Off Armageddon Reef

by David Weber

  Yet however disappointed Nimue Alban might have been by Dawn's performance in those long-ago days on Old Earth's North Sea, Merlin was delighted, and Rowyn was astounded. No ship he'd ever seen could have matched that performance, and if twenty or thirty degrees might not have sounded like all that much to a landsman, it meant a great deal to an experienced seaman.

  The only way for a sail-powered vessel to travel to windward was to beat, to sail as close-hauled as possible and swing back and forth across the wind. At the best of times, it was a slow, laborious, hideously inefficient business compared to sailing with or on the wind, or to what a powered vessel could have accomplished. Or, for that matter, a galley . . . while her rowers' endurance lasted.

  Tacking, which was essentially a matter of turning the ship across the wind, was the more efficient way of going about it, but that required the vessel doing the tacking to maintain forward speed—and steerage way—long enough to swing across the eye of the wind. Given how far a typical Safeholdian square-rigger had to turn to swing across the wind, that was usually a . . . problematic venture at the best of times. Far more frequently, especially in moderate or light winds, a current-generation square-rigger had to wear ship, instead, turning downwind, away from the direction it actually wanted to go, through an effective arc of well over two hundred degrees, until it could settle onto its new heading. In the process, it had to give up a heartbreaking amount of hard-won progress as the wind pushed it to leeward during the maneuver.

  It was hardly surprising that tacking was the preferred technique, but even there, the square-rigger had to swing through a total heading change of a hundred and forty degrees across the wind each time it tacked. Dawn's total heading change, on the other hand, would be little more than ninety degrees. That left her a much shorter "no-sail zone" to cross, and her basic rig was what a sailor would have called much faster in the stays than any Safeholdian square-rigger. Which, basically, simply meant she came about more rapidly, and her sails could be reset on the new tack much more quickly.

  Even completely ignoring the fact that she could get around on to the new tack so much more speedily, Dawn's twenty-degree advantage over the very best Safeholdian square-rigger ever built (it was actually closer to twenty-five degrees) meant that to reach a point sixty miles directly to windward of her start position, all other things being equal, she would have to sail the next best thing to ninety miles, while the square-rigger would have to travel a hundred and eighty. And that was assuming the square-rigger was able to tack at all, instead of wearing.

  Unlike pre-metric Old Earth, Safehold's sea miles and land miles were the same length, which meant that if both Dawn and the square-rigger were traveling at speeds of six knots, Dawn would make the sixty miles dead to windward in fifteen hours, while the square-rigger would require thirty. Over a voyage of several hundred or even thousands of miles, that would represent a significantly shorter overall voyage time. It also meant the square-rigger could never catch the little schooner in a chase to windward, which would be a handy insurance policy against pirates. By the same token, the square-rigger couldn't evade the schooner to windward, which had interesting implications for potential warships . . . or pirates.

  It was obvious to Merlin, and—he felt sure—to Horahs Rowyn, that Dawn's present sail plan was far from perfectly balanced, and she required far more lee helm than she should have to hold her present course. But no one on Safehold had any notion of how to make proper displacement and stability calculations, far less how to calculate appropriate sail areas. Merlin had access to the necessary formulas, thanks to the library computer tucked away in Nimue's Cave, but despite Nimue's yachting experience, he had only the most limited possible practical experience in applying them. More to the point, there was no way he could possibly hand something like that over to Olyvyr or Rahzhyr Mahklyn without raising all sorts of questions none of them would have wanted answered.

  But imperfect or not, it was doing its job, and a designer with Olyvyr's years of experience would soon hit upon a workable rule of thumb for designing proper sail plans for the new rig.

  Which, Merlin thought with a smile, will only make Dawn's successors perform even better.

  Rowyn was still staring up at the masthead pendant. Obviously, he hadn't heard a word Merlin had said, so Merlin thumped him on the shoulder. The Charisian jerked, then turned his head quickly with a questioning expression.

  "I asked what you think now?" Merlin repeated loudly, and Rowyn grinned hugely.

  "I think I want one of my very own," he half-shouted back, "and so will everyone else who sees this. Langhorne! Just look at that heading! And the reduction in sail handlers is going to be another big advantage for your typical clutch-fisted shipowner."

  "Agreed." Merlin nodded vigorously. Any square-rigger was a manpower-intensive proposition, and a schooner-rigged vessel like Dawn required a much smaller crew. Conversely, the square-rigger could carry an enormous sail area, and because her sails tended to be individually smaller in proportion to her total sail plan, she could absorb more damage aloft than most schooner rigs could.

  "Sir Dustyn tells me he wants Ahnyet re-rigged, too," Rowyn continued, cocking an eyebrow at Merlin, and Merlin chuckled.

  "Dawn's an experiment, Captain. Now that Sir Dustyn has his hand in, as it were, he's ready to do it right with Ahnyet. The fact that he designed her himself should give him a much better feel for modifying her rig, too. And then, of course, he's going to be inviting potential ship buyers aboard for a little cruise outside the Tellesberg breakwater. Just as a purely social occasion, of course."

  "Oh, of course!" Rowyn agreed with a deep, rolling belly laugh. "He's been using that ship for 'purely social occasions' like that for as long as I've captained her for him. But this—"

  He reached out and stroked the quarterdeck rail almost reverently, gazing back up at the masthead pendant and the set of the sails once again, then shook his head and looked back at Merlin.

  "I think I'd best be getting a feel for the way she handles, Lieutenant Athrawes."

  It was technically a statement, but actually a request, a recognition that Dawn was truly Merlin's ship . . . and that Merlin would be his real tutor over the next few days.

  "I think that's an excellent idea, Captain," Merlin agreed, and hid another mental smile.

  I wonder how Sir Dustyn would react if he knew the real reason I argued in favor of a pure fore-and-aft rig for our prototype?

  Despite himself, he laughed out loud, and Rowyn looked at him with an interrogatory expression. But Merlin only shook his head. Eventually, he was certain, the topsail schooner would emerge as the rig of choice. With the addition of square-rigged topsails on both masts, and even a square-rigged course on the foremast, it was probably the most powerful two-masted schooner rig ever devised. It could be driven harder and faster on the wind without sacrificing a great deal of its weatherliness, which would make it highly attractive to anyone looking for speedy passages, although the manpower demands would rise. But Merlin had no more intention of explaining to Rowyn than to Sir Dustyn Olyvyr that the fellow responsible for showing them this marvelous new rig had absolutely no idea how to manage a square-rigger.

  That probably wouldn't have done a lot for their confidence in my "suggestions," Merlin thought sardonically, then gave himself a mental shake and grinned at Rowyn.

  "Why don't you step over here and take the helm yourself for a few minutes, Captain Rowyn?" he invited.

  NOVEMBER, YEAR OF GOD 890

  I

  Archbishop Erayk's Quarters,

  City of Zion

  "Good morning, Erayk."

  Erayk Dynnys sat a bit straighter in the comfortable armchair. Well, the chair would have been comfortable, if anything could have been. It was heavily upholstered, the cushions deep enough that it took Dynnys' valet and a Temple guardsman to boost him out of it when it was time to rise.

  Unfortunately, with a leg broken in three places and a shoulder broken in at
least two, there was no such thing as a comfortable place to sit.

  At the moment, however, that was definitely in third or fourth place amongst his concerns as he found himself confronting a man in the unadorned orange priest's cap of a vicar.

  "Good morning, Your Grace," he said. "Forgive my appearance. I . . . wasn't expecting a visitor this morning."

  "I'm aware of that," Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair said with a gentle smile. "I was in the vicinity on another matter, however, and I thought I'd just drop in and see how you were doing."

  Dynnys nodded with a smile of his own, although he was perfectly well aware that Trynair intended for him to realize he'd just been lied to. The Chancellor of the Council of Vicars didn't "just happen" to drop in on a mere archbishop. Especially not at this time of year, when the visit required the Vicar in question to leave the mystically heated precincts of his luxurious personal quarters in the Temple itself.

  "May I?" Trynair gestured gracefully at another chair in Dynnys' sitting room, the sapphire ring of his office flashing in the lamplight, and the archbishop gave himself a shake.

  "Please, be seated, Your Grace!" he said hastily. "And please forgive my lack of manners, as well. I truly wasn't expecting you, and I'm afraid the healers are still prescribing poppy juice."

  "Don't concern yourself about it," Trynair said graciously. "After a fall such as yours, we're indeed fortunate your injuries weren't even more severe."

  "I appreciate your understanding, Your Grace."

  Dynnys waited while Trynair settled himself into the indicated chair. The Chancellor was taller than Dynnys, leaner, with an angular face, deep, intelligent eyes, and a closely trimmed beard. He wore the orange cassock of his exalted rank, badged with the blue quill sigil of the Order of Chihiro, and the hem of his cassock was damp with melted snow to above midcalf.

  "May I offer you something to drink, Your Grace?" Dynnys asked once the Chancellor had seated himself and extended his hands to the coal fire crackling cheerfully on the hearth.

  "Some hot chocolate would be most welcome on a day like this," Trynair agreed, and Dynnys nodded to his valet, who scurried off to deal with the request.

  "I haven't been out myself, of course, Your Grace," Dynnys said, "but people tell me the weather's unusually severe this year."

  "They tell you correctly, Erayk." Trynair chuckled and shook his head. "The snow's over three feet deep out there, and it's only November—not even full winter yet! I've seldom seen so many snowfalls so early in the season. And," his expression turned graver, "I'm afraid it's had a predictable effect on the semaphore."

  Dynnys nodded glumly. The greatest single weakness of the Church's semaphore system was that it was visibility-limited. Darkness, snow, rain, fog—any and all of them could and did shut down Mother Church's communications relays. There was a system to send signals through simple darkness, but it was less reliable—more vulnerable to errors in transcription at the various semaphore stations—and much slower, and it still couldn't cope with typical winter weather's decreased visibility.

  "It's always that way, isn't it, Your Grace?" he said after a moment, with an air of resignation.

  "Yes, yes it is. Those in other lands who envy us our high office seldom think about the penance we pay each winter here in Zion and the Temple. Although," Trynair allowed himself a chuckle which struck Dynnys' ear as not quite truly spontaneous, "you yourself have been spared that particular penance for the past several years, haven't you?"

  "I suppose I have," Dynnys replied, just a bit slowly, while his poppy-fumed brain raced. "And," he acknowledged with a chuckle of his own, "I suppose I ought to admit I've scheduled my pastoral visits expressly to avoid winter here in Zion, Your Grace."

  "I'm not surprised," Trynair said dryly, then snorted. "Anyone but a village idiot would schedule them that way, if he had the option! I certainly would."

  "Well, perhaps this"—Dynnys' left hand indicated the plaster the bonesetter had used to immobilize his shattered right leg and the sling supporting his right arm—"is all of those years of missed penances catching up with me at last."

  He managed to keep his voice almost normal, but it was difficult. The pain was bad enough, but the healers had already warned him he would require a cane, at best, for his right leg would never be the same again.

  "Oh, I doubt that." Trynair spoke in a voice so deliberately jovial that Dynnys suspected the Vicar had already heard the same healers' reports. "None of us is perfect, Erayk, but I rather doubt you could be imperfect enough to have laid up a debt quite that severe. On the other hand"—the Chancellor's eyes sharpened—"it may, perhaps, be . . . unfortunate that you suffered your accident at this particular time."

  "Your Grace?" Dynnys felt his own eyes narrow slightly as he realized Trynair was finally approaching the true point of his visit.

  "I'm sure you're aware that certain . . . concerns have been expressed about Charis," the Chancellor said. He held Dynnys' gaze until the archbishop nodded.

  "I am, Your Grace. Indeed, I've passed those concerns on to Bishop Executor Zherald and Father Paityr, and I'd intended to devote quite a bit of my own attention to them while I was in Tellesberg. Now, though—"

  His left hand indicated the heavy weight of plaster once again, and his left shoulder shrugged.

  "I understand, of course." Trynair leaned forward to pat Dynnys lightly on his good knee, then straightened once more as the valet returned with an exquisitely glazed cup of tissue-thin Harchong porcelain filled with steaming hot chocolate.

  The Chancellor accepted the cup with a murmur of thanks and sipped deeply and appreciatively while the valet set the matching chocolate pot and a second cup on the small table between him and Dynnys. The valet raised one eyebrow, indicating the unused cup, but the archbishop shook his head slightly. The valet bowed in acknowledgment and withdrew as silently as he had arrived.

  "I understand—we all understand—why your usual pastoral visit had to be canceled this year," the Chancellor resumed after a moment. "It's regrettable, naturally, but given the nature and extent of your injuries, it was also unavoidable."

  "I appreciate your understanding, Your Grace. I'd be less than honest, however, if I didn't say I would far rather be in Tellesberg right now than here."

  He waved at the sitting room window. The glass was well sealed into its frame, and the cozy sitting room was free of any of the icy drafts which plagued so many homes here in Zion, yet the windowpane was heavily frosted, despite the fire on the hearth. Elsewhere in the city, he knew, people less fortunate than he were huddled around any source of heat they could find, and fall and winter always produced hunger, as well. Ships could still make it across Lake Pei, with food from the huge granaries and farms in the southern Temple Lands, but eventually, that route, too, would be closed. The city would become totally dependent upon its own granaries and storehouses, and somehow, huge as those were, they always ran short before spring in a city this size. When the present snow melted or was removed, the inevitable bodies would be found where the combination of cold, hunger, and lack of shelter had overtaken the most vulnerable of the city's poor.

  "And I," Trynair said, his eyes very level, "would be less than honest if I didn't say I would far rather have you there than here at this moment, as well."

  "Your Grace, forgive me, but I believe you didn't just happen to 'drop in' on me this morning. I'm deeply honored by your visit, of course, but I can't avoid the suspicion that you have something rather more serious than the weather on your mind."

  "I suppose I was guilty of a little white lie," Trynair agreed with a smile. He sipped more hot chocolate for a moment, then lowered the cup. "I did have other business in the city today—that much was quite true, Erayk. But you're right. I do have certain concerns of my own which I wish to bring to your attention."

  "Of course, Your Grace. Please tell me how I can serve you and the Church."

  Dynnys heard the edge of wariness in his own voice, but Trynair ignored it. No
doubt the Chancellor was accustomed to that reaction. As the acknowledged senior member of the vicars known (unofficially, of course) as the "Group of Four," he was the single most powerful man in the entire Temple.

  Everyone knew Grand Vicar Erek XVII had been elevated to the grand vicarate only because Trynair had been too busy to seek the Throne of Langhorne for himself. Nor had there been any reason he had to. Erek XVII was little more than a figurehead, completely dominated by Trynair and the Grand Inquisitor, the dominant members of the Group of Four. It was said—very quietly, with carefully hidden snickers—that the Grand Vicar routinely demonstrated his independence of Trynair's direction by choosing which pair of shoes he would wear.

  "No one is dissatisfied with the service you've already rendered, Erayk," Trynair said in reassuring tones. "However, as I'm sure you're aware, many members of the Council have felt increasingly . . . uneasy over Charis' growing wealth and influence for quite some time. There are those persistent rumors that the Kingdom is dabbling in proscribed techniques and knowledge. And the equally persistent rumors that Haarahld and his ministers have succeeded in evading their rightful tithes. Then there was that matter of the dispute over Hanth. And, of course, there's always that 'Royal College' of Haarahld's."