Hell's Foundations Quiver (98 page)

And when they
do
replace her, whoever's in command of their navy's going to be making his decisions where
our
Navy's concerned based not just on what happened in the Kaudzhu Narrows but also on what happened to their people
after
the battle
.
And the truth is that he should damned well do
exactly
that
.

He felt it coming, could almost smell its stinking, carrion breath, and this time it was going to be worse. There were more Charisians this time, and this time he couldn't even pretend he didn't know
exactly
what would happen to any of them who were surrendered to Zhaspahr Clyntahn. And if—
when
—Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk were in a position to demand justice for their murdered sailors.…

A fresh wave of despair flooded through him. No matter what he did, no matter how brilliant Lieutenant Zhwaigair might be, the relentless tide of Charisian innovations and the constantly swelling volume of their manufactories' production loomed before him like some unstoppable avalanche.

He'd tested the new Fultyn Rifles, and the heaviest one yet manufactured in a Dohlaran foundry—an eight-and-a-half-inch monster with a fourteen-and-a-half-foot tube that weighed over ten tons—could reach a maximum range of almost ten thousand yards, although he had his doubts about its ability to actually
hit
something at that distance, even from a stationary fortress mount. And it had effortlessly punched a solid two-hundred-and-seventy-five-pound shot straight through the best armor plate they could produce at a range of five hundred yards. That was impressive performance, but according to the preliminary reports on
Dreadnought
's guns, her shells weighed less than half as much yet had come terrifyingly close to matching that performance. That suggested they were capable of substantially higher muzzle velocities, and according to the reports of what had happened to the Empire of Desnair in Geyra Bay, the
breech-loading
cannon mounted in their new steam-powered ironclads were far more powerful than
Dreadnought
's muzzle-loading weapons.

They also fired much more rapidly, and that was a far from insignificant point. The tests of the new Fultyn Rifle had already demonstrated the significant problems involved in working a muzzleloader approaching fifteen feet in length. Indeed, length was much more critical in that regard than the simple size and weight of the enormous projectiles it fired. Just swabbing the barrel between shots was difficult and time-consuming, yet if it wasn't swabbed properly, if there was a single spark or ember waiting when the next powder charge was rammed home.…

The gun founders were promising him a ten-inch weapon with a gigantic four-hundred-pound shot and a shell weight of well over
three
hundred pounds. Their estimates suggested it would be even longer ranged than the eight-and-a-half-inch weapon, and shot that heavy might well be able to penetrate even
Dreadnought
's armor. But each gun would weigh almost seventeen tons, and the barrel length would be over
sixteen
feet, which was going to slow its rate of fire even further.

Any unarmored ship that challenged those weapons would be doomed, yet that thought was scarcely reassuring, given that the Charisians were certain to have more—and better—
armored
ships than anyone else in the world. And producing guns of that size and power took time—
lots
of time. The Charisians could obviously produce
their
guns far more rapidly than the Church's foundries could produce Fultyn Rifles. And as vast an improvement as the banded rifles clearly were, they were still cast iron and their bore pressures pushed the limits of their endurance every time they were fired with full-powered charges. Any battery commander and—especially!—his gun crews could be excused for feeling a totally justified nervousness under those circumstances.

The foundries were working on smaller, lighter six-inch weapons which could be mounted on shipboard, and that would increase the Royal Dohlaran Navy's combat power considerably. It might even be possible to mount a shorter and lighter version of the new ten-inch weapon in the screw-galleys' armored citadels, where it could conceivably survive long enough to do some good. In the end, though, they weren't going to be able to match the Charisian artillery's performance, and that was simply the way it was. So whenever Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk decided they could spare the effort from the liberation of the Republic of Siddarmark, the Dohlaran Navy was doomed. He had no doubt its men would fight as courageously as Captain Hamptyn's men had fought in the Kaudzhu Narrows, but it wouldn't matter.

And that brought him right back to the question of those Charisian prisoners of war.

It shouldn't come down to that
, he told himself yet again, his mental voice weary and raw.
I shouldn't have to even think about arguing that torturing and killing the other side's sailors and soldiers when they fall into our hands is
“bad policy”
because it can only justify the Charisians in taking reprisals against our own sailors and soldiers. People fighting on the side of God should
understand
that it's
wrong—
wrong morally and religiously, from every possible aspect—to treat honorable enemies that way even
without
the fear of reprisals!

He turned his head, staring out the stern windows at Hamptyn's ship to prevent the captain from seeing his face as the dull, searing flood burned through him yet again. But there was no point pretending. He'd already discussed it—obliquely and very carefully, in private—with Staiphan Maik, and the bishop's eyes had been as bleak as his own. Yet Maik had been able to offer no comfort. In fact, the conversation had only made it worse.

Because they'd become so close, the bishop had shared his confidential reports about the Inquisition's concentration camps in Siddarmark … and the orders the Grand Inquisitor had issued. That was why he knew the hapless inmates of four of those camps were already marching across western Siddarmark towards the Border States, driven ruthlessly to keep them ahead of any possible rescue. And why he knew that Inquisitor General Wylbyr had decreed the execution of every prisoner in three other camps too far from the Border States to be evacuated before they were liberated.

Bishop Staiphan's expression had been grim as he told the earl how those orders had been followed to the letter in one of those camps, despite the warning notices its guards had found posted inside their own fences by the
seijins
allied with the notorious Dialydd Mab. In the other two camps, though, at least some of the guard force had decided to resist the order. In one of them, the mutineers had been ruthlessly suppressed and the executions had been carried out anyway, although at least some of the prisoners had managed to escape during the fighting. In the other, however, the
mutineers
had won. Most of the camp's inquisitors and quite a few of the guard force had faded away during the fighting, but the victorious mutineers had marched its inmates
east
, not west. Detachments of Army of God cavalry had been dispatched after them, but Maik's sources suggested that the pursuit wasn't being pressed very hard.

Thirsk hoped those sources were correct. In fact, he'd gone down on his knees to
pray
that they were. Bishop Staiphan's most conservative estimate was that another hundred and twenty thousand Siddarmarkian civilians had been butchered, exactly as the Inquisitor General had ordered. Given that close to three million people had already perished at the Inquisition's hands, that might not seem like all that many additional lives. But it was. It was a horrific number, piled onto a vaster, even more horrific number, and if the “heretics” and their allies won in the end, their demands for vengeance—for
justice
—would be fiery, merciless, and totally justified.

So what was Lywys Gardynyr going to do when Zhaspahr Clyntahn demanded that the Charisian survivors of the Kaudzhu Narrows be delivered to Zion? It was “only” another five hundred lives, after all. They wouldn't even be noticed when the death toll was totaled up at the end of this madness. Except by those who'd loved them—by wives and daughters, by sons and brothers and sisters, and by fathers and mothers.

And by Lywys Gardynyr, who would know their blood was on
his
hands, however truthfully he might tell himself he'd had no choice.

 

.XII.

HMS
Destiny
, 54, Talisman Island, Gulf of Dohlar

Baron Sarmouth stood on HMS
Destiny
's quarterdeck, hands folded behind him, and watched calmly as his squadron made its way into Rahzhyr Bay. They made a brave show under the clear July sky with their severe black hulls, gray and tan sails, and the blue, silver, black, and gold of the imperial Charisian standard rippling from their yardarms.

There were only four galleons anchored off Rahzhyrhold, but the water around them was busy with launches, gigs, and other small craft. At this range it was difficult to decide what all those boats were so industriously doing, even with one of the new double-glasses, and the admiral waited patiently in the shade of the awning stretched across the quarterdeck while
Destiny
forged steadily towards them.

“Seems to be an awful lot of boat traffic, Sir Dunkyn,” Captain Rhobair Lathyk remarked, standing to Sarmouth's right. “And I wonder where the rest of the squadron is?”

“No doubt we'll discover all of that soon enough,” the admiral replied serenely.

“No doubt,” his flag captain agreed, yet there was more than an edge of concern in Lathyk's tone.

It was the concern of an experienced naval officer with an itch he couldn't quite scratch, the sense that something he was seeing wasn't quite what it ought to have been. That sort of itch was the gift of instinct and hard-won skill, and it was invaluable. It was also a gift Sir Dunkyn Yairley possessed in abundance … and one he didn't need on this hot, beautiful day.

“Deck there!” The call floated down from the masthead. “Cutter broad on the starboard bow!”

“I see it, Sir,” a voice said from Sarmouth's left. The baron glanced over his shoulder and saw Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk holding a double-glass in his good hand while he peered through it. “I think … yes, she's definitely flying a dispatch boat pennant.”

“You see, Rhobair?” Sarmouth said with a slight smile, quirking an eyebrow at the flag captain. “As I promised. All is about to be revealed.”

*   *   *

There were no smiles in the admiral's day cabin as Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht stood facing Sarmouth the better part of two hours later. The Emeraldian captain was perfectly groomed, despite the sling supporting a left arm encased in plaster, but there was no sign of his habitual dry humor.

“So after returning to Talisman, I dispatched my full report to Earl Sharpfield at Claw Island by courier vessel. I thought it wisest to remain here while
Vindicator
and
Broadsword
completed their repairs. I'm actually a bit surprised the Dohlarans haven't already moved against us here, and I felt we'd be most useful assisting Commander Makgrygair and Major Ohmahly in the event that they did.”

He fell silent, looking the taller Charisian admiral in the eye. His own eyes were level, yet somehow he had the look of a man facing a firing squad … and convinced that he ought to.

Sarmouth leaned back in his chair for several seconds, gazing at the officer on the far side of his desk, then he inhaled deeply.

“I see,” he said. “And now that you've completed your report, Captain, be seated, please.”

His voice was calm, but it was also insistent, and he pointed his right index finger at the chair beside Ahbaht. The chair he'd invited the Emeraldian to take upon his arrival. Ahbaht had declined the invitation then, preferring to stand as he described the debacle into which he'd led his squadron. Now he started to decline once more, but Sarmouth's expression stopped him. Instead, he settled into the chair, although he didn't seem to relax noticeably as he sat.

Sarmouth nodded in satisfaction and raised his voice.

“Sylvyst!”

“Yes, My Lord?” Sylvyst Raigly appeared like magic.

“Please pass the word for Captain Yairley and Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk to join us. And be so good as to bring the whiskey, as well. The Glynfych, I think.”

“At once, My Lord.”

The valet bowed and disappeared once more, and Sarmouth returned his attention to Ahbaht. It was strange, really. Somehow he'd expected the fact that he already knew what had happened in the Kaudzhu Narrows to make Ahbaht's report easier to listen to. It hadn't. If anything, it had made it harder, and not simply because he had to watch his responses lest he say or do something that might suggest that everything Ahbaht was telling him wasn't coming at him cold. It was because he
had
already seen it, he reflected. Because he had the actual images and sounds, all the carnage and fury, to go with the words of Ahbaht's description. And because he had those things, he also knew Ahbaht had been far harder on himself than anyone else would have been. There was no way he could tell the captain that, however, and so he only shook his head.

“I know that at this moment you blame yourself for every ship and every man we've lost, Captain,” he said quietly. “In your place, I'm sure I'd feel exactly the same way. On the other hand, I would have made precisely the same decisions you made, had I been in your position and in possession of the same information. You acted with the boldness we expect of officers in the Imperial Charisian Navy. It's unfortunate that the weather turned against you, yet it's clear to me that you'd allowed sufficient cushion against that possibility. But for the shoal you encountered, the Dohlaran galleys would never have had the opportunity to engage you, and I'm strongly of the opinion that with both
Thunderer
and
Dreadnought
you and Captain Haigyl would have cut your way out through the Dohlarans with far lighter losses. It's not given to us to command the wind or the vagaries of fortune, Captain Ahbaht. All any mortal man can do is make the best decisions he can based on the information he actually has. It's my opinion that that's exactly what you did in this instance.”