A Mighty Fortress (76 page)

The hatches through which over fifty fugitives from the Inquisition had entered those sleighs.

It wasn’t the most convenient mode of travel ever invented, but the sleighs’ cargo boxes were thick- walled and weathertight. The passenger- carrying cubbies hidden away inside them were large enough to accommodate mattresses and bedrolls and allow at least some movement, and they were surrounded and thoroughly concealed by rugs and tapestries, by piles of expensive, Zion- made blankets and other big- ticket textiles. In fact, the people hidden away inside those cubbyholes were warmer than anyone else in the entire convoy. And once they were at least a couple of days away from Zion, they’d been allowed to leave their hiding places, after the sleighs had halted for the night, and mingle unobtrusively—
very
unobtrusively—with the Bruhstair drovers and wagoneers. Who, alas, were not unaccustomed to seeing the occasional unmanifested face turn up on journeys such as this one.

The trip would not be brief. In fact, the sleighs would follow the southern shore of Hsing- wu’s Passage all the way from Zion to the shores of the Icewind Sea. Along the way, they would drop off at least some of their cargo in various towns and small cities strung out along the Passage, but the real reason for taking that particular route was that it avoided the extraordinarily difficult terrain of the Mountains of Light.

To help them do that, Mother Church, the Temple Lands, and the Republic of Siddarmark had cooperated over the centuries to build and maintain the high road which paralleled the Passage. When the seagoing route was navigable, grass grew—literally—on the high road; when winter closed Hsing- wu’s Passage, the high road came into its own once more. By now, Ahnzhelyk and her refugees were almost a third of the way to Siddarmark and the galleons which would ultimately carry them to Tellesberg and—hopefully—safety. Unless something went dreadfully wrong, they should be aboard ship within two months . . . and in Tellesberg seven or eight five- days after that.

By the end of June at the latest
.
I can’t
believe
how easy she’s made all this look
. Zhevons shook his head wonderingly as he crossed to the sleigh assigned to “Mistress Frahncyn Tahlbaht,” who, oddly enough, didn’t look a thing like dainty, fragile, lovely Ahnzhelyk Phonda. No, Mistress Tahlbaht was pleasant-looking enough, but she was also clearly the experienced, professional, sensibly dressed senior clerk Bruhstair & Sons had assigned to ride herd on this particular convoy’s more valuable items.

He rapped lightly on the sleigh’s side door, then opened it and climbed the short boarding step when a voice invited him to do so.

“Good morning, Ahbraim,” Mistress Tahlbaht said with a smile. “What can I do for you today?”

“Actually, I’ve just come to bid you farewell,” he replied. She sat back in her seat at the small, built- in desk, eyebrows rising, and he shrugged. “As nearly as I can tell, you’ve gotten away clean,” he said. “We could both be wrong about that, but I don’t think so. And now that I’ve figured out your evacuation route, I can arrange to have some of
Seijin
Merlin’s other friends keep an eye out for you.” He chuckled suddenly. “After all, the Mountains of Light are the traditional training grounds for
seijins,
aren’t they?”

“So I’ve heard,” she acknowledged, then turned her floor- mounted swivel chair to the side and stood. “I’ll miss you, you know,” she said, taking the two steps required to cross her tiny mobile office and hold out her hand. This time he simply took it in both of his, squeezing it without kissing it, and she smiled. “Will I be seeing you again?”

There was an odd note in her voice, he thought. An almost whimsical one. Or wistful, perhaps. They’d known one another for less than a month, yet he was confident she’d realized as well as he that they were kindred souls.

Another of those capable, uppity females,
he reflected.
She and Sharleyan are going to get along like a house on fire—I can already see that. And I suppose
I
still come under that “capable, uppity female” label, too. In a somewhat convoluted manner of speaking, at least
.

“Oh, I think you can count on that,” he said out loud. “I’ve been told I’m a bit like a bad habit or a cold.” Her eyebrows rose higher, and he chuckled. “Almost impossible to get rid of once you’ve got me, I mean.”

“Good.” She smiled and squeezed his hand back. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“So will I,” he assured her. “So will I.”

Royal Palace,

City of Tranjyr,

Kingdom of Tarot

King Gorjah III was in a foul mood.

That had become unfortunately common over the last couple of years. Since the effectively total destruction of his fleet at the Battle of Rock Point, which had occurred almost precisely two years ago, as a matter of fact, if anyone had been marking his calendar to keep track.

Gorjah didn’t need to mark any calendars, but he’d definitely been keeping track. He’d been rather strongly motivated in that regard.

At the moment, he stood gazing northwest out of his palace window up the length of Thol Bay. Seven hundred– plus miles, Thol Bay reached from the city of Tranjyr to Cape Thol and North Head and, beyond that, the Gulf of Tarot and the continent of East Haven. It was a magnificent stretch of saltwater. It might be a bit shallow, in places, its shoals a bit treacherous, here and there, but over all it offered Tranjyr splendid access to the seas of the world, and the broad sweep of the city’s wharves and ware houses was ample proof of the way in which the world’s commerce had taken advantage of that access.

Once upon a time,
he thought grumpily.

He ran a hand over his kercheef, the traditional bright, colorful headwear of the Kingdom of Tarot, and his foul mood deepened as he contemplated the absence of merchant shipping in that anchorage. The dearth of lighters plying between those non ex is tent merchant vessels and the city’s wharves. The peculiar paucity of longshoremen and stevedores who’d once been employed loading and unloading the cargoes which no longer filled those extensive ware houses.

There was a reason for those absences, for that dearth. A reason which had something to do with the squadron of the Imperial Charisian Navy—no more than a handful of schooners, supported by a single division of galleons—who’d taken up residence in Thol Bay. Who’d had the sheer effrontery to actually set up their own anchorage in Holme Reach, well inside the Bay’s protective headlands. To send parties of seamen and Marines ashore on Hourglass Island to plant and tend
garden plots
to provide their crews with fresh vegetables and salads! Somehow, for some reason Gorjah really didn’t understand himself, that particular bit of Charisian brashness was especially infuriating.

Perhaps, he’d occasionally thought, because he knew he’d brought it on himself. Mostly, at least; he still didn’t see any way he could have said no to the “offer.”

Not that you
tried
all that hard,
he thought moodily now.
It seemed like such a
good
idea at the time
,
after all. Which probably should have reminded you that things which seem too good to be true usually are. Which was the reason Edmynd argued against it from the outset
.

The king grimaced as he recalled the diplomatic language in which Edmynd Rustmyn, the Baron of Stonekeep, had attempted to restrain his own enthusiastic response to the bait which had been trolled in front of him.

Gorjah’s grimace deepened at the memory.

I’d like to say it was all the Church’s fault—well, the Group of Four’s, anyway. And I suppose it was. But be honest, Gorjah. Edmynd was dead right to try to . . . moderate your enthusiasm, wasn’t he? And
you
wouldn’t listen, would you? They’d figured out exactly the right lever to pull in your case, hadn’t they? You resented the hell out of the treaty—never mind the fact that it had its good sides, as well—and you figured it was a chance to get your own back. And why did you think that way? Because you were a frigging
idiot,
that’s why!

His grimace turned briefly into something like a snarl. Then it vanished, and he folded his hands behind himself, turned his back on the window, and crossed to the lavishly carved, not- quite- a-throne chair at the head of the brilliantly polished table. Summer sunlight from the window bounced off the imperfect mirror of the tabletop, throwing a spot of brightness on the council chamber’s ceiling, as he seated himself. The chair had been custom-built for his father, who’d been considerably taller and stockier than the slender, dark- haired Gorjah. The king favored his mother—physically, at least—far more closely than he ever had his father, and he contemplated (not for the first time) the desirability of having a new one—one that made him look less like a child sitting in his parent’s chair—commissioned. From the viewpoint of political psychology, of his ability to dominate meetings, the notion probably had much to recommend it, but the chair was almost sinfully comfortable. Besides, as a boy then- Prince Gorjah had spent quite a few hours sitting in his father’s lap in this very chair. Those memories came back to him every time he sat in it, and especially over the last couple of years when his infant son, Rholynd, had been cuddled in his own lap.

I wonder if
he’ll
ever get to sit in it?
the king thought moodily.
For that matter, I wonder how much longer
I’ll
get to sit in it!

They were both valid questions, and he didn’t much care for the answers which tended to suggest themselves.

Cayleb of Charis had obvious reasons to want his blood, given the way Tarot had betrayed the terms of their treaty. Simply adding Tarot’s fleet to the onslaught on Charis would have been bad enough, but Gorjah hadn’t stopped there. Oh, no! He’d followed Chancellor Trynair’s orders, like a good little henchman, and lied to King Haarahld, as well. Promised to honor his treaty obligations even as he was ordering Baron White Ford to rendezvous with the Royal Dohlaran Navy. The fact that Haarahld had been subsequently killed only made bad worse in that respect, although Gorjah could at least reflect that none of his ships had been involved in the Battle of Darcos Sound. So he could argue that he personally hadn’t contributed to Haarahld’s death... not that he expected that particular fine distinction to cut much ice with Haarahld’s son.

Unfortunately, Cayleb wasn’t the only person Gorjah had to worry about. In fact, if Cayleb
had
been his only concern, he’d have been considerably happier. But despite his very best efforts, the Group of Four seemed to feel he’d proved just a tad inept as a traitor, scoundrel, and general all around backstabber. And, to be honest, Gorjah couldn’t really disagree. He’d tried—he really had—yet someone in his Court had leaked the “Knights of the Temple Lands’ ” plans to Haarahld, thus neatly undoing all of his own efforts in that direction.

He still didn’t know who’d done that, and not for lack of trying to find out.

The ruthless, meticulous investigation had turned up all sorts of interesting things—from minor peccadilloes, to bribery, to extortion—on the parts of his nobles and officials. That had undoubtedly been useful, he thought. At least he’d hammered his nobility and bureaucrats so hard the survivors were deeply dedicated to doing their jobs efficiently—and, above all, honestly—in a fashion Tarot hadn’t seen in de cades. Probably in
generations,
really. Yet all his efforts had failed to unearth a single clue as to how the Group of Four’s plans had reached Charis.

Gorjah had respectfully pointed out in his correspondence with Vicar Zhasyn that his investigations had been personally assisted by Bishop Executor Tyrnyr and by Father Frahnklyn Sumyr, his intendant. For that matter, the full resources of the Inquisition here in Tarot had been thrown into the task, and none of that effort had found even a trace of whoever had done the leaking. Perhaps, the king had suggested as diplomatically as possible, that indicated the security failure hadn’t, in fact, occurred in Tarot after all?

As far as Gorjah could tell, Failyx Gahrbor, the kingdom’s archbishop in far distant Zion, supported his argument. Gahrbor certainly had plenty of personal reasons to do so, at any rate. And officially—
officially
—Chancellor Trynair had cleared Gorjah himself of any wrongdoing. It had been a grudging clearance, however. Gorjah couldn’t say that surprised him. For that matter, if he’d been in the Chancellor’s cassock, he probably wouldn’t have gone even that far. Because the damning truth was that the only royal court which
could
have leaked the information upon which Haarahld of Charis had acted so decisively was Gorjah’s own. There simply hadn’t been time for the information to reach Charis from anywhere else speedily enough.

Given that, he supposed, and especially in light of how devastating the Charisian ambush off Armageddon Reef had been, it wasn’t surprising it had taken Trynair over a year to go even as far as he had. During that year, unfortunately, Gorjah and his entire kingdom had languished under Mother Church’s disapproval. His shipyards had been deliberately and pointedly excluded from the Church’s original building program, for example. Which, given the fact that virtually the entire Royal Tarotisian Navy had been destroyed, had made Gorjah even more unhappy than he might have been otherwise. He’d
needed
new ships, and almost as badly as he’d needed
them,
he’d needed access to the rivers of gold the Church had poured into its new galley fleet.