A Mighty Fortress (83 page)

The bishop looked back at him, his expression thoughtful.

“Well, that’s certainly candid,” he said dryly.

“I refuse to be anything else,” Thirsk said flatly.

“So I’ve noticed.” Maik leaned back in his armchair, fingertips steepled together in front of his chest, lips pursed. “What I seem to hear you saying, Admiral,” he said after a moment, “is that you believe you can build a navy which will eventually be able to meet the Charisians on an even footing, but that you believe it’s going to be necessary to blood our officers and men first? And that in the blooding process, we’re likely to see at least some additional defeats?”

“I think it’s very likely that’s exactly what will happen,” Thirsk replied. “I could be wrong, and I’d like to be. It’s possible we’ll be given an opportunity to bring our numbers to bear sooner than I expect. And I assure you, My Lord, that I intend for any squadron of ours that goes into action to do so planning on
winning,
not expecting even before the first shot is fired that defeat is inevitable. Moreover, wind and wave play no favorites, and the Charisians’ resources are stretched to the limit. They can’t be strong everywhere, and if we can pounce on a few detachments, cut them up in a few local engagements before we commit to a full- fledged battle, the situation is likely to change in our favor. I simply can’t promise that will happen, and absent some set of circumstances like that, we’re going to take more losses before we hand the enemy a significant loss of his own.

“If I can complete my training programs, and if I can get our current flag officers and our current ship captains to start thinking in terms of galleon tactics and galleon- based strategy, then ultimately I expect us to win. We have the numbers and we have the resources. The plain, cold fact is that we don’t have to be as good as they are on a ship- for- ship basis as long as we can build enough more ships and be
almost
as good as they are. That’s what I think I can give you... whether I’m still around to command or not.”

The day cabin was even quieter as the earl admitted that out loud to someone at last, and Maik regarded him with a long, steady gaze.

“I understand,” the bishop said finally, “and my respect for you has just increased still further. I hope you’re wrong, that
you’ll
have the opportunity to win those victories for us in command of the navy you’re building. At the same time, I think I now more fully understand exactly what it is you’re trying to accomplish. The reason, for example, why you’ve been so adamant about building squadrons, not just single ship’s companies, and then sending those squadrons to drill at sea, despite weather damage.”

Maik glanced at Hahlynd, who still hadn’t said a word. Yet it was evident from the other admiral’s expression that he hadn’t kept silent because he
disagreed
with Thirsk, and the bishop nodded slowly as he recognized Hahlynd’s support for the earl’s position.

“You realize, My Lord,” he said, turning back to Thirsk, “that Thorast has been criticizing your operations on that very basis.” The bishop grimaced. “He can scarcely criticize the way in which you’ve accelerated the building and manning aspects of your duties, so he’s reserved his fire for the way in which you’re organizing the ships as they come forward . . . and how hard you’re driving them. In essence, his position is that since it will be some time still before the bulk of our construction is ready to be placed in commission, it makes little sense to send such small forces to sea—especially in the winter, and especially when they keep returning with damage that requires repairs and diverts yard workers from the new construction. Better to conserve our strength here in port, where we can carry out gun drill and sail drill in safety, until all of it is ready to deploy. After all, what’s the point in losing hard- to- replace spars and masts and sails to winter gales when there’s not a single Charisian galleon within two thousand miles of Gorath Bay?”

“We’re not losing just spars and masts, My Lord. We’re also losing
men,
” Thirsk admitted unflinchingly. “But that’s because the only place to learn seamanship is at sea, and saltwater is a harsh teacher. Whether we like to admit it or not, Charisian seamen are the finest in the world, and Charis has a far greater pool of trained seamen to draw upon. A huge percentage of our crews, on the other hand, are made up of landsmen, and if they haven’t learned the
sea
man’s trade by the time they cross swords with a Charisian squadron, then we might as well prepare them to haul down their colors right now.”

The earl grimaced and shook his head. “Of course I realize Duke Thorast has been criticizing me for my ‘penny-packet’ deployments and the cost of repairing damaged ships. And, of course, he’s been hammering away at the way in which I’m ‘throwing away’ the lives of our seamen, as well. And the truth is that if we had the time to do this any other way, I’d actually agree with a great deal of what he’s saying.

“But I don’t think we
do
have the time. The Charisians know we’re building a navy, and it’s not going to be so very much longer before they start dispatching squadrons of their own to do something about that. I realize we’re thousands of miles away from Charis here in Dohlar, and they’ve got plenty of things to worry about much closer to home. But they’ve already demonstrated that they’d send every single galleon they had as far from home as Armageddon Reef when they couldn’t even be certain exactly where
our
ships were. I see no reason to believe they wouldn’t send a powerful detachment of their present, much larger galleon fleet to our own waters to harass us when they do know exactly where to find us, and it’s not as if Gorath Bay moves around very much. When that happens, I’ll need at least a few squadrons that are ready for the test of battle. It won’t help us to have an enormous fleet that
isn’t
ready—we already saw that at Rock Point and Darcos Sound. It
will
help us to have a battle- ready core of ships, even if it’s relatively small, with some chance of meeting the Charisians on an equal basis.”

“I understand, Admiral Thirsk,” Maik said quietly. “And I agree. I’ll do all in my power to support you, both with Mother Church and with His Majesty. Of course, I may have to be a little . . . indirect in some instances. As I’ve already pointed out, the Duke has powerful connections and allies of his own. The longer I can keep him from realizing I’ve decided to throw you my full support, the slower he’ll be to start using those connections and allies effectively.”

Thirsk nodded, and the bishop smiled thinly. “I can already think of a few ways to blunt some of his objections, at least in the short term, and probably without his realizing I’m doing it deliberately. And I think it’s going to be important that you and I stay discreetly—
discreetly,
Admiral—in communication outside official channels.” He shook his head. “It shouldn’t be necessary for Mother Church’s defenders to creep around, hiding what they’re up to, simply in order to defend her
effectively
. Unfortunately, God gave man free will, and not all of us exercise it wisely. In fact, some of us are horses’ asses.”

Thirsk surprised himself with a laugh, and the bishop smiled at him. “Well, there’s no point pretending an onion is a rose, now is there? Although in the case of a certain nobleman we’ve been discussing this morning, I think it’s rather more a case of a pile of dragon shit smelling like a rose. So, for what it’s worth, and as long as I’m in a position to do it, I’ll see what I can do about sweeping as much as possible of that shit out of your path. Beyond that”— the bishop looked directly into Thirsk’s eyes, his expression suddenly sober—“it’s going to be up to you and Admiral Hahlynd.”

Kahsimahr Prison,

City of Manchyr,

and

Crag House,

City of Vahlainah,

Earldom of Craggy Hill

Father Aidryn Waimyn stood gazing out the barred window at the gallows in the prison courtyard. Those gallows had been busy over the last few five- days, and he’d been able to recognize the faces of at least a quarter of the condemned men as they were marched up the steep wooden stairs to the waiting nooses.

I suppose I should be flattered they’ve let me wait till last,
he thought.
The bastards!

His face tightened, and his nostrils flared as he ran his hand over the plain, scratchy prison tunic which had replaced his silken cassock. They’d
graciously
allowed him to retain his scepter, and his fingers sought the familiar, comforting weight hanging around his neck, but that was as far as they were prepared to go. He held the scepter tight, leaning his forehead against the bars, and remembered fury—and, little though he cared to admit it, terror—flowed through him.

He still had no idea who had betrayed him. Someone had to have. Worse, it had to have been someone from within his own order, and that was bitter as gall on his tongue. Yet as much as it sickened him to confront the truth, that was the only way they could have known where to find him at Saint Zhustyn’s. Only the Order of Schueler had known about the concealed rooms, the secret entrance at the far end of the carefully hidden tunnel. And it had to have been someone close to him, someone he’d trusted, because that eternally damned traitor Gahrvai had known exactly who to scoop up. In that single disastrous night, he and the other traitors on the Regency Council had completely decapitated—no, completely
destroyed
— the resistance organization Waimyn had so carefully and laboriously constructed. It turned his stomach—literally; he could feel the nausea churning in his belly even now—to know that native-born Corisandians, men who
claimed
to love God, had knowingly and deliberately shattered the only organized resistance in Manchyr to the filth and poison and lies of the accursed, apostate heretics who served the “Church of Charis.”

He choked the nausea down and forced himself to inhale deeply, opening his eyes and staring at the gallows once again.

Tomorrow, it would be his turn to mount those stairs. He felt fear flutter at the base of his throat at that thought, but once again, anger dominated fear. He was willing to die for God, and he made no apologies for defending God’s true will, His plan for all men, against the impious lies and perversions of others. But he was an ordained, consecrated priest. He was no common felon, no casual criminal, to be hanged by the unconsecrated hands of secular authority—even if he’d acknowledged for one heartbeat the legitimacy of that authority! The
Writ
itself made that blindingly clear. Only Mother Church held authority over her clergy. Only
she
could decree their punishment, and only she could carry it out.

But they’ve got an answer for
that,
too, don’t they?
His lips drew back in a snarl, and his grip on his pectoral scepter went white- knuckled.
The civil authorities can’t hang a priest? Very well, just strip him of his priesthood!

And that was precisely what they’d done. The excommunicate traitors had dared—
dared!
—to defrock a priest made by the Grand Vicar’s hands in the Temple itself. They’d set their Shan- wei- accursed pride and arrogance above all else, above the Archangels and even God Himself, and told him he was no longer God’s priest. That they—
they
—had judged him a criminal not simply against the secular puppets of Charis, but against the law of God. They had declared that the execution of the traitor Hahskans had been not the Inquisition’s justice, but simple murder. And that even greater traitor, Gairlyng—“Archbishop Klairmant”— had actually stood in judgment and declared that
he,
Waimyn, as the one who had ordered that execution, had violated the sanctity of the priest-hood by his actions. Gairlyng, the foresworn,
excommunicated
apostate, had passed
judgment
on the legitimate Intendant of Corisande and in profane and heretical violation of every ecclesiastic law, expelled Waimyn from the priesthood of the Church for the “torture and murder of a fellow priest, brother, and innocent child of God.”

Waimyn had been unable to believe anyone could have the sheer effrontery, the insolence before God, to claim authority to do any such thing. Yet the “archbishop” had done precisely that, and the secular authorities had accepted his judgment. Indeed, they had
applauded
it.

He realized his teeth were grinding once again, and made himself stop. It wasn’t easy. He’d gotten into the habit over the five- days of his imprisonment, and he smiled bleakly, without humor, as he reflected that at least he wouldn’t have to worry about that particular problem very much longer.

He pushed away from the window and paced slowly back and forth across his cell. It was better than some cells, he supposed, but, once again, it was the cell of a common criminal. Ten feet on a side, with a narrow cot, one table, a chair, a pitcher of water, a washbasin, a battered cup, and a chamber pot. That was all, aside from the copy of the
Holy Writ
they’d oh- so- graciously permitted him. The austerity had been yet one more calculated insult, a way to underscore their contempt for the man who was Mother Church’s chosen champion.

In the end, though, they hadn’t had the courage—or the insolence—to truly carry through on the beliefs they proclaimed so loudly. Aidryn Waimyn was only too well aware of the penalties
The Book of Schueler
prescribed for anyone guilty of the crimes for which they had convicted him. Indeed, what had been done to the traitor Hahskans had been well short of the fullness of those penalties; it had simply been the best that could be done in the time and with the tools available.