How Firm a Foundation (29 page)

“And our
good
friend Stohnar remains blissfully unaware of his presence, I suppose?” Clyntahn sneered.

“So it would appear, Your Grace.” Rayno smiled thinly. “For such a successful ruler, the Lord Protector appears to be singularly ill-informed
about events in his own realm. Or perhaps I should say he appears
selectively
ill-informed. Archbishop Praidwyn is still en route to Siddar, but Bishop Executor Baikyr reports that he’s pointedly drawn Lord Protector Greyghor’s attention to the growing boldness of Reformist heretics in the Republic. In return, the Lord Protector has assured the Bishop Executor that his guardsmen are doing all
they can to assist the Inquisition in dealing with the regrettable situation.”

His eyes met Clyntahn’s, and they grimaced almost in unison.

“Unfortunately,” Rayno continued, “all of his efforts to assist Bishop Executor Baikyr have failed. Despite his guard’s very best efforts, even fairly notorious Reformists seem to slip away before they can be taken into custody. Indeed, it’s almost as if
they were being warned—by someone—that they’re about to be arrested. And so far, despite the persistent reports of Cahnyr’s presence in the capital, he continues to elude the authorities.”

Clyntahn made a harsh sound deep in his throat. The Inquisition had always relied heavily on secular rulers to assist in the suppression of heresy. Not even Mother Church could produce sufficient manpower to
police all of Safehold against such dangerous thoughts and movements, and the system had worked well over the centuries. Yet that neatly summed up the problem they faced now, the Grand Inquisitor thought grimly, because it was no
longer
working … and no Grand Inquisitor, including him, had seen the current breakdown coming. He’d been caught as unawares by it as anyone, and though he was expanding
the Order of Schueler as rapidly as he could, it took years to properly train an inquisitor. In the meantime, he continued to have no choice but to rely on the secular authorities, and too many of those authorities were clearly more interested in hampering the Inquisition than in aiding it.

“Perhaps Archbishop Praidwyn will be able to inspire the Lord Protector to be of somewhat greater assistance,”
he said, then smiled. “And if he can’t, there’s always the Sword of Schueler, isn’t there?”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Rayno agreed with an answering smile.

“And Operation Rakurai?”

“The men have been selected,” Rayno said in a much graver voice. “All of them have been carefully examined and vetted, Your Grace, and I have their dossiers for you to consider at your convenience. The arrangements to
deliver them are almost complete, as well. Once you’ve made your final selections, we’ll be able to move rapidly to put them in place.”

“You’re satisfied with them?”

“With
all
of them, Your Grace,” Rayno replied firmly. “We haven’t told any of them exactly what Rakurai will entail, of course. I’ve tried to provide you with at least twice the number of recruits you requested in order to give
you the greatest possible latitude in making your final choices. In addition, of course, I’m sure we’ll be able to find … other uses for men with such deep faith and fervor. But as you’ve so rightly stressed from the beginning, security is of critical importance, for this mission especially. We can’t afford to have anyone not directly involved in it privy to any of its details.”

“But you’re confident
all of them will be willing to undertake the mission when the time comes?”

“I’m certain of it, Your Grace. These men are truly committed to the will of God and to the Archangels’ service and Mother Church, and they know abomination when they see it.” The archbishop shook his head. “They won’t flinch in the face of Shan-wei herself, Your Grace, far less the prospect of any mortal foe.”

“Good,
Wyllym,” Zhaspahr Clyntahn said softly. “Good.”

.II.

HMS
Royal Charis
, 58, and Archbishop’s Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

“Thank God,” Nahrmahn Baytz said with quiet, heartfelt fervor as he watched the Tellesberg waterfront creep steadily (if slowly) closer. “I’ve come to the conclusion, all of Nahrmahn Gareyt’s dreadful novels about buccaneer kingdoms notwithstanding, that while I may be an
island
prince, I am
not
a swashbuckling
one.”

“Don’t worry,” Cayleb Ahrmahk reassured him. “I doubt anyone’s going to expect you to be one. In fact, the mind boggles at the thought.”

“Oh?” Nahrmahn looked at his emperor with raised eyebrows. “Are you implying that I cut a less than romantic figure, Your Majesty?”

“Heavens, no!” Cayleb looked shocked at the suggestion. “As a matter of fact, I think you cut a much more romantic figure
than you did before we left Cherayth. Or a considerably thinner one, anyway.”

“Don’t tease him, Your Majesty,” Princess Ohlyvya scolded. “And as for you, Nahrmahn, you cut quite romantic enough a figure for me. And I’d better not catch you cutting romantic figures for anyone else!”

“Somehow I don’t think you’re saving him from being teased, Ohlyvya,” Cayleb pointed out.

“I didn’t say I was
trying to. With all due respect, Your Majesty, I was simply pointing out that he belongs to
me
. If there’s any teasing to do, I’ll do it.”

Cayleb smiled, although it was true Nahrmahn had dropped quite a few pounds during the long, strenuous voyage. He didn’t doubt for a moment that the Emeraldian could scarcely wait to get his feet on dry land once more.

If the truth be told, Cayleb was more
anxious than usual to get ashore himself. The trip from Chisholm had been the most exhausting voyage he could remember, with one ugly storm after another, and his role as a mere passenger had kept him effectively confined below decks the entire time. For some reason, Captain Gyrard seemed to object to having his sovereign on the quarterdeck when everyone had to be lashed into place with lifelines.
After the first couple of real blows, Cayleb had discovered he lacked the heart to overrule the captain’s obviously sincere (and worried) objections and accepted his banishment below. Not that the captain hadn’t had a valid point, he supposed. The mountainous seas had frequently reared as high as twenty-five or thirty feet, and their power had been mind-numbing. The unending succession of impacts
had left
Royal Charis
’ crew and passengers feeling as if they’d been beaten black and blue, and the ship’s carpenter had been kept busy dealing with a host of minor repairs. The boatswain had been kept busy, as well, as sails and gear carried away aloft, and one of their escorting galleons had disappeared for three days. If not for the imagery from Merlin’s SNARCs, Cayleb would have assumed she’d
gone down, and at one point, as his flagship had driven before the wind under nothing but bare poles, giving up heartbreaking miles of her hard-won western progress, he hadn’t been at all sure
Royal Charis
wasn’t going to founder herself—a point he’d been very careful not to discuss with Sharleyan at the time.

The main reason he wanted off the ship, though, had nothing to do with all of that
and everything to do with the tasks awaiting him. One of them, in particular, promised to be especially ticklish, and the timing window for it was going to be interesting.

He watched the oared galleys that served as tugs rowing strongly out to meet his flagship and heard the cheers of welcome rising from their companies and his smile grew a bit broader.

“Just be patient, Nahrmahn,” he said soothingly.
“We’ll have you ashore in no time. Unless one of those tugs accidentally rams us and sinks us, of course.”

*   *   *

Sir Rayjhis Yowance, Earl of Gray Harbor, was generally recognized as the First Councilor of the Empire of Charis, although the title tended to change off with Baron Green Mountain when the court was in Cherayth. Now he stood watching the galleys nudge
Royal Charis
closer to the
stone quay and felt a vast surge of relief. Throwing lines flew ashore, followed by thick hawsers that dropped over the waiting bollards. The ship took tension on the mooring hawsers with her own capstans, fenders squeaked and groaned between her and the quay’s tall side, and a gangplank went across to her bulwark-level entry port.

Gray Harbor had commanded his own ship in his time, and he recognized
the signs of heavy weather when he saw them. Much of the galleon’s paint had been stripped away to expose patches of raw wood; sea slime streaked her hull; one of her quarter boats was missing, the falls lashed tightly across the davits where the sea had stove in the vanished boat; the railing of her sternwalk had been badly damaged; two of her topsails had the newer, less stained look of
replacement canvas; and one of her forward gunport lids had been replaced by the ship’s carpenter. The bare, unpainted wood looked like a missing tooth in the neat row of the galleon’s gunports, and as he looked at the other four galleons of her escort, he saw equal or worse signs of how hard their voyage had been.

I know that boy has an iron stomach,
the earl reflected,
but I’ll bet even
he
had his anxious moments on this one. Thank God
I
didn’t know anything about it until he got here! I’ve got gray hairs enough as it is
.

Gray Harbor knew he tended to worry about what Cayleb airily called “the details” of keeping the Empire running. That was his job, when it came down to it, and he was well aware that whatever Cayleb might
call
them, the emperor knew exactly how important they truly
were. Nonetheless, there were times he felt a distinct temptation to say “I told you so,” and looking at the battered ship at quayside was definitely one of those moments.

I don’t care how much sense it made from a diplomatic perspective
, he thought now, sourly,
this nonsense about their spending half the year here in Tellesberg and the other half in Cherayth is just that—nonsense! Ships
sink—
even the best of them, sometimes, damn it—and if anyone should’ve known that, it’s Cayleb Ahrmahk. But, no, he had to throw
that
into the marriage proposal, too. And then he and Sharley—
and
Alahnah—go sailing back and forth on the
same
damned ship. So if it sinks, we lose all three of them!

He knew he was being silly, and he didn’t really care. Not at the moment. And he didn’t feel any particular
responsibility to be rational, either. Certainly, this time Sharleyan was on a different ship … but that only meant she’d have the opportunity to sink on her
own
on the way back from Corisande. Assuming, he reminded himself, HMS
Dawn Star
hadn’t already sunk somewhere in the Chisholm Sea, taking Empress and Crown Princess with her.

Oh, stop that!

He shook his head, feeling his disapproving frown
disappearing into a grin as Cayleb Ahrmahk came bounding down the gangplank in complete disregard of the careful formality of an emperor’s proper arrival in his capital city. The trumpeters, as surprised as anyone by Cayleb’s diversion from the anticipated order of disembarkation, began a belated fanfare as the youthful monarch’s feet found the quay. Half the assembled courtiers looked offended,
another quarter looked surprised, and the remainder were roaring as lustily with laughter as any of the galleon’s seamen or watching longshoremen.

You’re not going to change them … and even if you could, you know you really wouldn’t,
Gray Harbor told himself.
Besides, it’s part of the magic. And
—his expression sobered—
it’s part of their
legend.
Part of what makes this whole thing
work,
and they
wouldn’t have it if God hadn’t given it to them. So why don’t you just do what
they
obviously do and trust God to go on getting it right?

“Welcome home, Your Maj—” he began, starting a formal bow, only to be interrupted as a pair of powerful arms which were obviously as unconcerned with protocol as the rest of the emperor enveloped him in a huge hug.

“It’s good to
be
home, Rayjhis!” a voice
said in his ear. The arms around him tightened, two sinewy hands thumped him once each on the back, hard, and then Cayleb stood back. He laid those hands on Gray Harbor’s shoulders, looking into his face, and smiled that enormous, infectious Ahrmahk smile.

“What say you and I get back to the Palace out of all this racket”—he twitched his head to take in the cheering crowds who were doing their
best to deafen everyone in Tellesberg—“and find ourselves some tall, cold drinks while we catch each other up on all the news?”

*   *   *

“Thank you for joining us, Paityr,” Archbishop Maikel Staynair said as Bryahn Ushyr ushered Paityr Wylsynn into his office once again.

The intendant began to smile in acknowledgment, but then his face went suddenly neutral as he realized Hainryk Waignair,
the elderly Bishop of Tellesberg, and Emperor Cayleb were already present.

“As you can see,” Staynair continued, watching Wylsynn’s expression, “we’ve been joined by a couple of additional guests. That’s because we have something rather … unusual to discuss with you. Something which may require quite a lot of convincing, I’m afraid. So, please, come in and have a seat. You, too, Bryahn.”

Ushyr
seemed unsurprised by the invitation, and he touched Wylsynn’s elbow, startling the young Schuelerite back into motion. The two of them crossed to Staynair’s desk to kiss his ring respectfully, then settled into two of the three still unoccupied chairs arranged to face the archbishop and his other guests.

“Allow me to add my thanks to Maikel’s, Father,” Cayleb said. “And not just for joining
us today. I’m well aware of how much my House and my Kingdom—the entire Empire—owe to your compassion and open-mindedness. To be honest, that awareness is one of the reasons for this meeting.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?” Wylsynn’s expression was a combination of surprise and puzzlement.