A Mighty Fortress (50 page)

“That sounds like her,” Mahklyn said with a slight smile. “Well, something she included was what she called ‘fulminated quick silver.’ ” He raised an eyebrow at Mahklyn, who very carefully showed no reaction at all, aside from a polite nod inviting his visitor to continue.

“She warned us that fulminated quicksilver was much too sensitive for something as . . . lively as an artillery shell. We tested it, of course—cautiously!—and I agree with her entirely. But a couple of days ago, one of my other clever young officers suggested to Urvyn that even though it’s too sensitive for inclusion in a shell, there ought to be some way to use it as a priming composition. Something that could actually replace flintlocks.”

Mahklyn let his chair come fully upright, making no attempt now to disguise his sudden, intent interest. “Fulminated quicksilver”— what an Old Terran would have called “fulminate of mercury”— was scarcely anything
he
would have wanted to work with, if only because of the potential health risks. But it had some very interesting properties, and those properties had led it to be used in Old Terra’s firearms for a long, long time. He’d discovered them for himself, using his com and Owl’s research assistance on one of the unfortunately frequent nights when his aging bones found sleep elusive. There were other, safer ways to achieve the same effect, but this one was already
here,
ready to hand, if only someone would recognize the implications. As he’d skimmed over Lywys’ most recent reports, he’d wondered how he might casually bring some of those properties to her attention. Was it possible ...?

“Go on,” he urged. “This stuff is sensitive enough you can set it off just by dropping it, which is going to pose some problems,” Seamount said, leaning forward himself and waving his mutilated hand in what Mahklyn considered rather pointed emphasis. “I’ll be surprised if there’s not a way to figure out solutions for most of them, though. And if we can... ! Rahzhyr, you can actually set it off
underwater
! If we can figure out a way to make it work, our Marines’ rifles would fire just as reliably in the middle of a Tellesberg thunderstorm as on a sunny day! Not only that, but I think it would decrease the lock time—the interval between when the hammer falls and the main charge explodes. And if it does, it should also increase individual accuracy.”

“I see.” Mahklyn nodded his head energetically. “I think your ‘clever young officer’ is onto something very important here, Ahlfryd. This is something we need to follow up on immediately!”

“I agree entirely,” the baron said, then snorted. “He really
is
a clever fellow, too. In fact, he’s also come up with another interesting application of Dr. Lywys’ fuse compound.”

“He has?”

“Oh, yes. As a matter of fact, I think he may be going to put tinderbox makers out of business,” Seamount said, and chuckled at Mahklyn’s baffled expression. “He tried putting some of the new compound on the end of a splinter and discovered he could ignite it by scratching it across a rough surface. It’s almost like magic, in a lot of ways. The damned thing will strike almost anywhere, and if he coats the splinter in a little paraffin to give it some reliable fuel, it not only waterproofs the compound, but the splinter itself burns a lot hotter—and a lot longer—than anything I’ve ever seen out of a tinderbox or a regular fire striker, too.”

“Really? That sounds like it could have a lot of uses outside the Navy!”

“I imagine it will, but it’s going to take some getting used to. It ignites a bit . . . energetically, and it throws sparks like crazy. In fact, you have to be a bit cautious about using one of the things. And talk about
stinking—
!” He grimaced, then grinned suddenly. “Somehow, I don’t think the Group of Four is really likely to approve of the nickname the Board’s hung on the thing, either.”

“What sort of nickname?” Mahklyn asked. “Well, given the sparks and the stink—it smells just like brimstone, actually—they’re calling the things ‘Shan- wei’s candles,’ ” Seamount said with another grimace. “I’m not so sure we want to be encouraging anyone to use that particular nickname when the Group of Four is busy accusing us all of heresy and Shan- wei worship!”

“Probably not,” Mahklyn agreed. “Probably not.”

Yet even as he agreed, another thought was passing through a very private corner of his brain.

You may be right about not using it
now
, Ahlfryd. In fact, I’m sure you are! But whether they know it or not, your “bright young officers” have hung
exactly
the right name on it. Because that “candle” is part of what’s going to blow the Church of God Awaiting’s tyranny apart, and wherever she is, Pei Shan- wei is going to be cheering us on the entire way
.

Imperial Palace,

City of Cherayth,

Kingdom of Chisholm

Oh, it’s
good
to actually see you, Maikel!”

Empress Sharleyan held out her arms to Maikel Staynair, who was considerably taller than she was. She seemed to disappear momentarily as he embraced her, and Cayleb was pretty certain, as he waited for his own turn to embrace Staynair, that neither his wife’s nor his archbishop’s eyes were completely dry.

“It’s good to see you, too, Your Majesty,” Staynair replied after a moment, standing back far enough to rest his hands on Sharleyan’s shoulders and looking deep into her eyes. “The last time, it hadn’t been all that long since those maniacs tried to kill you.”

“I know.” Sharleyan’s eyes darkened briefly, and she reached up to pat the hand on her right shoulder. Then her expression turned more lively once more, and she shook her head severely at him. “I know,” she repeated, “but don’t think the plea sure of seeing you again is going to cause me to overlook the impropriety of your chosen form of address!”

For a second, Staynair actually seemed a bit taken aback, but then his own eyes began to twinkle and he stepped back to bow to her in mock contrition.

“Forgive me . . . Sharleyan,” he said.

“Better,” she told him, and he chuckled as he turned to greet Cayleb, in turn.

With most men, Cayleb would have settled for clasped forearms, but this was Maikel Staynair, whom he hadn’t seen face- to- face in over a year, and his own eyes weren’t totally dry as he hugged the archbishop fiercely.

“Easy, Cayleb!
Easy
!” Staynair gasped. “Mind the ribs! They’re no younger than the rest of me, you know!”

“They—and you—are tougher than an old boot, Maikel!” Cayleb returned a bit huskily.

“Now there’s a respectful way to describe an archbishop,” Staynair observed, and Cayleb laughed and waved at the armchair waiting in front of the coal fire quietly seething on the grate.

“Well, we’ll just have to see if we can’t make amends. Knowing you as well as I do, I expect
this
to make a pretty good start.” He indicated the whiskey decanter on the end table between the armchair and the small couch beside it. “West Isle blended, as a matter of fact. It was hard to get Sharley to agree to part with it—this is the twenty- four- year grand reserve—but she agreed it would probably be the best way to get your undivided attention.”

“The two of you obviously have a deplorably low—and frighteningly accurate—view of my character,” Staynair said.

The archbishop followed his hosts across to the waiting chair and allowed himself to be seated before either of them. Most—not all, by any means, but definitely most—of the Church of God Awaiting’s archbishops would have demanded precedence over any mere monarch. Would have
expected
his hosts to remain standing until he’d taken his seat. Staynair didn’t . . . which was one reason they insisted on doing it anyway.

Once they had him ensconced in the comfortable chair, Sharleyan curled up on one end of the couch, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under her, while Cayleb busied himself pouring three substantial glasses of the pungent, amber whiskey. He added water to all three, and a little ice (something Chisholm produced in bulk, during the winter months) to his and Staynair’s glasses. Sharleyan, having been taught the
proper
way to appreciate fine drink by Baron Green Mount, regarded the contamination of perfectly good whiskey with ice as a Charisian perversion. When she was in a better mood than usual she was prepared to concede that, given the warmth of Old Charis’ year- round climate, the barbarous custom might have
some
justification under truly extreme conditions, but that didn’t make it the sort of thing in which decent people wanted to indulge. A little spring water to tone down the alcohol just enough to bring out the full array of scents and flavors was quite another thing, of course.

“Oh, my,” Staynair sighed, eyes half- closed in bliss, as he lowered his glass a few moments later. “You know, it’s not often something actually exceeds its reputation.”

“I have to admit, Chisholm’s distilleries really are better than ours in Charis,” Cayleb agreed. “I’m still in the process of sampling and developing my palate properly. And the good news is that it’s going to take me
years
to try all of them.”

“It’s incredibly smooth,” Staynair said, taking another sip and rolling it gently over his tongue before swallowing.

“They triple- distill it,” Cayleb told him. “And most of the distilleries char the insides of the casks, too. The West Isle distillery’s just outside Traynside, and they add just a little peat to the drying kiln—that’s where that little touch of a smoky taste comes from. Merlin says that, aside from the peat, it reminds him a lot of something they used to call ‘Bushmills’ back on Old Terra.”

“Somehow, when he told us that, it did more than almost anything else—for me, at least—to drive home the connection between us, right here today on Safehold, and where we all truly came from in the beginning,” Sharleyan said quietly. “We’re not only still distilling whiskey, but someone who was there—on Old Terra—
recognizes
it when we do.”

“Recognizes the
taste,
anyway.” Cayleb’s smile was as crooked as it was sad. “Apparently, a PICA can’t really appreciate alcohol, anymore. And for me, that drives home what Merlin’s given up just to be here.”

“Amen,” Staynair said quietly, and the single word was as much prayer as simple agreement. The archbishop sat for a handful of seconds, looking down into his glass, then deliberately sipped again and sat back in his chair.

“Speaking of Merlin—?” he said, one eyebrow arched. “He’ll be here for supper,” Cayleb assured him. “He’s taking care of an errand with Ahlber Zhustyn and Earl White Crag.”

“Ah?” Staynair’s other eyebrow rose.

Sir Ahlber Zhustyn was the Chisholmian equivalent of Bynzhamyn Raice, and Hauwerstat Thompkyn, the Earl of White Crag, was Chisholm’s Lord Justice. Zhustyn and White Crag worked closely together, because the espionage function was distributed rather differently under the Chisholmian tradition. Zhustyn was responsible for spying on
other
people, while one of White Crag’s responsibilities was to keep other people from spying on
Chisholm
.

“May I ask the nature of the errand?” the archbishop inquired. “Actually, he’s mostly preparing the ground for Nahrmahn’s conference with them tomorrow,” Sharleyan replied, and made a small face. “I’m afraid that, even now, Hauwerstat finds it difficult to contemplate welcoming Nahrmahn with open arms. Something about how many years he spent trying to fend off Emeraldian spies.”

“Now why could that possibly be?” Staynair wondered dryly. “I don’t have the least idea,” Cayleb said even more dryly, then snorted a chuckle. “You should’ve seen the two of them when we stopped off here in Cherayth on our way to Chisholm last year, Maikel!” He shook his head. “No one could possibly have been politer, but somehow, every time Nahrmahn started getting a little close to discussing any of the things White Crag’s spent so long keeping his nose out of, the Lord Justice suddenly discovered something else he absolutely, positively had to do right then.”

“I’ve scolded him about that since I got home.” Sharleyan looked a little embarrassed. “He’s promised he’ll behave better this time. But, to be perfectly honest, I’d rather have him being overly suspicious rather than too complacent.”

“Oh, no argument there.” Cayleb nodded vigorously. “And Nahrmahn obviously understood. Besides, White Crag was perfectly willing to share any intelligence he had with
me,
so Nahrmahn got it all secondhand, anyway. Still, we really do need for our imperial councilor for intelligence to have
direct
access to all of the intelligence coming our way. Which is what Merlin—and Ahlber, who’s a bit more . . . flexible about these things—are emphasizing to White Crag right this minute.” The emperor shrugged. “By now, everyone here in Chisholm regards Merlin as my own personal messenger. And Sharley’s, for that matter. They’re all prepared to accept that he’s speaking directly for us, but he can be a bit franker than either of us can without things turning officially sticky. And, for that matter, people can be ‘franker’ in responding to him while every-body pretends it’s not going to get back to us.”

“I see.” Staynair shook his head and chuckled. “Somehow, it’s a bit hard to think of Merlin playing go- between.”

“Really?” Cayleb cocked his head at the archbishop with a peculiar expression, half smile and half grimace. “Trust me, ‘go- between’ is a pretty good description of a couple of things he’s got in mind.”

“What sort of things?” Staynair asked more than a bit warily, but Cayleb only shook his head.