David Weber - How firm a foundation

Grahsmahn had been wrong, Paitryk Hainree decided. Empress Sharleyan was a beautiful woman, and not simply because of the magnificence of her clothing or the crown of state glittering on her head under the lamplight. Hate churned in his belly whenever he looked at her, yet he couldn’t deny the simple truth. And physical beauty, when it came down to it, was one of Shan-wei’s most deadly weapons. It was easy for a young and beautiful queen to inspire loyalty and devotion where some twisted crone whose physical envelope was as ugly as her soul would have found it far more difficult.

She had a commanding presence, too. Despite her youthfulness, she was clearly the dominant figure in the huge ballroom, and not simply because every witness knew she was there to send those brought before her to the headsman. Hainree had learned more than a few of the orator’s and politician’s tricks building his resistance movement here in Manchyr, and he recognized someone who’d mastered those skills far more completely than he had.

Especially now.

Total silence had fallen as she told the foursome in front of her to simply go home. No one had expected it, and her knowledge of each of the four convicted men had startled everyone. She’d consulted no notes, needed no memorandums; she’d known what each of them had done and, even more, she’d known why he’d done it. Corisandians were unaccustomed to monarchs or nobles or clerics who looked that deeply into the lives of those brought before them for judgment. And then she’d pardoned them. Their guilt had been proven, the sentence had been passed… and she’d exercised an empress’ prerogative and pardoned them.

Even Hainree, who recognized a cynical political maneuver when he saw one, sat stunned by the totally unanticipated turn of events. But the silence didn’t linger. He didn’t know who started it, but the single pair of clapping hands somewhere among the benches of witnesses was joined in a rippling, swelling torrent by more. Then more. Within seconds Princess Aleatha’s Ballroom was filled with the thunder of applause, and Paitryk Hainree made himself come to his own feet, sharing that applause even as he cringed inside when someone so deceived by Sharleyan’s ploy actually shouted “God save Your Majesty!”

It took the guardsmen stationed throughout the ballroom several minutes to even begin restoring order, and Hainree took advantage of the confusion to change his position. Still clapping, obviously lost in his enthusiasm for Empress Sharleyan’s compassion and mercy, he stepped forward, shouldering his way through other applauding witnesses. He’d been seated three benches back; by the time the applause began to die away, he’d reached the front row.

The thunder of clapping hands faded, not instantly and quickly but into smaller clusters that gradually slowed and then ceased, and Paitryk Hainree’s right hand slid into the formal tunic which had cost him every one of the hard-earned marks he’d managed to save up over the past six months. It was probably better than any the real Grahsmahn had owned, but it had been worth every mark he’d paid. Coupled with Grahsmahn’s summons to attend, his respectable garb had gotten him waved past the sentries stationed outside the ballroom. The sergeant who’d checked his summons had actually nodded respectfully to him, unaware of the way Hainree’s heart had hammered and his palms had sweated.

Yet there was no sweat on those palms now, and he felt a great, swelling surge of elation. Of accomplishment. God had brought him to this time and this place for a reason, and Paitryk Hainree would not fail Him.

Merlin Athrawes stood at Sharleyan’s back, watching the crowd. Owl had deployed sensor remotes at strategic points, as well, but even with the AI’s assistance there were too many people for Merlin to feel comfortable. There were simply too many bodies packed into the ballroom.

I wish Edwyrd and I had argued harder against this entire idea, he thought as the clapping and cheers began to die away. Oh, it’s a masterstroke, no question! But this is a damned nightmare from a security perspective. Still, it looks like -

“ Death to all heretics! ” Hainree shouted, and his hand came out of his tunic.

Merlin might no longer be human, but he felt his heart freeze as the shrill shout cut through the fading cheers. Even a creature of mollycircs, with a reaction speed far greater than any flesh-and-blood human, could be paralyzed-however briefly-by shock. For the tiniest sliver of an instant, he could only stand there, his head snapping around, eyes searching for the person who’d shouted.

He saw the bearded man standing in the front row, well dressed but obviously not an aristocrat. Then he saw the man’s right hand, and his own hand flashed towards the pistol at his side even as he leapt forward and his other hand reached for Sharleyan.

But that instant of shock had held him just too long.

The double-barreled pistol in Hainree’s hand had been made in Charis. He’d found that grimly appropriate when one of his original followers ambushed and murdered a Marine officer and brought him the weapon as a trophy.

It had been surprisingly difficult to acquire any sort of accuracy with the thing, and he’d quickly used up all of the ammunition which had been captured with it. A silversmith had no problem preparing the mold he needed to cast his own bullets, however, and he’d practiced hard even before Sir Koryn Gahrvai had arrested Father Aidryan and broken Hainree’s own organization. He’d also sawed two inches off its barrel in order to make it more easily concealable and he’d devised a canvas scabbard to carry it under his left arm, hidden inside his generously cut tunic. There’d been times he’d wondered why he’d bothered, and why he’d kept a weapon which would automatically have convicted him of treason against the Regency Council if it had been found in his possession.

Now, as the heel of his left hand cocked both locks in a single, practiced swipe, his right hand raised the weapon, and he squeezed the trigger.

Flame flashed from the pistol’s priming pan and Merlin heard the distinctive “chuff-CRACK!” of a discharging flintlock in the instant before he reached Sharleyan.

His own pistol fired in the same fragment of time. It all happened far too quickly, too chaotically, for even a PICA to sort out. The two shots sounded as one, the assassin’s second barrel discharged into the floor, Merlin’s fingertips touched Sharleyan’s shoulder… and he heard her sudden sharp grunt of anguish.

Impossible.

The single word had time to flash through Paitryk Hainree’s mind before the sapphire-eyed Imperial Guardsman’s bullet exploded through his right lung a quarter inch from his heart. No human being could move that quickly, react that quickly!

Then the agony ripped him apart. He heard himself cry out, felt the pistol buck in his hand as the second barrel fired uselessly, felt himself going to his knees. He dropped the smoking weapon, both hands clawed at the brutal chest wound, he felt blood spraying from his mouth and nostrils in a choking, coppery tide, and a sudden terrible fear roared through him.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d come here knowing he was going to his death, succeed or fail, so what was wrong with him? Why should the actual approach of death terrify him this way? What had happened to his faith, his belief? And where was God’s comfort and courage when he needed Him most?

There were no answers, only the questions, and he felt even them pouring out of him with his blood as he swayed and then toppled weakly from his knees.