“Father,” Lieutenant Tymythy Mahgrudyr said to no one in particular while he shuffled, “mendacity is unbecoming in a man of the cloth.”
Mahgrudyr, Thunderer’s purser, was a native of Tellesberg, with eyes so darkly brown they were almost black and a very swarthy complexion. He was only about six years younger than Ahbaht, which would have made him a bit elderly for a lieutenant with a line commission. He was actually rather young to have attained that rank as a supply specialist, however, and unlike most Emeraldian pursers Ahbaht had known before his transfer to the Imperial Charisian Navy, he was scrupulously honest.
“That’s a rather serious charge—or allegation, I suppose I should say—my son,” Graingyr said austerely.
“No, it’s a simple observation of the truth, Father,” Daivyn Kylmahn said. He was the customary fourth for the captain’s thrice a five-day spades games, and while he was above average by most people’s standards, he was outclassed by the other three players and knew it.
“What he meant to say,” the first lieutenant continued, “is that you’re not fooling anyone. Not even me. You knew exactly what you were doing, and you and the Captain might as well stop trying to sharp me into thinking you didn’t.”
“I am cut to the quick,” Graingyr said, with a noticeable lack of sincerity. “How could you possibly think such a thing of me? I agree that I’m the product of one of the best Temple Lands seminaries, so I suppose I might be a little suspect on that basis, but I’ve been a good, bluff, unimaginative, depressingly honest—one might almost say dull—Chisholmian for almost nine years now! After all that time exposed to such a merciless barrage of stolid righteousness, all of that seminarian logic chopping and equivocation’s been thoroughly beaten out of me!”
“I think the noun I used was ‘mendacity,’ not ‘equivocation,’” Mahgrudyr observed as he offered the shuffled deck to Ahbaht. The captain cut and the purser began dealing. “I believe there’s a distinct difference between the two. One even those of us deprived of a Church education can recognize.”
“Just remember who’s going to be in charge of assigning your penance at this Wednesday’s confessional, Tymythy,” Ahbaht advised, gathering his cards and sorting them as they were dealt. “I wouldn’t want to suggest that the good Father might—”
The universe heaved suddenly. The overhead lamp swung wildly. Lieutenant Kylmahn had been tipped back in his chair, balancing it on the rear legs; now it crashed over, dumping him on the deck, and the sounds of breaking glass came from the captain’s whiskey cabinet and Mahrak Chandlyr’s pantry.
Ahbaht dropped his cards, surging to his feet, just as another jerking shudder ran through the ship. Voices were raised on deck—initially in alarm, and then, almost instantly, in sharp, disciplined commands. Bare feet rushed across the deck overhead, there was a sudden, thunderous avalanche of sound, and Ahbaht paused only long enough to extend a hand and yank Kylmahn back upright before he went thundering towards the deck himself.
* * *
“Well, I suppose it could be worse,” the captain sighed two hours later.
He stood beside the binnacle once again, Kylmahn at his shoulder, but there was no one on the wheel this time. There was no point; Thunderer was firmly aground, listing perhaps three degrees to larboard, on a shoal which appeared on none of their charts. It seemed to be at least four or five miles long, and it lay ten miles off Egg Drop Island’s southern shore. That put it almost squarely in the middle of the deepwater channel indicated on those same charts, and the fact that no court of inquiry would ever find Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht’s judgment faulty made him feel absolutely no better. However good his judgment might have been, everything about Thunderer—and, in this instance, his entire squadron—was his responsibility.
“At least it’s mud, not rocks, Sir,” Kylmahn offered. “We’ve started a few seams, but a rock would’ve ripped the guts right out of her, hard as we hit.”
“That’s what I meant about its being worse. Unfortunately, that’s about the only way it could’ve been,” Ahbaht replied, then gave himself a mental shake.
Let’s not wallow in too much despair, Bruhstair! he told himself. And it’s all right to let your guard down with Daivyn as long as you don’t do it where anyone else can hear you. Now stop kicking yourself and figure out what you do next.
The problem was that there wasn’t a great deal he could do. Kylmahn was right about one thing. Thunderer had been bowling along at almost five knots on that favorable wind he’d been so happy about. If they’d hit an uncharted rock at that speed it would have ripped a potentially enormous hole in her hull. As it was, she’d slid up onto the mudbank at a relatively gentle angle and the carpenter and his mates reported that there was no serious underwater damage.
The same couldn’t be said above decks. The sudden stop had snapped the fore topmast right out of her before the sheets could be let fly to empty the huge fore topsail of wind. How the main topmast had failed to follow suit was more than Ahbaht could say, and he intended to have it very carefully inspected as soon as there was light. The falling fore topmast had taken the fore topgallant and royal masts with it, and at least two hands had been missing and unaccounted for after the wreckage was cleared away. The captain was grimly certain they’d been crushed and taken over the side by the plunging spars, and nine of their shipmates had been injured—three of them seriously—at the same time.
The worst aspect of it was that they’d grounded on a rising tide, very close to high water, and tides this far inland were nothing much to write home about. That meant the next flood tide was unlikely to float them neatly off the shoal. The speed at which they’d hit made bad worse in that respect, since he was certain the ship had driven deeply into the mud. That was going to create a powerful suction effect, which could only make it still harder to work her off.
Just be grateful those damned screw-galleys won’t reach Symarkhan for another two days, he told himself. Or that they’re not likely to, anyway. That gives you some time to deal with this, and you’ve got a whole squadron worth of boats and other galleons to help get you off this Shan-wei-damned mud pile. Between them, they’ve got enough anchors to kedge Eraystor out to sea!
“All right, Daivyn,” he said briskly. “First we need to get a boat off to the Vengeance to tell Captain Vahrnay he’s now the acting senior officer afloat. We need to get some of the schooners out to make sure no one sneaks up on us while we’re stuck here like a wyvern waiting to be skinned. Then I want both launches rigged to carry anchors. Unless the wind backs clear around to the west, there’s no way in Shan-wei’s hell any of the other galleons’ll be able to tow her off, so let’s go ahead and get the hawsers run aft, too, since the only way we’re going to kedge her off is astern. Obviously, we’re not going to do that until the top of the flood, but we might as well get the anchors laid out now. Next we need to see about lightening ship. We’re not throwing any guns over the side just yet, but I think it’s time to see about pumping the water tanks. I don’t like it, but we can steal some of it back from the squadron’s other ships once we get her back afloat. See what else we might be able to jettison without compromising our fighting ability, too; if it comes to it, I’ll be willing to drop solid shot over the side or lower it into the boats where we can reclaim it later. Next—”
* * *
General Trumyn Stohnar rode slowly along the street, surrounded by his staff, his aides, and what seemed to be at least half a company of Siddarmarkian dragoons. With so many bodyguards, he felt free to examine the damage as they threaded their way deeper into the city of Guarnak.
There was a lot of it to examine.
The Guarnak canalfront had been devastated by the Charisian Navy’s Great Canal Raid. Most of the warehouse district had burned during and after the ironclads’ bombardment, and the replacement structures the Army of the Sylmahn had hurriedly thrown up to protect its supplies over the winter had a raw, slapdash, temporary look to them. At least a quarter of them had burned in
the most recent fighting, anyway. Other parts of the city—near the canalfront—had suffered significant damage from overshooting Charisian shells or Army of God artillery fire which had bounced off Halcom Bahrns’ armor and ricocheted into the streets.
That was nothing compared to what had happened to what had once been Mountaincross Province’s largest city over the last few five-days, however.
The troops Bahrnabai Wyrshym had tried to get out had covered no more than a hundred miles, less than half the distance to Jylmyn, before they’d been run to earth by the Army of Hildermoss’ Cavalry Corps: five regiments of dragoons armed with rifled carbines under General Fraidareck Shyrbyrt. That could have turned extraordinarily ugly, Stohnar conceded, since Shyrbyrt had been born in Westmarch Province and his family had a tradition of Army service and fierce loyalty to the Republic. They’d also been virtually wiped out over the past year and a half—first by the rebellious Temple Loyalists, then by the advancing Army of God, and finally by Wylbyr Edwyrds’ Inquisition. Fortunately, Shyrbyrt was a professional and a decent man who clearly intended to do his best to go on being both of those things, despite the volcanic fury banked up inside him. There was little chance he’d shy away from any atrocities for which the Republic’s enemies gave him a reasonable pretext, however, and Colonel Clairdon Mahkswail had come perilously close to doing just that.
Shyrbyrt commanded just over twelve thousand troopers, whereas there’d been closer to twenty-five thousand in Mahkswail’s column. On that basis, the colonel had rejected Shyrbyrt’s first summons to surrender—possibly out of fear of Zhaspahr Clyntahn, possibly in an attempt to protect the inquisitors Wyrshym had attached to his column in an effort to get them out of Guarnak, or possibly for some other reason. Unfortunately for him, while there might have been little better than half as many men in the Cavalry Corps, there’d also been two hundred and forty mortars, and Shyrbyrt had seen no reason to lose any of his troopers to AOG rifles when he could stand out of range and kill them all with mortar bombs. He’d made that point to Mahkswail with cold, savage precision … and then informed the colonel that four of his cousins had been massacred by the Army of God when Cahnyr Kaitswyrth overran General Charlz Stahntyn’s fifteen-thousand-man force south of Aivahnstyn the previous summer.
Mahkswail had taken one look at Shyrbyrt’s icy eyes and understood exactly what the Siddarmarkian was saying. And so he’d surrendered, although at least half the inquisitors in his column had committed suicide before the Siddarmarkians got their hands on them.
I can live with that, Stohnar thought coldly. Stupid of them—unless they figured we’d give them to the Punishment the way they damned well deserve, whatever we might say before we got our hands on them. I doubt hanging or beheading hurts any more than some of the ways they did themselves in. I can hope not, anyway.
Personally, after what he’d seen last year in the Sylmahn Gap, there were times he wished his cousin hadn’t agreed with Cayleb and Sharleyan of Charis about limiting reprisals and counter-atrocities. He was perfectly prepared to assume the Inquisition and the Temple Loyalists had applied Langhorne’s Golden Rule to their enemies as the Writ enjoined and were prepared to have the same done unto them. It was hard, sometimes, to remind himself that he’d have decades to live with whatever he did or ordered done.
His thoughts had carried him even deeper into battered, broken Guarnak. Shattered walls, smashed buildings, burned-out ruins, and listless, weary plumes of smoke stretched out in every direction. The street down which he and his bodyguards rode was half choked with rubble, and he could see at least twenty or thirty bodies at any given moment. Wyrshym and his rearguard had stood their ground and fought hard. In fact, he could still hear the crackle of rifle fire, the thud of mortars, and the thump of grenades from the northern end of the city, where the last of Wyrshym’s command—penned up in a steadily contracting pocket—continued to fight back. It was all but over, though. The Army of the Sylmahn was down to no more than six or seven thousand wretched, starving men, as hungry and as short on ammunition—and hope—as the defenders of Serabor had been fifteen months ago, before Stohnar marched to their relief. Only there was no one to relieve Guarnak.
According to Lieutenant Sahlavahn, there was an intact—or mostly so—townhouse somewhere ahead which had been earmarked for Stohnar’s HQ. It was hard to believe anything in this sea of wreckage could possibly be considered “intact,” but young Sahlavahn was a truthful sort whose judgment was usually sound. Stohnar was prepared to take his word for it, at least until personal experience proved otherwise. In the meantime—
A rider came cantering down the street—recklessly fast, considering the state of that street—and the dragoons of his bodyguard closed in around the general protectively. They relaxed at least slightly as they realized the oncoming horseman wore the uniform of the 1st Siddarmarkian Scout Regiment.
The youthful lieutenant slowed to a trot when he saw the general’s party, then drew rein as he reached Stohnar and touched his breastplate in salute.
“Colonel Tymythy extends his respects, General,” he said.
“Thank you, Lieutenant—?”
“Kahlyns, Sir. Abernethy Kahlyns,” the lieutenant replied, and Stohnar’s ears pricked as he recognized the accent of Siddar City’s Charisian quarter. Young Kahlyns was obviously Siddarmarkian-born, but from the sounds of that accent, at least one of his parents had been born in Old Charis.
“May I ask why—besides to extend his respects, of course—Colonel Tymythy’s sent you my way, Lieutenant Kahlyns?”
“Yes, Sir!” Kahlyns straightened in the saddle, his eyes bright and fierce. “The Colonel instructed me to tell you, Sir, that we’ve received an envoy under a flag of truce. He says Bishop Militant Bahrnabai requests a cease-fire to discuss the terms of his surrender.”
.II.
Shingle Shoal, Hahskyn Bay, Shwei Province, South Harchong Empire
“At least the wind should be better next time, Sir.” Lieutenant Kylmahn tried to sound purely professional, not hopeful. “Captain Kahrltyn seems confident he can tow us off if it continues to back.”
Sir Ahbaht Bruhstair nodded, although he was rather less confident than Captain Zoshua Kahrltyn had sounded when he’d come onboard Thunderer to discuss the situation.
Like Thunderer, Kahrltyn’s HMS Firestorm mounted only thirty guns, yet she was also the largest unit of Bruhstair’s squadron after Thunderer herself. A member of the ICN’s second (and last) class of unarmored bombardment ships, she was armed with a longer, harder-hitting version of the navy’s six-inch muzzle-loading rifles and her sail plan was at least as powerful as a Rottweiler-class ironclad’s. That made it considerably more powerful than Thunderer’s was at the moment, actually, given her jury-rigged repairs. If any ship of the squadron was likely to be able to tow Thunderer off the mudbank upon which she’d stranded herself, it was Firestorm, and Kylmahn was correct about the current wind. It had backed steadily around from the easterly which had driven them onto the shoal. By now, it was coming from the north-northeast; if it continued backing at the same rate, it would be out of the northwest or possibly even directly out of the west by the time the tide was full once more.
That, unfortunately, wouldn’t happen for another eleven hours.
Bruhstair folded his hands behind him and walked to the nearest gunport to gaze out across the gentle waves. They were a little steeper and a lighter color where they swept across the mudbank, yet even there they were little more than a foot and a half in height. They were almost listless looking, as if they were wilting under the mid-morning sun’s heat, which was pretty much par for the course, now that he thought about it.
He tried to shake off the pessimism creeping into his bones, but the truth was that the “flood tide” wouldn’t be all that much of a tide even when it was next full. Hahskyn Bay was a large body of water, yet it was far smaller than Shwei Bay or South Shwei Bay, and its only connection with the open sea was indirect, to say the very least. Unlike
Chisholm or Old Charis, it experienced only two tides per day, not four, and they were far feebler, as well. In Cherry Blossom Sound off Chisholm’s east coast, the range between high tide and low tide was just under nine feet, and in the Sea of Charis it was almost six; in Hahskyn Bay, there was a bare two-foot difference between high water and low. That didn’t prevent a nasty tidal set from pouring through the Kaudzhu Narrows when the ebb tide added its force to the current already flowing out of Hahskyn Bay to South Shwei Bay, but it meant the flood tide wasn’t going to provide the sort of lift which would float Thunderer effortlessly out of the mud into which she’d driven herself. On the other hand, it would be the only chance he got in the next twenty-six hours.
He looked up at the sun and grimaced as he made himself face an unpleasant truth. It wouldn’t be the only chance he got in the next twenty-six hours; it was all too likely to be the only chance he got, period. If he couldn’t get Thunderer off the shoal on the upcoming high tide, such as it was and what there might be of it, the Dohlaran screw-galleys would almost certainly arrive before the next one. And that meant.…
He sighed, shook his head, and turned to face his first lieutenant.
“We’ll have to lighten her more,” he said unhappily. “Call all hands, Master Kylmahn. We’ll jettison the first six guns in each broadside and bring the next three aft.”
Kylmahn’s face tightened. He hesitated briefly, as if tempted to argue, but then he squared his shoulders and nodded.
“Aye, Sir,” he said and reached for his speaking trumpet.
Ahbaht left him to it, moving a bit farther to one side to get out of the way and deliberately continuing to look out across the cheerfully sparkling waters. Not that he found the view particularly enthralling. It was, however, one way to keep his people from seeing his expression as they set about obeying him.