* * *
Father Elaryn Ohraily sat on the bench while he finished his wyvern breast sandwich. It was a bright day and he was grateful for the sunlight’s warmth—anemic though it might still be this early in June in Zion—yet he frowned ever so slightly as he wiped his lips with his napkin. This meeting was supposed to be … inconspicuous. Bishop Markys had made that abundantly clear. No one had explained why that was so important, but Ohraily hadn’t served the Inquisition for fifteen years without understanding the need to keep secrets closely held. He’d also recognized at least six vicars among the participants who’d already arrived, and he understood security needed to be tight for such exalted individuals, particularly given the Fist of Kau-Yung’s recent activities. He wasn’t supposed to have heard about that affair at St. Evyryt’s, but he’d been one of Bishop Markys’ senior troubleshooters for almost ten years now. There were very few things he didn’t hear about eventually.
So, yes, he understood the need for a strong security cordon, but if they were going to be “inconspicuous,” the guards needed to be a bit less obvious.
He rose from the bench where he’d been calmly eating his lunch, tucked his napkin into his lunch sack, and strolled across the tiny tunic-pocket park, beer bottle still in hand, toward one of the people who were supposed to be looking inconspicuous. He paused behind the other man, examining the blossoms on a flowering shrub, and cleared his throat quietly.
“Yes, Father?” Major Walysh Zhu said politely, turning to face him.
Well, at least he hadn’t come to attention or saluted, Ohraily thought. That was something.
“Major,” he said, trying not to sound overly patient as he abandoned his examination of the shrubbery, “we’re not supposed to draw attention to the church.”
“Yes, Father. I know that.”
Zhu was a shortish, blocky man who’d probably just turned forty or so. He was also a Harchongian, very devout and very orthodox, who’d spent half his life in the Temple Guard. That made him a treasure in the Inquisition’s eyes, and it had called upon his services more than once in the past, but in some ways he was a very blunt instrument of a treasure.
“In that case,” Ohraily said, “could you please ask your men not to stand in such neat, militarily correct lines? They’re supposed to be … scattered. That’s why they’re in civilian clothing, so that they can stand around, enjoy the shade, admire the flowers,” his tone hardened very slightly on the last three words, “be having a casual conversation—that sort of thing. Anything besides being obvious sentries stationed around the church.”
The major’s face tightened for just a moment, but then he nodded. His right hand twitched as if he’d forcibly restrained the reflex to salute.
“I’ll have a word with them, shall I, Father?”
“I think that would be a splendid idea,” Ohraily congratulated him.
He watched the major move off, then returned to his original bench and pulled his personal copy of the Holy Writ out of his cassock pocket, found his place, and began scanning the familiar words with a tiny corner of his attention while the rest of it kept watch over the Second Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion.
* * *
“Well, this is a fine mess,” Zhaspahr Clyntahn observed sourly. He looked around the conference table and his gaze settled on Allayn Maigwair. “Took you long enough to tell the rest of us about Fairkyn, didn’t it, Allayn?”
“The entire situation in New Northland and Hildermoss is in turmoil,” Maigwair replied more calmly than Clyntahn had anticipated. “I’m getting all sorts of reports, at least half of which are wholly inaccurate and another quarter of which are wildly exaggerated. If you’ll recall, I warned everyone that Wyrshym wouldn’t be able to hold his position if we didn’t withdraw him. I believe I also mentioned Fairkyn was already gone, for all intents and purposes. So, yes, I did take the time to try to confirm Nybar’s dispatch before I distributed it. If you’ve read through that, Zhaspahr,” he gestured at the folder on the conference table in front of the Grand Inquisitor, “then you know I sent you not only his original message but also the best estimate I could put together of everything else happening in that theater yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes, you did,” Clyntahn conceded in that same sour tone. “I don’t see any explanation in here of why Wyrshym decided to violate his orders to stand fast, however. Which he obviously did.”
“Zhaspahr, we’ve already been over that entire situation,” Rhobair Duchairn put in. The Grand Inquisitor glowered at him, and the Treasurer shrugged. “I know the Army of the Sylmahn was ordered to hold its positions no matter what. I think it’s obvious from the sheer weight of the attack, however, that Wyrshym couldn’t have held his forward positions for more than a day or two no matter what he did, and it’s not as if he ordered his entire army to retreat. Surely he was justified in trying to save at least something out of the wreckage.”
“Not when neither he nor his intendant ever suggested they meant to do anything of the sort he wasn’t,” Clyntahn said harshly. He held out one meaty hand, and Wyllym Rayno placed another, much thicker folder in it. “In fact, that’s what disturbs me the most. I’m not happy with Wyrshym, and I’m not delighted with the fact that Allayn here didn’t keep him on a short enough rein to prevent something like this from happening. But what actually concerns me more is that Bishop Ernyst didn’t breathe a hint of any of this to me, either. This isn’t just a case of Wyrshym falling back too precipitously, Rhobair. It looks like it’s a case of active collusion between him and his intendant—collusion aimed at keeping his superiors, you, me, Zhasyn, and Allayn—ignorant of their intentions, and that cuts at the very heart of the reason our commanders have intendants.”
He opened the folder and began handing out paper-clipped copies of semaphore dispatches.
“I submit we all have a problem here,” he continued, “and it’s one we’d better get a grip on quickly. If I’m right, then I obviously didn’t have Abernethy on a tight enough rein, either, did I?” The corner of his eye noted the surprise Maigwair couldn’t quite hide as his reasonable tone registered. “These are copies of the last reports he filed with my office. I’d like to go over them with all three of you, because I think we can all agree that if we have field commanders who really are making private arrangements with their intendants without our knowledge, we need to put a stop to it now.”
* * *
Major Zhu’s guards still looked like guards, but at least they looked less like guards, Father Elaryn reflected wryly. His own agents inquisitor did a far better job of projecting their harmlessness; even so, if he was going to be honest, there were too many of them standing around to be totally unobtrusive.
Well, Bishop Markys had been around the block a time or two. No doubt he’d realized from the beginning that no one could put guards around a church in the middle of Zion without anyone at all noticing that he’d done it. On the other hand, there were guards around at least two dozen of the city’s churches at this very moment, for one reason or another, so there was nothing to draw special attention to Second Pasquale’s.
At least all of the attendees had arrived. Vicar Stauntyn had put in his appearance last, of course. That was only to be expected of someone of his seniority. Especially if, as Ohraily suspected from one or two things Father Byrtrym had carefully not said, none of the others had known he was coming in the first place. No one had told Ohraily how long this gathering was supposed to run, either, but he rather suspected he’d be sitting down to a late supper. A meeting of such senior prelates, especially at this particular time, wasn’t going to race through its work and—
The Second Church of the Holy Pasquale of the Faithful of Zion disappeared in a mind-numbing roar that fountained fire, shattered stone, and dust into the peaceful afternoon sky.
.IX.
HMS Thunderer, 30, Kaudzhu Narrows, and HMS Dreadnought, 30, South Shwei Bay, Shwei Province, Harchong Empire
“Thank you,
Mahrak. I think that’s all we’ll need for a while. Leave the teapot, and I’ll call for you if I need you.”
“Of course, Sir Bruhstair.”
Mahrak Sahndyrs came briefly to attention, nodded respectfully to both Captain Ahbaht and Lieutenant Kylmahn, and withdrew, leaving the pot behind. Lieutenant Kylmahn looked as if he might be in two minds about that. Ahbaht, like quite a lot of Emeraldians, preferred cherrybean tea, made from the roasted and ground seeds of the cherrybean tree. Kylmahn couldn’t deny that cherrybean did a much better job of keeping him awake than hot chocolate or most of the other teas he’d ever tried, but he really couldn’t understand why Sir Bruhstair and the other cherrybean gourmands liked its taste. Personally, he preferred to bury it under copious quantities of cream and sugar.
Ahbaht smiled slightly, thoroughly aware of his first lieutenant’s views on the subject of cherrybean, and poured two cups. He passed one across the breakfast table to Kylmahn, then sat back with his own.
“We should raise Cape Longzhi by the turn of the watch,” he remarked.
“Assuming the wind holds, Sir,” the first lieutenant agreed as he began spooning powdered milk into his cup.
Ahbaht tried not to shudder. He’d never understood why so many people insisted on adulterating cherrybean with milk or cream, and—unlike most mariners—he’d never developed a taste for dried milk, anyway. Others might insist that it tasted just like fresh milk and be glad to get it after five-days or months at sea, but Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht wasn’t one of them. He was glad it was available to help satisfy the dictates of Pasquale’s Law, he’d drink it when he absolutely had to, and he was grateful to the Archangel for teaching men how it was made, yet the rotating heated drums on which the liquid was evaporated always left a bit of an off taste, in his opinion. It was true the Imperial Charisian Navy insisted on first-quality dried milk, without any of the browning which resulted if it was left on the evaporating drums too long before being scraped off, which improved its taste considerably, but not enough that he would ever dream of contaminating perfectly good cherrybean with it!
“I could wish for a bit more of a breeze myself,” he acknowledged, his voice tranquil despite the barbarity before him as Kylmahn added sugar to the powdered milk and began gently stirring the light-brown brew.
At the moment, the squadron was spreading out a bit again in a light topgallant breeze and Thunderer was making good no more than a knot and a half with all sail set to the royals. The wavelets were short and glassy, without any break, banners and streamers flapped halfheartedly, and the sun beat down mercilessly. The weather was atypical for this time of year, to say the very least, and it was all Ahbaht could do to project the semblance of serenity required from a captain. They were eleven days out of Talisman Island, passing through the narrows between South Shwei Bay and Hahskyn Bay, and by his original timetable, they should have reached Ki-dau by tomorrow morning. At their current rate of progress, it would take them another four days.
And if it did take them four more days.…
He watched Kylmahn sip his so-called cherrybean tea with apparent pleasure and shook his head.
“If we don’t get a better wind than this by midday tomorrow, I’m turning back,” he said.
Kylmahn stopped sipping and lowered his cup, eyes suddenly intent, and Ahbaht smiled humorlessly.
“The last thing anyone needs is for me to go plowing onward like a gambler shoving his last pile of marks onto the table in hopes of throwing triple-six, Daivyn. If we can’t get to Symarkhan before the screw-galleys do, there’s no point going at all, and I’m not a lot more eager about facing them even out here on the bay without more wind in my pocket than this. That might not be the proper attitude for a captain imbued with true derring-do, but personally, I’d rather bring the squadron back intact.”
“I don’t think you’ll hear any argument out of me about that, Sir,” Kylmahn replied. “The men will be disappointed, though.” He shook his head affectionately. “They’re Charisians, you know, even the Chisholmians and the Emeraldians amongst them—no offense intended, Sir.”
“None taken,” Ahbaht said affably. He sipped cherrybean. “After all, at some point all that salt in you Old Charisians’ blood always seems to dry up your brains. It does seem to happen more quickly among first lieutenants than to anybody else, though, doesn’t it?”
“Ouch!” Kylmahn raised his free hand in the fencer’s gesture which acknowledged a touch. “I suppose I had that coming, Sir.”
“You suppose correctly. On the other hand, you have a point. They aren’t going to be happy if we turn around and ‘run for home.’ Even the ones who understand why we’re doing it are going to be pissed off, and I imagine they’ll be just a bit grumpy about it. Still, I’d rather have them feeling pissed off because they’re too aggressive than relieved because they’re too timid!”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s something you need to worry about very much, Sir.”
* * *
“Any more sign of that damned schooner, Dahnyld?”
Lieutenant Stahdmaiyr looked up quickly, the sunlight through the open skylight flashing brief silver off the lenses of his spectacles, as Captain Haigyl stepped back into his day cabin from HMS Dreadnought’s sternwalk.
“No, Sir. Not since last night,” the lieutenant replied and gestured at the chart he’d been updating. “I’ve laid in our current position. Master Gyllmyn and I concur that we’re about eighty miles from the mouth of the Narrows.”
Haigyl nodded. His own navigation skills were more than adequate … but not a lot more than adequate. Both Stahdmaiyr and Ahlahnzo Gyllmyn, Dreadnought’s sailing master, were more proficient at it than he, and he was confident enough in their ability—and in his own judgment of their ability—to trust the positions they gave him. Not that Stahdmaiyr’s estimate made him happy.
Wind conditions could vary widely even over relatively short distances; every sailor knew that, and it was entirely possible Bruhstair Ahbaht’s squadron had already reached its destination, carried out its attack, and headed home. By the same token, it was possible Dreadnought had made up so much time that his lookouts would spot Ahbaht’s topsails before lunch. The probability, however, lay somewhere between those two extremes, and he wasn’t happy about the schooner whose topsails those same lookouts had spotted the evening before.
He stepped up beside Stahdmaiyr, rubbing the patch over his left eye socket as he considered the chart. He’d already decided that if he reached Ki-dau after Ahbaht had headed upriver, he wasn’t going to follow. Instead, he’d lie off the estuary’s mouth, watching Ahbaht’s back and not getting his own ship tangled up in the narrow channels, mudbanks, and potential groundings of a river. The truth was, he was perfectly content to leave that sort of business to the undersized Emeraldian.
But that schooner.… That schooner bothered him.
Even a Harchongian should recognize a Charisian warship’s lofty rig, yet the schooner had held its course, following along in Dreadnought’s wake until darkness fell. No merchant skipper would have done that, although, to be fair, the chance of the ironclad’s turning around and overtaking a schooner in these weather conditions didn’t exist. So maybe he was being too paranoid. Maybe a merchant skipper would tag along, see where the Charisian warship in question was going and what it was up to before turning and running for port somewhere. But he didn’t think so. He couldn’t have said why, but he didn’t think so.
“Make sure the lookouts keep their eyes peeled,” he said, still rubbing his eye patch and frowning at the chart. “If that lad has friends along up to windward, I want to know about it.”
“Aye, Sir.” Stahdmaiyr nodded soberly. “I’ll do that thing.”
.X.
Cliff Peak Province, Republic of Siddarmark
“—still got one brigade moving to the front, but Rhandyl and Brigadier Dahmbryk’ll have everything buttoned up right and tight between ’em by the time I get back there,” Ahlyn Symkyn said. “Truth t
o tell, I’d not’ve thought we’d be this close to ready this close to on time.”
“Most battle plans work just fine until the enemy turns up, Ahlyn,” Ruhsyl Thairis pointed out. The Duke of Eastshare stood at the enormous table, looking down at the contour map his staff cartographers had constructed out of papier-mâché. Green-headed pins indicating the positions of three Allied armies stood out of it like clustered rows of strange topiaries, spread wide in a rough crescent reaching towards the elongated clump of sullen red-topped pins representing the Army of Glacierheart. “I’m rather fond of the one we’ve worked out in Kaitswyrth’s honor, but it is a bit complicated.”
“Not so much complicated as just … large, Your Grace,” Sir Breyt Bahskym, the Earl of High Mount, observed. “I don’t believe anyone’s ever tried to coordinate the attack of over three hundred thousand men across a front more than eighty miles wide. Bound to be a little slippage in there somewhere. In fact, I’ll guarantee there’s some we don’t know about right this minute and more we won’t find out about till months after.”
“You’re always such a comfort to me, Breyt,” Eastshare observed, and the other two army commanders chuckled.
The relationship was good, the duke thought—immeasurably better than the internal dogfight the Church’s Army of Shiloh had turned into last winter. Symkyn had been born a commoner and might well die that way; the Bahskym family had held the High Mount title since the founding of the Kingdom of Chisholm; his own father had earned the Duchy of Eastshare less than forty years ago, fighting for King Sailys against his own distant kinsman; yet there was none of the supercilious jockeying for position which had wracked the Army of Shiloh’s command structure.