“I’d rather just move in, round them up, and detach a few heads,” Stoneheart said flatly. “I’d think that would ‘bolster’ Lady Karyl’s security quite nicely!”
“Now, Sylvyst!” White Crag shook his head, his cataract-cloudy eyes gleaming with grim amusement in the lamplight. “Aren’t you the person in this room who should be most concerned with little things like due process?”
“I’ll be perfectly prepared to get back to due process the instant the blood stops spurting,” Stoneheart replied, and it was obvious he wasn’t even half jesting.
“I understand exactly why you feel that way, My Lord,” the man who’d introduced himself as Cennady Frenhines said.
Although his accent was that of Chisholm—indeed, he sounded as if he was from Serpent Hill, in the Earldom of Shayne—that was a name no Chisholmian had ever borne. Which was hardly surprising. As nearly as White Crag, Stoneheart, or Zhustyn could tell, every single one of the seijins who’d offered their services to the Empire of Charis had equally outlandish names.
“Her Majesty is adamant about this, however,” Frenhines continued very seriously. “It may not be my place to say this, but I think His Majesty would prefer to do it your way, because he’s worried about how many people may get hurt before this is over. But the Empress is determined to cut out this cancer once and for all. For that, she needs any nobleman as senior as Duke Rock Coast to implicate himself too thoroughly for anyone to question his guilt. I believe the phrase she used to the Emperor was ‘I need my own Zebediahs.’”
“And she’s right, with all due respect, My Lord,” Zhustyn told Stoneheart grimly. “This problem’s crept out of the shadows every few years from the moment King Sailys began the Restoration. And it’s going to keep on creeping until the people who want to turn back the clock finally get it through their heads—those of them who still have heads—that it isn’t going to happen. Her Majesty’s never been hesitant about doing what needs doing, but she’s in a far stronger position today than she ever was before. I understand exactly why Her Majesty wants these people to make their move. And I also understand why she wants enough object lessons to be sure the lesson finally goes home.”
Stoneheart looked back at the spymaster for several seconds while the midnight wind prowled restlessly around the eaves of the King Tayrens Chancellery. That wind was just as cold as the one whining outside a drafty library in Rydymak Keep, two thousand and more miles west of Cherayth, but this one was heavy with snow flurries turning rapidly into something much more like a blizzard.
“Sir Ahlber’s put his finger on exactly what Her Majesty hopes to accomplish,” the hawk-faced Frenhines agreed somberly, his wrist-thick braid gleaming under the lamps which were considerably brighter than those in Lady Karyl’s library. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want precautions taken.”
“What sort of precautions, Seijin Cennady?” White Crag asked.
“She’s sent along written instructions for General Kahlyns.”
Frenhines reached into the imperial courier’s shoulder satchel he’d carried into the chancellery and extracted a heavy canvas envelope. He passed it across to the First Councilor, who handed it on to Stoneheart without comment. The Lord Justice glanced at the label—unlike White Crag, his vision was still clear and sharp—and nodded to his colleague as he recognized Sharleyan Tayt Ahrmahk’s personal handwriting and seal.
“And did she summarize those instructions for you?” White Crag inquired, and smiled thinly when Frenhines nodded. “It’s unfortunate the General can’t hear your impression of them directly.”
“My Lord, it’s over two hundred miles from Cherayth to Maikelberg.” The seijin shook his head with a smile, sapphire eyes glinting. “Not even Seijin Merlin could be in both places at once when he was here with Their Majesties! And if there happened to be some way I might actually accomplish that, you know what Clyntahn would say the instant he heard about it!”
The other three chuckled, albeit a bit sourly. And Frenhines didn’t really blame them for that sourness. There wasn’t a more reliable, more honest man than Sir Fraizher Kahlyns in the entire Kingdom of Chisholm, but he wasn’t the Imperial Charisian Army’s most brilliant officer. It was unfortunately true that he was more comfortable with written orders when they were accompanied by the opportunity to clarify any ambiguities by personally discussing those orders with whoever delivered them.
“Sir Fraizher won’t have any qualms about these instructions, My Lord,” Frenhines assured White Crag, although he was actually speaking to all three of them. “The important thing is to keep Rock Coast, Black Horse, Countess Swayle, and Dragon Hill from realizing how many of the reinforcements he’s sending forward will have rather different actual destinations. And Their Majesties would really prefer for none of them to realize how many Marines will ‘just happen’ to be in Chisholmian waters come spring, either.”
“Oh, I like that,” Zhustyn murmured, and Stoneheart gave a sharp nod.
“In the meantime, however, we need to increase Lady Karyl’s personal security,” Frenhines continued. “One of my colleagues has been sent to discuss this with her, and Her Majesty suggests it might be possible for Sir Fraizher to release a few highly skilled, highly experienced, career Army noncoms from active service after … training accidents or some other mishap leaves them unsuited to arduous duty in the field. Obviously, men such as that will have limited skills for civilian life. So it should hardly be surprising if a few score of them were to trickle slowly into a place like Cheshyr—hitching rides on some of the coasting trade vessels, perhaps. And if men who’ve loyally and ably served the Kingdom find themselves out of work due to no fault of their own, I doubt anyone would be surprised if someone like Lady Karyl, given her own husband’s long Army career, found a way to put roofs over their heads. For that matter, she’d probably even find the invalids token positions in her own household—just to satisfy their self-respect, you understand.”
“That’s devious,” Stoneheart said approvingly.
“Her Majesty can be that way,” Frenhines agreed with a thin smile. “And His Majesty’s contribution was to observe that the frantic efforts to increase weapons output at Maikelberg almost have to have resulted in some clerical errors. Why, it’s entirely possible enough modern rifles, shotguns, and pistols to equip forty or fifty armsmen—perhaps even a mortar or two—could simply have been lost. And if that’s happened,” Frenhines’ smile turned even thinner and far, far colder, “there’s no telling where all those … mislaid weapons—and possibly even the ammunition for them—might eventually turn up, is there, My Lords?”
.VIII.
Merlin Athrawes’ Chamber,
The Charisian Embassy,
Siddarmark City
“Got a minute, Merlin?”
Merlin Athrawes looked up from the revolver he’d been carefully cleaning and oiling.
Sandrah Lywys had finally gotten her new “smokeless” powder—they’d actually gone ahead and called it cordite, since it was extruded in narrow rods that looked exactly like the Old Earth propellant of the same name—into production. The field armies had several million rounds of old-fashioned black powder ammunition to use up, but the Imperial Guard had already switched completely to the new propellant. In addition to virtually no smoke, it produced far less fouling than gunpowder had, but the ICA’s fulminating primers still left a corrosive residue which could damage a weapon if it wasn’t promptly cleaned after firing, and Merlin had spent over an hour at the range this afternoon, putting several hundred rounds downrange. Not because a PICA’s programmable muscle memory needed the practice, but because he’d discovered how much he enjoyed it. And because he’d figured he was due the downtime. He’d been back from Cherayth for barely a five-day, and this was the first opportunity to do something remotely like relaxing that had come his way.