A Mighty Fortress (7 page)

Which was incredibly foolish of them, in Phylyp Ahzgood’s opinion, no matter how reasonable
they
obviously thought it was.

So far, anyway. It was entirely possible they would eventually learn the error of their ways. Probably quite painfully, he thought with a certain undeniable satisfaction.

“I’m afraid you have a point about that, from their perspective, at least,” he said in answer to her question. “On the other hand, my own point stands, I think. If they had any immediate plans where Daivyn is concerned, they’d probably insist I drag him along, as well.”

Despite the very real affection in which she held her “guardian,” and despite her own worries, Irys couldn’t quite keep from grinning at Coris’ sour tone. It wasn’t really funny, of course—a journey of the next best thing to nine thousand miles would scarcely have been a mere jaunt in the country, even in the middle of summer. With winter coming on fast, it was going to be a highly unpleasant experience no matter what happened. And its final stage had the potential to be actively dangerous, for that matter.

“You don’t think it’s just because of how hard the trip’s going to be?” she asked, indirectly voicing her own worry where Coris was concerned.

“No, I don’t.” The earl’s lips tightened, and he shook his head. “Duchairn would probably worry about that, especially given Daivyn’s age. Even Trynair
might
consider it, for that matter, if only because of his awareness of Daivyn’s potential value. I doubt it would even cross Maigwair’s mind to worry about dragging a nine- year- old through hip- deep snow, though. And Clyntahn—”

Coris broke off and shrugged, and it was Irys’ turn to nod. Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair was probably as cold- blooded and calculating a chancellor as the Church of God Awaiting had ever produced in all the nine dusty centuries since the Day of Creation. He was far more likely to regard Daivyn Daykyn purely as a potential political asset than as a little boy whose father had been brutally murdered. And, by all reports, Allayn Maigwair, the Church’s Captain General, had about as much imagination as a worn- out boot. Expecting it to occur to
him
to worry about Daivyn would have been as foolish as it would futile.

And then there was Zhaspahr Clyntahn. Irys no more doubted than Coris did that the Grand Inquisitor would simply have looked blankly at anyone who might have had the temerity to suggest he should bother his own head one way or the other about Daivyn’s well- being.

“If they were contemplating any significant change in their calculations where he’s concerned, they might want him in Zion, where he’d be handy,” the earl continued. “For that matter, I think Clyntahn, at least, would want the opportunity to... impress Daivyn with just how serious an interest the Inquisitor and his associates take in him.” He shook his head. “No, I’m inclined to think it’s pretty much exactly what Trynair’s message suggests it is. They want to be sure
I
fully understand their plans for him. And to get my own impressions of the situation in Corisande, of course.”

For a moment, Irys looked as if she wanted to spit, and Coris didn’t blame her a bit.

“I’m sure they’ve got better sources than I do—than
we
do,” he said. “Or, at least, that their sources can get their reports to Zion faster than our agents can get reports to us. But anything they know about Corisande is secondhand, at best, even if it is more recent than anything we’ve heard. I’m not surprised they’d want to pick the brain of one of your father’s councilors.”

“Especially his spymaster’s brain, you mean.” Irys’ lips twitched a brief smile. It was
very
brief, though. “And especially now that Father’s dead. No doubt they want your impression of how our people are likely to have reacted when Cayleb assassinated him.”

This time, Coris only nodded. He’d watched Irys Daykyn grow up. In fact, as he’d once admitted to her, he’d been present on more than one occasion when her diaper had been changed. He knew exactly how close she’d been to her father, exactly how she’d taken his murder. And although he’d tried his very best to keep her mind open to other possibilities, he knew exactly who she blamed for that murder.

Personally, Coris’ suspicions lay in a somewhat different direction. But there were dangers, especially for her, in laying those suspicions too plainly before her.

“I’m sure that’s one of the things they’ll want to discuss,” he agreed. “At any rate, though, I think this probably means they’re planning on leaving you and Daivyn here in Talkyra with King Zhames, at least for the foreseeable future. It’s going to take me better than two months just to get to Zion, and I don’t have any idea how long they plan on my staying once I get there. Since I don’t think they’re contemplating separating me permanently from Daivyn, or that they’re likely to be planning on sending him anywhere without me along as his guardian, that probably means they expect to leave him right here for at least five or six months. Probably longer, actually.”

“I can’t say I’d be entirely sorry if they did.” Irys sighed and shook her head. “Neither of us really likes it here, but he needs some stability, Phylyp. Needs some time in one place to heal.”

“I know.” Coris reached across the table and patted the back of her left hand gently. “I know. And I’ll do my best to convince
them
of that, as well.”

“I know you will.”

Irys smiled at him, hoping he didn’t see the edge of fear behind her expression. She knew Phylyp Ahzgood. Despite the reputation some assigned him, she knew how loyal he’d always been to her father, and she herself trusted him implicitly. Probably more than she really ought to, she thought sometimes. Not because she thought there was truly any likelihood of his betraying her trust, but simply because—as her father had always said—no one who sat on a throne, or who was responsible for supporting someone who did, could ever afford to
completely
trust anyone.

But there was a reason her father had selected Coris as her own and Daivyn’s guardian. And part of that reason was that in Phylyp Ahzgood’s case, at least, he’d set aside his own injunction against trusting too deeply.

Which is
exactly
why they’ll try to separate us from you, if they realize the truth, Phylyp,
she thought.
For right now, they may well believe all those stories you and Father always encouraged about your own ambitions and sinister motivations. But if they ever figure out where your true loyalties lie, that you
aren’t
prepared to cheerfully sacrifice Daivyn for your own advantage, or to curry favor with them, you’ll become a potential liability, not an asset. And if that happens, Trynair and Clyntahn won’t hesitate for an instant about declaring us—or Daivyn, at least—official wards of the Council of Vicars
.

She looked across the table at him in the lamplight, studying his expression and, for a moment, at least, feeling every bit as young as the rest of the world thought she was. Wishing she were still young enough to climb up into his lap, put her head down on his shoulder, and let him hug away her fears while he promised her everything would be all right.

But everything
wasn’t
going to be “all right,” ever again, and she knew it.

Don’t let them take you away from me, Phylyp,
she thought.
What ever else happens, don’t let them take you away
.

City of Manchyr,

Duchy of Manchyr,

Princedom of Corisande

CORISANDIANS!

CITIZENS OF MANCHYR!

The Blood of your slain Prince cries out from the very stones of your City! The boots of the slaves and lackeys of the Monster who shed that Blood march through your streets! The voices of Apostate Priests speak in your Churches! The Defenders of the True Faith are driven into silence and hiding!

How much longer will you endure these Insults? These Affronts to both God and Man? How much longer...

Paitryk Hainree frowned in concentration as he considered the composing stick and the current line of type. As a silversmith, he was a skilled engraver, but he’d discovered (not to his surprise) that there were very few similarities between engraving and typesetting. For one thing, he still had trouble reading the mirror- imaged letters. There was no problem identifying each letter as he took it from the proper pigeonhole of the job case (although he still had to look to be sure it
was
the proper pigeonhole), and it was easy enough—ahead of time—to chart out which letters had to go where on the composing stick before they were transferred to the forme and bound together. But his brain still persisted in reading each word as he set up the type, and he’d discovered that it tried to trick him into reading the letters in the “correct” order instead of in the reversed order they had to go into for the press.

Still, it wasn’t an impossible skill to acquire, and if it wasn’t the same as silversmithing, there were similarities. He’d always liked the detail work, the concentration on the little things, working with metals, the fine coordination of hand and eye. The printer’s was a different art, but it was still an art, and he’d found that the part of him which had never expected to become a street agitator treasured the retreat back into an artisan’s role, even if it was only temporary.

He reached for the next letter, and behind his focus on the task in hand his mind was busy. This broadsheet would be transported from the carefully hidden basement press through a network of dedicated supporters. Copies of it would be tacked up all over the city by tomorrow night. Of course, parties of the City Guard would be busy tearing them down by the following dawn. Not all of those City Guardsmen would agree with their orders in that regard—Hainree was sure of that—but they’d obey them. The “Regency Council” and that traitorous bastard Gahrvai would see to that!

Hainree discovered his jaw was clenching once more and ordered it to relax. It obeyed . . . after a fashion, and he drew a deep breath. Just thinking about Sir Koryn Gahrvai was enough to send rage pulsing through every vein. Gahrvai’s effortless defeat at the hands of Cayleb Ahrmahk and his army could have been put down to mere feckless incompetence. In his more charitable moments, Hainree would even have been prepared to put at least some of it down to simple bad luck, or to the fact that Shan- wei looked after her own. But Gahrvai’s decision to actually accept command of the traitorous forces prepared to do Ahrmahk’s will here in Corisande had to make a man wonder. Had he truly been simply unlucky, or incompetent, or had there been something more sinister at work? Some quiet little understanding between him and the invaders?

Had his treason against Corisande and the House of Daykyn begun only after his defeat . . . or before it?

Most of the time, Hainree was willing to accept that Gahrvai’s present position was a case of opportunism after the fact, not an indication of treason
before
the fact. And he’d realized, even without Father Aidryn’s gentle hints, that accusing Gahrvai and his father of having plotted with Cayleb ahead of time would be . . . premature, at this point. In the fullness of time, that might change, especially as the debate over exactly whose hand had hired the assassins to strike down Prince Hektor and his eldest son matured. Personally, it seemed obvious to Hainree that those who’d profited the most by the prince’s murder were those most likely to have
planned
that murder. And, taken all together, he couldn’t think of anyone who’d profited more heavily than the members of the “Regency Council” set up to govern the Princedom according to Ahrmahk’s demands. They could call themselves Prince Daivyn’s council all they wanted to, but that didn’t change who they truly answered to... or the fact that they’d somehow managed not simply to survive but to come out with even more power than they’d had before.

Nor did it change the supine surrender of the Princedom’s Parliament, Hainree thought, scowling down at the composing stick. He supposed it was unreasonable to expect Parliament to defy Ahrmahk’s will, as dutifully expressed through the “Regency Council,” with the Charisian Viceroy General Chermyn and the better part of sixty thousand Charisian Marines occupying Corisande. Chermyn had twenty thousand of those Marines right here in Manchyr, and while he’d made some effort to avoid parading them too blatantly through the streets of the city, everyone knew they were there. As did the members of the House of Lords and the House of Commons. So, no, it wasn’t surprising Parliament had voted to give Ahrmahk everything he asked for.

On the other hand, there might well be a difference between what they’d
voted
for and what they really intended to do. By all reports, Parliament would be breaking up shortly, with all of its members returning to their homes, out from under the eye—and the bayonets—of the occupation. It would be interesting to see what happened
then
. He knew the hard skeleton of organized resistance had already come together here in Manchyr, and his own contact from that skeleton assured him the same thing was happening outside the city. It remained to be fleshed out with sinew and muscle, but those other things would come in time. And not all of them from sources Hainree might have expected. In fact, from a few stray words his contact had let drop, Hainree strongly suspected that the resistance’s leadership had already made discreet contact with several members of Parliament, as well. No doubt they’d planted quite a few equally discreet seeds that would bear fruit in due time.

In the meanwhile, Paitryk Hainree would concentrate on cultivating and fertilizing his own little plot right here in the capital.