Hell's Foundations Quiver (115 page)

Sharpfield lowered the double-glass and blinked hard. For some reason, it was difficult to see.

After a moment, he inhaled deeply and turned to the dark-haired, dark-eyed lieutenant at his elbow.

“I never would have expected even Baron Sarmouth to pull off something like this, Mahrak,” he said. “Never in a thousand years.”

“The Baron does seem to make something of a habit out of pulling people out of tight places, doesn't he, My Lord?” Lieutenant Tympyltyn smiled wryly. “Of course, this was a rather larger number of people, I suppose.”

“Not large enough,” Sharpfield said, then sighed heavily. “No, that's not right. It's an incredible accomplishment to get this many of our people back again. It's just that we've lost so many no one will ever be able to get back.”

His flag lieutenant nodded somberly. Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht had sailed from Talisman Island with fifteen galleons, four schooners, and over eighty-four hundred men. Only three of those galleons and one of those schooners had survived, and according to the dispatch Sarmouth had sent ahead aboard HMS
Sojourn
, there were only four hundred and eighty-seven survivors aboard those incoming galleons. The other eight thousand men were dead, killed in battle or dead of wounds afterward … or of neglect and brutality, like the seventeen men who'd died in
Prodigal Lass'
filthy, reeking hold
.

And that number didn't include the five hundred men who'd died with Kahrltyn Haigyl aboard HMS
Dreadnought
.

Sharpfield felt a familiar stab of pain as the thought of Haigyl and his magnificent ship ran through him, and he looked at the returning galleons once more. Sarmouth had remained on station at Talisman Island, but he'd sent all three of Ahbaht's surviving galleons—including
Firestorm
, now that her immediate repair needs had been met—to carry his surviving men home. The fourth galleon flew the Charisian standard above the green wyvern on the red field of Dohlar. Sarmouth had retained HMS
Truculent
when he dispatched
Prodigal Lass
back to Gorath with the survivors of Captain Ohkamohto's crews. He'd needed the extra passenger space, although he hadn't said why he'd kept
Truculent
instead of
Prodigal Lass
. His reasoning seemed evident reading between the lines of his tersely factual dispatch, however. The prisoners aboard
Truculent
had been treated with something as close to humanity as any Charisian was likely to find in the hands of the Church of God Awaiting's defenders. Those aboard
Prodigal Lass
had not.

Sarmouth had made a point of praising Commander Urwyn Guhstahvsyn and Commander Rubyn Mychysyn in his dispatch. More than that, he'd specifically mentioned the way in which Mychysyn had prevented Tymythy Maikyn from committing one last atrocity against the prisoners in his custody. Yet none of that could undo what Maikyn had done to those prisoners first. It wasn't all that surprising, Sharpfield thought, that Sarmouth had released the ship which had been a floating chamber of horror for the Charisians aboard it and retained the one aboard which they'd been decently treated.

He watched the galleons' canvas vanishing as sails were furled. They continued slowly forward under jibs and spankers alone, losing speed steadily. Then white water spouted under their bows as the waiting anchors were dropped, and he nodded.

“I believe it's time we headed down to dockside ourselves, Mahrak,” he said.

*   *   *

“You did good, Dunkyn,” Cayleb Ahrmahk said quietly over the com as he watched the returning prisoners' tumultuous welcome. “You and Hektor both did. Thank you.”

“Even with the SNARCs, we were lucky, Your Majesty,” Sarmouth said frankly. He stood on
Destiny
's sternwalk with Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk, savoring a cigar as they gazed out over the galleon's bubbling wake. “And we couldn't have managed it if everyone hadn't done his job exactly right.”

“Yes, they did. And when something like that happens, it's never the result of blind chance,” Sir Domynyk Staynair commented from his predawn flagship in Tellesberg Harbor. “It happens because the men and officers involved were
trained
to do their jobs ‘exactly right,' and you know it.”

“There's something to that,” Cayleb agreed. “In fact, there's a lot to that.”

“That letter of yours is likely to turn up the Inquisition's wick under Thirsk, too,” Phylyp Ahzgood put in. “That was a nice touch, Sir Dunkyn.”

“I agree,” Nahrmahn Baytz said. “Rayno's probably smart enough to realize that's exactly what it was intended to do. Clyntahn's
certainly
smart enough, but he's too invested in hating anything to do with Charis—and in distrusting anyone on his own side with anything resembling a moral spine—to think about it. Your little note's going to go a long way towards undermining any confidence he still has in Thirsk, and that can't be a bad thing from our perspective.”

“All that's probably true, but to be honest, I was less concerned with ‘turning up the wick' for Thirsk out of any Machiavellian motivation—” Sarmouth smiled briefly as he used what had become one of the inner circle's more popular adjectives “—than I was simply pissed off. I think you and Cayleb are probably right about what's going on inside Thirsk's head, Merlin, but he had that letter coming. Especially because he
is
a man of honor with—what did you call it, Narhmahn?—something ‘resembling a moral spine.' He damned well
knows
better than to believe this kind of crap could be anything
God
wanted!”

“I agree, Sir Dunkyn,” Irys Aplyn-Ahrmahk said. “On the other hand, I wouldn't be too surprised if what you sent to him didn't help to … clarify some of those things going on inside his head.”

“And if it does ‘clarify' them, what does he do about it, Irys?” Hektor asked.

“I have no idea,” his wife replied. “He's not exactly an inept sort, though, now is he?”

“No, he certainly isn't,” Sharleyan said. She sat gazing out of her tower window at the harbor where Rock Point's flagship lay at anchor, anchor lights burning like tiny stars above the mirror-smooth water. “But even more to the point—and the one thing about your letter that truly concerns me, Dunkyn—
Clyntahn
knows he isn't just as well as we do.”

“Exactly what I was thinking, Your Majesty,” Aivah Pahrsahn said. Her expression was troubled as she sat brushing her long, lustrous hair before her bedchamber's mirror. Now she laid the brush down and sat back in her chair in a rustle of steel thistle silk kimono. “If Clyntahn thinks there's a chance Baron Sarmouth's letter's going to goad Thirsk into some sort of action, he'll take steps to preempt that action.”

“Yes, he will,” Maikel Staynair agreed. “And the most likely step, given how that man's diseased excuse for a brain works, would be to insist that Thirsk's family be formally taken into ‘protective custody' by the Inquisition.”

“And probably not in Gorath,” Nimue Chwaeriau said from her own Manchyr bedchamber.

“No, not in Gorath,” Merlin concurred, his voice as hard as his sapphire eyes as he sat across the fireplace from Cayleb in the emperor's sitting room. “He'll order them sent to Zion, where he can ‘protect' them properly.”

“I wonder if Thirsk's smart enough to realize that once they go to Zion he's personally doomed,” Aivah said quietly. “The temptation to believe otherwise—to
make
himself believe otherwise, when there's so little he can do about it—must be enormous. But there's no way someone like Clyntahn's going to let him survive indefinitely after taking a step
guaranteed
to turn him into a mortal enemy. Eventually, he'll have Thirsk—and his family—permanently eliminated. He may settle for a simple, anonymous murder rather than the full Punishment, given the way Thirsk's become one of the jihad's few genuine heroes, but he
will
have them all killed.”

“I'd hate to see that happen.” Cayleb's expression was grim, almost haunted. “Eliminating him from the opposition's talent pool would be a huge gain, however it happened, but I'd hate to see it happen that way.”

“We all would, love,” Sharleyan told him gently.

“I wonder how he'd have them transported to Zion?” Nimue mused.

“That's an excellent question.” Merlin leaned back in his armchair, eyes thoughtful. “Somehow, given the suspicions he's probably nursing, I tend to doubt he'd be happy trusting an RDN galleon to deliver them. Send them overland?”

“If I were him, that's how I'd do it,” Rock Point said after a moment. “Especially with you lurking in the Gulf, Dunkyn.”

“He might not want to go overland after what ‘Dialydd Mab' did to the Camp Tairek guards and inquisitors, either, though.” Nimue's tone was as thoughtful as Merlin's eyes. “That's the biggest strike the ‘
seijins
' have carried out yet, and none of Clyntahn's trackers or investigators have a clue how so many of them could have gotten in and out without being spotted. He might be afraid we'd manage to intercept Thirsk's family the same way. We already did it with you and Daivyn, Irys. And Thirsk's children and grandchildren are almost as important to the Church as you two were. Worse, unlike the camp's prisoners, they'd be a small enough group those wicked
seijins
might smuggle them out the same way the Demon Merlin got you two and Phylyp out of Delferahk.”

“Are you suggesting you'd like him to worry about that sort of thing?” Aivah asked.

“I don't see where it could hurt anything,” Nimue replied.

“In that case,
Seijin
Zhozuah could have a word with Ahrloh Mahkbyth. We may've gotten Father Byrtrym out, but Helm Cleaver still has at least a few contacts in the Inquisition. Mostly through people the agents inquisitor in question have recruited as sources rather than actual agents themselves. And in addition to that, we're quite good at starting ‘whispering campaigns,' you know. I think we could come up with a few artfully designed rumors to encourage Clyntahn's paranoia in that respect.”

“I don't see where that would be likely to have any downside,” Cayleb said after a moment. “Are you going somewhere with this, though, Nimue?”

“Well, if Dunkyn is kind enough to cooperate with what I have in mind, it might just be that we can steer Clyntahn into transporting them
our
way instead of his.”

 

.IV.

Shyan Island, Gulf of Dohlar

“Were you born stupid, Naiklos, or did you have to study?” Sergeant Major Allayn Mahgrudyr inquired in less than dulcet tones. Corporal Naiklos Hairyngtyn stopped and looked at him, and the sergeant major pointed. “Up
there
,” he said. “You know—where the chief petty officer with the pretty little flag is waving it back and forth over his head trying to get your attention?!”

Hairyngtyn looked in the direction of the pointing finger, then nodded.

“Gotcha, Sar'Major!” he said cheerfully, nodded to his fatigue party, and went slogging through the loose sand towards the aforesaid chief petty officer. Sergeant Major Mahgrudyr watched him go, hands propped on hips, then shook his head and returned his attention to Major Brahdlai Cahstnyr.

“I swear, Hairyngtyn's head would make a damned good round shot. It might even be
useful
that way!”

“Now, now, Allayn,” Cahstnyr said soothingly. “You know you don't mean that. And even if you did, Captain Lathyk wouldn't let you do it. It'd make an awful mess on deck when you disconnected it.”

“I'd promise to clean it up afterward, Sir!” Mahgrudyr looked at his CO entreatingly, his tone wheedling. “Wouldn't take more than twenty, thirty minutes with a pump and a hose.”

“No,” Cahstnyr said firmly around a bubble of laughter. “Besides, he may not be much of a thinker, but he's a hard worker … once you get him pointed in the right direction. And he
is
Second Platoon's best shot.”

“What do the Bédardists call that, Sir? ‘Idiot savant,' isn't it?”

“I'm impressed, Sar'Major! And now that we have that mostly out of your system, what's our status?”

“Once Hairyngtyn gets his party in position and they start swinging those shovels and filling those sandbags instead of just carting them around, we'll be almost on schedule, Sir,” Mahgrudyr said in a much more serious tone. “We'll have the first three emplacements finished by evening.”

“Good. Master Wynkastair and Lieutenant Skynyr want to bring the guns ashore first thing tomorrow morning.”

Mahgrudyr nodded, but his expression showed rather more concern than he was accustomed to displaying, and Cahstnyr cocked his head at him.

“Something on your mind, Sar'Major?”

“Well, Sir, it's just—” Mahgrudyr paused and shook his head. “Nothing, Sir.”

Cahstnyr gazed at him for another second or two, then nodded.

“In that case, I'll leave you to it. Lieutenant Sygzbee will be bringing the rest of Second Platoon ashore with another load of bags as soon as I get back to the ship.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

Mahgrudyr touched his chest in salute and Cahstnyr nodded to him before he turned and started slogging back down the beach to the launch waiting just beyond the surf line. He waded through the thigh-deep water, climbed over the side of the boat, and took his seat on the third thwart as the oarsmen bent to their oars.

The launch gathered way quickly, heading back towards where HMS
Destiny
lay to her anchor a thousand yards from the shore of Shyan Island, and the Marine captain's lips twitched in a sour smile as he watched the galleon grow larger. He knew exactly what was on Mahgrudyr's mind, and he didn't blame the sergeant major one bit.