Rayno felt no temptation to point out to the Grand Inquisitor that most armies considered it a good thing when their officers and troops had confidence in their commanders’ judgment.
“Are you concerned about their … reliability, Your Grace?” he asked delicately.
“I don’t know.” Any admission of uncertainty was most unlike Zhaspahr Clyntahn, and Rayno’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I just know Maigwair’s managed to get a higher percentage of rifles to Symmyns’ command than he has to the Army of Tanshar. He says that’s because Symmyns is so much closer that the logistics are simpler—and he’s pointed out that the Army of Tanshar was originally supposed to be armed with Dohlaran-built rifles before that disaster in the South March. Now Dohlar’s hanging on to every rifle it can manufacture while it rebuilds its own army. According to him, that’s the reason Teagmahn’s standing around with his thumb up his arse waiting while Symmyns is getting at least a trickle of rifles and artillery. I haven’t been able to prove he’s lying to me, but.…”
The Grand Inquisitor’s voice trailed off, and Rayno’s eyes narrowed a bit more. Then they widened, and his expression went completely blank as he realized what he’d just seen in Clyntahn’s eyes.
Uncertainty. Possibly even fear.
Schueler! It is fear, the archbishop thought, and an icicle ran down his spine.
The one emotion he’d never seen Clyntahn display—or not more than briefly, at any rate—was fear. And certainly he’d never seen uncertainty. The Grand Inquisitor’s power was the core of his personality. The ability to destroy his foes, to smite them with all the invincible power of God and Mother Church, was the lens through which he saw the entire world. Other people feared him; any other arrangement was unthinkable. And while he might occasionally be wrong about some problem or decision, he was never uncertain; that was another fundamental hallmark of his character. But now—
He’s more worried about Wyrshym and the Army of the Sylmahn than he wants to admit even to himself, Rayno thought. He could wave his hands over what happened to the Army of Shiloh, but not this one. The Army of Shiloh was a secular army, with secular commanders who obviously screwed up by the numbers, so he could dismiss what happened to them. Besides, Shiloh and the South March were secondary theaters, as far as he was concerned.
But it’s different when he starts talking about the Army of God. He’s pinning a lot of faith on the Mighty Host, but how much of that is because he has to? Because he’s got no other choice? Because the truth is, the only army he truly trusts is Mother Church’s own. That’s the real reason he’s so pissed off that Maigwair and Duchairn keep telling him we simply don’t have enough weapons to equip armies the size of the ones he wants to throw at the heretics, too. He feels things slipping out of his control, and those Shan-wei-damned broadsheets going up all over the Temple Lands, the Fist of Kau-Yung, and the way even our own inquisitors are backing off in the camps—all of that—only makes it worse.
He’s actually beginning to think Mother Church might lose the Jihad.
Wyllym Rayno had seen frightened men many times in his life. Indeed, the archbishop who was the Inquisition’s second-in-command was accustomed to seeing fear. But not in Zhaspahr Clyntahn. Not in the Grand Inquisitor himself.
“Do you truly believe Vicar Allayn would deceive you about something like that for some reason, Your Grace?” he asked in a painfully neutral tone.
“I believe he’s never had enough steel in his spine for Mother Church’s Captain General at a time like this,” Clyntahn said flatly. “He’s always been ready to jump at shadows, to hide in his corner when the going got a little rough. And I believe he has enough spider rat in him to start thinking about ‘exit strategies’ to save his worthless skin.”
A Bédardist, Rayno reflected, would probably have called that “projection,” although he had no intention of pointing that out.
“What sort of ‘exit strategy,’ Your Grace?” he asked instead.
“I think one reason he’s been sucking up to Duchairn is the hope that the two of them might be able to form a united front against me,” Clyntahn replied. “He’d probably prefer Trynair, but Zahmsyn’s learned his place.” The Grand Inquisitor smiled nastily. “Our esteemed Chancellor isn’t going to cross me whatever happens. So Allayn’s looking to Rhobair, and so far it’s been working for him, because however little I trust either of them the Jihad needs both of them. For now, at least. But the truth is that Allayn’s the more … expendable of them. I can always find someone else to run the Army, but Rhobair’s the only one who begins to understand how to keep the bills paid. Mother Church won’t always need him either, though, and when the time comes.…”
Rayno nodded. He and Clyntahn had discussed the Grand Inquisitor’s post-Jihad plans for Rhobair Duchairn often enough.
“The thing is that Allayn’s getting too big for his britches,” Clyntahn said. “And however much I trust Symmyns, some of his officers might obey Allayn even if that meant mutinying against their immediate superior. That wouldn’t bother me too much—they’re still six hundred miles from Zion, after all—but they’re the closest standing military force. If they did mutiny in Allayn’s support, they could reach the city—or the Temple—before anyone else.”
“Do you seriously believe Vicar Allayn is contemplating some sort of coup, Your Grace?”
“If he isn’t contemplating one now, he’s likely to start contemplating one soon enough.” Clyntahn’s expression was grim. “I don’t expect him to try anything overt unless the situation in Siddarmark goes even further into the crapper. That’d take more guts than he’s ever had in his life! But if he manages to fuck up this summer’s campaign the way he did last summer’s, he may just decide he has no choice but to throw the dice, especially if he thinks he can convince Rhobair to support him. Under the circumstances, I think it’s time we began taking a few small precautions, don’t you?”
.IV.
Larek Shipyard, and The Delthak Works, Earldom of High Rock, Kingdom of Old Charis, Empire of Charis
Coal smoke and the smell of saltwater, paint, oil, and hot metal filled Ehdwyrd Howsmyn’s nostrils. The clangor of old-fashioned hammers and new-model pneumatic rivet guns was deafening, but it was scarcely the only sound assaulting his ears as he stood at dockside and gazed at the mammoth ship floating against the thick fenders. HMS King Haarahld VII was one of the three largest vessels ever built on Safehold. She measured four hundred and thirty-five feet on the waterline, with a beam of seventy-seven feet, and her normal displacement would be over fourteen thousand tons when she was completed. With a deck load of coal, she would be able to make the entire voyage from Tellesberg to Claw Island without refueling in just over a month and a half. If she went by way of Cherayth and coaled there, the trip would be five hundred miles longer but she could steam twice as fast and reach her destination in barely twenty-four days.
She was the first Safeholdian ship to be formally designated a “battleship,” and when she went into commission, not a warship in the world—not even every other warship in the world, combined—could stand up to her.
“You and your people are doing us proud, Eysamu,” he said to the stocky, solidly built man standing beside him.
Eysamu Tahnguchi had been one of Howsmyn’s assistant foundry foremen before he’d moved over to the design of the Delthak Works canal barges. He’d had a major hand in converting four of those barges into the original Delthak-class ironclads, and he’d supervised the construction of the first of the City-class coastal ironclads before moving over to the King Haarahlds. Along the way, he and Sir Dustyn Olyvyr had invented entirely new construction techniques … and modified those techniques on the fly as still newer and better capabilities—like the rivet guns—became available.
“Thank you, Sir,” Tahnguchi said now, his own eyes watching the hordes of workmen swarming over King Haarahld VII and her two sister ships. “We’re still a long way short of done, though.”
“Yes, you are,?
?? Howsmyn agreed in a severe tone. “I believe you’re only three five-days ahead of schedule at the moment. What sort of slackers do you have working for you?”
Tahnguchi chuckled, but he also shook his head.
“With the Cities diverted to Desnair, Earl Sharpfield needs these ships, Sir. We aim to get them to him, too.”
“I never doubted it,” Howsmyn said simply.
The industrialist donned his hard hat and the two of them began walking towards one of the half-dozen gangways connecting King Haarahld VII to the building wharf. Workmen stood aside to let them pass, and Howsmyn smiled at each of them in passing, stopping every few yards to chat with them, tell them how much he and the entire Empire depended upon—and appreciated—their nonstop work. They deserved his praise as much as Tahnguchi did, and he knew it.
They reached the ship’s deck at last, solid teak planking over an inch and a half of “Howsmynized” steel armor, and he looked around. At the moment, the ship resembled an unfinished manufactory more than a warship, and it looked nothing like any galleon or galley ever built. Bits and pieces of equipment lay strewn about the deck, the armored barbette which would eventually mount the forward ten-inch guns loomed like a rusty steel fortress, and the massive casing for the ship’s forward funnel floated overhead, drifting downward in the snorting grasp of a steam-powered crane. Hand ropes formed a warning barrier around a gaping hole where neither deck armor nor the planking to cover it had yet been put in place, and Tahnguchi guided his guest towards the opening.
“The ladder’s a bit steep, Sir,” he cautioned. “I’d hoped to have this closed in by now, but two of her boilers failed final inspection.” He grimaced. “Unless we’re damned lucky, that’s going to use up every minute of those five-days you were talking about. In the meantime, though, it’s the shortest route to the machinery spaces. Your letter said you wanted to see the boiler rooms first, so I thought we’d start there. After that, we can work our way back to the engine rooms, and from there I thought we’d take a look at the after magazines and the hydraulics for the gun training gear. Then—”
* * *
“I see you survived the trip,” Brahd Stylmyn said dryly as Howsmyn climbed down the boarding steps.
“No fault of your fiendish contraption,” Howsmyn replied.
“You’re the one who chose the route for the trial line, Sir,” Stylmyn pointed out. “I wanted to run it to the mines, if I remember correctly.”
“And you know damned well why we didn’t,” Howsmyn replied, and Stylmyn raised his hands in surrender. Although, Howsmyn reflected, for a man who’d lost an argument he seemed remarkably cheerful about it.
Paityr Wylsynn had indeed signed the attestation for Stylmyn’s “steam automotive,” and despite all the other endless demands for steel, Stylmyn had pressed hard for constructing an actual working rail line. After all, he’d said, it was the only way to really prove the concept … and let him see his new toy in operation.
His proposal to build a freight line to supplement the barges hauling coal and iron ore down the Delthak River had been a nonstarter, however. The sheer length of the line—not to mention the amount of grading, excavation, and bridge-building which would have been required—made it impossible at the moment, even with Sahndrah Lywys’ Lywysite. The line between the Delthak Works and the city of Larek, however, was both much shorter and offered terrain which was mostly flat and unmarred by any rivers or valleys. It had provided a far more suitable route for Safehold’s first railroad, and its sixty-five-mile length had officially opened to traffic only three days ago. There were still a few minor bugs to be worked out, in Howsmyn’s considered opinion—there was one two-mile section he was damned well going to have ripped out, regraded, and re-ballasted—and the passenger cars could use more human-friendly suspensions. But it certainly worked, and hordes of spectators had come out to see it in operation. They’d cheerfully paid to ride it, as well, and he had to admit he could readily become addicted himself to making a sixty-five-mile trip in barely an hour.
Now the only problem would be fending off Stylmyn’s desire to build still more railroads. And the fact that Sharleyan Ahrmahk was going to lend him her vociferous support as soon as she got home and officially found out about this one’s existence wasn’t going to make his life any simpler, Howsmyn reflected.
But there’s only so much steel available, damn it, he thought. For that matter, Sharley knows it, too. The real reason she’s going to be supporting him so vocally is that she figures putting the imperial imprimatur on the whole notion of railroads will bring potential investors out of the woodwork to pay for them. She’s probably right about that, too.
He snorted at the thought as he and Stylmyn walked across the first Safeholdian railroad station’s boardwalk towards their waiting bicycles.
“What?” his henchman inquired.
“Just thinking about something a friend of mine said,” Howsmyn replied.
They pulled their bicycles out of the rack, climbed into the saddles, and began pedaling their way towards the main works. Morning was easing into afternoon, and Howsmyn found himself pedaling a bit harder in hope of reaching their destination before shift change inundated them in a sea of humanity.
Besides, he thought with a mental chuckle, it’ll do Brahd good to keep up with me. He doesn’t get enough exercise, anyway.
Actually, Stylmyn kept pace without any sign of undue strain or even breathing heavily. Which, Howsmyn discovered a bit grumpily, was more than he could say for himself.
“I hope this won’t take too long,” he said, looking across at Stylmyn. “God knows I don’t want to cut Taigys short, but Zhain and I haven’t had dinner at the same time in the same place in almost a five-day. If I’m late again, she’s going to have my ears. Besides, I’ve got a surprise for her.”
“If she collects any ears, it won’t be my fault,” Stylmyn replied. “I’m not the one who suggested an entirely new weapon to him. I’m not the one who inspired him to design a completely different cartridge to make it work. I’m not the one who’s going to insist on taking the damned thing out to the range and blazing away until I’ve used up every one of the cartridges he’s already made. I’m not—”
“Shut up and pedal, or you won’t be the one who has a job anymore, either!”
Stylmyn laughed, remarkably un-cowed by the threat, and Howsmyn shook his head. Not that Brahd didn’t have an excellent point. Several of them, in fact.
Taigys Mahldyn had persevered with his cardboard cartridges and effectively reinvented the shotgun. The current version was something someone from Old Earth might have called a 10-gauge, with a .75 caliber barrel, and he’d started with a simple break-barrel design. Howsmyn had spent several enjoyable hours perforating targets on the range behind Mahldyn’s rifle shop with it, but Taigys—inevitably—had been convinced he could improve it, and he had. In fact, he’d produced his own version of a pump-action shotgun, and he was already tinkering with a design to apply the same sort of slide action to a modified M96 rifle.
Howsmyn doubted that the Imperial Charisian Army would be adopting slide-action rifles anytime soon. The current M96 already provided it with an enormous firepower advantage, and the additional complexity would offer more opportunities for soldiers to break things. That was never a good idea, and the new action would drive up cost substantially. Besides, before Duke Eastshare signed off on any new weapon, he was going to seek Baron Green Valley’s opinion, and Green Valley was fully aware of the semi-auto and full-automatic actions Sahndrah Lywys’ smokeless propellants would make practical.
But in the meantime, he told himself with a grin, you’re going to enjoy the hell out of blazing away with the thing. Don’t pretend you’re not! And don’t think you can get away with telling Zhain it was all Taigys’ fault, either. She knows you even better than Brahd does, and she’ll have a right to be pissed if you drag in late and covered with burnt gunpowder!
True, all true, he thought. Of course, she migh
t cut him a tiny amount of slack when she found out about the other news he was bringing back from Larek.
It had never bothered Zhain Howsmyn that she, the daughter of the Earl of Sharphill, one of the Kingdom of Charis’ most senior nobles, had married a mere commoner who was eight years older than she. It had probably helped that the “mere commoner” in question had been one of the wealthiest men in the Kingdom and had since become the wealthiest man in the world, period. But that hadn’t really mattered to her, either. Still, their anniversary was coming up next month, and she was only human. Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk had decided what to give the Howsmyns as an anniversary gift, and the word he’d been awaiting had finally officially reached Tellesberg from Siddar City and been forwarded to Larek.
Duke and Duchess Delthak.
He rolled the title over his mental tongue, and smiled as he pictured her reaction after he dragged in late and just offhandedly dropped the news on her when she began to read him the riot act. When she got done goggling at him, then finished laughing, then finished whacking him about the head and shoulders, she would undoubtedly drag him off to bed where he would receive an early anniversary gift of his own.
Yes, he reflected, it looks like being a very good night all around.
.V.
HMS Thunderer, 30, Gulf of Dohlar
Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht turned from the wide stern windows of HMS Thunderer as his steward showed the compactly built, sandy-haired fisherman into his day cabin.
“Master Cudd, Sir Bruhstair,” the steward said, with what might have been the slightest possible edge of disapproval. Mahrak Chandlyr had been with Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht for almost twenty years, but he hadn’t quite reconciled himself to the sorts of disreputable people with whom the captain of an imperial warship was forced to hobnob.