How Firm a Foundation (86 page)

“Daivyn?!”
Irys gasped. She jerked up out of her chair, her face pale, and one hand rose to the base of her throat.

“That’s my ‘strong suggestive evidence,’ Irys. I’ve been sent orders to help clear the way for a party of assassins to murder Daivyn. What my orders don’t tell me is that after Daivyn is dead, I’m going to be killed, as well. That will both remove any unfortunate witnesses who might
know a little too much about how the tragedy came to occur and allow Clyntahn to argue that—just like your cousin Anvil Rock and his friend Tartarian—I’ve betrayed Corisande in return for some promised reward from Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk. Unfortunately for Clyntahn, the man who’s been charged with denouncing me to King Zhames and the Inquisition is none other than my valet, who will—unfortunately—have
become aware of my treasonous intentions just too late to prevent your brother’s murder. Oh, and as a crowning touch, the murderers—all of whom will either perish in the attempt or die under the Inquisition’s urgent interrogation—will be Charisians. Or, at least, all of them were
born
Charisians, although most of them have grown up and spent most of their lives here on the mainland. That’s a nice
refinement, don’t you think?”

Irys sank slowly back into the chair, eyes huge, and Coris shrugged.

“I could be making all of this up, lying to you, but I think you know I’m not. And even though I can’t show you a written order from Clyntahn to have your father and young Hektor murdered, I think the pattern we’re seeing is clear enough, don’t you?”

“We can’t let him kill
Daivyn,
Phylyp!” For
once, Irys Daykyn looked as young as her years, her eyes filling with tears. “
Please
. He’s all I have
left,
all the family I have! And he’s such a
little
boy. He doesn’t deserve any of this!”

“I know.” He reached out and took her hand. “I know, Irys, and Rhobair and Tobys and I will do anything we can to protect him—and you. But we’re going to need help, and lots of it, or all we’ll be able to
do is to die in your defense. And I hope you’ll forgive me for saying it,” he smiled a small, crooked smile, “but I’d really prefer
not
to do that. Especially not if there’s a chance of getting away alive in a way that will piss Zhaspahr Clyntahn off badly enough pure apoplexy might just kill the son-of-a-bitch. Pardon my language.”

“Help?” she repeated, ignoring the last three words, her expression
confused. “Who’s going to be able to help us
now
?”

“Well, it happens that if you’re willing to let me ask for assistance, I have a … friend who might just be able to do a little something for us after all.”

*   *   *

“You’re joking!” Trahvys Ohlsyn said, looking back and forth between Merlin Athrawes and Bynzhamyn Raice. “Aren’t you?”

“Does he
look
like he’s joking?” Baron Wave Thunder demanded,
jabbing a thumb in Merlin’s direction.

“No, but.…” Earl Pine Hollow’s voice trailed off, and Wave Thunder chuckled.

“All this new information access takes some getting used to, doesn’t it?”

“You can say that again!” Pine Hollow shook his head. “And, to be honest, the fact that I’m still playing catch-up in so many areas doesn’t help. I haven’t had as much time to practice with this ‘com’ as
I should have because I’m so busy discovering all the balls Earl Gray Harbor had in the air.” He shook his head again. “I always respected the Earl, but I hadn’t even begun to guess everything he’d been up to!”

“You do have a hard example to live up to, My Lord,” Merlin agreed soberly. “I think you’ll do well, though. And I hate to say it, but having you as a member of the inner circle’s going
to help a great deal in the long run.”

“I’ll grant you that it’s not going to
hurt
any,” Pine Hollow said with an off-center smile. “I do wish I’d known about it while Nahrmahn was still alive, though. And I wish I could tell Baron Shandyr about it now.” The Emeraldian earl chuckled. “Hahl
still
hasn’t figured out why your counter-espionage efforts here in Old Charis were so damned effective!”

“Hopefully someday we’ll have the chance to explain that to him,” Merlin said with an answering smile. “For right now, though, there’s this other minor matter…?”

“Of course there is!” Pine Hollow gave himself a shake. “I’m still having a little trouble believing it, though!”

“Well, the messenger wyvern’s on its way right now.” Merlin shrugged. “The SNARC Owl has keeping an eye on Irys and Coris
picked up on the key words ‘Charis,’ ‘Cayleb,’ ‘Clyntahn,’ and ‘assassination’ when they discussed what to do. That was enough to flag the entire conversation to me and Bynzhamyn. I’ll ask Owl to shoot the visual and the audio over to you later tonight, but the key point is that they’re asking for asylum. I don’t think Irys is quite prepared to promise she or Daivyn will swear fealty to Cayleb
and Sharleyan or accept Corisande’s permanent incorporation into the Empire, but from what I can see she’s at least confident we won’t murder her baby brother. From her perspective, that’s a major step up from the situation they’re in.”

“I can see where that might be true,” Pine Hollow said feelingly. “The question is what we do about it.”

“I think the first order of business is probably to
discuss it with Cayleb and Sharleyan,” Merlin replied. “On the other hand, I’ve discovered there are times when a little preparation work before you get around to the ‘
first
order of business’ is indicated. Having a policy ready to suggest strikes me as an especially good idea in this case.”

“And you want
me
to do the suggesting. I see.” Pine Hollow smiled. “Do you really expect them to react
that adversely?”

“On the contrary, I expect them to endorse the suggestion wholeheartedly. I just thought that as the Empire’s brand-new first councilor, with this opportunity to demonstrate your mettle coming along, you might want to take advantage of it.”

“That’s Merlin for you,” Wave Thunder snorted. “Always looking out for opportunities by which we can advance ourselves. Remind me to tell
you about the first opportunity he gave
me
someday, My Lord.”

“Now, Bynzhamyn! Let’s not be bringing up the past,” Merlin said severely, and turned back to Pine Hollow. “What I’ve been thinking, My Lord—”

*   *   *

“Sir Dunkyn?”

“Yes, Hektor?” Admiral Sir Dunkyn Yairley looked up from the captains’ reports in front of him as Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk stepped into his day cabin.

“A messenger
from the Port Admiral’s just come aboard, Sir. He has a dispatch for you.”

“And I presume there’s some reason you haven’t already handed it to me?”

“As a matter of fact, Sir, I’m afraid you’ll have to sign for it. Personally.”

Yairley’s eyebrows rose. He considered his young flag lieutenant for a moment, then shrugged.

“Very well, I suppose you should ask this messenger to step into the cabin.”

“Aye, Sir.”

Aplyn-Ahrmahk disappeared for a few seconds, then returned escorting a full commander.

“The plot thickens,” Yairley murmured at sight of the “messenger’s” seniority.

“Commander Jynkyns, Sir Dunkyn,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said.

“I see. You have a dispatch for me, Commander?”

“Yes, Sir. I do.” Jynkyns saluted, then opened an attaché case and extracted a heavy canvas envelope. A paper label
was stitched across the open end to hold it closed, and he laid it on Yairley’s desk.

The admiral looked at it for a moment, then dipped his pen in the inkwell and scribbled his name across the label.

“Very good, Sir Dunkyn. Thank you,” Jynkyns said, retrieving the envelope and examining the signature briefly but closely. Then he drew a small knife and carefully slit the stitches which had closed
the envelope. There was another smaller envelope inside, and he withdrew it and handed it to Yairley before returning the outer envelope to his attaché case.

“I was instructed to inform you, Sir Dunkyn, that Admiral White Ford requests an estimate of your readiness to deal with this matter within the next two hours.”

“I see.” Yairley weighed the envelope in his fingers. It didn’t seem all that
heavy, but then again, orders never did … until the time came to carry them out.

“Hektor, would you please see Commander Jynkyns back to his boat?”

“Of course, Sir Dunkyn.”

“Thank you. And, Commander,” Yairley’s gaze moved back to Jynkyns—“inform Admiral White Ford that I’ll report to him as quickly as possible.”

“I will, Sir Dunkyn. Thank you.”

The commander saluted again and withdrew, escorted
by Aplyn-Ahrmahk. Yairley watched them go, and when the cabin door closed behind them, opened the second envelope, extracted the half-dozen sheets of paper, and began to read.

*   *   *

“Yes, Sir Dunkyn?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said, stepping back into the day cabin ten minutes later. “Sylvyst said you wanted to see me?”

The lieutenant, Yairley observed with some amusement, was clearly on fire with
curiosity about the mysterious dispatch. It was equally obvious that nothing on earth could have prevailed upon Aplyn-Ahrmahk to
admit
his curiosity.

“I did,” he acknowledged. “I think we’re going to be a bit busy for the next hour or so, Hektor.”

“Of course, Sir. How?”

“I am requested and required to report to Admiral White Ford within no more than two hours’ time the squadron’s readiness
state and whether or not we can depart Thol Bay with the evening tide.”

Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s eyes widened slightly.
Destiny
had only officially left dockyard hands the day before, and—as always happened these days—she’d hemorrhaged manpower while she was being repaired. Captain Lathyk was almost seventy men short of a full complement, and the chance of his coming up with that many men in the next
six hours ranged from non-existent to something somewhat less than that. Then there was the minor problem of how they provisioned and stored the ship in that same six hours … which, frankly, sounded impossible to him. There could, however, be only one possible response from any king’s officer to such an order.

“Of course, Sir,” Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk said calmly. “I’ll just go and find the
Flag Captain, shall I?”

NOVEMBER,
YEAR OF GOD 895

.I.

HMS
Destiny
, 54, Schueler Strait, and Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming.”

Most of the faces around the polished wooden table in Sir Dunkyn Yairley’s day cabin were worn with weariness, grooved with lines of fatigue, and adorned with at least a day or two of stubble. Yairley, however, was clean-shaven and brisk, his eyes bright,
without any sign of exhaustion, which was something of a miracle under the circumstances.

Somehow (and most of his captains didn’t know how, really, even now) his squadron had made its departure time, sailing on the evening tide almost exactly five five-days earlier. Since then, for reasons none of them knew, Yairley had driven them as if Shan-wei herself were in pursuit and gaining steadily.
He’d informed them that he intended to be off Schueler Strait within twenty-eight days, which most of them had regarded as an outright impossibility. Instead, he’d done it in only twenty-
six
, which had required him to maintain an
average
speed of almost eight and a half knots. Topgallants, royals, staysails, studding sails—he’d set every scrap of canvas that would draw, and refused to reduce sail
until he absolutely had to. He’d even ignored the Navy tradition of “reefing down,” reducing sail and taking a precautionary reef in his topsails every night, lest some squall, unseen in the darkness, overtake a ship under too much canvas and rip the masts out of her or even drive her bodily under.

He hadn’t told them why, he’d only told them
how
and then driven them like a slave master, and
to their total astonishment, they’d actually done it. Now the squadron’s ships lay hove-to in the mouth of the strait, their crews sunning on deck despite the brisk, chill weather while they luxuriated in the brief, well-earned (and badly needed) respite and all his captains repaired aboard
Destiny
where, just perhaps, they might finally learn what all of this was about.

One captain was missing.
Captain Daivyn Shailtyn’s
Thunderbolt
had lost her main topgallant and royal masts when she’d been hit by a sudden gust before she could reduce sail. Some of Yairley’s officers had expected him to take Shailtyn’s head off for letting that happen, but the admiral wasn’t a fool. He knew whose fault it was, and so he’d simply signaled Shailtyn to continue at his best speed to a rendezvous point fifty
miles south of Sarm Bank in the approaches to Sarmouth Keep, although why anyone in his right mind would want to go there was something of a puzzle.

Hopefully, they were about to discover that puzzle’s answer.

“I’m sure all of you have wondered what could have possessed me to push our people this hard,” Sir Dunkyn said, as his steward and flag lieutenant silently and efficiently provided each
captain with a snifter of brandy. “I can now tell you at least part of the reason, although there are other portions of our orders which must remain confidential for a while longer.”

The captains glanced at each other. Secret orders weren’t exactly unheard of, but they
were
more heard of than actually seen. And orders whose contents couldn’t be shared aboard vessels hundreds of miles from anywhere
in particular were even rarer. Who was going to overhear any careless talk out
here,
after all?

Yairley watched those thoughts go through his officers’ minds, then cleared his throat gently, recalling their attention to him.

“The squadron is ordered to attack, seize, and destroy Sarmouth Keep,” he told them. “This isn’t simply a raid, Gentlemen; it’s an all-out attack which will leave nothing
but rubble where the fortifications are now. In addition, it will include the seizure of any shipping we may encounter in Sarmouth itself
and
the destruction of the city’s docks, wharves, and warehouses.”