by David Weber
And, just to make things worse, the capital’s population seemed to have come to the conclusion that the resistance—their liberators— were the true enemy. Intellectually, Shylair could grasp the crude physical factors involved in that process, yet he was constitutionally incapable of truly sympathizing with anyone who could entertain such a bizarre notion. It involved such a profound rejection of God’s will in favor of such purely selfish, material considerations of this world that he literally could not understand it.
Yet whether he could understand it or not, he’d still been forced to admit its existence and factor it into his own increasingly depressing thinking.
Under Charisian protection, trade was beginning to flourish once more in southeastern Corisande. Goods were flooding the ports, businesses were open, Prince Hektor’s tariffs and import duties (many of which had been heavily increased as he prepared to resist the Charisian invasion) had been slashed, and Charisian investors were clearly on the lookout for opportunities. The capital’s economy had not yet recovered to pre-invasion levels, but it was approaching them quickly, and at a rate which suggested it would soon exceed them.
At the same time, the devastating blow Gahrvai had dealt to Waimyn’s organization had brought all coordinated, centrally managed resistance to an end. A handful of his people might have escaped, but they were too scattered, driven too deeply into hiding, to accomplish much. That had brought the “spontaneous incidents” Waimyn had been carefully nursing to a sudden, knee-buckling halt. What was left were far more often than not outbreaks of pure thuggery, however little Shylair liked admitting that. They were no longer carefully targeted. Indeed, they were so poorly targeted they were virtually random, almost as likely to inflict damage on Temple Loyalists as on the traitors. That was turning a steady trickle of those Temple Loyalists against the people responsible for their own losses. And those responsible for it were also being dealt with ruthlessly by the authorities. Which meant those attempting to resist the occupation were increasingly seen as the source of violence and destruction, while those supporting the occupation were seen as the citizenry’s protection from acts of violence.
It would have taken a Bédardist to explain that chain of logic to Shylair. Surely anyone ought to be able to understand that it was the occupiers’ presence which was provoking the violent response. That being the case, what twisted chain of reasoning could possibly give them credit for suppressing the violence rather than assigning them the blame for having caused it in the first place?
Yet however bizarre he might find the thought, he couldn’t deny that it was happening. And, even more discouragingly, the Regency Council was actually garnering an increasing degree of respect, even among the capital’s Temple Loyalists, for its “restraint.” No one was simply being arrested and tossed into prison “just in case.” Gahrvai’s guardsmen weren’t particularly gentle with those who resisted arrest, but anyone who was arrested was also charged. And no one who’d been charged was punished without a trial. And while they were in prison awaiting trial, they were permitted access to Temple Loyalist clergy and to family members . . . which just happened to knock any rumors about prisoners being secretly tortured neatly on the head.
There’d been quite a few executions, and everyone in Manchyr knew there were going to be more, but the Regency Council had been scrupulous about maintaining at least the semblance of justice.
It had become depressingly clear that there would be no general uprising—not on the scale they needed—in the southeast. There would still be some support, some knots of resistance, and it was probable a substantial portion of the people would exhibit at least passive resistance when the moment came. But none of that could disguise the fact that when they finally launched their own uprising, beginning here in the north, they would be initiating not a general insurrection, but a civil war, right here in Corisande, between those willing to lick the Charisian hand and those still loyal to Mother Church and Prince Daivyn.
And every day only tilts the odds a little more against us,Shylair thought bitterly. Anvil Rock and Tartarian are already moving to expand their tidy little citadel down there in the southeast, and from the sounds of things, Baron Black Cliff is about to sign his soul away and publicly support them.
He shook free of his depressing reflections and nodded to Craggy Hill. “I think ‘disappointing’ would be one way to describe those reports, My Lord, yes,” he said dryly.
“Well, I have a bit of news which is considerably more encouraging, I think,” the earl told him. “It doesn’t have anything to do with anything going on down there in the south, I’m afraid. But Zebediah has finally stopped dancing around.”
“He has?” Shylair sat up straighter, expression suddenly intent, and Craggy Hill smiled. It was not, the prelate thought, an especially pleasant expression.
“Oh, he has, Your Eminence. In fact, I think the dance may have come to more of a complete halt than he realizes.”
“In what way?”
“He’s been very careful to communicate only verbally, by way of personal representatives he trusts,” Craggy Hill said. “Oh, I’ve been in correspondence with him, but none of our letters have contained anything incriminating. We’ve both had excellent reasons to avoid that.”
The earl grimaced, and Shylair snorted. Treachery came as naturally as breathing to Tohmys Symmyns, Grand Duke of Zebediah. If Craggy Hill had been so incautious as to include any open reference to “treason” in a letter to Zebediah, the grand duke would have sold it to Cayleb and Sharleyan the moment it offered him any advantage.
“But,” the earl continued, “he’s finally committed to a definite schedule for supplying us with the new rifled muskets. And he’s said as much in writing.”
“You’re joking!”
“Oh, no.” Craggy Hill’s smile was thinner than ever. “Of course, he didn’t realize he was committing that to me. His correspondence to me is still the very soul of discretion, but he’s had to be a bit more . . . frank in his instructions to those envoys of his. I’ve been aware of that for some time, and I’m afraid his current envoy was brutally set upon and robbed last night.”
The earl clasped his hands in front of him and raised his eyes piously towards heaven for a moment.
“Obviously, I’m investigating, and the envoy—who suffered only minor injuries and the loss of all of his jewels and money—is torn between mentioning the fact that his stolen money belt contained his most recent instructions and hoping to Shan- wei we never catch up with the thieves in question.”
“You think he truly doesn’t realize you already have it—which you clearly do, My Lord?” Shylair asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Oh, he has to recognize it as a possibility, Your Eminence. But it was a very convincing robbery, if I do say so myself. And the thieves were clearly planning to cut his throat to make sure there were no witnesses when he managed to ‘escape,’ which should make him at least a little doubtful about my involvement. He knows I have to know that if I’d had him killed, Zebediah would instantly have smelled a spider- rat and backed away. What he doesn’t know is that I knew—or, rather, strongly suspected—he had those instructions on his person. I don’t think he realized my agents had been able to identify the factor here in Vahlainah who’s been passing Zebediah’s mail back and forth. So he doesn’t know the ‘thieves’ followed from picking up his latest dispatch. As a matter of fact, I’m not positive he’d had time to read it himself, although from some of the things he’s said it’s pretty evident he’s at least generally aware of its contents. Given all that, there’s got to be a huge question mark in his mind where the possibility of my involvement is concerned, but he can’t be certain either way. So he’s probably hoping it really was thieves who’ll be interested only in his money and jewels and simply throw the correspondence away. Or, failing that, that they’ll be bright enough to realize just how dangerous it is and burn it before it can get them killed. The last thing he wants is for my guardsmen to lay the th
ieves by the heels, find Zebediah’s letter to him, and hand it over to me.
“But the critical point is that even if Zebediah thinks I arranged it, even if he decides he wants to back away, he can’t now. I have a letter in his own hand, telling his envoy to tell ‘our friends in Corisande’ he’s prepared to supply weapons for the purpose of resisting the Charisian occupation. Specifically, with rifled muskets diverted from the Imperial Army in Chisholm. Neither I nor anyone else in Corisande is identified in the letter, but his intentions are spelled out quite clearly, over his own signature.”
The bishop executor decided he could easily have shaved with Craggy Hill’s smile, and he felt himself smiling back.
“That letter’s going into my personal strongbox, Your Eminence,” the earl said in a tone of intense satisfaction. “And if Zebediah should happen to prove . . . difficult, I can always gently inform him that I have it. And, of course, that should he continue to prove difficult, it just might find its way into Gahrvai’s—or Chermyn’s—hands.”
Shylair leaned back in his chair once more, and his smile faded into a more sober expression of gratitude.
Thank you, God,he thought. Forgive me for having doubted, for having permittedmyself to feel despair. The Writ says You will deliver Your enemies to justice, using even the hand of the ungodly themselves. I can scarcely pretend the Grand Duke is a godly man, but You’ve given him into our hands, and in the end, we will use that to bring Your enemies to justice.
He closed his eyes briefly, as he made that promise. But even if he’d kept them open, he would never have noticed the tiny remote, perched upon his ceiling, which had just transmitted every word of his conversation with Craggy Hill to a far distant artificial intelligence named Owl.
MAY, YEAR OF GOD 894
.I.
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.