A Mighty Fortress (97 page)

HMS Chihiro, 50,

Gorath Bay,

Kingdom of Dohlar

Excuse me, My Lord, but I think you’d better see this.”

The Earl of Thirsk turned from
Chihiro
’s stern windows and his contemplation of the ships of his slowly growing fleet. The commander who’d just entered his day cabin was about thirty, with brown eyes, a dark complexion and dark hair, and a particularly luxurious mustache.

“And what, precisely, might ‘this’ be, Ahlvyn?” Thirsk asked mildly. “Sorry, My Lord.” Commander Ahlvyn Khapahr smiled wryly. “It’s a dispatch from the Governor of Queiroz. It was marked ‘urgent,’ so the semaphore station sent it over immediately instead of waiting for the regular afternoon boat.”

“The Governor of Queiroz?” Thirsk frowned. He could think of a handful of reasons the governor of a province of the Harchong Empire might be sending him an urgent dispatch. There was only one that seemed particularly likely, however, and he felt his nerves tightening.

“Very well, Ahlvyn.”

The earl extended his hand, and Khapahr handed him the heavy envelope. Then the commander bowed slightly and withdrew from the admiral’s cabin.

Thirsk watched him go with a smile. One of these days, Ahlvyn Khapahr was going to make a very fine galleon captain. At the moment, however, he was busy creating a position which was something entirely new in the Royal Dohlaran Navy. Thirsk hadn’t yet come up with a term for that “something new,” but back on a planet called Old Earth, it would have been “chief of staff.” One of the things the earl had realized was that he needed a group of assistants to help him handle the immense task of rebuilding the navy which had been destroyed off Armageddon Reef. Khapahr was one of those assistants, and very good he was at his job, too.

Almost as good as he is at inveigling young ladies into spending copious quantities of time in his own charming company.
Thirsk shook his head.
That young man is going to go far . . . assuming he manages to avoid getting himself killed in a duel somewhere!

He put that thought aside and opened the envelope. He scanned its contents quickly, and his smile vanished.

He refolded the single sheet of paper and turned back to the windows, gazing out across the bay, but his unfocused eyes didn’t really see it, now. They were looking at mental images of remembered charts, while his mind whirred.

He stayed that way for several minutes, then gave himself a shake, walked across to the cabin door, and poked his head out.

“My Lord?” the sentry stationed there (he was an army corporal detailed to naval ser vice; Thirsk was still trying to get Thorast to agree to form a dedicated marine corps like the Charisian Marines) asked, coming to attention quickly.

“Pass the word for Lieutenant Bahrdailahn and Master Vahnwyk to report to me immediately, please,” Thirsk instructed.

“At once, My Lord!”

Thirsk nodded and turned back into the cabin while he heard the message being passed. He was looking out the stern windows again when Mahrtyn Vahn wyk and Ahbail Bahrdailahn arrived.

“You sent for us, My Lord?” the flag lieutenant said. “Indeed I did, Ahbail.” Thirsk gazed out across the bay for a moment longer, then swung to face them.

“We need to send some messages,” he said crisply. “We’ll need letters to Duke Fern and Duke Thorast, Mahrtyn, with copies to Bishop Staiphan and Admiral Hahlynd, for their information.”

“At once, My Lord.” The secretary crossed to a side table set up as a writing desk, pulled a sheet of paper towards him, and dipped a pen. “I’m ready, My Lord.”

“Good.” Thirsk smiled in approval, then glanced at Bahrdailahn. “Once we’ve gotten the letters off, I’ll also want you to collect Commander Khapahr and the others—and Captain Baiket—for an immediate meeting here, Ahbail.” The earl pointed at the carpet under his feet, and the flag lieutenant nodded.

“I’ll see to it, My Lord.”

“Good,” Thirsk repeated. Then he inhaled deeply, turned back to Vahnwyk, and began to dictate.

“ ‘My Lords’— put in all the proper salutations, Mahrtyn—‘I have the duty to inform you that I have received a dispatch from the Governor of Queiroz informing me that an imperial dispatch boat has sighted Charisian warships and transports passing through the Straits of Queiroz on a northerly heading. The Governor states in his message that he has high confidence in the officer making the report, but that it was impossible for him to obtain a definite count before he was forced to withdraw to evade pursuit by a Charisian schooner. The schooner in question was positively identified as a cruiser of the Imperial Charisian Navy, and not a privateer vessel.’ Underline both ‘positively’ and ‘not,’ Mahrtyn.”

“Of course, My Lord.”

If the secretary was dismayed by the letter’s content, his voice showed no sign of it, and Thirsk smiled approvingly at the crown of his bent head before he resumed.

“ ‘The Harchongese dispatch boat captain reports that he counted a minimum of eight Charisian war galleons and what appeared to be at least that many transport or cargo vessels. It would seem unlikely that imperial Charisian warships have been dispatched this far a field as mere convoy escorts. I believe, therefore, that we must assume the merchant galleons the Governor sighted are, in fact, transports, and that this represents an operation directed against us here in Dohlar or against the Harchong Empire. Given the more advanced state of our naval preparations, I feel this Kingdom is the more probable target, although the possibility of operations against both realms clearly cannot be ruled out.

“ ‘The presence of transports suggests to me that the Charisian intention is to seize a suitable base somewhere in the Sea of Harchong or in the Dohlaran Gulf proper. Obviously, at this point we cannot possibly say which of those possibilities is their actual intention, but I am inclined to believe their most probable destination is Claw Island. It is virtually uninhabited, it is far enough from our own naval bases or those of the Empire to discourage any hasty counterattack upon it, and it would be well placed to threaten the coasts of Queiroz, Kyznetsov, Tiegelkamp, Stene, and even Shwei Bay, in addition to interfering with our own commerce and shipping in the Gulf of Dohlar.

“ ‘The actual distance from Claw Island to Gorath is, of course, in excess of four thousand miles, but I believe it is entirely possible that having secured and fortified Claw Island, an audacious Charisian commander might well seize an unfortified anchorage much closer to us, purely as a forward operating base. I have pointed out in the past the desirability of fortifying the islands of the Dohlar Bank chain.’ ”
That
was going to piss off Thorast, who’d rejected his recommendations in that respect, Thirsk thought, but it still had to be said. “ ‘As things now stand, I cannot guarantee the Navy’s ability to prevent a sufficiently powerful Charisian squadron from seizing such an anchorage on Trove Island or any one of the Trios.

“ ‘It will, obviously, be some time before any warships as far distant as the Straits of Queiroz can pose any threat in home waters. I believe, however, that it behooves us to be as beforehand as possible in dealing with this incursion. I therefore humbly request that we immediately consult with the Harchong ambassador about the possible coordination of our efforts in this regard. In the meantime, Bishop Staiphan and I will consult on how best we may prepare our own forces. I will report to you as soon as he, Admiral Hahlynd, and I have completed our preliminary evaluation of our capabilities and how they might best be utilized in the face of the threat I anticipate.

“ ‘I have the honor to be, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.’ ”

The earl looked back out the windows for a moment, thinking, then shrugged.

“Read that back, please, Mahrtyn.”

“Of course, My Lord.” The secretary cleared his throat. “ ‘My Lords, I have the duty to inform you that I have received . . . ’ ”

HMS Dancer, 56,

Off Claw Island,

Sea of Harchong

Sir Gwylym Manthyr watched the schooner
Messenger
’s topsails as she cleared the mouth of Snake Channel and altered course. He couldn’t see her hull from here, but he could track the white flaw of her sails against the looming brown mountains of Claw Island, and he frowned as he contemplated them.

His greatest concern over Hardship Bay’s suitability as an anchorage was what an easterly wind would do to it. Even a schooner would have a terrible time trying to claw her way out against an east wind. Snake Channel, the bay’s southern entrance, would be usable with the wind out of the northeast- by- east, and North Channel would be usable with the wind out of the southeast- by-east, but a galleon would have trouble making it out of either channel even under those conditions. At the moment, however, the wind (such as there was and what there was of it) was out of the south- south
west,
and
Messenger
settled down on the starboard tack, with the wind almost broad on the beam, and headed for his flagship.

All the rest of his command—fifty- three ships—lay hove- to in Shell Sound, the broad body of water between Green Island and Hardship Shoal. It was oppressively hot, even by Charisian standards. He’d left his tunic in his cabin, yet sweat glued his shirt to his skin, and when he held his hand an inch or so above one of the black- painted quarterdeck carronades, the heat radiated back up against his palm as if from the top of a stove. The awnings rigged above the deck to give the crew some little shade helped, but in Manthyr’s opinion, it was basically the difference between being slowly baked in an oven or broiled over an open flame.

He’d expected heat, but he hadn’t been prepared for heat
this
hot, and the fact that the wind had dropped to no more than a gentle breeze didn’t help. Nor was it going to speed
Messenger
to
Dancer
anytime soon. In this wind, even the fleet little schooner was doing well to make two or three knots with all sail set, and she had the better part of fifteen miles to cover to reach the flagship.

Manthyr looked up at the sun and pursed his lips. Call it five hours—more likely six—and it was already past eleven. He grimaced and stepped back into the quarterdeck awning’s shade. It wasn’t a particularly dense shade, but after the unfiltered, eye- searing sunlight beyond it, it felt like stepping into a cave.

A very
hot
cave.

“Dahnyld?” he said, turning his head and blinking as he looked for his flag lieutenant before his eyes had really adjusted to the relative dimness.

“Yes, Sir?” Lieutenant Dahnyld Rahzmahn responded from somewhere behind him, and he turned towards the voice.

“Ah, there you are!” The admiral shook his head, smiling in wry sympathy. “I was afraid you’d finally been rendered down.”

“Not quite yet, Sir.” Rahzmahn returned his admiral’s smile, although, truth be told, Manthyr’s jest cut entirely too close to reality, in the lieutenant’s opinion. Rahzmahn was a Chisholmian, one of the growing number of Chisholmians being integrated into the Imperial Navy, with exotic (by Charisian standards) auburn hair and gray eyes . . . and a fair complexion that was perfectly happy to burn angry red, blister, or even peel painfully but flatly refused to tan.

“Well, there’s time yet, I suppose,” Manthyr chuckled. It wasn’t that he didn’t sympathize; it was simply that there wasn’t anything either of them could do about it
except
laugh.

“No, Sir,” Rahzmahn agreed. “In the meantime, though, was there something you needed me to do?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Manthyr waved in
Messenger
’s direction. “I imagine it’s going to take five or six hours for her to reach us. Under the circumstances, I thought we might move supper forward and invite Commander Grahzaial to join us this evening. It seems the least we can do after sending him all the way in to talk to these people.”

“Of course, Sir. Do you wish Captain Mahgail to join you?”

“The Captain, Master Seasmoke, and Lieutenant Krughair—no, Krughair will have the watch, won’t he?” Manthyr thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Make it Lieutenant Wahldair and young Svairsmahn. And you, of course.”

“So... six guests, including me?” Rahzmahn said, mentally counting up the names. “I’ll go and tell Naiklos, Sir.” The flag lieutenant smiled again, faintly. “He’s still going to complain that we didn’t give him enough notice, you realize.”

“Of course he is. It’s what he does.”

Manthyr’s answering smile held just a bit of resignation. Raiyhan Hahlmyn, his servant of many years, had been killed at Darcos Sound, and Manthyr missed him badly. Not just because they’d been together for so long, although that was definitely part of it, but also because Hahlmyn had suited him so well. Manthyr’s birth had been as common as even a future Charisian seaman’s came, and Hahlmyn had been a Howell Bay fisherman before he joined the Navy. Personally, Manthyr suspected “Raiyhan Hahlmyn” hadn’t always been the man’s name. There’d been any number of men like that in the Royal Charisian Navy, and that hadn’t changed now that it was the
Imperial
Charisian Navy. As long as a man did his duty and didn’t get into fresh trouble, the Navy was willing to overlook any indiscretions in his previous life. In Hahlmyn’s case, Manthyr had observed that he never voluntarily went ashore in Tellesberg.

What ever might have lurked in Hahlmyn’s past, young Lieutenant Manthyr had always found him a reliable hand and a skilled coxswain. When Lieutenant Commander Manthyr got his first command, he’d taken Hahlmyn with him, first as his personal coxswain and then, later, as his cabin servant. Calling him a “valet” would have stretched a perfectly ser viceable noun far beyond its acceptable limits. Still, he’d been loyal, tough, hardworking, and remarkably good with a cutlass, which had done perfectly well for Gwylym Manthyr.