How Firm a Foundation (72 page)

“You know,” he said over his shoulder, never looking away from the water, “back when I was a mere captain, I made the sobering discovery that, contrary to the foolish and romantic belief of more junior officers, the Navy
really
sailed on paper, not water. Or that getting all of the paperwork done and the forms filled out and the
returns properly—and accurately, damn their ink-stained little souls!—tallied was obviously more important than simply, oh, training your gunners or exercising aloft, at any rate.” He shook his head, taking the pipe from his mouth to tamp the tobacco with a thumb while he sighed mournfully. “Little did I realize how much more paperwork was lurking in my future the instant I allowed them to give me
that damned streamer.”

Lywshai chuckled, and Yairley wheeled, putting his back to the windows and pointing an accusatory pipe stem at the younger man.

“Don’t you laugh, Master Secretary! I know who really invented all these reports and forms! You and the rest of your kind, that’s who. It’s all a plot to give employ to people like you! I’m sure if I examine the
Writ
hard enough I’ll find ‘bureaucrat’
listed somewhere as one of Shan-wei’s major demon familiars!”

“Alas, you’ve found us out, Sir.” Lywshai shook his head, expression sad. “And most of my colleagues thought simple sailors would never tumble to the truth! What gave us away? Was it the creation of the new numbers?”

“That
was
a clue,” Yairley said soberly, although his lips twitched as he spoke. “Obviously just another ploy to generate
even more reports for the Admiralty and—especially!—the Office of Supply!”

“I warned the others we were reaching too far with that one, Sir,” Lywshai said mournfully.

“And well you should have,” Yairley said roundly. “In fact—”

He paused as someone knocked on his cabin door. A moment later, Sylvyst Raigly poked his head into the after cabin.

“Ensign—I mean,
Lieutenant
Aplyn-Ahrmahk—is here,
Sir Dunkyn.”

“And why is he there,” Yairley inquired, pointing at the open door, “instead of
here?
” He pointed at the rug covering the after cabin’s deck planking.

“Of course, Sir Dunkyn!” The steward smiled and beckoned to the young officer behind him. A moment later, Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk, his tunic bearing the single silver cuff star of a lieutenant, stepped into the cabin.

“I apologize for
interrupting, Sir Dunkyn,” he said, “but the lookout’s just spotted Channel Point fine on the starboard bow. Captain Lathyk estimates we should round Cape Thol by dinnertime.”

“Excellent!” Yairley smiled, then looked back at Lywshai. “It would appear we’ve gotten on top of your nefarious correspondence just in time, Trumyn. If Captain Lathyk’s estimate is as reliable as usual, we should be anchored
by this time tomorrow. Can you have fair copies of all those dratted reports ready for dispatch by then?”

“I believe so, Sir Dunkyn, although”—the secretary smiled at Aplyn-Ahrmahk—“I
may
have to requisition your flag lieutenant’s assistance to get it all done in time.”

“You may, eh?” Yairley snorted. “Well, in that case, put him in charge of writing up my expense report. With his handwriting,
they’ll never figure out how much we actually spent!”

*   *   *

“I’m glad Hektor’s made it home in one piece again, even if we did miss his birthday,” Cayleb Ahrmahk said. He and his wife and daughter sat on their private terrace—still tyrannized by Princess Zhanayt’s accursed parrot—enjoying an unusually cool Tellesberg evening as they watched HMS
Destiny
through Owl’s SNARCs.

“He hasn’t quite
made it
home
yet, love,” Sharleyan pointed out, and Cayleb snorted.

“You’re the one who keeps telling me that anywhere the Charisian flag flies is just as much Charisian territory as Tellesberg itself,” he pointed out. “In fact, for someone who had the bad taste to be born a Chisholmian, you’re almost rabid about the point! And given that Gorjah’s now a subject monarch of the Empire in good standing,
Tarot is certainly Charisian territory. So there!”

He stuck out his tongue, and Sharleyan shook her head mournfully.

“It always amazes me what a soul of perfect tact and unfailing courtesy you are. Just remember Alahnah’s watching you. The example you set’s going to come home to haunt you in just a year or two. And if there’s any justice in the world, your daughter’s going to grow up to be a
female version of
you
.”

“God, I hope not!” Cayleb shuddered in not entirely feigned dismay at the thought. “On the other hand, I’d probably deserve it. I remember Father’s most deadly parental curse was always ‘May you have children just like mine’!”

“Most parents feel that way, I suspect, Your Majesty,” another voice said in Cayleb’s earplug. “And, speaking as a parent with a little more experience
than you or Her Grace have yet achieved, I can tell you you’re going to find out it
always
comes true. Of course, there are good points about that, too. Especially if you’ve had the wisdom to pick the right spouse to contribute to the mix.”

Sharleyan laughed and shook her head.

“Nahrmahn, don’t try to convince me you don’t dote on all of your children!” she accused.

“Of course I do,” the Emeraldian
prince replied from his study in Eraystor. “You can’t expect me to simply go around admitting that, though. Especially not where
they’re
likely to hear it! I can see why Merlin was concerned about my discovering Machiavelli—although, to be fair, I’d already figured out most of it for myself, and the man’s cynicism about religion is almost worthy of Clyntahn himself—but there’s never a child born
who wasn’t a
natural
Machiavelli where his parents were concerned. The last thing you need to do is give anyone as ruthless and self-centered as a
child
another handle to manipulate you!”

“That may be one of the most cynical things I’ve ever heard anyone say,” Cayleb observed mildly, and it was Nahrmahn’s turn to laugh.

“I didn’t say they weren’t lovable—or
loving
, for that matter—Your Majesty.
I only said children are self-centered and ruthless, and they are. One of the harder tricks, I think, is hammering any other attitude into their brains. Worth it, in the end, but hard. I was luckier than I deserved to be with Felayz, and so far Nahrmahn Gareyt’s turning out pretty well, too, I think. Of course, that’s more Ohlyvya’s doing than mine; I’m afraid I’ve been too occupied as a scheming,
conniving, ruthless practitioner of real politik to contribute to civilizing them the way I really should have. Still, they
are
good kids, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they are,” Cayleb agreed with a smile. “And so is young Hektor, too. Although now that I think about it, he’s not as young as he was, is he?”

“Lieutenant His Grace the Duke of Darcos Sound,” Sharleyan repeated with a smile of her own.
“I’m sure he never saw
that
coming when he sat for his midshipman’s exam!”

“No, he didn’t.” Cayleb’s smile faded as he recalled how Master Midshipman Aplyn had become a member of the Charisian royal family.

“I didn’t mean to bring up an unhappy memory, Cayleb,” Sharleyan said softly, and he shook his head quickly.

“We’ve both lost people we love, Sharley. And like Maikel always says, losing
them is the price we pay for loving them in the first place. But sometimes we’re fortunate enough to find something good coming out of the loss, and that’s what Hektor is. I’d like to say I could take credit for raising a good ‘son,’ but his parents get the thanks for that. I’m just grateful he’s turning out as well as he is. Assuming we can keep him alive, of course.”

He and Sharleyan looked
at one another, eyes momentarily dark with memories of the carnage of the Battle of Iythria’s opening phases.

“We can only try, Cayleb,” Nahrmahn said. “That would be easier for me to say if Nahrmahn Gareyt weren’t getting close to the age when I’m going to have to think about sending
him
off to sea. But it’s true, and I suspect we wouldn’t be doing any of them—or any of our subjects—any favors
if we tried to keep them safely at home. You already knew what naval service was like because your father sent you off to see it firsthand, and that’s been incredibly valuable to all of us over the last few years. For that matter, the tradition that privilege has to be earned by service is one any ruler ought to learn early … and one I’m ashamed to admit I learned at a rather later point in life
than you did. There’s a lot to be said for that Charisian tradition of yours, when you come down to it. I don’t want to see my son traumatized the way Hektor was at Darcos Sound, but I do want him to understand the reality of what war costs and what it’s really all about. And if he turns into half the young man your Hektor is, I’ll be proud to be his father.”

Cayleb and Sharleyan looked at each
other again, and this time their eyes had softened and warmed. It wasn’t often, even now, that Nahrmahn Baytz let anyone far enough inside his armor to see the heart within it. There’d been a time when Cayleb would have been prepared to argue he didn’t have one to
be
seen, but not anymore.

“Well,” the emperor said more briskly, intentionally shifting the subject, “now that Hektor—and Admiral
Yairley, of course—are this close to home, we’ll be able to start taking official cognizance of what happened at Iythria. Have you had any more thoughts on that, Nahrmahn?”

“Not really, Your Majesty.” There was an edge of amusement in Nahrmahn’s voice as he recognized Cayleb’s deliberate return to greater formality. Then his tone sobered. “The really
interesting
question is how Clyntahn and the
rest of the Group of Four are going to react. Especially to Kholman’s and Jahras’ decision to … emigrate.”

“That
is
going to piss him off, isn’t it?” Cayleb’s smile was unpleasant. “Not that he has anyone but himself to blame for it.”

Sharleyan nodded in grim agreement. They still weren’t going to officially “know” about that until Rock Point himself reached home, since
Destiny
had been sent
off as soon as she’d been able to step a replacement mainmast. Partly that was because Staynair wanted to get his initial dispatches home as quickly as possible, but it was also because
Destiny—
like the other ships in company with her—had damage that was going to take a dockyard to put right. Yairley’s flagship had been severely holed below the waterline before
Saint Adulfo
and
Loyal Defender
struck their colors and Master Mahgail and his carpenter’s mates hadn’t been able to find—or plug, at any rate—all of the leaks.
Destiny
’s pumps were working for over twenty minutes in each watch to keep the slow flooding under control, and he’d wanted her in dockyard hands as quickly as possible, so he’d sent her off while Duke Kholman was still struggling with the harshness of the Imperial Charisian
Navy’s terms.

In the end, the duke had decided against calling Domynyk Staynair’s bluff. That had probably been wise of him, since Domynyk hadn’t been bluffing. The high admiral’s patience with those who served the Group of Four had grown increasingly thin as reports of what was happening to Gwylym Manthyr and his people leaked out of Zion. Sharleyan knew Rock Point wouldn’t actually have burned
his surrendered prisoners alive in their own ships (he
was
Maikel Staynair’s brother when all was said), but he
would
have bombarded however much of the city he’d had to to take out his assigned targets, which would have been quite bad enough.

Fortunately, he
hadn’t
had to. Kholman had bowed to the inevitable, ordered Iythria’s garrison to withdraw from the city, and allowed Rock Point’s Marines
and Army battalions to land unopposed. In return, Rock Point had taken stringent precautions to minimize civilian casualties or injuries. There’d still been a couple of incidents with Temple Loyalists who’d attempted to ambush Charisian detachments. Desnairian casualties had been close to a hundred percent in those instances, although Rock Point’s shore commanders had kept their men under iron
control to prevent things from getting out of hand.

They might have found it easier to maintain that kind of control because of the intense satisfaction their men took in the systematic destruction of anything in Iythria that could have contributed to the Desnairian war effort. Every gun had been loaded with quadruple charges and four or five round shot and fired until its tube split, then dumped
into the harbor. Every battery emplacement and powder magazine had been blown up. The shipyards and sawmills and sail lofts and ropewalks which had built and rigged Baron Jahras’ galleons had been put to the torch. Thousands of tons of naval supplies—seasoned timbers, acres of canvas, hundreds of thousands of feet of cordage, endless barrels of turpentine, paint, pitch, varnish, linseed oil,
oakum, thousands of bags of biscuit and tons of preserved meat and vegetables—had gone up in thick, choking columns of dense black smoke. Huge stocks of muskets, cutlasses, pikes, and pistols had been seized and lightered out to the waiting Charisian transport galleons. Several hundred thousand round shot had been loaded aboard barges and hulks, towed into deep water, and then sent to the bottom.
All five of the cannon foundries around the city had been blown up, most of the waterfront warehouses had been burned to the ground, and every one of the surviving fortresses on the islands dotted about the Gulf had been thoroughly demolished. The millions upon millions of marks the Church of God Awaiting and the Desnairian Empire had invested in turning Iythria into one of the anchors of the Group
of Four’s naval power had disappeared in those roaring flames and rivers of smoke, and Kholman had realized what that meant for him personally.

When Sir Domynyk Staynair landed his prisoners (without even attempting to secure the paroles he knew they would never be allowed to honor), the Duke of Kholman and every member of his immediate family had joined Baron Jahras aboard HMS
Destroyer
. Along
with the rest of Staynair’s fleet, the fugitives were perhaps a five-day and a half behind
Destiny
.