By Heresies Distressed (67 page)

Which made his question unexpected, and also explained why she found herself fighting to suppress an instinctive spike of automatic, resentful exasperation.

“Which idea, Uncle Byrtrym?”

She worked hard to keep that exasperation out of her tone, but it was far harder to dissemble with someone who'd always been so close to her, and his lips tightened for just a moment. Then he sat back from the table and propped his elbows on the arms of his chair.

“Actually, Sharley,” he said, using her childhood nickname for the first time in far too long, “I wasn't talking about any of your, um, political decisions. Or not specifically about their political aspects, at any rate.” He smiled thinly, but with an edge of affection. “I was talking about this field trip of yours.”

“Oh. You mean the one to Saint Agtha's?”

“Yes.” He shook his head. “I'm not happy about it, Sharley. In fact, I'm starting to regret ever having mentioned the convent to you in the first place. There's too much chance for something to go wrong if you insist on visiting it.”

“I think that between them, Colonel Ropewalk, Wyllys, and Edwyrd are quite capable of dealing with anything that does go wrong, Uncle Byrtrym.”

“I know you think that. And, frankly, I hope you're right and I'm wrong. But I think, perhaps, I may understand the feelings of those who don't wish to see this schism prosper a bit better than you do.”

He shook his head again as her face tightened.

“I'm not trying to open that entire jar of worms, Sharley. Promise!” He managed a crooked smile, and she relaxed again . . . mostly. “I'm simply saying that emotions on either side are passionate, and what with the interdict and the excommunication, those who wish you ill are altogether too likely to feel justified in taking some sort of desperate action. Cayleb may be safe with his army, but you aren't. I don't want to see you taking unnecessary risks.”

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes warming at his concern for her safety, despite the differences between them. “But I'm not going to allow fear of my own subjects to turn me into a prisoner in the Palace. I especially can't afford to do that while I'm still ‘that foreign woman' to altogether too many of them. This ‘field trip,' as you call it, is one way of showing them I trust them enough to travel among them. And the fact that Saint Agtha was born in Chisholm but chose to spend almost all of her life here in Charis won't be lost on them, either. Besides, I've been fascinated by her biography. I really want to see the convent where she worked all those miraculous healings.”

And
, she did not add out loud,
because I'm exhausted. I think Rayjhis, Maikel, and I have done a good, solid job of hammering the Imperial Parliament together, and I can't believe how well Maikel's managing to integrate Archbishop Pawal's archbishopric into the new hierarchy, even with Braynair's active cooperation. But it didn't come easy for any of us. And people like your “good friend” Kairee didn't exactly help, either, Uncle Byrtrym. I
need
this trip
.

“All that may be true,” he replied, “but it doesn't change a single thing I've said, either. I wish you'd at least take more of your personal guard from home with you.”

“I can't do that, either, Uncle Byrtrym.” Her tone had hardened slightly, and she grimaced, unhappy with herself at the change. “The last thing I can afford to do,” she continued, trying to soften her impatience, “is to give the impression that I trust Chisholmians more than I trust Charisians. That's the entire reason for integrating my guardsmen and Cayleb's in the first place.”

“But—”

“Uncle Byrtrym,” she interrupted gently, “I appreciate your concern. I truly do. Believe me, the fact that I know you still love me, despite our present political differences, is more important to me than I can say. But as you yourself helped Mahrak teach me when I was a girl, once a decision's been made, the worst thing you can do is try to second-guess yourself. And let's be honest with one another, please. My reasons for the decisions I've made can't possibly be acceptable to you. I know that, and I regret it, but it's a fact we both simply have to accept. And that means you're looking at all of those decisions from a radically different perspective. Of course we're not going to agree. If you'll forgive me, I think we both need to take it as a given that you're motivated by your love for me to worry about my safety, but that I can't allow your worries to change my mind. And on that basis, I think it would be far better if we agreed to discuss something else.”

He gazed at her across the table for a second or two, then sighed.

“All right, Sharley,” he said. “You're probably right. And speaking of discussing ‘something else,' ” he continued in a determinedly brighter tone, “what do you think of that new chestnut of mine?”

Merlin Athrawes sat in the darkened tent, leaning back in a folding camp chair with his eyes closed. He really ought to have been lying down, with his “breathing” programmed to be slow and deep, pretending to be asleep if anyone should wander in, but that was much less likely to happen here than it had been aboard ship. Besides, he'd discovered that he actually thought better sitting or standing. Which had to be purely psychological, but made it no less true.

Unfortunately, the posture in which he chose to do his thinking did nothing to add more hours to the lengthy Safeholdian day, and as he'd told Cayleb, there was simply too much he had to keep track of. Initially, that hadn't been that much of a problem, but as the repercussions of Charis' defiance of the Group of Four reechoed around the globe, it had become a nightmare task, even with Owl's help. The fact that he'd been forced to concentrate so heavily on Corisande once Cayleb began active operations against Hektor had only made the nightmare worse, and when
he
dropped a stitch, the consequences could be dire. Not to mention frustrating as hell.

He was still . . . irritated with himself for not picking up on Hektor's plans to get his daughter and younger son out of Corisande in time, for example. The fact that the schooner
Dawn Star
had actually stopped and boarded the ship with the two of them—and Earl Coris—aboard only made his irritation worse. If there'd just been time to warn
Dawn Star
and the other cruisers that some suitably anonymous informant had told them members of Hektor's family might be attempting to flee the princedom, then her boarding officer would undoubtedly have taken a much closer look at
Wing
's passenger list instead of concentrating on her cargo. Her completely
legitimate
-seeming cargo.

Still, he had to admit that Cayleb had been right to order him to take regular breaks each night. Two hours was probably more than he actually needed, but he could recognize a significant difference in his mental sharpness since Cayleb had handed down his
diktat
.

His lips twitched in a smile as he wondered just how Cayleb would be able to tell whether he was “awake” or “asleep” if the emperor came to check and make certain he was getting the prescribed “downtime” each night.

I suppose the point is that he doesn't
have
to check. I told him I'd do it, and he took my word for it. Sneaky bastard. It's so much easier to creep around behind the back of someone who doesn't simply expect you to be as honorable and trustworthy as he is. Besides, I might as well admit that he's got about as much “command presence” as anyone I ever served under, including Commodore Pei
.

It was peculiar how his original attitudes towards Charis and Charisians had changed, he reflected. He'd respected both Cayleb and his father from the beginning, but as he'd told King Haarahld in their very first interview, his loyalty had been to the future of Safehold, not to any specific monarch or even realm. Yet that was no longer strictly true. Since then, somehow, he'd become a Charisian himself, and he wasn't certain that was a good thing. His responsibility was to the entire human race, not to the House of Ahrmahk, however personable, likable, and charismatic the current head of that house might be. He couldn't afford to allow himself to begin identifying with the interests of Charis in a way which might distract him from his overarching duty.

But I'm not—not really
, he told himself in one corner of his brain while most of his attention was concentrated on the summary of the day's take from the SNARCs which Owl was transmitting to him.
Or, rather, at this point in time, the interests of Charis are identical with those of the human race in general. There's certainly no one else prepared to take the stand Cayleb, Maikel, and Sharleyan are taking, at any rate! Even from the most cold-blooded perspective, I can't afford to lose this particular team. If I did, I'd probably never find its equal again
.

Sure
, another corner of his brain replied sardonically.
You go right on convincing yourself that way
.

Oh, shut up!
the first corner snapped peevishly.

He snorted. These little internal conversations of his would undoubtedly have worried any psychologist who'd been prepared to take on the challenge of analyzing an electronic pattern of memories and emotions which stubbornly persisted in thinking of itself as a human being. It wasn't as if—

His thoughts broke off abruptly and he twitched upright in his chair.

“Owl!” he subvocalized.

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander Alban?”

“Replay that last segment.”

“Yes, Lieutenant Commander,” the AI replied obediently, and Merlin swore silently and viciously as a dagger of ice seemed to go through his nonexistent heart.

Damn it
. Damn
it! I
told
Cayleb I had too many things to do!

Yes, he had. And as Cayleb had suggested to him, that was as inevitable as the next sunrise. He simply
had
to prioritize, which was why he'd been concentrating on matters here in Corisande and events which might directly impinge on Cayleb's operations. Besides, he knew the quality of the people Cayleb had left behind in Tellesberg, and he couldn't have personally affected anything that happened there from this far away, anyway.

Every single word of that was true, and he knew it . . . which didn't make him feel a single bit better.

He stood abruptly, still watching behind his eyelids as the SNARC routinely sweeping Sharleyan's physical location and tracking her movements detected the armed men moving steadily towards the Convent of Saint Agtha.

He didn't know who they were, but he knew they
weren't
her guardsmen or anyone else associated with her security force. That only left one real possibility for why they might be closing in on the convent. Obviously, he'd missed even more than he'd realized. Neither he nor Owl had tagged any of the men the SNARC was watching as potential threats; they weren't even in the database they'd been constructing. But they had to have contact with someone who was, or else they wouldn't have known Sharleyan's agenda well enough and sufficiently in advance to prepare as well as they obviously had.

Those thoughts flashed through his molycirc brain, and then he shook himself. However interesting all this speculation might be, it wasn't doing him any good. And it wasn't doing Sharleyan any good, either.

He stood very still, considering alternatives and consequences. It was roughly four in the morning in Corisande, which made it eighteen hundred in Charis, and he was the next best thing to seven thousand air-miles from Tellesberg. There was no way he could possibly warn Sharleyan or any of her guardsmen. But there was one possibility, only . . .

It's those kids and the krakens all over again
, he thought.
Only this time, it's even worse. I can't do this. I can't
risk
this. It can undo every single thing we've accomplished so far, and I don't have any right to run that kind of risk
, however
much I want to
.

He knew he was right. Knew he couldn't take such an enormous chance. Knew—

“Get the recon skimmer airborne!” he snapped to Owl.

“I think the Abbess expected me to object to the rule about servants,” Sharleyan commented as Father Carlsyn, Captain Gairaht, and Sergeant Seahamper escorted her from the refectory to the Convent of Saint Agtha's guesthouse.

“If you'll pardon my saying so, Your Majesty, you
ought
to have objected,” Gairaht replied, just a bit sourly. “It's not fitting.”

“Oh, stop fussing, Wyllys!” Sharleyan scolded affectionately. “I knew about the convent's retreat rules before I ever asked the Abbess to allow me to come. And my imperial dignity isn't so fragile that it has to be buttressed every moment, especially on a retreat. Besides, a reputation for piety isn't a bad thing under the present circumstances, now is it?”

“And you expect me to believe you decided to accept the convent's stipulations solely on the basis of cold calculation. Is that it, Your Majesty?”

“No, but if doing what I think is the right thing works out to be the same thing I would have decided to do if I
had
calculated coldly, I'm not going to object,” Sharleyan replied serenely.

“I'm relieved to hear that you have your priorities in order, Your Majesty,” Father Carlsyn said dryly, and Sharleyan chuckled.

“I'm glad you're relieved, Father. On the other hand, I was scarcely likely to come up with any other answer where my confessor might overhear it, was I?”

“Except that such duplicitous thinking would never occur to someone who's had the advantage of
my
spiritual counsel for so long, Your Majesty,” he replied tranquilly.