A Mighty Fortress (100 page)

“On the other hand, he
will
have to come to us to raid our shipping. In that sense, the convoys are lodestones. They’ll
attract
the Charisians, and the Charisians are a long way from home. I’m sure they brought a lot of naval stores—replacement canvas, extra spars, things like that—with them, but that’s not remotely the same as having dockyard support. The same thing holds true for their manpower; what they have with them is all they’re
going
to have. So even if the loss rate in an engagement is in their favor, strategically, it will be in
our
favor, because we
can
make our losses good. And, let’s face it, in the long term, every ship Charis loses is going to hurt the Charisians worse than losing the same ship would hurt us, because, ultimately, our resources are so much deeper than theirs.”

“So you’re saying this is an opportunity to grind them down?”

“Yes, it is. And, even more importantly, if we do this the right way, we’ll have the opportunity to blood some of our ships’ companies. If our convoy escorts are strong enough to beat off a few attacks, even if we lose some merchant ships—or even a war galleon or two—the warships we
don’t
lose will be steadily gaining experience. And confidence. As long as we don’t simply get our arses kicked up between our ears, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

Maik smiled, then leaned back while he thought. He stayed that way for several moments, then inhaled sharply, and nodded.

“I understand your points, Lywys, and I think they’re all good ones. You’ll certainly have my support with Duke Thorast and—if necessary—with Duke Fern, as well. Of course, if it turns out that they don’t cooperate with you, we’ll have to think of something else.” He grimaced. “Doing
nothing
, unfortunately, is not an option.”

“Nor should it be,” Thirsk agreed. “Obviously, I don’t think I’m wrong, but the possibility always exists. And if, as you say, they decline to cooperate with me, I’ll just have to come up with something to change their minds, won’t I?”

HMS Squall, 36,

Hankey Sound,

Kingdom of Dohlar

Stand by the starboard battery!”

Captain Ahrnahld Stywyrt watched the gap of gray- green water narrow as HMS
Squall
drove hard to the north- northeast, closing in on the Harchongese coaster. The small, lubberly fugitive had done its limping best to stay away from
Squall
when she and her consorts swooped down on the straggling cluster of brigs and sloops, but there’d never been much chance of that. The tubby little brig trying to evade destruction was less than half
Squall
’s size, with a correspondingly smaller sail plan and far less ability to carry sail in blustery conditions.

And “blustery,”
Stywyrt thought,
pretty much sums up the day, doesn’t it, Ahrnahld?

Not that he had any urge to complain. The wind had risen steadily since dawn. By now, it was blowing a stiff topsail breeze out of the southwest, with wind speeds approaching thirty miles per hour and ten- foot waves.
Squall
was leaning heavily to the quartering wind, foaming towards her prey on the larboard tack, and she was making good just under nine knots. The poor little brig was making six, at best, and her desperate break for shallow water had come too late. Besides,
Squall
was one of the ICN’s converted merchantmen; she drew little more than two- thirds as much water as a proper war galleon like Admiral Manthyr’s flagship.

Stywyrt could see the merchant ship’s captain standing by the taffrail, staring helplessly at the oncoming galleon, and wondered what was going through the other man’s mind. Ships like the runty little coaster tended to be family affairs, with small crews who were mostly related to each other. There wouldn’t be more than ten or twelve men aboard her—fifteen at the most—and a single accurate broadside from
Squall
would reduce her to a wrecked slaughter house. Her skipper had to know that, too. In fact, Stywyrt was more than a little surprised the man hadn’t already hauled down his Church pennant and hove- to.

Probably has something to do with the reports coming out of Zion
, he thought grimly.
If Clyntahn’s willing to do that to vicars and archbishops, God only knows what he’d do to some poor bastard of a merchant captain for surrendering too quickly!

Ahrnahld Stywyrt wasn’t the sort to waste a lot of pity on the enemies of his Empire and his Church, yet he couldn’t avoid a sort of disgusted compassion for the captain he was overtaking. The disgust wasn’t for the hapless seaman, either.

Well, I’ll sympathize with him all day long, but I’ll also send his sorry, ragged arse to the krakens, along with all his friends and relations, if he doesn’t haul his wind pretty damned quick
, the captain told himself testily, and raised the leather speaking trumpet in his right hand.

“Master Mahldyn!”

“Aye, Sir?”

Lieutenant Zhames Mahldyn,
Squall
’s tall, thin first lieutenant, was well forward, standing beside the starboard chaser with his reddish- brown hair blowing in the wind. Now he looked back at his commanding officer, and Stywyrt pointed at the brig with his free hand.

“Encourage that fellow to see reason, Master Mahldyn!”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

Stywyrt could see Mahldyn’s huge, white grin all the way from the quarterdeck, and the lanky lieutenant bent over the fourteen- pounder’s breech. He fussed for a moment, waving hand commands while the gun captain stood to one side, arms crossed, watching with a sort of resigned amusement. Despite the fact that Mahldyn was the officer responsible for ensuring the discipline of the ship’s company (and his notion of appropriate punishment could be stiff), he’d always been popular with the men. Probably because he was ruthlessly equitable in the penalties he awarded. It was well known, however, that he’d always really wanted to be a gunner. He was fanatical about gun drill, insisting that every crew ought to consist solely of qualified gun captains, and he took every opportunity to work one of the guns himself.

Which meant the gun captain he’d so carefully trained got to stand there, watching the first lieutenant play.

Now Mahldyn took one more look along the barrel, waved the rest of the crew back, took tension on the firing lanyard, waited for exactly the right moment in
Squall
’s movement, and pulled.

The fourteen- pounder bellowed, gun trucks squealing as it recoiled across the planking until the breeching ropes brought it up short. A huge gush of flame- cored smoke belched from the muzzle, and Stywyrt’s eyebrows rose as the very first shot scored a direct hit.

The round shot punched through the brig’s bulwark, slammed into the boat stowed atop the main hatch, tearing it in half and sending splinters hissing, then punched through the opposite bulwark and plunged into the sea well beyond the merchant vessel. At least one member of the Harchong crew was down, writhing around on the deck with both hands locked around his right thigh.
A splinter wound,
Stywyrt thought. They could be far nastier than they first looked, especially with their tendency to become infected.

He hadn’t really expected Mahldyn to actually
hit
the brig. In fact, what he’d wanted was for the first lieutenant to fire across her bow. He started to say something sharp, then stopped and mentally replayed his own instructions.

Damn. I
didn’t
say “across the bow,” did I? And I know how . . . enthusiastic Zhames is, too
.

He grimaced, but at least the single shot had produced the desired effect. The brig had let fly her sheets, spilling the wind from her sails in token of surrender, and Stywyrt looked up at his own sails.

“Back the main topsail!” he commanded, and feet pattered across the deck. The main topsail yard swung around, taking the wind aback, the sail pressing against the mast, and
Squall
lost speed rapidly. She drifted slowly to leeward, coming down upon her prize while canvas flapped and the bosun marshaled a party to lower the starboard quarter boat while Stywyrt turned to Captain Bahrnabai Kaits, the commanding officer of
Squall
’s Marine detachment.

“No nonsense out of them, Bahrnabai,” he said. “We’re closer to the shore than I like. Get their wounded man aboard the boat first, then check the cargo. Unless you find something interesting, make sure you’ve got everyone off and you’ve got her papers—assuming she’s got any!— then burn her.”

“Aye, Sir.” Kaits touched his chest in salute, then jerked his head at his first sergeant. “You heard the Captain, Sergeant!”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

Stywyrt watched a half- dozen Marines climbing into the boat along with the midshipman detailed to command it and the seamen told off as oarsmen. The swinging davits were another new innovation of Sir Dustyn Olyvyr’s, and Stywyrt heartily approved of the concept. They made it far easier—and safer—to drop a boat, and stowing a ship’s boats on davits cleared a lot of precious deck space.

The boat hit the water in the galleon’s lee, the oars dug in, and the boat went swooping across the steep- sided waves in a cloud of spray and wind. Stywyrt remembered his own midshipman days and boat trips just like that one, although most of his had been made in what was at least technically a time of peace.

Well, the lad better get used to it now
, the captain thought soberly, turning and looking back to the south where two columns of smoke climbed into the heavens, announcing that two of the brig’s fellow coasters had already been put to the torch.
Unless I miss my guess, he’s going to be
my
age—at least—before
this
war’s over. But in the meantime
...

He turned his attention back to his own prize, watching his boat go alongside, and shook his head. He felt a solid sense of satisfaction at depriving the Group of Four and its lackeys of the brig’s cargo, yet he took no plea sure in the thought of destroying the little ship’s crew’s livelihoods.

Nothing I can do about that, except see to it they’re treated as well as we can until we put them ashore somewhere.

He drew a deep breath, clasped his hands behind him, and began to pace slowly up and down the weather side of the deck.

Royal Palace,

City of Manchyr,

Princedom of Corisande

So, Koryn, what do you think this is all about?”

“Father, if I knew that, I’d also know how to read minds, predict weather, choose the winning horse, and figure out where my left sock’s gone,” Sir Koryn Gahrvai replied, and Earl Anvil Rock laughed.

“I think we can probably make at least a few guesses, Rysel,” Sir Taryl Lektor offered. The Earl of Tartarian sat at one end of the conference table, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of a penknife while he leaned back comfortably with the heels of his boots propped on the seat of the chair normally assigned to the Earl of Craggy Hill. Personally, Gahrvai suspected Tartarian hadn’t exactly chosen that particular chair at random.

“Well, in that case, Taryl, guess away,” Anvil Rock invited. “First,” Tartarian said. “Captain Athrawes asked to speak to just the four of us—not to the entire Council. Second, we all know how close the
seijin
is to the Emperor, and—unless I miss my guess—the Empress, as well. Third, Archbishop Maikel
isn’t
going to be present.”

He paused, holding up his left hand to admire his nails, and Anvil Rock snorted.

“And those three considerations suggest exactly what to your powerful intellect?”

“I strongly suspect the good Captain is going to deliver a message to us,” Tartarian replied, looking across his hand at his old friend. “Given the Arch-bishop’s absence, I would also suspect it’s a seriously secular message. Possibly the sort of thing the Church doesn’t want to know about.”

“Why do you think he’s waited so long to deliver it, in that case?”

“That’s a bit harder,” Tartarian conceded. “On the other hand, we know they’ve been receiving a steady stream of messages. So it seems most likely this is something he didn’t know about until Cayleb sent him a dispatch.”

“Except, My Lord,” Sir Charlz Doyal put in respectfully from his place beside Gahrvai, “that Cayleb and Sharleyan left for Tellesberg over a month ago. Which means they’re at sea right now, which would make sending any dispatches to
Seijin
Merlin a bit difficult.”