Shylair shook his head, but his expression didn't get any happier, and Waimyn was scarcely surprised. Unfortunately, they truly didn't have much choice at the moment. It was painfully evident that the Royal Charisian Navy-and for all Waimyn knew, veritable swarms of Charisian privateers-were going to gleefully take, sink, or destroy every Church dispatch boat they encountered. On the other hand, the accursed heretics had every motive to avoid irritating the Republic of Siddarmark. Which meant, galling as it was to admit it, that Shylair's dispatches to the Council of Vicars and the Office of Inquisition in Zion stood a much better chance of reaching their destinations aboard a Siddarmarkian merchant ship than they would have aboard one of Mother Church's own vessels.

"I'm afraid Archbishop Borys and the Chancellor aren't going to be very happy to read our messages even when-if-they receive them," the bishop executor continued. "And I doubt very much that Vicar Zhaspahr's going to be delighted to hear Hektor is dabbling with the same 'improvements' as the Charisians!"

"I doubt he will be," Waimyn agreed.

On the other hand, the intendant thought, it's not as if Hektor has a lot of choice, either. And whatever the Grand Inquisitor may choose to decree from Zion, the truth is that I can't see anything in the new artillery that comes close to violating the Proscriptions, either.

That was not a point he intended to make in any of his own correspondence. He understood that anything of Charisian origin was going to be suspect in Zhaspahr Clyntahn's eyes. In fact, to some extent, he was in wholehearted agreement with the head of his own order in that regard. And whether or not there was anything impermissible about the new artillery, the fact remained that its introduction was symptomatic of Charis' infernal fascination with new and dangerous things. Waimyn often thought Charisians were in love with change for the sake of change itself, however vociferously they might protest that they were seeking only increased efficiency within the allowed bounds of the Proscriptions. And the fact that they were so far away from Zion and the Temple generated its own tendencies towards dangerous independence of thought, as Waimyn knew from his own experience here in Corisande. Corisandians were nowhere near so demonically fixed on overturning the established order wherever they found it, yet even they were far more . . . freethinking than any servant of the Inquisition could ever find truly comfortable.

Despite all of that, however, Waimyn firmly believed that, in the end, Mother Church-and, yes, even Vicar Zhaspahr, for that matter!-was going to have to adopt at least some of the Charisian innovations. The new artillery, for example, and the acceptance of the primacy of the cannon-armed galleon over the traditional galley. The advantages those things bestowed upon Charis were simply too great to be overcome without duplicating them.

And won't that make the Grand Inquisitor happy? Waimyn thought acidly.

"I wish we could at least tell them something about who tried to kill Hektor," Bishop Executor Thomys said.

"I thought the entire world knew it was Cayleb, My Lord," Waimyn said with a chuckle, and Shylair snorted.

"If you truly believe that, Aidryn, I have some nice property on the bottom of Temple Bay I'd like to sell you!"

"Oh, I don't believe it, My Lord, but that probably makes us the only two men in the entire League of Corisande-outside of Prince Hektor and Earl Coris, of course-who don't. And you have to admit it's had a salutary effect support for the Prince here in Corisande."

"Yes, it has," Shylair acknowledged. "In fact, I shouldn't admit it, but there are times I almost wish whoever it was had succeeded."

Waimyn's eyes narrowed, and the bishop executor shook his head quickly.

"I said almost, Aidryn. Still, the truth is that unless Cayleb's a lot more incompetent than his performance to date has given us any reason to think, he's going to beat Hektor. Despite any of these new Charisian 'innovations' Hektor may choose to adopt, he's going to lose in the end. When he does, it's going to be one more blow at Mother Church's position, and knowing Hektor, there's always the chance he'll at least try to reach some sort of last-minute accommodation with Cayleb, if the only alternative is outright defeat. And that, Aidryn, will be even more destructive to Mother Church. Hektor dead at Charisian hands, and a martyr to God's cause, could at least be a rallying point. Hektor alive, and a prisoner of Charis, languishing in some noisome dungeon somewhere, might even be useful to us. But Hektor alive and negotiating with Charis is going to be anything but an asset."

"That's true enough, My Lord," Waimyn agreed, but he also shook his head. "Somehow, though, I doubt it's ever likely to happen. If there's one person on the face of Safehold Cayleb of Charis hates with every fragment of his being, it's Hektor of Corisande, especially since his father's death. Unless I'm seriously mistaken, about the only negotiating token Cayleb would be willing to receive from Hektor would be his own beating heart."

"I know. I know!" Shylair waved one hand. "I didn't say it was likely, Aidryn. That doesn't stop it from keeping me awake at night from time to time, though."

Waimyn nodded in understanding. He rather liked the bishop executor, although he'd always thought of Shylair as something of an intellectual lightweight. He'd hardly have ended up assigned to someplace like Corisande and an archbishop like Borys Bahrmyn otherwise. But God knew the man was under enough stress for any three bishops executor. Small wonder if his imagination was turning to even the most unlikely of scenarios.

Still, the intendant thought, if there's one thing in the entire world I'm confident of it's that not even Langhorne himself could work out any sort of 'negotiated settlement' between Hektor of Corisande and Cayleb of Charis!

.VI.

Tellesberg Palace and

The Sailor's Lady Tavern,

City of Tellesberg,

Kingdom of Charis

The mood in the throne room was ugly.

Although the official report hadn't been delivered yet, the rumors about its content had spread like wildfire since Kraken and the merchantmen under her protection had arrived in Tellesberg, two hours earlier. Captain Fyshyr had sent an immediate letter to the palace, announcing his return and alerting his king (only Cayleb was technically an "emperor" now) and queen (who was also an empress, and who he'd had no notion he was about to acquire when he'd sailed) that he had vital news. Now, Fyshyr walked across the polished stone floor towards the paired thrones, and his grim expression warned everyone that the rumors had been only too accurate.

It was the first time the captain had ever visited the palace or personally encountered his king, and it was obvious he was nervous. On the other hand, the importance of his mission seemed to be providing an antidote for any jitters he might be inclined to feel. The chamberlain escorting him touched his elbow and whispered something into his ear, stopping him the proper distance from the thrones, and Fyshyr bestowed a somewhat awkward but profoundly respectful bow upon his sovereign.

"Your Majesty," he said, then added a hasty, "and Your Grace," in Sharleyan's direction as he obviously remembered his last-minute coaching.

"Captain Fyshyr," Cayleb responded. The captain straightened, and the emperor looked him straight in the eye. "I've read your letter with great concern, Captain. I realize you were able to give me only the barest details in it, but before you say anything else, I wish to acknowledge before these witnesses"-he waved one hand at the court officials and sundry aristocrats around them-"how grateful the Crown and I personally are to you. You did well, Captain. Very well. As well"-this time Cayleb looked away, letting his eyes survey the people his hand had already indicated-"as I could have expected even from a Charisian seaman."

Fyshyr flushed with pleasure, but the grimness of his expression didn't falter, and Cayleb sat back in his throne.

"And now, Captain," he said, "I'm afraid it's time for you to tell us what you've come here to say. I want everyone to hear it directly from you."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Fyshyr drew a deep breath, visibly bracing himself, then began. "We were anchored in Ferayd Sound, Your Majesty. There'd been some tension, but until that night, we didn't have any real reason to expect that-"

"-so after we'd picked up Arrowhead's survivors, I came straight home to Tellesberg," Captain Fyshyr finished just over an hour later. "I had my clerk interview all the Charisians we'd picked out of the harbor on our way out, and I brought them with me to the Palace for you to speak with personally, if you wish. Your chamberlain has them."

The mood in the throne room had been ugly when Fyshyr arrived; now it had been whetted to an edge of incandescent fury. There'd actually been a handful of interruptions-mostly as profane as they'd been angry-as the captain reported what had happened. Especially what the single survivor they'd picked up from the galleon Wave had had to say about how the massacre had started.

Empress Sharleyan had hardly been surprised. Although she'd only recently become a Charisian by marriage, the people of Charis weren't that different from Chisholmians, and volcanic outrage had surged up in her with actual physical force as she listened. One look at Cayleb's profile had shown both his matching anger and the harsh discipline which held it in check, yet there was something else about his expression. Something which puzzled her. Not his fury, or his discipline, but his . . . preparedness. He'd had time to read Fyshyr's preliminary letter, of course. Sharleyan had read it with him, in fact. So obviously this hadn't all come at him completely cold. But that was true for her, as well, and yet she had the distinct impression that he'd already guessed far more of the details they were about to hear than she had.

Don't be silly, she scolded herself. You're still getting to know him, you twit! You already knew he was one of the most disciplined men you've ever met, so why should you feel surprised when he shows it?

Which was obviously true, but still didn't dismiss that slight sense of puzzlement.

"I'd already said you did well, Captain." Cayleb's voice drew her out of her thoughts once more. "I now wish to repeat that. In fact, you performed outstandingly." He looked across at Earl Gray Harbor. "My Lord, I want this man's name added to the Order of Queen Zhessyka. See to it."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Gray Harbor bowed slightly, and Fyshyr flushed with embarrassment once more. The knightly Order of Queen Zhessyka had been instituted by the House of Ahrmahk almost two centuries earlier. It could be awarded only to those who had distinguished themselves in battle in the service of Charis, and it was not lightly given.

No, it isn't, Merlin thought from his position behind Cayleb's throne. But if it's ever been well deserved, this is the time.

"I assure you that you'll soon be receiving additional proof of the Crown's gratitude, Captain," Cayleb continued, turning back to Fyshyr. "When you return to your ship, please tell the rest of your ship's company they won't be forgotten, either."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Fyshyr got out, speaking rather more awkwardly than he had when he'd been confining his remarks to mere matters of life, death, and massacre.

"And also inform them," Cayleb said grimly, "that King Zhames and the Church in Delferahk will soon receive a message of rather a different sort from me and from all of Charis."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Fyshyr repeated, and this time there was no awkwardness at all in his hard-eyed response.

"And now, if you will, Captain," Cayleb continued, standing and nodding to the chamberlain who'd waited patiently through the captain's entire lengthy account, "please go with the chamberlain. Quarters here in the Palace have been prepared for you. Go and refresh yourself, but please hold yourself in readiness if I should send for you."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Your Grace." This time Fyshyr remembered Sharleyan, and she felt her lips trying to twitch in an inappropriate smile despite the gravity of the occasion.

Fyshyr bowed to them again, and this time Cayleb returned it with a formal nod of his own head. He stood there, waiting while Fyshyr followed the chamberlain out of the throne room, then turned back to Gray Harbor.

"My Lord, I believe it's time the Council discussed this . . . incident."

"-and burn the bastards' city to the ground!"

"Aye, with them in it!"

The first speaker turned his head, peering through the thick fume of tobacco smoke which hazed the main taproom of The Sailor's Lady. The tavern was one of the two or three biggest on the entire Tellesberg waterfront. The Red Dragon and The Golden Keg each had their champions as being larger than The Lady, but there wasn't any true question as to which was queen of the sailors' drinking establishments. The fact that The Lady's owner was always careful to set an excellent table, as well, and that one could always count on finding fresh vegetables waiting for one after even the longest voyage, had more than a little to do with that.

But the air of contented homecoming which so often filled The Lady's taproom and dining rooms was notably absent today.

"Let's see how their women and children like it!" someone else snarled.

"Here, now!" a burly, broad-shouldered seaman with grizzled hair braided in a long pigtail said sharply. "There weren't no women trying to come aboard our ships! No, nor any children, either!"

"No, but they started-"

"Shut your damned trap!" the seaman barked, coming off of his stool at the bar like a galley breaking an enemy's column. He forged through the crowd like an angry doomwhale, and it parted before him like nearcod while the man who'd been shouting-and who looked much more like some counting house clerk than a seaman-stepped back quickly. He was still stepping back when a solid wall stopped him, and he froze as the sailor glared at him.

"Aye, I want our own back," he told the unfortunate clerk, nailing him to the floor with fiery eyes. "But whatever it may be they're inclined to do, and whatever those mother-loving Inquisition bastards might think, I'll not have the blood of women and children on my hands! No, and not on my Kingdom's hands, neither!"

"Hey, now," the barkeep said soothingly. "Tempers are hot, and they're going to get hotter. Let's not be going for each other."

"Yes!" someone else said. "Sit back down. Let me buy you another round."

The sailor settled back down, and the clerkish man disappeared. The exchange had interrupted, however briefly, the steadily mounting firestorm of outrage which had enveloped The Sailor's Lady ever since the seagoing community of Tellesberg had discovered the truth was even worse than the rumors had been.

The man who'd just departed had been very much out of place in that taproom at that time. The men-and women-in it were overwhelmingly professional seamen and their wives. Every one of them had known someone who'd been in Ferayd, and every one of them knew it could just as easily have happened to them, or to their husbands, brothers, sisters.

Or children.

The fury seething barely below the surface was a bitter, ugly thing. The majority of those present might have agreed with the grizzled seaman, but at least some of them had obviously agreed with the clerk, instead. And even those who hadn't agreed with him wanted vengeance, as well as justice. The long-standing anger against Corisande and the Group of Four hadn't gone away, hadn't abated. But this was different. It was new, it was ugly, it was personal. . . and it was the direct doing of the Church.

There was no question of that in the minds of the men and women gathered in The Sailor's Lady. Every single one of the handful of survivors from the ships which had been tied up at dockside in Ferayd had reported exactly the same thing. Reported the presence of Schuelerite priests in the boarding parties. Reported the shouted exhortations to "Kill the heretics!" Even some of those who'd entered the tavern as Temple Loyalists now shared the bone-deep hatred that had aroused, and the infuriated reaction was already spreading beyond the waterfront district and into the city of Tellesberg as a whole.

"I still say burn the bastards' city down!"

"Why, as to that," the grizzled seaman growled, looking up from his beer mug, "I'm with you there! Aye, and ready to ship out tonight to do it, too!"

A general rumble of agreement snarled through the taproom, and the owner poked his head through the archway from the dining room.

"Don't be getting greedy, lads-or you, either, lassies-but the next round is on the house!" he announced.

"Aye, and here's the toast!" someone shouted. "Death to the Inquisition!"

The mood in the council chamber was quieter than the one in The Sailor's Lady's taproom, but it was no less bare-clawed.

Prince Nahrmahn was present in his new position as Councilor for Imperial Intelligence. The newfangled title still sounded more than a little peculiar, but it was no less odd than seeing the man who'd been one of Charis' mortal enemies until so very recently sitting at the same table with the Royal Council of Charis.

Actually, with the rest of the Royal Council of Charis.

At least the news from Delferahk's managed to distract the "Old Guard" from their suspicions about Nahrmahn, Merlin thought from his place just inside the council chamber door. For now, at least.

"-subjects are going to expect prompt, severe action, Your Majesty," Ahlvyno Pawalsyn was saying. "And it's hard to blame them, either. For that matter, if this is allowed to pass unanswered, it's much more likely the Group of Four will actually succeed in closing the mainland ports against us and keeping them that way."

"But if we take strong action against Delferahk, then we up the stakes all around, don't we, My Lord?" Paityr Sellyrs, Baron White Church and Keeper of the Seal, seemed almost as worried as he was angry. Not surprisingly, perhaps, Merlin thought dryly, given what a huge percentage of his personal wealth was tied up in the merchant ships he owned. Most of the other councilors looked at him, and he shrugged.

"I'm not saying action isn't called for, Ahlvyno!" he said, carefully confining his remarks to Baron Ironhill, rather than looking in his monarch's direction. "Obviously, it is. I'm only saying that when we're already at war with Corisande and Tarot, and the Church seems to be on the point of declaring Holy War, we don't need to be adding another war to all of that."

"With all due respect, My Lord," Sharleyan said, "it isn't 'another war'; it's the same one we're already fighting with those . . . people in Zion. They've simply chosen to open another front."

"Her Grace is right," Gray Harbor said firmly. "This has Clyntahn's touch written all over it."

"You think the massacre was intentional, Rayjhis?" Admiral Lock Island asked.

"I'm not really prepared to decide about that either way," Gray Harbor replied without so much as twitching an eyelid in Captain Athrawes' direction. "On the one hand, it would have been an especially stupid thing for them to do on purpose. On the other hand, it might not strike them that way. Especially not Clyntahn and Maigwair. The two of them would probably favor anything that drives a deeper wedge between us and any appearance of reasonableness."

"You're saying they might have deliberately engineered a massacre in order to goad us into a disproportionate response of our own?" Sharleyan said thoughtfully. "One they could use to good advantage when they paint us as the bloody-handed villains trying to destroy God's Church?"

"I'm saying they might have thought that way, Your Grace." Gray Harbor shrugged slightly. "At the same time, remember that you should never ascribe to malice what can be put down to incompetence. So far, this is the only port where we've had anything like this happen. Of course, it's also the first port where we know our shipping has been seized, at all. I doubt very much that King Zhames would have run amok this way on his own, however, and the presence of Schuelerites in the boarding parties would obviously argue against that, as well. But if we assume this has been part of a general offensive against our merchant ships and crews, then the same thing may have happened in dozens of seaports. Or, conversely, ships may have been seized elsewhere with a minimum of violence. If it turns out this is the only place a massacre resulted, then I'd think it indicates there was no direct order from the Temple for bloodshed."

"God knows it wouldn't be the first time troops got out of hand, misunderstood their orders, or just plain fu-er, fouled up their execution, Your Grace." General Hauwyl Chermyn was not officially a member of the Council, but his role as the senior officer of the Royal Charisian Marines (and the fact that he'd happened to be in Tellesberg for an entirely separate series of meetings with Lock Island and Cayleb) had brought him to the council chamber. Clearly, he wasn't accustomed to his present situation, as witness his fiery blush as he shifted in mid-verb out of deference to Sharleyan, but there wasn't an ounce of quitter in him, and he continued gamely. "If there wasn't 'supposed to be' any fighting, then if any of our people did fight back, the troops may well have exceeded their orders. I'm not saying that would justify anything they did. I'm only saying it happens, and that it wouldn't have taken an order from the Grand Inquisitor to make it happen this time."

"I find myself in agreement with the General's comments, Your Majesty. Indeed, his observations accord well with my own estimate of what's happened," Nahrmahn said. If the rotund little Emeraldian felt out of place sitting at the council table, there was no sign of it in his expression or his manner. One or two people frowned, but it was little more than an automatic reflex. Even those who remained least reconciled to the bizarre and unnatural notion of the Prince of Emerald as the father-in-law (by betrothal) of the Charisian crown prince had quickly realized that the "fat little bugger," as King Haarahld had been wont to call him, had a far nimbler brain than most of them had ever suspected.

"And that estimate is, Your Highness?" Cayleb asked. "My personal belief, which I hasten to add is based solely on my own analysis of the Group of Four's probable motives, not on any concrete evidence, is that what occurred at Ferayd was not intended when the orders to sequester our shipping"-Merlin wondered if calling Charisian merchant ships "our shipping" felt as peculiar to Nahrmahn as hearing him call them that felt to everyone else-"were initially given. Or, at least, not specifically ordered. While it's probably true Clyntahn would feel a certain satisfaction, and Maigwair definitely wouldn't mind that it had happened, neither Trynair nor Duchairn would have wanted it."

"That does make sense," Ironhill acknowledged after a moment. "Duchairn certainly wouldn't want anyone we're not already at war with to do anything which would cause us to retaliate against their own shipping on a grand scale. And it's pretty obvious Trynair's doing all he can to delay the next major clash until the Temple finishes building up its naval forces."