by David Weber
The Temple Lands had officially abolished serfdom de cades ago. Despite that, there were still serfs on virtually every major Temple Lands estate; they just weren’t called that. By the same token, there were still men in Emerald and even Chisholm who were called serfs, but who’d actually become small landowners in their own rights. In fact, the phased abolition of the legal status of serf (a firm requirement of the Charisian Empire) had raised scarcely a ripple in Emerald or Chisholm. Within another two years, the process would be completed.
The situation was a little more complicated in Corisande and—especially— Zebediah, where the conditions of serfdom had varied widely between one feudal territory and another. There’d been no serfs at all in Manchyr, Tartarian, or Airyth, for example, and the institution had been very similar to the Chisholmian variety in Rochair, Coris, Barcair, and Anvil Rock, and on Wind Daughter Island. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that almost all the lords who’d joined the Northern Conspiracy in Corisande practiced a rather more severe version of serfdom, on the other hand, and phasing it out in Corisande was going to take longer.
But they not only had serfs in Harchong, they had outright slaves. Lots of them. Whereas Charis—and Emerald, Chisholm, and Corisande, in varying degrees—had a bustling, vibrant free labor force, supporting a steadily growing middle class as well as wealthy entrepreneurs like Ehdwyrd Howsmyn, Harchong had vast slave- worked plantations, and the workforce in Harchongese manufactories was almost always composed of slave laborers, as well. There was no Harchongese middle class, no free labor force, and definitely no equivalent of the Charisian treasure chest of experienced seamen. Harchongese warships were crewed by men who’d literally been driven aboard with the lash in many cases, and who were controlled by a brutal, often capricious discipline which would have provoked an almost instant mutiny aboard any Charisian vessel.
And, not surprisingly, their crews gave them exactly the degree of loyalty and initiative they deserved. There might be a modicum of enthusiasm—or, at least, willingness—aboard the IHN’s ships now that the Group of Four had declared Holy War. The deep reservoir of faith among the Harchongese peasantry and serfs was one of the things which held the Empire together, and the priests aboard those ships had appealed fervently to that faith. Yet dumb acceptance of brutal conditions, even born of religious fervor, was no substitute for the enthusiasm and high morale which routinely prevailed aboard Charisian warships.
The Navy of God had its own share of conscripted serfs, but unlike its Harchongese counterpart, they formed a definite minority within its crews. Not only that, but each had been promised relief from the legal obligation which bound him to the land, and they were actually being paid the same wage as their non- serf crewmates. They were even eligible for promotion to petty officer status!
That would have been a big enough difference all by itself, but the majority of the Navy of God’s crews were composed of freemen. Many came from the same sort of class backgrounds as their Charisian counterparts, although only a handful of them had been seafarers before their enlistment. The Church’s dominant position within the Temple Lands’ economy also meant a great many of them—probably even the majority—had personal, direct connections to the Church or one of its myriad business enterprises, which gave them a direct, personal stake in the Church’s secular future. The reservoirs of faith in the Temple Lands were probably just as deep as those in the Harchong Empire, as well, although it had less of the dumb, patient, almost bovine acceptance of the Harchongese serfs.
Which meant that although they were nowhere nearly so experienced or well trained as the ICN, and although it was obvious that most of them were more than a little anxious, even frightened, at the prospect of meeting Charisians in battle, they were highly motivated, well integrated, and tightly knit, and Harpahr and his subordinate admirals had them training hard. Their sail drill had improved markedly in the five- days since they’d departed Chantry Bay, and Harpahr had ordered every ship to spend a minimum of two hours a day at gun drill, as well.
The Harchongese ships were supposed to be doing the same thing, and some of them actually were, although their results were . . . problematical. The Navy of God, on the other hand, was improving steadily. There was no way of knowing how well their training would stand up once round shot started tearing their ships apart around them, yet even by Lock Island’s most optimistic assessment, each Temple Lands– built ship had to be worth at least three—probably four—Harchongese galleons of the same armament.
And eighty percent of the armed vessels coming at him had Temple Lands crews and Navy of God officers.
What a truly not- good situation,he thought, reflecting on the grand and glorious total of his own thirteen galleons. Outnumbered by close to six- to- one, and the rotten, cheating bastards have had the unmitigated gall to actually train their crews! What a revolting development!
A faint smile twitched his lips, but it faded quickly, and he straightened. He walked to the stern windows and stood gazing out them, thinking.
The good news—such as it was—was that Harpahr and Taibahld had no counterweight for his own reconnaissance capabilities. Like Cayleb before Rock Point and Darcos Sound, he had plenty of scouting cruisers scattered out to keep an eye on his enemies, but (also like Cayleb before Rock Point and Darcos Sound) their true function was to explain how he could have the information Owl’s SNARCs had already provided. As a consequence, he knew precisely where his enemies were and what they were doing... and they didn’t know that about him.
That ought to be enough to let me pick my own time to engage,he thought, un-seeing eyes staring out at the waves of the Markovian Sea. Let me pick the time, the weather conditions, make sure I’ve got the weather gauge . . . All of that’s going to be a huge advantage. But once we get in amongst them, once it’s broadside- to- broadside and all any of my captains will know is what he can see through the gunsmoke with his own eyes, all those advantages disappear. Then it’s experience, and numbers, and guts, and gun power, and right this minute the only one of those where I really have an edge over Harpahr is experience. Which is not going to be enough.
His head turned, tracking around, almost as if he actually thought his own unaided eyes could see across the endless miles of saltwater to Old Charis, and his mouth tightened.
Get your arse here in time, Domynyk,he thought, almost prayerfully. Get your arse up here while there’s still time to do some good.
He drew a deep breath and turned away from the windows. It was time he went on deck and saw what he could do to slow the enemy down long enough for Domynyk Staynair to answer his prayer.
.IV.
HMS Destroyer, 54,
Larek,
Howell Bay,
Kingdom of Old Charis
Sir Domynyk Staynair had no way of knowing what Bryahn Lock Island was thinking at that particular moment, but he knew what Lock Island ought to be thinking.
He paused in his peg-legged pacing, standing by the starboard quarterdeck hammock nettings, and gazed out across the port city of Larek.
It was an interesting city, Larek. Five years ago, it had been little more than a sleepy fishing village. The navigable Delthak River had linked it to Ithmyn’s Lake in the Earldom of High Rock, but that had meant little until Ehdwyrd Howsmyn broke ground for his foundry complex at Delthak on the lake’s northwestern shore. When Merlin Athrawes first arrived in Charis, there’d been nothing there but the tiny town—a hamlet, really, with no more than fifty or sixty inhabitants—which had taken its name from the river. Today, Delthak was the largest foundry operation in the history of Safehold. The output from Howsmyn’s complex of manufactories alone was greater than that of the iron industry of the entire Harchong Empire.
The consequences for Larek had been... significant. The onetime fishing village might well have become the only port in the world which was actually busier than Tellesberg. It was smaller, with a smaller total number of ships coming and going, but it never slept, and there was n
ever—ever—enough room dockside for all the ships trying to land or take on cargo.
It helped, some, that even seagoing ships could sail up the Delthak, if they were careful, although many captains considered it more prudent to let river barges handle that part of the transportation loop. Rock Point had been tempted to take his ships upriver, but not very strongly. Under other circumstances, he might have been willing to take the chance. Not this time, though. His galleons drew more water than the majority of ships that plied the river, and he couldn’t afford—literally could not afford—to ground one of his twelve priceless warships. They were going to be far too desperately needed far too soon for him to risk stranding one of them on a sandbar or a rock.
Which was why he had to lie at anchor, pacing his quarterdeck, watching through the SNARCs, as Bryahn Lock Island began the delicate, dangerous task of buzzing about Kornylys Harpahr’s ears. He knew what Lock Island was supposed to do—distract Harpahr, annoy him, make him anxious about protecting the unarmed galleons he was escorting to Desnair. It was Lock Island’s job to slow Harpahr down, any way he could . . . and it was Rock Point’s job to sit here, waiting, while Ehdwyrd Howsmyn worked frantically to produce the explosive shells which might—might—give the Imperial Charisian Navy a chance to actually stop the enemy.
Personally, Rock Point gave them a slightly better than even chance, assuming Howsmyn was able to produce enough shells . . . and that he was able to get them to Lock Island’s assistance in time. There was, however, a significant difference between inflicting enough damage to cripple Harpahr’s fleet and surviving the experience.
Even with the shells, we’re going to have to come in close,he thought once more. If we can reach them, then they can reach us, and they’ll have one hell of a lot more guns than we will. If the shells surprise them badly enough, if they break, if they aren’t willing to come to close action with us, then, maybe...
He inhaled deeply.
Either we do it, or we don’t, but there are times I wish I had the same depth of faith Maikel does. It’s not that I don’t believe in You anymore, God. It’s just that looking at what You’ve allowed to happen here on Safehold so far, I have to wonder whatelse You’re ready to allow. Maikel’s all right with that—with the acceptance of Your will, what ever it is. I try to be the same way, but I can’t. Or, maybe I can, where I’m concerned, at least. It’s just . . . just that Your will can be so hard, sometimes. Like what happened to Gwylym. What happened to Samyl Wylsynn and his circle. Father Tymahn in Corisande.
He closed his eyes for a long moment, standing motionless. And then he gave himself a shake, opened his eyes once more, and actually smiled crookedly.
All right, he thought. I know. Free will. Maikel’s explained it to me often enough, and I guess it makes sense. I’ve done my damnedest to figure out what it is You want me to do, too, and I think I’ve got it. I hope I do, anyway, and I promise I’ll give it my best shot. But, please, if You could, keep an eye on us. We need You more now than we’ve ever needed You before. I may be too busy to tell You that, or to think about You the way I ought to, when the balls begin to fly, but don’t You f orget about us. And especially not about my men. I may not be Maikel, but I’m ready to accept what ever it is You have in mind for me. Only look after my men. Please, God, Whoever You really are, what ever it is You really want of us—of me— look after my men.
NOVEMBER,YEAR OF GOD 894
.I.
NGS Sword of God, 50,
Off the Windmoor Coast,
Gulf of Tarot
I ’m finding it difficult of late to remember that God and Langhorne send all good things in their own time,” Kornylys Harpahr remarked as he reached for his hot chocolate. He looked across the table at his flag captain and smiled crookedly. “Or, perhaps, I should actually say I’m finding it difficult to possess my soul in patience until Langhorne tumbles the minions of Shan- wei into the pit prepared for them.”
“The minions in question do seem to be . . . exceptionally pestiferous, don’t they, My Lord?” Father Ahrnahld agreed. “I think that’s what makes it so difficult to remember that to all things, there come a season.”
“And I suppose this is the season for provoking my ulcers.” Harpahr shook his head, then sipped chocolate.
Ahrnahld Taibahld snorted and began spreading butter on another biscuit. Stowed down in the coolness of the flagship’s bilge, the butter had kept remarkably well so far. It was finally beginning to turn rancid—it always did—but it was still more palatable than dry biscuit, especially with a little jam, and at least the hens and wyverns were both still producing fresh eggs.
Harpahr had already finished his own eggs and bacon, and he pushed back his chair. Taibahld began to rise himself, but the admiral general waved him back.
“Finish breakfast, Ahrnahld!” he scolded. “Not even a batch of Shan- wei-damned heretics is going to come calling on us in the next fifteen minutes.”
“Of course, My Lord. Thank you.”
Taibahld would actually have preferred to go ahead and stand, if Harpahr was going to. It seemed disrespectful not to, but he knew it would irritate the admiral general. For that matter, Harpahr would scold him again if he seemed to be bolting his food to get finished quickly. So he made himself chew slowly and methodically while Harpahr stepped out onto Sword of God’s sternwalk.
The flagship sailed steadily on a roughly southwesterly heading with the wind on her larboard quarter under topsails and topgallants. She was doing well to make four knots under that little canvas, given the current wind conditions, and Harpahr would really have preferred to make more sail. Unfortunately, Duke Sun Rising’s ships’ seamanship didn’t seem to be quite as good as his own.
Not surprisingly,the admiral general thought grumpily. I’m glad the Duke is so eager to coordinate with us, and I’m awed by his—or his secretary’s, at least—command of the language. Still, I probably could survive without those incredibly flowery letters if he’d just actually institute the sail drill I asked for.
He carefully did not apply to the Harchongese fleet commander a term bishops weren’t supposed to use to describe faithful sons of Mother Church. Under the circumstances, it required more self- discipline than usual.
Maybe I should have let Ahrnahld deal with it—let him talk to Wind Mountain, one flag captain to another flag captain. Maybe we could have finessed it past Sun Rising that way. Of course, given the fact that Sun Rising hates Wind Mountain’s father’s guts, that might’ve worked out even worse. Or as badly, at least; I don’t really think itcould have worked out worse. Unless Sun Rising could’ve figured out how to actually undo the drill they have carried out!
His lips twitched, although the thought really wasn’t all that humorous. It was entirely possible Sun Rising could have figured out a way to do that. If anyone on Safehold was capable of such a feat, it would have to be the duke.
The admiral general wrapped both hands around the chocolate cup. The sun was bright, and he’d been delighted to leave the bitter cold behind. The Icewind Sea had been bad enough in October; the Passage of Storms and the Markovian Sea had been still worse, in their own ways, even if they had been (marginally) warmer. The Passage of Storms, especially, had done every-thing possible to live up to its name. In fact—his face tightened—he’d lost two ships to one of the furious gales which had swept over his fleet. That storm had scattered his formation badly, too. If the Charisians had happened upon him then, with his ships spread out all over the ocean, Langhorne only knew what they might have done to him!
But they were nearing the equator, now, and the Gulf of Tarot was a far more pleasant experience in November than the Markovian Sea in October. It was still cool, this early in the morning, but by late afternoon he’d be wishing he could have hung on to the morning chill. Especially if the wind didn’t strengthen.
He gazed into the east wind, eyes slightly squinted against the still lowlying sun. There’d been a distinctly reddish cast to the dawn, and a smea
r of cloud seemed to be swelling up along the horizon.
“Red sun at morning, sailor take warning,”he quoted to himself. The Writ warns against self- prideful predictions. I wonder if I could have been a bit hasty congratulating myself on having left the heavy weather behind.
He sipped chocolate, then looked up as the cries of gulls and shrill whistles of wyverns came down from above. The winged creatures swarmed out from the coast of the Republic of Siddarmark’s Windmoor Province, and as he watched, one of the wyverns swooped down to snatch something from the sea. He couldn’t tell whether it was a fish or a bit of garbage scooped out of Swordof God’s wake, but he found himself wishing the wyvern well, what ever it had found.
“I see the Admiral of the Broad Oceans is still with us, My Lord,” a voice said, and Harpahr turned to find Taibahld had joined him on the sternwalk. Like the admiral general, the flag captain had brought along his chocolate cup. Now he leaned his hip against the sternwalk’s rail and nodded in the direction of a particularly untidy gaggle of sails trailing along to the north- northwest.
“More or less,” Harpahr agreed, yet he also gave Taibahld a moderately quelling look. The title the upper- priest had just bestowed upon Duke Sun Rising was absolutely correct, but the admiral general knew the flag captain had not used its grandiloquent entirety as a compliment. Harpahr couldn’t fault Taibahld’s opinion, but certain appearances had to be maintained, and the flag captain half dipped his head, acknowledging the unspoken rebuke.
“Actually,” the admiral general went on, “they do seem to be keeping somewhat better station this morning, don’t they?”