Off Armageddon Reef (77 page)

Thirsk knew Malikai couldn't be pleased to hear White Ford say exactly what Thirsk had been arguing all along. Still, the long, painful voyage to this point seemed to have been capable of teaching even the duke a little wisdom. It was a pity he hadn't had enough of it earlier to gather the sort of information Thirsk had before they ever set out. He might even have had the wit to argue against their proposed route from the outset. Still, Thirsk was a great believer in the proposition that it was better for wisdom to come late than never to come at all.

Of course, the fact that White Ford was an allied fleet commander, not simply one more subordinate, even if the entire Tarotisian Navy amounted to less than a quarter of Malikai's fleet, probably gave his words additional weight.

“Baron White Ford,” Malikai said finally, “I bow to your greater familiarity with conditions in these waters. What matters most is that we reach our destination in a battle-ready condition, and from what you've said, it would seem to me your proposed route is more likely to deliver us in that condition.”

Thank you, Langhorne
, the Earl of Thirsk thought very, very sincerely.
And thank
you,
Admiral White Ford
.

“What do you think, My Lord?” Captain Kaillee asked as he and White Ford stood on
King Gorjah II
's aftercastle and watched the long chain of galleys rowing out of Broken Anchor Bay.

“Of what?” the baron asked mildly.

“What do you think of our allies?”

“Oh.”

White Ford pursed his lips thoughtfully, studying the fleet as he considered his flag captain's question.

His flagship's motion was uneasy, to say the least, but at least the seas had moderated a bit in the two days since the Dohlarans' arrival. The galley's bows threw up a cloud of spray as she drove into a wave, but her sweeps moved steadily, strongly.

The bigger Dohlaran galleys coming along astern moved more heavily. In some ways, their larger size helped, but it was obvious to White Ford that they'd never been designed for the open sea. Their narrow, shoal hulls, typical of coastal-water designs, produced a vessel which was fast under oars but dangerously tender under sail…and less than stable, even in seas this moderate. He doubted they'd ever been intended to operate outside the Gulf of Dohlar, and by his estimate, the odds of their losing at least another half-dozen of them before they reached MacPherson's Lament were at least even.

“I'd say,” he told Kaillee judiciously, “that the sooner that ridiculous flagship of theirs sinks, the better.”

The flag captain's eyebrows rose. Not so much in surprise at White Ford's judgment, but at how openly his admiral had expressed it. White Ford saw his expression, and chuckled without very much humor.

“This entire notion of our ‘sneaking up' on Haarahld from the south is ridiculous,” he said. “Only an idiot would think he isn't going to have scouts posted all along the passage between Silver and Charis. So, in the end, it's going to come down to our combined strength against his combined strength in a head-on attack. Would you agree with that much?”

“Of course, My Lord.”

“Well, if
Thirsk
had been in command of the Dohlarans, he would have found some plausible reason his ships had to continue clear up the coast to the Gulf of Mathyas. Which would have meant we could have taken the entire fleet up through the Anvil, in which case we probably wouldn't have lost
anyone
to simple bad weather. But Malikai's going to stick by his orders, come hell or high water. He's already done that, and I don't see any reason to expect him to change his style now. Which means he's going to command his forces like the landlubber he is. And
that
means Haarahld's people are going to ream us all new ones. Oh,” he waved one hand, “we'll take them in the end. The odds are just too heavy for it to come out any other way. But we're going to lose a lot more ships, and a lot more people, with that idiot giving the orders.”

Kaillee sat back on his mental heels, chewing on his admiral's acid analysis, then sighed.

“What?” White Ford asked.

“Nothing, really, My Lord.” Kaillee shook his head. “I was just thinking how nice it would be if I could come up with a reason to disagree with you.”

The Earl of Thirsk watched the clouds of seabirds and wyverns following the fleet like banks of gunsmoke. He had no idea how many of them made their nests along the deserted coasts of Armageddon Reef, but he'd never seen so many of them in one spot in his entire life. They wheeled and climbed, swooped and dove, exploring the ships' wakes for any scrap of garbage, and the mingled cries of the birds and the high, somehow mournful whistles of the sea wyverns came clearly through the sound of wind and wave, the occasional order and response, the creak of timbers.

The sun was settling into the west, beyond the barely visible smudge of Armageddon Reef. White Ford's warning that more heavy weather was coming had been justified, but they'd been past Demon Head and closing on Anvil Head, heading across the hundred and forty-mile mouth of Rakurai Bay, by the time the fresh heavy swell came rolling in. It had still been more than Thirsk's own galleys and crews were accustomed to—or, at least, than they
had
been accustomed to before beginning this insane trip—but at least they'd had the wind broad on the port beam. That meant they'd been able to ship oars and hold a reasonably steady course under double-reefed sails alone, despite the galleys' heavy rolling.

The difference that had made, even for the lumbering bulk of
King Rahnyld
, had been remarkable. Thirsk still felt like a new-hatched wyvern who'd strayed out into water too deep for it, but he was beginning to think White Ford's advice might actually get them all the way to MacPherson's Lament without losing another ship. They'd already passed Thomas Point, passing between it and the southernmost of the islands known as Shan-wei's Footsteps, which had made everyone happy.
No one
had wanted to take cover in Rakurai Bay if they had any choice at all.

He gazed up at the sky and frowned, wondering if perhaps he'd tempted fate by allowing himself such a dose of optimism. Clouds were building up along the eastern horizon. The breeze had freshened noticeably since noon, as well, and it felt chillier than their steady progress towards the colder waters of Doomwhale Reach could explain.

It was possible the weather was about to turn nasty again, but at the moment,
Gorath Bay
was about thirty miles off the coast, and they should make Rock Point before dawn. Once they'd cleared the point, the coast would curve away from them to the west, giving them more sea room if they needed it. Even better, they were only a couple of hundred miles from Cape Ruin, and the vast stretch of Demon Sound and Heartbreak Bay cut deep into Armageddon Reef south of the cape. The names were far from reassuring, but between them, they offered a sheltered anchorage ample to the needs of a fleet ten times the size of their own, or a hundred…and without stirring up the ghosts which undoubtedly inhabited Rakurai Bay.

Still, he'd
prefer
not to have to anchor anywhere, and—

“
Sail ho!
”

Thirsk jerked as if someone had just poked a particularly sensitive part of his anatomy with a well-heated iron. He wheeled around to stare up at the masthead lookout, and even as he did, he sensed the same incredulous reaction out of every other man on
Gorath Bay
's deck.

The man had to be mistaken, the earl thought. There was absolutely no reason for
anyone
to be traveling through these ill-fated waters unless they'd been ordered to by a lunatic like the one who'd written
his
orders.

“Where away?” Lieutenant Zhaikeb Mathysyn, who had the watch, bellowed.

“Broad on the port beam, Sir!” the lookout shouted back down.

“The man's drunk!” one of the army officers serving as a marine muttered.

Mathysyn appeared torn between irritation at the landsman's criticism and matching incredulity. He glowered at the army officer for a moment, then snapped his fingers and pointed at one of the flagship's midshipmen.

“Take a glass and get aloft, Master Haskyn!” he snapped.

“Yes, Sir!”

Haskyn seized the heavy spyglass, slung it across his back on its carrying strap, and scampered up the ratlines with the nimbleness of his fifteen years. He clambered into the crow's-nest, unslung the glass, and rested it on the crow's nest rail for steadiness while he peered through it for several minutes. Personally, Thirsk suspected the youngster was spending at least part of that time catching his breath.

“It's a single ship, Sir!” Haskyn shouted down finally. “She's making almost straight for us on the wind!”

Thirsk frowned in fresh consternation. Even if a merchant ship had been passing through these waters for some unimaginable reason of its own, no merchant skipper could have a legitimate reason to make for Armageddon Reef. And even if he'd
had
such a reason, a single ship could hardly have failed to spot the galleys' miles-long, straggling formation before he was spotted in turn! Which should have sent him heading in the opposite direction at the best speed he could manage.

Unless, of course, it was a courier ship sent to find them?

He shook his head almost as quickly as that thought occurred to him. They were over five hundred miles south of the course they'd been ordered to follow, and almost three five-days behind schedule. Even if someone had wanted to send them a courier, it would never have looked for them
here
. So what—?

“She's schooner-rigged, Sir!” Haskyn shouted, and Thirsk's heart seemed to skip a beat.

“Repeat that!” Mathysyn's bellow sounded disbelieving, but Haskyn stood his ground.

“She's schooner-rigged, Sir!” he repeated. “I can see her topsails clearly!”

“Get down here!” Mathysyn ordered, and Haskyn obeyed. He didn't bother with the ratlines this time; he reached out, caught a backstay, wrapped his legs around it, and slid down it to thump solidly on the deck almost at Mathysyn's feet.

“Yes, Sir?” he said.

“Are you
sure
it's a schooner?” the lieutenant demanded, almost glaring at the young man.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why?”

“Don't you remember that Tarot-owned schooner we saw when we made port at Ferayd in Delferahk, Sir?” The midshipman shook his head. “There's no mistaking
that
rig, Sir.”

Mathysyn had opened his mouth. Now he shut it again and nodded slowly, instead.

“Very well, Master Haskyn. Present my respects to Captain Maikel and inform him of your observations.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Haskyn bowed in salute and headed for the aftercastle ladder at a run.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but we've just received a signal from
Spy
,” Captain Manthyr said as he stepped past Lieutenant Falkhan into the chart room.

“Have we?” Crown Prince Cayleb asked calmly, turning from the chart table to face him.

“Yes, Your Highness. ‘Enemy in sight,'” he read from a notepad. “‘Bearing from my position west-southwest, distance eighteen miles. Enemy course southwest, estimated speed six knots. Thirty-plus galleys in sight.'”

He lowered the notepad, and the expression on his face was a curious mix of awe and intense satisfaction.

“Thank you, Gwylym,” Cayleb said, without even glancing at Merlin. “Please make certain Admiral Staynair has that information, as well.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Also, request the Admiral to come on board and bring Captain Bowsham with him, please.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Cayleb nodded, and Manthyr came to attention and touched his left shoulder in salute, then departed. Cayleb waited until the chart room door had closed behind him, then, finally, turned to look at Merlin.

“So here we are,” he said.

“Here we are,” Merlin agreed.

“You know, don't you,” Cayleb said with a crooked grin, “that the fleet's starting to think I'm almost as peculiar as you are?”

“Nonsense.” Merlin shook his head with a chuckle. “You explained your logic perfectly.”

“Sure.” Cayleb rolled his eyes, and Merlin chuckled again, louder.

All of Cayleb's captains were already convinced Wave Thunder's putative Tarotisian spies had gotten inside information on the course the Southern Force had been ordered to follow. The tricky part had been allowing for the possibility—probability, really—that Thirsk and White Ford would be able to talk Duke Malikai into following the southern course, instead of the one they'd actually been given, in a way which would explain any changes in their own course which Merlin's “visions” might require.

Cayleb had simply observed at one of the early captains' conferences that only a lunatic would sail directly across the Parker Sea in a fleet of coastal galleys. He'd commented that he himself would have ignored his orders and stayed closer to Armageddon Reef. And, when Merlin confirmed that Thirsk and White Ford
had
managed to talk Malikai around, Cayleb decided during the next meeting with his captains that they were going to “play his hunch” and cover the Armageddon Reef route, instead.

It was unlikely Manthyr was particularly astounded by the fact that the Southern Force had, indeed, followed Cayleb's predicted route, although that obviously didn't keep him from deeply respecting Cayleb's iron nerve in playing his “hunch.” What
had
surprised the prince's flag captain was the unerring—one might almost say uncanny—accuracy with which the prince's “seaman's instinct” had permitted the galleons to intercept that galley fleet on a course which left them perfectly placed to run down on the enemy force.

Of course, he didn't know Cayleb, courtesy of Lieutenant Merlin Athrawes, had the benefit of satellite reconnaissance.

“I hope
Spy
doesn't get too enterprising,” Merlin said, after a moment. Cayleb looked at him, and he shrugged. “She doesn't know she's only out there to explain how we found them. If her skipper gets too close trying to maintain contact overnight, he could find himself in trouble.”

“He knows his job, Merlin,” Cayleb replied. “And it's not as if we've got much choice. Domynyk would probably accept your visions without turning a hair, after this long, and so would most of the original squadron's captains. But the rest wouldn't.”

“And even if they would, all the reasons for not telling anyone else still apply,” Merlin agreed with a sigh.

“Exactly.” It was Cayleb's turn to shrug. “And even more so, now that the Church has declared war on us. We don't need to give them any ammunition for declaring that we associate with demons! As for
Spy
, I don't expect her to get into any trouble, Merlin. But, if she does, she does. Things like that happen in wars.”

Merlin regarded him with a carefully hidden sardonic amusement—and sorrow—Cayleb would never have understood. The crown prince wasn't being callous, just realistic, and for all his youthfulness, he truly did understand the difference between the realities of war and the romanticism of heroic ballads. He simply had no way of knowing that the man to whom he was talking was the cybernetic avatar of a young woman who'd seen her species' entire civilization go down in fire and destruction. If anyone on the entire planet of Safehold knew that “things happened” in war, it was Merlin Athrawes.

“So,” he said, changing the topic, “you feel confident enough to take time to bring Domynyk aboard for a last-minute discussion?”

“Yes,” Cayleb said. “I'm assuming that if
Spy
's sighted them, they've probably sighted her. But even if they have, they can't do a lot about it. I'm sure Father was right about the impact our sudden appearance is going to have on their morale, but they really have only two choices: fight us at sea, or try to find some place to anchor in order to force us to come to them.

“Given how scattered you say their fleet is, they aren't going to
want
to fight us at all. Not until they get themselves reorganized, at any rate, and if
Spy
's estimate of their speed is accurate, just closing up their formation would probably take most of a full day.” The crown prince shook his head. “If that's the best they can manage in this wind, then their bottoms must be even fouler than I'd thought.”

Merlin nodded, reminding himself that “five knots” on Safehold wasn't quite the same thing as “five knots” would have been on Earth, where the nautical and statute miles had been different lengths. For Nimue Alban, “five knots” would have been the equivalent of just over nine and a quarter kilometers per hour or five and three quarters miles per hour. Here, “five knots” was exactly five miles per hour, and that was that.

Given that the current wind conditions hovered between Force Four and Force Five from the old Beaufort scale, that was pretty poor performance. Wind speed was fairly steady at around eighteen or nineteen miles per hour, and Cayleb's galleys could easily make good a speed of nine to ten knots under those conditions.