At the Sign of Triumph by David Weber
“I’ll put that on my list, Sir,” Rahdgyrz told him with a glint of true humor. Then he stood back, touched his chest in salute, and limped out of the office with a grim, determined stride.
“He doesn’t like it, Sir,” Mohrtynsyn said quietly, and Rychtyr sighed.
“No, he doesn’t,” he told his chief of staff, then glanced at Metzlyr. “I don’t like it. But if there’s a man alive who can do it for us, that man just walked out of this office.”
* * *
“—so we’re moving up to the Chydor,” Clyftyn Rahdgyrz said. “I need at least three more regiments. Find out who’s closest and get them moving.”
“Of course, Sir!” Colonel Mahkzwail Mahkgrudyr, Rahdgyrz’ senior aide, nodded sharply. “How soon can Sir Fahstyr send additional troops to our support?”
“He won’t,” Rahdgyrz said heavily, and Mahkgrudyr’s eyes widened. The colonel was cut very much from the same cloth as his general, but Rahdgyrz held up his hand before the other officer could protest.
“I don’t like it, either. And, neither does Sir Fahstyr,” Rahdgyrz added. “But our job is to hold the high road open until General Iglaisys can evacuate Bryxtyn.”
“Evacuate,” Mahkgrudyr repeated in the voice of a man who couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. Or who didn’t want to, perhaps.
“You heard me,” Rahdgyrz said a bit roughly. “He’s decided—and Father Pairaik agrees with him—that we need the Bryxtyn and Waymeet garrisons with the field army more than we do locked up in fortresses behind the heretics.”
“But I thought the idea was to stand and fight somewhere, Sir,” Mahkgrudyr said bitterly.
“That’s enough!” Rahdgyrz half-snapped, rubbing the patch over his blind eye while he glared at his aide with the other one. “We’ve got our orders, and we’ll carry them out. Right?”
“Of course, Sir,” Mahkgrudyr said after only the briefest hesitation. Then he shook himself. “I’ll go start the clerks drafting the movement orders.”
“Good, Mahkzwail. Good!” Rychtyr patted the colonel’s back. “I have a note of my own to write while you do that.”
“Of course, Sir,” Mahkgrudyr repeated, his tone closer to normal as he came back on balance. He saluted, turned, and left, and Rychtyr settled into the folding chair in front of his field desk. He opened the drawer, extracted a sheet of the thin paper used for messenger wyvern dispatches, and dipped his pen into the inkwell.
It was, perhaps, as well that Colonel Mahkgrudyr couldn’t see his expression at the moment, and he sat for several seconds, his remaining eye dark with a pain that had nothing to do with the physical wounds he’d suffered in Mother Church’s service. And then, slowly—reluctantly—the pen began to move.
My Lord Bishop, it is with a heavy heart and profound regret, only after many hours of prayerful meditation, that I take pen in hand to inform you—
MAY
YEAR OF GOD 898
.I.
Swayelton,
Earldom of Swayle;
Rydymak Keep,
Earldom of Cheshyr;
Rock Coast Keep,
Duchy of Rock Coast,
Kingdom of Chisholm,
Empire of Charis,
and
Nimue’s Cave,
The Mountains of Light.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me, Milady.”
The tall, dark-haired man had gray-green eyes, dramatic silver sideburns, and a strong, distinguished face. He was well dressed and elegantly groomed, though clearly not of noble station, and looked every inch what he was: a skilled craftsman, confident in his competence and accustomed to the respect due a senior member of the Gunmakers Guild.
And those gray-green eyes were dark and bitter as he straightened from kissing Rebkah Rahskail’s hand.
“You are most welcome, Master Clyntahn. Please, be seated,” the Dowager Countess of Swayle replied, and waved the hand he’d just released in a graceful gesture at the comfortable chair facing her own across the cast-iron stove ducted into what had been a massive, old-fashioned, and hideously inefficient fireplace.
It was the month of May, but May was often the cruelest month in Chisholm, and the weather had turned vile again. A nasty mix of sleet and snow rattled against the solar’s glass, and her visitor’s boots were wet. He settled into the indicated chair with only a hint of uneasiness at sitting in the presence of a noblewoman to betray his commoner origins and the countess studied him thoughtfully and unobtrusively.
Anger radiated off of him in waves even stronger than the heat rolling off the stove, but she suspected it was so obvious to her only because of the matching hatred radiating from her. She rather doubted his motives were the same as hers, yet that scarcely mattered. What mattered was that in addition to a name which had become increasingly unfortunate here in Chisholm, he carried the burden of a trade which was about to disappear, taking not simply his wealth but his status with it.
Zhonathyn Clyntahn had been narrowly defeated for the office of Master of the Gunmakers Guild in Cherayth three years back. He hadn’t enjoyed that defeat, but he’d actually taken it fairly well, especially when the Crown offered him one of three supervisor’s positions at the Maikelberg Rifle Works. As a supervisor, working directly with Styvyn Nezbyt, the Old Charisian manager of the Maikelberg Works, he’d earned almost twice his previous income, although it might have been a bit less than he could have earned as an independent contractor, given the incredible press of orders for firearms. Of course, there weren’t very many of those “independent contractors” anymore, and as Maikelberg hit its stride, there would be even fewer of them. That had quite a bit to do with Clyntahn’s presence here in Swayleton on this icy May afternoon.
“With your permission, Master Clyntahn,” Rebkah said now, “I’ll dispense with the customary circumlocutions and cut straight to the heart of the matter. I understand from our … mutual friend that you’re less than enthralled with the state of affairs here in the Kingdom.”
She watched him narrowly as she deliberately used the word “Kingdom” instead of “Empire.” A flicker of alarm warred with the deep-seated anger in his eyes, but it was a brief battle.
“You understand correctly, Milady.” He lifted his chin, meeting her gaze as anger won. “And I understand from our ‘mutual friend’ that you’re a lot less ‘enthralled’ with it than I am. Although, much as it pains me to disagree with a man of the cloth,” he smiled thinly, “I find it a little hard to believe that anyone could be less enthralled than I am at the moment.”
“Perhaps that would be true for most people.” More than a hint of frost crept into Rebkah’s voice. “But most people didn’t see their husband hanged like a common criminal by that traitorous bitch on the Throne.”
The words came out evenly, almost conversationally but for that edge of ice, yet all the more potent for her restraint, and Clyntahn’s face tightened.
“I beg your pardon, Milady. That wasn’t meant to sound churlish or uncaring. If it did, I do most humbly apologize.”
“No apologies are necessary, Master Clyntahn. And if I gave the impression that they were, that was never my intention. It’s just that … some wounds cut deeper than others.”
“I can understand that.” Clyntahn shook his head. “I haven’t suffered the same loss, so I’m sure I can’t truly appreciate the depth of your pain, but I’ve always been cursed with an active imagination.”
Rebkah nodded, but she also reminded herself of Father Zhordyn’s warning. Despite his last name, Clyntahn was far more sympathetic to the Reformists than to the Temple Loyalists. His dissatisfaction with Sharleyan and Cayleb Ahrmahk had much less to do with religious conviction than with the wave of disruptions sweeping through Chisholm’s social fabric.
But that’s all right, she told herself. A true daughter of God can build with whatever bricks He sends her.
“At any rate,” she said more briskly, “I was most interested when our mutual friend suggested you and
“Absolutely, Milady.” Clyntahn nodded sharply. “I suppose some people would find the notion of an … alliance between the Kingdom’s nobility and commoner craftsmen such as myself unlikely, but there’s order and balance in everything. It’s taken centuries for Chisholm to reach the level of prosperity—and decades for it to reach the state of peace and security—we enjoyed before this accursed jihad. Bad enough that men and women should be slaughtering one another in God’s name, but the damage being done to the very fabric of our society is simply impossible to overestimate. Every professional and economic relationship is being disrupted, broken—thrown away like so much garbage!” His eyes glittered hotly. “It’s unnatural. It’s worse than unnatural! It’s going to open the door to the sort of Leveler madness they scream about on the streets of Siddar City! And as if that weren’t enough, the effect these new child labor laws and all the rest of that crap will have on the order God decreed for the family will be absolutely disastrous. I can understand getting them out of these accursed manufactories and away from all that insane machinery, but abolishing the guilds’ control of their own apprenticing practices? Insisting we open our crafts to just anyone? And then denying our ancient right to set our own journeyman and apprentice salaries, as if we were no more than—!”
Rebkah nodded gravely as she listened to his onrushing tirade, although it was difficult to keep her lip from curling as Clyntahn exposed the true reasons for his visit. Rebkah Rahskail liked social disruption no more than the next woman, but what really drove Clyntahn was the realization that his guild’s privileged position—and his position, as a member of that guild—was in the process of becoming totally irrelevant.
I wonder if it’s the money or the prestige he’ll miss the most? I’d bet it’s the prestige more than the income. He looks like that sort of man. But I don’t really care why he’s willing to serve as our go-between with the other craftmasters.
She very much doubted that Clyntahn and his associates had any clear notion of exactly what her cousin Zhasyn had in mind for them and all of their other “uppity” commoner friends after the Crown’s overweening power had been broken to bridle. That didn’t matter either, though, and Rebkah cared very little about what might happen then. Her purpose, the only one left to her, was to destroy Sharleyan Ahrmahk. It was only too likely that the murderess herself would escape Rebkah, hiding with her apostate husband in Old Charis at least until Zhaspahr Clyntahn and Mother Church dragged them out for the Punishment. Rebkah was realist enough to recognize that long ago. But that was fine. In fact, in some ways it would be even better. Dying would be an easy out for the bitch; watching the demolition of every single thing to which she and her father had dedicated their lives, though. That would be hard.
And if we can’t manage that, we can damned well make her slaughter enough people in the process of putting us down that the Crown will never rest easy on her head again. After all, when you come down to it, we’re the legacy of King Sailys’ war on the nobility. By the time I’m done with her, that apostate whore’s hands will be so bloodstained her great grandchildren will be seeing plots under every carpet, courtesy of “Sharleyan the Butcher’s” reign of terror.
She made herself sit calmly, listening attentively to Clyntahn’s diatribe, and schooled her expression to show no sign of her own volcanic fury. Not even Father Zhordyn recognized the true depth of her hatred. She knew that, from many of the things her confessor had said to her. And she intended to keep it that way. If she could restore Chisholm to Mother Church and God’s true plan for Safehold, then she would, and rejoice in the accomplishment. But the truth was that Mother Church’s victory was secondary. If the cost of Sharleyan Ahrmahk’s destruction was Rebkah Rahskail’s immortal soul, she would pay it in an instant and spend eternity laughing as she stood in hell at Shan-wei’s shoulder.
“… so I spoke with the others—carefully, of course,” Clyntahn said, winding down at last, “and they agreed that I should accept Father Zh—ah, our mutual friend’s—invitation to … exchange views with you, Milady.”
“I’m honored by your trust,” Rebkah said, exactly as if she’d actually been listening to him rather than dwelling in her own thoughts. Of course, she hadn’t really needed to listen. Father Zhordyn had briefed her fully on Clyntahn and his motivations. “And I hope you’re prepared to go beyond a mere exchange of views.”
“I can’t commit the others until I know more about your plans, Milady.” Clyntahn met her gaze levelly. “For myself, I’d made up my mind before I climbed into the coach to come speak to you. I don’t know how much good I can do you if the others decline to commit themselves, but whatever I can do, I will. You have my word on that.”
“Yes, I believe I do,” she said slowly, smiling at him with the first true warmth she’d felt since he’d entered the solar.
She sat for a moment, listening to the rattle of sleet and the moan of wind, feeling the warmth radiating from the iron stove—the Charisian iron stove—while the coal burned in its belly like an echo of the rage burning in her own. Then she inhaled sharply.
“What we propose to do,” she began crisply, “is to overthrow the tyranny of the House of Tayt once and for all. We don’t expect it to be easy, but we have powerful allies in this. I’m not in a position to name names any more than you are, but I can assure you that they include some of the most powerful nobles in the entire Kingdom. Unfortunately, their lands—and thus their power base—lie outside Cherayth or the lands immediately around it. When we raise the standard of defiance, we’ll have an extensive base of operations in the western part of the Kingdom—a springboard for additional expansion which will also be compact enough to be easily defended at need. What we won’t have is the same reach into the eastern fiefdoms or into the towns and cities. You craftmasters, on the other hand, dominate the town and city councils. As respected members of your town and city governments, you have exactly the sort of reach our western allies lack.”
Clyntahn paled so slightly at her devastating frankness, but his expression never flinched, and she felt a fresh flicker of approval as he nodded gamely.
“Obviously, we have to be concerned about the Army,” she continued, “but most of the newly raised troops have already departed for Siddarmark or will board ship within the next few five-days. The training cadres will remain, but they’re overwhelmingly concentrated in Eastshare, Cherayth, Lake Shore, and Port Royal. By the time they could be combined to mount an expedition against our allies in the west, we’ll have consolidated our positions there. Indeed, all indications are that since we’ll be the ones choosing the time and place to proclaim our defiance and strike, we may well … neutralize many of those training cadres before they realize what’s happening.
“I’m sure your position in the Maikelberg Works makes you even more aware than most of the advantages of the new-model weapons. I assure you that we are, at any rate. Because of that, I’ve used some of my late husband’s contacts in the Army. Not everyone’s forgotten him or Duke Halbrook Hollow or the price they paid for their principles. One of those who remember, in the Quartermaster Corps, has arranged to divert several thousand rifles to our use. They aren’t the very latest weapons. They’re what he calls ‘Trapdoor Mahndrayns,’ and he’s been very forthright in his warning that they don’t fire as rapidly as the newer rifles. They’re enormously better than nothing—or muzzleloaders—however, and he should be able to provide nearly enough of them to offset the weapons remaining in the hands of the Army’s training cadres. And, of course, there’s also the possibility that at least two or three of the training regiments will join us, given all of my husband and Duke Halbrook Hollow’s remaining friends in the Army. After all,” she bared her teeth in a humorless smile, “they’ve been left home because they’re ‘t
Clyntahn nodded, his eyes intent, obviously reassured—to some extent, at least—by her calm, confident manner.
“We intend, assuming you and your friends decide to join us, to have several hundred of those rifles ‘misplaced’ in Cherayth itself. We don’t want you to go anywhere near them until and unless we’re in a position to threaten the capital. Then—then, when every man they have is mustered and sent out to meet us in the field—you and your friends will arm yourselves, seize the capital, and close its gates against the Army until we’ve destroyed it in battle. We’re confident we can take Cherayth in the end, with or without friends inside the walls, but it would obviously be easier—and many fewer innocent civilians would be injured or killed—if someone else takes control of it for us while we deal with the Army.”
She paused, then sat back in her chair with her hands folded in her lap.
“Those are only the bare bones, of course. Should your friends be interested, I can provide the detail to put flesh and muscle onto them. Trust me, we’ve given this a great deal of thought over the last several years, and none of us are interested in glorious failures. We intend to succeed, Master Clyntahn, and I’m confident we will.
“So, tell me. Do you think ‘your friends’ will want to hear more?”
* * *
Oh, I’m sure they will, Milady, Merch O Obaith thought, listening through the remote on the flu of Lady Swayle’s stove as she guided the recon skimmer towards Rydymak Keep. And thank you ever so much for drawing them out into the open for us! I’ll be interested to see how many of Master Clyntahn’s “friends” Sir Ahlber’s already identified. I’m willing to bet Nahrmahn and Owl have most of them, even if he doesn’t, but you can never ID too many of the rats in the woodwork when it comes to spotting traitors.
There were moments when she actually felt a little guilty for taking such shameless advantage of Owl and the SNARCs. But those moments were few and far between. She’d become just as fierce a partisan of Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk—and all their friends—as Merlin Athrawes ever had, and, like Merlin, she didn’t much care for anyone who wanted to murder the people she loved.