“Second, since the merger of the two kingdoms was a part of the illegal and hence void marriage contract, it was also illegal, which means Chisholm’s never legally been a part of this Charisian Empire abortion.
“Third, not content with flouting the constitution through an illegal marriage and merger, Sharleyan and Cayleb have conspired to further curtail the ancient rights and privileges of the peers of the Realm, continuing the process King Sailys began illegally by brute force of arms all those years ago.
“Fourth, this illegal mockery of a marriage has involved the Kingdom in a needless war against Mother Church, leading directly to the deaths of thousands upon thousands of Sharleyan’s subjects who need not have died. And, even if it be granted that Mother Church—or some of her vicars, acting in her name—have been guilty of crimes of their own, the commission of still more crimes is no way to address the problem! Certainly not before first seeking redress through the ecclesiastic courts provided by the Holy Writ and the blessed Archangels themselves for that very purpose.
“And fifth, Sharleyan and Cayleb, in order to whip up support for this entire illegal, obscene edifice they’ve constructed, are encouraging the dregs of society—not just peasants and the rabble of the street but actual ex-serfs—to combine in an unholy alliance against the stability and property rights of the Kingdom, creating a … a mobocracy, for want of a better term, that pits their base-born ‘allies’ against not simply the nobility, but also against the small property owners, the shopkeepers, and the skilled craftsmen who, along with our farmers, have always been the true bone and sinew of Chisholm.”
He folded the sheet of paper and handed it across to the under-priest.
“I’m sure it needs a little polish, Father, and I’m much more comfortable with actions than with words. But at least it’s clear, and at least it’s a starting point. And between you and me,” he met Mahrtynsyn’s eyes levelly, “a man could die for a lot worse principles than these.”
* * *
“If you think those are principles worth dying for, Your Grace, I’ve got a nice little floating island in Hsing-wu’s Passage I’d like to sell you for a summer vacation home,” Nahrmahn Baytz said sourly. “Of course, you’d better get it built before it melts!”
At the moment, he was “visiting” in Owl’s main CPU. The AI had enabled the link as part of the support he—Owl had decided he definitely preferred the masculine pronoun—provided to maintain Nahrmahn’s incomplete gestalt. Since the two of them had become so … intimately connected, Owl had built what amounted to a guesthouse for Nahrmahn’s virtual personality, and the two of them conducted quite a bit of their intelligence analysis there in hyper heuristic mode.
“I have observed that humans historically have been capable of embracing any number of illogical ‘principles worth dying for,’” Owl observed now. “I believe Duke Rock Coast’s are no more foolish than a great many others.”
“Now there, Owl, I’m afraid you may have a point,” Nahrmahn admitted. “Of course, I may be just a bit prejudiced, since I was never so foolish as to decide to die for a principal.”
“My analysis suggests that that was simply because you never had to choose whether or not to do so,” Owl corrected gently. “Although, I will concede that when you did choose to die, it was for something rather more important than an empty, self-serving political ‘principle.’”
“There wasn’t a great deal of ‘choosing’ to it, really. It was more a matter of automatic reaction.”
“And, looking back, would you have chosen any other way?” Owl challenged with a smile.
“No,” Nahrmahn acknowledged. He rested one electronic hand on the AI’s equally immaterial shoulder and shook him gently. “No, I wouldn’t have. So I suppose you win this one.”
“When it is a matter of logic and analysis, I almost always win,” Owl pointed out. “Unfortunately, dealing with humans, logic and analysis are usually the last resort of scoundrels.”
“A joke!” Nahrmahn laughed delightedly. “I’m corrupting you, Owl! Next thing, you’ll be producing puns!”
“At which point I trust Commander Athrawes will be compassionate enough to order a complete memory purge,” Owl replied.
Nahrmahn laughed again, then returned his attention to the task at hand.
Quite a bit of written correspondence was passing back and forth as the conspirators moved into the end game. They didn’t have much choice about that, although most of it was being conscientiously burned after it was read by its recipient. The SNARCs’ remotes got solid imagery of almost all of it before it was consigned to the flames, and the people who’d burned it were going to be dreadfully surprised when perfect replicas of it turned up as evidence against them. Not all of it, of course—only the most incriminating bits. And only when there was a convincing way to explain—to someone else, at least—how it might have come into the prosecution’s hands. Which meant, among other things, that it had to be correspondence no witness had seen burned.
It’s really fortunate that most traitors prefer to dispose of the really incriminating evidence in splendid solitude, he thought now. That’s going to make it just a little difficult for Rock Coast and his friends. It’s not as if it’s going to make things a lot better for them if they announce we can’t possibly have that evidence because they destroyed it, since the fact that they destroyed it confirms it once existed, anyway. For that matter, destroying it in the first place would constitute admission of guilt, wouldn’t it?
He chortled quietly to himself as he contemplated the potential law masters’ arguments. The possible consequences for Safehold’s jurisprudence might be … interesting. Not that it was going to matter much in the end.
They’ll have open, scrupulously fair trials before we hang them, he thought. Which, his expression darkened, is one hell of a lot more than they’re planning on giving anyone on the other side.
And meanwhile, it was time for the mysterious seijins to write up their latest discoveries. He sat back in a virtual chair, leafing through his notes while he decided which sections to put into which seijin’s handwriting.
It was almost worth having died to be able to play the Great Game at this level, he decided.
.II.
Mahkbyth’s Fine Spirits and Wine,
Mylycynt Court,
City of Zion,
The Temple Lands.
The bell over the door jingled.
“Good afternoon, Sir. How may I serve you?”
Zhak Myllyr’s voice registered only vaguely with Ahrloh Mahkbyth. If Zhak hadn’t been there to promptly greet whoever had just entered the shop, that would have registered sharply and immediately. The sound of things going the way they were supposed to, on the other hand, was poor compensation for the fact that he couldn’t figure out where an entire case of Yu-kwau brandy had gone.
He glowered at the inventory list. Paperwork was his least favorite part of owning his own business, but he was usually good at it. Misplacing something that big—and expensive—was unlike him. And, of course, he had to have done it now, when the Charisian commerce-raiders swarming about the Western Gulf of Dohlar guaranteed there wouldn’t be any replacement shipments from the Bay of Alexov anytime soon. If Zhak Myllyr hadn’t been a scrupulously honest sort—aside from a single understandable shortcoming—he’d have wondered if pilferage could explain it. But that was ridiculous! It was more likely Langhorne would return in glory than that Zhak Myllyr would steal from his employer. And the truth was that there’d been enough other—and more pressing—matters on his mind of late to produce a dozen errors no worse than this one. No, it was here somewhere; he just had to find it. And once he did, by God, he wouldn’t let it slip away ag—