A Mighty Fortress (134 page)

Personally, Rock Point gave them a slightly better than even chance, assuming Howsmyn was able to produce enough shells . . . and that
he
was able to get them to Lock Island’s assistance in time. There was, however, a significant difference between inflicting enough damage to cripple Harpahr’s fleet and surviving the experience.

Even with the shells, we’re going to have to come in close,
he thought once more.
If we can reach them, then they can reach us, and they’ll have one hell of a lot more guns than we will. If the shells surprise them badly enough, if they break, if they aren’t willing to come to close action with us, then
, maybe...

He inhaled deeply.

Either we do it, or we don’t, but there are times I wish I had the same depth of faith Maikel does. It’s not that I don’t believe in You anymore, God. It’s just that looking at what You’ve allowed to happen here on Safehold so far, I have to wonder what
else
You’re ready to allow. Maikel’s all right with that—with the acceptance of Your will, what ever it is. I try to be the same way, but I can’t. Or, maybe I can, where
I’m
concerned, at least. It’s just . . . just that Your will can be so
hard,
sometimes. Like what happened to Gwylym. What happened to Samyl Wylsynn and his circle. Father Tymahn in Corisande
.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, standing motionless. And then he gave himself a shake, opened his eyes once more, and actually smiled crookedly.

All right
, he thought.
I know. Free will. Maikel’s explained it to me often enough, and I guess it makes sense. I’ve done my damnedest to figure out what it is You want me to do, too, and I think I’ve got it. I hope I do, anyway, and I promise I’ll give it my best shot. But, please, if You could, keep an eye on us. We need You more now than we’ve ever needed You before. I may be too busy to tell You that, or to think about You the way I ought to, when the balls begin to fly, but don’t
You f
orget about
us.
And especially not about my men. I may not be Maikel, but I’m ready to accept what ever it is You have in mind for me. Only look after my men. Please, God, Whoever You really are, what ever it is You really want of us—of
me—
look after my men
.

NGS
Sword of God
, 50,

Off the Windmoor Coast,

Gulf of Tarot

I ’m finding it difficult of late to remember that God and Langhorne send all good things in their own time,” Kornylys Harpahr remarked as he reached for his hot chocolate. He looked across the table at his flag captain and smiled crookedly. “Or, perhaps, I should actually say I’m finding it difficult to possess my soul in patience until Langhorne tumbles the minions of Shan- wei into the pit prepared for them.”

“The minions in question do seem to be . . . exceptionally pestiferous, don’t they, My Lord?” Father Ahrnahld agreed. “I think that’s what makes it so difficult to remember that to all things, there come a season.”

“And I suppose this is the season for provoking my ulcers.” Harpahr shook his head, then sipped chocolate.

Ahrnahld Taibahld snorted and began spreading butter on another biscuit. Stowed down in the coolness of the flagship’s bilge, the butter had kept remarkably well so far. It was finally beginning to turn rancid—it always did—but it was still more palatable than dry biscuit, especially with a little jam, and at least the hens and wyverns were both still producing fresh eggs.

Harpahr had already finished his own eggs and bacon, and he pushed back his chair. Taibahld began to rise himself, but the admiral general waved him back.

“Finish breakfast, Ahrnahld!” he scolded. “Not even a batch of Shan- wei-damned heretics is going to come calling on us in the next fifteen minutes.”

“Of course, My Lord. Thank you.”

Taibahld would actually have preferred to go ahead and stand, if Harpahr was going to. It seemed disrespectful not to, but he knew it would irritate the admiral general. For that matter, Harpahr would scold him again if he seemed to be bolting his food to get finished quickly. So he made himself chew slowly and methodically while Harpahr stepped out onto
Sword of God
’s sternwalk.

The flagship sailed steadily on a roughly southwesterly heading with the wind on her larboard quarter under topsails and topgallants. She was doing well to make four knots under that little canvas, given the current wind conditions, and Harpahr would really have preferred to make more sail. Unfortunately, Duke Sun Rising’s ships’ seamanship didn’t seem to be quite as good as his own.

Not surprisingly,
the admiral general thought grumpily.
I’m glad the Duke is so eager to coordinate with us, and I’m awed by his—or his secretary’s, at least—command of the language. Still, I
probably
could survive without those incredibly flowery letters if he’d just actually institute the sail drill I asked for
.

He carefully did not apply to the Harchongese fleet commander a term bishops weren’t supposed to use to describe faithful sons of Mother Church. Under the circumstances, it required more self- discipline than usual.

Maybe I should have let Ahrnahld deal with it—let him talk to Wind Mountain, one flag captain to another flag captain. Maybe we could have finessed it past Sun Rising that way. Of course, given the fact that Sun Rising hates Wind Mountain’s father’s guts, that might’ve worked out even worse. Or as badly, at least; I don’t really think it
could
have worked out worse. Unless Sun Rising could’ve figured out how to actually
undo
the drill they
have
carried out!

His lips twitched, although the thought really wasn’t all that humorous. It was entirely possible Sun Rising
could
have figured out a way to do that. If anyone on Safehold was capable of such a feat, it would have to be the duke.

The admiral general wrapped both hands around the chocolate cup. The sun was bright, and he’d been delighted to leave the bitter cold behind. The Icewind Sea had been bad enough in October; the Passage of Storms and the Markovian Sea had been still worse, in their own ways, even if they had been (marginally) warmer. The Passage of Storms, especially, had done every-thing possible to live up to its name. In fact—his face tightened—he’d lost two ships to one of the furious gales which had swept over his fleet. That storm had scattered his formation badly, too. If the Charisians had happened upon him then, with his ships spread out all over the ocean, Langhorne only knew what they might have done to him!

But they were nearing the equator, now, and the Gulf of Tarot was a far more pleasant experience in November than the Markovian Sea in October. It was still cool, this early in the morning, but by late afternoon he’d be wishing he could have hung on to the morning chill. Especially if the wind didn’t strengthen.

He gazed into the east wind, eyes slightly squinted against the still lowlying sun. There’d been a distinctly reddish cast to the dawn, and a smear of cloud seemed to be swelling up along the horizon.

“Red sun at morning, sailor take warning,”
he quoted to himself.
The
Writ
warns against self- prideful predictions. I wonder if I could have been a bit hasty congratulating myself on having left the heavy weather behind
.

He sipped chocolate, then looked up as the cries of gulls and shrill whistles of wyverns came down from above. The winged creatures swarmed out from the coast of the Republic of Siddarmark’s Windmoor Province, and as he watched, one of the wyverns swooped down to snatch something from the sea. He couldn’t tell whether it was a fish or a bit of garbage scooped out of
Swordof God
’s wake, but he found himself wishing the wyvern well, what ever it had found.

“I see the Admiral of the Broad Oceans is still with us, My Lord,” a voice said, and Harpahr turned to find Taibahld had joined him on the sternwalk. Like the admiral general, the flag captain had brought along his chocolate cup. Now he leaned his hip against the sternwalk’s rail and nodded in the direction of a particularly untidy gaggle of sails trailing along to the north- northwest.

“More or less,” Harpahr agreed, yet he also gave Taibahld a moderately quelling look. The title the upper- priest had just bestowed upon Duke Sun Rising was absolutely correct, but the admiral general knew the flag captain had
not
used its grandiloquent entirety as a compliment. Harpahr couldn’t fault Taibahld’s opinion, but certain appearances had to be maintained, and the flag captain half dipped his head, acknowledging the unspoken rebuke.

“Actually,” the admiral general went on, “they do seem to be keeping somewhat better station this morning, don’t they?”

“It may have something to do with those schooners yesterday, My Lord,” Taibahld said dryly, and Harpahr snorted.

The humor in that snort was minimal. He’d found himself wishing more than once—in fact, he doubted there’d been a single half hour during this en-tire miserable, interminable trek in which he
hadn’t
wished—that Captain General Maigwair had decided against lumbering him with his Harchongese “allies.” Their miserable seamanship, lack of discipline, and prickly self-importance would have made them a questionable asset at the best of times; the fact that the majority of their ships were completely or almost completely unarmed only made bad worse. Even one of the Charisian schooners could strike at an unarmed galleon with impunity, and the handful of armed, wretchedly handled Harchongese galleons were woefully inadequate to fend them off. Which was why Harpahr had been forced to detach an entire squadron of his own galleons to do the job for them.

Maybe we can convince Sun Rising to sell his ships to Desnair after we reach Iythria?
he wondered wistfully.
Jahras isn’t exactly a brilliant master of the seaways, but he’s
got
to be better than the Harchongese! And the whole idea was to get Desnairian guns put aboard them because their own foundries weren’t up to the task. . . . Surely I can convince Vicar Allayn we ought to put Desnairian
crews
aboard to make sure the guns actually get
used
eventually!

“I wonder when the Charisians are going to stop dancing and actually attack, My Lord,” Taibahld said in a considerably more somber tone. He waved his chocolate cup to windward, where a trio of those omnipresent, maddeningly maneuverable Charisian schooners paced Harpahr’s formation. “I admit it’s irritating when the schooners dart in, but Cayleb can’t really think they’re going to do any sort of significant damage.”

“Not as long as our formation holds,” Harpahr agreed. “But remember what it was like in the Passage of Storms. If those schooners had turned up
then
...”

He let his voice trail off, and shrugged, and Taibahld nodded.

“I understand what you’re saying, My Lord. But unless another gale makes up—which it could, in these waters, at this time of year—it’s unlikely we’ll get scattered again. Cayleb’s too smart to be
counting
on something like that, and he’s running out of time. Once we get through the Tarot Channel and Jahras sorties to meet us, it’ll be too late. Unless he wants to wade into
all
of us, at any rate!”

It was Harpahr’s turn to nod. He and Taibahld had discussed this very point often enough, and he knew the flag captain was right. If Cayleb of Charis didn’t strike soon, he’d lose the opportunity completely.

“Well, according to our latest dispatches, he’s still blockading the Howard Passage,” the admiral general pointed out now. “I know anything from Jahras is at least two or three five- days out- of- date by the time it gets to us, semaphore or no semaphore, but even allowing for that, the majority of Cayleb’s strength still has to be south of us.” Harpahr grimaced. “I suppose it’s possible he really is going to let us catch him between us and the Desnairian coast.”

“No, My Lord, he’s not,” Taibahld disagreed, respectfully but firmly. “I’m astonished he’s spent so long off Desnair already, but he’ll never let us pin him against the coast. You’re probably right that he’s still south of us, but in that case, my money’s on his sailing to meet us somewhere inside the Tarot Channel itself. He’s going to be badly outnumbered what ever happens, and if Vicar Allayn’s little sleight- of- hand worked, he may have diverted a sizable portion of his total strength to Chisholm and Corisande. In that case, he’s going to be outnumbered
very
badly, and he may figure engaging us in the Channel would constrict our movements enough to offset some of that. But, one way or the other, he’ll hit us before we reach the Gulf of Mathyas. Either that, or else he’s going to realize we’re too strong for him to challenge at sea and concentrate on getting out of the way and then defending his own harbors, instead.”