A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  It would have been even better if Manthyr had been able to administer the same treatment to Gorath Bay, but, fortunately, he showed no signs of lapsing into outright insanity.

  “I agree he’s doing well—extremely well, especially considering that he doesn’t have any access to the SNARCs,” Merlin said. “In fact, the damage he’s already done completely justifies sending him out in the first place. And if the Dohlarans are feeling more confident, after Yu- Shai, the Harchongese aren’t. I just wish there were some way we could get him that access.” The seijin shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s underestimating how quickly Thirsk’s strength is building up.”

  “He may be,” Cayleb conceded. “Unfortunately, as you pointed out to me before Haryl’s Crossing, there are still going to be times when we have information we just can’t figure out how to share with the people who need it. And even though he probably doesn’t realize how badly he’s about to be outnumbered, he’s taking it for granted he will be outnumbered when the moment comes. When you come down to it, aside from telling him exactly where Thirsk is at any given moment, that’s really all we could tell him from the SNARCs, anyway.”

  “I know. I know,” Merlin sighed. “It’s just—”

  “Just that you worry about friends, Merlin,” Cayleb said with a soft, sad little chuckle. “We know. Believe us, we know.”

  .III.

  Imperial Palace,

  City of Tellesberg,

  Kingdom of Old Charis

  I ’m sure Father Ohmahr is on his way, Your Majesty!”

  It was a sign of just how flustered Sairaih Hahlmyn was that she’d slipped and forgotten the proper protocol here in the Kingdom of Old Charis, reverting to the older, more familiar form of address and forgetting that in Tellesberg Sharleyan was officially “Your Grace,” and not “Your Majesty.”

  Not that Sharleyan was in any mood to correct such minor lapses. She was too busy pursing her lips and breathing out—hard—while she squeezed Cayleb’s hand fiercely. The spasm eased, and she dropped her head back on the pillow, panting.

  “He’d better get here soon,” she said then, between pants. “Someone else is going to be here, whether he is or not!”

  “This is ridiculous,” Cayleb muttered, taking a fresh cloth from Sairaih and blotting sweat from Sharleyan’s forehead. “You’re the Empress, damn it! He’s supposed to be here— waiting—when you go into labor!”

  At the moment, he could cheerfully have strangled Father Ohmahr Arthmyn, despite the fact that he was normally very fond of Tellesberg’s leading obstetrician.

  Starting tomorrow,he told himself firmly, Father Ohmahr has a nice suite right here in the Palace, damn it! I’ll keep the thing handy for the next kid, by God! I am not supposed to have to send someone six blocks to a frigging hospital monastary when my wife goes into labor!

  “Don’t panic.” Sharleyan reached across to pat the hand she held with her other hand. “They’re not all that close together yet, and my water hasn’t even broken. There’s time.” Cayleb would have been happier if her tone had sounded a bit more positive and a bit less . . . hopeful. “Besides, he probably expected Sister Frahncys to give him more warning than this. And it’s not his fault I decided to start doing this in the middle of the night, either!”

  “No, but—”

  “Oh, hush!” she commanded, and began breathing deeply once again.

  The contractions were coming closer together, and she wasn’t enjoying it one bit. On the other hand, it wasn’t as bad as she’d been half- afraid it would be. Not yet, at least. And her mother had assured her that women in her family always had easy deliveries. Of course, there was a first time for everything... including hard deliveries. And there had been all that morning sickness....“And now that I think about it, where the hell is Sister Frahncys?” the emperor demanded.

  “Little Tirian,” his wife panted as the fresh contraction eased. “What?!” Cayleb stared at her.

  Sister Frahncys Sawyair, the Pasqualate nun who’d accompanied them back from Cherayth aboard Empress of Charis, was a sister of the Convent of the Blessed Hand, which specialized in pregnancies. Which meant (despite the rote nature of The Book of Pasquale’s teachings) that she was a skilled obstetrician.

  “What in hell’s name is she doing there?” he more than half snarled.

  “My fault!” Sharleyan smiled apologetically while he blotted more sweat. “She wanted to go visit the convent there. With Father Ohmahr right here, I told her it would be all right. In fact, I insisted she go.”

  “You ins—?” Cayleb began incredulously, then made himself stop and draw a deep breath of his own. “I take it when you say ‘insisted’ you mean insisted,” he said instead.

  “Of course she did!” Sairaih’s tone was the exasperated one of someone who’d served Sharleyan since she’d been a little girl. The maid shook her head, taking the cloth Cayleb passed to her and handing him a fresh one. “You know what she’s like, Your Majesty! Stubborn, always knows best, never listens to anyone, always worrying about someone else, always has her own way, never—”

  “I’m sure he’s got the entire catalog, Sairaih,” Sharleyan said dryly. “Not but what you’re right. She did argue, and I did insist.” She smiled crookedly at her husband. “And now that I think about it, I told her I’d tell Father Ohmahr she was going. And I sort of forgot to.”

  “Of course you did.” Cayleb rolled his eyes and snorted. Then he smiled back at her and shook his head. “You do realize you’re probably the only empress in the entire world who could arrange things so there was no one on call when she went into labor? I thought it was the husband who was supposed to be running around like a lunatic!”

  “I am not running around like a lunatic,” Sharleyan told him firmly. “I’ve just been a little . . . absentminded for the last few days.”

  “That’s one way to put it,” he said feelingly.

  “Oh, hush,” she said again. “Besides, I was really hoping this wouldn’t happen until Maikel and—”

  She broke off with another quick smile, and he patted the back of the hand he held and nodded. HMS Dawn Wind was becalmed, still three days out from Dolphin Reach. He and Sharleyan had both hoped the galleon would reach Tellesberg with Maikel Staynair and Merlin Athrawes before their child was born. They’d known the odds were against it when Dawn Wind made an unusually slow passage from Corisande, but they’d still hoped. And now—

  “Um, Cayleb?” Sharleyan said.

  “Yes?”

  “You remember what I said about my water not having broken?”

  “Yes?” he repeated rather more slowly.

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s no longer accurate.”

  “Wonderful.” Cayleb looked across at Sairaih. “You go out that door,” he said, pointing at the royal bedchamber’s ornately carved panels, “and you find Ehdwyrd, and you tell him I said for one of you to find Father Ohmahr now.”

  His voice was completely calm, but Sairaih Hahlmyn’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, Your Majesty!” she squeaked and disappeared like a puff of smoke.

  Cayleb Ahrmahk looked at the lying clock. Sairaih Hahlmyn had been gone for at least two hours, so why did the deceitful device insist less than twenty minutes had passed? He made a mental note to have the royal clockmaker examine its clearly defective gizzards at the earliest possible moment.

  He knew from Sergeant Seahamper’s earlier reports that a sizable clutch of palace servants had gathered outside the royal suite. There were probably at least a couple of fairly experienced midwives out there somewhere, he thought. On the other hand, he didn’t want just anyone—

  The door opened again, abruptly, and he looked up.

  “Well, it’s about time!” He knew he sounded less than gracious, but at the moment, he didn’t really care.

  “I apologize, Your Majesty,” Father Ohmahr Arthmyn said, stepping through the door. “I’m afraid I expected Sister Frahncys to alert me a bit sooner than this.”

&
nbsp; “Not her fault!” Sharleyan’s voice got progressively higher and more breathless, then broke off in another bout of quick, hard breathing.

  “I’m just glad Sairaih found you,” Cayleb said in a less harassed, more moderate tone, looking down at his wife as her hand tightened on his once again.

  “Sairaih?” Arthmyn sounded puzzled, and Cayleb looked back up, eyebrows rising.

  It was a sign of just how focused on Sharleyan he’d been that he hadn’t realized the person following Arthmyn through the door was another priest, not Sairaih. Like Arthmyn, he wore the green- on- green cassock and golden caduceus of an upper- priest of the Order of Pasquale, but Cayleb had never seen him before. He was a tall man, with dark brown hair and brown eyes.

  “And this is?” Cayleb asked a bit brusquely.

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” the stranger said in a tenor voice, bowing deeply, “I’m Father Ahbraim.”

  Cayleb’s eyes widened abruptly as “Father Ahbraim” straightened.

  “Father Ahbraim has been visiting Bishop Hainryk, Your Majesty,” Arthmyn said. “I hadn’t realized he was in Tellesberg until the Bishop sent him to inform me Her Grace had gone into labor. I... haven’t seen Sairaih this evening. Perhaps she passed me on the way here?”

  “Ah!” Cayleb nodded. “She must have. Good evening . . . Father Ahbraim. Should I assume you have some small expertise in these matters?”

  “I’m here primarily as support for Father Ohmahr, if he should feel he needs it,” Father Ahbraim said, reaching up and casually brushing his right ear. “I assure you, however, Your Majesty, that if he should decide to call upon my ser vices you’ll find that I am, indeed, well instructed in this area.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that, Father,” Sharleyan said. Her breathing had eased once again, and she smiled at the newcomer. “I trust Father Ohmahr completely, but I’m glad Bishop Hainryk sent you along, as well.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Father Ahbraim said simply. “It’s an honor—and a privilege—to be here.”

  “You could have told us you were coming, Merlin,” Cayleb said very quietly, some hours later, sitting beside Sharleyan’s bed while he stared down at the incredibly beautiful, red, wizened, fretful, eyes- screwed- shut face of Alahnah Zhanayt Naimu Ahrmahk. His wife was sound asleep, and his dark- haired daughter was snugly wrapped in a tight little cocoon of blankets. There were still traces of her mother’s milk on her tiny, perfect rosebud lips, and he already felt the bone- deep programming of fatherhood sweeping over him.

  “I wasn’t certain I’d be able to,” Merlin replied, equally quietly, through the plug in Cayleb’s right ear as he gazed down through a remote at his sleeping goddaughter. “Finding a way to get me on or off the ship in daylight isn’t something we can do at the drop of a hat, you know. I wanted to be there, and not just because I wanted to see the baby born, either. I trust Sister Frahncys—when Sharley doesn’t absentmindedly send her off on a visit, anyway!— and Father Ohmahr completely, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved I could be there. They’ve both delivered a lot more babies than I have, but neither of them has a direct link to the med computer in my cave. Fortunately, Sharley was clever enough to go into labor in the middle of the night. And Safehold nights are long.”

  “You got back in time?”

  “Like I said, Safehold nights are long. I’m afraid Seijin Merlin’s going to be meditating until sometime around midday, though.” Cayleb could almost feel the wry twitch of Merlin’s lips. “I still don’t have to eat, but at the rate I’m growing and losing hair lately, I need enough replacement organics that I’m actually beginning to develop an appetite.”

  Cayleb snorted, then reached down to trace his daughter’s delicate lips with a wondering fingertip.

  “She’s so small,” he murmured. “She fits in the palm of one hand, Merlin!”

  “I know. But she’ll grow. And with you for a father and Sharley for a mother, I’m sure she’ll be a handful—in quite another sense of the word—when she does, too!” Merlin chuckled. Then his voice gentled once more. “But I know you, Cayleb. However big she gets, she’ll always be small enough to fit into your heart.”

  “Oh, yes,” Emperor Cayleb Zhan Haarahld Bryahn Ahrmahk whispered. “Oh, yes.”

  AUGUST, YEAR OF GOD 894

  .I.

  HMS Dancer, 54,

  Sea of Harchong

  Idon’t like the looks of that, Sir,” Captain Raif Mahgail said quietly. Or, at least, as quietly as he could through the calliope- voiced wind shrilling through HMS Dancer’s rigging and the surge and crash of water as she labored hard to hold her course for Claw Island, close- hauled under courses and reefed topsails.

  “Why on earth not?” Sir Gwylym Manthyr replied ironically.

  The two of them stood on Dancer’s quarterdeck gazing at the western sky. The ship had been beating to windward against a steadily strengthening wind all day. That wind had backed constantly until, by late afternoon, it had been slicing almost straight into the Gulf of Dohlar across the Sea of Harchong. Now, with evening coming on, it was blowing a near gale, and Dancer pitched hard as twelve- foot seas came rolling up under her starboard bow.

  It was evident that they weren’t going to reach the island anytime soon. The sun was setting, although neither of them could see it. The solid wrack of clouds boiling up against the western horizon was like an indigo landmass, its mountain peaks edged in fire as they reared up against the copper-streaked heavens beyond. Manthyr was no stranger to foul weather, and every instinct in his body had its hands cupped around its mouth while it shouted warnings at him.

  This,he thought, is a truly, outstandingly bad situation.

  He and the eleven galleons with him were supposed to be rendezvousing in Hardship Bay with the rest of the squadron to reprovision and regroup. The redoubtable Earl of Thirsk had made dismayingly steady progress preparing his fleet, despite Manthyr’s depredations, and the admiral knew it was time to consider heading back to Old Charis. He’d have to decide one way or the other once he was able to gather all his ships in one place again, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. At the moment, however, it didn’t look like he was going to have to make it quite as soon as he’d thought he would. His eleven ships were six hundred miles from Claw Island, almost equidistant between the Harchong Empire’s provinces of Tiegelkamp and Queiroz in the mouth of the Gulf of Dohlar, and with the wind where it was, and the way the weather was making up, they were probably about as far west as they were going to get.

  Until the weather cleared, at least.

  The good news, such as it was, was that they could afford to be blown a good seventeen hundred miles east before they’d run into the western coast of Shwei Province. The bad news was that if the wind continued backing, they were going to find themselves being driven towards the Tiegelkamp coast, and that would give them far less sea room before they found themselves off a lee shore. And the even worse news was that even if the wind didn’t back, every mile eastward that it forced them would be directly away from Claw Island . . . and toward the Earl of Thirsk. Manthyr didn’t know exactly what Thirsk was up to at the moment, but he suspected he wouldn’t have liked it. According to the Harchongese fishermen whose catch Flash had purchased for the squadron last five- day, Thirsk had upward of thirty- five galleons in full commission now, and he was beginning to extend his “training cruises” well beyond Hankey Sound.

  You have to take that kind of “intelligence” with a grain of salt, Gwylym,he reminded himself. People who sell information about their own side aren’t always the most reliable sources around.

  Which was true. And Flash’s “purchase” hadn’t really been paying for fish. It did offer at least a threadbare excuse if anyone from Dohlar or Harchong should ask questions, since the fishing boat’s skipper could always explain he’d had no choice but to hand over his catch when a ten- gun Charisian schooner sailed up alongside and “suggested” he do so. In fact, he’d been looking for Flash— o
r one of Manthyr’s other ships—expressly to sell them his information. Which, under most circumstances, would have made Manthyr extremely suspicious.

  But this particular fishing boat was one of the regulars on the Dohlar Bank, and during the squadron’s tenure on Trove Island, its skipper really had sold them a lot of fish. Like most common- born Harchongese, he prayed daily that God and the Archangels would keep the officials of the Harchong bureaucracy safe, well, happy... and far, far away from him, and that had made the Trove Island base one of his favored ports. He got a far better price for his catch from the Charisian squadron than he was ever likely to get elsewhere, and he wasn’t compelled to pay the customary rake off to the harbormaster and half a dozen other minor officials.

  In the course of their discreet transactions, he and Manthyr had met several times. In fact, the admiral had made a point of sharing an occasional glass of whiskey with the man, and something a bit closer than a purely professional relationship, yet too distant to dignify with the description of “friendship,” had sprung up between them during those meetings. Manthyr never doubted that the fisherman was as canny as they came. He had to know that the real reason for a foreign admiral to hobnob with the skipper of a lowly fishing boat was because the admiral in question was deliberately cultivating information sources. The interesting thing had been his clear willingness to be cultivated. Given how many reasons lowborn Harchongese had to dislike their own aristocracy and the corrupt bureaucrats which served it, a certain willingness to do those aristocrats and bureaucrats a disservice was understandable enough. Doing the same thing to the Church, however, was quite another thing, yet Manthyr had come to the conclusion that the skipper had reasons of his own for doing exactly that.