Either way, the missive had raised many of the key issues of ruling, including perhaps the most important, that of assuring an orderly succession. Hengyst had been a great ruler, and yet within a few generations, his successors had been anything but great. Supposedly, the same had been true of Caldor, the founder of Bovaria. Kharst had come from a cadet lineage that had scarcely been noted a few generations earlier, when suddenly, all the direct descendants of Caldor had suffered various fatalities that had never been explained satisfactorily, perhaps because anyone who raised such issues also vanished.
Was the letter a form of indirect communication from Bhayar?
He shook his head. While he certainly couldn’t discount the possibility, Vaelora’s words to him and the tone of the letter mitigated that likelihood. Besides, Bhayar had never minced words with him, not ever. He had hinted, upon occasion, that his youngest sister was proving to be difficult—a greater and greater problem for which he had no easy solution. Because of her intellect? That was all too possible.
Was Vaelora interested in Quaeryt? Perhaps … but why? He was essentially a scholar with a modest income, very modest, and she had no idea that he had a limited ability, through his imaging, to do somewhat better than that—but certainly not the ability to keep her in the style to which she was accustomed. Nor could Bhayar afford to waste an asset like Vaelora on a mere scholar, even one the Lord was familiar with and friendly to.
As for some sort of liaison, Vaelora’s words had almost hinted at that … but, as Quaeryt had as much as indicated to Bhayar, giving in to such an impulse, even if Vaelora were interested, would be tantamount to Quaeryt sentencing himself to a distant exile … or even death. That was certainly not his plan, not when he had so much he wanted to accomplish … somehow. In any case, he would not even have a chance to see Vaelora before he sailed, yet she had asked for his comments.
He sat down and took out a short sheet of paper, thinking, and then finally writing.
Dear Mistress Vaelora—
Your missive raised most of the issues of historical interest in assessing the problems facing a ruler, as well as those facing women who are close to such rulers or who may have power in their own right.
Inasmuch as I am departing immediately on a task assigned to me, I cannot comment at length on your words, but the depth and perception of your insights are indeed remarkable, and when I return I would hope to discuss them, if that is agreeable to all concerned.
He signed it as she had signed hers, with his initial.
Finally, he left his chamber, heading for the harbor. It was later than he would have liked, and he still needed to meet with Ghoryn and confirm with silver his passage on the Diamond Naclia. Then he would have to return to the palace and arrange for his reply to go to Nerya. He wasn’t about to address the outside of his reply directly to Vaelora. Not at all.
7
After meeting with Ghoryn late on Jeudi afternoon to confirm his space on the Diamond, and then returning to the palace, and spending several silvers to reach Nerya, who accepted the missive silently, Quaeryt returned to the Scholars’ House to sleep there on Jeudi night, knowing that the bunk in the fantail locker would have been as hot and steamy as the inside of a boiling cookpot. He’d also melted some wax to waterproof the leather case Bhayar had given him, which now held both his credentials and Vaelora’s missive. He was up well before dawn on Vendrei, walking toward the harbor with a sailor’s duffel, the canvas strap over his shoulder, the duffel almost on his hip. While he had the silvers for Shuld, the captain, in his wallet, the golds were in hidden slots in his belt, boots, and the sheath of his belt knife.
Until he reached the unmarked way that was “second street,” he saw almost no one on the avenues and streets, and but one patroller. Except around the harbor, and in the palace, Solis was not a morning city. Because it was not, he had to worry less about slam-thieves and cutpurses.
Even from the pier in the gray light before dawn, Quaeryt could see that the crew of the Diamond Naclia was busy with the last tasks before casting off. The land breeze was light, but enough to get the barque out of the harbor.
“That duffel yours, scholar?” asked Ghoryn as Quaeryt walked up the gangplank. “From back when?”
“It is. Never found anything better for traveling.”
“Looks like it’s seen a few ports.”
“A few,” agreed Quaeryt amiably. He turned as the angular figure he had met once approached. There were three black stripes with the crescent moon above them on the front shoulder of the sleeveless dark gray linen jacket.
The scholar slipped his fingers inside his own brown traveling jacket and came up with the coins. “I believe you agreed to these, Captain. The other half of the passage and fare for ten days.” Quaeryt handed across four silvers to the lanky captain.
“You’re a man of your word, scholar.” Shuld smiled humorously, his surprisingly white and full set of teeth contrasting with his square-cut black beard.
“Sometimes that’s all we have.”
“Looks like you’ve a bit more than that.”
“A patron commissioned a history of Tilbor. Commissions like that don’t come often.”
“How often?” asked Ghoryn.
“This is my first and probably my last,” replied Quaeryt with a laugh.
Shuld nodded and walked away, turning his attention toward the fo’c’s’le. “Careful with those capstan bars!”
Ghoryn turned. “Baeryn! Show the scholar the fantail locker.”
“Yes, sir.” A ragged-haired youth in breeches that barely covered his knees hurried across the deck and stopped a yard away. He was barefoot. “This way, sir!”
Baeryn quickly clambered up the ladder to the poop deck, keeping well to starboard as they passed the helm, and then dropped down the half ladder.
The youth opened the locker, which, as he did, Quaeryt could see had two doors, rather than hatches, one on the starboard side and one on the port. “There you are, sir.”
Quaeryt did not enter the locker, but studied it from the open door. The bunk, such as it was, consisted of a narrow plank shelf, with a canvas pallet, and three ropes anchoring the forward side to the overhead. Under the shelf bunk were spare sails, and against the forward bulkhead were lines and cables. Everything was stowed neatly and fastened in place. There were no portholes in the locker itself, only several sets of shielded and louvered openings to provide ventilation. He noted that the door opened so that it was flat against the outside bulkhead and that there was a cleat there, as well as one on the inside of the door, doubtless one pair of two so that the doors could be tied open in fair weather to air out the locker. On each side of the locker in the aft bulkhead that ran down from the poop deck to the main deck were three brass-framed portholes, clearly going into the captain’s and other quarters. All were open.
Quaeryt set the duffel on the narrow deck between the railing and the bulkhead. “How long have you been on the Diamond, Baeryn?”
“Near-on three years, sir. My da was a top-rigger on the Emerald back when the captain was first mate.”
From the way the youth spoke, Quaeryt suspected his father was no longer alive, but now was not the time to ask. “Are all the ships out of Nacliano with jewel names in the same fleet?”
“Don’t know as it’s rightly a fleet, sir. There’s six, I hear, and High Holder Ghasphar owns ’em all.” He grinned. “The Diamond’s the best.”
“She’s well-kept and clean. Can you tell me the other mates besides Ghoryn?”
“He’s the first. Wealhyr’s the second, and Zoeryl’s the bosun.”
Quaeryt concentrated, committing the names to memory. “Thank you. I won’t keep you longer. I’m sure you’ve duties to attend to in getting under way.”
“Yes, sir.” After a quick nod, the youth scrambled back up the ladder and headed forward across the poop deck.
Quaeryt stowed his duffel in the locker in a narrow cubby at the end of the shelf bunk on the port
side. Then he closed the locker and made his way up the ladder. The helmsman was standing by the wheel, and the captain was forward of him, surveying the ship and crew. Keeping well clear of both, Quaeryt made his way to the main deck, below the poop near the port ladder, where he would be out of the crew’s way. He listened as the bosun called out the orders.
“Single up!”
“Gangway aboard.…”
Quaeryt noted that the captain used only the topsails in clearing the port and heading down the channel out into the bay, but that made sense, given the long and comparatively narrow channel toward deeper water. The scholar looked back as the white-orange light of dawn crept over Solis, turning the palace on the hill a pinkish orange.
Not for the first time since he’d decided on his course of action, he wondered if the goals he had in mind were worth the risk—or if they were even attainable. He also couldn’t help but worry about whether he should have replied to Vaelora … yet not replying might well have been worse.
But … she is attractive and bright … and few women are both.
8
Sometime before dawn on Solayi, nine days into the voyage, Quaeryt was awakened from an uneasy sleep by the sound of boots on the poop deck, far more boots than there should have been at that glass. He immediately pulled on his shirt, trousers, jacket, and boots, and stowed the remainder of his gear in his cubby. Then he eased open the locker, slipped out the starboard door, and closed it behind him.
He studied the sky, but could see no stars, let alone either moon, and since Artiema was still close to full—or, more properly, barely beginning to wane—that meant that the clouds were fairly thick, at least to the west. The wind was light, but steady, out of the west, and the swells were low, no more than a yard from crest to trough at the most.
After a moment, Quaeryt made his way forward, climbing the ladder to the poop deck, forward on the upper deck, and then down to the main deck, since the side of the poop deck was flush with the hull and the only way forward was over the poop.
The bosun stood aft of the main cargo hatch, and Ghoryn stood above him, at the poop deck forward railing, watching as men scurried up the masts.
Eight crewmen wrestled a huge bronze long-gun into position on the starboard side, just forward of midships, while two others were rigging hawsers from heavy iron rings that were probably anchored into the frame of the ship itself. Quaeryt wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught sight of grooves at the end of the muzzle of the cannon as they turned it.
One gun? Just one, despite its rather sizable proportions?
The shot for the cannon didn’t look like anything Quaeryt had seen before, either. The ten objects in the wooden cradle were more like short cylinders with rounded points, instead of regular round cannonballs, not that he’d seen all that many cannon or cannonballs. Most merchanters didn’t carry cannon.
Quaeryt risked a question. “What’s the trouble?”
Zoeryl glanced toward the scholar, then back toward the foremast. “Pirates. Off to the west, just above the horizon. Like as not out of Lucayl. They hole up in the coves south of the cape. Some have caves that open to the sea and will hold a small ship.”
Quaeryt studied the sea to the west, finally making out a low, sloop-rigged craft running at an angle to the wind. For a moment, he didn’t understand why the captain hadn’t turned downwind, but another look at the rapidly nearing craft explained that. The pirate craft was designed and rigged so that she’d be far faster, and Shuld wanted to maneuver so as to put the Diamond where the barque’s greater sail expanse would offset the cleaner lines and rigging of the pirate.
After several moments, Quaeryt asked, “They try to grapple and board on a single pass with their speed?”
“When they get close, they’ll try to use sailshot to disable us first.”
Sailshot? The scholar hadn’t heard of that, but it was probably a version of grapeshot or chainshot or even wadding designed to rip through the merchanter’s sails.
“You right with weapons? We’ve got a spare cutlass or two and a shipstaff. Hope we won’t need them. If the captain’s as good as usual, they won’t get close enough to board,” said the bosun.
“I’m better with a shipstaff.”
“Comes to that, you’ll have one.” The bosun turned from the scholar.
Ghoryn’s voice rose over the others. “Mind the fore topsail!”
Behind and above Quaeryt, Shuld was giving orders, and the scholar strained to hear the captain’s orders to the helmsman.
“Another point to port.…”
Quaeryt watched the pirate vessel—dark-hulled with gray sails and even grayed masts—slowly draw nearer.
“Gun crew to the foredeck!” Shuld hurried down the ladder from the upper deck.
Behind him, Ghoryn moved aft to direct the helmsman.
A puff of smoke issued from the oncoming vessel, less than a vingt away, then a second. Quaeryt saw only the single gout of water a good fifty yards short of the Diamond and more than a hundred yards forward of the bow.
Shuld was issuing directions to the gun crew. “Second wedge! One right.”
Quaeryt watched, intrigued, while the crewman acting as gun captain tapped the wedge-shaped quoin in place. They weren’t firing point-blank, but he judged the elevation to be low. He hadn’t seen the shell rammed in place, but it must have been.
“Match at the ready!”
“Match ready.”
Shuld was using a device like a sextant, which he lowered. “Two right!”
Two of the gun crew cranked a small winch attached to lines on the gun carriage to turn the gun.
“Fire!”
The cannon’s recoil was restricted by wooden wheels and the heavy hawsers attached to the frame of the vessel itself.
Quaeryt watched. From what he could tell, the first shell landed long, well aft of the pirate sloop.
Two more puffs of smoke from the pirate were followed by a cannonball tearing through the foresail.
Quaeryt winced.
“First wedge, three right.”
The second shot from the Diamond landed in the water some fifty yards in front of the pirate.
“Hold! Match ready!”
At that moment, Baeryn scurried across the deck and thrust a shipstaff at the scholar. Quaeryt accepted it almost unthinkingly as his eyes fixed on the black-hulled ship bearing down on the Diamond.
The pirate was less than half a vingt from the Diamond before Shuld again ordered, “Fire!”
The shell ripped into the fo’c’s’le of the pirate, and almost instantly, crimson-green-yellow flames surged up. There was … something … about that unnatural fire. Antiagon Fire? In a shell? Quaeryt repressed a shiver.
“Fire!” ordered Shuld.
A second shell exploded on the low fantail of the pirate sloop, and it too erupted in flames that raced skyward into the rigging.
The pirate vessel seemed to shudder, then swing to the south, as if to parallel the Diamond’s heading. Then the sails and rigging began to catch fire, and men started to jump and dive off the burning ship. Part of the bow exploded.
Powder magazine? wondered Quaeryt.
“Steady as she goes!” called out Ghoryn.
“Stow the shells!” ordered Shuld. “On the double!”
Quaeryt turned to watch as the gun crew quickly removed the six shells remaining in the wooden cradle inboard and aft of the shining bronze gun. Once the shells disappeared below, Shuld seemed to be less tense.
The scholar risked another look at the sinking and flaming hulk that had been a pirate vessel, then eased toward the captain, still watching as the crew cleaned the gun and began to unfasten the recoil hawsers. “What was in those shells?” He thought he knew, but wanted to make sure.
“Antiagon Fire,” replied the captain quietly, his eyes straying aft to the still-burning hulk that had been a pirate vessel.
“You keep it on board?”
“The magazine is steel-sheathed and
lead-lined. The shells are cast iron and copper-lined.”
“And the gun is very special,” added Quaeryt. “A fine gun, Captain, and better gunnery.”
“We were fortunate. Usually takes more than a few shots to get the range. Especially in the gray before dawn. They were too eager, kept a steady course.”
Quaeryt nodded. As he stood there on the deck in the growing light of dawn, the wind in his face off the starboard quarter, he realized, if belatedly, why Shuld’s gun and shells were so effective. There had been no survivors, and from the coordination of the gun crew, it was far from the first time they’d been used. Yet he knew that none of the privateers commissioned by Bhayar had shells like the ones Shuld had used. And he doubted that either of Bhayar’s two warships had shells such as those, or bronze cannon.
“Puzzled, aren’t you, scholar?” asked the captain.
“I have to admit I am. Why don’t more ships have guns and shells like that?”
Shuld laughed. “More than a few reasons. Each shell costs a gold, maybe a bit more. I have no idea what the gun cost. I was told not to ask and not to lose it—ever. Pirates can’t afford guns and shells like that. Most merchanters can’t, either. Even if they could, who would they get to make the Antiagon Fire? It takes an imager who’s also an armorer and an alchemist. There are but a handful in all Terahnar, and all are employed by High Holders or rulers.”
“Such as High Holder Ghasphar?”
Shuld nodded.
“Still … they would make fearful armament for warships.”
“They would, until everyone had them.” Shuld smiled ironically. “Only the Antiagons have ever bothered with large numbers of warships, and they have but a triple handful.”
Put that way, it made sense, all too much sense. Antiagon Fire was useless against stone and earth ramparts, and that was why no fortifications were ever wooden. But it was effective against large bodies of men on foot, and that was one reason why most rulers used cavalry or mounted infantry that could scatter quickly. Quaeryt and every other scholar for generations had known that. The threat of Antiagon Fire had also affected the way war was waged, but Quaeryt was amazed and more than a little irritated at himself for not realizing why there had been so few naval conflicts. Yet it was obvious. Why would anyone want to build a fleet of warships that could be destroyed so quickly? If every ruler built and armed ships with cannons that shot Antiagon Fire shells, a war would ruin them all.
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