“I’m afraid we’re going to have to make it work, however expensive it is,” Maigwair said unhappily. “It’s clear that the heretics’ advantage in range and accuracy is … significant.”
“Agreed, Your Grace. I think, though, that we’re going to have to go with cast-iron tubes. We’re getting much better and much more consistent results out of our iron guns than we were—so much better that I’m confident we could switch completely to iron for our smoothbore artillery. And I don’t think we’d have any problems—not any insurmountable ones, at any rate—cutting rifling grooves into iron guns. On the other hand, bore pressures are bound to go up with the increased weight of shells like the ones the heretics are using, and we’ve already had far too much experience with burst iron cannon compared to bronze simply because bronze is more elastic. That can only get worse as bore pressure increases, but I’ve been discussing that problem with some of my senior artificers, and we may have come up with a solution.”
“What sort of solution?” Maigwair asked intently.
“Well, a lot will depend on trying it out experimentally, but the bore pressure’s going to peak heavily at the moment the powder charge detonates, then drop rapidly as the shell moves up the barrel. That means the greatest pressures will be at the breech, where they’ve always been, but even higher. What we’ve done with the current guns is simply to increase the thickness of the barrel walls, but that would be self-defeating in terms of weight and mobility if pressures go as high as I’m afraid they will. For that matter, the thicker a barrel wall gets, the more proportionately brittle it becomes. Given that, our thought is that we might cast and rifle the iron barrel using the techniques we’ve largely perfected for the smoothbore guns, then fit a band of wrought iron around the breech. If we heat the band red hot to expand it, then force it over the breech and cool it with a spray of cold water, it will effectively weld itself to the gun as the hot metal shrinks. That would reinforce the most vulnerable portion of the gun with the more … flexible strength of the wrought iron.”
“It’ll still be more expensive—and take more time—than to simply rely on cast iron by itself?”
“Yes, Your Grace, it will. Quite a bit, in fact, although it would cost far less than to try producing the entire gun out of wrought iron, which would be our other option. But iron guns strong enough to fire rifled shells to the ranges we clearly need would be massive, very heavy weapons. Far heavier than our current field guns. If the banded approach works, the pieces would be much lighter—not as light as our present guns, but far, far lighter than if they were made solely out of iron.”
“I see.” Maigwair inhaled deeply. “In that case, by all means, proceed with your experiments as quickly as possible.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Fultyn made a note on his pad and flipped to the next page. He gazed at his own handwriting for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“And that, Your Grace, brings us to the heretics’ ‘priming caps,’ I’m afraid.”
Maigwair smiled thinly at the other man’s suddenly more tentative tone. Production circles, shell design, banded artillery—none of those things required any innovations treading too closely upon the Proscriptions. The heretics’ priming caps were another matter.
“Yes?” he responded as encouragingly as he could.
“I believe Lieutenant Zhwaigair’s correct about that, too,” Fultyn said. “My examination of the caps Bishop Militant Cahnyr captured on the Daivyn confirms that the heretics are using fulminated mercury. What they appear to have done is form the cap, insert a bit of fulminated mercury into the cup, then seal it with simple varnish. I’m not a Pasqualate or a Schuelerite, so I can’t say whether or not this constitutes an actual violation of Pasquale’s Law or the Proscriptions, but I imagine it must at least … press closely on Pasquale’s Law, Your Grace. Its tactical advantages are obvious, but without a special dispensation.…”
“I see.” Maigwair leaned back in his chair as Fultyn let his voice trail off. He’d been afraid he was going to hear exactly that.
“There are some countervailing considerations, Your Grace,” Fultyn continued after a moment. “For one thing, I don’t have any reliable estimates for the man-hours involved in producing them. And, of course, a rifle fitted to use them couldn’t be primed with loose powder if the supply of caps ran out.”
Maigwair nodded, although he strongly suspected Fultyn was presenting arguments which would take the onus for pushing the introduction of similar caps off his shoulders. Making it clear he’d considered the arguments against just as carefully as he had the arguments for and that, as a dutiful son of Mother Church, he would defer to the final judgment of his ecclesiastic superiors.
Well, you knew he was a smart fellow, Allayn, didn’t you?
“We need to find out how to make them and determine what would be required to produce them in quantity,” he said after a moment. “The apparent increase in reliability’s simply too great for us not to at least consider acquiring. At the same time, I suspect the Grand Inquisitor may be … hesitant about extending any dispensations in this regard beyond the manufactories under Mother Church’s direct control.” Assuming he’s willing to grant one even there, of course! he thought, meeting Fultyn’s eyes levelly until the other man nodded ever so slightly. “So I think what we need to consider is modifying this new breech-loading design to use primer caps and building it here and in the other Temple Lands manufactories. Assuming the Inquisition determines that the new caps don’t violate the Proscriptions—or that a general dispensation can be granted in view of the necessities of the Jihad—I’d like to convert all our rifles to that system in the fullness of time. For right now, it seems to me, we ought to concentrate on producing enough breechloaders to equip a company or two in each infantry regiment. That would provide our divisional commanders with a force capable of skirmishing toe-to-toe with the heretics, backed up by the conventional muzzleloaders.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Fultyn agreed, and Maigwair nodded yet again.
I know how much Zhaspahr hates granting “dispensations” that weren’t his idea to begin with, he reflected grimly. But if he wants to win this Jihad—and survive—he’d damned well better find it in his heart to let Lynkyn and me give our men the weapons they need to survive.
* * *
“Well that’s irritating,” Nahrmahn Baytz murmured balefully.
The portly little prince sat in the electronic analogue of his Eraystor palace library, rather than on his balcony, and his expression was less than delighted. St. Kylmahn’s was far enough from the Temple itself for the SNARCs to observe with impunity, and he’d been keeping an eye on Brother Lynkyn for quite some time. He’d realized long ago that Fultyn had a dangerously capable brain. Back in the days when he’d been an independent prince involved in the Great Game the decision to have him—and his assistant, Bryairs—assassinated would have made itself. But, like Lieutenant Zhwaigair in Dohlar, they were doing exactly what Nimue Alban needed them to do. Merlin Athrawes’ priorities might have become a bit more complicated, but there wasn’t much question about Nimue’s, and from her perspective, Fultyn, Bryairs, and Zhwaigair were pearls beyond price. They were stretching their minds, learning to think critically and innovatively, and pushing the envelope of allowable technology. And the very qualities which made them so dangerous to the Empire of Charis also made them weapons which must ultimately turn in Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s hand.
I could wish they were just a little less capable while they were about it, though, Nahrmahn thought dourly. For that matter, I wish Duchairn were a little less capable! If he and Maigwair get away with it—and I think they will—they’re actually going to turn the Harchongese Army into an effective fighting force, and that’s the last thing we need. Aside from this damned thing, anyway.
He scowled at the neat technical drawing Owl had provided. It really was an ingenious design, he thought—one that virtually duplicated what had once been called a ??
?Ferguson Rifle” back on Old Earth. Actually, Zhwaigair’s design, especially as modified by Fultyn, was superior to Ferguson’s in some ways. It was heavier and longer, but it also avoided the weakness in the wrist of the stock which had been part of Ferguson’s original design and the longer barrel and conical bullet would improve its ballistics. The breech screw was a multi-start thread design, like Ferguson’s, but with ten threads per inch instead of Ferguson’s twelve, and Fultyn’s decision to make it from brass instead of iron or steel would make good use of the bronze smelting capacity which would be useless for the production of rifled artillery. And Fultyn had put his finger unerringly on an advantage Ferguson hadn’t had. When the British officer had developed his weapon, the breech plug’s design—essential to the rifle’s effectiveness—had precluded any chance of putting it into general service, despite its enormous tactical advantages. The combined gunsmiths of eighteenth-century England would have been hard put to manufacture as many as a thousand multi-start screws to acceptable tolerances in an entire year, which made it impossible to build the weapon in sufficient numbers.
Safehold, unfortunately, had certain advantages England had lacked. It couldn’t produce the screws to standardized dimensions in widely separated locations, but with the addition of a few specialists in plumbing to Bryairs’ circles, they could produce them in much higher numbers than Zhwaigair had estimated. No single manufactory’s screws would be interchangeable with any other’s, but that was already true for the parts of their muzzle-loading rifles. The manufacture of the screws would drive up expense, but Nahrmahn and Owl had even better figures on the Church’s production numbers than the Church did, and even Fultyn’s man-hour estimates were overly pessimistic.
If he had to be this inventive, why couldn’t he at least have gone with a single-start screw? Nahrmahn groused. Surely he could’ve justified it on the basis that it would be simpler and cheaper to manufacture!
And it would also have required ten complete revolutions to disengage a plug with uninterrupted threads. The multi-start screw required only a single partial turn of the trigger guard to which it was attached, which would speed the rate of fire considerably. And the breaks in the threads would actually help clear them of fouling; the built-up powder would be scraped off and fall through the openings each time the plug was locked up to fire. Without that, the fouling from the black powder would quickly “varnish” the screw to an extent which would make it difficult or even impossible to operate without a thorough cleaning.
It remained to be seen how well the weapon would work in action, but according to Owl’s research, the original Ferguson had been capable of six to ten aimed shots per minute … with a flintlock. It had also been capable of up to sixty shots between cleanings, which compared favorably with any existing Safeholdian muzzleloader. If Clyntahn was willing to allow the Army of God to use primer caps, it ought to be able to reach the higher end of that rate of fire. And, of course, since the innovative bastard had specified a top-opening breech, it would be almost as easy to load from a prone position as a Mahndrayn.
The more he thought about it, the more attractive assassins seemed, but he pushed the temptation firmly aside. It was what they needed if they truly meant to break the Proscriptions’ grip on Safehold, after all.
Besides, the pains-in-the-arse have already spread drawings all over the damned Temple Lands. We’d need an army of assassins to deal with everyone who’s seen it, and I doubt even Aivah has that many available!
He sighed and shook his head, then grinned suddenly.
It’s not really funny, I guess, but it’s comforting to know even Merlin can make mistakes. He and Ehdwyrd were so pleased when Mahndrayn came up with a design that would be just outside the Mainland’s capabilities. One it would take them at least a year and a half to put into production because first they’d have to develop the machine tools and processes. Now the clever little protégé he wouldn’t let me assassinate’s come up with a design that’s at least as effective and they can start producing the damned thing inside a month!
He sat back and tossed the technical drawing onto the tabletop with a chuckle.
It was almost worth finding out what Zhwaigair and Fultyn had come up with if only because of how he was looking forward to Merlin’s expression when he and Owl told him about it.
.V.
Outside Thesmar, The South March Lands, Republic of Siddarmark
“Well, it only took three five-days longer than it should have,” Sir Rainos Ahlverez growled. He made it a habit to be careful about the audience to whom he displayed his disgust. At the moment, that audience consisted solely of Captain Lattymyr and Colonel Makyntyr, however. He trusted their discretion. Besides, they were probably even more disgusted with their “allies” than he was.
No, he told himself. They can’t possibly be more disgusted with those arseholes than I am. They’re probably as disgusted, though.
That might not be the best attitude for an army commander marching off to war shoulder-to-shoulder with his allies in the sacred cause of Mother Church and God Himself. It was, unfortunately, the one with which he was stuck.
“Three five-days might be a little severe, Sir.” Makyntyr frowned judiciously. “I don’t think it took them much more than two five-days more than it would’ve taken us from the time the order was given.”
“Probably not,” Ahlverez growled back. “But the bastard ought to’ve given the order at least one damned five-day earlier than he did instead of getting almost six thousand men killed or wounded for nothing.”
“Now there, Sir, you have a point,” the artillerist, whose relationship with his own general had improved considerably since the assault, acknowledged.
The three of them sat their horses on the crest of a low hill watching the enormous column get under way. Solid regiments of Desnairian cavalry led the way, of course. How could it have been otherwise? Certainly no reasonable person would suggest Dohlaran cavalry might be as well suited to that duty! The very thought was preposterous. And, equally of course, it only made sense to keep the components of each portion of the Army of Shiloh brigaded together, given the differences in their supply systems and organization. It was purely a coincidence that that happened to put virtually all of what had been the Army of Justice on the road in front of Ahlverez’ troops.
Just as it was purely coincidental that Harless had chosen Sir Fahstyr Rychtyr to command the detachment being left behind to keep Thesmar invested. The Desnairian duke had been careful to allude to Rychtyr’s greater experience against the heretics, but there was no doubt in Ahlverez’ mind—or of the rest of his army, for that matter—that the duke’s real reasoning was somewhat different. Obviously, anyone who’d allowed himself to be besieged by an inferior force was sadly lacking in aggressiveness and determination. Best to leave him behind where he could sit in the sort of fortified position he apparently preferred. Apparently not even the casualties he’d taken trying to storm a fortified heretic position were enough to change Harless’ opinion in that regard.
Well, at least Harless’ prejudices mean we’ve got somebody competent covering the canalhead at Trevyr, Ahlverez reflected grimly. That means our supply line back to Dohlar should be intact. And that we get an extra day in camp while we wait for him to get the Shan-wei out of our way.
“I wish to Chihiro we were leading the march, Sir.” Captain Lattymyr kept his voice low, as if he were afraid they might be overheard even on their isolated hilltop.
“Come now, Lynkyn!” Makyntyr said. “Surely you must acknowledge that the sheer striking power and splendid martial ardor of our vanguard must sweep all opposition aside!”
Ahlverez’ lips twitched, although he knew he should step on his subordinates’ scorn for their allies. Fortunately, both Makyntyr and Lattymyr were smart enough not to show it—openly, at least—in front of anyone else.
“Actually, Sir, I wasn’t thinking in terms of combat power,” Lattymyr replied. “I was thinking in terms of speed.”
Makyntyr’s sardonic expression turned sober, and Ahlverez nodded.
“I was thinking the same thing. Their quartermasters ought to be shot, assuming the court-martial didn’t decide on something more lingering.” He grimaced. “For an army so in love with cavalry, they seem awfully short on wagons and draft animals.”
“That’s because they are.” Makyntyr shrugged disgustedly. “To be honest, I think they expected all along to forage on the countryside, whatever they may say now. Mind you, I would’ve thought the reports about what was happening in the Republic might have suggested even to them that forage would be hard to come by. That’s what they suggested to us, anyway. On the other hand, they did start later than we did, and the South March climate means there should be grass, at least, pretty much year-round. And to be fair—much as the thought of being fair pains me just at the moment, you understand—they’ve got a lot more cavalry than we do, and horses eat a lot. They would’ve needed a lot more wagons to haul enough fodder.”
“Then they should’ve brought them,” Ahlverez said flatly.
“I think Duke Harless has begun to figure that out, Sir.” Lattymyr managed, Ahlverez noted, to leave out the word “even” immediately before Harless’ title, and he hadn’t tacked “at last” onto the end, either, but his audience heard both of them anyway. “Sir Borys certainly has, at any rate. According to Lieutenant Kahsimahr, there’s not a lot he can do about it at this point, though.”