A Mighty Fortress (8 page)

Hainree was far too intent on his work to have noticed the tiny device perched in one corner of the basement’s ceiling. Even if he hadn’t been distracted by the printing press, it was extremely unlikely he would have seen the thing. It was the next best thing to microscopically small, although even at that, it was larger than some of its still smaller brethren, and if anyone had told him what it was capable of doing, he would have dismissed the claims as something out of a fairy tale.

Unfortunately for him, he would have been wrong, and later that evening, in the far distant city of Cherayth, an Imperial Guardsman with a fierce mustache and a neatly trimmed dagger beard leaned back, eyes closed, and rubbed the scar on his cheek with a thoughtful finger as he contemplated the imagery that tiny surveillance platform had transmitted to him.

I’d really like to pay a visit to Master Hainree,
Merlin Athrawes reflected without ever opening his eyes.
He and his friends are getting just a little bit better organized than I could wish. On the other hand, we’re building up a pretty detailed organization al chart on them. Of course, it would help if we could tell someone in Corisande that we are, but I suppose you can’t have
everything.

He grimaced sourly at the thought, yet he also knew he was correct. He didn’t like how much of his own—and Owl’s, and Cayleb’s, and Sharleyan’s—time was being consumed by the project, but he’d spread his SNARCs’ remote platforms thickly throughout the Corisandian capital. As each member of the emerging resistance cadre was identified, one of the parasite platforms was assigned to him full- time, and these people’s internal organization wasn’t nearly as sophisticated as it could have been. Aidryn Waimyn—and there was someone Merlin
really
wanted to have a word with—had done his best to instill a cellular organization, at least at the very top. Unfortunately for him, he had to make do with what was available, and at least some of his . . . associates were too direct for that sort of sophistication. They had far more enthusiasm than professional detachment. And, as far as Merlin could tell, very few members of the Earl of Coris’ intelligence ser vices had so far been co- opted by Waimyn.

Of course, we don’t know how long that’s going to
last,
now do we?
he reminded himself.

There were times when Merlin was deeply tempted to hop into his recon skimmer, buzz down to Manchyr, and personally eliminate Waimyn. It wouldn’t be particularly difficult. In fact, it would be childishly simple and, under the circumstances, one of the more pleasant chores he could have assigned himself. Unfortunately, unless he was prepared to remain in Corisande full- time and spend his nights doing nothing but eliminating resistance leaders, he’d be rather in the position of King Canute. Worse, he would deprive the resistance of its
organized
leadership, and he didn’t want that. Far better to leave Waimyn in position for now, however irritatingly competent and industrious he was proving, rather than shatter the resistance’s cohesion. That might change, yet for now it was far more useful to know exactly who its leaders were, exactly where they might be found when the time came, and exactly what sort of plans it was making and what information it was passing to its various satellites. Breaking up the cur- rent organization would almost certainly deprive it of its increasing effectiveness, but only at the cost of replacing it with a formless,
un
organized movement which would be almost impossible to monitor the way they could monitor the present situation. Not to mention one which would be far more difficult to uproot when the moment to take action against it finally arrived.

I only wish,
he thought, returning his attention to the SNARC’s imagery,
that I didn’t expect them to do so much damage in the interim
.

“I know it’s a pain in the arse,” Hauwyl Chermyn growled, standing with his hands clasped behind him while he gazed out his office window at a vista of cloudy rain. “And, truth to tell, what I’d really like to be doing is shooting the bastards the instant they turn up!”

Brigadier Zhoel Zhanstyn, commanding officer of the Imperial Charisian Marines Third Brigade, looked at his superior’s back with a faint smile. It was mostly a smile of affection, although it might have held just a trace of amusement, and possibly just a
little
exasperation. If it did, though, that last emotion was directed at the situation, not at Viceroy General Chermyn.

And if the Old Man needs to vent his spleen at someone, I suppose I’m the logical candidate,
Zhanstyn reflected.
It’s not like there’s anyone else he can let down his guard with
.

That would probably have been true with just about any senior officer in Chermyn’s unenviable position, the brigadier thought. Combining the roles of occupation force commander and official viceroy for Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan would have been a stiff enough challenge for almost anyone. Given Chermyn’s distaste for politics, coupled with his previous lifelong success at avoiding anything that even smacked of duty at court, it would have been difficult to find someone who felt less suited to the task.

Fortunately for the Empire of Charis, it had never occurred to Hauwyl Chermyn to decline his present post. And the reason that was fortunate was that no matter how ill- suited he might have considered himself, he was almost certainly the very best man available for the job. The viceroy general might not
like
politics, and he might be unpolished (to say the very least) by courtly standards, but that didn’t mean he didn’t
understand
politics, and his iron sense of duty and integrity was coupled with a bulldog pugnacity any fool could sense from clear across a room.

There was no doubt that the noblemen and commoners who’d assembled in Parliament here in Manchyr had sensed it, at any rate, and none of them had been stupid enough to challenge him. Not openly, at any rate. Zhanstyn had no doubt that quite a few conversations in various cloakrooms and private apartments had centered on clandestine ways to evade Chermyn’s determination to enforce the policies Emperor Cayleb had laid out before his own departure for Chisholm. For the moment, though, the viceroy general had his hand firmly around the throat of Corisande’s great lords.

That had been made easier by the fact that, like the wealthier members of the House of Commons, the great aristocrats had too much to lose. That made them cautious, unwilling to attempt open resistance, especially after Chermyn—in his blunt, unpolished, uncourtly, yet crystal- clear style—had made it abundantly plain what he intended to do to any noble who violated his new oath of fealty to the Charisian Crown. The fact that diplomatic circumlocution was so utterly foreign to him had gone a great way towards making certain no one in his audience doubted for a moment that he’d meant every word he said. And that any excuses about oaths to the excommunicated not being binding would leave him remarkably unmoved when he and his siege artillery turned up outside any oathbreaker’s castle walls.

“But pain in the arse or not,” Chermyn continued now, swinging away from the window to face the brigadier, hands still clasped behind him, “it’s the way it’s got to be. For now, at least.” He grimaced. “Mind you, I’d like nothing better than to get my hands on the damned ringleaders! There’s not much doubt in
my
mind that most of these poor bastards’re being more or less led around by the nose.” He made a disgusted sound midway between a snort and a snarl. “And I’ve read the damned broadsides, same as you. Somebody’s stirring this pot, and I’ve no doubt His Majesty was right about what it is they’re after. Which is why I’m not going to give it to them.”

“Yes, Sir,” Zhanstyn acknowledged. Although, truth to tell, it wasn’t exactly as if he’d objected to the viceroy general’s instructions or policy. On the other hand, he was pretty sure Chermyn knew he understood his superior’s “explanation” was more in the nature of a way for Chermyn to let off pressure of his own before it did him a mischief.

“The last thing we need to offer up to the bastards behind all this are martyrs,” Chermyn growled now, turning his head to look back at the water-streaming panes of glass. “I think most of these people are at least willing to keep their heads down, if the troublemakers’ll just leave them alone. I’m not saying we could keep the lid on the pot forever, but all we really have to do is keep it screwed down until Anvil Rock, Tartarian, and the rest of the Regency Council get their feet on the ground. Build up at least a little legitimacy. That business at the Cathedral the other day”— he turned his head back, his eyes meeting Zhanstyn’s suddenly—“that could’ve turned nasty. Bad enough to lose one of our own, but if that young lad of yours—Lieutenant Tahlas, wasn’t it?” He paused until Zhanstyn nodded, then snorted again. “If the boy had lost control, let his men stack the bodies the way I’ve no doubt they
wanted
to instead of settling for cracked skulls and a few broken bones, it would’ve given the bastards on the other side exactly what they wanted.”

“I’ve already commended Lieutenant Tahlas, Sir,” Zhanstyn said, making no effort to hide how pleased he’d been by the viceroy general’s remembering the young man’s name. “And I agree with what you’ve just said. All the same, Sir, if they keep pushing, and especially if we lose more men, we’re going to have to push back. It’s one thing to show restraint; it’s another thing if the other side decides restraint is really weakness.”

“Agreed.” Chermyn nodded grimly. “That’s one reason I want Gahrvai’s formations stood up as quickly as possible. I’d rather put a Corisandian face on this whole confrontation, drop us back into a support role.” He showed his teeth in a thin smile. “D’you suppose any of these people are going to realize just how much we don’t want to kill any more of them than we can help?”

“In a perfect world, Sir, I’m sure they would. In the world we’ve got—?” The brigadier shrugged, and Chermyn chuckled harshly. Then he squared his shoulders and marched back across to his desk. He settled into the chair behind it and picked up the first of the folders piled on his blotter.

“Well, as you’ve just suggested, it’s an
imperfect
world, Brigadier,” he observed. “And that being the case, I suppose it’s time we dealt with some of those imperfect little details. Starting with this request from Brigadier Myls.” He tapped the top sheet of paper and the folder with an index finger. “I think he’s got a point about being spread too thin.”

“I agree, Sir.” Zhanstyn grimaced. “That’s not to say I like it, but I agree he’s got a problem. And, unfortunately, I can already see where you’re thinking about finding the manpower to solve it for him.”

“Sharp as a tack, that’s you,” Chermyn said with another, much more cheerful- sounding chuckle. “Now, where do you think I should start robbing you?”

“Well, Sir, I was thinking that if we took Alpha Company out of Second Battalion of the Third, then took Charlie Company out of First Battalion of Fourth, we’d have a pretty good mix of experience and enthuseasm. Then, if we added—”

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