by David Weber
"As closely as I can reconstruct what probably really happened, they were close enough for Lieutenant Athrawes to make what probably was a fairly remarkable cast with the harpoon. That would be in reasonable accordance with his previously displayed abilities as a warrior. He then dove into the water and swam to the boat, where the kraken he'd harpooned continued to attack the children until the mortal wound it had already suffered overcame it. The lieutenant may have helped to fend off the dying creature, but I suspect he was actually most concerned with getting the children out of the water, onto the overturned boat, where the wounded kraken would be less likely to attack them.
"Without wishing in any way to detract from the lieutenant's undeniable courage, I believe that must constitute the probable extent of his actions. And, to his additional credit, he's never claimed to have done more than that. At any rate, and making all due allowance for the fundamental truthfulness of the children involved, I sincerely doubt that even a seijin could throw a harpoon a hundred and fifty yards, swim the same distance in the twinkling of an eye, and then strangle three or four krakens with his bare hands! Indeed, I'm somewhat inclined to the opinion that there's a snowballing effect at work here. Lieutenant Athrawes initially appeared under rather dramatic circumstances, after all. With that in mind, it's not surprising the gossip of the uninformed attributes all sorts of semi-miraculous capabilities to him."
"But you believe it is 'the gossip of the uninformed'?"
"Probably not entirely, but in the main, yes, Your Eminence."
"And his purpose here?" Dynnys asked, eyes narrowing very slightly.
"I believe his purpose here is to offer his services as a warrior—an extraordinary one, perhaps, but still a warrior—to the House of Ahrmahk. I believe he genuinely . . . admires King Haarahld, and it's readily apparent that he's deeply attached to young Cayleb."
"You have no evidence of anything . . . deeper than that?" Dynnys pressed.
"None, Your Eminence," Wylsynn said firmly. "I realize there have probably been reports and rumors—some of which may have reached clear to the Temple—of some malevolent purpose on his part. Given the obvious trust he's won from Haarahld and Cayleb, jealousy and spite would certainly have produced those rumors, whether there was any foundation to them or not. And to be realistic, it's unlikely Lieutenant Athrawes is a complete stranger to ambition. He's certainly in an excellent position to rise quite high in the Royal Guard, for example, and I doubt he'd refuse promotion or wealth if they were offered to him.
"On the basis of my own conversations with the man, and with King Haarahld and Crown Prince Cayleb, though, I feel quite confident he has no more malign purpose than that. Indeed, my considered opinion is that this man has a profound respect for God and would never dream of defying God's will."
Dynnys blinked. He couldn't help it. There was a note of absolute certitude in Wylsynn's voice, as if God Himself had whispered in the under-priest's ear. He might be wrong, but there was no way Dynnys was going to shake his belief in this Lieutenant Athrawes' worthiness.
And, truth to tell, the archbishop thought wryly, if a Wylsynn is prepared to vouch for the man, who are we mere fallible mortals to question that vote of confidence?
"I see," he said again, after a moment. "Well, Father, I must say you've put my mind at ease on several points this morning. I appreciate that, just as I appreciate your devotion and zeal in attending to these matters."
"I'm very happy to hear that, Your Eminence. And I hope that if there's any other way in which I can be of service to you during your pastoral visit, you'll call upon me."
"Of course, Father." Dynnys rose, extending his right hand across his desk, and Wylsynn bent to kiss the episcopal ring once more. "Go with my blessing, Father."
"Thank you, Your Eminence," Wilson said.
Dynnys reseated himself as the under-priest withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him. The archbishop sat gazing at that door for a few seconds, then turned to Father Symyn at his own desk.
"Well, Symyn, what's next on the morning's agenda?"
* * *
"This is a really excellent brandy, Zherald," Archbishop Erayk commented, inhaling deeply as he passed the deep, tulip-shaped glass under his nose.
"Yes, it is," Ahdymsyn agreed. "It was a gift from the Prior of Saint Trevyr's." He smiled slightly. "I didn't ask the Prior where it came from."
"Probably just as well," Dynnys agreed with a chuckle, and glanced over his shoulder.
"I think you've put in enough hard work today, Symyn," he told his secretary. "Put down your pen and pour yourself a glass."
"If you're certain, Your Eminence. I don't mind taking a few more notes," Shumakyr said.
"Nonsense!" Dynnys shook his head. "You may be willing to continue making notes, but I've put in a long, hard day. I don't intend to discuss anything else on the record tonight."
"Of course, Your Eminence."
The secretary carefully cleaned his pen and put it away, then capped his inkwell and straightened his papers with equal care before closing the cover on his own desk. Then he crossed to the side table and poured himself a glass of brandy as instructed.
The sun had almost disappeared beyond the western horizon outside the windows of Dynnys' office. The archbishop had been in Tellesberg for eighteen days now, and they truly had been arduous ones. Ahdymsyn was forced to concede that Dynnys had applied himself to the many problems facing him with a degree of energy and intensity the bishop executor had never seen out of him before.
"I must say," the archbishop said after a moment, propping his feet on an embroidered ottoman, "that I feel considerably relieved on several fronts. Which isn't to say—" He shot Ahdymsyn a sharp look. "—that I'm not still a little anxious about others."
"Isn't it always that way, Your Eminence?" the bishop executor allowed himself a small, weary smile.
"Yes. Yes it is," Dynnys sighed.
For just an instant, his face looked years older, worn with worry as well as the fatigue of the pace he'd set himself over the past three and a half five-days. Ahdymsyn, to his own surprise, felt a twinge of sympathy which actually had nothing at all—or very little, at least—to do with his own position and ambitions.
"I've drafted my preliminary report," Dynnys continued after another sip of brandy. "I'd appreciate it if you'd glance over it in the morning. Give me the benefit of your own perspective."
"Of course, Your Eminence." Ahdymsyn managed to keep any surprise out of his voice, but the request was unusual, to say the least.
Of course, it's probably not that surprising given how . . . carefully he has to have written it, the bishop executor thought after a moment. And at least he's not asking me to cosign it!
He felt a brief flicker of something almost like shame. Whatever else might be true, at least a large part of Dynnys' potential problems were none of his making. He'd never asked for this sudden, unsavory rush of inventiveness.
At least he could say honestly that his intendant had no qualms at all about all of the new devices and ideas. That should help quite a lot, in Ahdymsyn's opinion. Perhaps it wouldn't suit the more vengeful members of the Office of the Inquisition as much as making a few sharp examples would have, but it should at least pour a little water on that particular fire.
As for the other, more fundamental problems of the archbishopric, those had begun before Dynnys ever assumed office. Perhaps he should have dealt with them sooner, but that was a case of being wise after the fact, Ahdymsyn thought. For that matter, he himself clearly hadn't been sufficiently proactive in dealing with Bishop Maikel, not that he intended to admit it to anyone.
Ahdymsyn hadn't taken part in Staynair's private meeting with Dynnys. Only Father Symyn had been present for that in his role as the archbishop's secretary. The bishop executor's impression was that it might have gone better, but at least Staynair couldn't have offered any open defiance. If he had, Dynnys would have had no option but to discipline him, which—thank God!—he hadn't.
The last thing anyone needed was for the Group of Four to add concerns over the doctrinal reliability of the local priesthood to the pot, and if the kingdom's senior bishop had to be disciplined—!
But they'd manage to avoid that, at least. And if the Group of Four's current worries could just be allayed, even temporarily, they might manage to save the situation after all. The archbishopric only needed a little time—a year or two, perhaps, without the Group of Four intervening to make the situation still worse—to put its house in order. That was all they really needed, he thought, and found himself wondering just how the archbishop had dealt with his own concerns about Bishop Maikel.
Well, I suppose I'll find out tomorrow, won't I? he told himself, and lifted his own brandy glass appreciatively.
II
King's Harbor,
Helen Island
"How does Domynyk feel about Captain Maylyr?" Merlin asked.
He and Cayleb sat at a table under an awning atop the citadel, enjoying a brisk afternoon breeze as they gnawed on spider-crab legs. Gahlvyn Daikyn, Caleb's valet, had a particularly tasty recipe for them, and Merlin had found he was genuinely fond of the local delicacy, although he didn't think he could have matched Cayleb's prodigious, barely-post-adolescent appetite for them even if he'd had a full-sized flesh and blood "stomach" to pack them into.
Now the crown prince took time to swallow—and wash the swallow down with a long draft of beer—before he responded.
"I think he's reasonably satisfied," he said then, and shrugged. "Maylyr's only had a couple of five-days to settle in, after all."
"But Domynyk has a point about how long we've got to let people 'settle in,'-" Merlin pointed out in his best devil's advocate manner, and Cayleb's teeth flashed in a smile.
"Yes, he does," he agreed. "And, no, I'm not prepared to override him on a whim. But I think we can give Maylyr another day or so before I order him fed to the krakens."
Merlin chuckled, although mention of feeding anyone to the krakens didn't really strike him as the most humorous possible joke.
"Time really is getting short, I'm afraid," he said after a moment, and Cayleb nodded soberly, his own mood darkening.
"You haven't had any more 'visions' of Gorjah or Rahnyld?" he asked.
"Not of their having any more conversations with representatives of the Council of Vicars." Merlin shook his head. "But Gorjah's been spending a lot more time chatting up Hektor's ambassador. And Rahnyld's had Admiral Gardynyr very quietly getting his navy ready to move if it has to."
"None of which is really much of a surprise," Cayleb pointed out in a voice which sounded much less concerned than Merlin knew he actually was.
"Perhaps not. But the fact that the Council's involved at all is hardly what I'd call good news, Cayleb!"
"Agreed. Agreed! But you heard what Rayjhis had to say right here on this very roof." Cayleb's expression was much grimmer for a moment. "Sooner or later, the members of the Council who fear us would've come out of the shadows, anyway. At least now, thanks to you, we know they're doing it."
"Thanks to me" in more ways than you know, Cayleb, Merlin thought with a spasm of guilt, then shook himself.
"I don't like the odds if they do bring Dohlar in," he said frankly.
"I can't say I'd care for them a lot, myself," Cayleb conceded. "Still, even adding Dohlar and Tarot to the balance sheet, Hektor wouldn't have much better than a three-to-two advantage in hulls."
Merlin gave him a skeptical look, and the crown prince snorted. In fact, as Cayleb knew perfectly well, the official strength of the Royal Charisian Navy, when fully mobilized, was a hundred and thirty galleys, including the fifty in the reserve fleet. Hektor of Corisande had an active-duty strength of fifty, with another thirty in reserve. Nahrmahn of Emerald had forty-five in permanent commission and another twenty-five or thirty in reserve. That gave the two of them a combined active-duty strength of ninety-five with another sixty or so in reserve, or a total of a hundred and fifty, although almost all of them were indivdually smaller and less powerful than their Charisian counterparts.
Tarot's fleet was smaller, with only thirty galleys in permanent commission and no reserve worth mentioning. But the Dohlaran Navy had sixty in permanent commission and another seventy in reserve, and their galleys were big, powerful ships, although they were very definitely designed as a coastal force, not for the high seas. So, if Tarot and Dohlar were added to the ranks of Charis' enemies, King Haarahld's hundred and thirty galleys could find themselves opposed by well over three hundred.
"All right," Cayleb said after a moment. "I'll grant you that if they got every hulk in their reserve fleet into commission, they'd have us by better than two to one. But, first, it's unlikely they will manage to get all of them into commission. And, second, Dohlar is over seven thousand miles from here as the wyvern flies . . . and over twenty-three thousand as the ship sails. That's a Shan-wei of a voyage for a batch of coastal galleons, Merlin! And Charis—and our entire navy—is squarely between Dohlar and Corisande. They'd have to get past us before they could combine."
"Which doesn't mean they won't try," Merlin pointed out.
"No, but if they don't coordinate things carefully, we'd be able to smash each wing of their strategy separately. And even using the Church's semaphore, it's going to take time for any operation that complex to be coordinated. You were there when I discussed it with Father and Rayjhis."
Cayleb shrugged.
"I agree with them. It's already early August. We're into midwinter down here, and by the time Erayk's report gets back to the Temple, it's going to be the end of the month, or even September. That means they're going to be heading into fall up north. It takes over a month for even the semaphore system to get a message from the Temple to Manchyr, and from your visions, they haven't even spoken to Hektor yet. So let's say they spend a five-day or two thinking things over, then send a message to Hektor. That means it's going to be somewhere around the middle of November by the time they can hear back from him. And that means it's going to be the end of February by the time they can get a second message to him. So, the earliest they should be able to move is going to be very late February or March, which is the middle of winter in Dohlar. Then it's going to take at least seventy days or so for the Dohlaran navy to get any of its ships as far as Charis. So if they get underway by the middle of March, they'll get here sometime in May. Which is the middle of fall again, and only an idiot would fight a sea war in these waters in the middle of storm season."
He shrugged again.
"If I were running the Temple, I'd accept that I was going to have to wait at least another two or three months, which would mean the earliest we'd see them down here would be sometime in the spring. Say October of next year."
"That all sounds perfectly reasonable and reassuring," Merlin said. "The only thing that bothers me about it is that it requires the other side to be smart enough to see the same objections we see."
"Granted." Cayleb reached for another spider-crab leg and waved it at Merlin. "At the same time, they don't know about Domynyk and his little surprise."
"No," Merlin agreed. "At least, not so far as I can tell."
"Well, there you are." Cayleb shrugged again and cracked the spider-crab leg to get at the succulent inner meat.
"And how many galleons do we have?" Merlin asked.
"Not as many as I'd like," Cayleb agreed rather indistinctly, then swallowed.
"Not as many as I'd like," he repeated, more clearly. "But if they'll hold off until spring, that will change."
It was Merlin's turn to nod. Commodore Staynair—except it was going to be Admiral Staynair very soon now—had his squadron of galleons up to fifteen, six of them converted merchantships armed solely with carronades. By November, that number would have just about doubled, although many of the additional ships would just be starting their working up exercises at that point. And by next March, the total should be up to almost fifty, many of which—especially the purpose-built un
its—would carry many more guns than the original Experimental Squadron's units. In addition, Haarahld and High Admiral Seamount had already earmarked almost a dozen largish schooners building in Tellesberg for impressment into naval service.
Unfortunately, it was far from certain they'd be able to effectively arm all their new units as soon as they were built. Howsmyn was working not so minor miracles at the vastly expanded King's Harbor foundry, and his new foundry at Delthak would be pouring its first run of artillery by late October, if all went well. Even so, things were going to be tight, and they'd been forced to effectively strip the entire reserve fleet of its heavy armament already. Which meant that adding fifteen galleons had reduced the Navy's effective strength by fifty galleys.