by David Weber
But he was also a man of iron convictions. No one could accuse him of being narrow-minded, or of refusing to look before he leapt, yet once his convictions were engaged, there was no shaking him. Chermyn knew Fytzhyw had entertained his doubts initially about the wisdom of the schism between the Church of Charis and the Temple Loyalists. Those doubts had weakened with King Haarahld’s death, and they’d vanished completely as he’d seen Archbishop Maikel and Emperor Cayleb turning their words into reality. The attempt to assassinate the archbishop in his own cathedral, what had happened to Archbishop Erayk, the lies coming out of Zion, and the Ferayd Massacre had replaced those initial doubts with fiery commitment.
And the Old Man doesn’t do anything by halves, Chermyn told himself. Which suits me right down to the ground, when you come to it. He bared his teeth at the Desnarian galleon. I wonder if that fellow over there’s smart enough to realize just how quickly he’d better get that pennant down?
“Shit.”
Alyk Lizardherd said the single word with quiet intensity as the Charisian brig—and they were close enough now to see the national banner which confirmed that she was Charisian—sliced through the water in surging bursts of white foam. He had to admire the other captain’s ship handling, but that was just a bit difficult to remember when he saw the seven opened gun ports grinning in his direction. He’d never—yet—had the opportunity to examine one of the new Charisian guns, but he knew what he was seeing as the squat, short-barreled weapons were trundled forward. His catamounts threw three-pound shot; if those were what he was certain they were, they’d be throwing at least eighteen-pound shot. Wind Hoof was considerably larger than the Charisian brig, but not enough bigger to be able to survive that sort of imbalance in firepower!
“Sir?” Hairaym said tautly, and Lizardherd looked at him.
“I don’t think they look particularly concerned about firing on a Desnairian ship, do you, Gorjah?”
“No, Sir, I don’t,” Hairaym said after a moment, yet even as he spoke, his eyes shifted forward to where Lieutenant Aivyrs and his ten Temple Guardsmen stood waiting on the main deck.
“Yes, that is a problem,” Lizardherd agreed very softly. Hairaym’s eyes darted back to him, and the captain smiled thinly. “If we don’t strike our colors and heave to, those guns over there are going to turn us all into kraken bait, and pretty damned quickly. Or, for that matter, I’m sure they’ve got enough manpower over there to take us by boarding, assuming they somehow know enough about the cargo we’re carrying to worry about sinking us with a careless cannon shot. But Lieutenant Aivyrs is going to insist that we not strike our colors and heave to, and I’m sure his men will follow his lead if—and when—he cuts down the first man to lay a finger on a flag halyard. Not to mention the fact that if we were so careless as to lose the Church’s money by surrendering to a heretical Charisian ‘pirate,’ his report would undoubtedly have . . . unfortunate consequences.”
“Yes, Sir,” Hairaym acknowledged in an even quieter voice.
“Trapped between the dragon and the deep blue sea,” Lizardherd murmured. No one could possibly have heard him through the noise of a sailing ship at sea, but Hairaym had been with him for a long time. He knew what his skipper was thinking, and he looked acutely unhappy.
Well, he can look as unhappy as he likes, Lizardherd thought waspishly. He’s going to look pretty frigging unhappy when we go to the bottom of the Markovian, too!
“Tell the Bosun I need to speak to him,” he said out loud, holding Hairaym’s eyes with his own. “I believe he’s up forward handing out the muskets.”
For just a moment, Hairaym appeared not even to breathe. Then he inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and nodded.
“Yes, Sir. I’ll see to it.”
Well, I don’t see any signs of sanity breaking out over there yet, Fytzhyw thought. Unless of course it’s just that they’re all stone blind and don’t even realize we’re here!
He grimaced and raised his speaking trumpet.
“Master Chermyn!”
“Aye, Sir?” Tobys Chermyn shouted back from the foredeck.
“Clear away the pivot gun! It seems we need to attract these people’s attention!”
“Aye, aye, Sir!”
Lizardherd stood by the aftercastle rail, gazing steadily—one might almost have said fixedly—at the Charisian brig. He’d discussed his plans for defending the ship with the bosun, who’d been with him considerably longer even than Hairaym, and the bosun had moved all twelve of Wind Hoof’s matchlock-armed seamen into the waist of the ship, more conveniently located to Lieutenant Aivyrs.
The brig had a single longer gun forward. It looked as if it were mounted on some sort of turntable. Although Lizardherd had never heard of anything like it, he could see the advantages of such a mounting, and he concentrated on it rather than risk glancing towards the Guardsmen. Any time now. . . .
“Fire!”
Loyal Son’s pivot-mounted fourteen-pounder crashed, spitting its round shot across the gray-green waves. It landed well clear of the Desnairian galleon, exactly as warning shots were supposed to do, but its message was crystal clear, and Fytzhyw watched the other ship intently. If that ship’s master had an ounce of sense, that Church pennant would be coming down any instant. Unfortunately, Fytzhyw had already spotted at least a handful of Temple Guardsmen on the galleon’s deck. They weren’t going to take kindly to the notion of surrender. On the other hand, their presence suggested that this was, indeed, the ship for which he’d been waiting. And whether they were likely to surrender or not, he still had the responsibility to at least give them the opportunity. Personally, he’d just as soon have handed each of those Guardsmen a round shot and kicked him over the side, but rules were rules. And, he conceded almost unwillingly, following the rules was one way a man could keep himself from waking up and discovering he’d become someone he didn’t very much like. On the other hand—
He stiffened suddenly. Loyal Son was upwind of the Desnairian, but the popping sound of what was unmistakably musket fire reached him anyway, and his eyes narrowed. Exactly what did that idiot over there think he was going to do with muskets—especially matchlock muskets—at this sort of range? It was the stupidest thing he could have—
Symyn Fytzhyw’s thoughts broke off again as the Church pennant came fluttering down from the other ship’s masthead.
“Heave to,” Alyk Lizardherd commanded, and turned away once more as Hairaym passed the order.
One problem solved, he thought with a sort of lunatic detachment. Of course, it does leave me with a few others.
He glanced—briefly—at the eleven bodies sprawled across Wind Hoof’s deck. He regretted that. Lieutenant Aivyrs had seemed a nice enough young man, if a trifle overly earnest, but he hadn’t been picked for his present assignment because of any weakness of faith. Even though he must have realized as clearly as Lizardherd did that nothing they might do could possibly affect the ultimate outcome of the Charisians’ attack, he would have insisted on fighting. And when he did that, a lot of Lizardherd’s crewmen—all of whom had been with him one hell of a lot longer than Aivyrs had—would have gotten themselves killed uselessly. So might one Alyk Lizardherd, although, to his own surprise, that possibility had played a relatively minor role in his final decision.
Somehow, I don’t think the Inquisition is going to accept the theory that the Charisian marksmen concentrated on shooting down just the Guardsmen, he reflected sardonically. Especially not when all of the bullets seem to have miraculously struck them from behind. And when you add that to all the money we’ve got onboard, they’re bound to consider the possibility that it was an inside job. Maybe even that we never met up with any Charisian thieves at all.
It irritated him that, in fact, it wasn’t an inside job. If he was going to be suspected of making off with the Church’s money, then he would have preferred at least to actually be guilty!
Well, he’d just have to see. Fortunately, he himself had no immediate
family waiting for his return, and most of his seamen were unmarried. So was Hairaym, for that matter. He could always ask if the Charisians would be interested in acquiring one slightly used Desnairian galleon. They might even be willing to part with enough of Wind Hoof’s cargo to allow the crew of the galleon in question to begin new lives under new names somewhere far, far away from the Desnairian Empire.
Or we might be able to get them to agree to let us take to the boats long enough for them to put a couple of broadsides—hopefully nonfatal broadsides—into the ship. Then anyone who wanted to go home could sail her back, while those of us more interested in seeing the world shipped along with the Charisians. That should provide enough other “buried at sea” fatalities to keep anyone from commenting on the fluke of Charisian accuracy that hit only Guardsmen.
He shrugged. There was only one way to find out what sort of arrangement might be possible, and he raised his leather speaking trumpet.
“Ahoy, there!” he bellowed across the tumbled waste of water. “We’re ready to receive a boat!”
. III .
Royal Palace,
City of Manchyr,
League of Corisande
Lamps burned late in the small council chamber as Prince Hektor walked through the door, followed by two of his bodyguards. As usual, Hektor was impeccably attired, yet something about his appearance suggested he’d dressed rather more rapidly than usual this time. Or perhaps it was merely that the men awaiting him already knew he had.
He walked across to the head of the conference table with a quick, determined stride, and settled into the chair waiting for him there. Then he looked around the table with hard, grim eyes.
The Earl of Anvil Rock, Admiral Tartarian, the Earl of Coris, and Father Mahrak Hahlmyn, one of Bishop Executor Thomys’ senior aides, were already seated there, waiting for him. The prince’s eyes might have hardened briefly as they brushed across Hahlmyn, but if they did, he banished the hardness quickly and nodded respectfully to the upper-priest.
“I’m sorry to have summoned you on such short notice, Father,” he said.
“Don’t be concerned about it, Your Highness,” Hahlmyn replied, his expression and tone both grave. “Shan-wei’s machinations wait on no man, and the Writ tells us news of them has a habit of coming at inconvenient moments. I only regret that the Bishop Executor and Father Aidryn are both away from the city tonight. I have, of course, informed them of your message by carrier wyvern. And the Bishop Executor has asked me by return wyvern to tell you he and Father Aidryn will set out on their return at dawn. In the meantime, I am instructed to offer whatever assistance Mother Church can provide at this time.”
“Thank you, Father.” Hektor gave him a brief smile, then inhaled deeply. “The first thing I believe Mother Church could do for us this evening would be for you to ask the intervention of God and the Archangels on our behalf.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Hahlmyn made the sign of Langhorne’s Scepter, then bowed his head. “O God, we beseech You in the name of Your Holy Archangels to grant us Your strength and the true knowledge of Your will in this hour of trial. As the Holy Langhorne taught us, You and You alone are the true refuge of the righteous. Defend us from the malice and poison of Shan-wei, and strengthen us as we put upon us the armor of Your champions against those who would defile and defy Your Holy Church in the Evil One’s dark name. There is no day so dark Your light cannot fill it, no enemy so powerful Your strength cannot subdue it. Lead us, guide us, and make us your sword against the powers of Hell. In Langhorne’s holy name, amen.”
“Thank you, Father,” Hektor said again, his voice a bit softer, as he raised his head once more. His eyes circled the table again, then settled on Earl Coris.
“I take it you’ve already seen Taryl’s dispatch, Phylyp?”
“I have, My Prince.” Coris’ expression was grim.
“And your thoughts on the matter?”
“My Prince, Admiral Tartarian’s judgment would be far more reliable than mine in a matter such as this, I’m sure.”
“That’s probably true. However, I’d like to hear your thoughts before we hear from him. I have the greatest possible respect for the Admiral’s judgment, and for Rysel’s, but they’re both professional military men. I think it’s at least possible something will occur to you which might not occur to them precisely because they’re professional military men. If that should happen to be the case, I’d like to hear it before something they say sends all our minds in another direction.”
“Of course, My Prince.” Coris pursed his lips for a moment, obviously marshaling his thoughts, then leaned forward slightly.
“The first thing that occurs to me, My Prince, is that the sighting report put the Charisians off Cape Targan, not Tear Island. From the report, it sounds as if they were making for either Tralmyr Passage or Coris Strait.” The earl grimaced at the thought of how close to his own earldom the Charisian Navy was about to pass. “That’s scarcely the most direct route from Charis, but it would make sense if Cayleb came by way of Port Royal to make rendezvous with Sharpset and what’s left of the Chisholmian Navy, I suppose. Somehow, though, I don’t think the answer is quite that simple . . . or palatable.”
“Why not?” From Hektor’s tone, he already knew where his spymaster was headed.
“Because Sir Farahk Hyllair is Grand Duke Zebediah’s brother-in-law, My Prince,” Coris said in a flat voice, and Hektor grimaced. Sir Farahk Hyllair was the Baron of Dairwyn, and there were times the prince regretted the marital connection he’d urged Dairwyn to form with Grand Duke Zebediah. At the time, like a great many things, it had seemed like a good idea to anchor Zebediah to one of his more trusted barons. And one whose relatively lightly populated barony needed all of the royal patronage it could get.
“The fact that Cayleb has chosen to circle all the way around into the Chisholm Sea to come at us from the north, instead of the south, could mean several things, of course,” Coris continued. “The most likely, though, I’m afraid, is that he stopped off at Carmyn en route.”
“Do you really think Dairwyn would betray you, Your Highness?” Anvil Rock asked quietly.
“Frankly? I don’t know.” Hektor shrugged. “Ordinarily, I’d say no. For several reasons. But these aren’t exactly ordinary conditions, are they? Much as I hate to admit it, almost everyone has to be looking over his shoulder at the moment, wondering what’s going to happen to him if we lose to Cayleb. And as Phylyp has just pointed out, Dairwyn is Zebediah’s brother-in-law.”
“We’ve had no indications that Sir Farahk might even be contemplating anything of the sort,” Coris said. “What I’m afraid of is that Zebediah’s turned his coat. If he has, it would be just like him to send letters along with Cayleb urging his brother-in-law to do the same thing.”
“With all due respect, Your Highness,” Tartarian said, entering the conversation for the first time, “I know Baron Dairwyn. I don’t believe he’ll be that easily swayed into betraying his loyalty to you.”
“I think you’re probably right,” Hektor replied thoughtfully. “On the other hand, if Zebediah did send a letter like the one Phylyp is suggesting, then Cayleb may have decided it would be worth trying to get Dairwyn to come over to his side. Dairos is a good, relatively deepwater port right there on White Sail Bay. It’s a bit on the cramped size for a really large fleet, but it’s big enough to provide a decent anchorage at a pinch if his fleet’s still tied down when the storm season really picks up in the next month or two . . . and it’s only about two hundred miles overland from Manchyr. Admittedly, the Dark Hills are between Dairwyn and Manchyr, but that works both ways. If they’d be an obstacle for his army moving west against Manchyr, they’d also give his own base of operations some protection if we manage to concentrate our own forces against him. But the key point is that he’s going to need a port somewhere at this time of year. If there’s even a chance that Dairwyn might give him Dairos intact and without a fight, it’s probably worth his whi
le to at least give it a try.”
“And if Dairwyn doesn’t go over to him, Dairos isn’t anywhere nearly as heavily defended as the ports along the Margo Sound coastline,” Tartarian agreed unhappily.
“We had to prioritize our forces and the new artillery somehow, Taryl.” Hektor waved one hand. “You and Rysel were right when you pointed out—as I just did—that the Dark Hills cover Manchyr from the east. So it made sense to concentrate on fortifying the southwestern ports, instead.”
“Which could also be another indication Cayleb has been in contact with Zebediah,” Coris pointed out. “Zebediah’s had plenty of time to discover where we were concentrating our forces. I expect it’s exactly the kind of information he would have been gathering up to offer Cayleb as proof of his value.”
“It could indicate that,” Hektor acknowledged. “By the same token, it’s hard to hide new coastal batteries, Phylyp. Any one of the merchant ships passing through the Sound could have reported the information to Cayleb.”
“And even if that isn’t what happened, it probably wouldn’t have required a military genius to figure out the way we’d approach the problem,” Anvil Rock added.
“Exactly.” Hektor nodded. Then he grimaced. “All right, I think all of that was worth thinking about, but now we have to concentrate on what we’re going to do if they are headed for Dairwyn.”
“I wish we had a better estimate of their total strength, My Prince,” Tartarian said. “The good news is that, thanks to the semaphore, we know they’re coming at least a five-day before something as slow as an invasion fleet can reach Dairos. The bad news is that we really don’t know how much fighting strength they’re bringing with them when they come. I know what Phylyp’s reports have been telling us about the size of their fleet, the hundreds of galleons they’ve been assembling to send after us with every man in the Kingdom embarked as elite Marines. But as I’ve been saying all along, I don’t trust our sources at this point.”
