“I’m afraid one of the precautions we’re going to have to take-and you’re not going to like it, Maikel,” Wave Thunder, who did know about Braynair’s death, said, looking directly at Maikel Staynair, “will be stationing guardsmen outside all public buildings, including cathedrals and churches, and requiring anyone entering to demonstrate he’s not carrying a bomb under his tunic.”
“I won’t have armed guards outside God’s house,” Staynair said flatly, but then even the redoubtable archbishop jerked in his chair as Cayleb’s open palm slapped the tabletop like a gunshot.
“Perhaps you won’t, Maikel,” the emperor said even more flatly, “but I will!” Their eyes locked, and the index finger of the hand which had slapped the table tapped it in emphatic time with Cayleb’s words as he continued. “You may choose to risk your life in the service of God, and I’ll respect you for it, even as I cringe inside every time I think about how readily you expose yourself to murderers like these ‘Rakurai’ of Clyntahn’s. That’s your option, though, Maikel, and I won’t dictate to you. But you have no right to expose other people to that same risk. We’re not talking about three men with knives this time-we’re talking about people who blow up entire city squares! I am not opening the doors of God’s house to that kind of wholesale murder and massacre. Don’t fight me on this one, Maikel; you’ll lose.”
Silence hovered tensely for long, still moments. Then, finally, Staynair bowed his head.
“I… hadn’t thought of it exactly that way,” he admitted. “I still don’t like it. In fact, I hate the very thought, but you’re right, I suppose.”
“We don’t like the thought either, Maikel,” Sharleyan said gently. “And if we can find a better way, we will. But for now, it has to be this way.”
Staynair nodded silently, and Cayleb inhaled deeply as the council chamber’s tension eased perceptibly.
“We’ll look forward to hearing anything more you turn up on this front, Bynzhamyn. In the meantime, though, we can’t afford to let our concern over these murders divert us from other problems. I’m sure that’s at least partly what Clyntahn hopes to accomplish. So since we’re not going to let that bastard have anything he wants, I suggest we turn our attention elsewhere. For one thing, I’d like to hear anything you and Trahvys can tell us about the situation in Siddarmark.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Pine Hollow said, after a glance at Wave Thunder. “Bynzhamyn and I have been looking at reports from certain of our sources in the Republic.” Pine Hollow hadn’t yet had as much experience as his predecessor in not looking at Captain Athrawes when he made comments like that, and his eyes flicked briefly in Merlin’s direction. It was only a very brief glance, however, and he continued calmly. “We don’t have anything like detailed information, I’m afraid, but it would appear the Group of Four intends to strike at the Republic very soon now.”
Expressions turned grave once more, and the new first councilor shrugged.
“It seems evident from the reports that someone-almost certainly agents of the Inquisition-is skillfully fanning public unrest and anger directed first and foremost at the Charisian community in Siddar City and the other eastern provinces, but also at Reformists in general. The most telling aspect, in my opinion, is that the propaganda we’ve become more recently aware of directly links Lord Protector Greyghor and his government to the ‘support and protection’ of ‘heretics and blasphemers’ throughout the Republic. And you may find this of particular interest, Ahlvyno,” he said, glancing at Ironhill, “but they’re also emphasizing the way in which the Charisian immigrants are ‘taking food out of our babies’ mouths’ and somehow managing to simultaneously make the consequences of Clyntahn’s embargo our fault.”
“That’s insane,” the Charisian Keeper of the Purse said, and Pine Hollow chuckled harshly.
“And you were of the opinion propaganda has to make sense to be effective? ”
“No, I suppose not,” Ironhill sighed.
“And what happened at Iythria-especially the destruction of the port-is going to play into their propaganda efforts, as well,” Sharleyan observed. “I’m not sure how, but no doubt they’ll figure out a way to suggest we’re about to do the same thing to the Republic -with Stohnar’s connivance!-for some nefarious reason of our own.”
“Probably,” Cayleb agreed. “And that being the case, what do we do?” He looked around the council table. “Suggestions, anyone?”
Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk; Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis; and HMS Destiny, 54, Thol Bay, Kingdom of Tarot
“What is it, Phylyp?” Irys Daykyn asked, looking up from the flowers she’d been arranging to greet the Earl of Coris with a welcoming smile as he entered the library.
Spring was coming on apace, and the early-season wildflowers crowning the hills around the castle above Lake Erdan reminded her-fleetingly-of the brilliant blossoms of her homeland. They were a pallid substitute, yet they echoed at least the ghost of Corisande, and she’d spent several hours collecting them that morning, escorted by Tobys Raimair and one of his men. She’d been arranging them ever since, and singing softly-something she seldom did, since her father’s death-as she worked.
Phylyp Ahzgood knew that, which was one of the reasons he hated having to disturb her… especially with this.
“I’m afraid something’s come up, Irys,” he said. “Something we need to talk about.”
Her smile faded as his tone registered. She laid the flowers on the table beside the trio of vases she’d been filling and wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her gown.
“What is it?” she repeated in a very different tone.
“Sit down,” he invited, pointing at one of the well-upholstered but worn-looking chairs. “This may take a while.”
“Why?” she asked, sitting in the indicated chair and watching him with intent hazel eyes as he turned another chair backwards and sat straddling it, forearms propped on the top of its back.
“Because we have to discuss something we’ve both been avoiding,” he said gravely. “Something you’ve been dancing around, and that I’ve let you dance around.”
“That sounds ominous.” Her effort to inject a light note into her voice failed, and she folded her arms across her chest. “But in that case, I imagine the best way to do this will be for you to come straight to the point,” she said.
In that moment, she looked very like her father, Coris thought. She had her mother’s eyes and high yet delicate cheekbones, but that hair came straight from her father, and so did the strong chin-softened, thank God, into a more feminine version in her case. And the look in those eyes came from Hektor Daykyn, as well. It was the look Hektor had worn when the time came to set aside theories and nuanced understandings. When it was time to make decisions by which men lived or died. It grieved Coris, in many ways, to see that look in Irys’ eyes, but it was a vast relief, as well.
“All right, I will come to the point,” he replied, and inhaled deeply.
“Irys, I know you blamed Cayleb Ahrmahk for your father’s death. We haven’t discussed it in some time, but it’s seemed to me your confidence that he was responsible for it may have… waned a bit over the past year or so.”
He paused, one eyebrow arched. After a moment, she nodded ever so slightly.
“I’ve… entertained the possibility that there could be other explanations.”
“I thought that was what was happening,” Coris said. “I haven’t pushed you on it, for a lot of reasons, but one of them, frankly, was that if my suspicions were correct, then having you publicly and vocally suspicious of Cayleb was your best protection. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like it was protection enough.”