How Firm a Foundation (59 page)

The contemplation of those questions had led him to certain unhappy conclusions.
Indeed, to conclusions unhappy enough that he hadn’t shared them even with his wife.

“I’m just saying,” he said now, “that we’re in a sticky situation and this squabbling and bloodshed isn’t going to make it any better. Langhorne only knows how the Charisians are going to react when those prisoners Rahnyld captured get to Zion, but it’s not going to be pretty. We’ve had our own demonstration
of that, haven’t we?”

His wife frowned the way she always did whenever someone alluded to the “Ferayd Massacre.” She’d never been happy about the part Delferahkan troops had played in the original incident, and despite what she’d said a moment ago, she’d had some tart words of her own for the Inquisition following the murders. The Empire of Charis’ reprisal against the city hadn’t made her one
bit happier, although she recognized that the Charisians had actually been rather restrained in their response, however it had been reported by the Inquisition.

“We’re lucky they’ve been too busy elsewhere to go on raiding our coasts,” Zhames continued, “but that can always change, especially now that they’ve settled things with Tarot. Everything they had committed to blockading Gorjah is available
for other enterprises now, you know. And leaving that completely aside, the more settled things get in Corisande, the more … awkward they’re likely to get for us here in Talkyra.”

It was the closest he’d yet come to broaching his suspicions about who’d really murdered Prince Hektor and his older son. From the flicker in Hailyn’s eyes she might have been entertaining a few of those same suspicions
herself.

“This ‘Regency Council’ of young Daivyn’s is starting to sound far too conciliatory where Charis is concerned for my peace of mind,” he continued, deliberately steering the conversation to one side. “I’m not sure how much longer Vicar Zahmsyn’s going to go on allowing me to correspond with them, and what do we do about Daivyn then?” He shook his head. “The most likely outcome I can see
is for the Temple to take him into its direct custody.”

Hailyn’s eyes widened and one hand rose to the base of her throat.

“Whatever else Daivyn and Irys may be, they’re my cousins,” she said, “and prince or not, Daivyn’s only a little boy, Zhames! He only turns eleven next five-day, and Irys isn’t even nineteen yet! They need family, especially after all they’ve already been through!”

“I know,”
Zhames said more gently, “and I’m fond of them myself. But if the vicarate”—he saw her grimace slightly, proof both of them knew he was actually speaking about the Group of Four—“decide we’ve gotten too cozy with the Regency Council, and if they decide the Regency Council’s gotten too cozy with
Charis
, that’s exactly what they’re likely to do. And in the meantime, they’re more or less ordering
me to go
on
corresponding with the Regency Council! And they’re insisting on receiving true copies of every document from the Regency Council to me or to Coris. So if anyone in Manchyr commits anything … indiscreet to writing,
that’s
likely to come home to roost here in Talkyra, as well!”

“Surely they realize that as well as you do, dear.”

“Is ‘they’ the Regency Council, Coris, or the vicarate?”
Zhames inquired just a bit caustically, and her brief, unhappy smile acknowledged his point.

“Well, I suppose all we can do is the best we can do,” he continued. “I’d prefer not to’ve made an enemy out of Charis in the first place, but since it’s a little late to do anything about that, I think we’ll just concentrate on keeping our heads down and staying out of their line of fire. As far as Daivyn
and Irys are concerned, we’re just going to have to go on playing it by ear, Hailyn. I don’t say I like it, and I don’t say I’ll be happy if the decision is made to take them out of our custody, but it’s not as if we’ll have a lot of choice if that happens.”

And
, he added silently as his wife nodded unhappily,
as much as I don’t wish them any ill fortune, it would still be a vast relief to see
them somewhere else
.

Somewhere where no one could possibly blame
me
for whatever happens to them
.

*   *   *

“So what do we do with
this
one?” Sir Klymynt Halahdrom asked dourly.

“I presume we go ahead and deliver it to the boy,” Fahstair Lairmahn, Baron of Lakeland and first councilor of the Kingdom of Delferahk, replied. “Why? Does it contain anything dangerous?”

“Nothing except six of the
biggest, nastiest-looking wyverns I’ve seen in a while,” Halahdrom replied. “I went through it pretty carefully, you can be sure, but I didn’t see anything else out of the ordinary about it.”

As the palace’s chief chamberlain, he’d seen his share of bizarre royal gifts over the years, and he’d seldom paid much attention to them, if the truth be told. That was no longer true, however, and he’d
looked this one over closely.

“Wyverns?” Lakeland repeated, eyebrows arching. “All the way from Corisande?”

“All the way from Corisande,” Halahdrom confirmed. “According to the cover note, they’re a gift from Earl Anvil Rock for the boy’s birthday. Apparently he was just starting to fly his own wyverns for small game before his father packed him off to us.” The chamberlain chuckled. “Be a few
years before he’s ready to fly any of
these
, though! The damned things are big enough to pick
him
up and fly away.”

Lakeland shook his head with a bemused smile. Worrying about the gifts someone might send a boy for his eleventh birthday wasn’t something which concerned most first councilors. Of course, most first councilors weren’t in Lakeland’s position. Bishop Executor Dynzail Vahsphar had
made it abundantly clear that he was to be kept fully informed about
anything
which was delivered to Prince Daivyn or any other member of his household. Bishop Mytchail Zhessop, Vahsphar’s intendant, had made it equally clear he intended to hold Lakeland personally responsible for the completeness of those reports.

The whole thing struck the baron as excessive, to say the least. Anybody who tried
to poison the boy, for example, was unlikely to do it by sending him sweetmeats from Corisande, and that was the
most
likely threat he could imagine. Well, the most likely threat from anything anyone might openly send him, at any rate, Lakeland amended a bit more grimly.

Still, Halahdrom might have a point about this particular gift. It seemed evident the boy had to take after his mother, since
by all reports Hektor of Corisande had been a tall, powerfully built fellow, and Prince Daivyn was never going to be a large man. Three days short of his eleventh birthday, he was a small, slender boy. Not
delicate
, just small, with a wiry knit frame that seemed unlikely to ever bulk up with muscle. He was smart, too, almost as smart as that sister of his, and Lakeland suspected that under normal
circumstances he probably would have been a lively handful. As it was, he was quiet, often pensive, and he spent a lot of time with his books. Partly that was a natural consequence of the king wyvern’s eye his sister, King Zhames’ guardsmen, and the members of his own household kept on him. Given what had happened to his father and his older brother, that sort of suffocating surveillance was inevitable,
but it had to have a depressing effect on a lad’s natural high spirits and sense of mischief. Perhaps that was why neither Lakeland nor Halahdrom had seen any sign of a passion for hunting wyverns in him. It wasn’t as if he’d had any opportunity to pursue the sport since arriving here, after all.

“Did any other gifts arrive with them?” he asked.

“No.” Halahdrom shook his head, then made a face.
“Most of them got here a couple of five-days ago, courtesy of that Charisian ‘parole.’ These just arrived today, and I think they must’ve been an afterthought. Either that or somebody figured the Charisians might not pass them through for some reason.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, they’re obviously from Anvil Rock—most of the correspondence is in a secretary’s hand, of course, but he sent along
a nice little personal note to the boy in his own handwriting, along with a list of devotional readings he’d like the lad to be studying now that he’s getting older.” The chamberlain shrugged. “We’ve seen enough of his handwriting by now to know it’s really his, and the secretary’s writing matches the last several sets of letters we’ve received, as well. But they didn’t come covered by a Charisian
guarantee of safe passage, the way the rest of the birthday gifts did.” He chuckled. “In fact, they came upriver from Sarmouth by messenger—courtesy of a smuggler, unless I miss my guess.”

“That’s interesting.” Lakeland rubbed his nose. “A smuggler, you say?”

“That’s my best guess, at any rate.” Halahdrom shrugged. “I’ve got the fellow waiting outside if you’d like to speak to him directly.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Lakeland said, and smiled slightly. “If the fellow’s a smuggler—or knows somebody who is, at any rate—we might even be able to get some decent whiskey through that damned blockade!”

Halahdrom chuckled, nodded, and departed. A few moments later, he returned with a tall, brown-haired and brown-eyed man in the decent but nondescript dress of a seaman. If the stranger
was worried as he was ushered into the first councilor’s office he hid it well.

“Ahbraim Zhevons, My Lord,” Halahdrom said, speaking rather more formally in the outsider’s presence, and Zhevons bobbed a respectful bow.

“So, Master Zhevons,” Lakeland said, “I understand you’ve come to deliver a birthday gift for Prince Daivyn?”

“Aye, My Lord, I have. Or so Sir Klymynt tells me.” Zhevons shrugged.
“Nobody told me the lad was a prince, you understand. Mind, it seemed likely he wasn’t what you might be calling a
common
lad, given how much somebody was willing to pay to get his present delivered to him. And let me tell you, keeping those damned wyverns—begging your pardon—fed without losing a finger was a harder job than I’d figured on!”

There was a twinkle in the brown eyes, and Lakeland
felt his own lips hovering on the brink of a smile.

“So you brought them all the way from Corisande, did you?” he asked.

“Oh, no, My Lord! I, um, made connections in Tarot, as you might say. I’ve just … helped them along the last leg.”

“Smuggler, are you?” The baron allowed his expression to harden slightly. This fellow might or might not be a smuggler and he might or might not have known young
Daivyn was a prince. And this struck the first councilor as an unlikely way to get an assassin into the boy’s presence, for that matter. Still.…

“That’s a hard word.” Zhevons didn’t sound particularly hurt by it, however. “I’m more of a … free-trader. I specialize in small cargoes for shippers who’d sometimes sooner avoid any unnecessary paperwork, as you might say, true, but my word’s my bond.
I always see to any delivery myself, you see, and my rates are reasonable, My Lord.” He smiled charmingly. “
Very
reasonable.”

“Somehow I suspect your definition of ‘reasonable’ and mine may differ just a bit,” Lakeland said dryly.

“Oh, I’m sure we could come to an agreement suitable to both of us, always assuming you ever had need of my services, of course.”

“Now
that
I can believe.” Lakeland
leaned back. “I don’t imagine you’d have access to any Chisholmian whiskey, would you, Master Zhevons?”

“No, not personally, I’m afraid. Not since the Grand Inquisitor went and declared his embargo, of course. Still, I’m sure I could lay hands on someone who does. Indirectly, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Lakeland agreed. “Well, if you do manage it, I think I can safely say you’d find it worth
your while to deliver some of it here in Talkyra.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, My Lord. Ah, would it be
too
much of a disappointment to you if it was to arrive here without Delferahkan tax stamps?” Zhevons smiled winningly when Lakeland looked at him. “It’s not that I’m trying to rob you or your King of any rightful revenue, My Lord; it’s more a matter of principle, so to speak.”

“I see.” Lakeland’s
lips quivered. “Very well, Master Zhevons, I’m sure I’ll be able to deal with my disappointment somehow.”

“I’m glad to hear it, My Lord.” Zhevons bowed again, politely, and Lakeland chuckled.

“If you can manage to stay unhanged long enough you’ll die a wealthy man, Master Zhevons.”

“Kind of you to be saying so, My Lord, but it’s my aim to
live
a wealthy man, if you take my meaning.”

“Indeed
I do.” Lakeland shook his head, then sobered a bit. “I take it that you don’t know exactly how this delivery got to Tarot in the first place, though?”

“I’ve no certain knowledge one way or the other, My Lord, but I do know the fellow who brought it as far as Tarot is a fine seaman who somehow managed to forget to apply for his tax documents when he docked in Corisande. Well, that’s what I’ve
heard,
at any rate.”

“And would this fellow have a name?” Lakeland pressed.

It was obvious Zhevons didn’t really like the thought of passing along any additional information. Actually, that made Lakeland think the better of him, since it seemed to indicate a certain honor among thieves … or among smugglers, at least. But the first councilor wasn’t letting him off that lightly, and he sat silently,
eyes boring into Zhevons’ until, finally, the smuggler shrugged.

“Harys, My Lord,” he said with a slight but unmistakable emphasis, looking levelly back at the baron. “Zhoel Harys.”

“Ah.” Lakeland glanced quickly at Halahdrom, then nodded to Zhevons. “I realize revealing professional confidences cuts against the grain of a … free-trader such as yourself, Master Zhevons. Nonetheless, I’m sure
you understand why we have to exercise at least a little caution where people delivering unexpected gifts to Prince Daivyn are concerned.”

“Aye, I can see where that might be the case,” Zhevons conceded.

“Well, I believe that’s all I really needed to discuss with you,” Lakeland said. “I’m serious about the whiskey, though!”