A Mighty Fortress

by David Weber

  “Unfortunately, the only flag officer we could send would be you, Domynyk,” Lock Island said. “Which—”

  “Which,” Cayleb interrupted in a slightly odd, almost amused tone, “would be . . . politically awkward at this particular moment.”

  “Awkward, but survivable, Your Majesty,” Rock Point said respectfully. “I know Gorjah wants me right where I am when we finally have him announce he’s coming over, but I can think of a half- dozen other officers who could hold down this command as well as I can. Kohdy Nylz comes to mind, among others.”

  “I’m sure Admiral Nylz could handle your naval duties perfectly adequately, My Lord,” Nahrmahn put in. “The problem is that all Gorjah’s calculations are built around having you covering Thol Bay to make sure no nasty Desnairians come sailing in to attack him when the Church finds out he’s changing sides. He’s nervous enough already, and I don’t think he shares our navy’s contempt for Jahras. Which, given how much closer he is to Desnair than we are, probably isn’t all that unreasonable, when you come down to it. It’s obvious he’s developed enough faith in you to feel confident, but if we reorganize everything on the fly, I think there’s at least a fair chance he’ll back off at the last moment.”

  “Especially if he should happen to become aware of the fact that the Inquisition’s sending more investigators into Tarot,” Merlin agreed.

  “I think Merlin and Nahrmahn have a point, Cayleb,” Sharleyan said unhappily.

  “So do I,” Cayleb agreed, but the amusement in his tone was even more pronounced, and then he shook his head mock regretfully at his wife and surprised all of them with a laugh.

  “Did I miss something humorous?” Sharleyan asked a bit tartly, and he nodded, still chuckling.

  “As a matter of fact, you did,” he said. “Came as a bit of a shock to me, too, since you’re not usually so slow.”

  “Slow?” she repeated even more tartly. Indeed, one might have described her tone as ominous.

  “Well, you do seem to have overlooked the minor fact that we’re both going to be in Chisholm. And so is a fellow named Merlin, unless I’m mistaken.”

  Sharleyan’s eyes widened. For a moment, she sat staring at him with the expression of a very smart woman who very seldom made foolish mistakes. Then it was her turn to laugh.

  “Of course we are! And if memory serves, you’ve had a modicum of naval combat experience yourself, haven’t you?”

  “A modicum,” her husband agreed, holding up his thumb and index finger about an inch apart.

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I’m not in favor of risking you at sea,” Lock Island said. Cayleb arched an eyebrow, and the high admiral shrugged. “At Armageddon Reef and Darcos Sound, your father was right about how important it was for the fleet to know you were there. I don’t think this situation’s exactly comparable, though, and there are all sorts of reasons why having you killed would be politically disastrous.”

  It was obvious from Lock Island’s voice that he had some highly personal reasons for not wanting to see his cousin killed, as well, and Cayleb’s eyes softened. But then he shook his head.

  “First, we have a firmly secured succession now,” he said, reaching out and taking Sharleyan’s hand in his own. “There’s not a single soul in Old Charis who wouldn’t accept Sharley as Empress in her sole right if something happened to me. And there’s also Alahnah, now. So the arguments about how ‘utterly indispensable’ I am seem just a bit less compelling than they used to be.

  “Second, with all due modesty, the Navy has a certain degree of confidence in me. I think they’ll probably find it reassuring to have me with them if they’ve got to go into battle at such unfavorable odds.”

  Saying the Imperial Charisian Navy had “a certain degree of confidence” in Cayleb Ahrmahk was rather like saying there was “a certain amount of water” in the Great Western Ocean, Merlin reflected.

  “But third, and most important of all, I’m the only person we’ve got—aside from you, Bryahn—we could possibly send to Chisholm who has both access to Owl’s SNARCs and enough seniority to give Sharpfield orders. There’s no way in the world we could justify leaving me ashore for this one, and you know it.”

  “He’s right, Bryahn,” Sharleyan said quietly, and grimaced. “I’m pretty sure I’m even unhappier than you are at the notion of letting him go and get shot at again,” her hand tightened on Cayleb’s, “but he’s still right.”

  There was silence for a moment while the emperor sat, fingers of his free hand drumming lightly on a side table while he thought. Then he inhaled deeply.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s what we’re going to do. And I’m going to have to take more of your fleet strength than I’d like to, Bryahn. We can’t not reinforce Chisholm and Corisande strongly when we know what’s coming at them, and we can’t wait. This time of year, it’s going to take longer for us to get reinforcements to Chisholm than it’ll take Maigwair’s new construction to get to Gorath Bay. I know we’ll have a little bit of time in hand, at least, after they get there, but I don’t want to give Thirsk a gift of any more time than we have to. On the other hand, we can’t organize all of this in a flash. It’s going to take at least a few days, and I don’t want to delay our own departure for Chisholm.

  “I think I agree with Merlin and Nahrmahn that we need to leave Domynyk where he is, and with me there, we’ll have SNARC access without him. So, we’ll send the reinforcements out after Royal Charis under Admiral Nylz. He’s a good man, and I can use him.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Lock Island said formally, half bowing to his distant emperor. “How much strength do you want me to send with him?”

  “That’s what really scares me,” Cayleb said frankly. “I don’t see how we could possibly cover both Chisholm and Corisande with less than sixty sail.”

  The silence which greeted that number was profound, and Cayleb’s lips twitched.

  “I can eke that out with the best of the old carronade- armed galleys,” he continued, “but even with the SNARCs, I can’t magically reproduce galleons like rabbits. I’ll be able to see what Thirsk is up to, but if he fights as smart as we all expect him to, he’s not going to split up into smaller forces I can pick off one at a time. He’s going to come at me with everything he’s got in one concentrated fleet, and I’m going to need enough firepower to stop him when he does. Which, even with sixty galleons, is going to be a tall order, now that he knows exactly what broadside fire can do. That’s where, hopefully, the SNARCs will come in by letting me choose the tactical situation when we finally engage.”

  “Your Majesty,” Rock Point said after a moment, “I can’t dispute anything you’ve just said. But if we deploy sixty sail to Chisholm and Corisande, that’s only going to leave about thirty to keep an eye on waters closer to Old Charis.”

  “I know,” Cayleb said. “But even with sixty, we’ll still be outnumbered in Chisholmian waters by better than three- to- one. And, frankly, if I’m going to be outnumbered three- to- one up against someone as good as Thirsk, then I think we have to be willing to take a chance on people as good as you and Bryahn being outnumbered two- to- one against a second- rater like Jahras.”

  Rock Point said nothing for a moment, then nodded. “At the same time, though, I’m not repeating the mistake we made with Gwylym,” Cayleb said, his brown eyes hardening. “We’ve got a lot more schooners than we need for blockade duty, especially now that Tarot’s joining the Empire, so I want at least fifteen or twenty of them sent out with Nylz. That ought to give me plenty of fast cruisers to picket Claw Island and the Harchong Narrows closely—which, hopefully, will explain how I’m managing to keep an eye on Thirsk—with enough more left over for effective hit- andrun raids in the Gulf to generally make his life as miserable as possible. I don’t think we’re likely to panic him into a misstep just by throwing commerce raiders at him, but I’m certainly willing to try.

  “And it’s not as if Thirsk is operating in a political vacuum,
” he continued. “Even with Maik in his corner, Thorast’s still doing his best to stab him in the back. If I can raise enough havoc in the Gulf of Dohlar and the same waters where Gwylym was operating, I may be able to give Thorast a hand.” Cayleb grimaced. “Part of me hates doing that to an honorable man, but he’s just too damned capable. I’ll settle for getting him out of the way any way I can, I’m afraid.”

  “Actually, I think that’s a very good idea,” Lock Island said. “If we hit them with an offensive of our own, we may preempt their plans. And I’ll probably be able to send you even more schooners over the next couple of months.”

  That, Merlin reflected, was true enough. Not only was the Navy’s requirement for blockade vessels going to decline, as Cayleb had just pointed out, but privateering was nowhere near as profitable as it once had been. By now, most of the Church’s merchant shipping was traveling in convoys which were increasingly protected by ships with enough artillery to make any attack upon them a chancy proposition. More to the point, though, there simply wasn’t very much enemy merchant shipping left. Which meant dozens of fast, agile, heavily armed schooners were being disposed of by privateering consortiums who no longer needed them. In fact, they were glutting the market so badly they could be picked up for the proverbial song.

  “Good thinking,” Cayleb agreed. “And as for the situation in Charisian and Tarotisian waters, Domynyk, don’t forget Ehdwyrd’s making progress with Ahlfryd’s shells now. He ought to be starting production in another month or so.”

  “Starting production,” Rock Point repeated dryly.

  Ehdwyrd Howsmyn was as frustrated as anyone had ever seen him over the delays in putting Seamount’s shells into production. Not that it was his fault. Not even his access to Owl could magically produce the equipment, the techniques, and—above all—the trained workforce he needed overnight, especially since he was rather in the position Merlin had always been in. He could make suggestions, even have an occasional flash of brilliance, but to avoid charges of violating the Proscriptions, he had to be able to demonstrate a development process . . . and, given the declaration of Holy War, that was more important than ever. By now, he’d managed that, but he’d been deeply frustrated by how long it had taken. And once he’d managed that part, it had been only to run into almost intolerable weather delays in getting his new shell- producing manufactory up and running. Torrential rains which went on seemingly forever, weather- spawned avalanches which imposed blockages on the canal system serving his ironworks, and then no less than three tropical storms blowing in off the Sea of Justice in a single two- month period . . . If he hadn’t known the truth about the “Archangels,” the industrialist would have been inclined to think God really was on the other side.

  But at least he finally had the foundations in, a roof on, and the furnaces under construction. Even so, it was going to be at least another two or three months, possibly even into March, before he was able to provide the new projectiles to the Navy in anything like adequate numbers.

  “I know we’re not going to be able to start issuing them until spring,” Lock Island said now. “On the other hand, they’re sending the vast bulk of their naval strength to Thirsk. Even if he decides to try a galleon- equipped version of the original Armageddon Reef plan, we’ll have something like six or seven months before he could possibly get to Old Charis. Frankly, I don’t think there’s a chance in hell they’ll try that again, though—not after what happened last time, and not when Chisholm and Corisande are so much closer to Gorath Bay. So the important thing is to get His Majesty reinforced heavily enough to deter Thirsk until Ehdwyrd does have enough shells for us. Once that happens”— the high admiral smiled nastily—“ we’ll be the ones going looking for them, and they won’t like it a bit when a shell- armed battleline catches up with them, either.”

  OCTOBER,YEAR OF GOD 894

  .I.

  HMS Royal Charis, 58,

  Zebediah Sea,

  HMS Ahrmahk, 58,

  Charis Sea,

  and

  HMS Destroyer, 54,

  Thol Bay

  “Shit.”

  Merlin Athrawes pronounced the single word with a quiet, terrible emphasis as he gazed at the latest download from Owl. Royal Charis was crossing the Zebediah Sea, six five- days out of Tellesberg and almost exactly halfway to Cherayth. It was just after Langhorne’s Watch, the Safeholdian midnight, and Cayleb and Sharleyan were sound asleep.

  Waking them up won’t help a damned thing,Merlin thought grimly. On the other hand, if I don’t wake them up and tell them about this, they’re both going to be pissed as hell.

  He considered the time, then grimaced as he decided on a compromise. Crown Princess Alahnah would be waking up to demand her early feeding in no more than another hour. He could let the emperor and empress have at least that much more sleep.

  On the other hand, it was four hours earlier in Tellesberg, so...

  Bryahn Lock Island’s eyes narrowed as the invisible plug in his right ear chirped at him, then began a soft rendition of a peculiar piece of music. The sound—the opening bars of something which had once been called “Anchors Aweigh”— sounded very... strange to any Safeholdian. It also identified the caller as Merlin Athrawes, however, and Lock Island hadn’t expected to hear from him for at least another couple of hours. For that matter, Merlin always tried to avoid calling when anyone who wasn’t already part of the inner circle was present.

  Which suggested the high admiral had better take this particular call. “All right, Henrai,” he said to the lieutenant commander sitting across the table from him. “I think that covers just about everything. There are a couple of other points I’d like to discuss before the meeting tomorrow, but let me mull them over to night.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  Henrai Tillyer had been Lock Island’s flag lieutenant for over three years. Since his promotion to lieutenant commander, Lock Island had decided to emulate Earl Thirsk and turned Tillyer into his chief of staff. Unlike Thirsk, however, who was inventing the concept on his own, Lock Island had benefited from researching the historical development and organization of staff officers in Owl’s data banks. As a result, he was well along the way to creating a genuine staff, with specific, designated areas of responsibility, and he was already making mental selections for the flag officers—Navy, Army, and Marine—he intended to nominate to Cayleb when the emperor inaugurated the concept of a general staff for the entire empire in another few months.

  At the moment, it was obvious Tillyer, who knew him far better than most, was more than a little perplexed by the high admiral’s abrupt termination of their meeting. But what ever questions might be running through his brain, he wasn’t about to ask them. Instead, he gathered up the notes he’d been taking, jogged them together, and slid them into a folder. Then he smiled at Lock Island, finished the last swallow in his whiskey glass, and cuffed Lock Island’s rottweiler Keelhaul gently and affectionately on his massive head.

  Keelhaul chuffed in acknowledgment of the goodbye without ever opening his eyes, and Tillyer chuckled.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, Sir.”

  “By all means. In fact, join me for breakfast, if you would.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  Tillyer nodded respectfully and withdrew, shutting the door behind him. Lock Island looked at the closed door for a moment, then stood and opened the many- paned glass door to HMS Ahrmahk’s sternwalk. He leaned on the rail, gazing up at a sky that was fading from blue into indigo. A few of the brightest stars were visible, but it would be a while before darkness actually fell.

  “Yes, Merlin?” he said then, quietly, his voice inaudible through the sound of wind and water to anyone more than two or three feet away from him.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” Merlin’s voice said in his earplug, and Lock Island felt his eyebrows knitting in quick alarm as the seijin’s grim tone registered. “Unfortunately,” Merlin continued, “we’ve got a problem. A big one.” />
  “What do you mean?” Lock Island asked quickly, and heard a distant sigh. “We’ve been had,” Merlin said flatly. “They aren’t sending the fleet to Thirsk, after all. They’re sending it to Desnair.”

  Two hours later, Merlin, Cayleb, and Sharleyan sat on Royal Charis’ sternwalk.

  “It’s my fault,” Merlin said.

  “Oh, kraken shit!” Cayleb snapped. “Just how the hell is this supposed to be your fault? Or at least all your fault—which seems to be where you’re headed!”

  “They’re my SNARCs, and I was the one who was so sure they’d be sending everything to Thirsk,” Merlin replied. “If I hadn’t predisposed everyone to think—”

  “Cayleb’s right, Merlin—that is kraken shit.” Lock Island sounded even more impatient than the emperor had. “You weren’t the only one who thought Gorath Bay was the logical destination! And what ever you may’ve thought, we had confirmation— written confirmation, official orders, mind you—that all of us had examined through Owl’s SNARCs. At which point all of us concluded the ships were going where they’d been ordered to go by none other than Allayn Maigwair. So just how were you supposed to realize they’d decide to go somewhere else at the last minute?”

  “I don’t think they did decide at the last minute,” Nahrmahn Baytz said. Like Cayleb and Sharleyan, he was returning to Chisholm, but he and his wife were aboard HMS Eraystor, one of the two galleons escorting Royal Charis. “I think this is what they intended to do all along.”

  “Then why tell their own captains they were going west?” Domynyk Stay-nair asked from his own flagship in Thol Bay.

  “Disinformation,” Nahrmahn said simply. “What ever we think of the Group of Four, they really aren’t drooling idiots. Fools, perhaps. And arrogant and corrupt and any other pejorative anyone would care to add, certainly. But I think sometimes we forget that a lot of their ‘mistakes’ are the result of the fact that they don’t have a clue what they’re really up against. They still think the old rules apply to things like spying, communication times, and everything else. That’s the reason they’ve persistently assumed their semaphore means their communications—what people used to call the ‘communications loop’— must be faster than anyone else’s, when they’re actually slower . . . for some of us, at least.