Hell's Foundations Quiver (121 page)

Erthayn was Tanshar's largest—and only real—seaport, but it was perhaps a quarter of Gorath's size, at best. It was, however, barely a hundred miles overland from the even smaller town of Mahrglys, at the mouth of the Tanshar River. The Tanshar Estuary was shallow and liberally seeded with treacherous mudbanks, so it made much better sense to deliver Earl Thirsk's family to Erthayn. They could travel by road to Mahrglys, then upriver to the Schueler Canal and on to Lake Pei for the final leg of their journey to Zion. In many ways, Rahdgyrz would have preferred sailing to Malantor in the Duchy of Malansath rather than Erthayn. The voyage would have been about four hundred miles longer, which would have extended the sailing time by three days or so, but Malantor offered a much larger—and deeper, not to mention better sheltered—harbor than Erthayn, and his passengers' river and canal journey to Lake Pei would have been five hundred miles shorter.

His orders had been crystal clear on that point, unfortunately, and he couldn't argue with the logic behind their choice of destinations, however little he might care for it. From all reports, the heretics' galleon strength remained fully occupied blockading Saram Bay, and no one had reported seeing a single one of their light commerce-raiders east of Whale Island in five-days. That wasn't to say there
couldn't
be any of them farther east, however, and there was absolutely no point taking chances with his ship or its passengers, especially after what had happened to the prisoner convoy in the Trosan Channel. Far better to take the longer route through the Fern Narrows, staying within sight of Dohlar's friendly coastline—and, hopefully, within reach of a port of refuge—for the entire voyage. He'd moved a little farther west once night fell because the shoals along the Duchy of Malikai's coast stretched a bit farther out to sea, squeezing the Narrows down to little more than a hundred and thirty miles. With the wind from the north-northwest, he wanted a bit more sea room to leeward. They were forty-odd miles off the coast, and ports of refuge were thin on the ground in Malikai, but there were still a couple of them he could scrape into if he had to.

He wasn't too proud to run for it if anything untoward turned up, either, although he had to admit that skulking his way through what were supposed to be Mother Church's own waters … irritated him. That was one reason he would have preferred to sail straight to Malantor, and if the Church had possessed the wherewithal to provide
Saint Frydhelm
with a powerful escort, that was exactly what he would have done. Unhappily, Rahdgyrz' ship was one of only a scant handful of galleons still flying Mother Church's banner. By far the majority of the hulls remaining to the Navy of God after the Markovian Sea disaster had been transferred either to the Imperial Harchongese Navy or to the Royal Dohlaran Navy. Those which hadn't been transferred had simply been laid up so that their artillery could be used for coast defense and their manpower could be transferred to the
Army
of God. In fact, there were only five NOG galleons left in the entire Gulf of Dohlar, and it was pure luck
Saint Frydhelm
had been available in Gorath when Mother Church needed her.

Of course it was “pure luck,” Syndail
, the captain told himself now.
It couldn't possibly have been anything else, now could it? After all, how could anyone have known Admiral Thirsk's own aide would turn out to have been a Charisian spy?

Unfortunately, Syndail Rahdgyrz was not a great believer in “pure luck,” especially in this case. His ship had been ordered to Gorath to deliver a small group of inquisitors to Father Ahbsahlahn Kharmych. Any of the Church's rather smaller schooners or brigs could have made the same delivery, but she'd been chosen, and then there'd been some sort of confusion about her further orders. For some reason
Saint Frydhelm
had found herself anchored in Gorath Bay for almost two full five-days, waiting for someone to find something else for her to do, before Commander Khapahr's spectacular suicide. How
conveniently
that had worked out in the end, he reflected dryly.

And then, of course, there was the question of why the
Royal Dohlaran Navy
couldn't have provided the escort the Navy of God no longer could. Or, for that matter, have provided transport for its own commander's family aboard one of its vessels. Unless, of course, there was some reason someone in Mother Church might entertain reservations about the Dohlaran Navy's loyalty to the Jihad. And so, again, wasn't it fortunate that
Saint Frydhelm
's wanderings just happened to have made
her
available for the duty, instead?

Fortune was another one of those things in which Father Syndail was not a great believer.

“And how's Father Aimohs?” he asked after a moment. “I missed him at supper … again.”

Kuhlhani smiled slightly. Aimohs Rudahry was almost as bad a sailor as little Zhudyth Whytmyn. Worse, he was over six feet tall, which was an inconvenient height aboard a war galleon. He seemed to have trouble remembering that, unfortunately—possibly because of how thoroughly miserable the seasickness made him—and he'd nearly knocked himself unconscious against one deckbeam or another several times since coming aboard. Coupled with the queasiness he'd experienced, especially over the last few days, that had been enough to insure he spent most of his time in his hammock, tippling golden berry and trying to keep down a diet of soft bread and soup.

“I believe the Father's feeling somewhat better, Sir,” the lieutenant said after a moment. “He was up on deck shortly after sunset, in fact.”

“Good. I'm glad to hear he's feeling better. Maybe he'll even be up to joining us for dinner tomorrow night. Remind me to have the cook prepare something bland.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Kuhlhani said with a broader smile.

Rahdgyrz nodded to the lieutenant, folded his hands behind him, and began pacing slowly up and down the weather side of the poop deck for his nightly constitutional.

The air felt even damper and cooler than it had when he'd come on deck, and the glass had been falling steadily if slowly most of the day. The night promised to be full of rain, but it was unlikely the wind would pick up appreciably, which he was sure both Father Aimohs and young Mistress Zhudyth would appreciate. Although, if he'd been Mistress Zhudyth's parents, he would have voted for heavier weather to keep Rudahry right where he was and well away from them.

Syndail Rahdgyrz had served Mother Church and the Temple for his entire adult life. His own ordination as an under-priest of the Order of Chihiro had come about only because he was a skilled seaman who'd been tapped for command in the Navy of God, but before that, he'd captained Church couriers and transports for almost twenty years. That duty had brought him into contact with more priests, upper-priests, and bishops than he could count, and even a handful of
arch
bishops. As a consequence, he had rather fewer illusions about the Church's priesthood than many, and he'd recognized Aimohs Rudahry's type—and purpose—the instant he'd come aboard.

That was another of the several reasons he was confident
Saint Frydhelm
hadn't “just happened” to be available in Gorath Bay.

Rahdgyrz had nothing at all against the Earl of Thirsk. From everything he'd ever seen or heard, Thirsk was a superior officer who fully deserved the position he held. Although Rahdgyrz had never crossed swords with the Imperial Charisian Navy himself, he'd read Father Greyghor Searose's heavily edited report on the Battle of the Markovian Sea. He'd also read the available reports on the Battle of Iythria, and he and
Saint Frydhelm
had visited Claw Island after the Dohlarans had retaken it from the heretics. He'd seen how effectively they'd fortified its approaches … which also told him a great deal about the fighting qualities of the Charisians who'd taken it back yet again. And all the world had heard about what had happened in the Kaudzhu Narrows. As far as he could tell, Thirsk's navy was the only one on Safehold which had ever given the heretics pause, and it was difficult not to conclude that that was because of the man who'd commanded and trained it.

In a reasonable world, that ought to have earned Thirsk the trust, support, and confidence of Mother Church. In the world that actually existed, things were seldom as clear cut as the
Holy Writ
said they should be, and Father Syndail Rahdgyrz had a very unhappy suspicion about why the obviously close and loving family currently occupying his quarters was bound for Zion.

In a reasonable world, it wouldn't have been his job to take them there. In the world that actually existed.…

*   *   *

The rain fell steadily—and as heavily as Father Syndail had anticipated—as the night crept past midnight and into Langhorne's Watch. Here and there aboard NGS
Saint Frydhelm
the more zealous members of her crew paused in the prayer and meditation the
Holy Writ
enjoined all faithful sons and daughters of Mother Church to dedicate to the well-being of their souls during that special and sanctified time of the night. In the captain's quarters, Earl Thirsk's family slept soundly, except for young Zhudyth, who tossed fitfully in her seasickness while her mother napped beside her. On the galleon's decks, the duty watch went about their tasks, and high above those decks the masthead lookouts huddled in their oilskins. There was nothing to see in the rainy dark, however hard they might look, but at least the same wretched visibility meant no one else was likely to see them, either.

*   *   *

“
Easy
there!” Lieutenant Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk called quietly from HMS
Fleet Wing
's quarterdeck. “Let's not be breaking any legs or—or making any damned noise—we don't have to.”

“Sorry, Sir.”

The unfortunate seaman who'd slipped on the rain-slick planking and dropped the five-gallon demijohn of hot tea—and the dozen tin mugs—he'd been carrying on deck for the watch standers picked himself up. Miraculously, the heavy clay demijohn's wickerwork jacket had preserved it from breakage. It hadn't even spilled. The tin cups, on the other hand, had burst apart, breaking the string tied through their handles for ease of carry, and gone clattering and rolling into the scuppers.

Now the seaman stood cradling the demijohn in his arms while several of his grinning crewmates rescued the cups.

“Sorry, Sir,” he repeated. “Won't happen again, Sir!”

“As long as you're all right, Fewmihyroh,” Hektor said, trying not to grin himself, despite the tension ratcheting steadily higher along his nerves. “Just watch where you're going.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

Fewmihyroh Kaspyr braced to attention, staying that way until Hektor nodded for him to continue on his tea run, and more than one of the other drenched seamen on
Fleet Wing
's deck turned away or raised hasty hands to hide grins that threatened to get out of control. At nineteen and a half—less than eighteen, in Old Earth years—Fewmihyroh was very young, and he looked it as he faced his commanding officer. That commanding officer, on the other hand, had only turned
seven
teen—sixteen and a half in Old Earth years—a month and a half earlier. He was also a good four inches shorter than Kaspyr, and might have weighed two-thirds as much.

Yet however amusing his ship's company might have found the tableau, not one of them questioned the Duke of Darcos' right to stand upon that deck as the eighteen-gun schooner's captain. Nor, for that matter, did he look nearly as young as Kaspyr, despite his lack of inches and his wiry build. By now, there might have been five sailors in the entire Imperial Charisian Navy who hadn't heard the story of the duke's rescue of Princess Irys and Prince Daivyn after all his superior officers had been killed or wounded. There couldn't have been
six
of them, however, and the tale of how he'd saved the princess' life a second time on their wedding day was just as widely known.

Everyone knew Baron Sarmouth had stretched naval regulations almost—
almost
—to the breaking point to name someone of Duke Darcos' age to the command of one of Their Majesties' warships. But the ICN's schooners were young men's commands, and “the Duke” (as he was known to the whole squadron, as if there were not another duke in the entire Empire), had amply proved his fitness to command. Courage, even
reckless
courage, youngsters of his age normally had in plenty. The Duke had demonstrated both moral courage, which was far rarer, and the ability to keep his head with cool calculation even in the midst of combat, which was rarer still. Those qualities were there in his eyes for any to see, just as the scars and the stiffened left hand showed the experience which had helped him gain them.

What none of HMS
Fleet Wing
's crew realized was that he possessed one more quality, even more important than the others at the moment, which had made him the perfect choice for his current command.

Now he watched Kaspyr dispensing hot tea into the rescued mugs with half his attention while the other half stayed glued to the imagery projected onto his contact lenses.

Soon
, he thought.
Soon
.

*   *   *

“Are you sure about this, Merlin?” Nimue Chwaeriau asked softly as the recon skimmer's tractor lowered their fishing boat towards the rain-lashed surface of the Fern Narrows.

Merlin looked at her through the rain, and she reached out to touch his arm.

“I understand the logic,” she said. “I just want to be sure you're ready to live with it.”

“I am.”

Merlin's tone was flat, very unlike his usual speaking voice. And, at the moment, he looked as unlike Merlin Athrawes as Nimue looked unlike Nimue Chwaeriau. Nimue was at least still female, although she'd become a brunette who was rather more full figured than her normal persona, but Merlin was obviously Harchongese.