by David Weber
He gazed up at the sky and frowned, wondering if perhaps he'd tempted fate by allowing himself such a dose of optimism. Clouds were building up along the eastern horizon. The breeze had freshened noticeably since noon, as well, and it felt chillier than their steady progress towards the colder waters of Doomwhale Reach could explain.
It was possible the weather was about to turn nasty again, but at the moment, Gorath Bay was about thirty miles off the coast, and they should make Rock Point before dawn. Once they'd cleared the point, the coast would curve away from them to the west, giving them more sea room if they needed it. Even better, they were only a couple of hundred miles from Cape Ruin, and the vast stretch of Demon Sound and Heartbreak Bay cut deep into Armageddon Reef south of the cape. The names were far from reassuring, but between them, they offered a sheltered anchorage ample to the needs of a fleet ten times the size of their own, or a hundred . . . and without stirring up the ghosts which undoubtedly inhabited Rakurai Bay.
Still, he'd prefer not to have to anchor anywhere, and—
"Sail ho!"
Thirsk jerked as if someone had just poked a particularly sensitive part of his anatomy with a well-heated iron. He wheeled around to stare up at the masthead lookout, and even as he did, he sensed the same incredulous reaction out of every other man on Gorath Bay's deck.
The man had to be mistaken, the earl thought. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to be traveling through these ill-fated waters unless they'd been ordered to by a lunatic like the one who'd written his orders.
"Where away?" Lieutenant Zhaikeb Mathysyn, who had the watch, bellowed.
"Broad on the port beam, Sir!" the lookout shouted back down.
"The man's drunk!" one of the army officers serving as a marine muttered.
Mathysyn appeared torn between irritation at the landsman's criticism and matching incredulity. He glowered at the army officer for a moment, then snapped his fingers and pointed at one of the flagship's midshipmen.
"Take a glass and get aloft, Master Haskyn!" he snapped.
"Yes, Sir!"
Haskyn seized the heavy spyglass, slung it across his back on its carrying strap, and scampered up the ratlines with the nimbleness of his fifteen years. He clambered into the crow's-nest, unslung the glass, and rested it on the crow's- nest rail for steadiness while he peered through it for several minutes. Personally, Thirsk suspected the youngster was spending at least part of that time catching his breath.
"It's a single ship, Sir!" Haskyn shouted down finally. "She's making almost straight for us on the wind!"
Thirsk frowned in fresh consternation. Even if a merchant ship had been passing through these waters for some unimaginable reason of its own, no merchant skipper could have a legitimate reason to make for Armageddon Reef. And even if he'd had such a reason, a single ship could hardly have failed to spot the galleys' miles-long, straggling formation before he was spotted in turn! Which should have sent him heading in the opposite direction at the best speed he could manage.
Unless, of course, it was a courier ship sent to find them?
He shook his head almost as quickly as that thought occurred to him. They were over five hundred miles south of the course they'd been ordered to follow, and almost three five-days behind schedule. Even if someone had wanted to send them a courier, it would never have looked for them here. So what—?
"She's schooner-rigged, Sir!" Haskyn shouted, and Thirsk's heart seemed to skip a beat.
"Repeat that!" Mathysyn's bellow sounded disbelieving, but Haskyn stood his ground.
"She's schooner-rigged, Sir!" he repeated. "I can see her topsails clearly!"
"Get down here!" Mathysyn ordered, and Haskyn obeyed. He didn't bother with the ratlines this time; he reached out, caught a backstay, wrapped his legs around it, and slid down it to thump solidly on the deck almost at Mathysyn's feet.
"Yes, Sir?" he said.
"Are you sure it's a schooner?" the lieutenant demanded, almost glaring at the young man.
"Yes, Sir."
"Why?"
"Don't you remember that Tarot-owned schooner we saw when we made port at Ferayd in Delferahk, Sir?" The midshipman shook his head. "There's no mistaking that rig, Sir."
Mathysyn had opened his mouth. Now he shut it again and nodded slowly, instead.
"Very well, Master Haskyn. Present my respects to Captain Maikel and inform him of your observations."
"Yes, Sir!"
Haskyn bowed in salute and headed for the aftercastle ladder at a run.
* * *
"I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but we've just received a signal from Spy," Captain Manthyr said as he stepped past Lieutenant Falkhan into the chart room.
"Have we?" Crown Prince Cayleb asked calmly, turning from the chart table to face him.
"Yes, Your Highness. 'Enemy in sight,'-" he read from a notepad. "- 'Bearing from my position west-southwest, distance eighteen miles. Enemy course southwest, estimated speed six knots. Thirty-plus galleys in sight.'-"
He lowered the notepad, and the expression on his face was a curious mix of awe and intense satisfaction.
"Thank you, Gwylym," Cayleb said, without even glancing at Merlin. "Please make certain Admiral Staynair has that information, as well."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Also, request the Admiral to come on board and bring Captain Bowsham with him, please."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Cayleb nodded, and Manthyr came to attention and touched his left shoulder in salute, then departed. Cayleb waited until the chart room door had closed behind him, then, finally, turned to look at Merlin.
"So here we are," he said.
"Here we are," Merlin agreed.
"You know, don't you," Cayleb said with a crooked grin, "that the fleet's starting to think I'm almost as peculiar as you are?"
"Nonsense." Merlin shook his head with a chuckle. "You explained your logic perfectly."
"Sure." Cayleb rolled his eyes, and Merlin chuckled again, louder.
All of Cayleb's captains were already convinced Wave Thunder's putative Tarotisian spies had gotten inside information on the course the Southern Force had been ordered to follow. The tricky part had been allowing for the possibility—probability, really—that Thirsk and White Ford would be able to talk Duke Malikai into following the southern course, instead of the one they'd actually been given, in a way which would explain any changes in their own course which Merlin's "visions" might require.
Cayleb had simply observed at one of the early captains' conferences that only a lunatic would sail directly across the Parker Sea in a fleet of coastal galleys. He'd commented that he himself would have ignored his orders and stayed closer to Armageddon Reef. And, when Merlin confirmed that Thirsk and White Ford had managed to talk Malikai around, Cayleb decided during the next meeting with his captains that they were going to "play his hunch" and cover the Armageddon Reef route, instead.
It was unlikely Manthyr was particularly astounded by the fact that the Southern Force had, indeed, followed Cayleb's predicted route, although that obviously didn't keep him from deeply respecting Cayleb's iron nerve in playing his "hunch." What had surprised the prince's flag captain was the unerring—one might almost say uncanny—accuracy with which the prince's "seaman's instinct" had permitted the galleons to intercept that galley fleet on a course which left them perfectly placed to run down on the enemy force.
Of course, he didn't know Cayleb, courtesy of Lieutenant Merlin Athrawes, had the benefit of satellite reconnaissance.
"I hope Spy doesn't get too enterprising," Merlin said, after a moment. Cayleb looked at him, and he shrugged. "She doesn't know she's only out there to explain how we found them. If her skipper gets too close trying to maintain contact overnight, he could find himself in trouble."
"He knows his job, Merlin," Cayleb replied. "And it's not as if we've got much choice. Domynyk would probably accept your visions without turning a hair, after this long, and so would most of
the original squadron's captains. But the rest wouldn't."
"And even if they would, all the reasons for not telling anyone else still apply," Merlin agreed with a sigh.
"Exactly." It was Cayleb's turn to shrug. "And even more so, now that the Church has declared war on us. We don't need to give them any ammunition for declaring that we associate with demons! As for Spy, I don't expect her to get into any trouble, Merlin. But, if she does, she does. Things like that happen in wars."
Merlin regarded him with a carefully hidden sardonic amusement—and sorrow—Cayleb would never have understood. The crown prince wasn't being callous, just realistic, and for all his youthfulness, he truly did understand the difference between the realities of war and the romanticism of heroic ballads. He simply had no way of knowing that the man to whom he was talking was the cybernetic avatar of a young woman who'd seen her species' entire civilization go down in fire and destruction. If anyone on the entire planet of Safehold knew that "things happened" in war, it was Merlin Athrawes.
"So," he said, changing the topic, "you feel confident enough to take time to bring Domynyk aboard for a last-minute discussion?"
"Yes," Cayleb said. "I'm assuming that if Spy's sighted them, they've probably sighted her. But even if they have, they can't do a lot about it. I'm sure Father was right about the impact our sudden appearance is going to have on their morale, but they really have only two choices: fight us at sea, or try to find some place to anchor in order to force us to come to them.
"Given how scattered you say their fleet is, they aren't going to want to fight us at all. Not until they get themselves reorganized, at any rate, and if Spy's estimate of their speed is accurate, just closing up their formation would probably take most of a full day." The crown prince shook his head. "If that's the best they can manage in this wind, then their bottoms must be even fouler than I'd thought."
Merlin nodded, reminding himself that "five knots" on Safehold wasn't quite the same thing as "five knots" would have been on Earth, where the nautical and statute miles had been different lengths. For Nimue Alban, "five knots" would have been the equivalent of just over nine and a quarter kilometers per hour or five and three quarters miles per hour. Here, "five knots" was exactly five miles per hour, and that was that.
Given that the current wind conditions hovered between Force Four and Force Five from the old Beaufort scale, that was pretty poor performance. Wind speed was fairly steady at around eighteen or nineteen miles per hour, and Cayleb's galleys could easily make good a speed of nine to ten knots under those conditions.
"The best way for them to get themselves back into some sort of order would be to find someplace to anchor, at least long enough to get their squadrons reorganized," Cayleb continued. "But there's no place for a fleet to anchor between Thomas Point and Rock Point. In fact, if they're looking for a sheltered anchorage, there's no place between Rock Point and Crag Hook.
"So, their choices are to continue on their present heading, at least as far as Crag Reach or to try to turn around and go back the way they came. If they get as far as Crag Reach, they might be able to get in behind Opal Island and anchor there. For that matter, the Reach is going to be much more sheltered than the open water, which would suit their galleys a lot better if they want to fight under oars.
"Given how little daylight's left, I doubt they've got time to pass the necessary orders to coordinate any major change of plans, which effectively rules out turning around. So, they're probably going to stay on their present course, spend the night doing the best they can to tighten their formation, and hope we're far enough behind Spy that they can get as far as Crag Reach before anything nasty catches up with them. If I'm right, we're going to know exactly where to find them in the morning, and it's important for me to go over our plans with Domynyk one last time and make sure we're in position by dawn to have all day to work on these people.
"And, of course," he grinned, "if I'm not right, it's going to be up to you to tell me about it so I can think up some semi-plausible reason to change our course."
"Don't forget the weather," Merlin cautioned.
The clouds coming in from the northeast marked the leading edge of a series of low-pressure fronts. His satellite observation indicated that the leading front, which was already almost upon them, was a fairly mild one, without the violent thunderstorms such fronts frequently brought. It was going to dump quite a bit of rain, and the wind was going to strengthen, but it should have passed through by sometime before dawn. His best current estimate was that it would push weather conditions to about Force Six, with winds of around twenty five or twenty-six miles per hour, and ten to thirteen-foot seas.
But the front coming on its heels was more powerful, with winds which might reach Force Seven and seas as high as seventeen or eighteen feet.
"I'm not forgetting it," Cayleb assured him, and smiled unpleasantly. "But Malikai isn't going to know it's coming, so it's not going to affect any orders he may try to pass before nightfall. And if the weather makes up, it's going to favor us over them."
* * *
"Any changes in the standing orders, Sir?" Lieutenant Zhoelsyn asked. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard over the sound of the cold, steady rain, but he tried to keep any anxiety out of his voice as he relieved King Gorjah II's first lieutenant, Leeahm Maikelsyn.
"None," Lieutenant Maikelsyn replied. He gazed at Zhoelsyn for a moment, then shrugged. "There's not very much we can do but hold our present course, Phylyp."
Zhoelsyn started to say something, but he stopped himself and simply nodded, instead. It was a pitch-dark, moonless night, the wind was freshening, the sea was making up, everyone on deck was soaked and miserable, despite their oilskins, and the lookouts could barely see the poop and masthead lanterns of the closest ships through the falling rain. It was possible Duke Malikai could have ordered a course change before nightfall, if he'd responded promptly to the sighting report, but he hadn't. Now it had become a physical impossibility. All they could do was hold their present course through the rain and hope.
Everyone knew that, but no one knew where that schooner had come from. Or how it could possibly have found them here.
It's probably just a scout, Zhoelsyn told himself for the thousandth time. For that matter, it might even be no more than one of their merchant ships, swinging wide of the normal shipping routes because there's a war on. A lot of their merchant masters are ex-naval officers, after all. If one of them stumbled across us completely by accident, he'd know how important it was to get closer, find out everything he can before he heads back to Charis with his warning.
Whatever it was, surely the Charisians couldn't possibly have diverted enough of their naval strength to waters this far from Rock Shoal Bay to threaten the combined fleet! The very idea was so insane that there was no wonder Malikai had felt no need to risk the confusion of trying to turn his spread-out fleet around. And yet, there that sail had been, heading straight towards them.
"Very well, Master Maikelsyn," Zhoelsyn said formally. "I relieve you."
* * *
"All right, then. We all understand what we need to do tomorrow," Cayleb said.
He, Sir Domynyk Staynair, their flag captains, Merlin, and Lieutenant Falkhan sat around the dining table in HMS Dreadnought's flag cabin while rain drummed on the cabin skylight and pattered against the stern windows.
Cayleb had no idea of the real reason Merlin had suggested that particular name for the first of the purpose-built gun-armed galleons, but he and his father had both agreed it fit perfectly. Dreadnought was almost forty feet longer than the Charisian Navy's older galleons. Admiral Staynair had retained HMS Gale as his flagship, but Dreadnought carried fifty-four guns to the older ship's thirty-six. She'd also been designed from the beginning with an unbroken sheer, without the exaggerated castles at either end. Her forecastle and quarterdeck were only about six feet higher than her maindeck, connected by bulwarks and spar decks for line handlers, and she carried all of
her guns at maindeck level or higher. Despite the fact that she was generally sleeker and lower slung than her older sister—in proportion to her length, at least—the lower sills of her gunports were almost fifteen feet above her waterline, compared to only nine feet for Gale. And her greater ratio of length to beam and more powerful sail plan meant she was faster, as well.
Her greater size had also made her a logical choice as a flagship, and she'd been provided with the sizable (for a cramped, crowded, sail-powered ship, at least) quarters to accommodate an admiral. Or, in this case, a crown prince acting as an admiral.
"I think we understand, Your Highness," Admiral Staynair replied. He looked a great deal like a younger version of his older brother, although his beard was considerably less luxuriant. Indeed, he favored a dagger-style rather like Merlin's, except for Merlin's waxed mustachios. Now he smiled at his crown prince.
"If we don't, it's not because you haven't made it sufficiently clear, at any rate," he added.