There Will Be War Volume VII

by Jerry Pournelle

  Birdwing lurched as the waves caught it at a new angle. “Braces, there!” Derec shouted. “Rudder amidships!” The galleon filled with shouting and stamping as the crews bent to their work. Heart in his mouth, Derec gazed at the enemy.

  The relationship between the ships had changed drastically. The enemy vessels had simultaneously turned straight into the wind while preserving their relationship to one another, from a line ahead into a line of bearing. They had attempted to cut behind the Farlander galleon, head upwind and into the convoy without the necessity of a fight. Birdwing had just turned downwind and within the next two minutes would pass along the flagship’s starboard side. The ships would exchange broadsides on the run, and then race past one another.

  If Birdwing were a caravel or high-charged galleon, that would have been the end of the fight: Derec could never have turned into the wind to pursue the enemy. The Liavekan admiral would have got between him and his convoy, a master stroke. But Birdwing was something the Liavekan hadn’t seen; and savage exultation filled Derec as he realized he had the enemy in his hand.

  There was a massive rumbling as the guns were run out, all fifty-four of them, heavy demicannon on the lower deck and lighter, longer culverins on the maindeck.

  Derec stood on the break in the poop and shouted through cupped hands.

  “Larboard gun captains and second captains remain with your guns! All extra crew to the starboard guns!” Bare feet drummed the planks—the crew had practiced this many times. Birdwing didn’t carry enough crew to efficiently fight both sides, and Derec wanted his starboard guns served well.

  Enemy kettledrums thundered over the water. The purple-and-scarlet galleass was frighteningly close.

  “Starboard broadside, make ready!” Derec shouted. “Fire on my order! Sail trimmers, stand by the braces! Timoneer—starboard a bit!” He’d pass alongside the enemy and drive Birdwing right through their starboard bank of sweeps if he could.

  But abruptly the kettledrums made a flourish, then fell silent. The enemy sweeps rose like white teeth from the water, and then drew inward. The Liavekans were prepared for Derec’s maneuver.

  " ’Midships!" he called. And suddenly there was eerie silence—no kettledrums, no shouted orders, no guns running out, only the whisper of the wind and the deafening beat of Derec’s pulse in his ears.

  The galleass came alongside, and the guns spoke. The enemy fo’c’sle guns bellowed first, so close their fires licked Birdwing’s timbers, and the air filled with splinters and moaning shot. Then Derec shrieked “Fire!” and the galleon lurched as all its guns went off more or less together, from the demicannon on the lower decks to the little sakers and minions used by the marines. Abruptly there was a chorus of screams from the galleass as shot and splinters tore through the close-packed oarsmen—the weird and awful cries sounded clearly even to Derec’s deafened ears. The enemy quarterdeck guns went off last, massive iron cannon firing fifty-pound stone shot that burst on impact and laid low a score of Marcoyn’s marines.

  But all that was anticlimax: as soon as Birdwing’s guns fired, Derec was shouting new orders. “Hard a-star-board! Starboard guns, reload! Larboard guns, fire as you bear!”

  Kettledrums and cymbals punctuated Derec’s cries: the enemy admiral’s galleass was losing momentum, beginning to swing in the wind. They had to get under way, and quickly. Derec saw sweeps beginning to run out, and saw also that his salvo had blown gaping holes in the galleass’s sides. The rowdeck must be a shambles. Triumph filled his heart.

  Suddenly he was aware of the pressure of an enemy spell. Levett seemed to be handling it; but suddenly there was another strike, moving fast as lightning, a white-hot flare in Derec’s mind. Derec’s own power lashed out without his conscious effort, turning the spell away. A hollow feeling overtook him as he realized the spell’s nature: the enemy wizard had tried to set off the powder cartridges on the gundeck. The powder magazine itself was well guarded by spells renewed yearly, but the powder was vulnerable as the ship’s boys carried it to the guns, as the gun crews ladled the cartridges into the breeches and rammed shot atop them. This closely engaged, explosions on the gundeck would be disastrous.

  The purple galleass fell off the wind a bit before its sweeps finally struck the water. Birdwing turned like a dolphin under the enemy stern, the starboard guns running out again, barking as they drove iron lengthwise through the enemy, wreaking hideous destruction on the narrow enemy vessel. Derec pounded the taffrail, roaring encouragement to the guncrews. Birdwing was now close-hauled between the two enemy galleasses, and the larboard guns—manned inefficiently by two men apiece—fired as the smaller vessel came into line: the range was much longer, but Derec saw the foremast come down. The fully crewed starboard guns ran out again, driving another broadside into the admiral’s port quarter. The kettledrums fell silent. Sweeps flailed the water in panic.

  “Stations for tacking! Helm’s a-lee!” Derec’s heart beat fire: a bloodthirsty demon howled in his soul. He wanted the enemy smashed.

  Birdwing pivoted on its heel like a dancer, running along the purple ship’s larboard side. Two full broadsides lashed out; the enemy timbers moaned to the impact of shot. The main and mizzenmast fell: the enemy rudder hung useless from its gudgeons. Nothing but small arms replied; the Liavekans hadn’t reloaded their larboard guns after the first broadside, either because they hadn’t the crew or hadn’t thought it was necessary. Now they paid for their neglect.

  The enemy flagship was left astern, a near-wreck pouring blood from its scuppers. Birdwing tacked again, heading for the smaller enemy; the lighter galleass had bravely turned toward the fight in an effort to succor its admiral. Useless: Birdwing forged ahead and yawed to fire one broadside, then the other. The guns smashed enough enemy sweeps to stagger the galleass in the water; the next broadside brought the mainmast down along with the enemy colors.

  Derec saw the third enemy vessel’s colors coming down—the xebec had surrendered, even though it had stood away from the battle and might have got away.

  Then there was silence, filled only with the gusting wind and the eerie sounds of the dying. Wreckage littered the sea: broken sweeps, jagged splinters, torn bodies of the dead. The enemy were drifting toward land: Derec would have to order them to drop an anchor till he could jury-rig masts and get them under way.

  Suddenly the silence was broken by cheers, Birdwing’s crew sending roar upon defiant roar into the sky.

  Derec looked down at the capering men, laughing and dancing in the waist of the ship, dancing in the blood of their crewmates who lay where the enemy’s shot had flung them.

  Then he remembered the mutiny, the way the men had danced in the blood of their countrymen, and the taste of victory turned to bitterness in his mouth.

  “Ah,” said Prince Jeng. “My mutineer.”

  “Your serene and glorious highness,” Derec said, and fell to his knees, bowing low and raising his hands to his forehead.

  Jeng was a balding man in his late thirties, tall for a Zhir, bearded and portly; he was heir to the throne, and head of the regent’s council while his father the king was ill and recuperating at the Obsidian Palace inland. It was Jeng who had intensified the undeclared naval war against Liavek, and who as a means of forwarding his policy had welcomed Birdwing to Ka Zhir. This was Derec’s first lone audience with the prince—he had met Jeng twice before, but only as one petitioner among many.

  Jeng seemed a bit surprised at Derec’s submission.

  “Rise, Captain SuPashto. This is an informal audience, after all. Would you like a sherbet on the terrace?”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” Derec rose and suppressed a feeling of discomfort. Back in the Twin Kingdoms, on the continent the Zhir called Farland, he’d never had any dealings with high nobility, and despite Prince Jeng’s hospitality he was not at home here. Derec was also uncomfortable in Prince Jeng’s language: his tongue was rough, and he desperately wished for an interpreter.

  Jeng’s cool summe
r silks whispered on marble as Derec followed him to the terrace. The sherbets were already laid on a wrought-iron serving table: obviously the prince had not expected Derec to refuse an offer of refreshment. Below the terrace, cliffs fell away to reveal the Inner Harbor of Ka Zhir.

  A strong sea breeze blew through the palace; but below, the harbor was windless. A hundred ships of burden stood on their perfect reflections in the still blue water. Among them, small guard boats scuttled like water spiders under oars. Thirty war galleys were drawn up on the shelving pebble beach of Great Kraken Island, safe beneath the guns and curtain walls of Fort Shzafakh, which was perched atop the old volcanic dome. Beyond, between the Inner and Outer Harbor, thousands of slaves were toiling to build the New Mole, at the end of which a new defensive fortification would rise, one from which a massive chain could be raised to block the channel and keep the Inner Harbor safe. The new fort was coming to be known as Jeng’s Castle, just as the intensified conflict with Liavek was gaining the name of Jeng’s War. Neither term was official; but language was, in its inevitable fashion, reflecting the realities of power.

  Jeng scooped up his sherbet in one broad paw and walked to a brass telescope set on the terrace. Touching it gingerly—the metal had grown hot in the sun—he adjusted the instrument and peered through it.

  “Your conquests, Captain,” he said. He stepped back from the telescope and, with a graceful gesture, offered Derec a look. Derec nodded his thanks and put his eye to the instrument.

  The bright varnished galleass leaped into view, anchored in the outer harbor next to the xebec. The Zhir ensign floated over both, black-and-gold raised over the Liavekan blue. The admiral’s purple galleass was just behind, drawn up on the shelving beach where it had been run aground to keep from sinking. Birdwing’s distinctive silhouette, a total contrast to every other vessel in the harbor, shimmered in a patch of bright, reflective water.

  “I understand the xebec surrendered without a fight,” Jeng commented. Derec straightened and faced the prince. The sea breeze tugged at the prince’s cloth-of-gold silks.

  “Yes, Your Highness. The xebec captain witnessed the loss of the two larger vessels and concluded that mighty wizardry was at work. He surrendered rather than be blasted to the bottom.”

  “But wizardry was not at work, was it?”

  Derec shook his head. “Nay, sir. We had a wizard, and so did they; but the magics canceled one another out.”

  Jeng raised his delicate silver spoon to his mouth. “We have interrogated Tevvik, their wizard,” he said, sipping sherbet as if it were wine, “and he confirms this. In return for his testimony, we have released him on parole.”

  Derec shrugged; the wizard’s fate meant nothing to him.

  “A pity that Admiral Bandur was killed in the fight. He might have brought you a large ransom.”

  “With Your Highness’s blessing,” Derec said slowly, staggering through the foreign phrases, “we will capture more admirals.”

  Prince Jeng smiled catlike, and licked his spoon. “So you shall, Thung willing.”

  “If Your Highness will modify our privateer’s license to permit us to cruise alone against the enemy–” Derec began, but Jeng frowned and held up a hand.

  “There are those on the council who say your victory was a fluke,” Jeng said. “They say the winds were kind to you. What should I answer, captain?”

  Derec hesitated, an array of technical terms running through his head. How much did Jeng know of the sea? Ka Zhir depended on ships and trade for its livelihood, and Jeng was an intelligent man who took an interest in the affairs of the kingdom; but how much practical seamanship did the prince know?

  “Your highness has seen galleons from the Two Kingdoms before, and from Tichen?”

  Jeng nodded. “They come with the annual trading convoys, yes. My mariners do not think well of them.”

  “They are slow, yes. And cannot sail into the wind.”

  Jeng finished his sherbet and scoured the dish with his spoon. The sound grated on Derec’s nerves. “So my advisors tell me. You say your ship is different.”

  “It is, Your Highness. We call it a race-built galleon,” stumbling, having to fall into his own language, “to distinguish it from the old style, which we call high-charged.”

  Jeng reached for a bell on the table and rang it. “Race-built?” he said. “Because it is faster?”

  Derec was surprised at Jeng’s conclusion: the prince understood Derec’s language better than he’d suspected.

  “With respect, Your Highness, the root of the word is razor,” Derec said. “Because the upper decks, the high stern- and forecastles, are razored off. The race-built galleon is lower in profile, and also lighter, without the weight of the castles.”

  A servant appeared. The prince ordered more sherbet, then looked at Derec and frowned. “The castles, my advisors tell me, are the galleon’s great advantage in combat. The castles can hold many soldiers, and the soldiers can fire down into enemy ships.”

  “The castles also make a high profile, and a high profile can catch the wind. The wind catches the ship and tries to push it to leeward. This is called leeway.”

  Prince Jeng’s eyes flashed. “Any Zhir child knows this, Captain. Please do not inform me of matters I learned at my mother’s knee.”

  Derec’s heart skipped a beat. He lowered his eyes and looked at Jeng’s feet. “Your pardon, Your Highness. I was merely trying to make the point that with a lower profile, the race-built galleon makes much less leeway, and is therefore able to point higher into the wind.”

  “Yes.” Curtly. “Very well. I understand.”

  “Also, Your Highness, we have a new form of square sail called the Birdwing. It’s flatter, rather like your own lateen sail. Although it holds less air, it’s somehow able to drive a ship nearer the wind.”

  Prince Jeng’s sternness dropped away, replaced by frank curiosity. “Is that so? How can that be?”

  Derec shrugged helplessly. “I do not know, Your Highness. It appears to be a property of the wind that we do not yet understand.”

  “It works, but you don’t know why?” Jeng considered this. “I shall have to inquire of my philosophers. We know why the lateen works so well, of course—it’s the triangular shape, which reflects the universality of the Triple Unities of Heart, Wit, and Spirit.”

  “Perhaps Captain-General Collerne understands these matters,’ Derec said,”I don’t know. The Birdwing sail had been in use on some of our smaller craft for two or three generations, but it was Captain-General Collerne who thought to use it on a warship. It was also his idea to raze the upper decks, after he noticed that some old ships that had their castles removed became better sailers." A fire kindled in Derec as he thought of his old captain and teacher. “He wanted to create a fleet taking its orders from sailors, not generals appointed to command at sea. A fleet that fights with broadside guns instead of rapiers and firelocks, that uses the wind and water to its own advantage.” His thick northern tongue stumbled on the Zhir words.

  “Yes, yes,” Jeng said. “That’s all very well, but it’s practical issues I’m concerned with.” A servant arrived with another bowl of sherbet. He gave his catlike smile as he tasted the treat. Derec understood how the man had grown so stout.

  “I am trying to speak practically, Your Highness,” Derec said. “Your galleys and galleasses are built lightly, so they can be driven through the water by muscle power. Because they must have so many rowers, they must water and victual frequently, and they must stop and let the rowers off every few days, so that they won’t sicken and die. If the enemy attacks while your ships are beached, your fleet is in grave jeopardy. Your ships can carry only a limited number of guns, because they are built lightly.

  “Because it is powered by the wind, Birdwing is built stoutly, and can resist punishment that would sink one of your galleys. Our holds are deeper and our crews are smaller, so that we can carry more provision and stay at sea much longer. Birdwing carries twenty-se
ven guns on each broadside, twice as many as your largest ship—and that’s not counting sakers and minions. The Liavekans simply won’t be able to stand up to a race-built ship, and a fleet of race-built craft will sweep them from the Sea of Luck. I’ll stake my life on that, Your Highness.”

  Prince Jeng looked at him darkly. “You may have to, Captain SuPashto.” Derec felt a cold touch on his neck. Prince Jeng took a deliberate sip of sherbet. “You are from a northern land, where political realities are somewhat different. Your King Torn is bound by custom and by the House of Nobles. There is no law of custom in Ka Zhir, Captain. The king is the law here, and in the absence of the king, the regent.”

  “I understand, Your Highness.”

  Jeng’s eyes were cold. “I think not, Captain. I think you do not comprehend the… necessities of life in Ka Zhir.” He turned, facing the inner harbor, and pointed with his silver spoon, an oddly delicate gesture in such a big man. “You see the New Mole, captain? I ordered that. One order, and thousands of slaves were set to work. Many of them will die. I didn’t have to apply to the regency council, I didn’t have to speak to a treasurer, I didn’t have to get the permission of a house of nobles. I merely gave an order one fine morning—and behold, the slaves die, and the mole is built.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “Perhaps our political character,” Jeng said, turning philosophical, “is derived from our volcanoes. They are unpredictable, inclined to sudden violence, and prone to massacre. So are the Zhir. So is my family.

  “I am a tyrant, Captain,” he said. He turned back to Derec, and his smile sent a chill through the northern man. “My very whim is law. I am an educated man, and am considered an enlightened tyrant by my philosophers”—his smile was cynical—“but I would scarcely expect them to say anything else, as I would then be compelled to have them crucified. That is the problem with being a tyrant, you see. I can’t stop being tyrannical, even if inclined otherwise, because that would encourage other would-be tyrants to take my place, and they would be worse. I am not as great a tyrant as my father—he had his unsuccessful commanders beheaded, and I only have them whipped, or make slaves of them. But I promise you, Captain SuPashto,” and here he pointed his spoon at Derec; and the gesture could not have been more threatening if the prince had held a sword. “I promise you, that if you fail me I will have you killed.”