Quite a few people had expressed … concern over the possibly demonic aspects of the new lighting, and Howsmyn had taken pains to warn everyone about the potential dangers of gas. He’d made it clear, with Wylsynn’s support and the Royal College’s enthusiastic endorsement, that there was nothing the least demonic about it. Hopefully, describing those dangers would encourage people to take the proper precautions … and help defuse fresh allegations of demonic involvement when the inevitable gas explosion finally occurred.
Now he beckoned for Wylsynn to follow him and the two of them made their way up a flight of steps to the manufactory supervisor’s office. They passed through the office’s outer door, crossed a narrow lobby, and closed the inner door behind them.
The noise level dropped drastically. It was still there in the background, but the supervisor’s office had thick walls and double windows, their panes spaced, like the office doors, to provide sound baffles. The assistant supervisor started to rise to greet them, but Howsmyn waved her back into her chair with a smile.
“Stay where you are Mistress Sympsyn. Father Paityr’s far too suspicious of all we do here for you to waste any courtesy on him.”
The brown-haired, brown-eyed woman smiled at them both. Any number of people would have been horrified by Howsmyn’s flippant attitude, but Mhargryt Sympsyn, wasn’t one of them. Although she was no older than Paityr Wylsynn, she was one of the first half-dozen women Howsyn had handpicked to groom for management positions in his vast, expanding empire, and she’d been understudying Alyk Krystyphyrsyn for six months now. Krystyphyrsyn was very, very good at his job or he wouldn’t have been the night supervisor for the first Safeholdian manufactory ever to be equipped with a genuine assembly line. In fact, he’d been instrumental in working out the kinks in the process, and Sympsyn had made several valuable contributions of her own to the process.
That didn’t surprise Ehdwyrd Howsmyn, who hadn’t chosen her or any of her fellow women because they were dummies. Fair or not, they needed to be several cuts above the average if they were going to hold their own in their new positions. Even with his full-blooded support, they were going to find it difficult to win acceptance from a great many—indeed, probably the majority—of the men who eventually found themselves working for them. At the same time, the expansion of his own facilities meant he’d long since found it necessary to create a formal training process for managers and supervisors, and overriding the passive resistance of several of his own senior subordinates to include women hadn’t been any harder than, oh, swimming across Howell Bay … the long way. He’d managed it, though … and so had they, he thought with a glow of pride.
And the rest of the world had damned well better get used to it, he reflected now as Wylsynn joined him, looking out the office’s windows at the enormous work floor. We’ll still be a lot more of a muscle-powered society than I wish we could be for decades to come; that’s what happens when you can’t use electricity without finding yourself ground zero for a meteor strike. But we’ll be a lot less of a muscle-powered society. My workforce is already close to thirty percent female—a lot higher in places like the instrument and pistol shops and a lot lower in places like the coking ovens or coal mines—and that percentage’s only likely to grow as we get more of Paityr’s machine tools into operation. And that’ll let us free up still more manpower for military duty.
His lips twitched in amusement as he remembered Nahrmahn Baytz’ enthusiastic discussion of someone called “Rosie the Riveter” he’d found in Owl’s archives. But then the incipient smile faded as he gazed out at the busy workers.
If they’re good enough to build rifles and hand grenades and revolvers, they’re good enough to supervise the process, too. And if my competitors and the Temple decide not to follow suit, screw ’em! Last time I checked, at least half the human race were women, and that means at least half the human race’s smart, competent people also happen to be female. As certain individuals with names like Sharleyan, Irys, and Aivah Pahrsahn—or Nimue Alban—might be said to demonstrate. If they’re stupid enough to deprive themselves of that human resource, they deserve what’s going to happen to them in the end.
“That’s even more impressive than it is noisy,” Wylsynn said quietly.
“And a lot of the credit goes to you,” Howsmyn pointed out. “You do realize we have a revolver coming off that line every eight minutes? That’s a thousand every five-day and six thousand per month. The second line goes into operation sometime next five-day, and the third one comes online the middle of next month. When they’re all up and running, we’ll be producing somewhere around a hundred and eighty thousand pistols a year.”
Even Wylsynn looked shocked by the numbers, and Howsmyn laughed. Then he sobered a little.
“Actually, we won’t hit quite those numbers until we get the new forging machinery into full operation in another two or three months. I could hold the numbers up on the revolvers, but I’ll have to divert a lot of my present forging and stamping capacity to the new rifles when those lines go into operation. I’ll turn out as many pistols as I can in the interim, and then I’ll switch a lot of the people you see out there to the rifle lines and shut down at least one of the pistol lines until we have the additional forges up. We’re already well along in converting old-style Mahndrayns to the trapdoor design—at the moment, we’re converting about two hundred per day—and I expect to have the first M96 line up within two five-days. Based on our experience with the pistols, I’m projecting around a hundred and forty M96s per line per day, which works out to seven hundred per five-day. The second line should come on stream a couple of five-days after that, and we should have all three of them in operation by the end of November or early February. At that time, we’ll be churning out over two thousand every five-day.”
Wylsynn inhaled deeply. He’d had access to the numbers from Howsmyn’s reports, but that was different from looking down on that swarming work floor.
“That comes to a hundred and twenty-six thousand per year,” he said very carefully.
“Yes, it does,” Howsmyn agreed with simple pride. “And we’ll be phasing in production at the Lake Lymahn Works as soon as we can. Ultimately, we expect to have three lines operating there, too, and by the end of March, we should have all three pistol lines back in full operation. I’ve already crated up the machine tools to set up rifle and pistol shops at Maikelsberg, and we’re sending along the plans to duplicate the original toolset. We hope to have a total of five rifle lines and a pair of pistol lines there within four or five months. Once all of that’s up and running, we’ll be producing close to three hundred thousand revolvers and almost four hundred and sixty thousand rifles per year.”
“And you’ll be able to keep them supplied with ammunition?” Wylsynn couldn’t quite keep a certain skepticism out of his tone, and Howsmyn grinned.
“Cartridge production’s actually running ahead of projections. At the moment, we’re turning out roughly two hundred cartridges per hour, and we’ll be upping that to around a thousand in the next couple of five-days. There’s no point producing them faster than that just yet because the cartridge filling machinery developed a glitch we hadn’t expected and we’re still putting the fix for it into place. By next spring we’ll be able to produce and fill two thousand per hour, or just under one-point-six million a month. We won’t be able to increase much beyond that—assuming we have to—until we can produce the primer compounds in sufficient quantity.”
Wylsynn only shook his head, and Howsmyn patted him on the shoulder.
“You’ll get used to it once it’s had time to sink in, Father Paityr. In the meantime,” he turned the priest away from the window towards the pot of hot chocolate steaming gently on the small stove in one corner of the office, “I’m certain Mistress Sympsyn and Master Krystyphyrsyn can be convinced to join us in a celebratory repast.” He uncovered a large platter, revealing a serious stack of doughnuts, and grinned. “I’m sure this’ll be much better for us than
any of that dreadful champagne and whiskey.”
* * *
Sir Paitryk Hywyt stood on the quarterdeck of HMS King Tymythy watching something no Charisian admiral—in fact, no Safeholdian admiral—had ever seen or dreamed of seeing.
The unlikely, unlovely, ungainly craft forging steadily into Thesmar Bay looked much the worse for wear. The paint had been scoured away from its blunt bows and the curved front of its rust-streaked casemate; the falls of its davits were strained taut over emptiness where the hungry sea had snatched away the boats which ought to have ridden in them; its signal mast had been reduced to a broken stub; and its starboard funnel was half the height of its companion.
He would not have wagered a tenth-mark on its ability to survive the southwester which had gone howling up the Tarot Channel three five-days ago, yet there it was, trailing a smoky banner from those battered funnels. And, greater miracle even than that, was the crippled galleon following at the end of her tow, foremast and mainmast little more than stubs, a scrap of canvas set under her broken bowsprit, and showing only the mizzen topsail aft, although a stay had been rigged from the mizzen top to what was left of the mainmast and a staysail set upon it. HMS Tellesberg Queen, Hywyt thought. Two ships he’d been certain had been lost when the first units of the storm-threshed convoy straggled into Thesmar. And yet here they were: Halcom Bahrns’ ship and the thousand men whose lives he’d saved aboard the galleon.
Guns began to thud all around the anchorage, saluting the victors they’d never expected to see. Hywyt hadn’t ordered that salute, but he wasn’t the least bit surprised when King Tymythy’s guns joined it.
* * *
Sir Hauwerd Breygart stood atop the lookout tower high above the center of the town of Thesmar and watched the miracle steam towards the docks. Unlike Hywyt, the Earl of Hanth was no sailor, but he was a very experienced Marine. He knew the terror when the sea’s full wrath descended upon the frail works of man in open waters, and he’d no more expected ever to see those ships alive than the admiral had.
He stood very still, leaning both hands on the tower’s railing, as he contemplated those ships and breathed a silent, fervent prayer of thanks, and not just for the lives HMS Delthak had saved. That battered galleon, the water sluicing from her pumps even now, contained not simply Brigadier Zhames Mathysyn’s artillery battalion but also half the scout snipers assigned to the 4th Infantry Brigade. The guns would be crucial to Hanth’s ability to carry out his orders, and he was devoutly glad to see them. Yet he was even more grateful for those scout snipers.
He straightened, jaw tightening, as he recalled how many men had been less fortunate than those aboard Tellesberg Queen. Men for whom there’d been no miracle named Delthak and no miracleworker named Halcom Bahrns. Colonel Ludyvyk Ovyrtyn’s 8th Regiment, half of 4th Brigade’s infantry, had lost one of its three battalions in its entirety. Nobody knew where or when Amelyah’s Pride had lost her battle, but she’d taken over a thousand ICA men and officers to her grave with her. There’d been eyes to see but no way to help when the brig Lady of Eraystor foundered in the fury which had claimed too many of her larger, stronger sisters, and two precious batteries of rifled four-inch guns—and the gunners to serve them—had gone with her. And then there’d been Spindrift, driven onto the jagged reefs from which Rock Island took its name. Colonel Raif Ahlbyrtsyn, the 2nd Scout Sniper Regiment’s commanding officer, had drowned while fighting to get his men ashore, and so had Major Ahlyk Styvynsyn and over eighty percent of his battalion. Major Dynnys Mahklymorh, commanding the 2nd Scout Snipers 2nd Battalion, embarked in Tellesberg Queen, didn’t know it yet, but he and his battalion had just become the only scout snipers attached to the Thesmar garrison.
It was a grim tally, and they still didn’t know the fates of three supply ships, but at least they’d accounted for all the transports now … one way or the other. And Delthak herself was an incredibly reassuring addition to their defenses.
And despite everything, you’re in one hell of a lot better shape than you were, Hauwerd, he reminded himself.
Thesmar’s garrison now numbered over thirty thousand. Emperor Cayleb and the lord protector had decreed that Hanth would retain command, and General Sumyrs and General Fyguera accepted that without any resentment he could see. Brigadier Mathysyn’s eighty-two hundred men were the largest single component, and—combined with Breygart’s 1st Independent Marine Brigade and Hywyt’s naval gunners—totaled more than half of Thesmar’s strength, despite the losses the troop convoy had suffered. Sumyrs and Fyguera knew that, just as they knew they would never have held Thesmar once the Royal Dohlaran Army crossed the frontier without Charis. And, even more to the point, they realized they had no experience with Charisian doctrine or weapons.
That was changing. Both of them had gotten behind the joint training with Hanth’s own “brigade,” and now that Mathysyn had arrived, they’d all be taking advantage of the training opportunity that offered. His own Marines and Navy battalions could use all the polish they could get, and he especially wanted Mathysyn’s troops to spend time with the Siddarmarkians. Every single one of them was a volunteer who’d stood firm in the face of the hurricane which had swept over their Republic. They’d been tried in the furnace, and Hanth’s men had come to admire them deeply … and to trust them implicitly. He wanted Mathysyn’s men to do the same.
And you also want the opportunity to pick Mathysyn’s brain, he reminded himself. You were a colonel—a Marine colonel—before the Emperor recalled you. What the hell do you know about maneuvering an entire Army brigade? He snorted harshly. I think that’s something you’d better learn in a hurry, Hauwerd. And it won’t hurt a thing for you and Mathysyn to figure out how best to combine Clyftyn’s and Kydryc’s troops with your own. A third of them have muzzleloaders, and another third of them have matchlocks or arbalests! At least none of them are hauling pikes around anymore.
True, and at least the lord protector and Seneschal Parkair had managed to scrape up enough Siddarmarkian-made rifles to equip another five thousand of the South March militia units.
And you’ve got a month or so before you have to show Rychtyr and his boys all your new toys, too. Isn’t that nice?
* * *
“I hadn’t expected to see you again, Master Slaytyr,” Sir Rainos Ahlverez said.
“Didn’t ’spect t’ see you again, either, M’lord,” Zhapyth Slaytyr said frankly, wrapping his gnarly knuckled hands gratefully around the mug of hot tea. “That Colonel Kyrbysh, though. He can be a mite … forceful.”
“So it would appear. And a determined fellow, too.”
“Might say that,” Slaytyr acknowledged laconically, and Ahlverez favored him with a smile.
The dispatch Slaytyr had just delivered was the first real good news he’d received since leaving Thesmar. Despite Father Naiklos’ grim final dispatch, almost a quarter of Lairays Walkyr’s garrison had cut its way out through the understrength Siddarmarkian regiments east of Ohadlyn’s Gap under Colonel Bryahn Kyrbysh. The understated tone of Kyrbysh’s message barely hinted at what must have been a desperate fight, but the colonel hadn’t simply settled for escaping. Instead, he was in the process of rallying the Faithful of Shiloh to his standard, and he proposed to operate against the heretics’ rear in any way he could. It wasn’t clear to Ahlverez just how much the Shilohian might be able to achieve, but he obviously intended to achieve everything he possibly could.
“Duke Harless will be pleased to hear about this, too, Master Slaytyr,” he said, listening to the rain drumming on the overhead canvas once again.
“Can’t say as I care a whole heapin’ lot ’bout his high and mightiness,” the Siddarmarkian replied sourly. “Damn near got me killed, sendin’ me back last time! Colonel Kyrbysh, now—he’s one a man could warm to.”
“He sounds like it,” Ahlverez acknowledged, trying dutifully not to smile at the Shilohian mountaineer’s obvious dislike for Harless. From Slaytyr’s expression, he was pretty sure he’d failed.
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“Sending you back, though, gets us to this suggestion of the Colonel’s,” he continued after a moment. “Tell me whether or not you think you could do it without getting killed before I pass it along to His Grace.”
Slaytyr gazed at him for a long moment, brown eyes thoughtful, then shrugged.
“Long’s it’s just me and no more’n one pack mule—two at th’ outside—I think I can do ’er, M’lord. Mind, I can’t promise, but I ’spect the odds’d be … fair.”
Ahlverez considered that statement carefully, only too well aware of the risk the Siddarmarkian was willing to assume. He’d already used his local knowledge to bypass Charisian pickets three times. To get home, he’d have to do it yet again, and each additional horse or mule eroded his chances. Adding portable wyvern coops to the mix could only raise the odds against him, yet he was still willing to try.
“Very well, Master Slaytyr,” he said finally. “I’ll pass the Colonel’s suggestion along to the Duke. But I’m afraid,” he smiled faintly, “that it will take me several hours—five or six, at least, and probably more—to get word to him and for his response to reach us here. Why don’t you go with Captain Lattymyr here and let him find you a dry spot to catch a few hours’ sleep while you wait?”