David Weber - How firm a foundation

Silence sang and crackled over the com for endless seconds. Then “No,” Domynyk Staynair said, his voice almost inaudible. “No, I wouldn’t, Cayleb.”

“Churchill and Coventry, Merlin,” Cayleb said almost as softly, and Merlin winced. Sharleyan looked up at him, one eyebrow raised, and he shrugged.

“An episode from World War Two back on Old Terra,” he said. “It was an example I used with Cayleb once in Corisande.”

“And it’s still a good one,” Cayleb put in. “I don’t like it. Like Sharley, I hate it. But somebody’s got to make the call, and for better or for worse, it’s me. And ugly as this is, as much as it’s going to stick in my craw and choke me, I don’t see another option. For that matter, Domynyk, if we could tell Gwylym the entire truth, what do you think he’d recommend?”

“Exactly what you just have, Your Majesty.” Staynair spoke with unwonted formality, yet there was no trace of doubt in his voice.

“That’s what I think, too,” Cayleb said sadly. . IV.

Weavers Guildhall and Royal Palace, City of Manchyr, Princedom of Corisande

Paitryk Hainree stood on the walkway around the water tower cistern atop the Weavers Guildhall. The tower’s facade was a kaleidoscope of sheep, angora lizards, spinning maidens, and busy looms, all carved into the Barcor Mountain granite of which it was made. It was one of the best known tourist attractions in Manchyr, but Hainree didn’t care about that as he gazed out across the city of his birth and swore with vicious, silent venom while the galleons flying the black, blue, and white banner of the Empire of Charis edged delicately towards the Manchyr wharves. The sun was barely up, the air was still cool, with that smoky blue edge that comes just after dawn, the wind-powered pump which kept the cistern filled squeaked softly, almost musically behind him, and the air was fresh from the previous evening’s gentle rain. It was going to be a beautiful day, he thought rancorously, when it should have been ripped by tornadoes and hurricanes.

His hands clenched on the walkway railing, forearms quivering with the force of his grip, eyes burning with hatred. Bad enough that that bitch “empress” should be visiting Corisande at all, but far worse to see the city draping itself with bunting, decorating its streets and squares with cut greenery and flowers. What did the idiots think they were doing? Couldn’t they see where this was heading? Perhaps it looked for now as if the accursed Charisians were succeeding, but they’d set their puny, blasphemous wills against God, damn it! In the end, there could be only one outcome for mortal men vain and stupid enough to do that.

The air began to thud and the harbor fortresses blossomed with spurts of smoke as their guns thundered in formal salute to the arriving Empress of Charis. The waterfront was the better part of a mile from Hainree’s vantage point, yet even from here he could hear the cheers go up from the packed wharves. For a moment, his entire body quivered with a sudden urge to fling himself over the railing. To plummet down to the paving below and put an end to his own fury. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t let the bastards be shed of him that easily.

He stared at the incoming galleons for another moment, then turned his back resolutely and started towards the ladder. He had a final inspection to make before he could sign off on his current assignment, and then he had his own preparations to see to.

He descended the ladder with the confidence and ease of practice. There was little left of the silversmith he’d once been as he swung down the rungs. That Paitryk Hainree had disappeared forever fourteen months ago when Father Aidryan Wayman was arrested by the Charisians’ Corisandian flunkies. Fortunately, before that happened, Hainree had taken Father Aidryan’s advice to heart and established an escape plan all his own, one no one else had known anything about. And because he had, he’d managed to elude the terrifyingly efficient sweep of Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s guardsmen. He still wasn’t certain how he’d accomplished that, especially since they’d been hunting him by name and with a damnably accurate description, but if he’d needed any evidence that God Himself was watching out for him, he’d certainly had it as Father Aidryan’s entire organization was smashed to flinders in a matter of days… and he wasn’t.

And the other thing he’d had evidence of was that the only way to avoid arrest was to operate completely independently. To trust and recruit no one. At least a dozen other efforts to organize resistance against the occupation and the abomination of the Church of Charis had foundered in the last year. It was as if Gahrvai’s guard had eyes everywhere, ears listening to every conversation. The only way to avoid them was to say nothing to anyone, and so Hainree had found new employment with the city of Manchyr’s construction and maintenance office. He’d grown a beard, cut his hair differently, changed the way he dressed, gotten a colorful tattoo on his right cheek and the side of his neck, and found himself a room on the other side of the city where no one had ever seen or known him. He’d gone to ground and become someone else, who’d never heard of Paitryk Hainree the rabble-rouser.

But he hadn’t forgotten Paitryk Hainree, and neither had he forgotten his duty to God and his murdered prince. They’d taken everything he’d ever been from him when they forced him to flee with a price on his head, yet that had simply added to his anger and his determination. Perhaps he was only one man, but one man-properly motivated-could still change an entire princedom.

Or even an empire, he thought as he neared the ground. Or even an empire.

“Her portraits don’t do her justice, do they?” Sir Alyk Ahrthyr murmured in Koryn Gahrvai’s ear. “I hadn’t realized she was so good-looking!”

“Alyk,” Gahrvai whispered back, “I love you like a brother. But if you say one word to Her Majesty…”

He let the sentence trail off, and Ahrthyr chuckled. The dashing Earl of Windshare found beautiful women irresistible. And, unfortunately, all too many beautiful women returned the compliment. By Gahrvai’s count, Ahrthyr had fought at least eight duels with irate brothers, fiances, fathers, and husbands. Of course, those were just the ones he knew about, and since Prince Hektor had outlawed public duels over ten years ago-officially, at least-there were probably more that Gahrvai didn’t know about.

So far the earl had managed to survive all of them, and done it without killing anyone (and getting himself outlawed) in the process. How long he could keep that up was open to question. Besides, Gahrvai had met Cayleb Ahrmahk. Any woman he’d married was going to be more than a match for Windshare, and that didn’t even consider what would happen if Cayleb found out about it.

“Ah, there’s no poetry in your soul, Koryn!” the earl said now. “Anyone who could look on that face-and that figure, too, now that I think of it-and not be stirred is a confirmed misogynist.” Ahrthyr paused, cocking his head to one side. “That wouldn’t be the reason your father still isn’t a grand father, would it, Koryn? Is there something you’ve never told me?”

“I’ve never told you I was about to kill you… until now,” Gahrvai returned repressively. “That’s subject to change if you don’t shut up , though.”

“Bully,” Windshare muttered. “And party pooper, too, now that I think of it.” Gahrvai’s elbow drove none too gently into the earl’s sternum and he “oofed” at the impact. “All right,” he surrendered with a grin, rubbing his chest. “You win. I’ll shut up. See, this is me not saying a thing. Very peaceful, isn’t it? I don’t believe you’ve ever had such a restful afternoon with me arou-”