How Firm a Foundation (65 page)

Sylvyst Raigly, Sir Dunkyn’s valet and steward, had become awesomely aware of his employer’s exalted status the instant the brand-new admiral’s streamer had been broken from
Destiny
’s mizzen. Raigly was only about thirty years old, well read, and always well dressed
and carefully groomed, but when he decided to feel waspish, he was capable of the most icily polite, formal, biting, exquisitely
nasty
set downs Aplyn-Ahrmahk had ever encountered. The ensign had never heard him utter a single overtly inappropriate or discourteous word … which didn’t prevent Raigly from vivisecting anyone unfortunate enough to rouse his ire. He was also a crack pistol shot and
an excellent swordsman, and one of his shipboard duties had been to instruct the midshipmen in sword work. He’d done a great deal to improve Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s combat skills, and the two of them were friends … which wouldn’t save Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s neck if he came into the admiral’s presence with his tunic unbuttoned or a hat on his head below decks.

There was no sharp-eyed and ominous valet waiting
for him this time, however; merely an admiral. Well, an admiral and his secretary, who was
far
less terrifying than any valet!

“Yes, Hektor?” Yairley asked, looking up from the chart he’d been contemplating while he dictated a letter to Trumyn Lywshai, his newly appointed flag secretary.

“Captain Lathyk’s compliments, Sir. Admiral Shain has hoisted the signal.”

“I see.”

Yairley glanced back
at the chart once more, then straightened. He stepped to the skylight, looked up at the wind indicator, and nodded in satisfaction.

“I suppose we should go on deck, then,” he said mildly, and looked at Lywshai. “We’ll finish that correspondence later, Trumyn.”

“Of course, Sir Dunkyn.”

Lywshai was ten years older than Raigly, although he and the valet got along well. But whereas Raigly was as
Charisian-born and bred as a man came (and looked it), Lywshai’s hair was so dark a black it was almost blue and his eyes had a much more pronounced epicanthic fold. His father had been born in the Harchong Empire and sold to a Harchongian merchant captain by the local baron as a “cabin boy” when he was only seven. Shaintai Lywshai seldom spoke about those years, although they’d left deep and painful
scars, and not just of the body. But the captain who’d bought him had decided to dabble in piracy as a sideline and picked the wrong galleon as a prize. Which was how Shaintai had ended up in Tellesberg at the age of thirteen, adopted by the captain of the galleon his previous (deceased) owner had attempted to capture. And which also explained the ferocious loyalty of Shaintai’s son Trumyn and
the entire extensive Lywshai family to Charis and the Charisian crown.

“Do you want me to wait until you come back below?” Lywshai asked now. “Or should I start making the fair copies of your other letters for your signature?”

“Go ahead and finish up the ones I’ve already dictated,” Yairley decided. “I don’t believe we’ll be able to get very much done on the rest of it until this little affair
is over, though.”

“Of course, Sir Dunkyn,” Lywshai said again, with a small half bow, and Yairley smiled at him. He hadn’t had very long to get to know the secretary, but he’d already decided High Admiral Rock Point’s glowing recommendation had been right on the mark. He watched Lywshai’s skillful fingers adroitly sorting through the correspondence, then raised his voice.

“Sylvyst!”

“Coming,
Sir Dunkyn!” a tenor voice replied, and Raigly stepped out of the admiral’s sleeping cabin carrying Yairley’s uniform tunic over one arm and the admiral’s sword belt over the other.

Yairley grimaced at sight of the sword belt, but he didn’t argue. He only slid his arms into the offered tunic, buttoned it, and then buckled the belt around his waist. Unlike many other officers, he carried no pistols,
but Raigly made up for that. Technically, the valet was a civilian, not that his lack of official martial standing seemed to cause him any undue concern. Although he wore civilian clothing, he was armed with sword and dirk and no less than four double-barreled pistols, two in holsters and the second pair shoved through his belt.

“We haven’t cleared for action yet, you know, Sylvyst,” Yairley
observed.

“No, Sir Dunkyn, we haven’t,” Raigly agreed.

“Then don’t you think that might be a little … excessive?” the admiral asked, waving at the valet’s arsenal.

“No, Sir Dunkyn. Not really,” Raigly replied politely, and Yairley gave up. Between the valet and Stywyrt Mahlyk he’d have the equivalent of an entire squad of Marines keeping an eye on him. And now, no doubt, Aplyn-Ahrmahk, relieved
of ship-handling duties, would add himself to the bodyguard corps, as well. In some ways, it was a relief; at other times he found himself wondering a bit plaintively why neither his valet nor his coxswain nor (now) his flag lieutenant had figured out he was an adult capable of looking after himself.

Best not to follow that thought up,
he reminded himself again.
You probably wouldn’t like where
it ended
.

“Well, if you’re satisfied that you’re sufficiently well armed, let’s go see what the rest of the fleet is doing,” he said dryly.

“Of course, Sir Dunkyn,” Raigly replied gravely, and Yairley heard something which sounded suspiciously like a chuckle from his flag lieutenant.

*   *   *

“Oh, shit.”

Sir Urwyn Hahltar, Baron of Jahras and Admiral General of the Imperial Desnairian Navy,
spoke quietly but with great feeling as he looked at the semaphore message in his hand.

“They’re coming?” Daivyn Bairaht, the Duke of Kholman, didn’t sound any happier than his brother-in-law.

“Of course they’re coming!” Jahras growled. “It was only a matter of time.” He tossed the balled-up message slip into the trash can beside his desk with a disgusted expression. “The only surprise is that
they’ve waited this long!”

He stamped his way to the window and looked out across the Iythrian waterfront. The good news was that there’d been time to complete almost all of the Desnairian Navy’s building program. That meant he had ninety-one fully armed galleons at his disposal. The bad news came in two installments. First, all of his ships were smaller than a typical Charisian galleon, with
lighter armaments, less reliable guns which were prone to burst at inconvenient moments, and crews which were far less well trained. Second, according to the message from the Sylmahn’s Island semaphore station, something on the order of a hundred Charisian galleons, an unknown number of them armed with the new exploding “shells” which had gutted Kornylys Harpahr’s fleet, were headed directly for
his window at this very moment.

Some of Emperor Mahrys’ senior advisers—the ones safely far away from the Gulf of Jahras and with the least responsibility for building and training the emperor’s navy—had urged Jahras to adopt a mobile, aggressive strategy. The idiots in question obviously failed to grasp the difference between ships at sea and the cavalry for which the Desnairian Empire was famed.
They’d seen no reason why he shouldn’t have kept the enemy entirely out of the Gulf by using Howard Reach’s constricted waters to tie up any Charisian assault with spoiling attacks launched by smaller, handier squadrons that could dash in, hammer the enemy, and then fall back on his main force. After all, how different could it be from using cavalry attacks to tie up and pin down a more numerous
foe trying to fight his way through a mountain pass?

There were times Jahras was tempted to suggest one of
them
should become admiral general. Unfortunately, none of them were quite stupid enough to accept the job.

Especially now.

About the only thing they
are
smart enough to avoid,
he told himself bitterly.
And can anyone explain to them the difference between a spirited and noble cavalry
charger on a nice solid piece of ground and a galleon dependent entirely on wind and current? Or the fact that, unlike a cavalry regiment, a ship can sink, or burn, or just damned well
blow up
if someone shoots at it enough? No, of course they can’t! And they’re conveniently forgetting about the Charisians’ new little
weapon,
aren’t they?

“I don’t suppose we’ve had any last-minute orders from
Vicar Allayn that you just neglected to mention to me?” he asked Kholman over his shoulder, never looking away from the ships in the harbor.

“If he’d said a word since your last dispatch to the Temple, I’d have told you about it.” The duke’s expression was as frustrated as Jahras’ own. As the effective Desnairian naval minister he’d presided over Jahras’ efforts to build the ships Mother Church
had required of the empire. He knew exactly how difficult the task had been … and why Jahras was unwilling to face Charis at sea.

“I don’t think we’re
going
to get a reply from Vicar Allayn,” he continued now, his tone flat. “I think he’s going to wait to see how things work out, then either take credit for ‘allowing us to use our own initiative’ if it’s anything short of a disaster, or point
out our ‘failure to comply with Mother Church’s strategic directions’ if it turns out as badly as we’re afraid it will.”

“Wonderful.” Jahras sighed, puffing out his cheeks, his expression pensive. “I’m almost tempted to go ahead and sail,” he admitted. “Assuming I didn’t get blown up, shot, or drowned I could at least point out that I’d followed orders.”

He turned his head, looking his brother-in-law
in the eye, and Kholman nodded soberly. Anything that might lead the Grand Inquisitor or his agents to question one’s determination and loyalty was contraindicated.

“Between the doomwhale and the deep blue sea,” the duke said quietly.

“Exactly.” Jahras nodded back, then squared his shoulders. “But if I have to do this, I’m going to do it as effectively as I can and hope for the best. Shan-wei,
Daivyn! Thirsk got himself hailed as a hero for capturing four Charisian galleons, and he’d already lost one of his own! For that matter, he’d surrendered an entire
damned
fleet after Crag Hook! If we can at least bleed them when they come in here after us, maybe somebody in Zion will be smart enough to realize we did the best anyone could have.”

“Maybe,” Duke Kholman replied. “Maybe.”

*   *
   *

“The schooners report no change in their deployment, Admiral,” Captain Lathyk said, saluting as Admiral Yairley arrived on
Destiny
’s quarterdeck.

“Not surprising, I suppose, Captain,” Yairley replied. A greater degree of formality had crept into his public relationship with Lathyk—inevitably, he imagined. Given his new rank, he was now a passenger in
Destiny
, not her master after God, and
it was important he and Lathyk make that point clearly for the ship’s company. A warship could have only one captain, and any confusion about who that warship’s crew looked to for orders in an emergency could be disastrous. “I wish they
would
come out, but obviously no one in Iythria is foolish enough to do that. Barring direct orders, of course.”

Lathyk nodded, and Yairley’s lips quirked briefly.
As High Admiral Rock Point had pointed out, to date, the Group of Four had been Charis’ best allies when it came to naval matters. Rock Point had hoped, more wistfully than with any great expectation of its happening, that Allayn Maigwair might issue Baron Jahras direct, non-discretionary orders to sortie and engage the Imperial Charisian Navy at sea. Apparently even Maigwair had more sense
than that, however … unfortunately.

“Well,” the admiral said now, “if they won’t come out, we’ll just have to go in.”

“Going to be lively, Sir!” Lathyk observed with that irritating prebattle smile of his, and Yairley shrugged.

“I suppose that’s one way to describe it,” he agreed with a smaller, tighter smile of his own.

Destiny
’s motion was a little uneasy as she lay hove-to in the Middle
Ground between Sylmahn Island and Ray Island, but that didn’t explain Yairley’s queasiness. He knew what
did
cause it, of course. The same odd, hollow feeling which always afflicted him when battle drew near was already quivering inside him, and he suppressed a familiar sense of envy as Lathyk chuckled in response to his comment. He didn’t think Lathyk was any less imaginative than he was, but
somehow the captain—like so many of Yairley’s fellows—seemed impervious to the sort of tension which gripped him at times like this. And even
he
wasn’t all that consistent about it, he thought irritably. It made absolutely no sense for the thought of being splattered across the deck by a cannonball to … concern him so much when the thought of drowning in a storm didn’t cause him to turn a hair.
Well, not
much
of a hair, anyway.

“Signal from
Terror
, Captain!” Midshipman Saylkyrk called out. He was in the maintop with his enormous spyglass trained on HMS
Terror
, Admiral Shain’s flagship. “Relayed from
Destroyer
. Our pendant number, then Number Thirty, Number Thirty-Six, Number Fifty-Five, and Number Eight.” He looked down from the maintop to where Ahrlee Zhones had the signal book open,
already finding the signal numbers from the grid.

“Make sail on the larboard tack, course south-by-east, and prepare for battle, Sir!” the younger midshipman announced after a handful of seconds.

“Very good, Master Zhones,” Lathyk said. “Be good enough to acknowledge the signal under the squadron’s number.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!” Zhones was obviously nervous, but he also wore a huge grin as he beckoned
to the quarterdeck signal party.

“Master Symkee!” Lathyk continued, turning to the lieutenant who’d become
Destiny
’s executive officer in parallel with his own promotion.

“Aye, Sir?”

“Hands to braces, if you please. Prepare to get the ship underway.”

“Aye, aye, Sir! Hands to braces, Bo’sun!”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

The signal had scarcely been unexpected, and the colorful bunting had already been
spilled out of its canvas bags and bent to the signal halliards. The flags went soaring up while bo’sun’s pipes shrilled and the ship’s company went racing to its stations, and Admiral Yairley folded his hands behind him and crossed to the taffrail to gaze astern while his flag captain and his flagship’s crew got about the business of translating High Admiral Rock Point and Admiral Shain’s orders
into action.