At the Sign of Triumph

by David Weber

  Almost certainly.

  “All right!” he shouted in his friend’s ear. “I’ve got her! Go get something hot to eat and grab some sleep!”

  “Best offer I’ve had all night!” Audhaimyr punched him on the shoulder, jerked his head at his own lookouts—who’d been waiting with as little obvious impatience as possible (which wasn’t very much) after handing over to their reliefs—unclipped his own safety line, and headed for the relative protection of the conning tower.

  I sure as hell wish Sir Dustyn had gone ahead with those enclosed bridges of his, Bahnyface thought glumly, trying to find a corner where the solid, chest-high bridge face would shield him from at least the worst of the wind-driven spray flying aft from the plunging bow. He found one—after a fashion—and grimaced at the unmanned wheel in the opensided wheelhouse at the center of the bridge. The helmsman had moved to his alternate station inside the conning tower, and more power to him. The last thing they needed would be for the man on the wheel to get himself numbed into exhaustion by the weather conditions!

  I guess I’m happy for him, but I could do with a nice, snug, glassed-in perch of my own right about now! Of course—he ducked, then spat out a mouthful of the solid bucket full of seawater which had just hit him in the face anyway—it’d have to be pretty damned thick glass to handle this kind of crap!

  Well, he understood the King Haarahlds would have exactly that sort of bridge, and at fourteen thousand tons, they probably wouldn’t care as much about the weather as Eraystor did in the first place.

  Hah! he thought glumly. It’ll just mean Shan-wei needs to come up with worse storms to keep ’em occupied!

  He held on to a stanchion, watching twin geysers spurt skyward through the hawse holes every time the ship’s bow came down, and marveled at the furious energy roaring all about him. There was nothing quite like a storm at sea to remind a man just how puny he was against the scale of God’s creation, and he tried not to think too hard about the thousands of miles yet before them.

  They’d left the Trellheim Gulf well astern after stopping at the coaling station Earl Sharpfield had established at Put-In Bay on Hill Island on his original voyage to Claw Island. Hill Island was little more than two hundred miles from the mainland across Heartbreak Passage, but the mainland in question was Trellheim, and the “corsairs” weren’t about to dispute the Charisian Empire’s possession of an island they’d never much wanted anyway. Besides, how valuable was a mountain of coal? It would be harder than hell to haul away, you couldn’t spend it, you couldn’t sell it to anyone else—you couldn’t even eat it!—which meant no self-respecting corsair wanted anything to do with it.

  And if that disinterest just happened to avoid pissing off the most powerful navy in the history of the world, so much the better.

  That didn’t mean Admiral Zhastro and the rest of the squadron hadn’t been just a teeny bit nervous during the outbound voyage. The City-class ships’ biggest weakness was their designed endurance of only a thousand miles. Even with maximum bunker loads—including countless bags of the stuff piled in every available passage below decks—they could reach only about seventeen hundred. So if it had happened that the coaling station wasn’t there when they arrived, they would’ve been far up shit creek. To be sure, there were additional galleons loaded with coal following behind them, but the whole point of deploying the 2nd Ironclad Squadron was that it could make the trip far faster than any wind-dependent galleon. Sitting at anchor in Put-In Bay—which wasn’t the most sheltered anchorage in the world at the best of times—while its ships waited would not be the best use of its time. And that assumed no one else was in possession to prevent it from dropping anchor in the first place.

  Fortunately, the coal pile and the small, lonely Marine garrison and battery protecting it had been exactly where they were supposed to be. So now the squadron was midway between Hill Island and Apple Island, the southernmost of The Teardrops, the chain of islands two thousand miles west-northwest of Claw Island. Assuming that coaling station was still there, they would have the ineffable joy of filling the ships’ voracious bunkers entirely by hand yet again. After which, they would set out once more—not directly for Claw Island, which would still be several hundred miles outside their cruising range, but for Angel Wing Island, five hundred miles northwest of Green Tree Island. Where (if that coal was still available), they would refuel yet again before setting out on the last twelve hundred miles to Claw Island. Altogether, they had over thirty-seven hundred miles still to go, and even with the squadron’s speed, that was going to take another thirteen days, not counting the time spent coaling.

  On the other hand, they’d already traveled almost seventeen thousand miles since they’d received their orders in the Gulf of Mathyas. In fact, they were steaming twenty thousand miles east to reach a destination less than six thousand miles west of the point at which they’d begun, since there were unfortunate things like continents in the way of a direct trip. It would still have been seven or eight thousand miles shorter to go south, round the southern tip of Howard, and then steam northwest and up through the Strait of Quieroz, but for some odd reason, the Kingdom of Delferahk and the South Harchong Empire hadn’t been very receptive to allowing the ICA to establish the coaling stations the short-legged Cities needed along their coasts. If it was a matter of seizing and then hanging onto tiny, isolated island coaling stations, it was better to reach out eastward from Chisholm than to try to go west from Charis, especially when typical South Ocean weather and the southern Sea of Justice were taken into consideration. It was currently summer in those waters, but it wouldn’t have been when the coaling stations were established, and while passing through Schueler Strait or Judgment Strait wasn’t too dreadful—normally—in summer.…

  The Cities’ limited operational range was the real reason the King Haarahlds had been earmarked to spearhead the Imperial Charisian Navy’s decisive offensive into the Gulf of Dohlar. A King Haarahld had almost twelve times Eraystor’s cruising radius; she could have made the trip direct from Tellesberg without refueling at all, and once she’d reached the Gulf, she’d have had far more freedom of action, not to mention a main battery capable of demolishing any fortifications she might face. But the disastrous Delthak Works fire had put the King Haarahlds on hold, and the ICN was accustomed to getting on with the job in hand, whether it had the most ideal tools for it or not.

  Which was how Mahtylda Bahnyface’s little boy Dahnel found himself smack in the middle of a Wind Gulf Sea winter storm, clawing his way towards an improvised naval base he hoped like hell would be there when they reached it.

  Join the Navy and see the world, Dahnee, he told himself with biting humor. That’s what those grinning bastards told you. And, by God, you’ve seen a lot of it since! Of course—he squinted up into the howling wind, solid sheets of rain, and spray—they never warned you about just how miserable you were going to be while you were seeing it!

  .VII.

  City of Zion,

  The Temple Lands.

  The sound of the doorbell startled Alahnah Bahrns up out of the sketch she’d been working on. The short winter day had ended hours ago, and heavy snow swirled down over the city streets. It was unlikely that the trolleys would be running much longer if the snow was as deep as it looked like being. All of which suggested there wouldn’t be many visitors wandering around those same streets.

  The bell rang again, and she felt a sudden tingle run down her nerves. A tingle, little though she wanted to admit it, of fear. A woman of twenty-five years shouldn’t be afraid when her doorbell rang in the middle of God’s own city! But there was so much uncertainty, so much fear.…

  The bell rang a third time, and she gave herself a little shake. One thing it obviously wasn’t was someone here to arrest her! If someone had come to do that, they’d hardly stand patiently in the hall and ring the bell again and again. The thought actually made her chuckle, and she crossed her apartment’s small sitting room to open the security sli
de in the stout door. She peeked out onto the landing, and her eyebrows rose. Then she quickly unlocked the door and pulled it wide.

  “Uncle Gahstahn! What in the world are you doing here at this hour?”

  “Hello, Lahna,” he said, using the childhood nickname that only he and Krystahl ever applied to her.

  She opened her arms and embraced him, despite the snow clotted on the outside of his heavy coat. Then she caught him by one gloved hand and drew him into the apartment. She couldn’t afford a very big fire, especially these days, but the room was well insulated and she’d hung heavy, warm blankets as extra curtains to cut down on the windows’ drafts.

  “Take off that coat. Let me make you some tea.”

  “I really can’t stay, Lahna,” he said, and her smile faded as his expression registered.

  “What do you mean, you can’t stay?” Her grip on his hand tightened. “You just came over ten blocks to get here on a night like this! Surely you can sit down long enough to let me fix you a cup of hot tea!”

  “No, really.” He shook his head. “I just … stopped by on my way.”

  “On your way where?” Her eyes narrowed. “Uncle Gahstahn, you’re starting to frighten me.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to do that!” He shook his head again, harder, and summoned up a smile. It was rather feeble looking. “I just … I just wanted to ask you if you’ve seen Krys in the last day or two.”

  “If I’ve what?” Alahnah blinked. Then her face tightened. “What do you mean if I’ve seen her? Are you saying she hasn’t been home in two days?!”

  For a moment, he looked as if he wasn’t going to answer. But then his shoulders slumped and he nodded.

  “I haven’t seen her since Wednesday, right after mass,” he said heavily. “She said she was going out to run an errand. That’s the last I’ve seen of her.”

  Alahnah’s fingers rose to her lips and her eyes were huge.

  “You’ve checked the hospitals? Talked to the Guard?”

  “Of course I have!” Concern for his daughter brought Gahstahn Bahrns’ response out more sharply than he’d intended, and he laid his free hand quickly on her shoulder, his expression contrite.

  “Of course I have,” he repeated more quietly. “Nothing. It’s like she disappeared into thin air. That’s why I was hoping you might’ve seen her. Might have some idea where she went on that ‘errand’ of hers.”

  “Oh, Langhorne,” Alahnah breathed.

  “You do know where she went?” Gahstahn’s eyes, the same hazel as his daughter’s, widened with sudden hope.

  “Uncle Gahstahn, she told me she was going to meet with friends.” Alahnah released his hand to put both her own hands on his upper arms. “She said one of them was Sebahstean Graingyr. They were going … going to discuss a petition.”

  “A petition?” Gahstahn repeated sharply, but there was less surprise in his voice than Alahnah had expected. Or than she wanted to hear. “A petition to whom?”

  “Vicar Rhobair,” she said quietly. “They wanted … they wanted him to … look into their concerns about all the arrests the Inquisition’s been making.”

  “Sweet Bédard.” Gahstahn closed his eyes, his face sagging suddenly. “I knew she hiding something from me—I knew it!” He opened his eyes and managed another fleeting caricature of a smile. “I could always tell when one of you was up to something. But I told her—I warned her—that sometimes, in the middle of something like the Jihad, you can’t just.…”

  His voice trailed off, and Alahnah nodded slowly while tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

  “We don’t know—don’t know—that … that anything bad’s happened,” she half whispered.

  “When was the last time Krystahl didn’t warn me if she wasn’t going to be home?” Gahstahn asked bleakly. “At the very least she would’ve sent a message!” He shook his head. “She’d never have done something that would have caused me to worry this much—not willingly, anyway.”

  “What … what are we going to do?” Alahnah asked in a very small voice.

  “We aren’t going to do anything,” her uncle told her sharply. “You’re going to stay entirely out of this, young lady!” She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook her sharply by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Lanah! I don’t want you doing anything that could get you in trouble, too. If … if Krys is already in trouble, you need to promise me you’ll stay as far away from it as you can. I don’t want anything happening to both my daughters!”

  The tears broke free, rolling down her cheeks, and he gathered her into a fierce embrace.

  “Then what are you going to do?” she asked in an even tinier voice, one that was almost inaudible over the wind blowing about the apartment building.

  “I’m going to find Krystahl.” His voice wasn’t a lot louder than hers, but it was carved out of granite. “I’ve checked with the Guard, and I’ve checked the hospitals. I haven’t checked with the Inquisition. Yet.”

  “But if … if—”

  She broke off, unable to complete the sentence, and his expression was as granite-like as his voice.

  “If the Inquisition’s arrested Krys,” he said unflinchingly, “it has to be a mistake. I can’t even begin to imagine anything she could’ve done to get herself into that kind of trouble, but young Graingyr and his lot…” He tossed his head, his worried eyes touched with a flicker of anger. “I could see them doing something stupid, and if she was in the wrong place at the wrong time, the Inquisition might have taken her in for questioning.” He swallowed. “Even if they did, they have to let me at least talk to her—that’s the Inquisition’s own law! And when I talk to them, explain that they must’ve made a mistake, I’m sure they’ll release her as soon as they can.”

  Alahnah nodded quickly, although she was sure of nothing of the sort. Neither was he, she thought; he just wasn’t going to admit that to her.

  “You’ll tell me what you find out?” The question came out as a command, but he shook his head.

  “If I can. But if the … misunderstanding’s more serious than I hope it is, I may not be talking to you for a while.” His lips twitched another smile. “I’m sure we’ll get it all straightened out eventually, but for now it would be best if I didn’t get you involved in … anything.”

  She started to protest, then closed her mouth and nodded unhappily.

  “Well,” he said with forced brightness, “I suppose I’d better be going. If I’m lucky, I’ll find Father Charlz in his office. We’ve known each other a long time, Lanah. I’m sure he’ll be as shocked as I am by the notion that the Inquisition could have any reason to take Krystahl into custody!”

  .VIII.

  HMS Fleet Wing, 18,

  Gulf of Dohlar,

  and

  Manchyr Palace,

  City of Manchyr,

  Princedom of Corisande,

  Empire of Charis.

  “Are you all right, Hektor?” Lieutenant Hahlbyrstaht asked quietly, and Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk looked up from his wineglass quickly.

  The cabin provided to HMS Fleet Wing’s captain was tiny compared to similar quarters aboard larger ships, but it didn’t quite seem that way tonight. The weather had been unseasonably warm for the last three days, so the broad, diamond-paned stern windows were opened wide on a beautiful view of the silver moon, just rising from the waters of the Gulf of Dohlar, and the wind scoop fitted to the skylight sent a brisk, cooling breeze through it. Hektor and his first lieutenant shared supper at least three times each five-day, catching up on all the innumerable decisions involved in commanding even the smallest warship, and this evening weather and breeze had combined to make it a far more pleasant meal than many. But Hektor had been noticeably distracted, and Hahlbyrstaht looked concerned.

  “Hmmm?” Hektor’s eyes were a bit blank for a moment, as if he’d been staring at something only he could see. Then he smiled quickly.

  “Sorry, Zosh.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m just a little distracted
at the moment. Thinking about Irys.”

  He smiled again, more broadly, and Hahlbyrstaht smiled back.

  “I can understand that,” he told his CO. “I may not be married yet, but Marzh plans to fix that as soon as I get home! And I have to admit there are times I find myself thinking about her … a lot. Besides,” his expression sobered a bit, “it’s just about time for the twins, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Hektor nodded. “Yes, it is, and to be honest, that’s a big part of the reason I’m thinking about her at the moment. I’m sure she’s fine. Pasquale knows Daivyn’s going to make sure he has the best healers in Corisande looking after his big sister! But I’ve discovered it’s a lot easier for my head to feel confident about that than it is for the rest of me to go along with it.”

  “Probably be something wrong with you if it wasn’t. And it’s not like the two of you had a whole lot of time together before the Navy sent you back off to sea, either.”

  “I guess not,” Hektor acknowledged, although both of them knew the Navy would have done nothing of the sort to any member of the imperial family, especially given the damage to his arm, not to mention the minor matter of just whom he was married to, if the family member in question had objected.

  “Well, I think we’re just about done, anyway,” his first lieutenant said. “I can’t think of anything important we haven’t already covered, anyway. Can you?”

  “No, not really.” Hektor’s smile turned crooked. “Of course, we just finished agreeing I’m a little distracted this evening.”

  “Fair enough. You deserve the chance to be a lonely husband every now and then.” Hahlbyrstaht touched him on the shoulder in a display of affection he wouldn’t have allowed himself in front of the crew. The captain’s sacrosanct dignity must be maintained at all times, even in so small a ship. Possibly even especially in so small a ship. “Why don’t you sit down and write her a letter or something while I discuss that sail survey with the Bos’un? If anything else occurs to you, you can always tell me about it later.”