Off Armageddon Reef (69 page)

“They're on their way,” Merlin said grimly as he nodded to the Marine sentry and stepped through the doorway.

Cayleb looked up from the big table in the large, lamp-lit chamber Merlin had dubbed their “Operations Room.” The table was completely covered by a huge chart, pieced together out of several smaller ones. Now Merlin crossed to the table and grimaced down at the chart. Big as it was, it would be five-days before the Dohlaran fleet reached the area it covered, but the campaign's opening move had begun.

“Any more indication of their course?” Cayleb asked, and despite his own grim mood, Merlin's lips quirked in a small smile.

Cayleb hadn't discussed Merlin's more-than-mortal nature with him since the night after he'd killed the krakens. Not explicitly, at any rate. But by now, the crown prince took the “
seijin's
” abilities so much for granted that he didn't even turn a hair over them anymore. Still, however…blasé Cayleb might have become, he realized exactly how valuable Merlin's “visions” truly were.

“Unless something changes, they're almost certainly going to follow the southern track,” Merlin replied. “Thirsk doesn't like it. He'd really prefer to stay in coastal waters all the way to Tarot, but since he can't do that, he's trying to convince Malikai to at least pass to the east of Samson's Land and hug the east coast of Armageddon Reef.”

“Because he's not an idiot,” Cayleb snorted, walking around the table to stand beside Merlin and gaze down at the chart. “Mind you, there's something to be said for not going any further south than you have to, and
I'd
just as soon not try looking for an emergency anchorage on the Reef, given what it would be likely to do to my crews' morale. On the other hand, at least you could count on finding one if you needed it. And a fleet of galleys trying to cross those waters probably
will
need one at some point.”

“That's basically what Thirsk is saying,” Merlin agreed. “Malikai's opposed because he thinks it will take longer. Besides, it's going to be late spring by the time they reach the Sea of Justice, right? That means the weather should be fine.”

“You know,” Cayleb said, only half whimsically, “having Malikai in command of the Southern Force is one of the reasons I'm inclined to think God is on our side, whatever the Council of Vicars might think.”

“I know what you mean. Still,” Merlin shrugged, “he's got a lot of ships. And it looks to me as if Thirsk's squadron, at least, is going to be well drilled and ready to fight when they get here, regardless of how rough the passage is.”

“I don't doubt it. But he still going to be hampered by Malikai.”

Merlin nodded, and Cayleb cocked his head, frowning.

“And how does Admiral White Ford feel about all this?” he asked, after a moment.

“White Ford, and Gorjah, both agree with Thirsk, whether they know it or not,” Merlin said. “They'd far rather have the Dohlarans make straight for Tarot, then either cross the Cauldron or sail up and around through the Gulf of Tarot. Unfortunately for them, Magwair—and Malikai—are convinced that would cost them the element of surprise.”

Cayleb's laugh sounded like the hunting cough of a catamount. It also showed remarkably little sympathy for Gorjah and Gahvyn Mahrtyn, the Baron of White Ford, who commanded his navy.

“Well, if we were deaf, dumb, blind, and as stupid as Rahnyld, they
might
be able to surprise us, even without you,” he said.

“You're probably right,” Merlin said. “But you might want to reflect on just how big a stretch of water they have to hide in. As it is, you know they're coming, and you know the Tarotisians are supposed to rendezvous with Thirsk and Malikai off Armageddon Reef. But even armed with that knowledge, pulling off an interception that far from your own harbors wouldn't exactly be a walk in the park for most navies, now would it?”

“Not a walk in the park, no,” Cayleb conceded. “On the other hand, assuming we could have known they'd be taking the southern route without you, we'd still have had a pretty fair chance. They're going to want to stay close to the coast, at least until they get south of Tryon's Land, and that would tell us where to find them. With the schooners to do our scouting, we could cover an awful lot of coastal water, Merlin.” He shook his head. “I fully intend to make the best use I possibly can of your visions, but you've already done the most important thing of all by telling us they're coming and what course they're likely to follow.”

“I hope it's going to be enough,” Merlin said soberly.

“Well, that's up to us, isn't it?” Cayleb showed his teeth. “Even without the galleons and the new artillery, they'd have had a fight on their hands. As it is, I think I can safely predict that win or lose, they aren't going to enjoy their summer cruise.”

Merlin returned his tight, hungry grin for a moment, then sobered once more.

“Cayleb, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“A favor?” Cayleb cocked his head. “
That
sounds ominous. What sort of favor?”

“I've got some…equipment I'd like you to use.”

“What kind of equipment?”

“A new cuirass and hauberk. And a new sword. And I'd like to get your father into new armor, as well.”

Cayleb's face smoothed into non-expression, and Merlin felt himself tensing mentally. Cayleb might have accepted his more-than-human capabilities, but would he be able—or willing—to accept this, as well?

Merlin had thought long and hard before making the offer. He himself was, if not indestructible, at least very, very hard to destroy. His PICA body wasn't simply built out of incredibly tough synthetics, but incorporated substantial nanotech-based self-repair capabilities. Very few current-generation Safeholdian weapons could realistically hope to inflict crippling damage. A direct hit by a round shot could undoubtedly remove a limb, or even his head, but while that might be inconvenient, it wouldn't “kill” him. Even a direct hit by a heavy cannon couldn't significantly damage his “brain,” and as long as his power plant remained intact—and it was protected by a centimeter-thick shell of battle steel—and as long as his nannies had access to basic raw materials (and lots and lots of time), they could pretty much literally rebuild him from scratch.

But his friends, and there was no point pretending these people hadn't become exactly that, were far more fragile than he was. He'd accepted his own potential immortality when he first awoke in Nimue's Cave and realized what he was. But until he'd become close to Cayleb, Haarahld, Gray Harbor—all the rest of the Charisians he'd come to know and respect—he hadn't realized how painful immortality could be. Even now, he knew, he'd only sensed the potential of that pain. Over the centuries, if he succeeded in Nimue's mission, he'd come to know its reality, but he was in no hurry to embrace it.

Even if that hadn't been a factor—and it was; he was far too honest with himself to deny that—he'd also come to recognize just how important Haarahld and Cayleb were to the accomplishment of that mission. He'd been extraordinarily fortunate to find a king and a crown prince intelligent enough and mentally flexible enough—and aware enough of their responsibilities to their kingdom—to accept what he'd offered them. Even from the most cold-blooded perspective, he couldn't afford to lose them.

And so, he'd instructed Owl to use the fabrication unit in Nimue's Cave to manufacture exact duplicates of Cayleb's and Haarahld's personal armor. Except that, instead of the best steel Safehold could produce, this armor was made of battle steel. No blade or bullet could penetrate it. Indeed, it would resist most round shot, although the kinetic transfer of the impact from something like that would undoubtedly kill its wearer, anyway.

He'd already replaced his own Royal Guard–issue armor. Not because he needed it to keep him alive, but to avoid any embarrassing questions about why he
hadn't
needed it. It would be much easier to explain—or brush off—a bullet that failed to penetrate his breastplate when it should have than to explain why the hole that same bullet had left in his torso wasn't bleeding.

But now he was asking Cayleb to accept what the prince had to think of as “miraculous” armor of his own. And flexible though he might be, Cayleb was still the product of a culture and a religion which had systematically programmed their members for centuries to reject “forbidden” knowledge on pain of eternal damnation.

Silence hovered between them for several seconds, and then Cayleb smiled crookedly.

“I think that's a favor I can grant,” he said. “Ah, are there any…special precautions we should take with this new armor of ours?”

“The only real thing to worry about,” Merlin said, trying—not completely successfully—to restrain his own smile of relief, “is that it won't rust. That may require just a little creative explanation on your part. Oh, and you might want to be a little careful with the edge of your new sword. It's going to be quite sharp…and stay that way.”

“I see.” For just an instant, Cayleb's expression started to blank once more, but then the incipient blankness vanished into a huge, boyish grin.

“So I'm getting a magic sword of my very own, am I?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Merlin said.

“I always wanted one of those. I was younger than Zhan is now the first time I read the tale of
Seijin
Kody and the sword Helm-Cleaver.”

“It's not quite
that
magical,” Merlin told him.

“Will
I
be able to slice right through other people's swords now?” Cayleb demanded with a laugh.

“Probably not,” Merlin said in long-suffering tones.

“Pity. I was looking forward to it.”

“I'm sure you were.”

“Well, does it at least have a
name?
”

Merlin glowered at him for a moment, then laughed.

“Yes, Cayleb,” he said. “Yes, as a matter of fact it does. You can call it ‘Excalibur.'”

“Excalibur,” Cayleb repeated slowly, wrapping his tongue around the odd-sounding syllables. Then he smiled. “I like it. It sounds like a proper prince's sword.”

Merlin smiled back at the youngster. Who really wasn't all
that
much younger than Nimue Alban had been, he reminded himself once more. Cayleb's reaction was a huge relief, but Merlin had no intention of telling him about the other precaution he'd taken.

He'd found a use for the med unit Pei Kau-yung had left Nimue, after all. He couldn't have offered Cayleb or Haarahld the antigerone drug therapies even if he'd trusted the drugs themselves after so many centuries. Having Cayleb running around at age ninety still looking like a twenty-something would have been just a bit awkward to explain. But he'd been able to acquire a genetic sample from the prince, and the med unit had produced the standard antigerone nanotech.

Merlin had injected it one night, five-days before. Keyed to Cayleb's genetic coding, the self replicating nano-machines would hunt down and destroy anything that didn't “belong” to him. They wouldn't extend Cayleb's life span—not directly, at any rate—but he would never again have a cold, or the flu. Or cancer. Or any other disease or infection.

Injecting it without Cayleb's informed consent had been a serious breach of the Federation's medical ethics, not to mention a violation of Federation law. Under the circumstances, Merlin had no qualms about either of those. What mattered was that the young man whose survival he'd come to recognize as critical to the success of Nimue's mission had been given the best chance
of
survival he could possibly provide.

And if, in the process, Merlin Athrawes had selfishly prolonged the life and health of someone who had become personally important to him, that was just too bad.

Prince Hektor of Corisande reminded himself that the Knights of the Temple Lands were doing exactly what he wanted them to do.

It wasn't easy.

“Excuse me, Father,” he said, “but I'm not at all certain we can be ready to move that quickly.”

“Your Highness must, of course, be better informed upon these matters than I am,” Father Karlos Chalmyrz, Archbishop Bahrmyn's personal aide, said politely. “I merely relay the message I was instructed to deliver to you.”

Which, as he carefully did not point out, came directly from Vicar Allayn Magwair.

“I understand that, Father Karlos.” Hektor smiled just a little thinly at the upper-priest. “And I appreciate all your efforts deeply, truly I do. I'm simply concerned about the ability of my admirals and captains to meet the…proposed schedule.”

“Shall I inform Vicar Allayn that you can't do so, Your Highness?” Chalmyrz asked politely.

“No, thank you.”

Hektor smiled again, and reminded himself it truly wasn't Chalmyrz' fault. But assuming Dohlar had been able to obey
its
marching orders from the Temple, the Dohlaran Navy had been in motion for almost two five-days already. The fact that it was going to be hugging the coast all the way across the Harthlan Sea meant the Church's semaphore system could get a message to Duke Malikai from the Temple in no more than a few days. So, technically, Magwair could always adjust its progress at any point up to Geyra, when it was due to head out across the Sea of Justice. Unfortunately, it would require over a month for any message from Hektor to reach
Magwair
, or the reverse, which made any notion of close coordination a fantasy.

“I'll consult with Admiral Black Water this afternoon, Father,” the prince said after a moment. “I'll know better then if it will be necessary to send any messages to the Vicar.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Chalmyrz bowed. “If it should prove necessary, please don't hesitate to inform me.”

“I won't, Father,” Hektor promised.

“I can't do it, Your Highness,” Ernyst Lynkyn, the Duke of Black Water, told his sovereign prince. He was a compact, muscular man with a short, salt-and-pepper beard and an expression which had become increasingly harassed over the past several five-days. “I'm sorry, but a month isn't long enough. It simply can't be done that quickly.”

“I already knew that, Ernyst,” Hektor said. “What I need to know is how much of the fleet we
can
have ready to move by then.”

Black Water squinted his eyes and scratched at his wiry beard. Hektor could almost feel the painful intensity of the duke's thoughts. Black Water wasn't the most brilliant of Corisande's nobles, but he was reliable, phlegmatic, and—normally—unflappable. Hektor had summoned him as soon as Chalmyrz had departed, and the duke had arrived with commendable speed. Now he looked very much as if he wished he hadn't.

“We've got the active-duty galleys almost completely manned now, Your Highness,” he said, thinking aloud, “but at least a half-dozen of them are still in dockyard hands. Mostly for fairly minor things. We should be able to have all of them ready to sail. It's the reserve ships that worry me.”

Hektor simply nodded and waited as patiently as he could.

“Most of the reserve's going to need at least another four or five five-days, minimum, to refit. Then we're going to have to put the crews aboard them, and it's going to take them at least another several five-days to work up. I don't see any way we could have more than ten of them ready to move within the time limit. So, call it sixty galleys. The rest won't be available—not fit to fight, at any rate—for at least another five five-days after that.”

“I see.”

Hektor was scarcely surprised. Galleys laid up in reserve always deteriorated to at least some extent, however careful the maintenance effort. It wasn't at all unheard of for them to become completely rotten in an amazingly short time. Assuming Black Water's estimate was accurate, the dockyard would be doing extraordinarily well to get the entire reserve ready for service once again that quickly.

“Very well, Ernyst,” he said, after a moment. “If that's the best we can do, it's the best we can do. And if everything goes according to plan, it's going to be two months yet before we actually have to commit them to battle.”

“I understand that, Your Highness. It's that bit about ‘going according to plan' that worries me.” Black Water shook his head. “With all due respect, the timing's too tight on all of this.”

“I tend to agree,” Hektor said with massive understatement. “Unfortunately, there's not very much we can do about that. And at least Haarahld's going to have even less notice than we do. I'm sure he has his agents here in Corisande, but by the time they realize we're mobilizing the fleet and get the message to him, we'll already be on our way.”

“I can't say I'm sorry to hear that, Sire,” Black Water said frankly.