"Father, you know as well as I do who's really behind it!" Crown Prince Cayleb folded his arms across his chest and glared at his father. King Haarahld, however, endured his elder son's expression with remarkable equanimity.
"Yes, Cayleb," the King of Charis said after a moment. "As it happens, I do know who's really behind it. Now, just what do you suggest I do about it?"
Cayleb opened his mouth, then paused. After a moment, he closed it again. His dark eyes were, if anything, even more fiery than they had been, but his father nodded.
"Exactly," he said grimly. "There's nothing I'd like better than to see Tahdayo's head on a pike over my gate. I'm sure he and his . . . associates feel the same about mine, of course. Unfortunately, however much I'd like to see his there, there's not much prospect of my collecting it any time soon. And since I can't—"
He shrugged, and Cayleb scowled. Not in disagreement, but in frustration.
"I know you're right, Father," he said finally. "But we're going to have to find some answer. If it were only Tahdayo, or even just him and Nahrmahn, we could deal with it easily enough. But with Hektor behind the two of them, and with Erayk and Zherald sitting in their purses . . ."
His voice trailed off, and Haarahld nodded again. He knew, whether his son chose to admit it or not, that at least half of Cayleb's frustration sprang from fear. King Haarahld wasn't about to hold that against his heir, however. In fact, fear could be a good thing in a monarch, or a future monarch, as long as it was not allowed to rule him. And as long as it sprang from the right causes. Cowardice was beneath contempt; fear of the consequences for those one ruled was a monarch's duty.
"If I had the answer you want, Cayleb," he said, "I wouldn't be a king; I'd be one of the archangels come back to earth."
He touched his heart and then his lips with the fingers of his right hand, and Cayleb mirrored the gesture.
"Since, however, I'm merely mortal," Haarahld continued, "I'm still trying to come up with something remotely like an answer."
The king climbed out of his chair and crossed to the window. Like most Charisians, Haarahld was a little above average height for Safehold in general, with broader shoulders and a generally stockier build. His son was perhaps an inch or two taller than he, and Cayleb's frame was still in the process of filling out. He was going to be a muscular, powerful man, Haarahld thought, and he moved with a quick, impatient grace.
I used to move like that, Haarahld reflected. Back before that kraken tried to take my leg off. Was that really twenty years ago?
He stopped by the window, dragging his stiff-kneed right leg under him and propping his right shoulder unobtrusively against the window frame. His son stood beside him, and they gazed out across the broad, sparkling blue waters of South Howell Bay.
The bay was dotted with sails out beyond the city's fortifications and the wharves. There were at least sixty ships tied up at the docks or awaiting wharf space. Most were the relatively small one- and two-masted coasters and freight haulers which carried the kingdom's internal trade throughout the enormous bay, but over a third were the bigger, heavier (and clumsier-looking) galleons which served Safehold's oceanic trade. Most of the galleons had three masts, and they loomed over their smaller, humbler sisters, flying the house flags of at least a dozen trading houses, while far beyond the breakwaters, three sleek galleys of the Royal Charisian Navy strode northward on the long spider legs of their sweeps.
"That's the reason we're not going to find many friends," Haarahld told his son, jutting his bearded chin at the merchant ships thronging the Tellesberg waterfront. "Too many want what we have, and they're foolish enough to think that if they league together to take it away from us, their 'friends' will actually let them keep it afterward. And at the moment, there's no one who feels any particular need to help us keep it."
"Then we have to convince someone to feel differently," Cayleb said.
"True words, my son." Haarahld smiled sardonically. "And now, for your next conjuration, who do you propose to convince?"
"Sharleyan is already half on our side," Cayleb pointed out.
"But only half," Haarahld countered. "She made that clear enough this past spring."
Cayleb grimaced, but he couldn't really disagree. Queen Sharleyan of Chisholm had as many reasons to oppose the League of Corisande as Charis did, and her hatred for Prince Hektor of Corisande was proverbial. There'd been some hope that those factors might bring her into open alliance with Charis, and Haarahld had dispatched his cousin Kahlvyn, the Duke of Tirian, to Chisholm as his personal envoy to explore the possibility.
Without success.
"You know how convincing Kahlvyn can be, and his position in the succession should have given any suggestion from him far greater weight than one from any other ambassador," the king continued. "If anyone could have convinced her to ally with us, it would have been him, but even if she'd been certain she wanted to support us fully, she'd still have had her own throne to consider. Corisande is as close to her as to us, and she has that history of bad blood between her and Hektor to think about. Not to mention the fact that the Temple isn't exactly one of our greater supporters just now."
Cayleb nodded glumly. However much Sharleyan might despise Hektor, she had just as many reasons to avoid open hostilities with him. And, as his father had just implied, she had even more reasons for not antagonizing the men who ruled the Temple . . . and few compelling reasons to come to the aid of what was, after all, her kingdom's most successful competitor.
"What about Siddarmark?" the crown prince asked after several seconds. "We do have those treaties."
"The Republic is probably about the most favorably inclined of the major realms," Haarahld agreed. "I'm not sure the Lord Protector would be especially eager to get involved in our little . . . unpleasantness, but Stohnar recognizes how valuable our friendship's been over the years. Unfortunately, he has even more reason than Sharleyan to be wary of irritating the Church's sensibilities, and those treaties of ours are all trade treaties, not military ones. Even if they weren't, what would Siddarmark use for a fleet?"
"I know." Cayleb pounded lightly on the window frame, chewing his lower lip.
"It's not as if this really comes as a surprise," his father pointed out. "Tahdayo's been pressing his so-called claim for years now. Admittedly, he was mostly trying to make himself enough of a nuisance for me to buy him off and be done with him, but is it really a surprise that he's suddenly started taking himself seriously now that he's finally found someone to back him?"
"It ought to be," Cayleb growled. "Tahdayo has no legitimate claim to Hanth! Even if that ridiculous lie about his grandmother's being Earl Fraidareck's bastard daughter had an ounce of truth in it, Hauwerd would still be the rightful heir!"
"Except that Mother Church is going to say differently." Haarahld's tone was light, almost whimsical, but there was nothing amused or lighthearted in his expression.
"Why shouldn't she when Nahrmahn and Hektor are so willing and eager to pour gold into Dynnys' purse?" Cayleb snarled. "Besides, the Council's always—!"
He broke off abruptly as his father laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Carefully, Cayleb," Haarahld said, his voice soft. "Carefully. What you say to me is one thing, but you are my heir. What you say where other ears can hear and use it against you—against us—is something else entirely."
"I know that, Father." Cayleb swung away from the window and looked into his father's eyes. "But you know, and I do, that it's exactly what's happened. And you know why the Council of Vicars is allowing it to stand, too."
"Yes," Haarahld admitted, and there was as much sorrow as anger in his eyes now. "If all Mother Church's priests were like Maikel, or even Father Paityr, it would never have happened. Or, at least, I wouldn't be worried that my son would be executed for heresy simply because he spoke the truth in the wrong ear. But they aren't, and I am. So guard your tongue, my son!"
"I will," Cayleb promised, then turned to look back out across the busy bay once more. "But you also know this is only the beginning, Father. Forcing you to accept Tahdayo as Earl of Hanth is only the first step."
"Of course it is." Haarahld snorted. "This is Hektor's doing. He's a sand maggot, not a slash lizard. Nahrmahn's too impatient to take any longer view than he absolutely must, but Hektor's always preferred to let someone else take the risk of making the kill. He's content to get fat on the leavings until, one day, the slash lizard looks over its shoulder and discovers it's strayed into the surf and the maggot's grown into a kraken."
"No doubt. But that doesn't change the fact that Tahdayo is only the opening wedge."
"Nor the fact that he's going to begin looting Hanth the instant he's confirmed as Earl," Haarahld agreed, his expression hard. "And I won't be able to protect 'his' people from him, either. Not when the whole world knows I was forced to accept him by Church decree. Any attempt I make to rein him in will be the same as openly defying the Church, once his agents in the Temple get done telling the tale to the Vicars, and many on the Council will be prepared to automatically believe them."
"But he and his masters aren't going to stop trying to undermine you, or our house, just because you can't crush him like the bottom-feeder he is."
"Of course not."
Haarahld turned away from the window and began limping back towards his chair. He seated himself heavily in it, and looked up at his son.
"I believe we still have some time," he said then, his expression somber. "How much, I can't say. At least a few months, though, I think. We're not entirely without advocates in the Temple even today, even if our own archbishop has ruled against us in this matter. And even our foes in Zion are eager to drape their actions in the mantle of fairness and justice. So for at least a little while, Tahdayo and his patrons are going to be leery of anything that could be construed as an open move against us. And while I'm seldom happy to see Dynnys, if he holds to his usual schedule, he'll be here by February or March, which should put a sea anchor on affairs in the Temple until he returns to Zion next fall. But once the situation's settled a bit, they're going to begin pushing again, even without him there to speak in their support."
"That's my thought, as well," Cayleb said. "I wish I felt more confident that I knew how they'll begin pushing, though."
"Not openly, I think," his father said slowly, lips pursed as his fingers drummed on the arms of his chair. "I almost wish they would. If it were only a matter of our fleet against that of the League, even with Nahrmahn's thrown in, I believe we could more than hold our own. But Hektor will know that as well as I do. Before he commits to any sort of open warfare, he'll find a way to strengthen their combined naval power."
"How?" Cayleb asked.
"I don't know—not yet. My guess, though, would be that he's already talking to Gorjah."
Cayleb frowned. King Gorjah III, ruler of the Kingdom of Tarot, was officially one of his father's allies. On the other hand . . .
"That would make sense, wouldn't it?" he murmured.
"Gorjah's never been all that happy with our treaty," Haarahld pointed out. "His father was another matter, but Gorjah resents the obligations he's found himself saddled with. At the same time, he recognizes the advantages of having us for friends rather than enemies. But if Hektor can work on him, convince him that with Corisande and Emerald both prepared to support him . . ."
The king shrugged, and Cayleb nodded. But then his eyes sharpened, and he cocked his head to one side.
"I'm sure you're right about that, Father. You usually are; you're one of the canniest men I know. But there's something else going on inside that head of yours."
Haarahld looked at him for several seconds, then shrugged again. It was a very different shrug this time, as if his shoulders had become heavier since the last one.
"Your mother is dead, Cayleb," he said softly. "She was my left arm and the mirror of my soul, and I miss her counsel almost as much as I miss her. Nor will I get any more heirs, and Zhan is barely eight years old, while Zhanayt is only two years older, and a girl child. If my enemies truly wish to cripple me, they'll take away my strong right arm as I've already lost the left."
He looked into his elder son's eyes, his own level, and Cayleb looked back.
"Remember the sand maggot," Haarahld told him. "The slash lizard might fling himself against us, fangs and claws first, but not the maggot. Watch your back, my son, and watch the shadows. Our enemies know us as well as we know them, and so they'll know that to kill you would take not simply my arm, but my heart."