By Heresies Distressed

by David Weber

  The new-model weapons had longer gun tubes, but they also had reduced bores, so they weighed no more than the older guns. The change hadn’t made much difference where the upper-deck carronades were concerned, but it had given the much longer and heavier main-deck guns greater muzzle velocity and striking power, despite the reduction in each shot’s weight by almost eight pounds.

  The change had its downsides, of course. The most prominent one was that it had introduced at least some ammunition complications, since the older galleons still mounted their original converted krakens, whose ammunition was not interchangeable with that of the guns mounted aboard the newer vessels.

  Compared to most navies, however, the Charisian Navy’s ammunition arrangements were simplicity itself. Howsmyn and Seamount had settled on a total of four “standard” long guns: the “new-model kraken” with its roughly thirty-pound shot, an eighteen-pounder, a fourteen-pounder (intended specifically for chase armaments, with an especially tight windage to enhance accuracy), and a ten-pounder (for the same role aboard lighter ships). Their carronade “stable-mates” were a fifty-seven-pounder, a thirty-pounder, and an eighteen-pounder. That was an enormous improvement over the “old-model” artillery, which had included no fewer than fifteen “standard” long gun calibers. (Not to mention the fact that guns of nominally the same bore size frequently hadn’t been able to use the same round shot because different foundries’ “inches” had been a different length from one another before King Harahld’s draconian enforcement of the new official standards of measurement.)

  They’d sought to further simplify things by decreeing that each individual ship must mount the same caliber of carronades and long guns, at least for broadside armament. They were willing to be a bit more flexible where the chase armament was concerned, but the fact that all of the broadside weapons fired identical projectiles made both the gunners’ and the purser’s lives ever so much easier. For the moment, at least. Personally, Merlin suspected it wasn’t going to be long before the neat “official establishment” began to leak. As more specialized galleon designs evolved and the differentiated frigate/cruiser and ship-of-the-line/battleship emerged, topweight considerations and designed combat roles were going to begin dictating a reversion to mixed armaments.

  The Corisandians’ rush to improvise as many as possible of the “new-model” guns had left them in a far less enviable position, however, with no time to waste working out any sort of standardized table of naval ordnance. Their new guns appeared to come in no more than one or two calibers, but the conversions with the welded-on trunnions had pressed as many existing guns as possible into service. One of the floating batteries engaged against them in Dairos’ defense had obviously mounted at least three, and possibly four, different calibers, which must have created nightmares for the man responsible for getting the right size and weight of shot to each gun.

  Which, unfortunately, Cayleb reflected, doesn’t keep those guns from being damnably effective when the gunners do get the right shot size.

  “Your Majesty, we’ve just received a signal from General Chermyn.” Gyrard’s polite voice interrupted Cayleb’s thoughts, and the emperor turned to the flag captain.

  “And what did the General have to say?” he asked.

  “Brigadier Clareyk has reported by heliograph, Your Majesty. He has his entire brigade ashore, and the second wave of Brigadier Haimyn’s troops are landing now. Brigadier Clareyk estimates both brigades will be in their assigned positions within the next thirty to forty minutes. An hour at the outside, he says.”

  “Good!” Cayleb’s tight expression lightened slightly.

  One of the new Charisian innovations had been the introduction of the heliograph, using reflected sunlight to transmit messages in what another world in another time would have called “Morse code.” Another had been the construction of specifically designed landing craft. They came in two sizes, with the larger capable of landing field artillery or up to a hundred men at a time, while the smaller (and faster) version could land only forty. Although both designs were capable—theoretically, at least—of making extended independent passages under sail, the shallow draft and flat bottoms designed to make over-the-beach landings possible also made them less than ideal blue-water vessels at the best of times. Sir Dustyn Olyvyr had improved things at least a bit by providing them with retractable leeboards, but the smaller ones (almost half the total) had made the voyage from Charis as deck cargo, and the captains responsible for getting them to Corisande had not been delighted by their assignment.

  At the moment, Cayleb’s sympathy for their unhappiness was limited, to say the least. The deck cargo landing craft had been swayed out the day before to join their bigger, rather more weather-worn sisters who’d made the passage the hard way, and while Dairos’ defenders’ attention was glued to the galleons systematically reducing the harbor’s seaward defenses to wreckage, Clareyk and Haimyn had busied themselves putting their two Marine brigades ashore just out of sight of the town’s fortifications. They had only four batteries of field guns, and no siege artillery at all, to support them, but four thousand rifle-armed Marines wouldn’t need a lot of artillery support.

  “Someone ask Father Clyfyrd to join us. I think it’s time to send another note ashore.” The emperor showed his teeth in a tight smile. “I realize Baron Dairwyn wasn’t especially impressed by his brother-in-law’s letters. Frankly, I wouldn’t have been impressed by anything from Grand Duke Zebediah, either. But the beating his batteries have taken ought to be enough to incline him to see reason even without having Clareyk and Haimyn ashore behind him.”

  “It seems likely, at any rate, Your Majesty,” Captain Gyrard agreed.

  “It better,” Cayleb said in a harder, somehow darker voice. “If we have to storm his town, it’s going to get ugly. I realize our men are better disciplined than most, but even Siddarmarkian pikemen’s discipline can slip if they take heavy casualties. Especially if they take them storming a position everyone on both sides knows couldn’t hold out against them in the end. Besides, even if our people behave themselves perfectly, there are civilians—lots of them, including women and children—in Dairos.”

  “Were you thinking of making that point to the Baron in your note, Your Majesty?” Merlin asked, and Cayleb barked a laugh at his bodyguard’s painstakingly neutral tone.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. But tactfully, Merlin—tactfully. I wasn’t thinking of handling this the same way I handled Earl Thirsk, if that’s the point you were delicately raising. Observe.”

  Father Clyfyrd had arrived, portable writing desk in hand, while Cayleb was speaking. The emperor watched his secretary setting up the desk and pulling out a pad of notepaper. The brisk breeze blowing across the deck caught at the edges of the pad’s sheets, ruffling them exuberantly, and Cayleb quirked an eyebrow at Laimhyn as the priest grabbed the pad, set it on the desk, and jabbed a pair of pushpins through the bottom corners of the top sheet to tame its gyrations.

  “Would it be easier on you if we went below, Clyfyrd?” the emperor asked then with grave courtesy . . . and careful timing.

  “No, thank you, Your Majesty.” Laimhyn’s deadpan expression would have done credit to any trained stage actor, and he shook his head courteously. “By the strangest turn of fate I appear to have just this instant finished tacking down the notepaper. A peculiar coincidence of timing, I’m certain.”

  “Goodness,” Cayleb said demurely. “That is astonishing, isn’t it?”

  A sniff, barely audible over the sound of wind humming through Empress of Charis’ rigging, might have escaped from Laimhyn. Then again, it might have been only the onlookers’ imagination.

  “Truly,” Cayleb said, his expression much more serious, “are you ready, Clyfyrd?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” Laimhyn replied, his tone equally serious, and dipped his pen in the desk’s inkwell.

  “Make sure it’s properly addressed,” Cayleb told him. “Use some of that correspondence of Ze
bediah’s to be sure we get the details straight. And I’ll rely on you to choose a properly polite salutation.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Very well.”

  The emperor cleared his throat, then began.

  “My Lord, your men have fought with a gallantry and determination which deserves only praise and honor, but their position is now hopeless. Your defensive batteries are destroyed or too badly damaged to effectively defend themselves any longer, and my infantry is now ashore in strength and will shortly be prepared to assault your landward defenses. Men who have shown such bravery in action deserve better than to be killed when their position has become obviously untenable, and Dairos is a city, not a fortress citadel. I am confident that neither of us desires to find civilians—especially women and children—caught in battle in the middle of their own town, amid their own homes, churches, and shops. In order to avoid additional and ultimately profitless loss of life, both military and civilian, I once again urge you to surrender your position. I will guarantee civil order, the safety of your civilian population, and the preservation of private property in so far as the exigencies of war allow, and men who have fought as valiantly and steadfastly as your men have this day deserve, and will receive, honorable and correct treatment under the laws of warfare.”

  He paused, as if considering adding something else, then shrugged.

  “Read that back, please, Clyfyrd.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.” The priest read the entire brief message aloud, and Cayleb nodded.

  “I think that should just about do it. Make a clean copy for my signature. And let’s be certain it’s properly sealed, as well as addressed. I don’t want the Baron thinking we dashed it off hastily, now do I?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  Laimhyn bowed to the emperor, and this time he did retire to the shelter of Cayleb’s day cabin to produce the formal note on Cayleb’s personal stationery, complete with the properly correct and ornate calligraphy.

  “There,” Cayleb told Merlin. “You see? No crude threats. Just one reasonable man sending a note to another reasonable man.”

  “Much smoother than your conversation with Thirsk, Your Majesty,” Merlin agreed respectfully. “I especially liked the bit at the end when you didn’t say ‘or else.’ ”

  “Yes, I thought that was well done myself,” Cayleb said with a smile.

  . V .

  The Laughing Bride Tavern,

  City of Tellesberg,

  Kingdom of Charis

  The man who stepped through the Laughing Bride’s front door was plainly dressed. The hot, humid March night was blacker than the inside of a boot, but thunder rumbled out over Howell Bay, and occasional flashes of lightning lit the banks of heavy cloud rolling steadily in across the city of Tellesberg. Even though no rain had fallen yet, the fact that the visitor wore a poncho was certainly understandable, despite the temperature, under the circumstances.

  “Can I help you?” the tavern’s owner asked as he stepped across to personally greet the newcomer. It was late, and with the threatening weather, the Laughing Bride was scarcely packed.

  “I’m looking for someone,” the man in the poncho said. “I was told to ask for Master Dahryus.”

  “Ah.” Something might have flickered deep inside the publican’s eyes. If so, it disappeared as quickly as it had come, like one of the cloud-buried lightning flashes out over the Bay, and he nodded. “He’s taken the private taproom for the evening. Through that arch,” he pointed, “and down the hallway. Last door on the right.”

  “Thank you.” The man in the poncho nodded and headed down the indicated hallway. He paused outside the door of the taproom for just a moment, almost as if he were drawing a deep breath. Then he knocked once, crisply.

  The door opened quickly, and he found himself facing a youngish man dressed like a moderately successful merchant or shop owner.

  “Yes?” the younger man said courteously.

  “I have a message for Master Dahryus,” the man in the hallway said once more.

  If there might have been a flicker of something in the tavern-owner’s eyes, the brief tightening of the younger man’s expression was unmistakable. But he stepped back courteously enough, inviting the other man into the small taproom, then closed the door behind him. There were just under a dozen other men present, and all of them turned their heads, looking at the newcomer with expressions which varied from calmness to obvious uneasiness. In some cases, possibly even fear.

  “Ah, there you are!” another voice greeted the new arrival as yet another man—this one considerably older and rather better dressed than the fellow who had opened the door for him—looked up from a quietly intense conversation with one of the others seated around the small tables.

  “I apologize for my tardiness . . . Master Dahryus,” the newcomer said. “It was a bit difficult to get away without raising any questions.”

  “That wasn’t a criticism,” the man called “Master Dahryus” said reassuringly. “I’m just happy and relieved to see you after all.”

  The man in the poncho bowed slightly, and Master Dahryus’ waving hand invited him over to take a seat.

  “Seriously,” Dahryus continued as the late arrival obeyed his unspoken invitation, “I was beginning to feel a bit anxious. Baron Wave Thunder’s agents have proven even more effective than I’d anticipated.”

  “I’ve noticed the same thing, My Lord.”

  “I believe we might stay with simple ‘Master Dahryus,’ even here,” Dahryus said.

  “Of course.” The man in the poncho colored very slightly, and Dahryus chuckled and reached across the table to pat him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry about it so much, my son. Old habits die hard, and this isn’t exactly something any of us expected to be facing, now is it?”

  “No, it isn’t,” the other man said feelingly, and this time two or three of the others snorted or chuckled in harsh agreement.

  “Unfortunately, we are facing it,” Dahryus continued, “and given that we’ve all just agreed that Wave Thunder’s agents appear to be everywhere, we’d all best get into the habits of successful conspirators. Which is why, even though I realize one or two of you already know one another, I think we’ll avoid using any names tonight. Agreed?”

  Everyone nodded, and he smiled thinly.

  “Very well, my friends. In that case, it’s time we were getting down to business. We have much to discuss—much which will come as a surprise to many of you, I suspect. And, as I promised when first we came together, the time to strike draws rapidly closer. Indeed, if tonight’s meeting goes as planned, that time is almost upon us.”

  The others looked back at him in silence, their expressions a blend of excitement, anticipation, determination, and fear, and his smile grew broader and warmer.

  “Yes, we do indeed have much to discuss and to plan. But first, will you join me in a moment of prayer?”

  “—confident you can see why the arrangements near the convent are critical to our success,” Master Dahryus said some hours later. “And given the location of your manor, you’re definitely the one of us best placed to see to those details. So, if you’re willing to shoulder the responsibility—and the risk—we’ll leave their arrangement in your hands. The most important thing to remember is that none of the rest of us can play our part until those arrangements are solidly in place. If any problem should arise, or if you should discover that you require additional funds or any other assistance, you must let us know promptly so we can adjust our schedule. Father Tairyn will know how to contact me at any time, should there be need. It may take some days for any message from him to reach me, but be assured that it will.”

  “Of course, Master Dahryus,” the man to whom he’d been speaking said, and pushed back his chair. He stood, bowed to Dahryus and the two others who were still present, then left the taproom.

  Even as he stepped through the doorway, the abrupt, torrential rush of a thunderstorm cam
e pounding down on the Laughing Bride’s roof. Thunder crashed suddenly almost directly overhead, shaking the tavern about its bones, and Dahryus shook his head as the door closed behind the departing man.

  “I fear Langhorne is providing an appropriate backdrop for this evening’s meeting,” he said.

  “In more ways than one,” the man who’d arrived late agreed dourly. “I’m not looking forward to the walk clear back to the Palace through this.”

  He twitched his head in the direction of the taproom’s shuttered windows, and the man who’d assumed the name of Dahryus chuckled.

  “At least it should mean you’re unlikely to meet anyone who might wonder where you’ve been, Father,” he pointed out, relaxing his own security rules in recognition that all of those remaining already knew one another’s identities. “In fact, that might be the very reason God provided this little shower.”

  “If He did, I’m sure He knows best, My Lord,” the priest said. “On the other hand, not every task God sends us is equally enjoyable.”

  “No,” Dahryus said, his tone and expression both darkening. “No, it isn’t.”

  “My Lord—I mean, Master Dahryus—” one of the others began, his voice quiet in the rushing-water sound of the thunderstorm.