David Weber - How firm a foundation

The second elbow strike was considerably more forceful than the first.

Sharleyan paced calmly up the crimson runner of carpet towards the throne. It was the first time she’d ever been in Manchyr, although she’d studied this very throne room many times since she’d gained access to Owl’s SNARCs. It was rather more impressive in person, though, and much as she’d hated Hektor Daykyn, she had to admit he’d had far better taste than the late Grand Duke of Zebediah. Sunlight spilled through tall, arched windows down its long western wall, puddling on the polished parquet floor’s inlaid marble medallions and geometric patterns. The wall itself was plastered and coffered, with the personal seals of the last half-dozen princes of Corisande worked into the recesses between the window embrasures in vibrant color, and banners hung from the high, spacious ceiling Manchyr’s near-equatorial climate imposed on local architecture. That vaulted ceiling was also coffered, with polished, richly gleaming wooden beams framing painted panels decorated with incidents from the House of Daykyn’s history, and the entire eastern wall consisted of latticed glass doors opening onto a formal garden glowing with tropical blossoms and glossy greenery.

At the moment she had rather less attention to spare than the architecture and landscaping probably deserved, however, and she concentrated on maintaining her confident expression as she processed towards the dais where the Earl of Anvil Rock, the Earl of Tartarian, and the other members of Prince Daivyn’s Regency Council waited to greet her formally.

The remaining members of the Regency Council, at any rate, she reminded herself a bit tartly. Although, to be fair, Sir Wahlys Hillkeeper, the Earl of Craggy Hill, was still technically a member. Changing that-permanently-was one of the purposes of her visit.

It was extraordinarily quiet, quiet enough for her to hear the distant sound of surf through the glass doors which had been opened onto the garden. She had no doubt there were dozens of soft, hushed side conversations all about her, but these were courtiers. They’d learned how to have those conversations without drawing attention to themselves, and most of them were probably downright eager to avoid drawing her attention at this particular moment.

She felt her lips quiver with amusement and suppressed the thought firmly, continuing her stately, not to say implacable progress along the carpet. She wasn’t as ostentatiously surrounded by bodyguards as she’d been in Zebediah, although no one was going to crowd her here, either. Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s guardsmen lined the throne room’s walls, bayoneted muskets grounded, and an honor guard of Imperial Charisian Marines had escorted her from the docks to the palace. She’d wanted to insist on a smaller, less obvious and lower-keyed presence, but she’d known better. There was no point pretending this was Chisholm or Charis. Not that there’d never been an attempt to kill her in Charis, now that she thought about it.

That reflection carried her to the end of the carpet, Merlin Athrawes pacing respectfully at her heels while Edwyrd Seahamper kept a king wyvern’s eye on the rest of her personal detail, and Sir Rysel Gahrvai bowed formally to her.

“On behalf of Prince Daivyn, welcome to Manchyr, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Thank you, My Lord,” she replied. “I wish my visit might have come under happier circumstances, yet the welcome I’ve received-not just from you, but from so many of Manchyr’s people-has been far warmer than I’d anticipated.”

He bowed again at the compliment, although there’d been a slight double edge to it. For that matter, there’d been a double edge to his greeting. The exact status of Prince Daivyn remained what diplomats referred to as “a gray area,” and for all the genuine spontaneity of the cheers which had greeted Sharleyan, not everyone in the greeting crowds had been cheering. Indeed, she suspected that no more than half of them had, and quite a few of those who hadn’t cheered had been stonefaced and grimly silent, instead.

“May I escort you to your throne, Your Majesty?” Anvil Rock asked, and she inclined her head in gracious assent before she laid the fingertips of her right hand on his forearm. He assisted her carefully (and completely unnecessarily) up the five steps to the top of the dais and she smiled at him before she turned and seated herself.

She looked out across the throne room, seeing the faces, trying to sample the emotional aura. It was difficult, despite all the hours she’d spent poring over the SNARCs’ reports from this very city. She felt confident she’d assessed Manchyr’s attitude accurately, at least in general terms, and she knew far more about the aristocrats and clerics thronging this room than any of them could possibly imagine. Yet these were still human beings, and no one could predict human behavior with total assurance.

A throat cleared itself quietly to her right, and she looked up at Archbishop Klairmant Gairlyng. He looked back at her gravely, and she smiled and pitched her voice to carry.

“Before we begin, would you be kind enough to thank God for me for my safe arrival here, Your Eminence?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he agreed with a small bow, then straightened and gazed out across the throne room himself.

“Let us pray,” he said. Heads bowed throughout the vast room, and he raised his voice. “Almighty God, the high and mighty ruler of the universe, we thank You for the safety in which You have brought our royal visitor to this court. We beseech You to smile upon her and so to show her Your favor that she walks always in Your ways, mindful of Your commands and the dictates of Your justice. Guide, we beseech You, all the nations of this Your world into the way of Your truth and establish among them that peace which is the fruit of righteousness, that they may be in truth Your Kingdom and walk in all the ways You have prepared for them. And we most especially beseech You to look down from Your throne and bless Your servant Daivyn and all who advise, guide, and guard him. Bring him, too, safely back to us, and so resolve and compose the differences between Your children that all rulers of clean heart and good intent may gather in the amity Your plan has decreed for all men. We ask this in the name of Your servant Langhorne, who first declared Your will among men to the glory of Your Name. Amen.”

That was an interesting choice of phrasing, Sharleyan thought wryly as she joined the others in touching fingertips first to her heart and then to her lips. The tightrope here in Corisande was more complicated than almost anywhere else in the youthful Empire of Charis, and Gairlyng clearly understood that. He’d managed to avoid calling Sharleyan Corisande’s ruler, and she’d noticed the “royal visitor,” as opposed to the possible “imperial visitor.” At the same time, he’d adroitly avoided calling her an interloper, either, and no one could very well take offense at his request for God’s blessing on young Daivyn. And the “resolve and compose the differences between Your children” was straight out of the Church of God Awaiting’s most ancient liturgy. Of course, the people who’d written that liturgy had never envisioned a situation quite like this one.

The stir and shuffle of feet, the rustle of clothing and clearing of throats, which always followed a moment of prayer in Sharleyan’s experience whispered through the throne room. Then Anvil Rock turned towards her and bowed, wordlessly offering her the opportunity to speak without any awkward little formalities which might have conceded-or denied-her authority to do so.

“I thank you for the welcome I received at dockside this morning,” she said, and saw one or two people look up sharply when she avoided the royal “we.” Well, there’d be time enough for that later.