Off Armageddon Reef

by David Weber

  "Oh, I'm quite sure, Ahrnahld. Especially since I pick Merlin for the first member of my team."

  Falkhan looked suddenly much more thoughtful, and Cayleb chuckled.

  "Does Merlin know the rules?" the Marine inquired.

  "Rules? In rugby?"

  "Well, there is that," Falkhan acknowledged, then shrugged. "Very well, Your Highness. Challenge accepted."

  * * *

  Charisian "rugby," it turned out, wasn't quite the game Merlin had expected.

  Nimue Alban had never actually played rugby, which had remained a "thug's game played by gentlemen," in her father's estimation. She had, however, seen it played, and Merlin had felt reasonably confident of holding his own.

  But Charisian rugby was a water sport.

  Merlin had no idea who'd invented it, or retained the name of the Old Earth game for it, but he could see certain similarities to the only rugby matches Nimue had ever seen. The object was to get the ball—actually, the somewhat asymmetrical inflated bladder of a sea cow, a ten foot long, roughly walrus-like aquatic mammal—into the other team's net while playing shoulder-deep in the sea. Apparently, any tactic, short of actually drowning one of your opponents, was acceptable, as long as your intended victim had possession of the ball. Merlin was certain there had to be at least some rules, although it quickly became apparent there couldn't be very many. And strategy appeared to consist of swarming whoever had the ball and holding him under until he agreed to give it up.

  Normally, that wouldn't have posed any difficulty for Merlin. After all, he had ten times the strength of any of his opponents, his reaction speed was faster, and he had no particular need to breathe. Unfortunately, there were still a few minor technical problems.

  First, it seemed the Charisian custom when swimming, at least as long as only one sex was present, was to swim nude. Second, Charisian rugby was most definitely a "contact sport." Third, PICAs were designed to be fully functional. Fourth, Nimue Alban had been a woman.

  Merlin had already observed that simply switching genders hadn't made women magically sexually attractive to him. He hadn't quite followed through to the corollary of that discovery, however. But when he abruptly found himself in the middle of a wet, splashing, slithery swirl of seventeen other naked male bodies—all of them extraordinarily physically fit, young male bodies—he discovered that PICA or no, he was, indeed, "fully functional."

  Nimue had never really considered just how embarrassing her male friends and acquaintances must have found certain physiological responses to arousal, especially on social occasions. Merlin supposed the present occasion might be considered a social one, however, and he found that response extremely embarrassing. The fact that he'd never experienced it before only added to the . . . interesting nature of the phenomenon.

  It also meant he spent the entire game very carefully staying in water which was at least chest-deep, and that he was the last person out of the water, and that he deployed his towel very carefully when he finally did emerge.

  "They don't play rugby where you come from?" Cayleb asked him, vigorously toweling his hair, and Merlin—whose towel was knotted around his waist, not drying his hair—shook his head.

  "The water's just a bit colder up in the Mountains of Light," he pointed out. It was a non sequitur, although there was no way for Cayleb to know that, and he smiled. "We did play a game we called 'rugby' when I was a child. It wasn't like this one, though. It was played on land."

  "Ah, that explains it." Cayleb chuckled. "I was afraid there for a few minutes that Ahrnahld's team might actually win. But you seemed to get the hang of it after all."

  "Oh, I certainly did, Your Highness," Merlin said.

  "Good. Because, next time, I want to really pin his ears back."

  "I'll certainly try," Merlin promised.

  III

  Vicar Rhobair Duchairn's Suite,

  The Temple of God

  "I told you it wouldn't do any good," Zhaspahr Clyntahn said grumpily.

  The Grand Inquisitor was a portly man, with a head of carefully brushed silver hair and the substantial jowls of a man well accustomed to good food and drink. There were a few gravy spots on his orange cassock as he sat back from the table in Rhobair Duchairn's dining room at last and reached for his wineglass once more.

  "Oh, come now, Zhaspahr," Duchairn said chidingly. He was taller than Clyntahn, and rather more acetic in appearance. "What, exactly, do you expect Dynnys to do? The man's got a broken leg and a broken shoulder, for God's sake! He's scarcely going to go out, hop on a horse or a dragon, and go plowing off through the winter!"

  "If he'd been doing his job properly before he broke his leg," Allayn Magwair said harshly, "we wouldn't have this problem now, would we?"

  "If we actually have a problem at all, of course," Duchairn replied in a rather more pointed tone.

  "Now, now, Rhobair," Zahmsyn Trynair said. "Allayn and Zhaspahr may be a bit overly inclined to dwell on the negative, but I think you'd have to admit that you have a vested interest in overemphasizing the positive."

  "If you mean I'm aware of the contributions Charis makes to the Treasury each year, you're quite correct," Duchairn conceded unapologetically. "For that matter, I think all of us are also aware that it's substantially cheaper for our bailiffs and stewards to buy Charisian goods than it is to buy from the Republic or the Empire."

  Clyntahn's snort sounded remarkably porcine, but both Magwair and Trynair nodded, if only grudgingly in Magwair's case.

  Any one of the men seated around that table in the comfort of the Temple's warmth was more powerful, even in purely secular terms, than the vast majority of Safehold's dukes and grand dukes. Most of them controlled vast Church estates in other lands and kingdoms, as well, but all of them were the masters of wealthy, powerful fiefdoms in the Temple Lands themselves. In addition to their membership on the Council of Vicars, all of them also held seats on the ruling council of the Knights of the Temple Lands, the official governing body of the Temple Lands. And whether they wanted to admit it or not, all of them were aware that the Charisian manufactories and the Charisian merchant marine could provide the goods—and luxuries—they required at a much lower price than anyone else.

  Not to mention the fact that Charis paid at least three or four times as much per capita in tithes every year than any other Safeholdian kingdom.

  "None of us wants to kill the wyvern that fetches the golden rabbit, Rhobair," Trynair said. "But the truth is—and you know it as well as I do—that the time is coming when Charis is going to have to be seen to. It's getting too powerful, too successful, and it's too damned in love with its 'innovations.'-"

  "Hear, hear," Clyntahn muttered, and drank deeply from his wineglass.

  Trynair grimaced, but neither he nor either of his other two companions were fooled. Zhaspahr Clyntahn was a glutton by nature, and not just for food and drink, but he was also a dangerously intelligent man, and a very complex one. His was an odd fusion of ambition, laziness, cynicism, and a genuine fervor for the responsibilities of his high office. He could demonstrate furious energy one day and utter lethargy the next, but only a fool took him lightly.

  "Zahmsyn's right, Rhobair," Magwair said after a moment. "Haarahld and his fleabite kingdom are useful. No one questions that. But they're also a danger, and one we can't allow to grow much greater."

  Duchairn grunted in sour agreement. Then he cocked his head with a nasty little smile.

  "There are those reports from Father Paityr, Zhaspahr," he pointed out provocatively.

  "Bugger 'Father Paityr,'-" Clyntahn growled. "He and that whole Wylsynn bunch are all pains in the arse!"

  Trynair hastily picked up his own wineglass, using it to hide his sudden smile. Magwair was less tactful and let out a sharp crack of laughter. One of the reasons Father Paityr Wylsynn had been packed off to Charis, as all of Clyntahn's allies were aware, was that his father had been Clyntahn's closest competitor for the post of Grand Inquisitor. It had been a very clo
se-run contest, and, in the end, Clyntahn had won primarily because the Wylsynn reputation for reformatory zeal had made a slim majority of the Council nervous.

  "If 'Father Paityr' were doing his job properly, we wouldn't have to pussyfoot around this way," Clyntahn grumbled.

  "Then call him home and replace him," Duchairn suggested sweetly.

  "Ha! That'd be a wonderful idea, wouldn't it?" Clyntahn half-sneered. "Can't you just see him and his daddy standing up in the Council to complain that I was pressuring him to falsify his reports?"

  Duchairn started to launch another jab, then stopped himself and shrugged. After all, Clyntahn was right. That was precisely what young Father Paityr would do, and his father and the other members of his unfortunately powerful family would undoubtedly support him. Reputation for piety or no, most of them wouldn't care one way or the other about the grounds for the dispute. But they would never pass up the opportunity to whittle away at the Group of Four's powerbase in any way they could.

  "You probably have a point, Zhaspahr," he conceded instead, after a moment. "On the other hand, we are stuck with his reports."

  "You're right about that," Magwair agreed moodily.

  No one suggested undertaking a little judicious editing of the reports in question, although all of them knew it had been done in the past. But the same political considerations which put simply recalling young Wylsynn out of consideration would have applied to any . . . liberties they might take with his written reports.

  Besides, Duchairn thought, the sanctimonious little twerp's almost certainly sent duplicate copies of his reports to his father.

  "So I'm not going to be able to deal with the problem," Clyntahn pointed out. "Not anytime soon, anyway."

  "And without being called in by Zhaspahr, I can't, either," Magwair added bitterly.

  As if we had the naval power to attack Charis ourselves in the first place! Duchairn thought.

  "Direct action may not be our best course, anyway," Trynair said. All eyes turned to him, and the Chancellor shrugged. "We've already been . . . encouraging Hektor and Nahrmahn. Perhaps it's time we began considering who else we might encourage."

  Duchairn grunted unhappily at the thought. It wasn't as if the Council hadn't used similar approaches in the past. Nor, as much as he would have preferred to, could he simply dismiss his colleagues' worries over Charis out of hand. As they said, it wasn't so much the direct threat Charis represented as it was the threat of Charis' example.

  "Who did you have in mind?" Magwair asked Trynair.

  "We know Hektor's been working on Gorjah of Tarot," Trynair pointed out. "We could lend our weight to his efforts there. It might be wise to establish at least some preliminary contacts with Rahnyld of Dohlar, as well. And it may be time to at least alert Zherohm Vyncyt in Chisholm."

  "Isn't it a bit early for that sort of thinking? At least where Dohlar and Chisholm are concerned?" Duchairn asked, and Trynair shrugged.

  "It may be," he conceded. "On the other hand, arranging this sort of thing takes time. The distance between the Temple and Charis, or between the Temple and Corisande, for that matter, works against us. If we do decide we need to throw Dohlar's and Chisholm's weight into the scales, it would be wise, I think, to have done the preliminary spadework well ahead of time."

  "Who would you use?" Clyntahn inquired, emerging from his wineglass just long enough to ask the question.

  "Zhoshua Makgregair is already in place in Tarot, and he and I discussed this eventuality before I sent him. In fact, I gave him fairly detailed contingency directives. As soon as we get a break in the weather long enough for us to get semaphore messages out, I can instruct him to dust off those directives and get to work on Gorjah.

  "In Chisholm's case, Vyncyt is actually making his pastoral visit right now, and he had plenty of experience in the diplomatic service as an upper-priest. He'd understand exactly what our thinking is, and having him broach the subject personally with Sharleyan would certainly carry additional weight, if we decided to do that. Even if we only warned him about it, he could give personal contingency instructions to his bishop executor in case we decide we need to bring Chisholm in later. As for Dohlar, I'm thinking about sending Young Harys to Gorath."

  "Ahlbyrt Harys?" Magwair leaned back in his chair with a frown. "Isn't he perhaps a bit too young for something like this?"

  "I think he's ready," Trynair disagreed. "And he's already demonstrated a remarkable sensitivity to this aspect of diplomacy. Besides, using someone as young as he is gives us certain alternatives if we decide we don't want to proceed. For one thing, he's young—and inexperienced—enough that we could put down any preliminary exploration of the possibilities to over enthusiasm on his part. And the season gives us an excellent excuse to send him instead of someone more senior. After all, he's got the youth to undertake a trip that long through this kind of winter."

  Heads nodded, Duchairn's among them. A young, inexperienced diplomat who'd misunderstood his instructions, or possibly simply exceeded them in a burst of youthful exuberance, represented a ready-made way out if Trynair should need to disavow any suggestions to Rahnyld IV. Rhobair Duchairn understood that perfectly.

  Which wasn't the same thing as saying that he thought it was a good idea. Unfortunately, his hesitance to unleash the Church's full wrath on Charis put him in a clear minority of one, and the Group of Four could not afford to show its many enemies on the Council of Vicars any appearance of internal dissension.

  "I understand your concerns," he said after several seconds, addressing all three of the others. "And, to be honest, I suppose I do share them, myself. But Charis really is the wyvern that catches golden rabbits. If we destroy its maritime power, we destroy the basis for its wealth, and all the advantages that wealth offers to us, as well as to Haarahld and his house."

  "So?" Magwair shrugged. "Hektor and Nahrmahn seem eager enough to take Haarahld's place."

  If they could do that, Duchairn thought acidly, then they'd already be serious competitors of his, wouldn't they? There's more to Charis' success than simply owning a few ships!

  But that wasn't something anyone was prepared to say out loud around this table, was it?

  "Then I'll see to setting up the preliminary briefing for Father Ahlbyrt and composing the proper messages to Father Zhoshua and Archbishop Zherohm tomorrow morning," Trynair said, picking up his own wineglass and extending it to Duchairn.

  "But for now, could I trouble you for a little more of that really excellent wine, Rhobair?"

  IV

  Marine Training Area,

  Helen Island

  Bryahn Lock Island, Earl of Lock Island, climbed down from the saddle with a sense of profound gratitude which was only slightly flawed by the knowledge that he would have to climb back up into it for the return journey. The high admiral was reasonably fit for a man of his years, but he spent too much time on shipboard. There wasn't room aboard a galley for anyone—and especially for an officer of his rank—to get the sort of exercise which kept a man from feeling short winded.

  Worse, he thought as he massaged his aching buttocks with a grimace, sea officers spent very little time riding horses. Even those who'd been thoroughly schooled in horsemanship as youngsters—as he himself had been—got precious little opportunity to maintain the necessary skills.

  Or the tough arses to avoid saddle sores, he reflected wryly.

  He finished the massage and took a couple of trial steps. Everything seemed to be working more or less the way it ought to be, and he turned to his aide.

  "It appears I'm going to survive after all, Henrai."

  "Of course you are, My Lord," Lieutenant Henrai Tillyer replied gravely, although amusement glinted in his eyes. Lock Island smiled back, even as he reminded himself not to take vengeance on Tillyer for his youthful tolerance for sillinesses like horseback riding.

  "I just hope this is all worth the exercise," the high admiral grumbled.

  "Oh, I believe you'll be suitably imp
ressed, My Lord," Tillyer assured him. "If you'll come this way?"

  Lock Island followed in his aide's wake, stumping along the steep path with an air of resignation. Actually, little though he was prepared to admit it to anyone else, it was a pleasant enough walk, despite the steepness. They were over a thousand feet above sea level, and the additional height, coupled with the breeze blowing in off of Howell Bay, was a cool interlude in a typically warm Charisian spring.

  The path topped out on a high ridgeline, and a mountain valley stretched out before them. There was an observation tower at the western edge of the valley, where the mountains broke steeply downward towards the bay, so far below. From that vantage point, a lookout could see for the better part of forty miles, and a lookout on the King's Harbor citadel could look straight up the mountain and see any signals from the tower.