldn’t afford to admit it.

“Dunno, Sir,” Taibor said honestly. “Head wound like that, he may never wake up. Or he could come to in the next ten minutes. If you want me to guess, probably not for a day or two. And I don’t know if his wits’re going to be wandering when he does come to or not.”

“I see.” Aplyn-Ahrmahk gazed down at the lieutenant for several moments, then patted the healer’s mate on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “And not just for the prognosis. The lads are lucky they had you along.”

“Did what I could, Sir,” Taibor replied in an exhausted voice. “But I’d be lying if I said I was happy about ’em. Got at least four we need to get to a proper healer fast as we can, or we’ll lose them sure as Shan-wei.”

“Understood.”

Aplyn-Ahrmahk patted him on the shoulder again, then walked to the riverbank and stared out across the cold, clear water.

Lieutenant Gowain, HMS Victorious ’ first lieutenant, was in command of the entire operation. But now he was unconscious indefinitely, and Lieutenant Bryndyn Mahgail, the senior Marine, was dead. Which left Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk-all sixteen years old of him-in command and the next best thing to two hundred miles from the nearest senior officer.

At least they’d taken three of the dragoons alive, and the Delferahkans had been so shocked by the abrupt reversal of their ambush that their tongues had wagged freely. It was also possible the sight of Stywyrt Mahlyk contemplatively sharpening a knife as he smiled evilly in their direction might have had some bearing on their loquaciousness, of course.

Aplyn-Ahrmahk had kept them separated from one another to deprive them of any opportunity to coordinate their stories, yet all three of them had told basically the same tale.

Word of the attack on Sarmouth had spread even faster than Admiral Yairley’s plan had allowed for. Worse, some idiot upriver from the port had actually believed the boat expedition’s warnings that the horrible Charisian heretics were sending an entire invasion fleet up the miserable Sarm River! Aplyn-Ahrmahk couldn’t understand how anybody with the sense to pour piss out of a boot, to borrow one of Mahlyk’s favorite phrases, could have credited that story, but according to all three of their prisoners, one of the Earl of Charlz’ bailiffs had actually believed the Charisians were burning both banks of the river as they advanced deep into the heart of Delferahk. He’d sounded the alarm and sent out parties of dragoons to scout for the invaders.

The one good aspect of the entire comic-opera farce was that the dragoons in question were militiamen, not regulars. The bad news was that this particular lot of them had spotted the Charisian boats the previous evening and shadowed them from shore. Working against the current, the boats were actually slower than the horsemen, which was how the Delferahkans had been able to get into position for the ambush. And an unknown number of them had gotten away. By now, they had to be raising the alarm, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk doubted the number of “Charisian invaders” was going to decline when they started explaining how they’d gotten their asses kicked. Which meant every man the Delferahkans could scrape up would be hunting for his people by late afternoon.

So what did he do? If there were more dragoons available, it wouldn’t be hard for them to repeat this bunch’s tactics. And even if there weren’t, the word had to be going out by semaphore (if it was available) and by runner and courier (if the semaphore wasn’t available) even as he stood here. He knew how important this mission was, but if he continued, the odds were overwhelming that he’d simply lead his own pursuers straight to the people he was supposed to be rescuing. And that didn’t even consider those badly wounded men Taibor had mentioned.

He looked out at the slowly flowing water and tried to think. . VI.

Sunthorn Mountains and Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk

Lazy wings of snow drifted almost silently on the wind sighing among the peaks of the Sunthorn Mountains ninety-odd miles northwest of the city of Talkyra. The temperature hovered at a brisk six degrees below zero on the old Fahrenheit scale, and the stars showing through the cloud rifts overhead were huge and bright… and icy. Technically, it was spring south of the equator, but at these elevations that meant very little, especially in the small, still hours of the morning just after Langhorne’s Watch.

The single Imperial Charisian Guardsman sat in a lotus position atop an ice-crusted boulder. He’d been sitting there for three days now, ever since his conversation with Baron Coris, and there was snow drifted on his hair-and on his skin, for that matter-but he seemed unaware of it. Because he was unaware of it. He’d allowed his body temperature to drop to that of the air about him, and after he’d caught up on some of the SNARC reports he’d been unable to give proper attention to when they first came in and spent a day or so contemplating future possibilities, he’d actually put himself on standby and taken the equivalent of a lengthy nap. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to be wandering around four thousand feet above the permanent snow line to stumble across him while he was “asleep,” and it would probably make Cayleb happy.

And if it didn’t, at least it would offer him a handy bit of ammunition to toss back at the emperor the next time Cayleb decided to lecture him about the need for “down time.”

It wasn’t often Merlin Athrawes had the opportunity to simply sit and think, which made him value those rare chances even more when one of them came along. For the most part, he was far too visible (aside from those “retreats to meditate” which had become a more frequent part of his life of late) for something like this. If “ Seijin Merlin” dropped out of sight, even briefly, people started wondering where he was and what he was up to and, as a general rule, he tried very hard to avoid having people wonder about things like that.

In this instance, however, it was going to be necessary to explain how Captain Athrawes had gotten to the city of Talkyra. Or, to be more accurate, it was going to be necessary to allow time for him to have made the trip. Everyone knew seijins moved in mysterious ways and at speeds few other mortals could match, so the exact details of his travel arrangements could be glossed over. But it still took them at least some time to make a journey of over six thousand miles, which was why he’d left Tellesberg five five-days earlier.

He’d spent most of that time in Nimue’s Cave, going over reports, discussing the events racing towards a violent confrontation in the Republic of Siddarmark with the rest of the inner circle, refining the propaganda Owl’s remotes were distributing across all three continents, catching up on some reading, and working with Owl on a couple of private projects he’d been unable to give proper attention before.

In particular, he and the AI had the Class II VR unit almost up and running. Owl still didn’t have the specifications he needed to build another PICA, and Merlin was no more enthusiastic than he had been about letting the computer take apart his own cybernetic housing to find out how it worked. But at least if he had to, he now had a refuge for his and Nimue’s memories and personality. A Class II VR wasn’t as big and capable as the massive virtual reality computers the Terran Federation had used as “homes” for electronic iterations of their top R amp;D, military analysts, and pure researchers. It simply didn’t have the memory and the processing power to maintain two or three dozen fully aware personalities in detailed virtual environments indistinguishable (from the inside) from reality. A Class II could handle no more than three or, at the outside, four virtual personalities if it was going to give the VPs a fully developed world in which to live. There’d be plenty of room for Nimue/Merlin, though. If worse came to worst, he could set up housekeeping in there even if “Seijin Merlin” became totally inoperable, and at least one other possible use had occurred to him, although he still wasn’t at all certain that one was going to work out.

In addition, he’d decided it was time to take advantage of Commander Mahndrayn’s work with his breech-loading rifle and the percussion caps he’d developed for it, and he and Owl had used some of the free time to redesign his own sidearms. Those were going to come as a nasty surprise to someone-possibly sometime soon-he thought, and they wouldn’t violate a single clause of the Proscriptions. Father Paityr had already made that abundantly clear, although none of the Empire’s gunsmiths had yet come up with the design he and Owl had built.

The truth was, though, that as much as he’d enjoyed having time to tinker and putter, he’d gotten bored. Unfortunately, he’d had no choice but to go on marking time for at least another five-day or two if he didn’t want to raise all sorts of eyebrows about the truly miraculous, not simply mysterious, speed with which Seijin Merlin could cover distances of six or seven thousand miles. That was why he’d landed here in the mountains after Zhevons’ chat with Coris, sent the recon skimmer back to Owl, ordered his nannies to regrow Seijin Merlin’s hair, and then gone to standby mode for fifty minutes of every hour.

Of course, even with that, if anyone ever started adding up times, they were bound to come to the conclusion that seijins must know some magic spell to give them command of wind and wave.

In theory, he’d sailed from the Earldom of West Harding, the Island of Charis’ westernmost headland, rather than Tellesberg, which had at least reduced the length of his supposed voyage to the Desnairian Empire’s Crown Lands from over ten thousand miles to “only” fifty-seven hundred. He’d actually turned up in West Harding, publically (and noisily) “borrowed” a forty-foot single-masted schooner, and put to sea in order to make sure everyone “knew” how he’d gotten where he was going in the fullness of time.

That schooner, unfortunately, was now on the bottom of the Parker Sea. He regretted that. It had been a sweet little craft, and Nimue had always loved single-handing her sloop back on Old Terra whenever she’d had the chance. In fact, he was increasingly irked with himself for having abandoned the schooner as quickly as he had. With so much time to kill, he might as well have spent some of it doing something he’d always enjoyed so much before.

You need a vacation, he told himself. Well, to be fair, I guess you needed a vacation. You’d really have to call the last month or so something like a vacation, after all, but you’re just too damned contrary to actually take time off, aren’t you? Always have to be doing something. Everything depends on you. He snorted mentally. You need Sharley or Cayleb closer to hand to kick you in the butt when you get too full of your own importance.

It was amazing how comforting it was to be able to think that. The loss of so many colleagues left a special aching wound at the center of the theoretically immortal “ seijin ’s” heart, yet the inner circle had survived, even continued to grow. Best of all, he wasn’t indispensable any longer, and that was a greater relief than he’d ever imagined it might be. If something happened to him, the others would still have access to Owl and the technology hidden away in Nimue’s Cave. Not that he planned on anything happening to him, of course. It was just “Excuse me, Lieutenant Commander Alban.”

Merlin twitched internally, although his physical body never moved, as Owl’s voice invaded his thoughts.

“Yes?”

“The sensor net deployed to cover Talkyra has reported a situation which programming parameters require me to call to your attention.”

“What sort of situation? No, scratch that. I assume you have the raw take from the sensors for me, yes?”

“Affirmative, Lieutenant Commander Alban.”

“Then I suppose you’d better show it to me.”

“Tobys.”

Tobys Raimair looked up from the dagger edge he’d been carefully honing and cocked an eyebrow at the man who’d just poked his head into his spartan little bedchamber. Corporal Zhak Mahrys was one of his small guard force’s noncoms. Normally a calm, almost phlegmatic sort, he looked more than a little anxious at the moment.

“What is it, Zhakky?”

“There’s something going on,” Mahrys said. “You know Zhake Tailyr?”

“Sure.” Raimair nodded; Tailyr was one of King Zhames’ guardsmen. He was also a drinking buddy of Mahrys’, and Raimair and Earl Coris had encouraged the corporal to pursue the friendship. “What about him?”

“He says there’s been a lot of going back and forth between Colonel Sahndahl’s office and Father Gaisbyrt’s office since lunchtime. A lot, Tobys.”

Raimair’s face stiffened. Father Gaisbyrt Vandaik was a Schuelerite upper-priest attached to Bishop Mytchail’s office in Talkyra.

“What kind of back and forth?” Raimair asked.

“Dunno. He said it was Brother Bahldwyn mostly, though… and Vandaik came back to the castle with him about an hour ago.”

Better and better, Raimair thought. Bahldwyn Gaimlyn was attached to the king’s household-technically as a “secretary,” although there was precious little evidence King Zhames had requested his services.

“Did Tailyr have any idea what it was about?” he asked.

“If he did, he wasn’t telling me.” Mahrys looked even more concerned. “He’s somebody to hoist a few beers with, Tobys, not my blood brother. He may know-or suspect-a lot he’s not telling me. On the other hand, at least he dropped some warning on me.”

Raimair nodded, although he had to wonder if Tailyr’s decision to “warn” Mahrys had really been his own. Raimair could think of a couple of scenarios in which a particularly devious Schuelerite-and they were all devious, sneaky, underhanded bastards-might arrange to have a “warning” passed in order to manipulate someone he suspected into incriminating himself.

“Thanks, Zhakky,” he said now, standing and sliding the dagger into its belt sheath. “Pass the word to the rest of the lads. No one makes any moves, no one does anything to suggest we’re worried, but check your equipment and be sure you keep it handy. I want them ready to move fast and hard if we have to. Got it?”

“Got it.” Mahrys nodded and disappeared, and Raimair walked down a short hallway, up a half-flight of stairs, and knocked on another door.

“Yes?” a voice responded.

“Could I have a minute of your time, My Lord?”

“I don’t know, Irys,” Phylyp Ahzgood said, looking out the turret window into the darkness. “ I can’t think of any good reason for Vandaik to be talking to Colonel Sahndahl. Or not any reason that would be good for us, anyway.”

“Can we go ahead and run now?” Irys asked, watching his back, seeing the tension in his shoulders.

“Maybe. But we weren’t supposed to run for another two days, and we don’t even know for sure what’s happening. Making a break for it now might be the worst thing we could do!” The frustration in his voice was evident, and he turned to her with a sour expression. “I’m not used to having things like this sneak up on me.”

“I know you’re not,” Irys said with a lopsided smile. “And I count on it not happening. But you’re only human, Phylyp, and the truth is-”

“And the truth is,” a much deeper voice neither of them had ever heard before said calmly, “that everyone makes mistakes occasionally. Even me.”

Irys and Coris whipped back around to the window just as a tall man with blue eyes, fierce mustachios, and a dagger beard swung lightly over the windowsill and into the room. The fact that they were three stories up and that the wall fell sheer from the window would have made that astonishing enough, but to make bad worse, the stranger wore the livery of the Charisian Imperial Guard in the middle of the capital of the Kingdom of Delferahk.

The earl and the princess gaped at the apparition, and he bowed gracefully.

“Please excuse my unceremonious arrival,” he said, straightening from the bow and stroking his mustache. “Captain Merlin Athrawes, at your service.”

“But… but how-?”

The imperturbability of even a Phylyp Ahzgood had its limits, and the Earl of Coris couldn’t seem to get the question finished. He only stared at the newcomer, and Merlin chuckled. Irys Daykyn was made of sterner stuff, though.

“Captain Athrawes,” she acknowledged, bending her head in a gracious nod. “I won’t say the Empire of Charis is especially near and dear to my heart, but at this moment, I’m most happy to see you.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” He bowed more deeply. “And please accept Their Majesties’ greetings. They look forward to seeing you safely out of Delferahk.”

“And into Tellesberg, of course,” she riposted in a slightly barbed tone.

“Well, of course, Your Highness, but I’m trying not to be tacky,” Merlin murmured with a slight smile, and Irys’ lips quivered for just a moment. Then she cleared her throat.

“It would appear you’ve arrived at an opportune moment, Seijin Merlin,” she said then. “Of course, we don’t know why it’s an opportune moment or how you’ve managed to arrive at it, now do we?”

“In answer to the second half of your question, Your Highness, everyone insists on calling me a seijin, so it’s only reasonable I should act like one on occasion, including arriving at opportune moments. If I recall my fairy tales correctly, Seijin Kody did a lot of that sort of thing.” He smiled more broadly, but then his expression sobered. “And in answer to the question you and Earl Coris were discussing when I arrived-I hope you don’t mind that I spent a moment or two listening outside your window before I intruded-it turns out Master Seablanket wasn’t the only spy planted on you by the Inquisition, after all.”

“He wasn’t?” Coris came back to life, his eyes narrowing. He sounded more than a little affronted by Merlin’s explanation, and Merlin smiled at him.

“It’s not really your fault, My Lord,” he said. “As you may know from your discussion with my friend Ahbraim, we seijins have our own means of gathering intelligence. That’s how I discovered Bishop Mytchail had decided to insert one of his own agents into King Zhames’ household to keep an eye on you. He wasn’t instructed to, and his agent reports only to him, not to Rayno or Clyntahn, but I’m afraid he’s come to the conclusion that you’re… well, up to something. He doesn’t know what, but he’s decided it’s probably something you shouldn’t be doing. So he’s sent Father Gaisbyrt to order Colonel Sahndahl to take your own armsmen into custody and replace them with members of King Zhames’ Guard… under Father Gaisbyrt’s direct command. Just for your own safety, of course.”

“And the King?” Irys asked, gazing at Merlin intently. “Is he party to all this?”

“No, and so far as I’m aware, neither is Baron Lakeland or Sir Klymynt,” Merlin told her. “On the other hand, none of them will attempt to overrule Bishop Mytchail, Your Highness. And, to be honest, you can’t really blame them, can you?”

“My heart certainly can, Seijin Merlin!” she said tartly, but then she shook her head. “My head, unfortunately, can’t. Not knowing what that butcher Clyntahn would do to anyone who helped us slip out of his clutches.”

“Slip out of his clutches alive, Your Highness,” Merlin corrected gently.

“Correction accepted, Seijin Merlin.”

“How much time do we have before Sahndahl moves?” Coris demanded.

“None,” Merlin replied calmly. “There are forty Royal Guardsmen on their way right now, along with half a dozen inquisitors. And their instructions are to use whatever force is necessary to make sure none of you go anywhere.”

“Forty!” Coris exclaimed in dismay.

“All we have to do is get out of the castle, reach the stable where you’ve had those horses waiting for a week, and then ride for the rendezvous,” Merlin replied with a shrug, as if he were discussing a simple picnic outing.

“Past forty Royal Guardsmen?”

“And the inquisitors, My Lord,” Merlin reminded him. The earl glared at him, and the seijin shrugged. “Sergeant Raimair has his people ready, My Lord,” he pointed out, “and they’re all good, solid men. They’ll take care of twenty or twenty-five of Zhames’ armsmen if they have to, I’m sure.”

“And the other twenty armsmen and the half-dozen inquisitors?” Coris inquired more than a bit acidly.

“Ah, them.” Merlin shrugged again. “Well, for them, My Lord, you have me.” . VII.

Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk

“Father, are you sure this is something we want to do?” Colonel Fraimahn Sahndahl asked.

“Are you questioning the Inquisition, my son?” Father Gaisbyrt Vandaik asked in a gentle, silky tone.

“Never, Father,” Sahndahl replied as calmly as he could. “I simply don’t have any orders from His Majesty, and it would only take an hour or so to send a messenger after him.”

“ My orders are from Bishop Mytchail,” Vandaik pointed out. “And were His Majesty here, I’m sure he would remind you secular forces are required to assist Mother Church’s Intendant when he calls upon them.”

Sahndahl did his best not to glare at the smiling Schuelerite. He’d met priests like Vandaik before, more often than he might have wished, and he knew exactly how Vandaik’s report to his own superiors would be written if Sahndahl didn’t do exactly what he wanted. Yet the colonel’s oaths hadn’t been sworn to the Inquisition; they’d been sworn to King Zhames of Delferahk, and he wasn’t at all certain the king would have approved of the notion of seizing his own relatives and handing them over to the Inquisition “for their own safety.”

Especially when he’d been ordered to do the seizing by force. And extra especially when Vandaik had told him-orally-that this mission was important enough to risk endangering Princess Irys’ or Prince Daivyn’s lives… and declined to include that in his written instructions.

The colonel was a simple soldier, disinterested in politics, and a loyal son of Mother Church, but he wasn’t stupid, and he’d served as the second in command of King Zhames’ Guard for almost seven years. Whether he’d wanted to or not, he’d developed political feelers over those years, and every one of them quivered with warning now. The waters around him had suddenly become deep and murky, and he found himself much more seriously considering a ridiculous suspicion which had crossed his mind some time ago when he pondered who might have assassinated Prince Hektor if it hadn’t been Cayleb Ahrmahk.

“Of course I realize His Majesty’s Guard is obligated to assist Mother Church in time of need, Father,” he said with all the dignity he could summon up. “I’m sure you can understand that as King Zhames’ man, I’d really prefer to get his instructions, as well, however.”

“If there were time for that, I would have no objections at all,” Vandaik assured him. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe there is time. And in that regard, Colonel, I’m afraid I have to point out that we’re wasting time discussing this.”

He glanced pointedly out Sahndahl’s office window at the tower in which the Corisandian exiles were housed, and the colonel’s jaw tightened. There were limits to what he could ignore, however, and he gave the Inquisitor a jerky nod.

“Point taken, Father,” he said, then raised his voice. “Captain Mahgail!”

“Sir?” a tall but stocky officer replied, opening the office door and stepping through it.

“Get them ready, Byrt,” Sahndahl said.

“Yes, Sir!”

Mahgail saluted and disappeared, and Sahndahl heard him giving orders in a loud, clear voice. Mahgail was a good man, but he was a bit too prone (in Sahndahl’s opinion) to take a churchman’s word at face value. If the Inquisition said Princess Irys and Prince Daivyn were in danger from their own retainers, then Mahgail was perfectly prepared to kill as many of those retainers as necessary to “rescue them.” He obviously wasn’t going to lose one bit of sleep over his orders, either… unlike Sahndahl. The colonel had recognized the kind of man Tobys Raimair was the moment he laid eyes on him, and he knew that kind of man would die in defense of his prince or princess. The thought that he might somehow threaten them was ludicrous.

But no one was interested in Fraihman Sahndahl’s opinion… except, perhaps, for his liege lord, who he wasn’t going to be allowed to ask about it.

I’m sorry, Your Majesty, he thought now, rising heavily and reaching for his own swordbelt. I knew I should’ve drowned that little weasel Brother Bahldwyn months ago when I realized why Zhessop planted him on you. Secretary -ha!

Unfortunately, he hadn’t, and he buckled the swordbelt, settled it in place, and strode slowly and deliberately out of his office.

“The good news is that over half the regular Palace Guard detachment is off with the King and Queen tonight,” Tobys Raimair said to the tall, blue-eyed Charisian guardsman.

Right offhand, Raimair couldn’t think of anything he’d ever done that felt… stranger than taking orders from a Charisian when it was the Charisian Empire which had conquered his own homeland. And the man had to be crazy as a Harchong serf drunk on that incredibly vile rice-based “whiskey” they distilled to go wandering around the middle of the Kingdom of Delferahk in Charisian livery. He had heard about the Ferayd Massacre and why most Delferahkans believed it had happened, hadn’t he?

On the other hand, “ Seijin Merlin” was obviously accustomed to being obeyed. And crazy or not, something about him-something that spoke to Raimair’s well-honed noncom’s instincts-made Raimair grateful he was here.

Hell, some of the best combat officers I’ve ever known were bug-ass crazy, come to that, he reflected. Not necessarily the safest ones to serve under, maybe, but the kind who always seemed to get the job done somehow. And that’s what it’s all about tonight, isn’t it? The job.

He glanced over his shoulder at the tall, slender young woman with her arm around her brother’s shoulders, her own expression calm and confident because that was what the boy needed her to be. Then he looked back at the Charisian Imperial Guardsman and saw those blue eyes watching him.

“Don’t worry, Sergeant,” Merlin said quietly, voice pitched for only Raimair’s ears, and his expression was far more sober than it had been. “I know it’s… complicated, but I give you my word. You can’t possibly want those two to reach safety more than I do, and between us, that’s exactly where we’re going to get them.”

“If you say so, Captain.”

“I do say so,” Merlin replied, resting one hand lightly on the sergeant’s shoulder for a moment. “And you remind me of another sergeant I met a couple of years ago-a fellow by the name of Seahamper. I think you’ll like him when you meet him. And do me a favor.”

“Favor?” Raimair asked just a bit suspiciously.

“Stay alive and in one piece,” Merlin said very seriously. “Prince Daivyn and Princess Irys need you. Unless I’m mistaken, she needs you more than he does at the moment, as a matter of fact, and I think she’s already lost enough people she needed. Don’t you?”

Raimair stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly, his expression one of wonderment.

“Aye,” he said after a moment. “Aye, that she has.”

“Then let’s not make any more holes in her life.” The hand on Raimair’s shoulder tightened, and then the reckless, confident grin reappeared under the waxed mustachios. “Now, you were saying about the opposition?”

“So I was, Sir.” Raimair gave himself another shake. “There’s no more than half the usual detachment here tonight. The Colonel could call up reinforcements from the local militia, and there’s a full regiment of militia dragoons in Talkyra. Take a while to get them rousted out of bed and pulled away from their dinners, though. And, to be honest, I don’t see any reason he’d be thinking he needed ’em, come to that.” The sergeant shrugged. “These are good lads I’ve got here, but there’s only a dozen of ’em, when all’s said. Even with only half the detachment, he’s four times that many.”

“Understood.” Merlin’s expression turned serious again. “You do realize that the instant they see me, you’re all going to be guilty of treason and consorting with heretics in both Mother Church and King Zhames’ eyes?”

“Thought had crossed my mind,” Raimair replied with sour irony. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to change out of that armor of yours?”

“Sergeant, it’s not going to make one bit of difference in the long run.” Merlin chuckled. “The moment Grand Inquisitor Zhaspahr discovers Irys and Daivyn have slipped through his fingers alive, we’re all dead men if he ever gets his hands on us. That being the case, I prefer to fight in my own colors.”

“And if seeing you in them causes Colonel Sahndahl’s lads to come at us harder, my own lads are going to find any bridges burned behind them,” Raimair said.

“A point which had occurred to me,” Merlin acknowledged. “Of course, that’s another way of saying it’s going to get them focused on staying alive and keep them there, isn’t it?”

“Sounds better that way, anyhow,” Raimair said, then laughed. “And truth to tell, we’ve burned our bridges already.”

“That’s fortunate,” Merlin told him, raising his head and cocking it to one side, “because unless I’m mistaken, Colonel Sahndahl’s on his way right now.”

Fraihman Sahndahl walked across the paved courtyard with a grim, determined stride. Three squads of Guardsmen followed him, and he sensed the men’s confusion. They had no idea why they’d just been ordered to arrest-and, if necessary, kill-men they’d been drinking beer with only that afternoon. The presence of half a dozen Schuelerites, including Bahldwyn Gaimlyn, who’d been one of King Zhames’ secretaries for almost a year, discouraged any speculation on their part, however. And with those damned inquisitors watching, there was no doubt in Sahndahl’s mind his men would do whatever they were ordered to do.

God, I hope Raimair and Coris are smart enough to surrender for the kids’ sake, he thought. Yet even as he told himself that, another thought ran deeper down, counter pointing it. Given what Zhaspahr Clyntahn was capable of, if he were one of the men in that tower and he believed the Inquisition had come for him, they’d take his weapons only out of his cold dead hands… and the last thing he’d do before he died was cut both of Prince Hektor’s children’s throats to keep them out of the Inquisition’s hands, as well.

Stop that! he told himself sternly. It’s not doing a bit of good and it’s not going to change a thing.

“Wait here,” he told Mahgail, and continued across the courtyard to the steep flight of steps leading up to the tower’s open door.

He climbed the steps heavily. A pair of lanterns burned at its top, one on either side of the massively timbered door set deep into the tower’s ancient stonework, and he was acutely aware of the archer’s slits in the wall above him. He allowed no sign of that awareness to cross his expression, however, as Rahskho Mullygyn-who would have been Sergeant Mullygyn, if Tobys Raimair had dared to be open about the nature of the “footmen” and “servants” he’d assembled around Irys and Daivyn Daykyn-met him in the doorway.

“Evening, Colonel,” Mullygyn said calmly, glancing past him at the block of Guardsmen in the courtyard. “Can I help you, Sir?”

“I need to speak to Earl Coris, Rahskho,” Sahndahl said.

“’Fraid he’s already turned in for the evening, Sir.” Mullygyn smiled slightly. “Said something about not feeling too well.”

“Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to go and get him up,” Sahndahl said flatly, and looked Mullygyn straight in the eye. “It’s official, Rahskho, and I’m under orders. Let’s not make this any messier than it has to be.”

“Messy, Sir?” Mullygyn had many virtues; thespian talent was not among them, and his lack of surprise was all the confirmation Sahndahl needed that Tobys and his men had at least sensed what was coming. That was going to make things ugly, given their position inside the tower’s thick walls. Nonetheless…

“Just go get him, Rahskho,” the colonel said in that same flat voice. “And you might ask Tobys to step out here, too. I need to talk to both of them.”

“See what I can do, Sir,” Mullygyn replied, and stepped back inside the tower.

Sahndahl was tempted to follow him, but he suppressed the temptation easily. He doubted Mullygyn had been the only occupant of the guardroom just inside the doorway, and he wondered if it might not have been wiser to just go ahead and rush the place without warning anyone inside he was coming.

No, you were right the first time, he told himself. Too good a chance the girl or the boy’d get killed in the confusion, even if you got inside on the first rush. And if they really have figured out you’re coming, trying to “rush” a tower like this would be a good way to get half your men killed at the outset. So His thoughts broke off in an abrupt mental hiccup as someone else stepped out of the tower door. Not Mullygyn, and sure as hell not Earl Coris! The man in front of him was taller than either of them-a good two or three inches taller even than Captain Mahgail-with sapphire eyes, black hair, and a scarred cheek. Sahndahl had never seen him before in his life, which would have been cause enough for surprise in itself, but finding himself face-to-face with someone in the livery of the Charisian Imperial Guard hit him like a punch in the belly.

“I’m afraid Earl Coris and Sergeant Raimair are… occupied,” the impossible stranger said. “Perhaps I might be of assistance, Colonel?”

“Who… who-?” Sahndahl realized he sounded entirely too much like a stupefied owl, and he gave himself a sharp, tooth-rattling jerk.

“Captain Merlin Athrawes, Charisian Imperial Guard, at your service.” The man bowed, apparently blissfully unaware of the insanity of what he’d just said. “And I’m afraid, Colonel, that Prince Daivyn and Princess Irys have requested asylum in Tellesberg. It seems”-those blue eyes looked past the colonel and into the dumbstruck brown eyes of Father Gaisbyrt-“Vicar Zhaspahr has ordered that they be killed, much as he did their father, and they’d prefer to avoid that outcome. Undutiful of them, I know, but”-his smile could have frozen Lake Erdan in mid-summer-“I’m sure you can understand their viewpoint.”

“That’s… ridiculous,” Sahndahl managed, feeling his hand creep to the sword at his side.

“Oh, come now, Colonel!” Athrawes chided gently. “You know I’m telling you the truth. Clyntahn’s decided murdering Daivyn may destabilize Corisande again. Especially if he can blame it on Charis… again.”

Those blue eyes were even colder than his smile, a fragment of Sahndahl’s mind observed.

“Lies! Lies! ” Vandaik shouted suddenly from behind Sahndahl. “This man is an acknowledged heretic and blasphemer-an enemy of God Himself! How can you even consider the possibility he might be telling the truth?!”

“Ah, now there’s the problem, isn’t it, Father Gaisbyrt?” Athrawes asked, and the Schuelerite stiffened at the revelation that the Charisian knew his name. “And a bit of a problem for Father Zhames and Father Arthyr and Brother Bahldwyn and Brother Zhilbyrt, too, isn’t it?” the heretic continued, naming each of the inquisitors in turn. “Because you know they are considering it, don’t you, Father? Thanks to that butcher in Zion you serve, everyone’s considering it, aren’t they, Father?”

“Lies!” Vandaik screamed. “Yield now, heretic, or die!”

“Let me see.” Athrawes tilted his head to one side, eyes contemptuous. “Surrender, and be tortured to death later for Clyntahn’s amusement, or die now, seeing how many of his inquisitors-and their flunkies I’m afraid, Colonel,” he added, eyes flitting back to Sahndahl, “I can kill first. Let me see, let me see. Which one should I choose…?”

“Heretic bastard! ” Vandaik screamed. “Do your duty, Sahndahl! Seize him! Seize him and all the others, as well, or answer to Mother Church!”

“I-” Sahndahl half drew his sword, then froze as Athrawes waved an index finger at him like a chiding tutor. The Charisian Guardsman’s sheer force of will seemed to freeze all of Sahndahl’s men. It certainly froze the colonel himself!

“If you try to execute that order, or to seize Prince Daivyn or Princess Irys, or to prevent them in any way from leaving this castle of their own free will, Colonel, a lot of people are going to die.” There was no humor at all in Athrawes’ voice. “Most of them will be yours.” He looked very levelly into Sahndahl’s eyes. “I have no desire to kill any man simply because he has the misfortune to serve a corrupt and evil master, but the choice is yours. Stand aside, or try to take us. Live or die, Colonel. Make the choice.”

“He’s insane! ” Irys Daykyn whispered, watching from the third-floor window, listening to the conversation with Earl Coris’ arm around her shoulders. “My God, he’s out of his mind!”

“Maybe he is,” the earl replied, shaking his head, but there was something very like admiration in his tone. “Maybe he is, but, Langhorne, it feels good to hear someone take one of those sanctimonious pricks on in public!”

Irys’ head turned. She looked up at Coris’ profile, and her eyes widened as she saw the fierce, triumphant grin on her guardian’s face.

“You like him!” she said almost accusingly.

“Like him?” Coris cocked his head consideringly. “Maybe. I don’t know about that, Irys, but by God you’ve got to admire his style! ”

“That’s bold talk for one man alone standing in front of fifty,” Sahndahl replied at last.

“There’re good men enough standing behind me,” Athrawes said evenly, “and you’re standing in front of me. If you want to survive this night, Colonel, be somewhere else. Now.”

Sahndahl stared at him, ice crawling through his veins as he digested the total certitude in the Charisian’s voice and remembered all the fantastic tales about “ Seijin Merlin.” But the colonel was a veteran. He recognized tall tales and impossible legends when he heard them. And he was no coward. It was entirely possible Athrawes might kill him, especially at such a short range, but not even a seijin could defeat forty-five Royal Guardsmen plus the inquisitors with them.

And better to die cleanly fighting someone like Athrawes than answer to the Inquisition if the Prince or the Princess get away, a small, still voice said deep at his core.

“I thank you for the warning, Captain Athrawes,” he heard his voice say, “but I think not.” He drew a deep breath.

“Take them!”

Sahndahl’s sword came out of its sheath.

That, unfortunately, was the first-and last-thing that happened the way he’d planned, because Merlin Athrawes’ hands moved.

Phylyp Ahzgood, watching from the window above the tower door, hissed in disbelief. No one could move that quickly-no one! One instant the seijin ’s hands were at his side, his shoulders relaxed, his eyes locked with Colonel Sahndahl’s. The next instant there was a pistol in each hand, as if they’d magically materialized there and not been drawn from the holsters at his side.

And then they began to fire.

It was hopeless, of course. One man, with only two pistols, against fifty? Even if he was a crack shot who never missed, the most he could hope for would be to fell four of them before the others charged up the stairs and swarmed him under. But Merlin Athrawes seemed unaware of that, and the blinding brilliance of a muzzle flash ripped holes in Coris’ vision.

The seijin fired from the hip with both hands, and the measured “CRACK,” “CRACK,” “CRACK” of his fire pounded the ear like a hammer. Yet even as he fired, Coris realized something was wrong. There were no flashes from the pistols’ pans. No up-flash of igniting primer, no sparks as chipped flint struck the frizzen. There were only the long, stabbing flashes from the muzzles, more brilliant than ever against the night’s darkness as they spewed flame, smoke, and death.

And they went right on spewing all three of those things.

Impossible! Coris thought as the seijin fired his fifth shot. Then his sixth. His seventh! His eighth!

Sahndahl had been the first to fall. He sat at the top of the stairs, both hands pressing at the blood-gushing wound in his abdomen, head shaking in either disbelief or denial while his eyes glazed their way into death. Captain Mahgail screamed in rage as his commander fell and charged the stairs, sword in hand. Behind him, forty-five more men hurled themselves towards the single figure in the blackened armor standing at their head.

But each time Merlin Athrawes squeezed one of those triggers, another man went down-screaming, unconscious, or dead- and he went right on firing.

Courage that might have brushed aside his fearsome reputation was no match for the drumbeat of death and destruction thundering and flashing from his hands. The cloud of gunsmoke was so dense they could scarcely even see him through it, but still he fired, each muzzle blast illuminating the cloud of smoke like Langhorne’s Rakurai, and the heavy bullets plowed through them like the sword of Chihiro himself. As their formation tightened to charge up the steps, some of those bullets tore through two or even three bodies, and King Zhames’ Guardsmen broke.

They fell back, stampeding into the darkness, and the Inquisitors who’d launched them gaped at the demonic apparition at the top of the stairs.

Merlin Athrawes had downed thirteen Delferahkan guardsmen with ten shots, and he raised his right hand deliberately.

“My regards to Vicar Zhaspahr, Father!” he called, even his deep voice sounding somehow high-pitched and frail after the thunder of so much gunfire. “He’ll be along shortly!” he added, and an eleventh thunderbolt leapt from the pistol. Gaisbyrt Vandaik was almost fifty yards from the tower stairs, but the heavy, soft lead bullet struck him squarely in the center of his chest and punched cleanly through his heart.

“And I haven’t forgotten you, Brother!” the seijin called, and Bahldwyn Gaimlyn squealed in sudden terror before the pistol in Merlin’s left hand ended his squeal forever. .

Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, and Sarman Mountains, Kingdom of Delferahk

Merlin stood on the front steps, shrouded in a cloud of powder smoke, slowly fraying on the breeze. He surveyed the body-littered courtyard with ice-cold blue eyes and holstered his left-hand pistol, then heard a sound behind him.

Human ears battered by that much gunfire would have been unable to hear it, but Merlin Athrawes’ ears weren’t human. He turned towards the soft noise and found himself facing Tobys Raimair. The ex-sergeant’s sword was drawn, his face tight, and his eyes were hard.

“I’m thinking all those tales about you being a demon or a wizard aren’t so far-fetched after all!” the sergeant grated.

“I can see where that might occur to you,” Merlin replied calmly. “On the other hand, there’s nothing at all demonic or magic about my pistols, Tobys.”

“Oh, aye, I can see that!” Raimair said caustically. “Why, just anyone could shoot for an hour or two out of one wee little gun like that!”

“No, not for an hour,” Merlin corrected in that same calm voice. “Just six shots, Tobys. Only six.”

“Six?!” Raimair glared at him. “Why not ten? Langhorne, why not thirty?! ”

“Because they wouldn’t fit into the cylinder,” Merlin told him, and Raimair looked down as he heard a metallic clicking sound. His sword never wavered, but his eyes widened as he realized the seijin ’s pistols weren’t like any other firearm he’d ever heard of. For one thing, they seemed to be made entirely out of steel, except for the wooden handgrips. For another, some sort of heavy cylinder had just come out of the center of the thing to rest in the palm of the seijin ’s left hand. It left a queer, squared-off gap or opening in the middle of the rest of the weapon, and Merlin held it up where he could see it.

“It’s actually a simple concept,” he said. “A friend of mine-I call him Owl-made it for me. He calls it a ‘revolver,’ because the central cylinder here”-he waved his left hand gently-“ revolves when you cock the hammer. If you look, you’ll see it has six holes drilled in it. Each of those is big enough to hold one charge of powder and one bullet. The bullets are a bit smaller than the ones most of the Guard’s pistols fire, but to make up for it, the charge is about a fourth again as large, so they hit a lot harder. And it doesn’t need a priming pan because a very clever Charisian officer-another friend of mine, named Mahndrayn-invented something called a ‘percussion cap’ that flashes over when you hit it with a hammer. If you look here,” he reversed the cylinder, showing Raimair the back end, which was solid but had six raised, odd-looking bumps of some sort, “you’ll see where the caps fit over the nipples here so the hammer can strike them as they rotate and each shot lines up with the barrel.” He shrugged. “It’s just a way to carry more firepower, Tobys, and I promise you it violates none of God’s laws. When we get to Tellesberg, you can discuss it directly with Father Paityr, our Intendant, if you like.”

Raimair held out his free hand, and Merlin smiled slightly as he dropped the cylinder into it. The sergeant turned it, held it up to one of the door lanterns in order to see it better, then raised it to his nose and sniffed the scent of burnt gunpowder. He lowered it again, looking down at it for several seconds, then drew a deep breath, lowered his sword, and handed it back over.

“I’m sure you know your own business best, Seijin,” he said, “but you might want to warn people before you do things like that. Could save yourself a peck of trouble… not to mention a sword in the ribs, now I think about it.”

“Tobys, you’re a good man,” Merlin told him, “and if you can get a sword into my ribs, I’ll figure I must have deserved it.”

Raimair looked at him suspiciously, obviously trying to figure out if he’d just been complimented or insulted, and Merlin smiled. Then he looked past the sergeant as Earl Coris appeared behind Raimair.

“That was certainly impressive,” the earl said just a little tartly. “Was it really necessary, though, Seijin Merlin? Once they stop running, they’ll spread the tale of your ‘demon weapons’ all over the Kingdom! If they might’ve had any trouble getting together the manpower to chase us before, they certainly won’t now-especially with two Inquisitors dead, to boot!”

“Finding the manpower was never going to be a problem, My Lord,” Merlin replied calmly, reaching into his belt pouch and extracting a cylinder identical to the one in Raimair’s hand, except that this one was still loaded and capped. He slipped it into the revolver frame and slid the central locking pin back into place to hold it. Then he holstered the reloaded weapon, drew its twin from the other holster, and replaced its cylinder, as well.

“The Inquisition can-and will-rouse the entire countryside,” he continued as he worked. “Whether or not I had any ‘demon weapons’ won’t matter a solitary damn as far as that’s concerned! But if you’ll notice, the entire Royal Guard has temporarily decamped. I figure they’ll be back shortly-whatever else they may be, they aren’t cowards, and as soon as they get over the shock, they’ll come back. They’ll be cautious, but they’ll come. In the meantime, however, we can get a bit of a head start. And it’s occurred to me that the best horses in the entire Grand Duchy of Talkyra are right here in King Zhames’ stables. I realize you have some nice ones waiting for you at that livery stable outside town, but I doubt they’re the equal of the ones in the royal stables. Not only that, but depriving our pursuers of horses that good strikes me as an excellent idea, as well. And while I’m thinking about things that might discourage or hamper pursuit, I think I’ll just take the opportunity while you and Tobys here go acquire our transportation to leave a few little… incendiary calling cards here and there around the castle. Places like, oh, the magazine, for example.”

He smiled beatifically and looked at Raimair.

“Do try to get them moving, Tobys,” he said. “Those Guardsmen may come back sooner than I thought, and I’d just as soon be on our way.”

He swept the stunned-looking earl a bow and headed down the stairs.

Irys Daykyn managed not to groan as she swung down out of the saddle. The sun was working its way towards evening overhead, although that was difficult to tell at the moment. The mature growth forest they were passing through had been only thinly invaded by imported terrestrial species, and even the towering Safeholdian pines seemed small and dwarfed under the shadows of the titan oaks. Most of those titan oaks had probably been growing here since the Day of Creation itself, she thought. Some of them were as much as fifteen feet in diameter at the base, and each individual tree would probably have produced enough wood to build an entire war galleon. Even this early in the spring, they wove a solid, green canopy overhead, and the dense shade of their branches had almost completely choked out any underbrush. It was already dim, bordering on outright dark, under that twiggy roof, but at least the absence of undergrowth had allowed the fugitives to make excellent speed.

They’d maintained an alternating trot and walk for the last twenty-two hours, pausing only to rest the horses occasionally… or to swap their saddles to fresh mounts. Merlin had been right about that, she reflected. Not only had King Zhames’ stables had the best horses available, but there’d been enough of them to provide each member of their party with no less than three mounts apiece. Not all were equally good, but even the worst was well above average, and the spare mounts had allowed Merlin to set a pace they could never have maintained with only a single horse each.

And he had-oh, but he had! Irys was grateful her father had had scant patience with the more scandalized ladies of Manchyr who’d insisted his daughter had to ride sidesaddle. She would have been even more grateful if she’d been able to stay in practice after her arrival here in Delferahk. Although, to be fair, she’d thought she had stayed in practice… until she’d spent the better part of an entire day in the saddle.

But by her estimate, they’d traveled almost eighty miles-something closer to sixty, probably, as a wyvern might have flown-and they’d left the foothills of the Sunthorns three hours ago. Which meant they still had somewhere around another hundred and fifty miles-again, in that mythical straight line-to go.

“He’s a remarkable man, isn’t he, Phylyp?” she asked quietly as the earl took her reins. The princess loosened her saddle girth and patted the weary horse’s neck affectionately, then took the reins of both horses while Coris performed the same service for his own mount.

“I assume you’re referring to the redoubtable Seijin Merlin?” he said, smiling at her tiredly. He’d done more hard riding than she in the last couple of years, but he was also better than twice her age.

“Of course I am.” She smiled back and shook her head, then twitched it to indicate the seijin. “Look at him.”

Prince Daivyn sat on an outcrop of rock, looking up at Merlin with an almost worshipful expression. Irys could have counted the number of times she’d seen him that relaxed since leaving Corisande on the fingers of one hand, yet she knew Daivyn was only too well aware that somewhere behind them they were being vengefully pursued. It didn’t seem to matter to him, though, and she wondered how much of that stemmed from the aura of competence and… well, invincibility that clung to the seijin. Certainly it would make sense for a terrified little boy to take comfort from the presence of an armsman who was renowned throughout Safehold as the most deadly bodyguard in the world. And while she wished Daivyn hadn’t had to see the bodies and blood littering the palace courtyard, knowing all that carnage had been wreaked by a single man who was now dedicated to getting him to safety had to be reassuring.

Yet that wasn’t the whole story, and she knew it. Unlike her, Daivyn’s instruction in horsemanship had been far from complete when they fled Corisande, and King Zhames had discouraged him from pursuing it in Delferahk. There were times Irys suspected the king had been instructed to do exactly that by the Inquisition-it wouldn’t have done for the boy to be capable of escaping them, after all. But whatever the reason, Daivyn definitely wasn’t equal to the brutal, bruising pace Merlin had been setting.

Fortunately, he hadn’t had to be. Merlin had simply taken him up before him on his own saddle, wrapped one arm around him, and told him one fantastic fairy tale after another as they rode along. Irys had never even heard of half or more of the stories the seijin produced effortlessly, and in between tales she’d heard his murmuring voice calmly answering Daivyn’s questions without a hint of patronization. And then there’d been the intervals when she’d looked across and seen her brother sleeping peacefully, despite the horse’s motion, held safe in the crook of that apparently tireless arm.

No wonder Daivyn looked at him that way!

And either Merlin had the homing instincts of a messenger wyvern, or else they were hopelessly lost and he simply wasn’t going to admit it. He’d never hesitated, never taken a false turn, never stopped and looked for landmarks. It was as if he had some internal sense which knew exactly where he was at every instant and exactly where he needed to go next. And he had an equally uncanny ability to find the easiest, fastest going. Irys had been on hunting expeditions in Corisande with guides intimately familiar with the area of the hunt, and she’d never seen anyone thread so effortlessly through such difficult terrain. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if there was anything the seijin couldn’t do.

“I agree he’s remarkable, Irys,” Coris said softly, his eyes, too, on Daivyn as the seijin passed him a wedge of cheese and the boy smiled up at him. “And it does my heart good to see him with Daivyn. But don’t forget-he’s a Charisian, and his loyalty’s to Cayleb and Sharleyan.”

“Oh, I’m not forgetting,” she told him, a hint of bleakness shadowing her hazel eyes. “But I don’t think he’s pretending to be a good man, Phylyp. Daivyn’s got very good instincts in that regard, and look at how he’s opened up to Merlin! And I can’t see a man like that offering his sword to a monster. Or”-she looked back at Coris, meeting his gaze levelly-“to someone who’d murder a defeated foe who’d offered to negotiate an honorable surrender.”

“I agree,” Coris said, after a moment. “And I think Cayleb and Sharleyan are probably about as honorable as rulers get. But they’re still rulers, Irys. Even the best of them have to be willing to do what’s required to protect their subjects and their realms. And Daivyn’s a prize of enormous potential value.”

“I know, Phylyp. I know.”

Merlin drew rein as his weary horse topped out on the long ridgeline and he gazed to the east, down the valley of the Sarm River. The Sarman Mountains stretched away on either hand ahead of them, rising in endless green waves like an ocean frozen in earth and stone. It was the second day since they’d left King Zhames’ palace, the western sky was deep copper behind the mountain summits over his right shoulder, and despite the extra mounts, their pace had slowed as the horses grew increasingly weary.

“What is it, Merlin?” the boy in front of him asked, looking trustingly up at him. He was almost eleven, which made him not quite ten by the calendar of murdered Old Terra, and he was obviously worn-out from the pace Merlin had set. For that matter, all the flesh-and-bloods were feeling the strain, and he knew it. But they were within less than thirty miles of the rendezvous point now.

That was the good news. The bad news…

“I think it’s time for another rest, Daivyn,” he told the prince. “And I need to discuss some things with Earl Coris, Tobys, and your sister.” He swung down from the saddle, carrying the boy with him, then set Daivyn on his feet.

“See if Corporal Zhadwail can find you something a little easier to chew than hard tack while I talk to them, all right?”

“All right.” Daivyn nodded, then stretched and yawned and started off towards Zhadwail. Merlin watched him go, then crossed to Coris and Irys.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said quietly.

“What sort of ‘problem’?” The earl’s eyes narrowed, and Merlin shrugged.

“Whoever’s in charge of chasing us is better at his job than I’d like,” he replied. “We’ve left anyone from Talkyra well behind, but unless I miss my guess, whoever they had tracking us initially had messenger wyverns with him. Between that and the semaphore, they’ve managed to figure out roughly where we were headed and get around in front of us.”

“What makes you think that, Seijin Merlin?” Irys asked.

“There’s someone on the other side of the valley ahead of us with a signal mirror,” Merlin replied. “I caught the flash from it just as we topped the ridge.”

“You did?” Coris’ tone sharpened. “Do you think they saw us?” he demanded, and Merlin shrugged again.

“Trust me, my eyes are better than most, and we weren’t deliberately reflecting sunlight at anyone the way they were.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think they could’ve seen us… yet. The problem is they’re down-valley from us, which means they’re directly between us and where we have to go. And even though the ones I spotted may not’ve seen us, I’m reasonably sure there are additional parties sweeping the area. I don’t know if they’ve realized who we’re out here to meet or if they simply figure this is the valley we’re going to follow to get through the Sarmans, but that doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Coris said slowly, eyes slitted as he thought hard.

“I know you don’t claim to be a seijin, Merlin,” he said after a moment, “but do you think you can pick a way through for us without our being spotted?”

“Maybe yes and maybe no,” Merlin replied after a moment. “I’m positive I’d be able to spot any of them before they spotted us, but that’s not the same as saying we could evade them all. If they’ve got the manpower to really sweep the valley, it’s likely we’d end up eventually with one-or more-search parties hard on our trail. And good as these horses are, they’re worn out. If they catch scent of us, they’ll be able to run us down before we can reach the rendezvous.”

There was silence, then Irys reached out and laid a hand on his forearm.

“You’ve got something in mind, Merlin,” she said softly, gazing up into his face. “What is it?”

“Well, the simplest way to keep them from chasing you is to give them something else to chase, Your Highness.”

“Such as?” she asked slowly, hazel eyes locked with his.

“Such as me,” he told her with a smile. “I leave you with the best, most rested of our horses, then I take all the others, ride off into the mountains, attract their attention, and lead them over hill and dale until they’re thoroughly lost… and you’ve reached the rendezvous.”

“I thought you just said their horses were going to be better than ours?” Irys said sharply, and he shrugged.

“True, but the ones I take with me won’t have anyone in their saddles, and without the weight of a rider, they’ll do pretty well.”

“‘Pretty well’ isn’t good enough if there are enough other horses that do have people in their saddles chasing you!” she snapped.

“You really are going to get along with Sharleyan,” he observed with a crooked smile.

“Don’t make silly jokes!” She stamped her foot at him. “I don’t care how mighty a warrior a seijin is. It’s not going to matter if enough of them catch up with you!”

“And they’re not going to catch up with me, Your Highness,” he assured her. She glared at him, and he shrugged. “You might ask Earl Coris about the visit my friend Ahbraim paid him. For that matter, you might think about the first time you and I met, Your Highness.” He shook his head. “Trust me, once it gets fully dark-especially in this kind of terrain-I’ll be able to slip away from them on foot without any problem. All they’ll catch up with in the end is a bunch of worn-out horses with no riders. In fact, I’d love to see their expressions when they do. I wonder if I can hang around close enough to actually watch?”

She glared at him, obviously unhappy with his airy assurance, and he looked at Coris over her head.

“She’s your Princess, My Lord,” he said. “Personally, I’m not going to be all that impressed if she decides to throw a tantrum. If she does, though, are you going to be able to handle her?”

“I’m not a piece of luggage to be handled!”

“No, but at the moment you’re not thinking very much like a princess, either,” Merlin pointed out, his tone suddenly much more serious than it had been. “Even assuming they were going to catch me-which they aren’t-it would be my job to lead them away and your job to make sure your brother gets to safety. Now, are you and I going to have to argue about this?”

She locked eyes with him for another moment. Then her shoulders slumped, and she sighed.

“No.” She shook her head unhappily. “No, we’re not going to have to argue about it. But be careful, Merlin. Please!”

“Oh, I’m always careful, Your Highness!” He leaned forward and, before she realized what he had in mind, gave her a quick peck on the cheek. She reared back in surprise, and he grinned unrepentantly. “Just for luck, Your Highness,” he assured her, and nodded to Coris, who was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Take care of her, My Lord.”

“I will,” Coris promised. “Well, Tobys and I will. And while we’re doing that, she’ll take care of Daivyn.”

“Are you going to tell him goodbye?” Irys asked quietly. He looked at her, and her smile trembled just a bit. “He’s lost most of the stability in his world, Merlin. Don’t just disappear.”

“A good point, Your Highness,” he acknowledged, and looked back at Coris.

“Straight down the river, My Lord. There’s a waterfall about twenty-five miles downstream. The boats are supposed to be waiting just below it.”

“And if they’re not there?”

“If they’re not there, my advice is to continue downriver, anyway. If they’re not at the rendezvous by the time you get there, they’re probably still on their way. Charisian seamen don’t turn back easily, you know. So if you just keep going, you’ll probably run into them.”

“‘Probably’ isn’t one of my favorite words when applied to desperate escapes,” Coris observed dryly. “Despite which, that sounds like the best advice.”

“One tries, My Lord.” Merlin bowed, then straightened, looking past him at Daivyn. “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to go tell a young man goodbye.”

“Is Seijin Merlin really going to be all right, Irys?” Prince Daivyn whispered urgently. He was mounted in front of Irys now, since hers was the freshest horse and she weighed the least of any of the experienced riders. He twisted slightly, looking up at her, his expression hard to see in the rapidly fading light. “Tell me the truth,” he implored.

“The truth, Daivy?” She looked down at him and hugged him tightly. “The truth is that I don’t know,” she admitted. “But if anybody in the whole wide world can do this, it’s probably him, don’t you think?”

“Yesssssss,” he said dubiously, then nodded. “Yes!” he said more firmly.

“That’s what I thought, too,” she told him with another hug.

“But how is he going to make sure they follow him? ” Daivyn demanded. “I mean, it’s getting awful dark. What if they don’t even see him?”

“I don’t know what he has in mind, Daivy, but from what I’ve seen of Seijin Merlin, I think we can predict it’s going to be something fairly… spectacular.”

Sergeant Braice Mahknash stood in the stirrups so he could massage his posterior. Hardened cavalryman that he was, he’d spent long enough in the saddle over the last two or three days to last him for months. But that was all right with him. He wanted the traitorous bastards who’d massacred so many of the Royal Guard. And the news that Earl Coris had betrayed his trust-actually taken Cayleb of Charis’ bloodstained gold and sold his own prince and princess to their father’s murderer-filled Mahknash with rage. He hoped Bishop Mytchail was wrong, that Coris and the so-called “ Seijin Merlin” wouldn’t really cut the prince’s and princess’ throats rather than allow them to be rescued, yet surely even that would be better than letting them be handed over to the heretic emperor and empress to be tortured into proclaiming their allegiance to Prince Hektor’s killers.

And that wasn’t the only reason Mahknash wanted them. Delferahk had suffered enough at Charisian hands without accepting the insult of an attack on the king’s very castle! Not enough to massacre the Royal Guards who’d thought they were there to protect Prince Daivyn, the treacherous sons-of-bitches had actually blown up two-thirds of the castle and set fire to the rest! King Zhames had taken Prince Hektor’s orphans in out of the goodness of his heart and a kinsman’s love, and his reward was to have his armsmen slaughtered and his home itself destroyed? No, that couldn’t be allowed to stand, and it wouldn’t. Not with the pursuit so close upon them.

And the bastards don’t know their ride isn’t coming, either, he thought with grim satisfaction.

The discovery that the fugitives were headed for the Sarm Valley, where the West Sarm flowed through the gap between the Trevor Hills and the Sarman Mountains proper, had made sudden sense out of the mysterious boats which had clashed with a troop of Earl Charlz’ dragoons two days ago. Clearly this plot had been organized far in advance, with plenty of forethought, but that didn’t mean it was going to work. Especially not when the boats they were counting on to rescue them had turned back the day before yesterday.

Mahknash smiled in satisfaction. The dragoons had suffered heavy casualties, but the Charisians had been even more badly hurt. Their boats had been observed headed back downriver, heaped with wounded, running with their tails between their legs. Moving with the current, they’d easily outdistanced any pursuit, unfortunately, and it wasn’t like there were any warships or galleys on the river between them and Sarmouth, so their escape was virtually certain. But they’d managed it only by cravenly abandoning the people they’d come to meet.

Still, what more could you expect out of heretics and blasphemers? Out of people who cut children’s throats as blood sacrifices to Shan-wei? Mahknash had read every word of the confessions the Inquisition had wrung out of the Charisians the Earl of Thirsk had handed over for their rightful punishment, and he’d been horrified by their crimes and perversions, but not surprised. After all, Delferahk knew what Charisians were like. In fact, Delferahk knew better than anyone else, given what the bastards had done to Ferayd!

I wonder if they’ve got any sort of fallback plan? he mused. I don’t know where they expected to meet those boats, but assuming they manage to get past the patrols-Ha! As if that were going to happen!-they’re bound to realize eventually that they’ve been left high and dry. So what do they do then? Try to head cross-country all the way down to Sarmouth on horseback? Fat chance! We’d be on them in Sergeant Mahknash’s thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a forty-five caliber bullet launched from one of the first two cap-and-ball revolvers ever manufactured on the planet of Safehold. It struck him squarely at the base of the throat at approximately eleven hundred feet per second, driven by sixty grains of black powder, and blew out the back of his neck, knocking him back across his horse’s rump. He hung there for a moment, then thumped heavily to the ground, and his companions shouted in confusion as more gunfire rang out through the darkened mountain woods.

There had to be at least a dozen attackers. Obviously the collision had been as unexpected for them as for Sergeant Mahknash’s patrol. The shots came in rapid succession, but they’d have come in a single, concentrated volley if the traitors had realized they were about to run into the pursuit.

Three more of Mahknash’s troopers were hurled off their horses, and a fourth swayed, wounded but sticking to his saddle, and they heard voices shouting to one another in alarm. Then they heard the thunder of hooves as the fugitives turned, spurring their weary horses away from the patrol.

“Nyxyn, see to the wounded!” Corporal Walthar Zhud shouted, reasserting command. “Zhoshua, you’re on courier! Get your ass back to the Colonel! Tell him we’re in contact and pursuing to the northwest. It looks to me like they’re breaking back the way they came!”

“On my way, Corp!” Private Zhosua responded as he wheeled his horse around and slapped his spurs home.

“The rest of you-after me!”

“Mite showy, My Lord,” Tobys Raimair said judiciously, watching the lurid stab of pistol fire on the far side of the valley.

“Perhaps a little, ” Coris allowed, holding one hand out palm down and waggling it from side to side. “Effective, though.”

“Wonder how many he winged this time?” Raimair said. “I mean, shooting from a horse-critter has to be spooked, what with guns going off in its ear for the first time-and in the dark, and all, with no lanterns. Has to be less accurate than he was back at the Palace, wouldn’t you say, My Lord?”

“I’m not prepared to wager against the seijin under any circumstances, Tobys,” Coris replied dryly.

“Will you two stop it?!” Irys demanded. “They’re probably chasing him over there right this minute!”

“Well, of course they are, Your Highness,” Raimair acknowledged, turning in the saddle to face her. “Whole point of the exercise.”

“But what if he was wrong about being able to sneak away from them?” Daivyn demanded, his voice tight with anxiety, and Raimair reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair with his hand.

“You ever hear the story about the hunting hound that caught the slash lizard, Your Highness?” he asked. The prince looked up at him without speaking for a second or two, then nodded slowly, and the sergeant shrugged. “Well, there’s your answer. I’m sure they’re doing their damnedest-pardon my language, Your Highness,” he apologized to Irys, “to catch up with him this very minute. And if they’re dead unlucky, they will.”

“We’ve got them now, Sir!”

“You think so?” Colonel Aiphraim Tahlyvyr looked up from the map to arch one eyebrow at his aide. The young man was holding the bull’s-eye lantern so the colonel could see the map, and he looked astounded by his superior’s question.

“Well… yes, Sir,” he said after a moment. “Don’t you?”

“I think we’ve got an excellent chance to catch up with them now,” Tahlyvyr replied. “On the other hand, we ought to have caught them well before now. Traitors or not, and heretics or not, this is an elusive fish, Brahndyn. I’m not going to count it as caught until I’ve netted it and got it in the boat.”

Lieutenant Maigowhyn nodded. His colonel’s passion for fishing was something he’d never understood, but the metaphor made sense, anyway.

“The thing I’m wondering,” Tahlyvyr said meditatively, tapping himself on the chin while he thought, “is whether all that gunfire was really a surprise reaction.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir?”

“Well, whether running into our patrol was a surprise or not, it was pretty spectacular, wasn’t it? Would you care to bet a silver that every single picket and patrol out there isn’t headed in the same direction right now? If you were leading one of those patrols, wouldn’t you have headed straight for the gunfire?”

“Of course, Sir!”

“Spoken like a good officer in training, Brahndyn. ‘Ride to the sound of the guns’-that’s what we teach you. And it’s usually the right thing to do, too. But suppose it wasn’t really all gunfire to begin with? Remember, these bastards blew up a sizable chunk of King Zhames’ palace, according to the wyvern messages. What if they brought along a supply of firecrackers? One man with three or four of those double-barreled ‘pistols’ the Charisians seem so fond of and a couple of dozen firecrackers to go off in the underbrush, and all of a sudden every man we’ve got scattered around the hills is haring off like slash lizards that smell blood. And meanwhile-?”

He arched both eyebrows at Maigowhyn this time, and the lieutenant frowned. Then his eyes widened.

“And meanwhile the rest of them sneak right past us to the river and meet up with their boats, Sir! You really think that’s what’s happening? ”

“Frankly, what I think is almost certainly happening is exactly what Corporal Zhud thinks is happening, and even if it isn’t, their boats turned back two days ago, so there’s no one to meet them anyway,” Tahlyvyr replied. “But I didn’t get to be a colonel by not hedging my bets.”

“So what do you want to do, Sir?”

“Given that anyone who can see lightning or hear thunder knows about that gunfire, and that all of our good, aggressive, competent junior officers and sergeants are going to be riding to the sound of the guns”-the colonel smiled at his aide-“there’s not a whole lot we can do. About the only people we have who aren’t already off wandering through the woods, hopefully overhauling the miscreants even as we speak, are Lieutenant Wyllyms and his detachment.”

“Yes, Sir,” Maigowhyn said with a slight but discernible lack of enthusiasm, and Tahlyvyr chuckled.

“Not the sharpest pencil in the box, I’ll grant, although I really shouldn’t say it,” he admitted. “That’s why I put him in command of our reserves and the extra horses. It let me keep him out of trouble. Now, unfortunately, it also means he’s the only one I can be sure isn’t off chasing gunfire in the gloaming.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Tahlyvyr gazed back down at the map for several seconds, then sighed.

“It’s a pity he doesn’t have more men, but we are talking about a fairly unlikely eventuality. Take him a message, Brahndyn. He’s to leave half his men to look after the remounts. I want him to take the rest downstream as far as this waterfall.” He tapped the map. “I think it’s the first real fall in the stream, so wherever they were supposed to make rendezvous with those boats that aren’t coming after all, it has to be on the far side of that, which means they have to get past it one way or the other. Tell him I want his men posted at the foot of the fall. And, Brahndyn-try to make him feel that I’m trusting him with this because of his competence, not because he’s the only person I can send, all right?”

“Yes, Sir.” Maigowhyn tried hard not to smile, and the colonel shook his head at him.

“You’re a wicked young man, Brahndyn. I foresee a great future for you.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You’re welcome.” Tahlyvyr started to wave the lieutenant on his way, then paused. “Oh, and while you’re at it, remind him that the King and Mother Church would really like to have the Prince and Princess back alive. Tell him I don’t want any shooting unless he’s positive he knows what he shooting at.”

Full night had fallen long since, and the moon was sliding steadily up the eastern sky as Tobys Raimair picked his cautious way down the steep hillside to the brink of the river. The rumbling, rushing, pulsing sound as it poured smoothly over the lip of the waterfall to the basin forty feet below was loud in the darkness. In fact, it was a lot louder than Raimair liked. He would have preferred to be able to hear something besides moving water.

Oh, don’t be an old woman, Tobys! he told himself. It’s worked exactly the way the seijin said it would so far, so don’t go borrowing trouble at this point!

He snorted quietly, then turned in the saddle to wave to the others before he started his horse down the rough footpath beside the river. If Seijin Merlin’s description was as accurate as everything else he’d told them, their ride should be waiting for them at the end of the steep switchbacks.

“By God!” Lieutenant Praiskhat Wyllyms blurted. “By God, the Colonel was right, Father!”

“Yes, it would appear he was, my son,” Father Dahnyvyn Schahl agreed. “We shouldn’t take God’s name in vain, however,” he continued in a gently scolding tone.

“Yes, Father. I’m sorry, Father,” Wyllyms said quickly, and Schahl hid a smile at the lieutenant’s well-trained response. He’d often found the kindly tutor’s role most effective in controlling younger men. Especially younger men who weren’t particularly smart, which described young Wyllyms quite well.

But then the temptation to smile disappeared. To be honest, he’d been almost certain Colonel Tahlyvyr was sending Wyllyms off on a wild wyvern chase. Still, there’d been the possibility he wasn’t, and the sad truth was that Schahl was in no position to influence whatever happened when the colonel’s dragoons caught up with the fugitives in the middle of the woods. He could only be in one place at a time, when all was said, and there was no telling which of the pursuers would actually bring their quarry to bay in the end. It would have been nice if Bishop Mytchail had authorized him to tell the colonel what was really going on, although there was clearly a potential downside to such a revelation. Tahlyvyr was likely to balk at simply cutting the throats of a twenty-year-old girl and an eleven-year-old boy, no matter who told him to do it. And explaining why Irys and Daivyn Daykyn had to die would have been getting into waters it was best to keep laymen well out of. For that matter, Schahl rather doubted Bishop Mytchail had told him everything.

Under the circumstances, he’d decided it made sense to attach himself to Wyllyms. However unlikely, it was still possible Wyllyms would encounter their prey, and the inquisitor felt confident of his ability to manipulate Wyllyms into doing what he wanted, especially given his status as Bishop Mytchail’s special representative. That was how he’d planned on explaining his thinking to the bishop afterward, at any rate. No need to mention the fact that he rode like a sack of potatoes and that his buttocks felt scraped raw and treated with salt.

And now it looked like he’d rolled treble sixes, after all.

“What do you intend to do, my son?” he asked.

“I’m going to let them get most of the way down, then catch them on the trail, Father,” the lieutenant explained. “We’ve got the matches shielded as well as we can, so I don’t think anyone’s going to see them as long as we stay well back in the trees, but I’d just as soon keep them from getting too close before we move. And it’s so damned dark-pardon my language, please-down here in the valley that nobody’d be doing any accurate shooting. But if I catch them spread out on the trail in the moonlight, they won’t have any choice but to surrender.”

“I think, perhaps, it might be better to let them get all the way to the base of the fall before you pounce, my son,” Schahl said.

“Excuse me, Father?” It was impossible to see the lieutenant’s expression in the dark, but Schahl heard the confusion in his voice. “The shadows are far darker below the fall, Father,” Wyllyms pointed out respectfully after a moment, “and the moonlight isn’t getting to the bottom the way it is on the trail. That’d make any kind of accurate shooting even harder. And if we let them get off the trail, down here where the going is better, they might actually try to ride right through us. Frankly, with my men already dismounted to use their matchlocks, there’d be a chance they’d get away with it, too.”

Schahl nodded gravely, revising his estimate of Wyllyms’ mental prowess upward… slightly.

“Those are excellent points, my son,” he said. “And I’m a simple priest, of course, not a soldier. Still, it seems to me that if we let them reach the bottom, they’ll have a sense of confidence at having passed the obstacle. That means the shock of suddenly discovering we’re already down here waiting for them will hit even harder. I believe that’s more likely to paralyze their will to fight or flee. And if they do try to break past us, your men can catch them in a crossfire as they go. I think by far the most likely outcome, however, would be that they’d realize they couldn’t possibly escape back up that steep trail and, with an unknown number of troopers between them and escape on the downriver side, they’d surrender. Assuming they’d be willing to surrender under any circumstances, at least.”

“I see,” Wyllyms said slowly. It was obvious to Schahl that the lieutenant’s instincts were at war with his advice. That was unfortunate. Still, Wyllyms had already demonstrated his deference to the cloth, and Schahl reached up and casually adjusted his priest’s cap.

“As I say, my son, I’m no soldier, but I’m afraid I really must insist in this instance.” Wyllyms stiffened slightly, and Schahl patted him on the shoulder with a fatherly air. “There are elements of the situation of which you’re not aware, my son. Please, just trust me in this.”

“Of course, Father,” Wyllyms said after a moment, and began whispering orders to his sergeants.

Schahl stood back, listening and nodding in approval while his right hand crept into the side pocket of his cassock and touched the smooth, curved wooden grip of the pistol Bishop Mytchail had provided.

Tobys Raimair reached the bottom of the trail and dismounted. The basin below the fall was much larger than he’d thought it was looking down into the darkness from above. It extended well away from the rumbling smother of foam where the water crashed down into it, and he led his weary horse to the edge of the wind- and current-ruffled pool, enjoying the blowing mist and letting the beast drink but keeping one eye on it to make sure it didn’t drink too much. His other eye was on the trail, watching the others make their way down it-slowly and carefully, despite the moonlight-and he allowed himself a sense of cautious optimism.

Still, something didn’t quite smell right. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but there was something…

You really are an old woman tonight, aren’t you? he asked himself sardonically. You’ll find something to worry about, no matter what!

That might very well be true, but it didn’t do anything about that itch he couldn’t quite scratch. Perhaps it was just that the Charisians didn’t seem to have reached the rendezvous point. Well, Seijin Merlin had warned them how far the boats had to come, so it was hardly surprising they hadn’t arrived yet. In fact, the truth was that even with Merlin being forced to lead off the pursuit, this entire operation had gone far more smoothly than Raimair would have believed possible after a lifetime in the Army. Something always went wrong. That was the soldier’s wisdom, and it had never yet failed him.

He grinned, shaking his head, then looked up as Princess Irys reached the bottom with Daivyn before her. Earl Coris was right behind her. The rest of the men followed in single column, with Zhak Mahrys, Rahzhyr Wahltahrs, and Traivahr Zhadwail bringing up the rear.

“Go ahead and dismount, Your Highness,” he said quietly as the princess reached him. “We should probably rest the horses again before we head on downriver. Besides, I’d like to let the moon get a little higher. It’s pretty rocky down here, and the horses’ll need all the moonlight we can get if they’re not going to break a leg.”

“Won’t that make us more visible?” Irys asked. It was a question, not an argument or a criticism, Raimair observed, and nodded back to her.

“Aye, Your Highness, it will,” he agreed. “Still and all, I think we’re probably past them now, given the seijin ’s diversion. And, truth be told, I think it’s a lot more likely a tired horse is going to put a foot wrong in bad light than that we’re suddenly going to be ambushed by a batch of Delferahkan dragoons.”

“Sounds sensible to me, Tobys,” Coris agreed, dismounting as he reached the sergeant’s side. “And-”

“Stand where you are!” a voice shouted suddenly out of the darkness. “Throw down your weapons!”

Young Wyllyms had really done quite well, Schahl observed. It was a pity, in so many ways, that Bishop Mytchail’s instructions left him with no alternative.

“-down your weapons!” the lieutenant shouted, and Schahl heard his two sergeants ordering their men to advance cautiously. The Corisandians were frozen, standing as if struck to stone by the totally unexpected ambush. They obviously had no idea how many men Wyllyms had. If they’d realized how understrength the lieutenant’s platoon actually was, they might have shown more fight. As it was, Wyllyms’ ambush was about to become a brilliant success.

And that, unfortunately, could not be permitted.

The Schuelerite quietly drew the pistol from inside his cassock. He’d never used one of the Charisian-invented weapons before, but it wasn’t all that complicated, and he cocked it as he stepped up close behind the lieutenant.

“It worked, Father!” Wyllyms said exuberantly. “You were right-this is perfect! ”

“I’m happy for you, my son,” Schahl said, and then pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the back of the young man’s skull and pulled the trigger.

Tobys Raimair stood frozen by the shock of the sudden shout, cursing himself for not having listened to that inner instinct. He should have listened! And how had he missed spotting the damned slow matches? They were coming out into the open now, glowing like blink-lizards, but he’d never even seen a thing before they did! He hadn’t paid even that much attention to his job, had he? Oh, no, not him! Instead, he’d let the girl and her brother walk straight into it, and now Then the gunshot roared in the darkness, and the blinding muzzle flash and echoing report jerked him out of his funk. He turned towards Irys, both arms reaching out, gathered her and her brother to his chest, and flung all three of them not to the ground, but into the pool below the waterfall.

“They’ve shot the Lieutenant!” Schahl bellowed, tossing the empty pistol into the river and grimacing distastefully at the blood and bits of brain matter which had blown back over his cassock. “They’ve shot the Lieutenant!” He drew a deep breath. “Kill the heretics!”

“ Down! Everybody down!” Phylyp Ahzgood shouted as he heard the three-word command and knew-somehow he knew -it had come from an inquisitor’s throat. Worse, the troopers out there in the dark would know the same thing, and the bone-deep reflex of obedience to the voice of Mother Church would finish what confusion had begun.

A matchlock flashed, thundering in the darkness. Langhorne only knew where the ball had gone, but another fired, and then another. Inaccurate at the best of times, it would take a special miracle for one of them to hit someone at this range under these conditions, but matchlocks weren’t the only weapons dragoons carried, and Coris knew what was coming.

Why God? a voice demanded bitterly deep inside him. Why did You let us come this far only to fail now?

God didn’t reply. Or not immediately, at any rate. But then “Take ’em, lads!” another voice shouted, and someone cried out in alarm, then screamed in anguish.

“Zhaksyn, make sure none of them get past us!” that same voice shouted-an extraordinarily young voice, Coris realized, but one which carried a hard ring of command.

Another matchlock fired, and then there was a different sound-a flintlock. A fresh muzzle flash stabbed the night, and suddenly half a dozen flintlocks went off almost as one, firing from the hillsides, upslope from and on either side of the dragoons who’d been hidden in the woods.

“Bayonets!” that voice yelled out of the darkness. “Up and in, boys! Up and in! ” it shouted, and the night was abruptly ugly with the clash of metal, the terrible wet sounds of steel driving into human flesh, with screams and curses.

“Quarter!” someone bawled suddenly. “Quarter! Sweet Langhorne! Quarter! ”

And then, that abruptly, it was over.

Silence fell, broken only by the crash and surge of the waterfall and the whimpers of the wounded, and Coris stood very slowly in the fragile stillness. Other sounds began returning to the night, as if creeping cautiously back into it, and he heard rough, sharp voices ordering surrendered men to their feet, herding them together, taking their weapons. It would, he decided, be prudent to remain where he was and avoid any… misunderstandings until that process was completed, and his eyes narrowed as someone stepped out of the darkness into the moonlight.

It was difficult to be certain in such poor light, but the newcomer certainly looked as if he wore the uniform of a Charisian naval officer, although it was obviously somewhat the worse for wear. He paused and cleaned his sword on the tunic of a fallen dragoon, then sheathed the weapon with smooth, economical grace. Coris was still staring at him when he heard a splashing sound.

“If you don’t mind, Phylyp,” Irys Daykyn said tartly, her teeth chattering slightly, “I’d really appreciate a hand.”

He turned quickly, reaching down to take Daivyn as she and Raimair boosted the shivering, obviously frightened boy out of the icy mountain water. The prince flung his arms around Coris’ neck, clinging tightly, and the earl patted his back reassuringly.

“It’s all right, Daivyn. It’s all right now,” he said soothingly.

“I know,” Daivyn said in a tight voice, and nodded once, convulsively, but he never relaxed his hold, and Coris looked helplessly down at Irys over her brother’s shoulder.

“Allow me, Your Highness,” someone else said in a pronounced Charisian accent, and the newcomer in the naval uniform was suddenly beside him, reaching down both hands to Irys. She looked up at him for a moment, then reached to take the offered hands. The Charisian wasn’t especially tall or broad-shouldered, but he boosted her effortlessly out of the water. Then he reached down again and hoisted Tobys Raimair out, as well.

“That was quick thinking, getting them below ground level that way when the shooting started,” he congratulated the sergeant. It was still a ridiculously young-sounding voice, Coris decided, but it was also crisp and decisive. A very reassuring voice, all things taken together.

“Excuse me,” its owner continued, turning back to Coris, Irys, and Daivyn. He bowed gracefully. “Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk, Imperial Charisian Navy, at your service. If you’re ready to go, I have two boats waiting about a mile downstream from here. It’ll be a little crowded,” teeth gleamed faintly in the moonlight which was finally probing into the darkness at the foot of the waterfall, “but I believe you’ll find the accommodations preferable to these.”

“I believe you’re right, Lieutenant,” Coris said gratefully. “In fact-”

“Beg pardon, Sir,” another voice interrupted, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk-and did that name indicate this youngster was who Coris thought he was?-turned towards the interruption with a frown.

“What is it, Mahlyk?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone.

“Beg pardon for interrupting, Sir,” the other voice belonged to what could only be a professional Charisian petty officer, “but I think this is important.”

“And what, exactly, is ‘this’?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk prompted.

“Well, Sir, Zhaksyn put the arm on this priest here when he tried to scamper off downstream,” the petty officer said, dragging a prisoner into the moonlight. “And we found the officer in command of this here ambush, too, Sir. Seems somebody ”-the petty officer kicked the prisoner to his knees, and Coris saw the priest’s cap and cassock-“blowed the poor bastard’s-beg pardon for the language, Your Highness”-he bobbed Irys a brief bow-“blowed the poor bastard’s brains out. ’Twasn’t any of us, because from the powder burns, whoever it was shot him from behind and real up close and personal, like. And a funny thing, Sir, but this here priest? He’s got blood and brains splashed all over his right arm.”

“Does he now?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said in a deadly soft voice.

“I’m a priest of Mother Church!” the captive thundered suddenly, surging up as he started back to his feet. “How dare you-?!”

He went back down again, this time squealing in pain, as the petty officer casually, and with brutal efficiency, stamped down-hard-on the back of his right knee.

“A priest, are you?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said in that same deadly voice. “And a servant of the Inquisition, no doubt?”

“A priest of any order is still a priest of God!” the prostrate cleric shouted furiously, both hands clutching at the back of his knee. “And he who lays a hand on any priest of God is guilty of blasphemy!”

“An inquisitor, all right,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said, and looked past the petty officer still standing over the Schuelerite. “Zhaksyn, go find me the senior prisoner. Bring him here.”

“Aye, Sir.”

“I tell you, you’re all-!” the priest began again, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk looked at the petty officer.

“Mahlyk?” he said quietly.

“My pleasure, Sir,” the petty officer said, and kicked the priest none too gently in the belly. The inquisitor doubled up into a ball with a shrill, whistling cry of pain and then lay grunting and gasping for breath while the petty officer watched him with a mildly interested air.

The priest was just starting to get his breath back when the man named Zhaksyn returned with a Delferahkan dragoon. The man had been wounded, and a rough dressing around his upper left arm was stained black with blood in the moonlight, but the shock of such abrupt defeat when victory had seemed certain was obviously more debilitating than any sword cut.

“This here’s the senior sergeant, near as I can tell, Sir,” Zhaksyn said.

“Thank you.” Aplyn-Ahrmahk turned to the Delferahkan. “ Are you the senior prisoner?” he asked.

“Aye, that I am… Sir,” the Delferahkan said. “Leastwise, I am if the Lieutenant’s really dead.”

“Oh, he’s dead, mate,” the petty officer said. “Shot in the back of the head, and from real close, too.”

“What?” The Delferahkan looked back and forth between Aplyn-Ahrmahk and the petty officer. “That don’t make no sense… Sir. The Lieutenant, he was behind us. And the Father said he was dead before any of you lot started shooting from the hills! I thought the shot had to come from here.”

He jabbed the index finger of his good hand at the rocky edge of the pool.

“That’s exactly what you were supposed to think, Sergeant,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said grimly. “This Schuelerite bastard murdered your lieutenant in order to turn what should have been an orderly surrender into a massacre. And it would have worked if we hadn’t already been here keeping an eye on things-and you-when your lot first arrived, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know as how-” the sergeant began uncomfortably, then stopped. “Aye, Sir,” he admitted in a lower voice. “Aye, it would’ve, that it surely would.”

“This is all lies!” the priest sputtered suddenly, still more than a little breathless from that kick in the belly. “Lies by heretics and blasphemers-by excommunicates! Sergeant, you can’t take their word for this! Why, it probably was one of them, deliberately shooting poor Lieutenant Wyllyms down from ambush without warning, just to discredit me! Is it my fault I was standing so close to him I was splashed with his blood when they killed him?!”

The sergeant looked down at the priest for a moment, then met Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s eyes in the moonlight.

“He weren’t the very smartest officer nor I ever served under, the Lieutenant,” he said, “but he were a good lad, an’ he always tried to do what was right. Didn’t always manage it, but he tried, Sir. And in a fair fight, all the holes would’ve been in the front, not the back like this. It ain’t right, Sir.” He shook his head, his voice stubborn. “It ain’t right.”

“No, it isn’t, Sergeant,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk agreed. “So I have only one more question for you.”

“Sir?” the Delferahkan said a bit cautiously.

“This man is obviously a Schuelerite,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said. “Can you confirm that he’s also an inquisitor?”

“Aye, Sir,” the Delferahkan replied. “That he is. Attached to Colonel Tahlyvyr special by Bishop Mytchail. Heard him telling the Colonel myself, I did.”

“Think what you’re doing, Sergeant!” the priest snapped. “By God, I’ll see you put to the Punishment for collaborating with heretics! I’ll-”

The Delferahkan flinched, but then his shoulders hunched stubbornly and he glared down at the priest.

“He’s an inquisitor, Sir,” he said firmly. “Sure as sure.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Aplyn-Ahrmahk nodded to the Delferahkan, then looked at the petty officer. “Stand him up, Mahlyk,” he said flatly.

“Waste of good sweat, Sir,” the petty officer said. “He’ll only be back down in a minute or two.”

“Even an inquisitor should have the chance to die on his feet, Stywyrt,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk replied in a voice of iron.

“What?” The priest stared up at him in shock. “What did you just say?”

“You and your friend Clyntahn should pay more attention to proclamations coming out of Tellesberg,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said coldly. “Some of those men you tortured and butchered in Zion were friends of mine, and every damned one of them was innocent. Well, the blood on your cassock says you’re not, and my Emperor and Empress’ policy where inquisitors are concerned is very clear.”

“You can’t be-I mean, I’m a priest! A priest of Mother Church! You can’t just-”

“I know priests,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk told him as Stywyrt Mahlyk hauled him to his feet by the collar of his cassock. “I even know a Schuelerite priest-a good one, the kind who truly serves God. And that’s how I know you aren’t one, whatever that fat, greedy bastard in Zion might say.” He drew a pistol from his belt and cocked it. “If you want to make your peace with God, you have thirty seconds.”

“ Damn you! Who do you think you are to threaten a consecrated priest of God! You wouldn’t dare -!”

“You don’t want to make peace?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said. “Fine.”

His hand rose, his finger squeezed, and Dahnyvyn Schahl’s eyes were just starting to widen in disbelieving terror when his head disintegrated. The body dropped like a sring-cut puppet, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk turned to Earl Coris and Princess Irys.

“I apologize for the delay,” he said as the muzzle smoke of his pistol wisped away on the cool, damp breath of the fall. “Now, I believe those boats are still waiting for us.”