How Firm a Foundation (84 page)

“I agree, Your Majesties,” Baron Ironhill said, his expression grim. “Granted, it never occurred to any of us, since we tend to think of wars as something in which you try to
minimize
carnage among civilians and innocent bystanders. We should have remembered that as far as Clyntahn’s concerned,
there
are
no ‘innocent bystanders’ in Charis. He doesn’t give a
damn
who he slaughters.”

His voice went hard and ugly with the last sentence, and not just because of the carnage Clyntahn’s “Operation Rakurai” had wreaked. The official report of the murder of Sir Gwylym Manthyr and his remaining men had reached Tellesberg, as well. In fact, the version of their deaths the Inquisition was trying
hard to suppress across Haven and Howard had come to Tellesberg, courtesy of the tiny, highly stealthy, purely passive remote Merlin Athrawes had deployed to within visual range of the Plaza of Martyrs. That remote had seen Gwylym Manthyr’s final gesture of defiance, and the propaganda broadsheets going up throughout the mainland realms contained a detailed etching of Manthyr’s spittle hitting Clyntahn
in the face to give the lie to the Grand Inquisitor’s claim that Manthyr had confessed to all of the crimes and blasphemies charged against him.

Yet that remote had also recorded the agony in which those Charisians had died. Ironhill hadn’t seen it, but he didn’t need to. Cayleb and Merlin
had
seen it, driven by their loyalty to Gwylym Manthyr, and wished with all their hearts they hadn’t. Sharleyan—wiser,
perhaps, than either of them—had refused to look. She honored Manthyr’s dauntless courage, yet she preferred to remember him as he had been, unshadowed and unmarred by the hideous death he’d died.

“You’re right, of course, Ahlvyno,” Cayleb said now. “And we’ll be watching for similar attempts, I assure you. I just pray we can protect ourselves against this kind of thing without turning into some
kind of suppressive tyranny ourselves.”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to put at least some additional precautions in place, Your Majesty,” Wave Thunder replied unhappily. “They succeeded in large part because we weren’t expecting it, and I think future attacks on the same scale are unlikely. I doubt they’re going to be rolling around the city with wagonloads of gunpowder again, for example,
especially with our new licensing and inspection systems in place. No system’s perfect though, and we obviously can’t guarantee they don’t have the men and materials in place to keep testing it for weak spots when we still don’t even know how they got the gunpowder into the assassins’ hands to begin with!”

“We still don’t have
any
clues about that, My Lord?” one of the other councilors asked,
and Wave Thunder grimaced in disgust.

“No,” he admitted flatly. “And I’m reasonably certain the one ‘Rakurai’ we managed to capture doesn’t know how they did that, either. No one’s going to torture any confessions out of him, but we haven’t been especially gentle and understanding about questioning him.” He smiled thinly. “He’s told us where he went to collect
his
explosives, but they were delivered
to him by another of Clyntahn’s agents—the one who detonated the Gray Wyvern Avenue bomb, unless I’m mistaken.
He
got the gunpowder from a source—a pickup point—here in Old Charis, but our prisoner doesn’t know where that was. What we do know, unfortunately, from examining the wagon Merlin kept him from blowing up in Queen Frayla Avenue is that the powder originally came from us.”

“What?!”
the
other councilor demanded, sitting up sharply in his chair, and Wave Thunder grimaced.

“Forty pounds of it were still in its original kegs,” he said, “and they carried the markings of the Hairatha Powder Mill. I think we have to assume that’s why the powder mill was blown up. My current theory is that Commander Mahndrayn, Baron Seamount’s assistant at King’s Harbor, noticed a discrepancy somewhere
in one or more of the shipping manifests from Hairatha. Most of you may not know that Captain Sahlavahn, the commanding officer at Hairatha, was Commander Mahndrayn’s cousin. It would have made a certain degree of sense for him to take any suspicions to his cousin in an effort to handle things as quietly as possible, and it seems likely that whoever was responsible somehow realized Commander
Mahndrayn and Captain Sahlavahn had become aware he’d diverted powder from the mill. I don’t know how that happened, how the Commander and Captain Sahlavahn might have given away their suspicions, but if I’m right about what happened, he blew up the entire powder mill to conceal his actions.”

“That’s speculative,” Cayleb observed, “but it does make sense. And it suggests that getting large quantities
of gunpowder into the Empire isn’t going to be as easy for Clyntahn as simply sending in lunatics willing to blow themselves up as long as they get to kill as many Charisians as possible. Of course, the reverse side of that mark is that we don’t know how
much
powder was diverted from Hairatha. There could still be tons of it sitting around somewhere.”

“Indeed there could, Your Majesty.” Wave
Thunder nodded. “Which is why I have my best agents and all of our resources looking for it.” He didn’t add that “all of our resources” included Owl’s SNARCs. “In addition, we’re trying to make all City Guardsmen aware of the need to look for
anything
out of the ordinary. They don’t have to use
wagons
to get bombs into position, especially if they can work out some reliable way to set them off
with a delayed timer of some kind, and even a fairly small explosion in a crowded market square will inflict a lot of casualties. This time around, Clyntahn ordered his ‘Rakurai’ to specifically target senior clergy and secular leaders; all the dead and maimed civilians were simply a happy side effect of that, according to Master Ahndairs. Next time, the bastards may simply choose to go for as much
death and destruction as they can inflict.

“At the same time, we have to be on the lookout for completely different techniques. For example, if they could get their hands on our own gunpowder, they may manage to get access to our grenades, as well. For that matter, they could make grenades or similar small explosive devices of their own without much trouble. An attack like that couldn’t kill
anywhere near as many people as their … wagon bombs, but they’d also be harder to detect, and they’d probably be better at penetrating any security we set up.”

Heads nodded soberly, and Cayleb’s expression was grim. He wondered how the rest of his councilors were going to react when they discovered that a “Rakurai” with four grenades under his tunic had entered Cherayth Cathedral less than twenty-six
hours before this very meeting, waited for Archbishop Pawal Braynair to arrive to celebrate mass, and then seized one of the processional candles and used it to light the fuse. He’d managed to kill only three people … but that was only because Braynair and two other men had tackled him and smothered most of the explosion with their own bodies.

“I’m afraid one of the precautions we’re going to
have to take—and you’re not going to like it, Maikel,” Wave Thunder, who
did
know about Braynair’s death, said, looking directly at Maikel Staynair, “will be stationing guardsmen outside all public buildings,
including
cathedrals and churches, and requiring anyone entering to demonstrate he’s not carrying a bomb under his tunic.”

“I won’t have armed guards outside God’s house,” Staynair said
flatly, but then even the redoubtable archbishop jerked in his chair as Cayleb’s open palm slapped the tabletop like a gunshot.

“Perhaps
you
won’t, Maikel,” the emperor said even more flatly, “but
I
will!” Their eyes locked, and the index finger of the hand which had slapped the table tapped it in emphatic time with Cayleb’s words as he continued. “You may choose to risk your life in the service
of God, and I’ll respect you for it, even as I cringe inside every time I think about how readily you expose yourself to murderers like these ‘Rakurai’ of Clyntahn’s. That’s your option, though, Maikel, and I won’t dictate to you. But you have no right to expose
other people
to that same risk. We’re not talking about three men with knives this time—we’re talking about people who blow up entire
city squares
! I am
not
opening the doors of God’s house to that kind of wholesale murder and massacre. Don’t fight me on this one, Maikel; you’ll lose.”

Silence hovered tensely for long, still moments. Then, finally, Staynair bowed his head.

“I … hadn’t thought of it exactly that way,” he admitted. “I still don’t like it. In fact, I hate the very thought, but you’re right, I suppose.”

“We don’t
like the thought either, Maikel,” Sharleyan said gently. “And if we can find a better way, we will. But for now, it has to be this way.”

Staynair nodded silently, and Cayleb inhaled deeply as the council chamber’s tension eased perceptibly.

“We’ll look forward to hearing anything more you turn up on this front, Bynzhamyn. In the meantime, though, we can’t afford to let our concern over these
murders divert us from other problems. I’m sure that’s at least partly what Clyntahn hopes to accomplish. So since we’re not going to let that bastard have
anything
he wants, I suggest we turn our attention elsewhere. For one thing, I’d like to hear anything you and Trahvys can tell us about the situation in Siddarmark.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Pine Hollow said, after a glance at Wave Thunder.
“Bynzhamyn and I have been looking at reports from certain of our sources in the Republic.” Pine Hollow hadn’t yet had as much experience as his predecessor in not looking at Captain Athrawes when he made comments like that, and his eyes flicked briefly in Merlin’s direction. It was only a
very
brief glance, however, and he continued calmly. “We don’t have anything like detailed information, I’m
afraid, but it would appear the Group of Four intends to strike at the Republic very soon now.”

Expressions turned grave once more, and the new first councilor shrugged.

“It seems evident from the reports that someone—almost certainly agents of the Inquisition—is skillfully fanning public unrest and anger directed first and foremost at the Charisian community in Siddar City and the other eastern
provinces, but also at Reformists in general. The most telling aspect, in my opinion, is that the propaganda we’ve become more recently aware of directly links Lord Protector Greyghor and his government to the ‘support and protection’ of ‘heretics and blasphemers’ throughout the Republic. And you may find this of particular interest, Ahlvyno,” he said, glancing at Ironhill, “but they’re also
emphasizing the way in which the Charisian immigrants are ‘taking food out of our babies’ mouths’ and somehow managing to simultaneously make the consequences of Clyntahn’s embargo
our
fault.”

“That’s insane,” the Charisian Keeper of the Purse said, and Pine Hollow chuckled harshly.

“And you were of the opinion propaganda has to make sense to be
effective?
”

“No, I suppose not,” Ironhill sighed.

“And what happened at Iythria—especially the destruction of the port—is going to play into their propaganda efforts, as well,” Sharleyan observed. “I’m not sure how, but no doubt they’ll figure out a way to suggest we’re about to do the same thing to the
Republic
—with Stohnar’s connivance!—for some nefarious reason of our own.”

“Probably,” Cayleb agreed. “And that being the case, what
do
we do?”
He looked around the council table. “Suggestions, anyone?”

.II.

Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk; Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis; and HMS
Destiny
, 54, Thol Bay, Kingdom of Tarot

“What is it, Phylyp?” Irys Daykyn asked, looking up from the flowers she’d been arranging to greet the Earl of Coris with a welcoming smile as he entered the library.

Spring was coming on apace, and the early-season wildflowers
crowning the hills around the castle above Lake Erdan reminded her—fleetingly—of the brilliant blossoms of her homeland. They were a pallid substitute, yet they echoed at least the ghost of Corisande, and she’d spent several hours collecting them that morning, escorted by Tobys Raimair and one of his men. She’d been arranging them ever since, and singing softly—something she seldom did, since her
father’s death—as she worked.

Phylyp Ahzgood knew that, which was one of the reasons he hated having to disturb her … especially with this.

“I’m afraid something’s come up, Irys,” he said. “Something we need to talk about.”

Her smile faded as his tone registered. She laid the flowers on the table beside the trio of vases she’d been filling and wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her
gown.

“What is it?” she repeated in a very different tone.

“Sit down,” he invited, pointing at one of the well-upholstered but worn-looking chairs. “This may take a while.”

“Why?” she asked, sitting in the indicated chair and watching him with intent hazel eyes as he turned another chair backwards and sat straddling it, forearms propped on the top of its back.

“Because we have to discuss something
we’ve both been avoiding,” he said gravely. “Something you’ve been dancing around, and that I’ve
let
you dance around.”

“That sounds ominous.” Her effort to inject a light note into her voice failed, and she folded her arms across her chest. “But in that case, I imagine the best way to do this will be for you to come straight to the point,” she said.

In that moment, she looked very like her
father, Coris thought. She had her mother’s eyes and high yet delicate cheekbones, but that hair came straight from her father, and so did the strong chin—softened, thank God, into a more feminine version in her case. And the look in those eyes came from Hektor Daykyn, as well. It was the look Hektor had worn when the time came to set aside theories and nuanced understandings. When it was time to
make decisions by which men lived or died. It grieved Coris, in many ways, to see that look in Irys’ eyes, but it was a vast relief, as well.