Off Armageddon Reef (47 page)

“I told you it wouldn't do any good,” Zhaspahr Clyntahn said grumpily.

The Grand Inquisitor was a portly man, with a head of carefully brushed silver hair and the substantial jowls of a man well accustomed to good food and drink. There were a few gravy spots on his orange cassock as he sat back from the table in Rhobair Duchairn's dining room at last and reached for his wineglass once more.

“Oh, come now, Zhaspahr,” Duchairn said chidingly. He was taller than Clyntahn, and rather more acetic in appearance. “What, exactly, do you expect Dynnys to do? The man's got a broken leg and a broken shoulder, for God's sake! He's scarcely going to go out, hop on a horse or a dragon, and go plowing off through the winter!”

“If he'd been doing his job properly
before
he broke his leg,” Allayn Magwair said harshly, “we wouldn't have this problem now, would we?”

“If we actually have a problem at all, of course,” Duchairn replied in a rather more pointed tone.

“Now, now, Rhobair,” Zahmsyn Trynair said. “Allayn and Zhaspahr may be a bit overly inclined to dwell on the negative, but I think you'd have to admit that
you
have a vested interest in overemphasizing the positive.”

“If you mean I'm aware of the contributions Charis makes to the Treasury each year, you're quite correct,” Duchairn conceded unapologetically. “For that matter, I think all of us are also aware that it's substantially cheaper for our bailiffs and stewards to buy Charisian goods than it is to buy from the Republic or the Empire.”

Clyntahn's snort sounded remarkably porcine, but both Magwair and Trynair nodded, if only grudgingly in Magwair's case.

Any one of the men seated around that table in the comfort of the Temple's warmth was more powerful, even in purely secular terms, than the vast majority of Safehold's dukes and grand dukes. Most of them controlled vast Church estates in other lands and kingdoms, as well, but all of them were the masters of wealthy, powerful fiefdoms in the Temple Lands themselves. In addition to their membership on the Council of Vicars, all of them also held seats on the ruling council of the Knights of the Temple Lands, the official governing body of the Temple Lands. And whether they wanted to admit it or not, all of them were aware that the Charisian manufactories and the Charisian merchant marine could provide the goods—and luxuries—they required at a much lower price than anyone else.

Not to mention the fact that Charis paid at least three or four times as much per capita in tithes every year than any other Safeholdian kingdom.

“None of us wants to kill the wyvern that fetches the golden rabbit, Rhobair,” Trynair said. “But the truth is—and you know it as well as I do—that the time is coming when Charis is going to have to be seen to. It's getting too powerful, too successful, and it's too damned in love with its ‘innovations.'”

“Hear, hear,” Clyntahn muttered, and drank deeply from his wineglass.

Trynair grimaced, but neither he nor either of his other two companions were fooled. Zhaspahr Clyntahn was a glutton by nature, and not just for food and drink, but he was also a dangerously intelligent man, and a very complex one. His was an odd fusion of ambition, laziness, cynicism, and a genuine fervor for the responsibilities of his high office. He could demonstrate furious energy one day and utter lethargy the next, but only a fool took him lightly.

“Zahmsyn's right, Rhobair,” Magwair said after a moment. “Haarahld and his fleabite kingdom are useful. No one questions that. But they're also a danger, and one we can't allow to grow much greater.”

Duchairn grunted in sour agreement. Then he cocked his head with a nasty little smile.

“There are those reports from Father Paityr, Zhaspahr,” he pointed out provocatively.

“Bugger ‘Father Paityr,'” Clyntahn growled. “He and that whole Wylsynn bunch are all pains in the arse!”

Trynair hastily picked up his own wineglass, using it to hide his sudden smile. Magwair was less tactful and let out a sharp crack of laughter. One of the reasons Father Paityr Wylsynn had been packed off to Charis, as all of Clyntahn's allies were aware, was that his father had been Clyntahn's closest competitor for the post of Grand Inquisitor. It had been a very close-run contest, and, in the end, Clyntahn had won primarily because the Wylsynn reputation for reformatory zeal had made a slim majority of the Council nervous.

“If ‘Father Paityr' were doing his job properly, we wouldn't have to pussyfoot around this way,” Clyntahn grumbled.

“Then call him home and replace him,” Duchairn suggested sweetly.

“
Ha!
That'd be a
wonderful
idea, wouldn't it?” Clyntahn half-sneered. “Can't you just see him and his daddy standing up in the Council to complain that I was pressuring him to falsify his reports?”

Duchairn started to launch another jab, then stopped himself and shrugged. After all, Clyntahn was right. That was precisely what young Father Paityr would do, and his father and the other members of his unfortunately powerful family would undoubtedly support him. Reputation for piety or no, most of them wouldn't care one way or the other about the grounds for the dispute. But they would never pass up the opportunity to whittle away at the Group of Four's powerbase in any way they could.

“You probably have a point, Zhaspahr,” he conceded instead, after a moment. “On the other hand, we
are
stuck with his reports.”

“You're right about that,” Magwair agreed moodily.

No one suggested undertaking a little judicious editing of the reports in question, although all of them knew it had been done in the past. But the same political considerations which put simply recalling young Wylsynn out of consideration would have applied to any…liberties they might take with his written reports.

Besides
, Duchairn thought,
the sanctimonious little twerp's almost certainly sent duplicate copies of his reports to his father.

“So
I'm
not going to be able to deal with the problem,” Clyntahn pointed out. “Not anytime soon, anyway.”

“And without being called in by Zhaspahr,
I
can't, either,” Magwair added bitterly.

As if we had the naval power to attack Charis ourselves in the first place!
Duchairn thought.

“Direct action may not be our best course, anyway,” Trynair said. All eyes turned to him, and the Chancellor shrugged. “We've already been…encouraging Hektor and Nahrmahn. Perhaps it's time we began considering who
else
we might encourage.”

Duchairn grunted unhappily at the thought. It wasn't as if the Council hadn't used similar approaches in the past. Nor, as much as he would have preferred to, could he simply dismiss his colleagues' worries over Charis out of hand. As they said, it wasn't so much the
direct
threat Charis represented as it was the threat of Charis'
example
.

“Who did you have in mind?” Magwair asked Trynair.

“We know Hektor's been working on Gorjah of Tarot,” Trynair pointed out. “We could lend our weight to his efforts there. It might be wise to establish at least some preliminary contacts with Rahnyld of Dohlar, as well. And it may be time to at least alert Zherohm Vyncyt in Chisholm.”

“Isn't it a bit early for that sort of thinking? At least where Dohlar and Chisholm are concerned?” Duchairn asked, and Trynair shrugged.

“It may be,” he conceded. “On the other hand, arranging this sort of thing takes time. The distance between the Temple and Charis, or between the Temple and Corisande, for that matter, works against us. If we do decide we need to throw Dohlar's and Chisholm's weight into the scales, it would be wise, I think, to have done the preliminary spadework well ahead of time.”

“Who would you use?” Clyntahn inquired, emerging from his wineglass just long enough to ask the question.

“Zhoshua Makgregair is already in place in Tarot, and he and I discussed this eventuality before I sent him. In fact, I gave him fairly detailed contingency directives. As soon as we get a break in the weather long enough for us to get semaphore messages out, I can instruct him to dust off those directives and get to work on Gorjah.

“In Chisholm's case, Vyncyt is actually making his pastoral visit right now, and he had plenty of experience in the diplomatic service as an upper-priest. He'd understand exactly what our thinking is, and having him broach the subject personally with Sharleyan would certainly carry additional weight, if we decided to do that. Even if we only warned
him
about it, he could give personal contingency instructions to his bishop executor in case we decide we need to bring Chisholm in later. As for Dohlar, I'm thinking about sending Young Harys to Gorath.”

“Ahlbyrt Harys?” Magwair leaned back in his chair with a frown. “Isn't he perhaps a bit
too
young for something like this?”

“I think he's ready,” Trynair disagreed. “And he's already demonstrated a remarkable sensitivity to this aspect of diplomacy. Besides, using someone as young as he is gives us certain alternatives if we decide we don't want to proceed. For one thing, he's young—and inexperienced—enough that we could put down any preliminary exploration of the possibilities to over enthusiasm on his part. And the season gives us an excellent excuse to send him instead of someone more senior. After all, he's got the youth to undertake a trip that long through this kind of winter.”

Heads nodded, Duchairn's among them. A young, inexperienced diplomat who'd misunderstood his instructions, or possibly simply exceeded them in a burst of youthful exuberance, represented a ready-made way out if Trynair should need to disavow any suggestions to Rahnyld IV. Rhobair Duchairn understood that perfectly.

Which wasn't the same thing as saying that he thought it was a good idea. Unfortunately, his hesitance to unleash the Church's full wrath on Charis put him in a clear minority of one, and the Group of Four could not afford to show its many enemies on the Council of Vicars any appearance of internal dissension.

“I understand your concerns,” he said after several seconds, addressing all three of the others. “And, to be honest, I suppose I do share them, myself. But Charis really is the wyvern that catches golden rabbits. If we destroy its maritime power, we destroy the basis for its wealth, and all the advantages that wealth offers to
us
, as well as to Haarahld and his house.”

“So?” Magwair shrugged. “Hektor and Nahrmahn seem eager enough to take Haarahld's place.”

If they could do that
, Duchairn thought acidly,
then they'd already be serious competitors of his, wouldn't they? There's more to Charis' success than simply owning a few ships!

But that wasn't something anyone was prepared to say out loud around this table, was it?

“Then I'll see to setting up the preliminary briefing for Father Ahlbyrt and composing the proper messages to Father Zhoshua and Archbishop Zherohm tomorrow morning,” Trynair said, picking up his own wineglass and extending it to Duchairn.

“But for now, could I trouble you for a little more of that really excellent wine, Rhobair?”

Bryahn Lock Island, Earl of Lock Island, climbed down from the saddle with a sense of profound gratitude which was only slightly flawed by the knowledge that he would have to climb back up
into
it for the return journey. The high admiral was reasonably fit for a man of his years, but he spent too much time on shipboard. There wasn't room aboard a galley for anyone—and especially for an officer of his rank—to get the sort of exercise which kept a man from feeling short winded.

Worse, he thought as he massaged his aching buttocks with a grimace, sea officers spent very little time riding horses. Even those who'd been thoroughly schooled in horsemanship as youngsters—as he himself had been—got precious little opportunity to maintain the necessary skills.

Or the tough arses to avoid saddle sores
, he reflected wryly.

He finished the massage and took a couple of trial steps. Everything seemed to be working more or less the way it ought to be, and he turned to his aide.

“It appears I'm going to survive after all, Henrai.”

“Of course you are, My Lord,” Lieutenant Henrai Tillyer replied gravely, although amusement glinted in his eyes. Lock Island smiled back, even as he reminded himself not to take vengeance on Tillyer for his youthful tolerance for sillinesses like horseback riding.

“I just hope this is all worth the exercise,” the high admiral grumbled.

“Oh, I believe you'll be suitably impressed, My Lord,” Tillyer assured him. “If you'll come this way?”

Lock Island followed in his aide's wake, stumping along the steep path with an air of resignation. Actually, little though he was prepared to admit it to anyone else, it was a pleasant enough walk, despite the steepness. They were over a thousand feet above sea level, and the additional height, coupled with the breeze blowing in off of Howell Bay, was a cool interlude in a typically warm Charisian spring.

The path topped out on a high ridgeline, and a mountain valley stretched out before them. There was an observation tower at the western edge of the valley, where the mountains broke steeply downward towards the bay, so far below. From that vantage point, a lookout could see for the better part of forty miles, and a lookout on the King's Harbor citadel could look straight up the mountain and see any signals from the tower.

Maintaining the observation post was a responsibility of the Royal Charisian Marines, and had been for years. Largely as a consequence, the Marines had gotten into the habit of using the valley and surrounding mountains as exercise areas. Unfortunately, Lock Island acknowledged to himself, they didn't use them for exercises as much as, perhaps, they really ought to.

The Kingdom of Charis had no standing army. The Charisian nobility had its personal retainers, whom the Crown could summon to the national colors in an emergency. But even the most powerful of them had no more than a hundred or so men under his direct, personal command nowadays, and an army of feudal levies had become increasingly anachronistic (and of increasingly dubious value) over the last century or so, anyway. There was also a national militia, of course, but it was undermanned and not particularly well drilled. Confronted by something like a company of Siddarmark pikemen or Desnairi cavalry, a Charisian militia unit wouldn't have been even a
bad
joke.

What the kingdom did have, however, were the Royal Charisian Marines. There were never as many of them as Lock Island would have liked, but they were tough, professional, well-trained, and confident. Indeed, if anything they were
over
confident. Like the Navy, the Marines were accustomed to winning, even against steep odds, and there was no seagoing infantry force in the world which could match them.

Overall, that had served Charis well over the years. The Navy was the kingdom's true defense. Nothing could threaten its people and its territory without first getting past the fleet, after all. But it would have been a serious mistake to think of the Marines as any sort of field army. They seldom if ever deployed in greater than battalion strength, they had no experience at all in large-scale land combat, and they were equipped and trained for the close-quarters fighting aboard ship, not for open field maneuvers.

Yet that, too, was going to have to change. If not tomorrow or the next day, it was still going to have to change soon enough, and that was what brought Lock Island to this cool valley this morning.

“Well, there you are, Bryahn!” a youthful voice called, and the high admiral turned to find Crown Prince Cayleb walking towards him. Merlin Athrawes and Ahrnahld Falkhan followed at the prince's heels, along with a Marine major Lock Island had never seen before, and the earl grimaced.

“I still don't see why we couldn't have done this in a civilized setting, like the deck of a ship,” he complained to his crown prince. “After all, we're already test-firing the first of Ahlfryd's new guns out at sea, so maintaining secrecy wouldn't have been a problem. And, meaning no disrespect, Your Highness, but I'd much rather be standing on my own quarterdeck than here, with my arse burning and that never-to-be-sufficiently-damned horse waiting to take me back down the mountain later.”

“Just getting you up here for a little exercise would be worthwhile all by itself,” Cayleb said with a grin as he reached Lock Island and held out his right hand. The two of them clasped arms, and the crown prince chuckled. “You really ought to make time to spend a few hours in a saddle here and there. Maybe even join me on a slash-lizard hunt or two. You're getting soft, Bryahn.”

“And when you're my age, so will you,” Lock Island retorted.

“Nonsense!” Cayleb disagreed with the cheerfully arrogant confidence of youth. Then his expression sobered.

“Actually, there are some perfectly valid reasons for bringing you up here to show you this particular new toy of Merlin's, Bryahn. For one thing, we've got plenty of room and don't have to worry about targets that sink before we can examine them. For another thing, you can't really appreciate what Merlin's about to show you if you're on a moving deck. And for another, this is where Major Clareyk is going to be working out the best way to use it.”

The crown prince nodded to the Marine major who had followed him and his two bodyguards. The major came quickly to attention and saluted, touching his left shoulder with his right fist. Lock Island studied him for a moment, then returned the salute.

Major Kynt Clareyk was on the young side for an officer of his rank, but he looked both tough and intelligent. And perhaps even more important than that, Lock Island knew, he—like every single man of his command—had been selected for his total loyalty and discretion, as well.

“Well, I'm here now, anyway, Your Highness,” the high admiral said, turning back to the crown prince.

“Yes you are, and so
cheerful
about it, too,” Cayleb observed with another grin. “And since you are, I suppose we might as well get started.”

He turned and began walking towards the parade ground in front of the modest block of barracks built against the valley's steep northern wall. A platoon of Marines waited there under the supervision of a lieutenant and his grizzled sergeant, and all of them snapped to attention and saluted as Cayleb and Lock Island approached.

They looked like any other platoon of Marines Lock Island had ever seen, with one exception. They were smartly turned out in their blue tunics and trousers and broad-brimmed black hats, and they had the typical almost arrogant confidence of men who knew they were elite troops. They were armed with the standard cutlass and boarding ax of the Charisian Marines, but they were also armed with something else, and that was the exception.

“Here, Bryahn.” Cayleb reached out, and a corporal handed him his weapon. “Take a look,” the crown prince invited, handing the same weapon across to the high admiral.

Lock Island took it a bit gingerly. He'd seen matchlock muskets in plenty, of course. They were used on shipboard in the preliminary stages of a boarding action, although they were utterly useless once an opponent with a cutlass or boarding ax got within a few yards. But while it was obvious the weapon in his hands was at least related to a matchlock, it was like no other musket Lock Island had ever seen.

For one thing, it was lighter, despite its length, and the stock and forestock were much sleeker. In fact, the entire weapon had a smooth, slim, wicked look to it, and as he hefted it in his hands, he realized it was enough lighter that it probably wouldn't need the crutch-like brace from which musketeers normally fired their weapons.

All of those aspects, however, were secondary to the difference between a matchlock and
this
weapon's firing mechanism. Instead of the long serpentine arm and lever designed to hold the length of smoldering slow match which was lowered into a matchlock's priming pan when it was fired, it had a much smaller, odd-looking lock. An S-shaped striker held a lump of shaped flint clamped between its jaws, and Lock Island shook his head as he contemplated the elegant simplicity of the concept which had never occurred to anyone else.

He turned the musket over, noting the ramrod—made of steel, not the usual wood—in its carrying well in the forestock. Then he frowned as he found the odd lug protruding from the right side of the barrel behind the muzzle, just in front of the leading edge of the forestock and offset far enough to clear the end of the ramrod easily. He had no idea what
that
was for, but he felt confident he was about to find out, and he handed the weapon back to Cayleb.

“It looks impressive, Your Highness,” he admitted.

“Yes, it does,” Cayleb agreed, returning the musket to its owner. “And it's even more impressive in action. Major?”

“Of course, Your Highness!” Clareyk replied, and nodded to the lieutenant. “Firing positions, Lieutenant Layn, if you please.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Lieutenant Layn acknowledged, and nodded in turn to his sergeant.

That gray-bearded worthy had been waiting patiently, and only the merest hint of a curled upper lip and an exposed canine were sufficient to send the men of Lieutenant Layn's platoon double-timing across the parade ground to the shooting range along its eastern side.

Cayleb and the other senior officers followed at a more leisurely pace. By the time they got there, Lieutenant Layn and his sergeant had the forty-man platoon arranged in two twenty-man lines. The Marines stood spaced about a yard apart, staggered so that the men in the second rank lined up with the spaces in the first rank, facing downrange towards a line of thirty or so human-sized mannequins at least a hundred and fifty yards away.

The mannequins were obviously made of straw, but each of them wore a standard Marine-issue cuirass and helmet.

“What's the best range for aimed fire you've ever seen out of a matchlock, Bryahn?” Cayleb asked, and the high admiral snorted.

“You mean the longest range where I've ever actually seen them
hit
something? Or the longest range at which I've seen them wasting powder
trying
to hit something?”

“Let's stick with actually hitting something,” Cayleb said dryly. “In fact, let's be a little more specific. What's the longest range at which you've ever seen someone with a matchlock actually hit a particular man-sized target?”

“Well,” Lock Island said thoughtfully, his expression much more serious, “that's not really such an easy question. For one thing, I've mostly seen them used at sea. The range is usually fairly low by the time they come into action, and the fact that all the ships involved are moving doesn't help much. Probably the longest range I've ever actually seen a hit scored at would be about, oh, forty yards. I understand volley fire can score hits out to a hundred, even a hundred and fifty yards, in a land engagement, on the other hand. I don't imagine the
percentage
of hits is very high even there, though. And as I understand it, no one's even trying to aim at a specific target at that range; they're simply blazing away in the enemy's general direction.”

“That's about right,” Cayleb agreed. “Generally speaking, effective musket range is about eighty yards. Which is exactly half the range from Lieutenant Layn's front line to the targets down there.”

The crown prince let the high admiral think about that for a moment, then nodded to Clareyk.

“Proceed, Major,” he said, and glanced back at Lock Island. “You might want to put your fingers in your ears,” he suggested.

Lock Island only looked at him for a moment, suspecting a joke. But Cayleb was already putting his own fingers into his ears, and the high admiral decided to follow suit as Clareyk stepped up beside the nearer end of the first of Lieutenant Layn's two lines.

“Load!” he commanded.

Each Marine grounded the butt of his musket, holding it just behind the muzzle with his left hand while his right unbuttoned the cover of the hard leather case on his right hip. He reached into the case and extracted a rolled up twist of paper, raised it to his mouth, and bit off the end. He tipped the truncated paper up, spilling the granulated black powder it held down the muzzle of his weapon, then spat the bullet he'd bitten off after the powder. The empty cartridge paper was stuffed into the muzzle, the ramrod came out of its well and shoved the wadded paper, bullet, and powder charge home with a single strong stroke. Then the rod went back into its place, and the Marine raised his musket, turned it up on its side so that the “flintlock” was down, and struck it sharply once. Then the musket came back upright, held in a port-arms position.

The entire evolution couldn't have taken more than fifteen seconds, Lock Island thought, which was far, far faster than he'd ever seen a matchlock loaded, yet their smooth drill hadn't seemed especially hurried.

“Front rank, take aim!” Clareyk commanded, and the front rank's muskets rose. The brass butt plates pressed into their shoulders, and their right hands cocked the flintlock strikers, which automatically raised the priming pan lids, before settling into place with the index finger curved about the ridiculously tiny trigger.