by David Weber
“We’d need more battle dragons for that,” Toralk pointed out. “And what the dragons can do isn’t going to take them by surprise. Not again.”
“No, and they’ll undoubtedly factor the possibilities of air mobility into their thinking, at least as well as they can,” Harshu observed thoughtfully. “But how well can they factor it in without their own dragons to use as a measuring stick? And even if they manage to extrapolate a lot more accurately than I suspect they can, based on what they’ve seen so far, they can’t change the constraints their lack of air mobility imposes. Once they’re this side of the portal, we can circle as wide as we need to to get around behind them instead of trying to stuff your tactical and transport dragons through the mouth of a jar, Klayrman. We’ll be able to get at their lines of communication without running the gauntlet of those rotating cannon. In fact, the farther into Karys they advance, the more vulnerable they’ll make themselves.”
“Are you thinking about falling back from the Cut, Sir? Giving them a free pass into Karys?” Toralk asked.
“Oh, no! Keeping them out of Karys in the first place, at least until we’re properly reinforced, is a lot better idea. And one thing they’ve already demonstrated is that they aren’t idiots, Klayrman! If we were to suddenly and obligingly let them through the Cut without a fight, they’d have to wonder why we were being so helpful. I’m just saying that if they do decide to come after us, and if they do manage somehow to break out of the Cut, we’ll be able to hurt them a lot more badly than they may realize.”
He smiled almost whimsically.
“I’d like that,” he said. “I’d like that a lot.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Inkara 18, 205 YU
[December 9, 1928 CE]
“Twenty for your thoughts,” Jathmar Nargra said quietly, leaning back in the comfortable deck chair.
“I don’t know that they’re worth that much,” his wife, Shaylar Nargra-Kolmayr, told him with a wan smile.
“Oh, they have to be worth that much!” Jathmar disagreed.
Shaylar chuckled, although that chuckle was edged by sorrow and more than a hint of bitterness. A twentieth-falcon was the smallest Ternathian coin, so putting that price on her thoughts didn’t set their value very high. But Jathmar shouldn’t have needed to ask her about them in the first place. Oh, the details of what might be running through her mind at any moment, yes. But their marriage bond was so strong, ran so deep, he’d always known what she was thinking, feeling, on a level far below words.
Except that now he didn’t. She still wasn’t certain exactly when the bond had started fraying, but it continued to grow weaker day by day, almost hour by hour, and that terrified her. It was all they had left to cling to as they traveled steadily across the faces of far too many universes towards their black, bleak future of captivity, and it was slipping away, like Shurkhali sand sifting between her fingers. The tighter she clenched her grasp, the more clearly she felt it seeping away, blood dripping from a wound neither of them could staunch.
No, she thought, gazing out through the porthole. It’s not weakening day by day; it’s weakening mile by mile. The farther we get from home, the weaker it grows, and Sweet Mother Marnilay, but what in the names of all the gods could cause that?
She didn’t know. All she knew was that it was happening, and she turned away from Jathmar—from the husband who felt as if he were somehow drifting away from her even as he held her hand tightly and warmly in his own—to gaze up at stars which were achingly familiar.
She and Jathmar could at least have an illusion of privacy, and she was grateful to Sir Jasak Olderhan for allowing that. There was no place they could possibly have escaped to from a ship in the middle of the Western Ocean’s vast empty reaches, but that wouldn’t have stopped all too many Arcanans they’d met on this endless journey from posting guards over them, anyway. After all, they were both Sharonian, with who knew what sort of still undisclosed terrible, “unnatural” Talents? Never mind that the Arcanans could work actual magic. Never mind that she and Jasak were unarmed civilians in a universe which was the gods only knew how far from their own. Somehow, they were still the threat, and in her more introspective moments she could actually almost sympathize with that attitude. The Talents with which she and Jathmar had grown up, which were as natural to them as breathing, were just as bizarre and inexplicable to the Arcanans as the Arcanans’ magic and spells were to her. And whatever someone couldn’t explain became, by definition, uncanny and frightening, especially when the whatever in question was possessed by one’s enemies.
She understood that only too completely, as well, she thought bitterly.
So, yes—whether she wanted to or not, she appreciated at least intellectually why they might be seen as a threat. More than that, she knew Jasak’s refusal to post round-the-clock guards was an unequivocal declaration of his bedrock trust in them. Trust that they hadn’t lied to him about their Talents…and that even if those Talents might have somehow allowed them to violate the parole they’d given and escape, they wouldn’t do it. And Jasak was a man who recognized that that sort of trust was its own kind of fetter, especially for a Shurkhalian who understood the honor concept which lay at its heart.
At the same time, as much as she’d come to value Jasak, to recognize the fundamental goodness and iron fidelity which were so much a part of him, she remembered an ancient Shurkhalian proverb her father had taught her long ago. “Too much gratitude is a garment that chafes,” he’d told her. She’d wondered, then, what he’d meant and how he could have said that, for hospitality and openhandedness was at the very heart of the Shurkhali honor code. More than that, Thaminar Kolmayr was the most generous man she knew, someone who was always ready to help, to lend support—the sort of man to whom others automatically turned in need and who was a natural focus for others’ gratitude. But now, looking back, she could see that he’d always found ways to allow those whom he’d helped to help him in return, to allow them to repay him with their own gifts or favors.
And she couldn’t repay Jasak Olderhan any more than she could forget that without him—without his protection—she and Jathmar would be locked up in a cell somewhere, probably separated and subjected to ruthless interrogation…or dead. He and Gadrial Kelbryan were all that stood between her and Jathmar and death—Gadrial had literally snatched Jathmar back from the very gate of Reysharak’s Hall—and it was the totality of their helplessness which made it so difficult to not somehow resent Jasak’s generosity. And the fact that he’d been the commander of the Arcanan patrol which had made the initial contact between the Union of Arcana and Sharonians—and killed every single one of her and Jathmar’s companions in the horrendous, chaotic madness sparked by Commander of Fifty Shevan Garlath’s cowardice and stupidity—only filled her emotions with even greater pain and confusion.
“Really,” Jathmar said beside her, lifting the hand he held to press its back against his cheek. “What are you thinking, Shay?”
“I’m thinking that looking up at those stars, knowing where we are at this moment, only makes me feel even farther from home,” she replied after a moment, and felt his cheek move against her hand as he nodded in understanding.
The ship upon whose deck their chairs stood was slicing through the water at ridiculous speed, and doing it in an unnatural silence. The night was full of the voice of the wind, the rush and surging song of the sea as they drove through it, yet here aboard the ship there was none of the vibration and pulse beat of the machinery they would have felt and heard aboard a Sharonian vessel moving at anything like a comparable rate. Jathmar’s Mapping Talent had weakened in step with their marriage bond, but it remained more than strong enough to let him estimate speeds with a high degree of accuracy, and at the moment their modestly sized ship was moving at well over twenty knots—probably closer to thirty, as rapidly as one of the great ocean liners of Sharona. The wind whipping over the decks certainly bore out that estimate, yet there were no stokers laboring in t
his ship’s bowels to feed its roaring furnaces, no plume of coal smoke belching from its funnels, no thrashing screws churning the water to drive it forward. There was only somewhere down inside it one of those “sarkolis” crystals which Gadrial had tried so hard to explain doing whatever mysterious things it did to drive the vessel forward.
Yet for all the differences between this vessel and any Sharonian ship, these were waters Shaylar had crossed before, often. They’d cleared the Strait of Junkari, between the long, hooded cobra head of the Monkey Tail Peninsula and the thousand-mile long island of Lusaku just before sunset. Now they were well out into the South Uromathian Sea, sailing between the Hinorean Empire on the Uromathian mainland and the vast, scattered islands of western Lissia. Shaylar’s mother had been born little more than two thousand miles—and forty-one universes—from this very spot, and Shaylar had sailed these waters many times on visits between Shurkhal and the island continent of Lissia, sixty-five hundred miles from the place of her own birth. But they weren’t traveling to visit friends or family this time. They were halfway between their entry portal in Harkala, which the Arcanans called Shehsmair, and the next portal in their endless journey, located in the Narash Islands, which the Arcanans called the Iryshakhias. And there they’d leave the universe of Gryphon behind and enter yet another universe called Althorya.
Even with Jathmar at her side, holding her hand, there were times when Shaylar felt very, very tiny and far, far from home. And the fact that all of those many universes, all those stupefying thousands of miles, lay across an identical planet made it no better. In fact, it made it worse.
“I know what you mean,” Jathmar said after a moment, his beloved voice warm and comforting as the ship sliced through phosphorescent seas in its smooth, eerie silence, like some huge, stalking cat. “It seems like we’ve been traveling forever, doesn’t it?”
“That’s because we have!” Shaylar’s laugh was tart but genuine.
“Yes, but Gadrial says we’ve only got about another month to go. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the end of the trip, though.”
“I’m not either, but one way or the other, at least we’ll finally know what’s going to happen to us,” Shaylar said. “I know Jasak and Gadrial genuinely believe Jasak’s father will be able to protect us, but I don’t know, Jath. Shurkhalis have their own honor code, you know that. And you know how seriously we take it on a personal level. But it’s probably been broken more times than I could count when it came up against the realities of politics and diplomacy. I find it hard to believe the Arcanans can be that different from us, so even if the duke’s as determined to protect Jasak’s shardonai as he and Gadrial both believe he’ll be, can he?”
“Unfortunately, I only know one way to find out.” Jathmar’s voice was grimmer than it had been. “That’s why am not looking forward to the end of the trip. But you’re right—one way or the other, we’ll know in about a month.”
“What do you think is happening back home?” Despite the weakened state of their marriage bond, Shaylar tasted his half-amused recognition of her bid to change the subject…and his willingness for it to be changed.
“I’d imagine everyone’s running around like chickens with their heads cut off,” he said tartly. “Probably at least some of them are trying to do something constructive, though. If I had to guess, Orem Limana and Halidar Kinshe are up to their necks in it! And I’d also guess they’re in the process of begging, buying, or stealing a real army from someone to back up the PAAF.”
“Probably,” Shaylar agreed. “Ternathia’s, do you think?”
“Well, I hope to all the gods not Chava Busar’s!”
“The rest of Sharona couldn’t be crazy enough to count on Chava, no matter how panicky they’re feeling,” Shaylar reassured him.
“You’re right about that,” Jathmar acknowledged. “Besides, when it’s time to kick someone’s ass, you send the best there is, and that’s the Imperial Ternathian Army.”
“But can they get themselves organized in time?” Shaylar fretted. “I know it’s going to take the Arcanans, even with those dragons of theirs, a long time to move entire armies up to Hell’s Gate. I mean, look how long it’s taken us to get this far.” She waved her free hand at the vast, open stretch of saltwater. “But it’s going to take Sharona time to move armies, too, and first they’re going to have to agree who’s in charge! Do we have—do they have—enough time to do that?”
“I’m afraid there’s only one way to find out about that, too, love,” Jathmar said, his soft voice almost lost in the rush of water and the endless voice of the wind. “I’m betting they will, but there’s only one way to find out.”
* * *
Sir Jasak Olderhan stood on the open bridge wing, his back to the wind whipping over the bow as UAS Zukerayn drove northeast across the Dynsari Sea. Gadrial Kelbryan stood beside him, her crossed arms resting on the bridge railing—a little high for comfortable leaning for someone her size—as they both gazed aft. Jasak’s eyes were on the deck chairs of his shardonai, visible in the light spilling from the cabin scuttles, but his attention at the moment was on Chief Sword Otwal Threbuch as he stood beside him and finished his informal report.
“So that’s about the size of it, Sir,” the chief sword said. “The crew’s fair buzzing with rumors, but they don’t know shit—begging your pardon, Magister—about anything that’s happened since we left.”
“I see.”
Jasak’s dark eyes glittered in the reflected light of the starboard running light, but his expression masked whatever he might be thinking. On the other hand, Otwal Threbuch had known him literally since boyhood and Gadrial had come to know him entirely too well over the last few months. He doubted he was fooling either of them.
“And that other little matter?” he said after a moment, and Threbuch chuckled harshly.
“I don’t think Lady Nargra-Kolmayr’s going to be having any more problems, Sir,” the chief sword assured him, emphasizing the “Lady” just a bit. “I sort of passed the word that anyone who gives her any more lip’s likely to fall down two sets of ladders next time.”
“‘Next time’?” Jasak asked, turning his head to gaze mildly at the noncom. “Was there an accident I hadn’t heard of?”
“Might’ve been one, at that, Sir. Maybe even two, now that I think of it. I’d have to ask Trooper Sendahli to be certain. He’s been discussing several small matters with the crew since we came aboard. Just to be friendly, you understand.”
“Yes, I believe I do understand, Chief Sword. I think that’ll be all for now.”
“Of course, Sir.” Threbuch came to attention, and saluted Jasak, and then nodded courteously to Gadrial. “Magister,” he said, and turned on his heel and strode away.
“Do you think Jugthar’s really been knocking crewmen down ladders?” Gadrial asked as she watched the tall, fair-haired Threbuch disappear.
“Jugthar?” Jasak snorted. “No, I don’t think he’s been knocking them down ladders. Throwing them down them is more his style.”
Gadrial’s laugh was frayed by the wind of Zukerayn’s passage, but she felt confident Jasak wasn’t exaggerating very much, if at all, where Jugthar Sendahli was concerned. The dark-skinned Mythalan was a garthan, a member of the Mythalan slave caste who’d escaped Mythal’s oppressive society and found refuge and respect alike in the Union of Arcana Army. And not just in the Army, but in the 2nd Andaran Temporal Scouts, the hereditary command of the Dukes of Garth Showma. There were very few things Sendahli would have refused to do for Sir Jasak Olderhan—up to and including murder, Gadrial suspected—and he’d become very attached personally to Shaylar. The tiny Sharonian woman seemed to have that effect on anyone who spent much time in her company. And even if that hadn’t been the case, she and Jathmar were Jasak Olderhan’s shardonai, members of his family by both custom and law in Andara, and gods help the man who offered insult to a member of the Olderhan family in Sendahli’s presence.
“I don’t
like what we saw out of them when we first came aboard, though, Jasak,” the magister said more seriously after a moment.
“I don’t, either,” he admitted. “But, frankly, what concerns me more is that no one aboard this ship seems to’ve heard anything else.”
“Wouldn’t the Army keep as many details as possible secret?” she asked. “I mean, wouldn’t mul Gurthak be thinking about the security aspects of it?”
Jasak looked at her, one eyebrow raised, and she shrugged. Like Jasak—and with even more personal reason—she profoundly distrusted Commander of Two Thousand Nith mul Gurthak, the senior officer for the nine-universe chain from Esthiya through Mahritha. His position as governor made him responsible for dealing with the immediate repercussions of the disastrous first encounter between the Union of Arcana and Sharona, and Gadrial would have vastly preferred for that command to have belonged to some stiff-necked, conservative, autocratic, unimaginative, honor-bound Andaran—indeed, almost any Andaran—instead of mul Gurthak.
“First, there’s not a lot of reason to worry about ‘security’ as far as the Sharonians are concerned,” Jasak pointed out. “It’s not like they’re going to overhear any idle chatter this side of Hell’s Gate. Second, nobody’s ever managed to put together a security system that actually prevented at least some information leakage along the way. And third, if he didn’t make any effort to keep the initial news from leaking, why the sudden silence about what’s happened since?”
