by David Weber
"My Prince," Shandyr said, in an unusually quiet voice, "I apologize."
Nahrmahn looked at him sharply, his expression a question, and his spymaster drew a deep breath.
"I ought to have been able to reestablish at least a handful of agents in Charis, Your Highness," he said. "If I had, we might at least know what's inspired this. And," he drew another, deeper breath, "we might have known in time to see it coming."
"I won't pretend I'm happy about the situation in Charis," Nahrmahn told him. "But judging from the tone of Trynair's messages, even if we'd had agents in place, they might not have realized this was in the wind. In fact, I doubt anyone in Charis has the least idea of what's about to happen."
"I'm sure that's part of their thinking, My Prince," Gharth Rahlstahn, the Earl of Mahndyr, said. Mahndyr was Nahrmahn's senior admiral, and his expression was grim.
"I'm sure that's part of their thinking," he repeated, once he was certain he had Nahrmahn's attention. "But this puts us in a Shan-wei of a spot. It would've been bad enough if the original dispatches had gotten through, but we've lost the better part of an entire month."
"Frankly," Pine Hollow said, "the whole tenor of this . . . correspondence, if I can call it that, worries me. We aren't being offered assistance, Your Highness; we're being ordered to do what Trynair and Clyntahn want us to do. And from the way I read these messages," he tapped the elaborately illuminated letter in question, lying on the council table in front of him, "Hektor's the senior partner as far as the Group of Four is concerned. It isn't an alliance of equals. We're required to support Hektor . . . and to place our fleet under the command of his admirals."
"I assure you, it does more than simply 'worry' me," Nahrmahn replied.
He started to say something more, then stopped and swallowed the words unspoken. Even here, among his closest advisers, he didn't quite dare to express the full, scathing fury he'd felt as he realized the Group of Four saw his entire princedom as a footpad it could whistle up on a whim and command to cut the throat of someone who'd irritated it.
"But," he continued after a moment, "however I may feel about it, we're stuck with it. Unless anyone here thinks refusing Chancellor Trynair's 'assistance' in this matter would be advisable?"
No one spoke, nor did they have to, and Nahrmahn's alum-tart smile held at least some genuine amusement.
"In that case," he said, "the really important question is one for you, Gharth. Is it possible for us to meet this schedule?"
"I don't know, Your Highness," Mahndyr said frankly. "I won't know until I've had a chance to kick some of my staff awake and get them started asking the right questions down at the dockyard. Off the top of my head, though, it's unlikely we can get the reserve activated in time. We're supposed to have our entire fleet ready for battle by early November, but nobody warned us it was coming. Just fully manning our active-duty galleys is going to stretch our current manpower to the breaking point. We'll have to send out the press gangs to man the reserve, and every merchant seaman who can see lightning or hear thunder's going to realize the press is coming as soon as we start refitting the reserve. So they're going to make themselves scarce. Which doesn't even consider where we are in terms of the supplies we need."
He shook his head.
"Your Highness, I'll do my best, but I'm not sure we could have had the entire reserve manned and worked up within the original time schedule. With the time we've lost just finding out about it—"
He shook his head again.
"I can't say I'm surprised to hear it," Nahrmahn said. "And, to be totally honest, I'm not certain I'm unhappy to hear it."
Mahndyr's surprise showed, and the prince chuckled harshly.
"Hektor's known about this longer than we have," he said. "That much is obvious from the nature of Trynair's dispatches. So he's going to've already started bringing his fleet to a war footing. Well, if we're going to be obliged to follow his orders, then I'd just as soon see his admirals forced to take the lead. He's going to be thinking in terms of his own advantage out of this. All right, let him pay the price for it. It's not our fault no one told us about this soon enough. We'll do our best, of course," he smiled thinly, "but surely no one will be able to blame us if we can't get the majority of the reserve fitted out and manned in the unfortunately short time available to us."
NOVEMBER,
YEAR OF GOD 891
I
Royal Charisian Navy Anchorage,
Lock Island
The spring night was warm and humid, and distant lightening flickered far to the west, over Howell Bay, as the fleet weighed anchor.
Merlin stood beside Cayleb on the quarterdeck of HMS Dreadnought, with Ahrnahld Falkhan just behind them. Harsh commands cut through the darkness, but they were hushed somehow, as if the people giving them believed that if they were all very quiet, no one would notice what they were doing.
Merlin smiled slightly at the thought, despite the tension coiling within. All around him, a total of thirty-two galleons were getting underway. Thirty of them were warships of the Royal Charisian Navy; the other two were impressed merchantmen assigned to serve as supply ships. Unlike anyone else, his artificial eyes could pick every one of them out clearly, and a part of his tension stemmed from the very real possibility of collisions as, one by one, the fundamentally clumsy square-riggers raised their anchors and set sail. Fortunately, the wind was with them, blowing steadily, if not overly strongly, out of the west.
But that natural fear of accidents was only a part of his tension, and not the greatest one.
Inevitably, word of the mobilizing navies of Corisande, Chisholm, and Emerald had gotten out, carried by nervous merchant skippers to every port from Manchyr to Tanjyr. As the news reached Charis, Haarahld had responded by closing his waters and expelling all foreign shipping. His enemies had expected that response. In fact, they might have been suspicious if he hadn't done it, and if he was a bit less than gentle with Corisandian or Emerald-flagged merchantmen, who could blame him?
He'd also sent a request for assistance to his "ally," King Gorjah, as provided for by their treaties. That request had been carefully timed so that its arrival would indicate Haarahld had had no idea Corisande and her allies were mobilizing until barely three five-days ago. And before their departure, none of the crews of those expelled merchant ships had seen the least evidence that the Royal Charisian Navy was fitting its reserve galleys for war. As they'd departed, some of them had seen signs of a frantically rushed, last-minute mobilization effort, but it was obvious Hektor of Corisande and his allies had managed to take Haarahld by surprise.
At this very moment, Merlin knew, the combined strength of Chisholm and Corisande was underway, headed for Eraystor Bay and the formation of what Haarahld had dubbed the Northern Force. The galleys of the Charisian Navy had already assembled to defend Rock Shoal Bay, and a screen of scouting vessels had been deployed to keep distant watch over Eraystor Bay.
That, too, was no less than Charis' enemies had anticipated.
But behind that screen, concealed from any hostile eyes, the galleon fleet moved slowly but steadily out of the crowded harbor of Lock Island, and its business was with the Southern Force.
Lock Island was the most important single naval base of the Kingdom of Charis. Located almost exactly in the middle of the long, narrow passage known as The Throat, it was heavily fortified and separated from the mainland by two channels.
The South Channel was twenty-four miles wide at high water, but it narrowed to only twelve at low water, when the mudbanks were exposed, and most of those twelve miles were too shallow for seagoing craft. The main shipping channel, marked by several sharp bends, was as little as two miles across at some points, and it passed within barely two thousand yards of the Lock Island batteries.
The North Channel was the deeper of the two, although it was under eighteen miles wide at high water. At low tide, it was less than fifteen, but the main shipping channel was almost eight miles wide at its na
rrowest, and it was also far less twisty than the one to the south. That meant even deep-draft ships could use it without passing within range of the shore batteries on either side. Which made the North Channel the one which required warships for protection . . . and also explained why the galleons, sailing with the falling tide, were passing between Lock Island and North Key, the matching fortress on the far side of the channel.
The geography of The Throat was both a tremendous strategic advantage and an almost equally tremendous handicap for Charis. It made the entire extent of Howell Bay the next best thing to impregnable as long as the Charisian Navy held Lock Island and the Keys, but it also meant a strong easterly wind could effectively close The Throat to all sail-powered traffic. A strong enough wind could close it even to galleys, which—as Haarahld had noted—could pin an entire defending fleet behind Lock Island.
Fortunately, the prevailing winds were from the north and northwest. That was the case tonight, although spring was the season when Rock Shoal Bay was more likely to get occasional strong easterlies. Even then, however, the wind was more often out of the north-northeast than straight out of the east, thanks to the sheltering landmasses of Silver and Emerald.
The cramped waters of even the North Channel might be enough to cause some anxiety, but it also meant the lights of the fortresses, and especially the hundred-foot beacon tower on the highest point of Lock Island, were very visible. They gave the pilots conning the galleons down the channel in line ahead excellent navigational landmarks, despite the darkness, and Merlin reminded himself of that repeatedly as it was Dreadnought's turn to begin forging ahead.
"I suppose I ought to say something along the lines of 'We're underway at last!'-" Cayleb said beside him as a mustache of white began curling back from the galleon's cutwater. The crown prince's voice would have sounded remarkably calm to people who didn't know him well.
"You could say that," Merlin replied judiciously. "Unfortunately, if you did, Ahrnahld and I would be forced to strangle you and throw your body over the side."
Cayleb chuckled, and Merlin smiled.
"At least the fleet doesn't think we're crazy," the prince said.
"There is that," Merlin agreed. "In fact, I think your father came up with just about the perfect cover story."
"And it's going to make so much trouble for Gorjah when it finally gets back to the Temple, too," Cayleb observed with a beatific smile.
"That does lend it a certain added savor, doesn't it?" Merlin said with a broad smile of his own.
The official explanation for how Haarahld had known to get his galleons to sea—and where to send them—was that one of Baron Wave Thunder's spies in Tarot had discovered the Group of Four's plans. He'd supposedly bought them from someone at court, which, as Cayleb had observed, ought to make things . . . interesting for Gorjah and his closest advisers when word inevitably got back to Clyntahn and his associates. And it very neatly provided an explanation—other than the mysterious visions of one Seijin Merlin—for how Haarahld could have planned his counterstroke.
He and the prince stood smiling at one another for several seconds, but then Cayleb's expression sobered.
"All of us—all of this—really depends on you, Merlin," he said softly, and Merlin could see his expression clearly, despite the darkness. "Without you, none of these ships would be here. And without you, we might have been just as surprised by this attack as we hope they'll go on thinking we are. In case I haven't said this in so many words, thank you."
"Don't thank me," the man who'd once been Nimue Alban said. "I told your father in our very first interview. I'm using Charis, Cayleb."
"I know that," Cayleb said simply. "I've known it from the beginning. I would've known it even if Father hadn't told me what you said that morning. And I know you feel guilty about it."
Merlin's eyes narrowed. Cayleb's eyes had none of Merlin's light-gathering capability, but the prince smiled anyway, as if he could see Merlin's expression.
"Rayjhis and I tried to tell you that day on the Citadel," he said. "You didn't cause this, Merlin; you only brought it to a head a bit sooner than it would have happened anyway. And, along the way, you've given us at least a chance of surviving."
"Maybe I have," Merlin replied after a few seconds, "but that doesn't change the fact that a lot of people are about to be killed."
"A lot of people would have been killed without you, too," Cayleb said. "The difference—and I hope you'll forgive me for saying it's a difference I approve of—is in exactly who's going to be killed. I'm selfish enough to prefer for it to be Hektor of Corisande's subjects, not my father's."
"And, speaking for those subjects, if I may," Falkhan put in from behind them, "I approve just as strongly as you do, Your Highness."
"There, you see?" Cayleb was almost grinning at Merlin now.
Despite himself, Merlin found himself smiling back. Then he shook his head and patted Cayleb on the shoulder. The prince chuckled again, more softly, and the two of them turned back to the rail once again, watching the night as the galleons forged steadily ahead into the darkness.
II
Judgment Strait,
Southern Ocean
The Earl of Thirsk found himself panting with exertion as he hauled himself through the entry port on to King Rahnyld's deck, and he took a minute to catch his breath after scaling the battens on the huge galley's towering side. It was a long climb for a man in his fifties who no longer got as much exercise as he probably should, but he'd made it often enough over the weary five-days of this long, creeping voyage to be used to it by this time. And at least this time he felt a certain grim confidence that his idiot "Admiral General" was going to have to listen to him.
The ship, he noticed, was no longer the immaculate showpiece of the fleet which had departed Gorath Bay in mid-October. She was salt stained, now, her gilding and splendid paintwork battered by spray and weather, and her single sail had carried away in the recent gale. Her crew had done well to save the mast, but the replacement spar was shorter than the one which had carried away with the sail, and she looked awkward, almost unfinished.
It didn't help that the starboard bulwark and the gangway above the oar deck had been crushed for a length of over twenty feet where one of the mountainous seas had slammed into her. There were other signs of damage around the decks, including at least one stove-in hatch cover. The ship's carpenter and his mates would have plenty of repairs to occupy them, and he could hear the dismal, patient clanking of the pumps. He could also hear the moans of injured men floating up through the canvas air scoops rigged to ventilate the galley's berth deck, and he knew she'd suffered at least two dozen casualties, as well.
Frankly, he was astonished the lumbering confection had survived at all. Her captain must be considerably more competent than he'd thought.
"My Lord," a voice said, and he turned to find one of the flagship's junior lieutenants at his shoulder.
The young man had the look of one of the overbred, undertrained sprigs of the aristocracy who'd attached themselves to Malikai's "staff." But his red uniform tunic was water-stained and torn on one shoulder, and both his hands were heavily bandaged. Apparently he'd found something useful to do with himself during the storm, and Thirsk smiled at him rather more warmly then he might have otherwise.
"Yes?" he asked.
"My Lord, the Duke and the squadron commanders are assembled in the great cabin. May I escort you to the meeting?"
"Of course, Lieutenant."
"Then if you'll come this way, My Lord."
* * *
King Rahnyld's great cabin was as splendidly overfurnished as the galley herself had been, although the boards hastily nailed over one of the storm-shattered stern windows and the general evidence of water damage rather detracted from its splendor. Duke Malikai was a tall, florid-faced man, with the fair hair and light complexion of his Tiegelkamp-born mother. Unlike the water-damaged cabin, or the lieutenant who'd guided Thirsk here, he was perfectly groome
d, with no outward sign of the storm his flagship had survived. A carefully trimmed beard disguised the possible fault of a slightly receding chin, but his shoulders were broad, his physique was imposing, and he had what the court ladies persisted in describing as a high and lofty brow.
Actually, Thirsk thought, he's probably even got a working brain in there somewhere. It's just hard to tell from the outside.
Malikai looked up from a discussion with two of the more junior commodores as Thirsk was escorted into the cabin.
"Ah, My Lord!" he said, beaming as if Thirsk were one of his favorite people. "It's good to see you here."
"Thank you, Your Grace," Thirsk replied with a more restrained, but equally false, smile. "And may I say I was most impressed with Captain Ekyrd's handling of his ship under extremely adverse circumstances."