"Perhaps not," Yairley conceded. "But if we'd lost here instead of winning, and if Zhaspahr Clyntahn demanded the surrender of your prisoners, do you think for one moment Emperor Mahrys wouldn't hand them over?"

Kholman stared at the Charisian flag officer, sickness churning in his stomach, because he saw the truth looking back at him out of those level brown eyes. Of course the Emperor would have surrendered them to the Inquisition.

"I was under the impression it was your Empire's position that honorably surrendered prisoners of war would not be abused in that fashion," he said, instead of answering the question.

"Whenever possible, that is indeed Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan's policy," Yairley replied. "That doesn't mean their armed forces will incur unnecessary casualties avoiding ... unfortunate consequences for those taken in arms against us, however. Unlike you, Your Grace, my Empire is fighting for its very survival, and you know perfectly well what will happen should we lose. We have no intention of losing, and however much we may regret it, we will do what we must.

"You talk about arranging parole for your personnel. Do you think we're foolish enough to believe for an instant those paroles would be honored? Of course they wouldn't! Even if you fully intended to honor them-and I'll grant you the courtesy of believing you would-the Group of Four would never permit it. Anyone who tried to honor a parole to the Empire of Charis would be condemned by the Inquisition and probably suffer the Punishment of Schueler as a warning to anyone else 'cowardly enough' to entertain such an arrangement. So let's be clear here. If High Admiral Rock Point returns your personnel to you, you and I both know none of our own surrendered people will ever be returned to us alive but we will see your people again under arms. He's under no obligation to hand them back to you under those circumstances, but he's prepared to do so in return for the surrender-and destruction-of the facilities he's listed.

"Your Emperor and your Empire have agreed to serve the Group of Four. Perhaps you believe that's the right thing to do. Perhaps you've agreed to serve only because you have no choice. In either case, however, the decision was made, and my High Admiral has instructed me to point out to you that decisions have consequences. The consequence of this decision is that you've ranged yourself with our enemies in what, for us, is a war for survival, and the price for your survival and the survival of your men is the destruction of all war-making potential in and around the city of Iythria."

Tension hissed and crackled in the office, but somehow Kholman couldn't look away from the Charisian admiral's eyes.

"That's High Admiral Rock Point's message for you, Your Grace," Yairley said flatly. "I do, however, have an observation of my own to add to it, if you'd care to hear it."

Kholman made a curt "go ahead" gesture, and the Charisian admiral smiled thinly. It was not a pleasant expression.

"I'd recommend you remember what happened in Ferayd, Your Grace. And who was in command of that punitive expedition. And, for that matter, that there are significant differences between that expedition and today.

"Unlike the situation which existed in regard to the Kingdom of Delferahk at that time, the Desnairian Empire has formally joined the Group of Four's jihad against Charis, and I invite you to remember what the Writ itself says about the rules of war where jihad is concerned. Many of those rules are specifically set aside under the provisions of The Book of Schueler, and while Charis didn't begin this jihad, we recognize that there comes a point at which the only way to deter outrages against us or our people is to threaten reprisal. As you've pointed out, my Emperor and Empress have specifically rejected the notion of applying the Punishment to any of our prisoners, but they haven't renounced the right to set aside the same rules of war which have been set aside against us.

"The Group of Four-excuse me, the Grand Vicar, speaking in the holy name of Mother Church in his own good judgment and with the guidance of the Archangels"-the contempt in Yairley's voice was withering-"has officially declared what's going to happen to Tellesberg and Cherayth on the day of our 'inevitable' defeat. I suggest you consider the terms of the destruction your Empire has pledged itself to help carry out when you consider High Admiral Rock Point's offer. By simple reciprocity, this entire city is subject to the same treatment. Which means that if the time comes for High Admiral Rock Point to abandon his efforts to minimize death and destruction of Desnairian subjects and their property, your entire city could legitimately be burned to the ground with its citizens still in it. He doesn't want to do that ... but he will if he must. And"-the Charisian admiral's eyes bored into Kholman once more-"if he has to begin by burning your ships, then so be it."

It was very quiet and still in that office. The silence lingered for at least thirty seconds before it was broken. Then- "Would you care to reconsider your decision, Your Grace?" Sir Dunkyn Yairley asked softly.

SEPTEMBER,.

YEAR OF GOD 895.

.I.

HMS Destiny, 54, Tarot Channel, and Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis "... and I have the honor to remain Your Majesties' obedient servant," Sir Dunkyn Yairley finished, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on a footstool, long, curve-stemmed pipe in hand, while he gazed out the opened stern windows at HMS Destiny's wake.

"... remain ... Your Majesties' ... obedient servant," Trumyn Lywshai repeated softly, the nib of his pen scratching busily. He finished writing and looked up, one eyebrow raised.

"What does that leave us, Trumyn?" Yairley asked, turning his head to look at the secretary.

"I believe that's actually just about everything, Sir," Lywshai replied after contemplating the deckhead thoughtfully for a moment while he consulted his orderly memory. "I need to check the squadron's medical lists to make sure that portion of your report is up-to-date, but I think we've actually covered everything at this point."

"Remarkable," Yairley said dryly. He took another puff from his pipe, then clamped it between his teeth, climbed out of his chair, and walked over to the stern window, resting both hands on the windowsill as he looked out across the sternwalk at the brilliant blue waters of the Tarot Channel.

"You know," he said over his shoulder, never looking away from the water, "back when I was a mere captain, I made the sobering discovery that, contrary to the foolish and romantic belief of more junior officers, the Navy really sailed on paper, not water. Or that getting all of the paperwork done and the forms filled out and the returns properly-and accurately, damn their ink-stained little souls!-tallied was obviously more important than simply, oh, training your gunners or exercising aloft, at any rate." He shook his head, taking the pipe from his mouth to tamp the tobacco with a thumb while he sighed mournfully. "Little did I realize how much more paperwork was lurking in my future the instant I allowed them to give me that damned streamer."

Lywshai chuckled, and Yairley wheeled, putting his back to the windows and pointing an accusatory pipe stem at the younger man.

"Don't you laugh, Master Secretary! I know who really invented all these reports and forms! You and the rest of your kind, that's who. It's all a plot to give employ to people like you! I'm sure if I examine the Writ hard enough I'll find 'bureaucrat' listed somewhere as one of Shan-wei's major demon familiars!"

"Alas, you've found us out, Sir." Lywshai shook his head, expression sad. "And most of my colleagues thought simple sailors would never tumble to the truth! What gave us away? Was it the creation of the new numbers?"

"That was a clue," Yairley said soberly, although his lips twitched as he spoke. "Obviously just another ploy to generate even more reports for the Admiralty and-especially!-the Office of Supply!"

"I warned the others we were reaching too far with that one, Sir," Lywshai said mournfully.

"And well you should have," Yairley said roundly. "In fact-"

He paused as someone knocked on his cabin door. A moment later, Sylvyst Raigly poked his head into the after cabin.

"Ensign-I mean, Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk-is here, Sir Dunkyn."

"And why is he there," Yairley inquired, pointing at the open door, "instead of here?" He pointed at the rug covering the after cabin's deck planking.

"Of course, Sir Dunkyn!" The steward smiled and beckoned to the young officer behind him. A moment later, Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk, his tunic bearing the single silver cuff star of a lieutenant, stepped into the cabin.

"I apologize for interrupting, Sir Dunkyn," he said, "but the lookout's just spotted Channel Point fine on the starboard bow. Captain Lathyk estimates we should round Cape Thol by dinnertime."

"Excellent!" Yairley smiled, then looked back at Lywshai. "It would appear we've gotten on top of your nefarious correspondence just in time, Trumyn. If Captain Lathyk's estimate is as reliable as usual, we should be anchored by this time tomorrow. Can you have fair copies of all those dratted reports ready for dispatch by then?"

"I believe so, Sir Dunkyn, although"-the secretary smiled at Aplyn-Ahrmahk-"I may have to requisition your flag lieutenant's assistance to get it all done in time."

"You may, eh?" Yairley snorted. "Well, in that case, put him in charge of writing up my expense report. With his handwriting, they'll never figure out how much we actually spent!"

"I'm glad Hektor's made it home in one piece again, even if we did miss his birthday," Cayleb Ahrmahk said. He and his wife and daughter sat on their private terrace-still tyrannized by Princess Zhanayt's accursed parrot-enjoying an unusually cool Tellesberg evening as they watched HMS Destiny through Owl's SNARCs.

"He hasn't quite made it home yet, love," Sharleyan pointed out, and Cayleb snorted.

"You're the one who keeps telling me that anywhere the Charisian flag flies is just as much Charisian territory as Tellesberg itself," he pointed out. "In fact, for someone who had the bad taste to be born a Chisholmian, you're almost rabid about the point! And given that Gorjah's now a subject monarch of the Empire in good standing, Tarot is certainly Charisian territory. So there!"

He stuck out his tongue, and Sharleyan shook her head mournfully.

"It always amazes me what a soul of perfect tact and unfailing courtesy you are. Just remember Alahnah's watching you. The example you set's going to come home to haunt you in just a year or two. And if there's any justice in the world, your daughter's going to grow up to be a female version of you."

"God, I hope not!" Cayleb shuddered in not entirely feigned dismay at the thought. "On the other hand, I'd probably deserve it. I remember Father's most deadly parental curse was always 'May you have children just like mine'!"

"Most parents feel that way, I suspect, Your Majesty," another voice said in Cayleb's earplug. "And, speaking as a parent with a little more experience than you or Her Grace have yet achieved, I can tell you you're going to find out it always comes true. Of course, there are good points about that, too. Especially if you've had the wisdom to pick the right spouse to contribute to the mix."

Sharleyan laughed and shook her head.

"Nahrmahn, don't try to convince me you don't dote on all of your children!" she accused.

"Of course I do," the Emeraldian prince replied from his study in Eraystor. "You can't expect me to simply go around admitting that, though. Especially not where they're likely to hear it! I can see why Merlin was concerned about my discovering Machiavelli-although, to be fair, I'd already figured out most of it for myself, and the man's cynicism about religion is almost worthy of Clyntahn himself-but there's never a child born who wasn't a natural Machiavelli where his parents were concerned. The last thing you need to do is give anyone as ruthless and self-centered as a child another handle to manipulate you!"

"That may be one of the most cynical things I've ever heard anyone say," Cayleb observed mildly, and it was Nahrmahn's turn to laugh.

"I didn't say they weren't lovable-or loving, for that matter-Your Majesty. I only said children are self-centered and ruthless, and they are. One of the harder tricks, I think, is hammering any other attitude into their brains. Worth it, in the end, but hard. I was luckier than I deserved to be with Felayz, and so far Nahrmahn Gareyt's turning out pretty well, too, I think. Of course, that's more Ohlyvya's doing than mine; I'm afraid I've been too occupied as a scheming, conniving, ruthless practitioner of real politik to contribute to civilizing them the way I really should have. Still, they are good kids, aren't they?"

"Yes, they are," Cayleb agreed with a smile. "And so is young Hektor, too. Although now that I think about it, he's not as young as he was, is he?"

"Lieutenant His Grace the Duke of Darcos Sound," Sharleyan repeated with a smile of her own. "I'm sure he never saw that coming when he sat for his midshipman's exam!"

"No, he didn't." Cayleb's smile faded as he recalled how Master Midshipman Aplyn had become a member of the Charisian royal family.

"I didn't mean to bring up an unhappy memory, Cayleb," Sharleyan said softly, and he shook his head quickly.

"We've both lost people we love, Sharley. And like Maikel always says, losing them is the price we pay for loving them in the first place. But sometimes we're fortunate enough to find something good coming out of the loss, and that's what Hektor is. I'd like to say I could take credit for raising a good 'son,' but his parents get the thanks for that. I'm just grateful he's turning out as well as he is. Assuming we can keep him alive, of course."

He and Sharleyan looked at one another, eyes momentarily dark with memories of the carnage of the Battle of Iythria's opening phases.

"We can only try, Cayleb," Nahrmahn said. "That would be easier for me to say if Nahrmahn Gareyt weren't getting close to the age when I'm going to have to think about sending him off to sea. But it's true, and I suspect we wouldn't be doing any of them-or any of our subjects-any favors if we tried to keep them safely at home. You already knew what naval service was like because your father sent you off to see it firsthand, and that's been incredibly valuable to all of us over the last few years. For that matter, the tradition that privilege has to be earned by service is one any ruler ought to learn early ... and one I'm ashamed to admit I learned at a rather later point in life than you did. There's a lot to be said for that Charisian tradition of yours, when you come down to it. I don't want to see my son traumatized the way Hektor was at Darcos Sound, but I do want him to understand the reality of what war costs and what it's really all about. And if he turns into half the young man your Hektor is, I'll be proud to be his father."

Cayleb and Sharleyan looked at each other again, and this time their eyes had softened and warmed. It wasn't often, even now, that Nahrmahn Baytz let anyone far enough inside his armor to see the heart within it. There'd been a time when Cayleb would have been prepared to argue he didn't have one to be seen, but not anymore.

"Well," the emperor said more briskly, intentionally shifting the subject, "now that Hektor-and Admiral Yairley, of course-are this close to home, we'll be able to start taking official cognizance of what happened at Iythria. Have you had any more thoughts on that, Nahrmahn?"

"Not really, Your Majesty." There was an edge of amusement in Nahrmahn's voice as he recognized Cayleb's deliberate return to greater formality. Then his tone sobered. "The really interesting question is how Clyntahn and the rest of the Group of Four are going to react. Especially to Kholman's and Jahras' decision to ... emigrate."

"That is going to piss him off, isn't it?" Cayleb's smile was unpleasant. "Not that he has anyone but himself to blame for it."

Sharleyan nodded in grim agreement. They still weren't going to officially "know" about that until Rock Point himself reached home, since Destiny had been sent off as soon as she'd been able to step a replacement mainmast. Partly that was because Staynair wanted to get his initial dispatches home as quickly as possible, but it was also because Destiny-like the other ships in company with her-had damage that was going to take a dockyard to put right. Yairley's flagship had been severely holed below the waterline before Saint Adulfo and Loyal Defender struck their colors and Master Mahgail and his carpenter's mates hadn't been able to find-or plug, at any rate-all of the leaks. Destiny's pumps were working for over twenty minutes in each watch to keep the slow flooding under control, and he'd wanted her in dockyard hands as quickly as possible, so he'd sent her off while Duke Kholman was still struggling with the harshness of the Imperial Charisian Navy's terms.

In the end, the duke had decided against calling Domynyk Staynair's bluff. That had probably been wise of him, since Domynyk hadn't been bluffing. The high admiral's patience with those who served the Group of Four had grown increasingly thin as reports of what was happening to Gwylym Manthyr and his people leaked out of Zion. Sharleyan knew Rock Point wouldn't actually have burned his surrendered prisoners alive in their own ships (he was Maikel Staynair's brother when all was said), but he would have bombarded however much of the city he'd had to to take out his assigned targets, which would have been quite bad enough.

Fortunately, he hadn't had to. Kholman had bowed to the inevitable, ordered Iythria's garrison to withdraw from the city, and allowed Rock Point's Marines and Army battalions to land unopposed. In return, Rock Point had taken stringent precautions to minimize civilian casualties or injuries. There'd still been a couple of incidents with Temple Loyalists who'd attempted to ambush Charisian detachments. Desnairian casualties had been close to a hundred percent in those instances, although Rock Point's shore commanders had kept their men under iron control to prevent things from getting out of hand.

They might have found it easier to maintain that kind of control because of the intense satisfaction their men took in the systematic destruction of anything in Iythria that could have contributed to the Desnairian war effort. Every gun had been loaded with quadruple charges and four or five round shot and fired until its tube split, then dumped into the harbor. Every battery emplacement and powder magazine had been blown up. The shipyards and sawmills and sail lofts and ropewalks which had built and rigged Baron Jahras' galleons had been put to the torch. Thousands of tons of naval supplies-seasoned timbers, acres of canvas, hundreds of thousands of feet of cordage, endless barrels of turpentine, paint, pitch, varnish, linseed oil, oakum, thousands of bags of biscuit and tons of preserved meat and vegetables-had gone up in thick, choking columns of dense black smoke. Huge stocks of muskets, cutlasses, pikes, and pistols had been seized and lightered out to the waiting Charisian transport galleons. Several hundred thousand round shot had been loaded aboard barges and hulks, towed into deep water, and then sent to the bottom. All five of the cannon foundries around the city had been blown up, most of the waterfront warehouses had been burned to the ground, and every one of the surviving fortresses on the islands dotted about the Gulf had been thoroughly demolished. The millions upon millions of marks the Church of God Awaiting and the Desnairian Empire had invested in turning Iythria into one of the anchors of the Group of Four's naval power had disappeared in those roaring flames and rivers of smoke, and Kholman had realized what that meant for him personally.

When Sir Domynyk Staynair landed his prisoners (without even attempting to secure the paroles he knew they would never be allowed to honor), the Duke of Kholman and every member of his immediate family had joined Baron Jahras aboard HMS Destroyer. Along with the rest of Staynair's fleet, the fugitives were perhaps a five-day and a half behind Destiny.

"You know they're never going to admit Kholman and his family were driven into seeking asylum because of Clyntahn's vindictiveness," Sharleyan said. "And it won't matter what Kholman and Jahras have to say, either."

"Not as far as the Group of Four's propaganda is concerned, no," Cayleb agreed. "On the other hand, that's not the only propaganda circulating in Haven."

"No, Your Majesty," Nahrmahn agreed cheerfully. "And I'll bet Clyntahn's frothing at the mouth trying to figure out where those 'heretical printing presses' are! To be honest, one of the things I most regret about Merlin's inability to put SNARCs inside the Temple is the fact that I can't actually watch his blood pressure rise when Rayno makes his reports on that front."

All three of them laughed, but he had a point, Cayleb thought. The Inquisition was searching with grim determination for the printers distributing the propaganda broadsheets which somehow mysteriously kept circulating throughout the various mainland realms. Unfortunately for the Inquisition, while there truly were a handful of mainland Reformists running very small presses, the stealthed remotes which actually distributed the overwhelming majority of the offending broadsheets were just a bit hard to spot. Every day, the Inquisition ripped those broadsheets down from one wall or another in virtually every mainland city; every night Owl's remotes put them back up on different walls in completely different neighborhoods.

And no one ever saw a thing.

The one place they were careful about not distributing propaganda like that was the Republic of Siddarmark. Siddarmark had by far the largest community of Charisian expatriates, and the situation there was becoming increasingly tense. No one in Charis wanted to add any additional sparks to such a potentially incendiary mixture. Which, unfortunately, didn't prevent a growing number of people inside Siddarmark from distributing their own propaganda. Worse, the Reformist movement was steadily gathering strength in the Siddarmarkian church, and no one this side of God had any idea where that was going to lead!

"I'm sure those mysterious, shameless propagandists and vile enemies of Mother Church will capitalize on these defections," Cayleb continued with a pious expression. "And I suspect that's going to have a greater effect than Clyntahn or the Inquisition want to think about. But I'm more interested in what it's going to do from our perspective." His expression turned much more serious. "I know it sounds mushy-headed and softhearted, but I've always wanted Charis to be a genuine refuge, a place that welcomes people fleeing from intolerance or oppression or persecution. That's got to be the real basis for everything we're trying to build-the foundation for human freedom and human dignity-and to stand against something like the Church and someone like Clyntahn, that foundation has to be firm. It has to have roots sunk into bedrock, deep enough to weather any storm.

"And for that to really work, Charisians have to see themselves that way. Our people have to define themselves as welcoming refugees from persecution if we don't want those refugees to become-what was that word Merlin used? Ghettoized. That was it. Unless we want those refugees to settle in isolated, undigested chunks instead of being integrated into the society and the church around them, we need to embrace them. And we need that foundation set now, before we have to start dealing with telling the entire world the truth about Langhorne and the other 'Archangels.' People like Madame Dynnys, or Father Paityr's family, are a visible proof to everyone, including our own people, that that's the way it works, the way we really think, at least here in Charis, by God! And for that matter, you and Gorjah are proof we're even willing to welcome old enemies and actually integrate them into our own society and government if they're willing to stand up beside us against people like the Group of Four, Nahrmahn. Now we've got a chance to do the same thing with Jahras and Kholman, and I damned well want to see it handled the right way!"

Sharleyan nodded, leaning closer to rest her head on his shoulder while they watched Alahnah scurrying around the terrace on hands and knees.

"We're working on it, love," she told him. "We're working on it."

.II.

Gray Wyvern Avenue, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis It was a handsome freight wagon, if he did say so himself, Ainsail Dahnvahr thought. He'd spent a lot of effort on it, and the fact that he was a skilled carpenter and wagon-maker had played a prominent part in the planning for his part of Operation Rakurai. He was sure others among the Grand Inquisitor's Rakurai had skills of their own which had been factored into Archbishop Wyllym's planning and orders, although no one had ever told him that. He understood why that was, of course. What he didn't know couldn't be tortured out of him if he had the misfortune to be captured alive by the heretics.

To be fair-which he didn't really want to do-he had to admit he'd seen no overt evidence the heretics hadn't meant it when they promised not to torture their enemies, but what happened in the open wasn't always the same as what happened in secret, and the heretics' success in picking off every effort to build some kind of effective organization against them certainly suggested they were forcing people to talk somehow. But however they were managing it, it wouldn't do them any good if he didn't have the information they wanted in the first place.

And it wasn't going to matter a great deal longer one way or the other, he reminded himself.

"It'd be a lot simpler if we could just go ahead and unload the wagon, Master Gahztahn," the wheelwright said, surveying the broken wheel and cracked axle. "Get the weight off of it, and we could jack it up a lot easier."

"I know it would," the man who called himself Hiraim Gahztahn agreed with a nod. "And if you see some place to park another wagon this size while we shift the load to it, I'm all for it!"

He waved his hands with an exasperated expression, and the wheelwright grimaced in acknowledgment. Gray Wyvern Avenue was one of the busiest streets in Tellesberg, a city famous for the density of its traffic. "Gahztahn" had been doing well to get his eight-wheeled articulated wagon dragged to the side of the street after the right front wheel broke. To accomplish even that much, he'd had to crowd up onto the sidewalk, and the foot traffic's need to flow around it wasn't doing a thing to ease the congestion. Now the hill dragon between the shafts stood patiently, head down while it rummaged through the feed bag hung from its head, ignoring the even more constricted traffic oozing past the obstruction. The City Guard had already made it clear they wanted this particular wagon fixed-quickly!-and out of the way before the traffic jam got any worse.

"Well," the Charisian said now, turning with his hands on his hips to watch as his apprentice managed to squeeze their work wagon in behind "Gahztahn's" stalled vehicle, "I reckon we'll just have to do the best we can." He shook his head. "I'm not sure how well it's going to work if that axle's as bad as it looks, but I think we've got a spare wheel we can change out at least long enough to tow you out of the middle of all this damned traffic."

"Good!" Ainsail said, nodding enthusiastically, and rolled his eyes. "If I have one more irritated Guardsman wander by to ask me 'How much longer do you think you'll be?' I think I'll just go ahead and cut my throat right here."

"Seems a mite drastic to me," the wheelwright told him with a grin. "Still and all, you're close enough to the Cathedral you could probably get in line with the Archangels pretty quick."

He laughed, and Ainsail made himself laugh back, although there wasn't anything funny about the blasphemous reference as far as he was concerned. And he noticed the heretic didn't sign himself with the scepter when he mentioned the Archangels, either. Well, it was hardly a surprise.

He stepped back and watched the wheelwright and his assistant get to work. They were good, he admitted, as Charisian workmen tended to be, but they were in for a surprise. Well, two surprises, if he was going to be accurate, although they probably wouldn't have time to appreciate the second one. But that spare wheel of theirs wasn't going to fit. Ainsail had taken some pains to make sure no standard Charisian wheel hub was going to fit that axle, just as he'd very carefully arranged for the wheel to break precisely where-and when-it had. Fortunately no one had noticed the sharp rap with the hand sledge which had been required to knock out the wedge he'd fitted to keep the wheel rim properly tensioned against the steel tire until he reached exactly the right spot. Hopefully, the wheelwright wasn't going to notice that the "break" was suspiciously straight edged and clean, either. Ainsail was a little worried about that, but only a little.

God wouldn't have let him come this far only to fail at this point.