A Mighty Fortress (121 page)

The good news from the Dohlaran perspective was that discipline had broken down in a surfeit of
aggressiveness,
not hesitation. But the bad news was that Gwylym Manthyr had given them an extraordinarily costly lesson about the difference between an ordered formation and a mob.

The Charisian line had maintained iron discipline, pounding its opponents with deadly accurate broadsides. The smashing power of those heavy Charisian guns had savaged the Dohlaran galleons as they attempted to close, and more than one Dohlaran warship—hammered by the Charisian artillery—had staggered aside, at least briefly. Half the time, it seemed, that had brought them into collision with one of their consorts, and several of them had drifted completely out of the action, locked together by fouled rigging until their chastened crews could get them untangled.

Yet, in the end, not even Charisian discipline could overmatch such superior numbers. Not when their foes were just as willing to fight as they were. Eventually, a degree of order had been sorted out of the chaos, with Sir Dahrand Rohsail taking a leading role in the sorting, and a Dohlaran line of battle had coalesced.
Two
Dohlaran lines of battle, in fact, and the Charisian galleons had found themselves engaged from both sides simultaneously and pounded slowly into ruin.

That had been the end. Not immediately, of course. Charisian seamen were too stubborn to yield easily, and Gwylym Manthyr had been determined to attract as many of Thirsk’s ships onto his own as he could. To inflict as much damage, lame as many of them, as possible.

The brutal engagement had lasted almost four hours—lasted until all four Charisian galleons had been completely dismasted. Until their sides had been beaten in by point- blank cannon fire. Until blood ran from their scuppers, and the remaining gunners could scarcely serve their pieces because of the bodies in their way. They’d inflicted as many casualties as they’d taken—Merlin was certain of that—but their own losses were heartbreaking. It was impossible to be positive yet, even with the SNARCs, but he would be surprised if Gwylym Manthyr’s crews hadn’t taken at least sixty percent casualties before it was all over. He hoped he was overestimating, that the sheer fury of the engagement had caused him to be too pessimistic. Unfortunately, he couldn’t convince himself he had been.

Nor had
Dancer
and her three consorts been Manthyr’s only losses. HMS
Silverlode
had been driven ashore and wrecked at the height of the storm. Half her crew had been lost when she drove onto the rocks amid thirty- five-foot waves; the other half had been rounded up by the Harchong Army . . . who’d killed over half of the survivors in the process. HMS
Defense
had simply foundered, driven over on her beam ends by a huge sea no one could have seen or avoided in the darkness. She’d filled almost instantly and gone down with her entire company. And
Dagger
had ultimately been cornered against a lee shore by a trio of Thirsk’s galleons. Forced to fight against such heavy odds, she’d given a good account of herself before she was forced to surrender, but it was obvious the Dohlaran Navy’s days of letting itself be bullied into allowing Charis to dictate the terms of battle were over. And, finally, HMS
Howell Bay
and HMS
North Bay
were still deep inside the Gulf of Dohlar, trying to work their separate ways back out again without being intercepted.

Of Gwylym Manthyr’s nineteen galleons, including the captured
Prince of Dohlar,
eight had been captured or destroyed by the storm, and two might yet be intercepted before they could break free of the Gulf. The others had reached Claw Island by now, or would reach it shortly, and Captain Pawal, the senior officer left, had received Gwylym Manthyr’s final orders. Given the losses he’d already anticipated, and the obvious Dohlaran strength in the western portion of the Gulf of Dohlar, those instructions had been clear, concise, and unwavering.

It was only a matter of time—and not much of that—before Thirsk moved to attack Claw Island. So it was time to go, and Pawal was ordered to evacuate the Marines and all of the transports, covered by the remaining galleons.

Instead of heading east to return to Old Charis, however, he was to sail
west,
to Chisholm. It would actually be a shorter journey, and given the Dohlaran performance, reinforcing Chisholm had just become a significantly higher priority.

Yet the truth remained that the Charisian expedition wasn’t simply withdrawing, its mission accomplished. Oh, it would have been withdrawing even without the storm. And if it had—if Manthyr had evacuated Claw Island as planned and sailed home again—it would have been a very different matter. But that wasn’t what had happened. For the first time, one of the Church’s subject navies had scored an unambiguous victory over the Imperial Charisian Navy. What had happened off Dragon Island could be argued either way, claimed as a tactical victory by either side. What had happened in the Harchong Narrows could not.

And the truth is,
Merlin told himself unflinchingly,
that Thirsk damned well
earned
that victory. The weather might have let him collect it, but it’s entirely possible we would have gotten hurt even worse if not for the storm. He was closer behind Gwylym than Gwylym realized, and even if his crews were less disciplined than he might have wished, they were full of fight. If he’d managed to get all forty- two of his ships into the approaches to Claw Island the way he’d planned, especially with him right there to impose tactical discipline, while Gwylym had to claw his way out with only nineteen warships and all those transports to protect
...

Manthyr’s decision to fight had prevented that much, at least. In what Merlin privately considered to be Thirsk’s only real mistake of the entire campaign, the Dohlaran earl had decided to take his own damaged ships and their prizes to Yu- Shai in Shwei Bay for repairs before resuming his offensive. In some ways, given the fact that he didn’t know where Manthyr’s other galleons were, it had made sense to avoid the risk that his cripples and captures might be pounced upon by undamaged Charisian warships. In fact, though, Merlin was certain Thirsk’s decision had been shaped more by a desire to show Yu- Shai what the Dohlaran Navy had done to the squadron which had attacked the city. And to ensure that his prizes did get home to Gorath Bay in the end. Not just because they were his trophies, either, although Merlin never doubted Thirsk had at least enough of common human vanity to want to display his prizes as exactly that. No. Those captured Charisian ships were going to be the proof his methods, his strategy, and his tactics actually
worked
. That Charisian squadrons could be defeated . . . and that he was the admiral who could do the defeating.

Maybe I should reconsider that decision not to simply assassinate him,
he thought. He didn’t want to get into the habit of doing things like that but still . .

“At least Sir Gwylym’s still alive,” Sharleyan said into the stillness. She was the only member of the conversation who’d never gotten to know Manthyr personally, but what she had known about him she’d liked. Now she looked across the bassinet at her husband and reached out to lay a comforting hand on his knee. “We have that much,” she reminded him.

“Yes.” He covered her hand with his own, then inhaled deeply and smiled at her. “Yes, we do. And it looks as if Thirsk has forgiven me for marooning him and his men on Armageddon Reef after Crag Reach.”

He actually managed a chuckle, and Merlin snorted mentally. He’d been there when Cayleb delivered his ultimatum to Thirsk, and he knew the emperor had been at least a little anxious about how Thirsk might react the first time Charisians had to surrender to him.

In the event, he’d treated Manthyr and his officers and men with rigorous propriety under the Safeholdian customs of war. His healers had tended Manthyr’s wounded as conscientiously as they had looked after their own, and the surviving officers had been shown every courtesy by their captors. To be honest, that was exactly what Merlin had expected out of Thirsk, although it was a vast relief to have his expectations confirmed.

And it would be an even vaster relief if I could be certain Thirsk was going to be allowed to hang on to them,
he thought grimly.
Which is
another
reason not to assassinate him, damn it
.

He snorted to himself, wondering why it was that he found the thought of assassinating someone he respected, even admired, so repugnant when he would have killed the same man in open battle with barely a qualm.

I guess everyone has to have a sticking point somewhere
.
And it’s not as if there weren’t logical reasons
not
to kill him off. If we did, and if it was an obvious assassination—or even something Clyntahn could simply claim
might
have been an assassination—it would only reinforce the suspicions of everyone who thinks Cayleb had Hektor murdered. But even that’s not the worst of it. Killing him off would only make room for someone else, probably one of his “disciples,” someone who’s already imbibedhis own theories and plans, like Hahlynd. They might not be quite as good as he is, but they’d probably be good enough. And for another, he
has
treated his prisoners decently, at least so far. Can we afford to kill off someone on the other side who seems determined to do that? Especially in the wake of what Clyntahn did to the Wylsynns and their friends?

That was what worried him most, at the moment, he admitted to himself. Would Thirsk be allowed to retain possession of “his” prisoners? Or would someone else be given charge of them?

For the first time, the Church has the opportunity to get its hands on an entire clutch of Charisian “heretics,” and I hope to God they don’t do what I’m afraid they might. Clyntahn’s purge of the vicarate was bad enough. If he decides to turn this into the kind of religious war Old Earth saw entirely too many of, with atrocities provoking counteratrocities, even from
Charisians . . .

“How do you think Clyntahn’s going to respond to this, Merlin?” Lock Island asked, almost as if he’d been reading Merlin’s mind, and Merlin shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “On
so
many levels, I don’t know. But I do know one thing.”

“What?” Cayleb asked when he paused.

“I know we’d damned well better get Seamount and Howsmyn started cranking out those new shells of theirs,” Merlin told him.

Sir Koryn Gahrvai’s Townhouse

and

Royal Palace,

City of Manchyr,

Princedom of Corisande

Sir Koryn Gahrvai walked into his study carrying a glass of Chisholmian whiskey and crossed to his desk. He used his free hand to turn up the wick on the oil lamp one of the servants had lit earlier in the evening and started to set down the whiskey, then stopped abruptly.

There was an envelope on his desk.
He
hadn’t left it there; in fact, he’d never seen it before. On the other hand, he did recognize the handwriting.
That
he’d seen before.

Well,
he thought after a moment
, at least this time there’s no broken glass
.

He finished setting down the whiskey and seated himself. He gazed at the envelope for a few more seconds, then shrugged and picked it up.

As the last time, there were several sheets of paper, but instead of the pair of hand- drawn maps which had accompanied the first letter, there were three. Not of secret rooms in monasteries this time, but of the city of Telitha in the Earldom of Storm Keep. One was a precisely annotated street map, indicating names and addresses. He recognized some of the names already; others, he’d never heard of, but he suspected that when he got around to the rest of the letter, he’d find out who they were. The second map was a diagram of Storm House, the Earl of Storm Keep’s residence, this one marked with neat arrows indicating concealed caches of correspondence and other documentary evidence, and one small suite simply marked “the Bishop Executor’s rooms.” And the third . . .His eyes lit as he saw the ware houses and followed more neat arrows to the areas in which camouflaged crates which had arrived in Corisande by way of Zebediah had been stored.

You know, I didn’t really believe you when you told me about all this,
Seijin
Merlin,
he thought, sipping whiskey before he started reading the letter itself.
Oh, I guess I did intellectually. But deep inside, I never really believed there truly was this vast network of
seijins
scattered around the world. But
— he looked around the study, looked at the closed and locked glass doors leading to the central garden, thought about the sentries around the townhouse—
I don’t see who
else
could’ve gotten in here and left this for me!