David Weber - How firm a foundation

“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.”