Off Armageddon Reef (73 page)

Archbishop Erayk tried very hard to conceal his nervousness as he was escorted into the Grand Council Chamber.

He was fairly certain he'd failed.

The taciturn Temple Guard colonel who'd awaited him on the dock as his galley rowed into Port Harbor through snow flurries and the crackle of thin surface ice hadn't informed him of why the archbishop was to return immediately to Zion with him. He'd simply handed him the message—simple, stark, and to the point—requiring him to appear before a committee of the Council of Vicars for “examination.” That was all.

The colonel was still with him…and still hadn't explained.

The two of them stepped past the statue-still Guardsmen outside the Grand Council Chamber's door, and the archbishop swallowed as he saw the four vicars of the “committee” waiting for him.

Ancient tradition said the Archangel Langhorne himself had sat in council with his fellow archangels and angels in that chamber, and it was certainly spacious enough to have served that purpose. Its walls were adorned with magnificent mosaics and tapestries. Portraits of past Grand Vicars hung down one enormous wall, and a beautifully detailed map of the world, four times a man's height, had been inlaid into the facing wall. The entire Council of Vicars could be accommodated comfortably, along with their immediate staffs, within its immensity and the four men actually waiting there seemed small, almost lost.

They weren't seated at the raised table on the dais reserved for the Grand Vicar and the senior members of the Council on formal occasions, although any one of the four of them could have claimed a seat there. Instead, they'd chosen to sit behind a smaller, plainer table, one obviously brought into the Council Chamber for the occasion and set up in the center of the vast horseshoe shape of the richly inlaid tables where their fellows would have sat, had they been present. Nor were they completely alone, for two silent upper-priests in the habit of the Order of Schueler stood behind the Grand Inquisitor's chair.

Erayk Dynnys did not find that fact comforting.

The colonel escorted him down the long, crimson runner of carpet to the table, then stopped and bowed deeply.

“Your Grace,” he said, directing his words to Allayn Magwair, who was the Temple Guard's commanding officer, “Archbishop Erayk.”

“Thank you, Colonel. You may go,” Magwair replied, holding out his ring hand. The colonel bowed once more, kissed the sapphire stone, and departed without another word, leaving Dynnys alone before the four most powerful men in the entire Church.

“How may I serve the Council, Vicar Zahmsyn?” he asked. He was pleased that there was no quaver in his voice, but no one responded. They only gazed at him, their eyes cold and thoughtful, and he felt sweat beading his scalp under his priest's cap.

They let him stand there for altogether too many seconds. His stomach churned, knotting itself in anxiety, and
still
they let him stand.

Then, finally, Zhaspyr Clyntahn tapped a folder on the table in front of him.

“This, Archbishop Erayk,” he said softly, eyes glittering, “is a copy of the dispatches you and Bishop Executor Zherald sent by courier and semaphore from Tellesberg. We read them with considerable interest. Particularly since they seem to be in sharp disagreement with other reports we've received from that city.”

He paused, waiting, and Dynnys swallowed as unobtrusively as he possibly could.

“May I ask what other reports you've received, Your Grace?” he asked.

“You may not,” Clyntahn said coldly. “The Inquisition has its own sources, as you well know. They may not be challenged.”

Dynnys' heart seemed to stop beating for an instant. Then he drew a deep breath.

“In that case, Your Grace,” he said with a steadiness which surprised him just a bit, “may I ask what portions of my dispatches…conflict with those reports?”

“There are several points,” Clyntahn said, still in that cold, precise voice. “We note, for example, that you allowed your intendant to skimp scandalously on his so-called reexamination of potential violations of the Proscriptions. We note that you failed even to rebuke him for permitting a local—and, I might add, suspect, on the basis of his own preaching—cleric to be present during his interrogation of the King of Charis, where he might influence or affect that examination. We note also that you failed to discipline the Bishop of Tellesberg for the crime of preaching heresy from the pulpit of his own cathedral. And we note, in addition, that you somehow inexplicably failed to mention any of these…minor difficulties in your dispatches to the Temple, despite the fact that your attention had been specifically directed to those matters by no less than Vicar Zahmsyn himself before your departure.”

Dynnys tried to swallow again. This time, his mouth was too dry.

“These are serious charges, Archbishop,” Trynair said. His voice was only marginally less cold than Clyntahn's. “Should they be sustained before a Court of Inquisition, the penalties which attach to them will be severe.”

“Your Grace,” Dynnys replied hoarsely, “it was not my intention to mislead you or the Council, or the Inquisition. My judgment, formed there in Tellesberg, was that Father Paityr had, indeed, very carefully considered his initial rulings. And while Bishop Maikel may have chosen his words poorly in one or two of his sermons, my reading of the text of those sermons was that they did not approach the threshold of
heresy
. I assure you, if they had, I would have removed him from his see immediately.”

“It was indeed your intention to mislead us.” Clyntahn's voice was no longer cold; it was harsh, biting. “What remains to be discovered is whether it was no more than an effort to protect your own incompetent arse or whether it goes deeper than that. In either case,
Archbishop
, you've lied to Mother Church, and you
will
suffer the consequences for your actions.”

Dynnys looked at the Grand Inquisitor mutely, unable to speak. Then his head snapped back around to Trynair as the Chancellor spoke once more.

“You will face the consequences here,” he said in a voice like doom itself, “but the consequences for Charis will be equally severe.”

Dynnys' eyes widened.

“Within the month—two months, at the most—” Magwair said harshly, “the Kingdom of Charis will be destroyed. The canker of heresy and defiance will be cut out with fire and the sword, and the archbishopric which once was yours will be purged once and for all of these dangerous, heretical elements you have allowed to flourish.”

“Your Grace,” somehow Dynnys found his voice once more, “I beg you. I may have failed in my responsibility to the Temple. It was never my intention to do so, but it may be that I failed despite that. But I swear to you, on my own immortal soul and my own hope of Heaven, that nothing I saw in Charis merits punishment such as that!”

His words hung in the air, almost as surprising to him as to the seated vicars. But the men behind the table only gazed at him, their eyes flat, their expressions unyielding. Then Clyntahn turned and looked over his shoulder at the two waiting Schuelerite upper-priests.

“Escort Archbishop Erayk to the suite prepared for him,” he said coldly.

Haarahld VII looked up from the correspondence on his desk as the Marine sentry outside his cabin door slammed the butt of his half-pike on the deck.

“Midshipman of the watch, Sire!” he announced loudly.

“Enter,” the king replied, and a very youthful midshipman came just a bit timidly through the door, his hat clasped under his arm, and snapped to attention.

“Captain Tryvythyn's respects, Your Majesty,” the youngster half-blurted, “but
Speedy
reports the enemy is coming out!”

“Thank you, Master Aplyn,” Haarahld said gravely.

At eleven, Master Midshipman Aplyn was the youngest of HMS
Royal Charis
' midshipmen. That was a heavy burden to bear aboard any Navy ship, and it was made worse in Aplyn's case by his first name: Hektor. Haarahld was quite certain the boy had been teased unmercifully ever since reporting aboard, but he'd borne up under it well. He was also remarkably serious about his duties, and the king suspected that Captain Gwylym Tryvythyn had sent him with the sighting report as a reward.

“Ah, was that the Captain's entire message, Master Aplyn?” Haarahld asked after a moment, and the boy blushed fiery red.

“No, Your Majesty,” he said, blushing even more darkly. “The Captain asks if you'd care to join him on deck.”

“I see.”

Aplyn looked as if he would have much preferred to evaporate on the spot, and the king was hard put not to laugh outright and complete the boy's destruction. Somehow, calling on decades of experience dealing with foreign diplomats and ambassadors, he managed not to.

“Very well, Master Aplyn. My compliments to Captain Tryvythyn, and I'll join him on deck directly.”

“Yes, Sir—I mean, Your Majesty!” Aplyn got out. He whirled to flee the cabin, but Haarahld cleared his throat.

“A moment, Master Aplyn, if you please,” he said gravely, and the youngster froze statue-still.

“Yes, Your Majesty?” he replied in a tiny voice.

“Master Aplyn, you delivered the Captain's message speedily and well. I don't believe it will be necessary to mention any small…irregularities about our exchange. Do you?”

“No, Your Majesty!” the midshipman blurted gratefully.

“Then you may go, Master Aplyn.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

This time, Aplyn did flee, and Haarahld heard something remarkably like a smothered laugh from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Sergeant Gahrdaner. The Guardsman's face was creased in a grin, and Haarahld cocked one eyebrow at his bodyguard.

“Something amuses you, Charlz?” he asked mildly.

“Oh, nothing in the world, Your Majesty,” Gahrdaner replied earnestly. “Nothing in the world.”

Haarahld arrived on deck ten minutes later. He climbed the ladder to the conning position atop the galley's aftercastle, moving slowly but steadily with his stiff knee. Sergeant Gahrdaner followed him, and Captain Tryvythyn was waiting when he reached the top.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” the captain said.

“Good morning, Captain,” Haarahld replied formally. He drew a deep breath of the fresh spring air, then raised one hand to shade his eyes and looked into the northeast.

Royal Charis
was just south of the chain of islands off Triton Head, leading the centermost of the five columns into which the galley fleet had been deployed. All five columns were barely making steerage way under oars alone, moving just fast enough to maintain formation in the face of the steady breeze out of the northwest.

East Cape, the easternmost of the two capes guarding the entrance to Rock Shoal Bay lay just over four hundred miles west-northwest of their present position, and a chain of scouting vessels extended another sixty miles to the northeast, keeping an eye on the approaches to Eraystor Bay.

That chain was composed of schooners, specifically designed for the Navy by Sir Dustyn Olyvyr, although the shipyards building them hadn't known it. They were shallow-draft vessels, fitted to row if necessary, and small enough to row better and faster than the vast majority of galleys. Armed only with from six to twelve carronades, depending on their size, they were designed specifically to be used as scouts. They were fast, nimble, weatherly, and under express order to run away from any threat.

Now HMS
Speedy
, the northernmost schooner in the chain, had hoisted the signal that the combined Northern Force was sortieing. Haarahld could just see the topsails of HMS
Arrow
, the closest of the four schooners making up the entire chain. The midshipman perched in the lookout platform high up on
Royal Charis
' single mast, on the other hand, had one of the long, heavy spyglasses with which to read the colorful flags which repeated
Speedy
's original signal.

“So, our friends are coming south, are they?” Haarahld was careful to project a note of amusement. “Odd. I'd started to think they were too shy to come to the dance, Captain.”

One or two of the seamen and Marines stationed on the aftercastle smiled, and Captain Tryvythyn chuckled. Like Haarahld, he knew the king's joke, small as it was, would be repeated all over the ship within the hour.

“They aren't in any hurry about it, Your Majesty,” he replied after a moment. “
Speedy
reports their speed at no more than five knots, despite the wind. She also says their formation is…disorderly.”

“At that rate, they won't be up to us before dark,” Haarahld reflected aloud, and Tryvythyn nodded.

“That's my own conclusion, Your Majesty.”

“Well,” the king said slowly, thoughtfully, “I suppose the prudent thing to do is to avoid a decisive action until Prince Cayleb and Admiral Staynair can return. Still, I think it's time we showed our hesitant dance partners the steps, Captain. Be so good as to signal
Tellesberg
. Inform Admiral Lock Island that we intend to pass within hailing distance, and then shape your course for her, if you would.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Master Aplyn!”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Signal
Tellesberg
that we intend to pass within hailing distance.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

“Lieutenant Gyrard.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Come four points to port, if you please. Lay us within hailing distance of
Tellesberg
.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

Orders rang out, and
Royal Charis
' oars quickened their stroke as the royal flagship altered course to close with
Tellesberg
. The columns were only seven hundred and fifty yards apart, and it didn't take long for the two flagships to find themselves side by side, separated by barely thirty yards of water.

“Good morning, Your Majesty!” Earl Lock Island called through his leather speaking trumpet. “How may I serve you this morning?”

“I believe it's time to go and see if these shy and retiring gentlemen are serious about venturing out of their nice, snug harbor, Admiral,” Haarahld called back. “Be so good as to see to that for me, if you would.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. With pleasure.” Lock Island bowed across the gap, then turned to his own officers. A moment later, signals began to break from
Tellesberg
's yardarm while
Royal Charis
turned to resume her original station, leading her own column.

“Well, Captain Tryvythyn,” Haarahld said, watching
Tellesberg
pick up speed as she and the twenty-nine other galleys of the fleet's two port columns headed off to the northeast, “I'm afraid I have some letters and reports I need to deal with. Please inform me if there are any additional signals.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Duke Black Water stood atop
Corisande
's aftercastle, hands clasped behind him, and concentrated on not cursing.

He hadn't really expected today's sortie to go smoothly, but he'd hoped it might go more smoothly than it actually had.

Yet another example of hope triumphing over experience
, he thought sourly.

But that wasn't really fair, and he knew it. No one
had
any actual experience at hammering together three totally separate navies, two of which were accustomed to thinking of one another as mortal enemies, on less than three months' notice. With the greatest goodwill in the world, getting three different fleets coordinated would have been extraordinarily difficult, considering the inherent differences in signals, structure, tactics, and seniority.

Given the fact that “goodwill” was conspicuously lacking, just getting all their ships moving in the same direction on the same day was something of an accomplishment.

He snorted in wry amusement at the thought. Biting as it was, it at least restored some badly needed perspective to his current predicament. And however reluctant this particular arranged marriage might have been, the fact that it had been made by Mother Church (whether she admitted it or not) meant all of its participants had damned well better dig in to make it work. Which they undoubtedly would, given time.

Which, in turn, brought him back to the point of today's exercise.

Prince Hektor, he knew, would be simply delighted if an immediate opportunity to crush the Royal Charisian Navy should present itself. Well, Black Water would, too, but he wasn't going to hold his breath waiting for the chance. He estimated that he had a superiority of approximately two-to-one in hulls over Haarahld's active galley fleet, but there were still those galleons to worry about. And, whatever his theoretical numerical advantage might be, until he could count on his various squadron commanders to at least understand what he wanted them to do, numbers as such didn't mean a great deal.

He turned and gazed out over the panorama which underscored that brutal fact.

His huge force of galleys was spread out across the rolling blue plain of Eraystor Bay in a mob-like formation. The Triton Peninsula lay about twenty miles to starboard; to port, the nearest land was the big near-island known as The Wyvernry, almost four hundred and fifty miles to the southeast. The wind was out of the northwest, brisk enough to lift whitecapped waves of about four feet and move the galleys much more rapidly than they
were
moving. Few of his subordinate commanders, however, seemed to feel any particular need to take full advantage of that wind, despite any exhortations from him. The fleet was like some vast gaggle of sea wyverns bobbing on the surface of the waves and drifting leisurely along. Most of its units appeared to be on approximately the right heading, but that was about the best he could say.

It was relatively easy to pick out the divisions between his and his “allies'” galleys; theirs were the ones falling steadily farther behind. His own squadrons formed the vanguard, exactly as planned, although he was forced to admit that even their stationkeeping was far from perfect. His lead squadron was well in advance of his main formation, for example, and he shook his head.

Donyrt Qwentyn, Baron Tanlyr Keep, was an aggressive, thrusting officer, not the sort to let sailing conditions like these go to waste. Those qualities were to be encouraged, but Tanlyr Keep's disdain for what he considered Emerald's tardiness and lack of enthusiasm was only too evident, and his dislike for Corisande's traditional Chisholmian foes was equally pronounced. Which probably had something to do with the baron's determination to get his ships out in front and keep them there while he showed Mahndyr, Sharpfield, and their “laggards” how a
real
admiral did things.

Black Water had chosen him to command his own vanguard specifically because of those qualities, and Tanlyr Keep had responded by getting
his
ships to sea almost a full hour before dawn, well before anyone else had even cleared the breakwater. He'd opened the gap between him and the rest of the fleet steadily since then, and the hulls of his ships were only intermittently visible from deck level now.