mistakes.”
She sat back in the throne, looking down at all four of them, then looked beyond them to the watching spectators.
“It’s a monarch’s duty to judge the guilty, to sentence the convicted, and to see to it that punishment is carried out,” she said clearly. “But it’s also a monarch’s duty to temper punishment with compassion and to recognize when the public good may be served as well by mercy as by severity. In our judgment, all of you-even you, Master Dobyns-did what you did in the sincere belief that God wanted you to. It’s also our belief that none of you acted out of ambition, or calculation, or a desire for power. Your actions were crimes, but you committed them out of patriotism, belief, grief, and what you genuinely believed duty required. We can’t excuse the crimes you committed, but we can-and we do-understand why you committed them.”
She paused once more, and then she smiled again. It was a thin smile, but a genuine one.
“We would like for you and everyone to believe that we understand because of our own saintliness. Unfortunately, while we may be many things, a saint is not one of them. We try as best we may to live as we believe God would have us live, yet we must also balance that desire against our responsibilities and the practical considerations of a crown. Sometimes, however, it becomes possible for those responsibilities and practical considerations to march with the things we believe God would have us do, and this is one of those moments.”
She watched hope blossom on four faces, newborn and fragile, not yet able-or willing-to believe in itself.
“We must punish those responsible for evil, and we must show to all the world that we will punish our enemies,” she said softly, “yet we must also prove- I must prove-that we are not the mindless slaves to vengeance who currently hold Mother Church in their grasp. Where we may exercise mercy, we will. Not because we are such a wonderful and saintly person, but because it is the right thing to do and because we realize that while we may destroy our foes with punishment, we can win friends and hearts only with mercy. It’s our belief that all four of you would make better friends and subjects than enemies, and we wish to find out if our belief is accurate. And so we commute your sentences. We grant you pardon for all those crimes of which you were convicted and bid all four of you go, return to your lives. Understand us: should any of you ever stand before us again, convicted of new crimes, there will be no mercy the second time.” Her brown eyes hardened briefly, but then the hardness passed. “Yet we do not think we will see you here again, and we will pray that the hurt and the fear and the anger which drove you to your actions will ease with the passage of time and God’s love.”
Grahsmahn had been wrong, Paitryk Hainree decided. Empress Sharleyan was a beautiful woman, and not simply because of the magnificence of her clothing or the crown of state glittering on her head under the lamplight. Hate churned in his belly whenever he looked at her, yet he couldn’t deny the simple truth. And physical beauty, when it came down to it, was one of Shan-wei’s most deadly weapons. It was easy for a young and beautiful queen to inspire loyalty and devotion where some twisted crone whose physical envelope was as ugly as her soul would have found it far more difficult.
She had a commanding presence, too. Despite her youthfulness, she was clearly the dominant figure in the huge ballroom, and not simply because every witness knew she was there to send those brought before her to the headsman. Hainree had learned more than a few of the orator’s and politician’s tricks building his resistance movement here in Manchyr, and he recognized someone who’d mastered those skills far more completely than he had.
Especially now.
Total silence had fallen as she told the foursome in front of her to simply go home. No one had expected it, and her knowledge of each of the four convicted men had startled everyone. She’d consulted no notes, needed no memorandums; she’d known what each of them had done and, even more, she’d known why he’d done it. Corisandians were unaccustomed to monarchs or nobles or clerics who looked that deeply into the lives of those brought before them for judgment. And then she’d pardoned them. Their guilt had been proven, the sentence had been passed… and she’d exercised an empress’ prerogative and pardoned them.
Even Hainree, who recognized a cynical political maneuver when he saw one, sat stunned by the totally unanticipated turn of events. But the silence didn’t linger. He didn’t know who started it, but the single pair of clapping hands somewhere among the benches of witnesses was joined in a rippling, swelling torrent by more. Then more. Within seconds Princess Aleatha’s Ballroom was filled with the thunder of applause, and Paitryk Hainree made himself come to his own feet, sharing that applause even as he cringed inside when someone so deceived by Sharleyan’s ploy actually shouted “God save Your Majesty!”
It took the guardsmen stationed throughout the ballroom several minutes to even begin restoring order, and Hainree took advantage of the confusion to change his position. Still clapping, obviously lost in his enthusiasm for Empress Sharleyan’s compassion and mercy, he stepped forward, shouldering his way through other applauding witnesses. He’d been seated three benches back; by the time the applause began to die away, he’d reached the front row.
The thunder of clapping hands faded, not instantly and quickly but into smaller clusters that gradually slowed and then ceased, and Paitryk Hainree’s right hand slid into the formal tunic which had cost him every one of the hard-earned marks he’d managed to save up over the past six months. It was probably better than any the real Grahsmahn had owned, but it had been worth every mark he’d paid. Coupled with Grahsmahn’s summons to attend, his respectable garb had gotten him waved past the sentries stationed outside the ballroom. The sergeant who’d checked his summons had actually nodded respectfully to him, unaware of the way Hainree’s heart had hammered and his palms had sweated.
Yet there was no sweat on those palms now, and he felt a great, swelling surge of elation. Of accomplishment. God had brought him to this time and this place for a reason, and Paitryk Hainree would not fail Him.
Merlin Athrawes stood at Sharleyan’s back, watching the crowd. Owl had deployed sensor remotes at strategic points, as well, but even with the AI’s assistance there were too many people for Merlin to feel comfortable. There were simply too many bodies packed into the ballroom.
I wish Edwyrd and I had argued harder against this entire idea, he thought as the clapping and cheers began to die away. Oh, it’s a masterstroke, no question! But this is a damned nightmare from a security perspective. Still, it looks like -
“ Death to all heretics! ” Hainree shouted, and his hand came out of his tunic.
Merlin might no longer be human, but he felt his heart freeze as the shrill shout cut through the fading cheers. Even a creature of mollycircs, with a reaction speed far greater than any flesh-and-blood human, could be paralyzed-however briefly-by shock. For the tiniest sliver of an instant, he could only stand there, his head snapping around, eyes searching for the person who’d shouted.
He saw the bearded man standing in the front row, well dressed but obviously not an aristocrat. Then he saw the man’s right hand, and his own hand flashed towards the pistol at his side even as he leapt forward and his other hand reached for Sharleyan.
But that instant of shock had held him just too long.
The double-barreled pistol in Hainree’s hand had been made in Charis. He’d found that grimly appropriate when one of his original followers ambushed and murdered a Marine officer and brought him the weapon as a
