by David Weber
Which doesn't make the poor bastards so very different from me, does it? he thought mordantly. Of course, I do understand whose idea this really is. That puts me at least a little up on them, I suppose.
His lips tightened at the thought, and he spread his feet a bit further apart, balancing easily as Gorath Bay's motion freshened.
Magwair, he thought. That's who came up with this. And Rahnyld and Malikai actually think it's a good idea, Langhorne save us all!
He drew a deep breath and commanded himself to stop fretting. It was an order more easily given than obeyed, but he was a disciplined man. Besides, if he didn't get a grip on his temper, sheer spleen was going to carry him off long before they reached the Straits of Queiroz. Still, only a landsman—and an idiot general, at that—could have come up with this brilliant idea.
We're supposed to "sneak up" on Haarahld, he thought disgustedly. As if anyone could move a fleet this size through the Harthlan Sea without every trading vessel west of Tarot knowing all about it! And what they know, Haarahld will know within five-days. Certainly, he's going to know we're coming long before we get there.
Well, he supposed surprise wasn't really essential when you'd been able to assemble four times your enemy's maximum strength. But committing a fleet of coastal galleys to the passage of the Sea of Justice wasn't exactly an act of genius.
Left to himself, and assuming he'd had no choice but to carry out these lunatic orders and attack a kingdom which had never threatened his own, he would have gone about it quite differently.
Their orders were to follow the eastern coast of Howard as far as Geyra, in the Desnairian Empire's Barony of Harless, then swing due east for the rendezvous off Demon Head, at the northern tip of Armageddon Reef. He would have hugged the coast all the way up to the Gulf of Mathyas and then around southern East Haven to reach Tarot, without going anywhere near the Reef. It would have added five-days to the journey time, but it would also have gotten them there without facing the Sea of Justice. And he would have taken his fleet straight from Tarot to Eraystor Bay, around the Stepping Stones and the southern part of the Anvil, and availed himself of the Emerald Navy's yard facilities to scrape his bottoms and get his galleys fit for combat once more before he went picking any fights with the Royal Charisian Navy in its own waters.
Unfortunately, he was only a professional seaman, not important enough to be consulted over minor matters like choosing the fleet's course or deciding upon its tactics.
Well, that's probably not entirely fair, he told himself. Obviously, they've got some sort of wild hair up their arses about Charis—Langhorne knows why! Whatever it is, though, they want Haarahld smashed fast, which means there's no time to follow a coastal passage all the way. Still, I wish to hell they'd let me stay out of the middle of the Sea of Justice! If we have to use the southern route, then I'd prefer to stay still farther east, closer to Armageddon Reef, all the way.
His lips twitched as he realized what he'd just thought, but it was true. Just thinking about Armageddon Reef made him . . . nervous, but not as nervous as the thought of crossing through the heart of the Sea of Justice outside of sight of land.
He blew air through his mustache and gave himself a shake.
If it worked, everyone was going to call Magwair's plan brilliant. If it didn't work, Malikai would undoubtedly blame Thirsk for failing to execute it properly. And whatever happened, when they got to the other end—in whatever shape they were in when they arrived—they were going to have to take on a Royal Charisian Navy fighting in defense of its own homes and families and with it's back to the wall.
Which, he thought grimly, is going to be about as ugly as it gets. And all because Trynair offered our useless sot of a King a break on his loan payments.
He grimaced and gave himself another, harder shake. That sort of thought was dangerous, not to mention being beside the point. King Rahnyld was his sovereign, and he was duty and honor bound to obey his king's orders, whatever he thought of the reason they'd been given. Which was why it was also his job to do whatever he could to rescue this campaign from Admiral General Duke Malikai.
It promised to be an . . . interesting challenge.
II
King's Harbor,
Helen Island
"They're on their way," Merlin said grimly as he nodded to the Marine sentry and stepped through the doorway.
Cayleb looked up from the big table in the large, lamp-lit chamber Merlin had dubbed their "Operations Room." The table was completely covered by a huge chart, pieced together out of several smaller ones. Now Merlin crossed to the table and grimaced down at the chart. Big as it was, it would be five-days before the Dohlaran fleet reached the area it covered, but the campaign's opening move had begun.
"Any more indication of their course?" Cayleb asked, and despite his own grim mood, Merlin's lips quirked in a small smile.
Cayleb hadn't discussed Merlin's more-than-mortal nature with him since the night after he'd killed the krakens. Not explicitly, at any rate. But by now, the crown prince took the "seijin's" abilities so much for granted that he didn't even turn a hair over them anymore. Still, however . . . blasé Cayleb might have become, he realized exactly how valuable Merlin's "visions" truly were.
"Unless something changes, they're almost certainly going to follow the southern track," Merlin replied. "Thirsk doesn't like it. He'd really prefer to stay in coastal waters all the way to Tarot, but since he can't do that, he's trying to convince Malikai to at least pass to the east of Samson's Land and hug the east coast of Armageddon Reef."
"Because he's not an idiot," Cayleb snorted, walking around the table to stand beside Merlin and gaze down at the chart. "Mind you, there's something to be said for not going any further south than you have to, and I'd just as soon not try looking for an emergency anchorage on the Reef, given what it would be likely to do to my crews' morale. On the other hand, at least you could count on finding one if you needed it. And a fleet of galleys trying to cross those waters probably will need one at some point."
"That's basically what Thirsk is saying," Merlin agreed. "Malikai's opposed because he thinks it will take longer. Besides, it's going to be late spring by the time they reach the Sea of Justice, right? That means the weather should be fine."
"You know," Cayleb said, only half whimsically, "having Malikai in command of the Southern Force is one of the reasons I'm inclined to think God is on our side, whatever the Council of Vicars might think."
"I know what you mean. Still," Merlin shrugged, "he's got a lot of ships. And it looks to me as if Thirsk's squadron, at least, is going to be well drilled and ready to fight when they get here, regardless of how rough the passage is."
"I don't doubt it. But he still going to be hampered by Malikai."
Merlin nodded, and Cayleb cocked his head, frowning.
"And how does Admiral White Ford feel about all this?" he asked, after a moment.
"White Ford, and Gorjah, both agree with Thirsk, whether they know it or not," Merlin said. "They'd far rather have the Dohlarans make straight for Tarot, then either cross the Cauldron or sail up and around through the Gulf of Tarot. Unfortunately for them, Magwair—and Malikai—are convinced that would cost them the element of surprise."
Cayleb's laugh sounded like the hunting cough of a catamount. It also showed remarkably little sympathy for Gorjah and Gahvyn Mahrtyn, the Baron of White Ford, who commanded his navy.
"Well, if we were deaf, dumb, blind, and as stupid as Rahnyld, they might be able to surprise us, even without you," he said.
"You're probably right," Merlin said. "But you might want to reflect on just how big a stretch of water they have to hide in. As it is, you know they're coming, and you know the Tarotisians are supposed to rendezvous with Thirsk and Malikai off Armageddon Reef. But even armed with that knowledge, pulling off an interception that far from your own harbors wouldn't exactly be a walk in the park for most navies, now would it?"
"Not a walk in the park, no," Ca
yleb conceded. "On the other hand, assuming we could have known they'd be taking the southern route without you, we'd still have had a pretty fair chance. They're going to want to stay close to the coast, at least until they get south of Tryon's Land, and that would tell us where to find them. With the schooners to do our scouting, we could cover an awful lot of coastal water, Merlin." He shook his head. "I fully intend to make the best use I possibly can of your visions, but you've already done the most important thing of all by telling us they're coming and what course they're likely to follow."
"I hope it's going to be enough," Merlin said soberly.
"Well, that's up to us, isn't it?" Cayleb showed his teeth. "Even without the galleons and the new artillery, they'd have had a fight on their hands. As it is, I think I can safely predict that win or lose, they aren't going to enjoy their summer cruise."
Merlin returned his tight, hungry grin for a moment, then sobered once more.
"Cayleb, I have a favor to ask of you."
"A favor?" Cayleb cocked his head. "That sounds ominous. What sort of favor?"
"I've got some . . . equipment I'd like you to use."
"What kind of equipment?"
"A new cuirass and hauberk. And a new sword. And I'd like to get your father into new armor, as well."
Cayleb's face smoothed into non-expression, and Merlin felt himself tensing mentally. Cayleb might have accepted his more-than-human capabilities, but would he be able—or willing—to accept this, as well?
Merlin had thought long and hard before making the offer. He himself was, if not indestructible, at least very, very hard to destroy. His PICA body wasn't simply built out of incredibly tough synthetics, but incorporated substantial nanotech-based self-repair capabilities. Very few current-generation Safeholdian weapons could realistically hope to inflict crippling damage. A direct hit by a round shot could undoubtedly remove a limb, or even his head, but while that might be inconvenient, it wouldn't "kill" him. Even a direct hit by a heavy cannon couldn't significantly damage his "brain," and as long as his power plant remained intact—and it was protected by a centimeter-thick shell of battle steel—and as long as his nannies had access to basic raw materials (and lots and lots of time), they could pretty much literally rebuild him from scratch.
But his friends, and there was no point pretending these people hadn't become exactly that, were far more fragile than he was. He'd accepted his own potential immortality when he first awoke in Nimue's Cave and realized what he was. But until he'd become close to Cayleb, Haarahld, Gray Harbor—all the rest of the Charisians he'd come to know and respect—he hadn't realized how painful immortality could be. Even now, he knew, he'd only sensed the potential of that pain. Over the centuries, if he succeeded in Nimue's mission, he'd come to know its reality, but he was in no hurry to embrace it.
Even if that hadn't been a factor—and it was; he was far too honest with himself to deny that—he'd also come to recognize just how important Haarahld and Cayleb were to the accomplishment of that mission. He'd been extraordinarily fortunate to find a king and a crown prince intelligent enough and mentally flexible enough—and aware enough of their responsibilities to their kingdom—to accept what he'd offered them. Even from the most cold-blooded perspective, he couldn't afford to lose them.
And so, he'd instructed Owl to use the fabrication unit in Nimue's Cave to manufacture exact duplicates of Cayleb's and Haarahld's personal armor. Except that, instead of the best steel Safehold could produce, this armor was made of battle steel. No blade or bullet could penetrate it. Indeed, it would resist most round shot, although the kinetic transfer of the impact from something like that would undoubtedly kill its wearer, anyway.
He'd already replaced his own Royal Guard–issue armor. Not because he needed it to keep him alive, but to avoid any embarrassing questions about why he hadn't needed it. It would be much easier to explain—or brush off—a bullet that failed to penetrate his breastplate when it should have than to explain why the hole that same bullet had left in his torso wasn't bleeding.
But now he was asking Cayleb to accept what the prince had to think of as "miraculous" armor of his own. And flexible though he might be, Cayleb was still the product of a culture and a religion which had systematically programmed their members for centuries to reject "forbidden" knowledge on pain of eternal damnation.
Silence hovered between them for several seconds, and then Cayleb smiled crookedly.
"I think that's a favor I can grant," he said. "Ah, are there any . . . special precautions we should take with this new armor of ours?"
"The only real thing to worry about," Merlin said, trying—not completely successfully—to restrain his own smile of relief, "is that it won't rust. That may require just a little creative explanation on your part. Oh, and you might want to be a little careful with the edge of your new sword. It's going to be quite sharp . . . and stay that way."
"I see." For just an instant, Cayleb's expression started to blank once more, but then the incipient blankness vanished into a huge, boyish grin.
"So I'm getting a magic sword of my very own, am I?"
"In a manner of speaking," Merlin said.
"I always wanted one of those. I was younger than Zhan is now the first time I read the tale of Seijin Kody and the sword Helm-Cleaver."
"It's not quite that magical," Merlin told him.
"Will I be able to slice right through other people's swords now?" Cayleb demanded with a laugh.
"Probably not," Merlin said in long-suffering tones.
"Pity. I was looking forward to it."
"I'm sure you were."
"Well, does it at least have a name?"
Merlin glowered at him for a moment, then laughed.
"Yes, Cayleb," he said. "Yes, as a matter of fact it does. You can call it 'Excalibur.'-"
"Excalibur," Cayleb repeated slowly, wrapping his tongue around the odd-sounding syllables. Then he smiled. "I like it. It sounds like a proper prince's sword."
Merlin smiled back at the youngster. Who really wasn't all that much younger than Nimue Alban had been, he reminded himself once more. Cayleb's reaction was a huge relief, but Merlin had no intention of telling him about the other precaution he'd taken.
He'd found a use for the med unit Pei Kau-yung had left Nimue, after all. He couldn't have offered Cayleb or Haarahld the antigerone drug therapies even if he'd trusted the drugs themselves after so many centuries. Having Cayleb running around at age ninety still looking like a twenty-something would have been just a bit awkward to explain. But he'd been able to acquire a genetic sample from the prince, and the med unit had produced the standard antigerone nanotech.
Merlin had injected it one night, five-days before. Keyed to Cayleb's genetic coding, the self replicating nano-machines would hunt down and destroy anything that didn't "belong" to him. They wouldn't extend Cayleb's life span—not directly, at any rate—but he would never again have a cold, or the flu. Or cancer. Or any other disease or infection.
Injecting it without Cayleb's informed consent had been a serious breach of the Federation's medical ethics, not to mention a violation of Federation law. Under the circumstances, Merlin had no qualms about either of those. What mattered was that the young man whose survival he'd come to recognize as critical to the success of Nimue's mission had been given the best chance of survival he could possibly provide.
And if, in the process, Merlin Athrawes had selfishly prolonged the life and health of someone who had become personally important to him, that was just too bad.
III
Royal Palace,
Manchyr
Prince Hektor of Corisande reminded himself that the Knights of the Temple Lands were doing exactly what he wanted them to do.
It wasn't easy.
"Excuse me, Father," he said, "but I'm not at all certain we can be ready to move that quickly."
"Your Highness must, of course, be better informed upon these matters than I am," Father Karlos Chalmyrz, Archbi
shop Bahrmyn's personal aide, said politely. "I merely relay the message I was instructed to deliver to you."
Which, as he carefully did not point out, came directly from Vicar Allayn Magwair.
"I understand that, Father Karlos." Hektor smiled just a little thinly at the upper-priest. "And I appreciate all your efforts deeply, truly I do. I'm simply concerned about the ability of my admirals and captains to meet the . . . proposed schedule."
"Shall I inform Vicar Allayn that you can't do so, Your Highness?" Chalmyrz asked politely.
"No, thank you."
Hektor smiled again, and reminded himself it truly wasn't Chalmyrz' fault. But assuming Dohlar had been able to obey its marching orders from the Temple, the Dohlaran Navy had been in motion for almost two five-days already. The fact that it was going to be hugging the coast all the way across the Harthlan Sea meant the Church's semaphore system could get a message to Duke Malikai from the Temple in no more than a few days. So, technically, Magwair could always adjust its progress at any point up to Geyra, when it was due to head out across the Sea of Justice. Unfortunately, it would require over a month for any message from Hektor to reach Magwair, or the reverse, which made any notion of close coordination a fantasy.