by David Weber
Lord Daryus Parkair was Seneschal of Siddarmark, which made him both the government minister directly responsible for the Army and also that Army’s commanding general. If there was anyone in the entire Republic who Zhaspahr Clyntahn trusted even less (and hated even more) than Greyghor Stohnar, it had to be Daryus Parkair.
Parkair was well aware of that and fully reciprocated Clyntahn’s hatred. He was also as well aware as Stohnar or Maidyn of all the reasons the Republic had been excluded from any of the Church’s military buildup. Which was why he had very quietly and discreetly encouraged certain foundry owners to experiment—purely speculatively, of course—with how one might go about producing the new style artillery or the new rifled muskets. And as Parkair had pointed out to Maidyn just the other day, charcoal was becoming increasingly difficult to come by, which meant foundries could never have too much coke if they suddenly found themselves having to increase their output.
“I don’t think even that would bother me,” Stohnar replied. “Not if she wasn’t sending so much money back into the Temple Lands. I’d be willing to put all of it down to shrewd speculation on her part, if not for that.”
“It is an interesting puzzle, My Lord,” Maidyn acknowledged. “She’s obviously up to something, and my guess is that whatever it is, Clyntahn wouldn’t like it. The question is whether or not he knows about it? I’m inclined to think not, or else the Inquisition would already have insisted we bring her in for a little chat. So then the question becomes whether or not the Inquisition is going to become aware of her? And, of course, whether or not we—as dutiful sons of Mother Church, desirous of proving our reliability to the Grand Inquisitor—should bring her to the Inquisition’s notice ourselves?”
“I doubt very much that anything could convince Zhaspahr Clyntahn you and I are ‘dutiful sons of Mother Church,’ at least as he understands the term,” Stohnar said frostily.
“True, only too true, I’m afraid.” Maidyn’s tone seemed remarkably free of regret. Then his expression sobered. “Still, it’s a move we need to consider, My Lord. If the Inquisition becomes aware of her and learns we didn’t bring her to its attention, it’s only going to be one more log on the fire where Clyntahn’s attitude is concerned.”
“Granted.” Stohnar nodded, waving one hand in a brushing-away gesture. “Granted. But if I’d needed anything to convince me the Group of Four is about as far removed from God’s will as it’s possible to get, Clyntahn’s damned atrocities would’ve done it.” He bared his teeth. “I’ve never pretended to be a saintly sort, Henrai, but if Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s going to Heaven, I want to know where to buy my ticket to Hell now.”
Maidyn’s features smoothed into non-expression. Stohnar’s statement wasn’t a surprise, but the Lord Protector was a cautious man who seldom expressed himself that openly even among the handful of people he fully trusted.
“If Pahrsahn is conspiring against Clyntahn and his hangers-on, Henrai,” Stohnar went on, “then more power to her. Keep an eye on her. Do your best to make sure she’s not doing something we’d disapprove of, but I want it all very tightly held. Use only men you fully trust, and be sure there’s no trail of breadcrumbs from her to us. If the Inquisition does find out about her, I don’t want them finding any indication we knew about her all along and simply failed to mention her to them. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, My Lord.” Maidyn gave him a brief, seated bow, then leaned back against the wall once more. “Although that does raise one other rather delicate point.”
“Which is?”
“If we should happen to realize the Inquisition is beginning to look in her direction, do we warn her?”
Stohnar pursed his lips, unfocused eyes gazing at something only he could see while he considered the question. Then he shrugged.
“I suppose that will depend on the circumstances,” he said then. “Not detecting her or mentioning her to the Inquisition is one thing. Warning her—and being caught warning her—is something else. And you and I both know that if we do warn her and she’s caught anyway, in the end, she will tell the Inquisitors everything she knows.” He shook his head slowly. “I wish her well. I wish anyone trying to make Clyntahn’s life miserable well. But we’re running too many risks of our own as it is. If there’s a way to warn her anonymously, perhaps yes. But if there isn’t, then I’m afraid she’ll just have to take her chances on her own.”
.V.
King’s Harbor, Helen Island, Kingdom of Old Charis
Seagulls screamed and wyverns whistled shrilly, swooping and stooping above the broad expanse of King’s Harbor. The winged inhabitants of Helen Island could hardly believe the largesse a generous nature had bestowed upon them. With so many ships cluttering up the waters, the supply of flotsam and plain old drifting garbage exceeded their most beatific dreams of greed, and they pounced upon it with gleeful abandon.
Oared barges, water hoys, sheer hulks, and a dozen other types of service craft made their ways in and around and through the press of anchored warships beneath that storm of wings. Newly mustered—and still mustering—ships’ companies fell in on decks, raced up and down masts, panted under the unrelenting demands of their officers, and cursed their leather-lunged, hectoring petty officers with all the time-honored, tradition-sanctified fervency of new recruits the universe over, yet that represented barely a fraction of the human energy being expended throughout that broad harbor. Carpenters and shipfitters labored to repair lingering battle damage. Dockyard inspectors argued vociferously with working party supervisors. Pursers and clerks counted casks, barrels, crates, and bags of supplies and swore with weary creativity each time the numbers came up wrong and they had to start all over again. Sailmakers and chandlers, gunners and quartermasters, captains and midshipmen, chaplains and clerks, flag lieutenants and messengers were everywhere, all of them totally focused on the tasks at hand and utterly oblivious to all the clangor and rush going on about them. The sheer level of activity was staggering, even for the Imperial Charisian Navy, and the squeal of sheaves as heavy weights were lifted, the bellow of shouted orders, the thud of hammers and the clang of metal resounded across the water. Any casual observer might have been excused for assuming the scene was one of utter chaos and confusion, but he would have been wrong.
Amidst that much bustling traffic, one more admiral’s barge was scarcely noticeable, Domynyk Staynair thought dryly, easing the peg which had replaced his lower right leg. It had been skillfully fitted, but there were still times the stump bothered him, especially when he’d been on his feet—well, foot and peg, he supposed—longer than he ought to have been. And “longer than he ought to have been” was a pretty good description of most of his working days since stepping into Bryahn Lock Island’s shoes.
Shoe, I suppose I mean, he reflected mordantly, continuing his earlier thought, then looked up as the barge slid under the overhanging stern of one of the anchored galleons. Her original name—Sword of God—was still visible on her transom, although the decision had already been taken to rename her when she was commissioned into Charisian service. Of course, exactly what that new name would be was one of the myriad details which hadn’t been decided upon just yet, wasn’t it?
“In oars!” his coxswain shouted, and the oarsmen brought their long sweeps smartly inboard in a perfectly choreographed maneuver as he swung the tiller, sending them curving gracefully into Sword of God’s dense shadow and laying the barge alongside the larger ship.
“Chains!” the coxswain shouted, and the seaman perched in the bow reached out with his long boat hook and snagged the galleon’s main chains with neat, practiced efficiency.
“Smartly done, Byrt,” the admiral said.
“Thank’ee, My Lord,” Byrtrym Veldamahn replied in a gratified tone. Rock Point wasn’t known for bestowing empty compliments, but he was known for honest praise when a duty or an evolution was smartly performed.
The barge’s other passengers remained seated as Rock Point heaved himself upright. Trad
ition made the senior officer the last to board a small boat and the first to debark, and as a junior officer, Rock Point had subscribed to the theory that the tradition existed so that a tipsy captain or flag officer’s dutiful subordinates could catch him when he tumbled back into the boat in a drunken heap. He’d changed his mind as he grew older and wiser (and more senior himself), but there might just be something to the catching notion in his own case, he reflected now. He’d actually learned to dance again, after a fashion at least, since losing his leg, but even a boat the size of his barge was lively underfoot, and he balanced carefully as he reached out for the battens affixed to the galleon’s side.
If I had any sense, I’d stay right here on a thwart while they rigged a bo’sun’s chair for me, he told himself dryly. But I don’t, so I’m not going to. If I fall and break my fool neck, it’ll be no more than I deserve, but I’ll be damned if they’re going to hoist me aboard like one more piece of cargo!
He reached up, caught one of the battens, balanced on his artificial leg while he got his left foot ready, then pushed himself upward. He could feel his subordinates watching him, no doubt poised to rescue him when his foolishness reaped the reward it so amply deserved. At least King’s Harbor’s water was relatively warm year-round, so if he missed the boat entirely he wasn’t going to freeze … and as long as he didn’t manage to get crushed between the barge and the galleon or pushed down under the turn of the bilge, he wouldn’t drown, either. Not that he had any intention of allowing his illustrious naval career to be terminated quite that humiliatingly.
He heaved, and he’d always been powerfully muscled. Since the loss of his leg, his arms and shoulders had become even more powerful and they lifted him clear of the curtsying barge. He got the toe of his remaining foot onto another batten, clear of the barge’s gunwale, then drew his peg up and wedged it carefully beside his foot before he reached upward once more. Climbing the side of a galleon had never been an easy task even for someone with the designed number of feet, and he felt himself panting heavily as he clambered up the battens.
This really isn’t worth the effort, he thought, baring his teeth in a fierce grin, but I’m too stubborn—and too stupid—to admit that to anyone. Besides, the day I stop doing this will be the day I stop being able to do it.
He made it to the entry port and bo’sun’s pipes squealed in salute as he hauled himself through it onto the deck of what had once been Bishop Kornylys Harpahr’s flagship. If the truth be known, the identity of its previous owner was one of the reasons he’d selected it to become one of the first prizes to be commissioned into Charisian service.
That possibly ignoble (but profoundly satisfying) thought passed through his mind as the side boys came to attention and a short, compact officer in the uniform of a captain saluted.
“High Admiral, arriving!” the quartermaster of the watch announced, which still sounded a bit unnatural to Rock Point when someone applied the title to him.
“Welcome aboard, Sir,” the captain said, extending his hand.
“Thank you, Captain Pruait.” Rock Point clasped forearms with the captain, then stepped aside and turned to watch as three more officers climbed through the entry port in descending order of seniority.
The bo’sun’s pipes shrilled again as another captain, this one on the tall side, stepped aboard, followed by Commander Mahndrayn and Lieutenant Styvyn Erayksyn, Rock Point’s flag lieutenant. Erayksyn was about due for promotion to lieutenant commander, although Rock Point hadn’t told him that yet. The promotion was going to bring a sea command with it, of course. That was inevitable, given the Imperial Charisian Navy’s abrupt, unanticipated expansion. Even without that, Erayksyn amply deserved the reward of which every sea officer worth his salt dreamed, and Rock Point was pleased for young Styvyn. Of course, it was going to be a pain in the ass finding and breaking in a replacement who’d suit the high admiral half as well.
Pruait greeted the other newcomers in turn, then stepped back, sweeping both arms to indicate the broad, busy deck of the ship. It looked oddly unfinished to any Charisian officer’s eyes, given the bulwarks’ empty rows of gunports. There should have been a solid row of carronades crouching squatly in those ports, but this galleon had never carried them. In fact, that had quite a bit to do with Rock Point’s current visit.
The most notable aspect of the ship’s upper works, however, were the bustling work parties. Her original masts had been retained, but they were being fitted with entirely new yards on the Charisian pattern, and brand-new sails had already been sent up the foremast, and more new canvas was ascending the mainmast as Rock Point watched. Her new headsails had already been rigged, as well, and painting parties on scaffolding slung over her side were busy converting her original gaudy paint scheme into the utilitarian black-and-white of the Imperial Charisian Navy.
“As you can see, High Admiral, we’ve more than enough to keep us busy until you and Master Howsmyn get around to sending us our new toys,” Pruait said. “I’d really like to get her coppered, as well, but Sir Dustyn’s … explained to me why that’s not going to happen.”
The captain rolled his eyes, and Rock Point chuckled. Unlike the ICN’s purpose built war galleons, the Navy of God’s ships used iron nails and bolts throughout, which made it effectively impossible to sheath their lower hulls in copper. Rock Point wasn’t about to try to explain electrolysis to Captain Pruait, and he was confident Sir Dustyn Olyvyr’s “explanation” had been heavy on “because it won’t work, damn it!” and considerably lighter on the theory.
“We may have to bite the bullet and go ahead and drydock her eventually to pull the underwater iron and refasten her with copper and bronze so we can copper her,” he said out loud. “Don’t go getting your hopes up!” he cautioned as Pruait’s eyes lit. “It’d cost a fortune, given the number of prizes we’re talking about, and Baron Ironhill and I are already fighting tooth and nail over the Navy’s budget. But if we’re going to keep her in commission, it’d probably be cheaper in the long run to protect her against borers rather than replacing half her underwater planking every couple of years. And that doesn’t even consider how much slower the prizes are going to be without it.”
Pruait nodded in understanding. The recent Charisian innovation of coppering warships below the waterline did more than simply protect their timbers from the shellfish who literally ate their way (often with dismaying speed) into the fabric of a ship. That would have been more than enough to make the practice worthwhile, despite its initial expense, but it also enormously reduced the growth of weeds and the other fouling which increased water resistance and decreased speed. The swiftness Charisian ships could maintain was a powerful tactical advantage, but if Rock Point was forced to operate coppered and uncoppered ships together, he’d lose most of it, since a fleet was no faster than its slowest unit.
On the other hand, Rock Point thought, we’ve captured enough ships that we could make up entire squadrons—hell, fleets!—of ships without coppered bottoms. They’d be slower than other squadrons, but all the ships in them would have the same basic speed and handling characteristics. Still wouldn’t do anything about the borers, though. And the truth is, these prize ships are better built in a lot of ways than ours are, so it’d make a lot of sense—economically, not just from a military perspective—to take care of them. The designs aren’t as good as the ones Olyvyr’s come up with, but the Temple obviously decided it might as well pay for the very best. We had to use a lot of green wood; they used only the best ship timbers, and they took long enough building the damned things they could leave them standing in the frame to season properly before they planked them.
Charis hadn’t had that option. They’d needed ships as quickly as they could build them, and one of the consequences was that some of those improperly seasoned ships were already beginning to rot. It was hardly a surprise—they’d known it was coming from the beginning—and it wasn’t anything they couldn’t handle so far. But over the next couple of years (a
ssuming they had a couple of years available) at least half of their original war galleons were going to require major rebuilding or complete replacement, and wasn’t that going to be fun?
“While you and Sir Dustyn were discussing why you’re not going to get coppered, did you happen to discuss armaments and weights with him?” Rock Point asked out loud, cocking his head at Pruait.
“Yes, Sir.” Pruait nodded. “According to his weight calculations, we can replace the original upper deck long guns with thirty-pounder carronades on a one-for-one basis without putting her overdraft or hurting her stability. Or we can replace them on a two-for-three basis with fifty-seven-pounders. If we do that, though, we’ll have to rebuild the bulwarks to relocate the gunports. And he’s less confident of her longitudinal strength than he’d really like; he’s inclined to go with the heavier carronades but concentrate them closer to midships to reduce weights at the ends of the hull and try to head off any hogging tendencies.”
“I see.”
Rock Point turned, facing aft towards one of the distinctly non-Charisian features of the ship’s design. While the towering forecastle and aftercastle which had been such a prominent feature of galley design had been omitted, Sword of God was still far higher aft than a Charisian galleon because she boasted a poop deck above the quarterdeck. It was narrow, and the additional height probably made the ship considerably more leewardly than she would have been without it, but it was also a feature of all of the Navy of God’s galleon designs, so the Temple presumably thought it was worth it. Rock Point wasn’t at all certain he agreed with the Church, but he wasn’t certain he disagreed, either.
“Did the two of you discuss cutting her down aft?” he asked, twitching his head in the poop deck’s direction.
