By Schism Rent Asunder (68 page)

Sir Rayjhis Dragoner didn't need any “suggestions,” however. He was one of the relatively small number of people who knew that Lord Avrahm was his powerful cousin's finger on the pulse of the Republic's relations with the realms which were most important to it. And he was also the conduit through which the Republic's ruler sometimes passed particularly sensitive messages or bits of information to someone else's ambassador. Of course, no one, not even—or especially—Lord Protector Greyghor, was going to admit anything of the sort, and so Hwystyn's alternative persona as Master Rolf Khailee. Dragoner knew perfectly well that the masquerade never fooled anyone, but that wasn't really the point. It provided a degree of
official
separation. It was certainly no more far-fetched than the pretense that the Knights of the Temple Lands weren't also the Council of Vicars, at any rate, and no one was likely to press the Lord Protector of Siddarmark too hard on any diplomatic fictions he chose to maintain.

Besides, the real reason Avrahm uses Khailee is to underscore the fact that whatever he's about to tell me is important … and that he was never here
.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, ‘Master Khailee,'” he said calmly. “May I offer you some refreshment?”

“That's very kind of you, Ambassador,” his guest said. “Unfortunately, I'm rather pressed for time this afternoon. Perhaps some other day.”

“Of course,” Dragoner murmured, and gestured courteously at the comfortable chair facing his desk. He waited until “Khailee” had seated himself, then settled back into his own chair. “May I ask what brings you here this afternoon?” he asked politely.

“As a matter of fact,” the Siddarmarkian said, “a rather remarkable message crossed my desk this morning. A message from Chancellor Trynair to Lord Wallyce.”

Dragoner managed to keep his face only politely attentive, despite the quiver of shock which went through him. Lord Frahnklyn Wallyce was the Republic's Chancellor, Earl Gray Harbor's equivalent here in Siddarmark. The fact that “Khailee” was here instead of an official messenger from the Chancellor's office sounded all sorts of warning bells. And the fact that “Khailee” was here about a message between Wallyce and the Chancellor of the Council of Vicars was the next best thing to terrifying.

The hell with the “next best thing,” Rayjhis,
he told himself.
It damned well
is
terrifying, and you know it!

“Indeed?” he said, as calmly as he could.

“Indeed.” His guest sat very straight, his eyes intent. “It was transmitted by semaphore for the Lord Protector's urgent attention. Unfortunately, the Lord Protector is out of the city this afternoon. He won't be returning until quite late this evening.”

“I hadn't heard that,” Dragoner said, listening very carefully to what “Khailee”
wasn't
saying, as well as what he was.

“Chancellor Trynair requested that his message be presented to the Lord Protector as quickly as possible, and with the utmost confidentiality. Unfortunately, that leaves us with something of a problem. Since we're not entirely certain where the Lord Protector is at this particular moment—we know his schedule, but we can't be certain he's managed to keep it—we can hardly send a copy of it racing about, trying to find him. So, in order to comply with the Chancellor's request for confidentiality and security, we've transmitted the message to Protector's Palace to await his return and sent messengers looking for him to tell him that it's arrived.”

“That sounds commendably thorough,” Dragoner said.

“Thank you. However, that's also what brings me here today—as one of those messengers, as it were. It just happens that the Lord Protector had mentioned he might be dropping by your embassy on his way home. Obviously, his schedule isn't exactly written in stone, so I can't be certain he actually will be visiting you. If you should happen to see him, however, would you pass on a message for me?”

“I'd be delighted to be of service in any way I could,” Dragoner assured him.

“I appreciate that, Ambassador.” The Siddarmarkian's mouth smiled, but his eyes never did. “Would you please tell him we've received a directive from the Chancellor, transmitted on behalf of the Grand Inquisitor. Obviously, I can't go into the details of such a confidential communiqué, but, if you could, also inform him that we require his authorization for the harbormaster, director of customs, and the port admiral to enforce the Grand Inquisitor's directive. And”—he looked directly into Dragoner's eyes—“we also need his instructions as to where and how he would like us to house the crews and officers of the merchant ships involved in the enforcement of that directive until the Church is able to make her own arrangements for them.”

Dragoner's stomach muscles clenched into a constricted knot. He knew his expression was giving away entirely too much, but his professional diplomat's reflexes had deserted him for the moment.

“Of course,” he heard himself say.

“Thank you.” “Master Khailee” pushed back his chair and stood. “Well, Ambassador, as always, it's been a pleasure. However, I'm afraid I must go. There are several other places I need to leave messages for the Lord Protector, just in case he should happen by. And I'm afraid it's rather urgent. We really need his decision on these matters no later than dawn tomorrow.”

“I understand.” Dragoner rose and escorted his guest to the door. “I hope you find him in time, and if I should happen to see him, I'll certainly pass on your message.”

“In that case, Ambassador, I'll bid you good day,” the Siddarmarkian said. He bobbed his head in a courteous little bow, then he stepped through the door and it closed behind him.

Dragoner gazed at the closed door for several taut seconds, then shook himself. He knew—or, at least, he was reasonably certain he knew—why Lord Protector Greyghor had seen to it that he received “Khailee's” warning, despite the very real risk he and his cousin had both run. And, as the Charisian Ambassador, there was no doubt in Dragoner's mind about precisely what he ought to
do
with that warning. But even as he thought that, the son of the Church within him recoiled from the thought of deliberately sabotaging a direct order from the Grand Inquisitor speaking for the Council of Vicars.

But he
isn't
speaking for the entire Council,
Dragoner told himself almost despairingly.
He's speaking for the Group of Four, and God only knows what
their
final objective is now! Yet, even if that's true, it doesn't magically absolve me of my responsibility to honor the expressed will and decrees of Mother Church. But, if I do, if I
don't
act on this information, then.…

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the door's cool wood while conscience fought with duty and conviction warred with unwilling recognition. And then, finally, he drew a deep breath, straightened his spine, and opened the door. Young Mahrys was waiting, and Dragoner smiled at him.

“Find me some messengers, Zheryld,” he said. “People you can trust to keep their mouths shut afterwards.”

“Yes, Sir. Ah, what message will they have to carry?” Mahrys asked, and Dragoner's smile turned into something entirely too much like a rictus.

“Let's just say that any Charisian vessel here in Siddar is about to discover she has urgent business somewhere else.
Anywhere
else, if you take my meaning.”

Despite himself, Mahrys' eyes widened. Then the color seemed to drain out of his face, and he swallowed hard.

“Yes, Sir,” he said, after a long, tense moment. “As a matter of fact, I think I know just the men we need.”

*   *   *

“This is getting depressingly familiar,” Cayleb Ahrmahk said as he turned up the wick of the bedside lamp.

“I'm sorry about that.” Merlin quirked a brief, lopsided smile. “I'm afraid it's getting a bit harder to find opportune moments to pass unobtrusive messages now that you're a king, instead of a mere crown prince.”

“Or, at least, to pass them without anyone else noticing that you're doing it,” Cayleb agreed with a yawn. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and stood, then grimaced. “And I imagine it's going to get even worse after the wedding,” he said sourly.

“Cayleb—”

“I understand!” Cayleb interrupted Merlin's response, and his grimace turned into a lopsided smile of his own. “Little did I think when I agreed to abide by the Brethren's decision about who we could tell that it was going to turn around and bite me on the arse this quickly.”

“No one wants to make this any more difficult than it already is,” Merlin began. “And you know—”

“Yes, I do know you and Maikel both think we should go ahead and tell her. Well, so do I. And, frankly, I'm going to find it very difficult to justify
not
telling her once we're married. I can't quite shake the feeling that this is going to come under the heading of one of those interesting little secrets of state joint rulers are expected to
share
with one another, Merlin.”

Merlin nodded. In fact, he knew Cayleb really did understand that Merlin strongly agreed with him. This was something Sharleyan
had
to be told about, even if it was only the “By the way, did we mention that the
seijin
has visions?” version. Unfortunately, the more cautious among the Brothers of Saint Zherneau also had a point. However intelligent, however committed Sharleyan might be—however flexible she might appear, or actually be—they simply hadn't had long enough to get a feel for how she might react to the shattering implications of Saint Zherneau's journal.

Personally, Merlin felt confident she would handle it far better than others might fear. But that was at least in part because he'd spent the last two years watching her through his SNARCs. He'd seen her, listened to her, and observed her ability to keep necessary secrets of state, and he'd developed a lively respect for both her intelligence and her intellectual resilience. For her moral courage and ability to face even unexpected realities. And, as the man who had once been Nimue Alban, he had an even more lively respect for her ability to do all of that in a kingdom where reigning queens had never before prospered. The Brethren lacked that particular avenue of insight, however, and they were only too well aware of their responsibilities as the keepers of Saint Zherneau's secret.

Cayleb had known Sharleyan literally only for a few days. It was obvious to everyone, though, that the two of them were delighted by the mutual discoveries they were making, and Merlin had no doubt many of the Brethren suspected that Cayleb's judgment was … less than fully impartial, as a consequence. As for Cayleb, he'd managed to remind himself it was entirely possible the Brethren's concerns were well founded. Getting himself to
believe
they were was something else, of course.

On the other hand, he's like his father in a lot of ways
, Merlin reflected.
Including the fact that when he gives his word, it means something
.

“Oh, don't worry, Merlin,” Cayleb said a bit gruffly, as if he'd been reading Merlin's mind. He waved one hand in an impatient gesture, then crossed from the pool of lamplight around his bed to the bedchamber's window. He gazed out through the gauzy, gently stirring drapes for several seconds at a night drenched in moonlight, then turned back.

“And now that I'm over my waked-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night snit, what did you come to tell me about this time?”

“It's not good,” Merlin said. Cayleb's face tightened at his tone, but he didn't look very surprised, Merlin observed. “Somehow, I suspect you'd already figured that out, though,” he added.

“Let's just say I don't expect you to be dragging me out of bed at this hour to tell me something that's not important. And that I can think of relatively few things we might reasonably describe as both ‘important' and ‘pleasant news' these days.”

“Unfortunately,” Merlin agreed. Then he inhaled deeply. “I've just been reviewing Owl's take from the SNARCs,” he continued, reflecting upon what a great relief it was to no longer worry about circumlocutions when he told Cayleb about something like this. The youthful King of Charis was still working his way through to a genuine understanding of what advanced technology implied, but he'd amply demonstrated his resiliency, and what he already understood only whetted his appetite to understand still more. That was the good news; the bad news was that even with Owl to help monitor, there was simply too much going on in the world for any single being—even a PICA—to keep track of, and it was getting worse as events snowballed. The fact that Merlin still didn't know what those unidentified power sources under the Temple were, and that because he didn't, he didn't dare insert a SNARC into the Group of Four's council chambers, didn't help any, either. Thanks to him, Cayleb's intelligence resources were incomparably better than those of anyone else on the planet, but they still weren't perfect, and he was picking up too late on too many things. Or even missing them altogether, he thought with a harsh self-anger he knew was unreasonable, as the images of massacre and burning ships replayed themselves behind his artificial eyes.

Too many things like
this,
for example
.

“There are several things you need to know about,” he continued aloud, “but the most important are from Siddarmark and Delferahk.”

“Siddarmark and
Delferahk?
” Cayleb repeated, then snorted when Merlin nodded. “Those two are just a
little
far apart to be ganging up on us, aren't they?”