Tellesberg Palace,

City of Tellesberg,

Kingdom of Charis

In many ways, Safeholdian music wasn't all that different from the music Nimue Alban had known during her biological life. In other ways, it was. . . weird.

Yes, definitely weird, Merlin thought, standing his post yet again to watch over the king-no, dummy, he reminded himself yet again, the Emperor-and his wife.

The familiar part included a whole host of stringed instruments from humanity's past: guitars, violins, cellos, violas, even balalaikas and (here in Charis, at least) banjos. Personally, Merlin could have done without the banjos just fine. Most of the traditional brasses and wind instruments were still around, as well, although a few new ones had been added. Or, Merlin suspected, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that some extremely old ones had been resurrected. After all, it was unlikely that the citizens of Safehold, in a mere eight and a half centuries, could have reproduced all of the musical variants humanity had managed on Terra in well over fifty thousand years. One of the instruments Merlin wasn't familiar with was a brass, its tube so long the marching variants required a second musician to help carry it, but which was played using the same tongue and breath control as the Old Earth bugle. There was another one which looked something like a French horn crossed with a tuba. Then there were woodwinds-the piccolos, flutes, and fifes-not to mention the piano, the pipe organs of the various churches and cathedrals, and even harpsichords. Percussion instruments were well represented, as well, with drums, cymbals, xylophones (especially in Chisholm), and everything in between.

And then there were the bagpipes. Several versions of them, actually, from the multi-pipe version with which Nimue had been familiar, all the way up to a decidedly peculiar confection which combined the bag of the traditional bagpipes with something very like a trombone.

But it wasn't so much the instruments themselves which struck Merlin as peculiar as it was the combinations of instruments Safeholdians favored. For example, Nimue Alban had never imagined a concerto written for guitar, banjo, fife, drums, and bagpipes. Merlin, unfortunately, no longer had to imagine it.

There were a few other mixes and matches which occasionally made him wonder if some sort of bizarre genetic drift had affected Safeholdians' hearing. It was the only answer he could come up with for the theoretically tuneful goulashes they'd come up with.

Fortunately, the music favored for formal dances like the present one tended to be somewhat more restrained, and usually based around combinations of instruments which didn't leave Merlin feeling as if his artificial hearing had been assaulted with a blunt musical instrument. In fact, the current music arising from the orchestra parked along one wall of Tellesberg Palace's grand ballroom was almost soothing. It reminded Merlin somewhat of waltz music, although it also incorporated what Nimue would have called a "swing beat."

Merlin was just as glad he wasn't out there dancing with the others. Nimue had been an excellent dancer, and she'd always enjoyed the opportunity when it came her way. Merlin, on the other hand, had never been tutored in Safeholdian dance techniques . . . which appeared to incorporate both waltz-like measures and something like a square dance on steroids, interspersed with the tango and something which reminded him of what had once been called "the Charleston." How flesh-and-blood dancers survived it in a climate like Tellesberg's was one of those mysteries which defied rational explanation.

Some of his fellow guardsmen sometimes resented-or perhaps regretted would be a better way to put it-the duty which kept them standing guard during festivities like tonight's. Merlin didn't. If pressed, he would have admitted that he hadn't realized, despite his experience as one of Crown Prince Cayleb's personal bodyguards, that the King of Charis' personal armsman would spend such a huge chunk of his life simply standing around looking sufficiently menacing to deter any thought of assault upon the king's person. Cayleb's transition from king to emperor hadn't done a thing to ease those particular requirements, either.

But whereas his fellow guardsmen's feet might ache, Merlin Athrawes' artificial sinews never felt fatigue unless he chose to feel it. And whereas those same fellow guardsmen might occasionally think of something else they could be doing with that same time, Merlin was actually grateful for the sometimes endless periods he spent standing outside a chamber door, or against the wall behind Cayleb's chair or throne. There was never enough time for him to adequately review the take from the literally hundreds of remote sensors his SNARCs had deployed, after all. To be gifted with large chunks of time when he could simply stand in one place and review the intelligence tidbits Owl had flagged for human (or, at least, Merlin's) evaluation was welcome. The fact that Nimue had always been capable of multi-tasking and that Merlin could do the same meant he could engage in that review while simultaneously keeping an eye on Cayleb. It wasn't something he'd even be tempted to do under other circumstances, but as only one member of a four- or five-man security detail inside Tellesberg Palace, he was willing to take the chance of operating at a few percentage points less than his full capability while he studied the transmissions from Owl. Especially when that "full capability" included many times human strength, enhanced hearing, and the sort of reaction speed possible for someone whose nervous impulses moved a hundred times faster than those of any organic human.

At the moment, given the dense, glittering crowd which filled the grand ballroom to capacity, reviewing sensor reports was the last thing on his mind. He didn't really anticipate any desperate attack upon Cayleb or Sharleyan, but the sheer number of people packed together could provide highly effective cover for an assassin with a knife, as the attempt on Archbishop Maikel had made only too clear. It wouldn't necessarily have to be some suicidal fanatic from the Temple Loyalists in this case, either. The size of the crowd itself could provide plenty of cover for any assassin cool enough to blend back into it once he'd struck the fatal blow.

You know, Merlin told himself rather severely, you do have a tendency to look on the dark side of these festive occasions, don't you?

There was an undeniable edge of truth to the self-question. During Nimue's lifetime, evenings like this had possessed an almost frenetic aura.

Everyone attending them had known the Gbaba were out there, and that humanity was losing. That every formal ball they attended was one of a dwindling number of balls any human being would ever attend again. It had, to say the least, put a damper on the festivities.

It had for Nimue, at least. Or perhaps it was only that she'd been sufficiently sensitive to the moods of others that the crowds around her had caused her to feel that sense of depressing mortality. Merlin sometimes thought that must have been the case, given Nimue's preference for solo forms of entertainment. Sailing, for example. Rock climbing, hang gliding, hikes. Reading, or splashing paint on a canvas. It was as if she'd been spending the limited number of years available to her soaking up the natural universe through her very pores.

There was actually a faint ghost of some of those currents of Gbaba-spawned tension in Charis these days. Even the most ardent of Cayleb's supporters had to feel the occasional moment of dread when he or she contemplated the odds against Charis' survival. Adding Chisholm and Emerald to the newborn Charisian Empire had obviously helped, but given the fact that at least eighty percent of the human race lived on one of the mainland continents under the direct control of the Church of God Awaiting, doubling the Charisian population hadn't really shifted the overall odds very far.

Tonight, however, no one seemed to be thinking gloomy thoughts. The ballroom's polished floor of black marble, inlaid with the kraken motif of the Kingdom of Charis' coat of arms in a warm, honey-gold marble from the Lizard Range in the Duchy of Ahrmahk, gleamed in the light of the chandeliers' countless flames. The marble was like a pool of deep, dark water, its surface mirroring the dancers upon it, and those dancers glittered and gleamed with their own finery in the same light, touched with the red, blue, and golden fire of rubies, sapphires, and topaz. Gold and silver chains, bullion embroidery, rustling cotton silk and the even more expensive steel thistle silk. . . .

A commercially oriented ear-and what Charisian ear wasn't commercially oriented?-could have literally heard the sweet, musical clinking of all the coins which had changed hands to create that rich, swirling interplay of fabric, precious metals, and gems.

For example, the steel thistle silk, which had been all but unobtainable outside the borders of the Empire of Harchong until very recently, was remarkably present tonight. The cotton gin technology which Merlin had suggested to Ehdwyrd Howsmyn and Rhaiyan Mychail had, indeed, proved capable of extracting the tiny, spiny, toxic seeds from raw steel thistle fiber. Unlike cotton silk, steel thistle had to be run through the ginning process multiple times, using a progressively finer comb to extract all the seeds, so it seemed likely to remain the more expensive of the two, despite the fact that steel thistle grew faster than cotton silk and in a much greater range of climates. But its price was already beginning to fall, despite Mychail's best efforts to increase the supply only gradually. In fact, Mychail had even suggested that the cost of the material might fall far enough for it to be considered for sailcloth.

The very notion had struck both Cayleb and Earl Lock Island as preposterous, yet they'd come to the conclusion that it actually had much to recommend it. For one thing, steel thistle was almost indestructible, with a remarkable resistance to rot and virtual immunity to mildew, so even if initial purchase costs might be high, replacement costs would be much lower. It was also enormously strong, stronger than anything Terra-based humanity had been able to produce before the days of artificial fibers. Coupled with its extraordinarily fine weave, which would give it a considerable efficiency advantage in driving power over any organic-based sail which had ever been produced on Earth, there was much to be said for the "preposterous" notion.

For tonight, though, any suggestion that the noblest, most expensive fabric ever known on Safehold might be put to such a plebeian use would have been greeted with mingled incredulity and horror by the guests displaying their wealth and sartorial splendor by wearing it to the most important social event of the year, after Cayleb's coronation and his and Sharleyan's wedding.

The guests of honor weren't dancing at the moment, however, and Merlin's lips twitched with wry sympathy as he glanced in their direction. Crown Prince Zhan and his wife-to-be, Princess Mahrya, sat side by side, watching the dancers. The fact that Zhan was still less than eleven Safeholdian years old-barely ten standard years-while Mahrya was almost nineteen Safeholdian years of age made them an ill-matched couple on the dance floor. Mahrya wasn't especially tall for her age (not surprisingly, Merlin thought, given her parentage), but she was still the better part of a foot taller than Zhan, even though he was already showing promise of matching Cayleb's inches.

Still, they'd danced with surprising gracefulness in the evening's first dance. In fact, Merlin had been astonished by how calm they'd both managed to look under the massed eyes of the entire royal and imperial court. No doubt the fact that they'd been reared and trained literally from the cradle for moments precisely like tonight had helped, but he'd still been surprised by their apparent aplomb and self-possession as they swirled through the measures of the opening dance of the ball in honor of their official betrothal.

He'd realized only later that Mahrya was deliberately (and surprisingly skillfully) diverting her younger fiancee's thoughts from the evening's central tension. Despite the difference in their ages, she seemed genuinely pleased with the betrothal, and not just because she would be marrying the current heir to the Charisian throne. Merlin sincerely doubted that she cherished any smolderingly romantic thoughts about an eleven-year-old, but she obviously liked Zhan. And, as Cayleb had pointed out, the difference in their ages- barely six and a half years, standard-was actually far from uncommon when it came to arranged marriages of state.

Zhan, for his part, had been seriously inclined to pout when he'd been informed that his older brother intended to marry him off to the eldest daughter of Nahrmahn of Emerald. Zhan hadn't been disposed to look favorably on anything coming out of Emerald or Corisande, even before his father's death. Since the Battle of Darcos Sound, that hatred had hardened rather alarmingly. But the fact that Mahrya was so much older than he was, with a figure ripening into intensely intriguing contours, had served to discount at least some of the Emeraldian taint clinging to her. The discovery that she shared his own love for books, and that despite the age differential and her undoubted (and obvious) intelligence she showed absolutely no tendency to talk down to him, had eliminated still more of that taint in Zhan's eyes. Princess Ohlyvya, Mahrya's mother, had been another factor in the betrothal's favor. She was darker than Zhan's dead mother, but there was much about her that reminded the orphaned crown prince of Queen Zhanayt.

The reaction Mahrya had drawn from the older male adolescents of the court had sealed Zhan's approval of the arrangement, Merlin thought, lips twitching in another smile. It was fortunate the princess had inherited both her figure and her coloration from her mother, not her father. She was going to be as slender as Princess Ohlyvya, but she was already well past that coltish, awkward stage of adolescence, and unless Merlin was mistaken, she was likely to prove even more curvaceous than her mother. At least a few nobly born Charisian teenagers seemed to experience some difficulty restraining themselves from drooling whenever she strode gracefully past them. In fact, she appeared to effortlessly evoke a response from the male of the species which Nimue Alban at seventeen would have envied with every hormonally activated bone in her body. Zhan had been quick to note how his proposed betrothal to her had raised his stock among his older contemporaries in a way which even his newfound status as Crown Prince of Charis had been unable to do.

This is one notion of Cayleb's that's going to work out very well, I think, Merlin told himself, his sapphire eyes watching Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan swirling gracefully about the dance floor. I doubt very much that Zhan is truly aware of all the political implications of this betrothal. Even if he were, I don't think they'd matter a great deal to him-certainly not as much as those stirring hormones of his do! But everyone else recognizes those implications only too well. Given the formal provisions of the treaties establishing the Empire, it's unlikely Nahrmahn's grandson or granddaughter will ever inherit the imperial crown, even if something happens to Cayleb in the upcoming campaign. But whether that happens or not, this marriage will guarantee his close association with the House of Ahrmahk, and a lot of the people who were most worried about Emerald as a threat to Charis are just delighted to have Nahrmahn working for Charis, instead.

As was Merlin, himself. He was perhaps a little less surprised than others by the strengths Nahrmahn brought to Cayleb and Sharleyan's council, but that only made him even happier to have Nahrmahn working for Cayleb, rather than trying to have him assassinated. Diverting anyone from assassinating the emperor would have been worthwhile in its own right; gaining the full-fledged support of someone as irritatingly capable as Nahrmahn had proven himself was even more worthwhile. Merlin never doubted that there were moments when Nahrmahn deeply regretted the way in which his decades of plotting and scheming against Charis had come to such an abrupt and final-and unsuccessful-end. Still, he'd made out almost as well as he might have if he'd won, especially after the Group of Four had chosen to make him Hektor's lackey, and he seemed rather surprised by the fact that he actually liked Cayleb and Sharleyan. At the moment, he was more comfortable admitting that liking for Sharleyan than he was for Cayleb, but once the remaining ruffled feathers of his masculine ego had recovered, he would probably grudgingly admit (to Princess Ohlyvya, at least) that Cayleb was at least moderately likable in his own right.

And I'll bet Ohlyvya will hardly even say "I told you so" more than two or three times. Merlin chuckled mentally at the thought, then checked his built-in chronometer.

Another couple of hours, and then the ball would begin to wind down. Mostly, although no one was about to admit it, because they were already well past the prospective groom's bedtime.

"Well, this seems to be working out reasonably well, at any rate." Emperor Cayleb sipped at a cup of punch as he and his empress sat regaining their breath. A discreetly interposed wall of Imperial Guardsmen actually afforded them a few moments of genuine privacy, and he chuckled as he gazed at his younger brother. "Zhan was certain this was going to be a disaster," he added.

"No wonder, given the way most of your people seem to have spent their time talking about Emerald and Prince Nahrmahn the entire time he's been alive." Sharleyan sniffed. "I'm not trying to say they weren't justified, but expecting a boy Zhan's age to leap with joy when he found out he was about to be married off to the ogre's daughter would have been silly."

"I know." Cayleb chuckled again. "On the other hand, it's remarkable how quickly he started getting over that once he laid eyes on her."

"Didn't you tell me you were pleasantly surprised at the way your arranged marriage worked out?"

"Stop fishing for compliments, dear." Cayleb lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss upon the back of her wrist, his eyes smiling up at her. Then he straightened. "I didn't say I was pleasantly surprised," he continued. "I said I was pleasantly relieved."

"I knew it was something tactful like that," Sharleyan said dryly. "Well," he smiled wickedly, "I hope the noble and selfless dedication I've brought to the task of begetting an heir for our new dynasty has convinced you I don't feel too much like a martyr to international politics."

Sharleyan blushed. One would have had to look very closely to see the rising color in her cheeks, given the lighting and her complexion of antique ivory, but Cayleb saw it, and his smile turned into a broader grin. Sharleyan reached across and whacked him on the knuckles with her fan-a practical necessity, and not simply a fashion accessory here in Charis-then found herself fighting hard against an attack of giggles as he winked suggestively at her. The fact was that Cayleb's ardor was . . . remarkable, she told herself with a slight but pardonable complacency. He was not only extraordinarily good-looking, but young, fit, and a trained warrior, with all the hardihood and . . . endurance that implied. She might have been forced to avoid entanglements, or any hint of a potential scandal, before her marriage, but the two of them were making up for lost time quite handily. Even better, almost everyone in Charis seemed pleased for both of them, and that could be entirely too rare when a member of a royal family brought home "that foreign woman" as his bride.

"As a matter of fact, the possibility that you'd managed to resign yourself to your fate had crossed my mind," she told him after a moment. "And," she added in a softer voice, "so have I."

"I'm glad," he said simply.

"Yes, well," she gave her head a slight shake, "to return to your younger brother's future nuptials. I think he's already 'resigned to his fate.' And," she added frankly, "given Mahrya's figure, I'd be astonished if he weren't. He may be young, but he's definitely male! It seems to run in the family."

"That's what Father always said, at any rate," Cayleb agreed. "And did your father, pray tell, suggest to you that it might be a good idea to keep an eye on your younger sister, as well, Your Majesty?"

"Zhanayt?" Cayleb blinked. "What about Zhanayt?"

"Men!" Sharleyan shook her head. "Even the best of you seem to think that all you have to do is beat your hairy chests to encourage the female of your choice to swoon and fall into your manly arms! Doesn't it occur to any of you that we women have minds of our own, as well?"

"Believe me, My Lady," Cayleb said sincerely, "if my mother had allowed any silly notion that you don't to take root in my brain in the first place, the first few days of marriage to you would have disabused me of it. But what, exactly, does that have to do with Zhanayt?"

"Haven't you seen the way she's been looking at Nahrmahn the Younger?" Sharleyan said, and Cayleb's eyes widened.

"You're not serious!"

"Never more so, my dear." Sharleyan shook her head. "She's three years older than Zhan, you know. Trust me, she's even more aware of how . . . interesting the opposite sex is than he is right now. Not only that, but she sees everyone else getting married right and left. I'm not saying she cherishes any overwhelming need to leap into young Nahrmahn's arms. For that matter, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if someone else displaced him in her thoughts in the next several months. But given her rank and his, he's about the only youngster here in Tellesberg she could realistically consider. And the fact is that he really isn't all that bad looking. For that matter, I can actually see what Princess Ohlyvya sees in his father, although it wouldn't hurt Nahrmahn the Elder a bit to lose a little weight. Like half his body weight, perhaps."

"My God, you are serious!" It was Cayleb's turn to shake his head. Then he frowned. "I suppose, in some ways, it could be a beneficial match," he said slowly.

"I hate to think in cold-blooded dynastic terms, Cayleb," Sharleyan replied in a rather more serious tone, "but however beneficial it might be, I have to suspect that an even more advantageous match is likely to offer itself-possibly quite soon-in Zhanayt's case."

"Yes?" He raised an eyebrow at her, and she waved her fan gently. "The match between Zhan and Mahrya is already going to bind the House of Ahrmahk and the House of Baytz together," she pointed out. "I happen to think Nahrmahn the Younger is actually quite a pleasant young man, but I don't think we need to put Zhanayt on the Emeraldian throne as princess consort just to ensure his future loyalty to the imperial crown. He's bright enough to see the advantages, and by the time he takes the throne, Emerald will have been part of the Empire for decades, and he and his family will be deeply involved in and committed to governing it. I don't think he'll have the least motive or inclination to be anything except a loyal supporter of the Crown. But Corisande is going to be rather a different case. To be perfectly blunt, there's no way I'd trust any member of Hektor's house as far as I could throw one of those new guns of Baron Seamount's. There's been far too much blood spilt between Corisande and the House of Ahrmahk and the House of Tayt, and Corisande isn't going to be peacefully and willingly integrated into the Empire. I don't know about you, but given all that, I could never trust one of Hektor's children, far less Hektor himself."

"I'm afraid I agree with you," Cayleb said, and his nostrils flared. "In fact, it's given me the occasional nightmare. I don't have the stomach for slaughtering all the possible pretenders to the Corisandian throne, but I'm not at all sure that simply removing Hektor from it and leaving his children alive to plot against us-or to be used as cat's-paws by someone else . . . like Zahmsyn Trynair or Zhaspahr Clyntahn, for example-is going to be enough."

"I'm quite certain it isn't," Sharleyan said bluntly. "I'm no more in favor of killing children just to keep them from being potential future threats than you are, but the fact remains that we have a responsibility here. One that doesn't end when we take Hektor's head. That's what I'm thinking about where Zhanayt is concerned."

"In exactly what way?" Cayleb asked, but his tone suggested he was following Sharleyan's thoughts quite well now.

"What we're going to have to do is to find some Corisandian noble who's sufficiently popular in Corisande to have at least some chance of gradually winning public acceptance as our vassal and Prince of Corisande, but smart enough-or pragmatic enough, at any rate-to realize we can't allow him to survive if he isn't a loyal vassal. And then we're going to have to bind him to us as closely as possible. Which may well mean. . . ."

She allowed her voice to trail off, and Cayleb nodded. It wasn't an entirely happy nod.

"I see your logic," he conceded. "I hate to think of putting Zhanayt on the marital auction block so cold-bloodedly, though."

"Did that stop you from proposing to someone you'd never even met?" she asked gently. "Did it stop you from doing exactly that with Zhan?"

"No, but that's-"

"That's different," she finished for him. "Cayleb, I think I really do love you, but to be perfectly honest, that wasn't something I counted on, and it wasn't something that was necessary, either. Can you honestly tell me it was different for you?"

"No," he admitted softly.

"But Zhanayt is your baby sister." Sharleyan smiled just a bit wistfully. "I wish sometimes that I'd had at least one sibling, just so I could really experience what you're feeling about Zhanayt right now. Of course, if I had-and especially if it had been a younger brother-Mahrak would have had an even harder time keeping me alive and on the throne, I suppose. But the fact is, you were ruthless enough to make a necessary marriage of state for yourself, and you were ruthless enough to do the same thing with Zhan, for the same reasons. If the time comes, my love, you will make the same decision for Zhanayt. I only hope it works out as well for her as it has for us and as it seems likely to for Zhan and Mahrya."

"And what do you think the odds of that are?" he asked even more softly.

"Honestly?" She met his eyes unflinchingly. "Not that high," she said then. "The fact that you and I are able to do more than merely tolerate one another because we have to already puts us ahead of the game, Cayleb. The fact that Mahrya looks like being an ideal mate for your younger brother puts us even farther ahead. But it has to even out somewhere, you know."

"Yes, I do," he half murmured, and she reached out to squeeze his hand.

"However it works out in the end, there's no need for us to rush to meet it," she told him. "One of the very first lessons Mahrak taught me when I inherited the crown was that more troubles than not work themselves out with the passage of time. I'm not trying to suggest to you that you have to start scheming about who you're going to marry Zhanayt off to right this minute. I'm only suggesting that it might be wise for you to not encourage any possible yearnings on her part at this time."

Cayleb looked at her for a moment and started to open his mouth. Then he changed his mind and lifted her hand with his to kiss it once more. She looked a question at him, obviously wondering what he'd begun to say, but he only shook his head with another smile.

I really wish I could tell you how thoroughly events have proven that Merlin was right when he told me to make you my partner, and not just my wife, he thought.

"I thought that went fairly well," Cayleb said again, later that night, to a considerably different audience.

Sharleyan had gone on to bed, and he'd discovered that, since his marriage, he felt much less temptation to stay up late drinking too much wine or telling too many bad jokes with Merlin or some other crony. At the moment, however, he didn't have much choice, and he, Archbishop Maikel, Rahzhyr Mahklyn, and Merlin sat on a palace balcony sipping Desnairian whiskey while they gazed up at the stars. The distant chips of light-lights, he knew now, which were every one of them a sun as fiercely bright as Safehold's own-glittered like jewels in the heavens' velvet vault, with that cool hush that comes only in the hours before dawn. It was scarcely a setting most people would have associated with a meeting between an emperor and three of his most trusted advisers, but that suited Cayleb just fine. If he simply had to deal with matters of state instead of the bedroom, he could at least do it as comfortably as possible.

"As a matter of fact, I thought it went quite well myself," Staynair agreed.

"And a good thing, too, if you'll pardon my saying so, Your Majesty," Mahklyn put it. "I'm delighted to have that particular arrangement made and solidly accepted well before you go sailing off to invade Corisande."

Merlin nodded, although the doctor's observation showed a far greater degree of pragmatism and political awareness than he'd ever expected to hear out of him. He'd known all along that the perpetually bemused look Mahklyn presented to the rest of the world was deceiving, but he'd never appreciated how acute the older man's political insights were likely to prove when he chose to exercise them.

And he's been exercising them a lot more ever since Cayleb moved the Royal College into the Palace, hasn't he? Merlin thought. Well, that and since the Brethren cleared him for the complete story of Saint Zherneau.

Judging from Cayleb's next words, the same thought might well have been passing through the emperor's brain.

"I agree with you, Rahzhyr," he said. "But that brings me back to my ongoing concern. I am going to be leaving the Kingdom within the next few five-days now. And Sharleyan is going to be ruling as my regent, with Rayjhis as her first councilor. Don't you think it's about time for the Brethren to make up their minds to let me tell at least one of them the full story?"

Mahklyn had the good sense to keep his mouth firmly shut. Cayleb's tone was determinedly pleasant, but that only emphasized the very real anger at the backs of his brown eyes.

"Cayleb," Staynair said after glancing at Merlin, "I understand your impatience. Truly, I do. But it's simply not reasonable to expect the Brethren to reach that decision this quickly."

"With all due respect, Maikel, I disagree," the emperor said flatly. Staynair started to open his mouth again, but Cayleb raised his hand in a gesture which, while far from discourteous, was undeniably imperious, and continued speaking.

"The fact is that Merlin was absolutely right when he told me how smart this woman was," he said. "In fact, if anything, I think Merlin underestimated her. She's not just 'smart'; she's a hell of a lot more than that, and keeping her in the dark about something this fundamental is depriving us of one of our most valuable resources. Not only that, but as I believe I've mentioned before, she's my wife, as well as the Empress of Charis. As Empress, she very definitely has Merlin's 'need to know.' And as my wife, she has every right to expect me to be open and honest with her, especially when it comes to something as fundamental as this!"

None of the other three spoke for several seconds. Then Merlin cleared his throat, which, despite the tension, won an involuntary grin from Cayleb. The emperor still might not fully grasp everything involved in the concept of a PICA, but he was aware that Merlin would never have any physical need to clear his throat.

"First, Cayleb, let me say I agree with you completely. But, however deeply I may agree with you, there are certain practical realities we simply can't ignore. And one of them is that the Brethren are still concerned by that possible 'youthful impetuosity' of yours. Let's face it, you just married a beautiful, smart, and-if you'll pardon me for saying it-sexy young woman. Nothing could be more natural than for you to be besotted with her. Or, at least, for all of those factors to push you into making something less than a careful, fully reasoned decision where she's concerned."

"Kraken shit," Cayleb said bluntly. "Oh, I suppose a sufficiently older, close-minded, cranky monk under an oath of celibacy in a bare monastery cell somewhere might think that way. I'll even go so far as to drop the oath of celibacy. But I'm a king, Merlin. In fact, I'm a bloody emperor now! This isn't just a decision to be made by a new husband. It's a decision to be made by a ruling head of state on what's effectively the eve of his departure for the invasion of a hostile princedom. I know the odds are against my getting myself killed. But don't any of you forget that the odds were against my father getting himself killed, too. It can happen. And if it does, and if Sharleyan has to be told the truth after my death, how do you think that's likely to affect her willingness to accept the trustworthiness of the Brethren-or of you and Maikel, for that matter?"

"That's a very telling argument," Staynair said after a moment. "And, by the way, one I agree with wholeheartedly. But there's an aspect of this that Merlin left out of his analysis a moment ago."

"Such as?" Cayleb challenged.

"The truth is that in the past few months the Brethren have admitted more people into what we might call the 'inner circle' than in the preceding ten years, Cayleb. Don't forget that some of these people, like Zhon Byrkyt, have spent literally a lifetime-and a long lifetime at that-protecting that secret, worrying about what would happen if their security arrangements had even the tiniest flaw. At the moment, they're feeling exposed and off-balance. To be blunt about it, they don't want to tell anyone else unless they absolutely have to."

"That's not the best basis upon which to be making decisions, Maikel," Cayleb pointed out, and the archbishop nodded.

"I couldn't agree with you more about that. Unfortunately, it's what's happening. And as important-even vital-as it may be to bring the Empress fully into the 'inner circle' as soon as possible, it's equally important that we maintain the confidence of those already inside that circle."

"Much as I hate to admit it, Cayleb, I think he has a point," Merlin said quietly. Cayleb half glared at him, and Merlin shrugged. "I don't say not telling her is a good decision. I'm just afraid that at this particular moment, given the pragmatic constraints of the situation, there really isn't any 'good' solution available to us. So we're just going to have to do the best we can choosing between less than optimal ones."