A Mighty Fortress (117 page)

So, no, he wasn’t prepared to disregard the man’s information and implicit warning. That didn’t mean he was prepared to accept it uncritically, either, but it did fit rather well with the other bits of information he’d been able to assemble. And it would be an eminently reasonable way for Thirsk to proceed.

You’ve singed their beards pretty well at Yu- Shai
, he told himself, still watching the ominous wall of purple- black cloud marching towards him.
And Langhorne only knows how many thousands of marks worth of naval stores and artillery you’ve sent to the bottom. But if Thirsk really has that many ships at sea, it probably
is
time you headed for home. And it’s for damned sure you don’t want to get blown any deeper into the Gulf than you can help!

The problem was that he might not have much control over where he got blown to.

“All right, Raif,” he said. “I don’t think this is going to get any better, and I’d just as soon none of us got dismasted in the middle of the night by something we couldn’t see coming.”

“Oh, I think I could live with that, Sir.”

“Good.” Manthyr bared his teeth, then grimaced. “I smell a lot worse than this. Pass the signal while we’ve still got light enough. Send down the upper yards. Then I want the royals and the topgallants housed and storm canvas ready.”

Mahgail raised one eyebrow. Manthyr obviously did expect the weather to get a lot worse. Either that, or he was suddenly becoming far more timorous than Mahgail had ever seen him before.

He glanced back at the ominous western horizon and decided the admiral had a point.

“Yes, Sir. I’ll see to it at once,” he said.

HMS
Rakurai
, 46,

Gulf of Dohlar

Eighteen hundred miles east of Claw Island, HMS
Rakurai
sailed slowly but steadily west. Night had already fallen, and the Earl of Thirsk stood on
Rakurai
’s quarterdeck, pipe clenched between his teeth, gazing up at a clear, star- strewn sky.

He lowered his gaze from the heavens to another starscape—this one the running lights of a fleet.

His
fleet.

There were forty- two galleons in that fleet, over half the Kingdom of Dohlar’s entire share of Mother Church’s enormous new navy. Twenty- eight were converted merchant galleons, like
Rakurai
herself; the other fourteen, though, were purpose- built
war
galleons, sisters of Sir Dahrand Rohsail’s
Grand Vicar Mahrys
. In fact, as Thirsk had promised,
Grand Vicar Mahrys
was present herself, and flying the streamer of a division commander, at that. Thirsk still thought Rohsail was an arrogant, opinionated, aristocratic pain in the arse, yet there was no denying that the man was a fighter. Thirsk was prepared to overlook quite a lot when a man displayed the sheer guts Rohsail obviously had.

As nearly as he’d been able to estimate the strength of the Charisian squadron, it couldn’t have more than twenty- five galleons. Nor did it have as many schooners as
he
would have sent along on an expedition like this. Since there was no evidence of any sudden shortage of light cruisers on the Charisians’ part, he could only put their absence down as a serious oversight on someone’s part. Which was rather reassuring. It was nice to realize even Charisians could screw up.

The object, Lywys,
he reminded himself,
is to let
them
do the screwing up
.

His lips twitched at the thought, but it was one he made a point of contemplating at least once a day.

The action off Dragon Island had given Bishop Staiphan the ammunition he’d needed to stave off the demands for precipitous action from Thirsk’s political enemies. The Dohlaran Navy might have lost
Prince of Dohlar,
the bishop had pointed out acidly, but its ships had done immeasurably better than anyone else who’d crossed swords with the Imperial Charisian Navy. Under the circumstances, it behooved the authorities ashore to bestir themselves meeting Admiral Thirsk’s requirements so that he could prepare a decisive blow instead of complaining that he wasn’t “trying hard enough.” Thirsk wasn’t certain exactly how Bishop Staiphan had reported the action in his semaphore dispatches to the Temple, but however he’d described it, Allayn Maigwair had come down firmly on the bishop’s side.

And that, as they said, had been that. At least for now.

All well and good,
he thought now.
In fact, better than you ever really expected you were going to get away with before Thorast got you beached . . . assuming you were lucky enough for it to stop there. But now it’s up to you to prove Bishop Staiphan was right to support you. And that means finding yourself some Charisians and pounding the ever living shit out of them . . . which is what brings you three thousand miles from home this beautiful evening. So why aren’t you happier about being here?

There were times, however little he was prepared to whisper that fact to a living soul, when Lywys Gardynyr, the Earl of Thirsk, found himself wondering if the Church of Charis didn’t have a far better understanding of what God truly wanted than Mother Church. Or, at least, than the Group of Four. It was a thought which had gained a greater, more poisonous strength following Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s purge of the vicarate and the formal declaration of Holy War. The stakes were starker than ever, and he didn’t want to think he might be on the wrong side. Didn’t want to contemplate the possibility that his sword might be serving the Dark rather than the Light. But he was who he was—a son of Mother Church, a Dohlaran aristocrat, a vassal of King Rahnyld, and an admiral in the Royal Dohlaran Navy—and all of those people were at war with the Charisian Empire.

He couldn’t change that even if he’d wanted to, and to be totally honest, whenever he remembered Rock Point and Crag Reach... and the ultimatum Prince Cayleb had given him the morning
after
Crag Reach, he
didn’t
want to.

No,
he thought, taking the pipe out of his mouth and tamping the tobacco with his thumb.
Happy or not, pounding the shit out of a few
Charisian
galleons for a change does have a certain appeal, doesn’t it?

He put the pipe back into his mouth, then stuck a sliver of resinous wood into the flame of the binnacle lantern illuminating the helmsmen’s compass card, and used it to relight the tobacco. He puffed until it was drawing properly, then tossed the sliver over the taffrail. It arced from the quarterdeck into the sea like a tiny shooting star, and he looked back over the lights of his fleet once more, nodded in satisfaction, and headed below.

HMS
Dancer
, 54,

Gulf of Dohlar

There were times, Gwylym Manthyr thought, when it would have been far more satisfying to have been wrong. No doubt his reputation as a weather prophet would have suffered, yet he would infinitely have preferred that to facing what was probably the worst storm he’d ever encountered at sea.

Sunset’s purple- black clouds had continued their remorseless advance, and the wind had risen from shrill- voiced wailing, to howling, to a frenzied scream. As he’d feared, the storm’s swelling strength had made it impossible for his galleons to maintain their course towards Claw Island. They’d been forced to lie- to under fore and main storm staysails and goose- winged main topsails. He’d ordered the royal masts and topgallant masts sent down more on a hunch—a feeling—than anything else, but he was glad he had.

He clung to the quarterdeck rail, lifeline snug around his chest, staring up at the heavens, awed despite a lifetime at sea, by the boiling indigo fury. Lightning stuttered and flashed, exploding like Langhorne’s own
rakurai
in long, jagged streaks like cracks between Creation and Hell. The cannonade of Heaven’s own thunder could be heard even through the hell- born wind-howl and the sea’s stupendous, crashing fury. Waves reared thirty feet high and more, with long overhanging crests. The surface of the sea was completely covered with long white patches of foam, lying along the direction of the wind, and wave crests were white explosions of wind- shredded froth. The impact of those mighty waves was shock- like, slamming at the bones and sinews of his ships, and ice- cold rain, beating down so heavily that it actually washed the salt taste of flying spray off his lips, pounded on his streaming oilskins like needle-tipped fists. He could see only three other ships, despite the fiery illumination of the blue- white lightning—the others were obscured by rain, spray, and the mountainous waves themselves.

It was perhaps the single most terrifying, exhilarating moment of his life, and he felt his lips drawing back from his teeth in challenge as he clung to his flagship’s rail and felt her limber, vibrant strength fighting back against the fury of the sea.

He had no business on this deck, and he knew it. He was a flag officer, not a captain, and he held no direct responsibility for
Dancer
’s handling... or survival. He’d never been as fully aware of his passenger’s status as he was at this moment, and he wondered if Captain Mahgail resented his presence on deck. Thought it was a case of a nervous admiral looking over his flag captain’s shoulder?

He hoped not, for the truth was that he had total faith in Raif Mahgail. It was just that on this night, in the teeth of a storm like this, he simply couldn’t stay in his cabin while his wildly swaying cot swung from its deckhead gimbals.

Yet there was another reason he was here, for unless his instincts played him false, this magnificent, malignant monster of a storm had yet to reach its full fury. He’d always heard that storms born in the Great Western Ocean were like no others, and he’d always regarded those claims with a hefty dose of skepticism. This night was turning him into a believer. He’d lived through two hurricanes, neither of them actually at sea, and as he peered into the luridly illuminated heart of this storm’s living fury, he knew it was rapidly approaching that level of violence. And this time he
wasn’t
safe ashore.

Just what I don’t need,
he thought grimly.

He knew the storm drove his galleons deeper into the Gulf of Dohlar with every passing hour. What he didn’t know was whether they’d be able to keep any sail set at all or whether Captain Mahgail would have no choice but to put
Dancer
before the wind under bare poles. A landsman might not believe a ship could actually make headway without a single scrap of canvas set, but the wind resistance of her standing rigging and furled sails would be more than enough to drive her in conditions like these, while any sail she might have set—even the triple thickness of a storm staysail—could carry away like so much tissue at any moment, potentially inflicting serious damage aloft.

At the moment, despite the storm’s roaring violence, it was clear to his experienced eye that
Dancer
was in no immediate danger. She might stagger, shaking her head like a belligerent drunk, as another huge sea hurled itself upon her, sweeping in green and cream fury across her decks. She might lurch drunkenly, might groan and creak in every plank and timber while wind shrieked through her shrouds. And he knew the pumps were working, dealing with the water which managed to spurt around the edges of even the most tightly sealed gun-port, find its way through the most closely covered hatch gratings. No doubt more water was finding its way through her seams as she worked in the violent seaway, as well, but that didn’t concern him. It was only another indication of her true strength, the limber toughness that let her flex and bend, yielding
just
enough to the forces pounding at her hull.

But however well she might endure the sea’s fury, she couldn’t stand motionless in its face. He couldn’t see the land spreading away, hundreds of miles to the north and south, as the continents of West Haven and Howard reached out to envelop his ships, yet he knew it was there.

One thing at a time, Gwylym
, he told himself.
One thing at a time. First we survive . . .
then
we worry about Thirsk. Besides
— he felt himself baring his teeth once more—
if he’s at sea on a night like this with that bunch of pressed landsmen of his, he’s got enough things of his own to worry about to be leaving us the hell alone!

Tellesberg Cathedral,

City of Tellesberg,

Kingdom of Old Charis

Merlin Athrawes suspected Empress Sharleyan was going to have a few pungent things to say to him once she figured out what was going on. For that matter, he was fairly confident he’d deserve the empress’ pointed observations about his character, if not the ones she might tack on about his intellect. He was prepared to take that as it came, however.

Besides, Cayleb was right,
Merlin thought grimly, glancing up at the multi-chromatic brilliance of the cathedral’s stained glass, lit by Tellesberg’s morning sun.
The
last
thing she needs today, of
all
days, is that sort of distraction!

At the moment, Archbishop Maikel Staynair, in the full glory of his episcopal regalia, his crown glittering with rubies, stood before the altar, his face creasing with a huge smile, as Her Imperial Majesty Sharleyan Alahnah Zhenyfyr Ahlyssa Tayt Ahrmahk advanced towards him along the runner of rich crimson carpet through the raised voices of the cathedral choir. She was escorted by His Imperial Majesty Cayleb Zhan Haarahld Bryahn Ahrmahk, and in her arms she carried the lustily protesting Crown Princess Alahnah Zhanayt Naimu Ahrmahk.