He looked directly into Manchyr's eyes, hoping the Charisian saw the truth in his own.

"Your men have been badly enough abused in Dohlaran custody. The fact that I've done everything in my power to alleviate that abuse is no excuse for my failure to change it, nor will anything remove the stain of that abuse from the honor of my Navy. I once thought harshly of your Emperor and the terms he enforced upon my men; had I known then how you and your men would one day be treated by my own service, I would have gone down on my knees before him to thank him for his leniency."

He stopped speaking, and silence lingered in the wake of his final sentence. Several seconds passed, and then Manthyr cleared his throat.

"I won't pretend I'm not angry over the way my people have been treated, My Lord." He held Thirsk's gaze, and his eyes were as hard as his tone was flat. "God alone knows how many of those who died in the hulks would've lived if they'd been given proper food and even minimal medical care. And that doesn't even consider the fact that now your Navy is prepared to turn us over to the Inquisition in full knowledge of what will happen."

He saw Thirsk wince, but the Dohlaran admiral refused to look away or evade his flinty eyes, and after a moment, it was the Charisian who nodded ever so slightly.

"I won't pretend I'm not angry," he repeated, "and I won't pretend I don't agree that this is going to be an indelible stain on the honor not just of the Dohlaran Navy but of your entire Kingdom. The time will come, My Lord, when you and all Dohlarans will rue the way in which my men have been treated. I won't be here to see it, but as surely as the sun rises in the east, my Emperor will see justice done in our names, just as he did in Ferayd. It might be well for your King to remember that day, because this time there will be no question as to where the final responsibility lies.

"Yet while all of that's true, and while I have no doubt history will besmirch your name as surely as that of the Duke of Fern or King Rahnyld, I also know you personally did everything humanly possible to honor your word to me and see my men decently and honorably treated. I can't forgive you for the cause you serve, but I can and will say you serve it as honorably as any man living could."

"It's not given to us to choose the kings we're born to serve," Thirsk replied after a moment, "and honor and duty sometimes lead us places we wish we'd never had to go. This is one of those places and one of those times, Admiral Manthyr, yet I am a Dohlaran. I can't change the decisions which have been made by my King, and I won't break my oath to him. But neither can I hide behind that oath to evade my responsibility or hide my shame from myself or from you. And that's also the reason I asked you here this morning so that I might apologize to you personally, and through you to all of your men. I know it means very little, but it's all I have to give and the least I can give."

A part of Sir Gwylym Manthyr wanted to spit on the deck. Wanted to curse in Thirsk's face for the sheer uselessness of words against the scale of what was going to happen to his men. Words were cheap, apologies cost nothing, and neither of them would save a single one of his men from a single second of the agony waiting for them. And yet....

Manthyr drew a deep breath. Perhaps Thirsk's apology was no more than a gesture, yet both of them knew how dangerous a gesture it was. There was no way the Inquisition could fail to learn of this meeting, and given Thirsk's efforts to protect his Charisian prisoners while they were in his custody, the inquisitors were unlikely to look kindly upon it. For the moment, at least, Thirsk was too important-probably-to the Church's jihad to find himself the Inquisition's guest, but that was always subject to change, and both of them knew how long a memory Zhaspahr Clyntahn had. So gesture though it might be, it was scarcely as empty as some might think.

"I'm no nobleman, My Lord," the Charisian said bluntly. "I don't understand all the ins and outs of a noble code of conduct. But I do understand duty, and I do know you've truly done all you could. I can't absolve you of the guilt you obviously feel. I don't know if I would if I could. But I do accept your apology in the spirit in which it's offered and I hope that when the bill finally comes due for what your Kingdom and the Inquisition are about to do, your efforts to do the right and honorable thing will be considered in your favor."

"You may not have been born a nobleman, Admiral, but at the moment I think that's a mark in your favor." Thirsk smiled humorlessly. "Perhaps if I weren't quite so pigheaded, we-"

He broke off, waving one hand, then glanced at the clock on the cabin bulkhead, and his jaw tightened.

"I'm not supposed to know, Admiral, but you have approximately four hours before your 'escort' arrives." He saw Manthyr's face turn to stone but went on unflinchingly. "Lieutenant Bahrdailahn will return you to the prison ships. If any of you wish to send a last letter home, I give you my word I'll personally see it delivered somehow to Charis. Please see to it that any letters are completed at least a half hour before the Navy is required to transfer you to your escort. Leave them aboard ship when you depart, and I'll have them collected in a day or two."

After the Inquisition's taken you all away and I can do it without having my own men and me sent to join you, he didn't say out loud, but Manthyr and his two captains heard it anyway.

"I thank you for that, My Lord." For the first time emotion softened the flint of the Charisian's voice. "I ... hadn't expected it."

"I only wish I'd thought-" Thirsk began, then stopped. "I only wish I'd found the courage to make the offer sooner, Admiral," he admitted. "Now go, and whatever the Inquisition may think, may God be with you."

"So, you're Admiral Manthyr," the Schuelerite upper-priest sneered.

Sir Gwylym Manthyr only gazed at him wordlessly, eyes contemptuous.

It was an almost obscenely beautiful day, given what was happening. The air was cool, the breeze refreshing, and the solid quay underfoot seemed to undulate gently. After so long in the hulks, it was going to take him some time to get his land legs back.

Seabirds and sea wyverns swooped about in their unending sweeps of Gorath Bay. There was always some interesting bit of garbage, some piece of flotsam, some unwary fish or the eyes of some drifting Charisian corpse, to attract their attention, and he realized he was going to miss their antics once they'd left the harbor behind. Funny. He hadn't thought there was anything he'd miss about Gorath Bay, but that was before the coin had finally dropped.

"Proud and silent, are you?" the Schuelerite observed, and spat on the ground just in front of Manthyr's feet. "We'll see how 'silent' you are when you reach Zion, heretic!"

The upper-priest was in his forties, Manthyr estimated, with dark hair and a close-cropped beard, and a coiled whip hung at his side. His brown eyes were hard, dark, and hating, which was scarcely a surprise. Zhaspahr Clyntahn would have handpicked the man responsible for delivering his latest victims.

"The Grand Inquisitor wants you in Zion in one piece," the Schuelerite continued. "Personally, I'd just as soon shoot all of you and leave you in the ditch like the carrion you are, but that's not my decision. What is my decision is how ... discipline will be maintained on our journey. I'd advise you all to remember my patience is short and the men under my command understand how to deal with Shan-wei's get. Take that as all the warning you'll be given."

Manthyr simply looked back at him, refusing to flinch or look away yet able to picture the thin, wasted, raggedly dressed officers and men standing behind him on the quay. He and the Schuelerite both knew they'd heard every word, but he felt their angry, hopeless defiance at his back.

The Schuelerite glared at him for another minute, then turned his head.

"Captain Zhu!" he barked.

"Yes, Father Vyktyr?" a shortish, blocky officer in the uniform of the Temple Guard replied.

Captain Zhu was obviously Harchongian, with the strongly pronounced epicanthic fold of his people. He looked to be in his late thirties, with black hair, and his Guard uniform bore the sword-and-flame of the Order of Schueler as a shoulder patch. That indicated that while he was a Guard officer, he'd been seconded to the Inquisition, which probably made sense. The Inquisition had its own small, highly trained military force, but it specialized in enforcement, not in field exercises. For an overland journey this long, they'd want someone with experience handling troops in the field.

"Put this garbage in its cages." Father Vyktyr gestured contemptuously at the Charisians. "And I don't see any need to be overly gentle with them."

"As you say, Father," Zhu agreed with an unpleasant smile, and turned to the weathered-looking, squatly muscular sergeant at his heels. "You heard the Father, Sergeant Zhadahng. Get them moving."

"Yes, Sir."

Well, I suppose this settles what I can-and can't-do, after all, Merlin Athrawes thought grimly, lying back in his borrowed bed in Manchyr's Royal Palace and watching through the SNARCs as the Charisian prisoners were driven aboard the wagons prepared to receive them.

The Temple Guardsmen were equipped with heavy, massive, old-style matchlocks, not the newer flintlocks which were beginning to trickle into the Temple's service, and they plied their musket butts freely. He watched Charisian seamen stagger as those musket butts slammed home between their shoulder blades or drove into their rib cages. More than one man went to his knees, to be kicked and beaten until he managed to claw his way back to his feet, and if any of his comrades tried to help him, they received the same treatment.

Merlin's sapphire eyes opened in the early morning darkness, hard with fury, as a young, one-legged midshipman fell. No one had struck him; he simply tripped as he tried to move fast enough to satisfy their captors on his single foot and obviously jury-rigged crutch. It didn't matter. The guards closed in, battering and kicking while the boy curled in a desperate, protective knot, trying to protect his head with his arms, and Merlin's jaw clenched as Sir Gwylym Manthyr deliberately stepped into that ring of sadistic blows. He watched the muscular admiral taking the musket butts on his own back and shoulders, never raising a hand against his assailants as he was battered to his hands and knees across the boy's body, only using his own body to protect that fallen midshipman.

Then there was another man inside that circle, one in what was left of the uniform of a Charisian captain. And another man, slightly built, with a waxed mustache, who Merlin recognized as Naiklos Vahlain. The guards beat and kicked them harder than ever, but a handful of seamen joined them. More than one of them went down, only to rise again, faces bloodied, bodies bruised, taking those blows with silent defiance until Manthyr could climb back up from his own knees and take that semi-conscious young body in his arms. Another musket crashed into the admiral's kidneys and he stumbled forward, face twisted with pain, but he refused to drop the midshipman.

One of the guards raised his musket high in both hands, obviously aiming a murderous butt stroke at Manthyr's head, and the admiral glared at him, eyes of fire hard in a blood-streaked face, daring him to strike. The blow started forward, only to stop in midair-stop so abruptly the Guardsman staggered-as an auburn-haired Guard lieutenant shouted an order.

The entire scene froze, and then, grudgingly, the Guardsmen stepped back and allowed the fallen to rise. There were still blows, still shouted obscenities, still sneering promises of worse to come, but at least Manthyr was allowed to carry that slight, fallen body to the waiting transport wagons.

The wagons were big enough for fifteen or twenty men to be crammed aboard with room for perhaps six of them to lie down at any given moment. They were heavy framed, without shock absorbers, springs, or anything resembling seats, sided with iron bars and roofed with iron gratings. They were basically dungeon cells on wheels, and the only overhead cover was in the form of canvas tarps which were currently tightly rolled and stowed behind the drivers' tall seats. Each wagon was drawn by two hill dragons, the size of terrestrial elephants but with longer bodies and six powerful legs each. They were capable of a surprising turn of speed and possessed excellent endurance.

The wagon doors were slammed and locked. Orders were shouted, and the convoy lurched into motion. There was no reason those wagons had to have been built without springs, Merlin knew. They'd been built that way deliberately, with only one object in view: to make any prisoners' journey as unpleasant as possible ... and to show any witnesses how unpleasant that journey was.

Which is the entire reason they decided not to send them by water after all, Merlin reflected bitterly. They're sending them the long way, by land, so they can stop in every town to display their prizes, give every village the chance to watch them roll through on their way to the Temple and the Punishment of Schueler. They're too damned valuable an object lesson for Clyntahn to waste sending them by sea ... and God knows how many of them are going to die on the way. And there's not one damn thing I can do about it. I can't even sink them at sea to spare them from what's waiting.

He watched that clumsy procession of iron-barred wagons lurching slowly northward from the city of Gorath and hated his helplessness as he'd seldom hated anything in Nimue Alban's life or his own. Yet while he watched, he made himself one solemn promise.

Sir Gwylym Manthyr was right. What had happened to the city of Ferayd was nothing compared to what was going to happen to the city of Gorath.

.VII.

Royal Palace, City of Manchyr, Princedom of Corisande It wasn't the throne room this time.

In many ways, Sharleyan would have preferred that venue, but there were traditions to break. Prince Hektor's notion of judicial procedure had been to see to it that the accused got the proper sentence, not to worry about any pettifogging legal details like proving guilt or innocence. Trials were an inconvenient, messy formality which sometimes ended with the accused actually getting off entirely, which was scarcely the reason he'd had the culprit arrested in the first place! Far more efficient and direct to simply have him hauled in front of the throne and sentenced without all that unnecessary running around.

To be fair, the majority of Hektor's subjects had considered his justice neither unduly capricious nor unnecessarily cruel. He'd maintained public order, prevented the nobility from victimizing the commoners too outrageously, supported the merchants and bankers' property rights and general prosperity, and seen to it that most of his army's killing had been done on someone else's territory. Theoretically, there'd always been the appeal to the Church's judgment, although it had been resorted to only infrequently ... and usually unsuccessfully. But by and large, Corisandians had assumed anyone Prince Hektor wanted to throw into prison or execute probably deserved it. If not for the crime of which he stood accused, for one he'd committed and gotten away with another time.

What that also meant, unfortunately, was that being hauled in front of the prince had been tantamount to being punished. And what that meant, in turn, was that if Sharleyan dispensed justice from the throne room which had once been Hektor's, those being brought before her would automatically assume they were simply there to learn what fate had already been decreed for them ... and that "justice" actually had very little to do with the process. All of which explained why she was, instead, sitting in the magnificently (if darkly) paneled Princess Aleatha's Ballroom.

Sharleyan couldn't imagine anyone voluntarily holding a ball in the room. Only one wall had any windows at all, and they were small. Not only that, but more recently constructed portions of the palace cut off most of the light they would have taken in, anyway. She supposed the vast, gloomy chamber would have looked much more imposing with its dozen massive bronze chandeliers all alight, but the heat from that many candles would have been stifling, especially in Manchyr's climate.

Probably just that northern blood of yours talking, she thought. As far as these people are concerned, it might simply have been comfortably warm. Maybe even bracingly cool!

No, she decided. Not even Corisandians could have done anything but swelter under those circumstances.

She was dithering, she told herself, looking out across the rows of benches which had been assembled to face the dais upon which she sat. The main reason she'd chosen Princess Aleatha's Ballroom-aside from the fact that it wasn't the throne room-was its size. It was stupendous, bigger than any other chamber in the palace complex, and almost five hundred people sat looking back at her across the open space cordoned off by Sir Koryn Gahrvai's Guardsmen. There were nobles, clerics, and commoners in that crowd, chosen to make it as representative a mix of the population as possible, and some of them (not all commoners, by any means) seemed acutely uncomfortable in their present surroundings.

Perhaps some of that might have been due to the six members of the Charisian Imperial Guard who stood between them and her dais on either side of Edwyrd Seahamper. Or, for that matter, to the way Merlin Athrawes loomed silently, somberly, and very, very intimidatingly at her back.

The dais raised her throne approximately three feet, and it was flanked by only slightly less ornate chairs in which the members of Prince Daivyn's Regency Council were seated. Two more chairs (remarkably plebeian compared to the Regency Council's) sat directly before the dais at a long table placed just behind the line of Guardsmen and piled with documents. Spynsair Ahrnahld, her bespectacled, youthful secretary, sat in one of those chairs; Father Neythan Zhandor-bald head shining above its rapidly retreating fringe of brown hair, even in the ballroom's subdued light-occupied the other.

Archbishop Klairmant was also present, but he'd chosen to stand to Sharleyan's right rather than be seated himself. She wasn't certain why he'd made that choice. Perhaps it was to avoid giving the impression he, too, was seated to give judgment ex cathedra, adding the Church's imprimatur to whatever judgments she rendered. Yet his position might also lead some to think he was standing as her advisor and councilor.

And he's going to get damned tired before the day is over, she thought grimly. Still, I suppose we'd best get to it.

She raised one hand in a small yet regal gesture, and a shimmering musical note rang through the enormous room as Ahrnahld struck the gong on one end of the document-piled table.

"Draw nigh and give ear!" a deep-voiced chamberlain-a Charisian chamberlain-bellowed. "Give ear to the Crown's justice!"

Utter silence answered the command, and Sharleyan felt the stillness radiating outward. Many of the people seated on those rows of benches would normally have been chattering away behind their hands, eyes bright as they exchanged the latest, delicious gossip about the spectacle they were there to see. But not today. Today, they sat waiting tensely until the double doors of the ballroom's main entrance swung wide and six men were marched through them, surrounded by guards.

The prisoners were richly dressed, jewels sparkling about their persons, immaculately groomed. Yet despite that, and even though they held their heads high, there was something beaten about them. And well there should be, Sharleyan reflected grimly. They'd been arrested over six months ago. Their trials had been concluded before a combined panel of prelates, peers, and commoners two five-days before she ever arrived in Manchyr, and they could be in little doubt about the verdicts.

They halted in front of her, and to their credit (she supposed) five of them looked her squarely in the eye. The sixth, Sir Zher Sumyrs, the Baron of Barcor, refused to raise his own eyes and she saw the gleam of perspiration on his forehead.

Ahrnahld pushed back his chair and stood, taking the top folder from the stack in front of him and opening it before he looked at Sharleyan.

"Your Majesty," he said, "we bring before you, accused of treason, Wahlys Hillkeeper, Earl of Craggy Hill; Bryahn Selkyr, Earl of Deep Hollow; Sahlahmn Traigair, Earl of Storm Keep; Sir Adulfo Lynkyn, Duke of Black Water; Rahzhyr Mairwyn, Baron of Larchros; and Sir Zher Sumyrs, Baron of Barcor."

"Have these men been given benefit of trial? Have all of their rights under the law been observed?" Her voice was chill, and Zhandor stood beside Ahrnahld.

"They have, Your Majesty," he replied, his deep voice grave. "As the law requires, their cases were heard before a court of Church, Lords, and Commons which determined their guilt or innocence by secret ballot so that none might unduly influence the others. Each had benefit of counsel; each was allowed to examine all the evidence against him; and each was permitted to summon witnesses of his choice to testify on his behalf."

There was no hesitation or question in that voice, and Sharleyan heard one of the accused-Barcor, she thought-inhale sharply. Father Neythan Zhandor wasn't just any law master. He'd been picked by Maikel Staynair for this mission because of his reputation. A Langhornite, like most law masters, he was (or had been, before the schism, at least) widely acknowledged as one of Safehold's two or three most knowledgeable masters of admiralty and international law. If Father Neythan said all of their rights had been observed, that was that.

"Upon what grounds were they accused of treason?"

"Upon the following specifications, Your Majesty," Zhandor said, opening a folder of his own. "All stand accused of violating their sworn oaths of fealty to Prince Daivyn. All stand accused of violating their sworn oaths to the Crown of Charis, freely given after Corisande's surrender to the Empire. All stand accused of raising personal armies in violation of their oaths to the Crown of Charis and also in violation of the law of Corisande limiting the number of armed retainers permitted to any peer of the realm. All stand accused of trafficking and conspiring with the condemned Tohmys Symmyns of Zebediah. All stand accused of plotting insurrection and armed violence against Prince Daivyn's Regency Council and against the Crown of Charis. In addition, Earl Craggy Hill stands accused of violating his personal oath and abusing and betraying his authority and position as a member of the Regency Council in the furtherance of their conspiracy and his own quest for power."

Stillness crackled in the ballroom, and Barcor licked his lips. Craggy Hill glared at Sharleyan, but it was an empty glare, little more than surface deep, for something darker and far less defiant lived behind it.

"And has the court which heard their cases reached a verdict?"

"It has, Your Majesty," Ahrnahld said. He turned the top page in the folder before him.

"Wahlys Hillkeeper, Earl of Craggy Hill, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him," he read in a flat, carrying voice. Then he turned a second page as he had the first.

"Bryahn Selkyr, Earl of Deep Hollow, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him."

Another page.

"Sahlahmn Traigair, Earl of Storm Keep, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him."

Another whisper of turning paper.

"Sir Adulfo Lynkyn, Duke of Black Water, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him."

"Rahzhyr Mairwyn, Baron of Larchros, has been adjudged guilty of all charges brought against him."

"Sir Zher Sumyrs, Baron of Barcor, has been adjudged guilty of four of the five charges brought against him, but acquitted of the charge of personally trafficking and conspiring with Tohmys Symmyns."

The last page turned and he closed the folder. Then he turned and looked up at Sharleyan.

"The verdicts have been signed, sealed, and mutually witnessed by every member of the court, Your Majesty."

"Thank you," Sharleyan said and sat back in her throne, laying her forearms along the armrests as she gazed at the men before her. The ballroom's tension crackled higher now that the formalities were out of the way, and she felt the witnesses' focused attention like the rays of the sun captured and concentrated by a magnifying glass. But not quite like the sun, for this focus was cold and sharp as a Cherayth icicle, not fiery.

It ought to be fiery, she thought. I ought to feel passionate satisfaction and justification at seeing these men brought to the end they deserve. But it isn't, and I don't.

She didn't know precisely what she did feel, and it didn't matter. What mattered was what she had to do.

"You've heard the charges against you," she said in a voice of ice. "All of you have heard the verdicts. All of you have had ample opportunity to see the massive weight of evidence which was brought to bear against each of you. No honest-minded man or woman on the face of this world will ever be able to dispute the proofs of your crimes, and the records of your trials are open to all. Every step of the process which brings you here this day has been in accordance with the law of your own princedom, as well as the law of Charis. We will entertain no pleas or protests against the justice of the court which tried you or of the scrupulous observation of the law, your rights, or the verdicts. If any of you have anything you wish to say before sentence is passed upon you, however, now is the time."

Craggy Hill and Storm Keep only glared, helpless fury burning in their eyes. Deep Hollow's facial muscles quivered, although Sharleyan couldn't have said what emotion woke those spasms. He pressed his lips together without speaking, however, and her eyes moved to Black Water. The duke's face was dark with anger and curdled with hate, yet she actually felt a flicker of sympathy in his case. His father's death at Darcos Sound was what had brought him into the conspiracy. At least he had the excuse of honest anger, honest outrage, not solely the cynical ambition which had served Craggy Hill and Deep Hollow.

"I wish to speak," Baron Larchros said after a moment, and Sharleyan nodded to him.

"Then do so."

"I can't speak for all of my fellows," he replied, raising his chin and looking her in the eye, "but I did what I did because I will never acknowledge the authority of the craven lickspittles of this 'Regency Council' of traitors you and your husband have foisted upon this Princedom. It was their willingness to sell themselves to you Charisians for personal power and advantage, not ambition on my part, which brought me to resist them! You may call it 'treason' if you please, but I say the treason was theirs, not mine, and that no man of conscience can be held to any oath sworn to traitors, regicides, heretics, and excommunicates!"

A stir went through the witnesses, and Sharleyan gazed back down at him for several seconds without speaking. Then she nodded slowly.

"You speak clearly, Baron of Larchros," she said then. "And you speak with courage. You may even speak truthfully of your own motives, and we grant you their sincerity. Yet you did swear the oaths you violated. You did grant your allegiance to the Regency Council-the legally selected Regency Council, chosen by your own Parliament-as Prince Daivyn's representatives and the guardians of his interests and prerogatives here in Corisande. And you did violate the laws of Corisande, as well as conspiring to unleash warfare here in the heart of your own Princedom. We may concede that you acted out of what you believe to have been the best of motivations. We will not concede that your motivations justify your actions, nor will we retreat one inch from the authority which is ours under the accepted law of nations by right of victory, fairly and openly won upon the field of battle, and by acknowledgment of your own Parliament following that victory. We will say this much-you, more than any of your fellows, have our respect, but respect cannot stay the demands of justice."

Larchros' jaw clenched. He seemed to hover on the brink of saying something more, but he stopped himself and simply stood meeting her gaze with hot-eyed defiance.

"Please, Your Majesty!" Barcor said suddenly into the silence. "I was carried away by patriotism and loyalty to Mother Church-I admit it! But as the court itself determined, I was never party to the core of this conspiracy! I-"

He broke off as Sharleyan looked at him with undisguised contempt. His eyes fell, and she smiled coldly.