A Mighty Fortress (15 page)

He’s probably right, too,
Thirsk reflected.
Much as I’d like to watch the bastard squirm, I’m still going to have to work with him, so rubbing too much salt into the wounds probably isn’t the very smartest thing I could do. But,
damn,
it felt good!

“As you say, Your Grace,” he said out loud. “And, to be honest, I can’t say I’m completely surprised to hear it. It’s not as if any of us have an unlimited supply of time, is it?”

“No, we don’t,” Fern agreed, and waved his hand at a large armchair set facing his desk. “Please, be seated, My Lord. We have a great deal to discuss.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Thirsk seated himself in the indicated chair and leaned back, his expression attentive. Although Fern’s formal note hadn’t stated the official reason for his summons to the first councilor’s private office, he’d been fairly certain what it was about. Finding Thorast waiting with the first councilor—and looking like a cat- lizard passing fish bones, into the bargain—confirmed the earl’s original surmise. What remained to be seen was exactly how far Thirsk was about to be formally “rehabilitated.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, My Lord,” Fern began after a moment, “Mother Church’s Captain General, Vicar Allayn, determined some months ago that our initial shipbuilding programs required a certain degree of . . . modification.”

Well, that’s
one
way to put it,
Thirsk thought sourly.
After all, it would hardly do to say, “The fucking idiot finally got his thumb out of his arse and realized he’d wasted Langhorne only knows how many marks building
exactly
the wrong damned ships,” even if it
would
be considerably more accurate
.

“Although I’m sure many of the galleys we originally laid down will still prove useful,” Fern continued, “it’s apparent that, as Vicar Allayn has pointed out, we’re going to require a galleon fleet of our own when the time comes to take Mother Church’s war back to the apostate.”

Which is exactly the point
I
made to the moron in my reports—my
detailed
reports—eighteen months ago, if memory serves,
Thirsk reflected.

Of course, it had been made tactfully but firmly—very firmly—clear to him that he was to keep his mouth shut about how long Vicar Allayn Maigwair had totally ignored his own warnings about what Cayleb Ahrmahk’s heavy, gun- armed galleons had done to the Royal Dohlaran Navy’s galleys in the battles of Rock Point and Crag Reach.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the Captain General ordered a major shift in our building plans six months ago,” the first councilor said. “It took some five- days for that change in direction to be integrated into our own efforts here in Gorath”— in fact, it had taken over two months, as Thirsk knew perfectly well— “but we’ve undertaken a large- scale conversion program on existing merchant galleons. Work is well under way on the new ships now, as well, and several of our original vessels are being altered on the ways. Duke Thorast”— Fern nodded in Thorast’s direction—“tells me the first of our converted galleons will be ready for ser vice within the month and that the first of our new galleons will be launching quite soon after that, although it will obviously take rather longer than that to get them rigged and ready for sea. When they
are
ready for sea, however, My Lord, I intend to call upon you to command them.”

“I’m honored, Your Grace,” Thirsk said quietly. “May I ask, however, if I am to command them in King Rahnyld’s ser vice, or in that of the Temple?”

“Does it matter?” Thorast asked, his tone sharp, and Thirsk looked at him calmly.

“In many ways, not at all, Your Grace,” he replied. “If my impression of the number of ships to be manned is correct, however, we’ll have no choice but to impress seamen. Just finding experienced officers is going to be extremely difficult, assuming it’s possible at all, and our supply of experienced
sailors
may well be even more limited, relative to the numbers I’ll require.”

Thorast’s lips tightened. He seemed about to say something, then glanced at Fern and clearly changed his mind.

Probably just as well I didn’t point out that his idiot brother- in- law, Malikai, is one of the main reasons we’re so short of sailors
, the earl reflected dryly.
Especially since he’s done everything he could for the last two years to hang responsibility for that fiasco around
my
neck! And what Cayleb’s privateers have done to our merchant fleet—on his own watch—hasn’t done one thing to help the shortage, either. Not to mention considerably reducing the potential supply of those converted galleons Fern was just talking about.

“And your point is, My Lord?” Fern inquired as if he were totally unaware of Thirsk’s thoughts . . . which he most definitely was not.

“My point, Your Grace, is that it will make quite a bit of difference whether those seamen are being impressed by the Kingdom of Dohlar or by Mother Church. While I realize no one likes to admit it, many of His Majesty’s subjects have little or no compunction about avoiding the Navy’s press gangs, and I regret to say that not a few of their fellow subjects have no compunction about helping them do it. Frankly, it would be unreasonable to expect anything else, I’m afraid, given the common seaman’s lot aboard a ship of war.

“If, however, they’re being impressed for ser vice in
Mother Church
’s name, I think it likely many who might otherwise attempt to avoid ser vice will be more willing to come forward. Moreover, I believe it’s even more likely that those who might otherwise assist the . . . less enthusiastic in avoiding the press gangs are far less likely to do so if that would run counter to Mother Church’s commands.”

Fern frowned thoughtfully. Although the first councilor had never himself served at sea, he had risen to high rank in the Royal Army before turning to a political career. He understood the question Thirsk was really asking.

“I see your point, and it’s well taken, My Lord,” the duke conceded after several seconds. “Unfortunately, I can’t answer it at this moment.”

“May I speak frankly, Your Grace?”

“Of course, My Lord.” Fern sat back in his chair slightly, his eyes narrowing, and Thirsk gave a small shrug.

“Your Grace, I realize Grand Vicar Erek has not yet chosen to decree Holy War against Charis.” Thorast stiffened noticeably, but Fern only sat there, and Thirsk continued in the same calm voice. “Among ourselves, however, as the men who will be responsible for answering Mother Church’s summons when it comes, a certain degree of bluntness is in order, I think. No one in the entire Kingdom can possibly doubt why Mother Church is building such an enormous fleet. Given the Charisians’ actions over the last couple of years, it’s inevitable that Mother Church is going to move openly against Cayleb and Sharleyan as soon as it’s practicable to do so. I’m positive
Cayleb and Sharleyan
realize that, as well, unless all of their spies have been miraculously rendered deaf and blind. That being the case, I believe it would be better to acknowledge from the beginning exactly whom the ships—and their crews—will serve, and why. Pretending otherwise will fool no one, yet may make it more difficult to get the ships manned. Under the circumstances, I would vastly prefer to be able to tell my officers and men what they will be called upon to do from the start.”

There was silence in the office for the better part of a minute. Even Thorast looked more thoughtful than belligerent—for the moment, at least. Finally, Fern nodded slowly.

“Again, I see your point, My Lord,” he said. “And I confess I’m inclined to agree with you. At the moment, however, I have no instructions from the Captain General or the Chancellor in this regard. Without such instructions, it would undoubtedly be . . . premature, shall we say, to begin unilaterally declaring our belief that Holy War is coming. That being the case, I don’t believe we can authorize you to begin impressing men in Mother Church’s name. Not yet, at least. But what I can do is ask Bishop Executor Ahrain to consult with the Captain General by semaphore. I’ll inform Vicar Allayn that I’m in agreement with you on this matter. I’m inclined to think that while the Grand Vicar may not wish to declare Holy War quite this soon, Vicar Allayn”—
or the
rest
ofthe Group of Four, at least,
the first councilor carefully did not say aloud—“will agree that it’s self- evident the fleet is being raised in Mother Church’s ser vice.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Thirsk murmured.

“You’re welcome.” Fern gave him a smile which looked mostly genuine, then turned to other matters.

“Something you may
not
be aware of, My Lord,” he said briskly, “is that the Grand Inquisitor has personally ruled that the new artillery mountings do not constitute any infringement of the Proscriptions. While I’m sure all of us could wish this point had been clarified sooner, all of our new artillery will be modified as it’s cast to incorporate these ‘trunnions.’ In addition, I’ve been informed that a technique has been devised for adding ‘trunnions’ to existing guns. I’m scarcely an artisan myself, so the details of the process don’t mean much to me, but I feel confident that an experienced sea officer like yourself will understand them.

“In addition, we’ll be adopting the new sail plans, and I’ve been informed that our gunsmiths will soon be beginning construction of a new and improved musket, as well. Taken all together, I believe this means—”

Archbishop’s Palace,

City of Tellesberg,

Kingdom of Charis

Another glass, Bynzhamyn?” Archbishop Maikel Staynair invited, reaching out a long arm to lift the brandy decanter and arching one salt- and-pepper eyebrow suggestively.

“I suppose, under the circumstances, it couldn’t hurt, Your Eminence,” Bynzhamyn Raice, Baron Wave Thunder, agreed.

The baron was a large man, with a completely bald head and a powerful nose, who had risen from humble beginnings to his present position on the Royal Council of Old Charis. Although Prince Nahrmahn of Emerald had become the official
Imperial
Councilor for Intelligence, Wave Thunder had been King Haarahld’s spymaster before Cayleb ascended to the Charisian throne, and he continued to hold what was almost certainly the most sensitive of the new Empire of Charis’ intelligence positions. He held that position because he was so very good at what he did, although he’d recently acquired certain advantages he had never previously dreamed might exist.

He and Staynair sat in the cleric’s third- floor study in the Archbishop’s Palace beside Tellesberg Cathedral, listening to the background sounds of the benighted city through the study’s open windows. The night was relatively cool—for Tellesberg in October, at any rate—which was a relief after the day’s heat, and the city noises were muted this late in the evening. They would never quite cease, of course. Not in Tellesberg, the city that never quite slept. But they were definitely diminishing as the night deepened, and the palace was far enough from the eternally busy docks for the noises which continued to be hushed by distance.

The archbishop’s official residence sat in a stately park of just under three wooded, beautifully landscaped acres, which were worth a not- so- small fortune in their own right, given the price of real estate in Tellesberg. The palace itself was a magnificent building, having been built of golden- hued Ahrmahk marble and designed to house one of Mother Church’s archbishops in the splendor appropriate to his high office, but Staynair’s tastes were rather simpler than those of most of Old Charis’ previous prelates. The magnificent furnishings with which his immediate pre de ces sor had filled this study, for example, had been removed early in Staynair’s tenure. He’d replaced them with furniture he and Ahrdyn Staynair, his years- dead wife, had assembled during their lives together. All of that was tasteful enough, but it was also old, comfortable, and (obviously) well loved.

At the moment, Staynair lay tipped back, half lying in a recliner his wife, Ahrdyn, had commissioned for him when he was first ordained a bishop. He’d had it recovered at least twice since then, and from the condition of the fabric, he was going to have to have it reupholstered yet again sometime soon. The reason he was going to have to do that (this time) lay contentedly curled in his lap, purring in happy possessiveness. The snow- white cat- lizard whose claws had shredded the upholstery of the recliner- shaped scratching post with which he had been so obligingly provided—and whose name was also Ahrdyn, despite the fact that he happened to be male—was clearly in no doubt as to who owned who, what ever any silly humans might think.

Now Ahrdyn- the- lizard interrupted himself in mid- purr and raised his head to look disapprovingly up at Staynair as the archbishop leaned far enough to the side to pour fresh brandy into Wave Thunder’s proffered glass. Fortunately for the cat- lizard’s view of the proper organization of the universe, the refilling process didn’t take long, and his mattress’ anatomy settled back into the appropriate position relatively quickly. Better yet, the hands which had been distracted from their proper function resumed their dutiful stroking.

“It’s such a relief to realize that the Empire’s spiritual shepherd is made of such stern stuff,” Wave Thunder observed dryly, gesturing with his glass at the large, powerful hands rhythmically stroking the cat- lizard’s silky pelt. “I’d hate to think you could be readily manipulated—or, God forbid, allow yourself to be dominated!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Staynair replied with a serene smile.