They also fired much more rapidly, and that was a far from insignificant point. The tests of the new Fultyn Rifle had already demonstrated the significant problems involved in working a muzzleloader approaching fifteen feet in length. Indeed, length was much more critical in that regard than the simple size and weight of the enormous projectiles it fired. Just swabbing the barrel between shots was difficult and time-consuming, yet if it wasn’t swabbed properly, if there was a single spark or ember waiting when the next powder charge was rammed home.…
The gun founders were promising him a ten-inch weapon with a gigantic four-hundred-pound shot and a shell weight of well over three hundred pounds. Their estimates suggested it would be even longer ranged than the eight-and-a-half-inch weapon, and shot that heavy might well be able to penetrate even Dreadnought’s armor. But each gun would weigh almost seventeen tons, and the barrel length would be over sixteen feet, which was going to slow its rate of fire even further.
Any unarmored ship that challenged those weapons would be doomed, yet that thought was scarcely reassuring, given that the Charisians were certain to have more—and better—armored ships than anyone else in the world. And producing guns of that size and power took time—lots of time. The Charisians could obviously produce their guns far more rapidly than the Church’s foundries could produce Fultyn Rifles. And as vast an improvement as the banded rifles clearly were, they were still cast iron and their bore pressures pushed the limits of their endurance every time they were fired with full-powered charges. Any battery commander and—especially!—his gun crews could be excused for feeling a totally justified nervousness under those circumstances.
The foundries were working on smaller, lighter six-inch weapons which could be mounted on shipboard, and that would increase the Royal Dohlaran Navy’s combat power considerably. It might even be possible to mount a shorter and lighter version of the new ten-inch weapon in the screw-galleys’ armored citadels, where it could conceivably survive long enough to do some good. In the end, though, they weren’t going to be able to match the Charisian artillery’s performance, and that was simply the way it was. So whenever Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk decided they could spare the effort from the liberation of the Republic of Siddarmark, the Dohlaran Navy was doomed. He had no doubt its men would fight as courageously as Captain Hamptyn’s men had fought in the Kaudzhu Narrows, but it wouldn’t matter.
And that brought him right back to the question of those Charisian prisoners of war.
It shouldn’t come down to that, he told himself yet again, his mental voice weary and raw. I shouldn’t have to even think about arguing that torturing and killing the other side’s sailors and soldiers when they fall into our hands is “bad policy” because it can only justify the Charisians in taking reprisals against our own sailors and soldiers. People fighting on the side of God should understand that it’s wrong—wrong morally and religiously, from every possible aspect—to treat honorable enemies that way even without the fear of reprisals!
He turned his head, staring out the stern windows at Hamptyn’s ship to prevent the captain from seeing his face as the dull, searing flood burned through him yet again. But there was no point pretending. He’d already discussed it—obliquely and very carefully, in private—with Staiphan Maik, and the bishop’s eyes had been as bleak as his own. Yet Maik had been able to offer no comfort. In fact, the conversation had only made it worse.
Because they’d become so close, the bishop had shared his confidential reports about the Inquisition’s concentration camps in Siddarmark … and the orders the Grand Inquisitor had issued. That was why he knew the hapless inmates of four of those camps were already marching across western Siddarmark towards the Border States, driven ruthlessly to keep them ahead of any possible rescue. And why he knew that Inquisitor General Wylbyr had decreed the execution of every prisoner in three other camps too far from the Border States to be evacuated before they were liberated.
Bishop Staiphan’s expression had been grim as he told the earl how those orders had been followed to the letter in one of those camps, despite the warning notices its guards had found posted inside their own fences by the seijins allied with the notorious Dialydd Mab. In the other two camps, though, at least some of the guard force had decided to resist the order. In one of them, the mutineers had been ruthlessly suppressed and the executions had been carried out anyway, although at least some of the prisoners had managed to escape during the fighting. In the other, however, the mutineers had won. Most of the camp’s inquisitors and quite a few of the guard force had faded away during the fighting, but the victorious mutineers had marched its inmates east, not west. Detachments of Army of God cavalry had been dispatched after them, but Maik’s sources suggested that the pursuit wasn’t being pressed very hard.
Thirsk hoped those sources were correct. In fact, he’d gone down on his knees to pray that they were. Bishop Staiphan’s most conservative estimate was that another hundred and twenty thousand Siddarmarkian civilians had been butchered, exactly as the Inquisitor General had ordered. Given that close to three million people had already perished at the Inquisition’s hands, that might not seem like all that many additional lives. But it was. It was a horrific number, piled onto a vaster, even more horrific number, and if the “heretics” and their allies won in the end, their demands for vengeance—for justice—would be fiery, merciless, and totally justified.
So what was Lywys Gardynyr going to do when Zhaspahr Clyntahn demanded that the Charisian survivors of the Kaudzhu Narrows be delivered to Zion? It was “only” another five hundred lives, after all. They wouldn’t even be noticed when the death toll was totaled up at the end of this madness. Except by those who’d loved them—by wives and daughters, by sons and brothers and sisters, and by fathers and mothers.
And by Lywys Gardynyr, who would know their blood was on his hands, however truthfully he might tell himself he’d had no choice.
.XII.
HMS Destiny, 54, Talisman Island, Gulf of Dohlar
Baron Sarmouth stood on HMS Destiny’s quarterdeck, hands folded behind him, and watched calmly as his squadron made its way into Rahzhyr Bay. They made a brave show under the clear July sky with their severe black hulls, gray and tan sails, and the blue, silver, black, and gold of the imperial Charisian standard rippling from their yardarms.
There were only four galleons anchored off Rahzhyrhold, but the water around them was busy with launches, gigs, and other small craft. At this range it was difficult to decide what all those boats were so industriously doing, even with one of the new double-glasses, and the admiral waited patiently in the shade of the awning stretched across the quarterdeck while Destiny forged steadily towards them.
“Seems to be an awful lot of boat traffic, Sir Dunkyn,” Captain Rhobair Lathyk remarked, standing to Sarmouth’s right. “And I wonder where the rest of the squadron is?”
“No doubt we’ll discover all of that soon enough,” the admiral replied serenely.
“No doubt,” his flag captain agreed, yet there was more than an edge of concern in Lathyk’s tone.
It was the concern of an experienced naval officer with an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, the sense that something he was seeing wasn’t quite what it ought to have been. That sort of itch was the gift of instinct and hard-won skill, and it was invaluable. It was also a gift Sir Dunkyn Yairley possessed in abundance … and one he didn’t need on this hot, beautiful day.
“Deck there!” The call floated down from the masthead. “Cutter broad on the starboard bow!”
“I see it, Sir,” a voice said from Sarmouth’s left. The baron glanced over his shoulder and saw Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk holding a double-glass in his good hand while he peered through it. “I think … yes, she’s definitely flying a dispatch boat pennant.”
“You see, Rhobair?” Sarmouth said with a slight smile, quirking an eyebrow at the flag captain. “As I promised. All is about to be revealed.”
* * *
T
here were no smiles in the admiral’s day cabin as Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht stood facing Sarmouth the better part of two hours later. The Emeraldian captain was perfectly groomed, despite the sling supporting a left arm encased in plaster, but there was no sign of his habitual dry humor.
“So after returning to Talisman, I dispatched my full report to Earl Sharpfield at Claw Island by courier vessel. I thought it wisest to remain here while Vindicator and Broadsword completed their repairs. I’m actually a bit surprised the Dohlarans haven’t already moved against us here, and I felt we’d be most useful assisting Commander Makgrygair and Major Ohmahly in the event that they did.”
He fell silent, looking the taller Charisian admiral in the eye. His own eyes were level, yet somehow he had the look of a man facing a firing squad … and convinced that he ought to.
Sarmouth leaned back in his chair for several seconds, gazing at the officer on the far side of his desk, then he inhaled deeply.
“I see,” he said. “And now that you’ve completed your report, Captain, be seated, please.”
His voice was calm, but it was also insistent, and he pointed his right index finger at the chair beside Ahbaht. The chair he’d invited the Emeraldian to take upon his arrival. Ahbaht had declined the invitation then, preferring to stand as he described the debacle into which he’d led his squadron. Now he started to decline once more, but Sarmouth’s expression stopped him. Instead, he settled into the chair, although he didn’t seem to relax noticeably as he sat.
Sarmouth nodded in satisfaction and raised his voice.
“Sylvyst!”
“Yes, My Lord?” Sylvyst Raigly appeared like magic.
“Please pass the word for Captain Yairley and Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk to join us. And be so good as to bring the whiskey, as well. The Glynfych, I think.”
“At once, My Lord.”
The valet bowed and disappeared once more, and Sarmouth returned his attention to Ahbaht. It was strange, really. Somehow he’d expected the fact that he already knew what had happened in the Kaudzhu Narrows to make Ahbaht’s report easier to listen to. It hadn’t. If anything, it had made it harder, and not simply because he had to watch his responses lest he say or do something that might suggest that everything Ahbaht was telling him wasn’t coming at him cold. It was because he had already seen it, he reflected. Because he had the actual images and sounds, all the carnage and fury, to go with the words of Ahbaht’s description. And because he had those things, he also knew Ahbaht had been far harder on himself than anyone else would have been. There was no way he could tell the captain that, however, and so he only shook his head.
“I know that at this moment you blame yourself for every ship and every man we’ve lost, Captain,” he said quietly. “In your place, I’m sure I’d feel exactly the same way. On the other hand, I would have made precisely the same decisions you made, had I been in your position and in possession of the same information. You acted with the boldness we expect of officers in the Imperial Charisian Navy. It’s unfortunate that the weather turned against you, yet it’s clear to me that you’d allowed sufficient cushion against that possibility. But for the shoal you encountered, the Dohlaran galleys would never have had the opportunity to engage you, and I’m strongly of the opinion that with both Thunderer and Dreadnought you and Captain Haigyl would have cut your way out through the Dohlarans with far lighter losses. It’s not given to us to command the wind or the vagaries of fortune, Captain Ahbaht. All any mortal man can do is make the best decisions he can based on the information he actually has. It’s my opinion that that’s exactly what you did in this instance.”
“I … appreciate that, My Lord.” Ahbaht stopped and cleared his throat. “I appreciate it,” he continued, his voice just a bit husky, “but I’m not sure I agree with you. If I’d passed my information on to Earl Sharpfield, or not taken it upon myself to—”
“If you’d done either of those things, you would have been culpable, Captain!” Sarmouth interrupted with an edge of sharpness. “Their Majesties’ Navy doesn’t select captains or flag officers who shirk their responsibilities or take counsel of their fears.
“I said it’s not given to us to command the wind, and that’s true. It’s also not given to us to simply command victories, either. We do what we must in the service of the Crown and the defense of Their Majesties’ subjects. That is our greatest honor, and you’re as aware as I am of what it demands of us. Emperor Cayleb described a captain’s responsibilities to me once. He said, ‘A captain has to sail to meet the enemy; he doesn’t have to come home again.’ That’s what you did. You sailed to meet the enemy, exactly the way I would have—exactly the way His Majesty would have, and did in the Armageddon Reef campaign—and this time some of your ships and too many of your men than either of us will find easy to live with didn’t come back. Neither did King Haarahld, at Darcos Sound.”
He held the captain’s eye for a moment.
“Sometimes we live, sometimes we die; the one thing we always do is keep faith with our honor, our duty, our monarchs, and our God, and that’s precisely what you and all the men under your command did this time. Whether you agree with that or not, I know exactly what His Majesty would say to you at this moment. Since he’s not here, I’ll say it for him. You reacted wisely, resolutely, and quickly, based upon the best information available to you, in the best traditions of the Imperial Charisian Navy, and so did every one of your officers and men. The operation didn’t end in a victory, but you—and they—have nothing for which to be ashamed or to blame yourselves. I retain full confidence in you, just as I’m certain Their Majesties will when news of this reaches them, and I’m not prepared to entertain reproaches against you—or the men under your command—from anyone. And to be perfectly clear about this, Captain Ahbaht, that ‘anyone’ includes you. Is that understood?”
“I—” Ahbaht began. Then he stopped, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. “Yes, My Lord. It’s … understood.”
“Good!” Sarmouth said more briskly as Lathyk and Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk entered the cabin. Sylvyst Raigly followed them in, carrying a large silver tray laden with glassware. He set the tray on the end of Sarmouth’s desk and began pouring amber whiskey into the waiting glasses.
“Good,” the baron repeated. He picked up his own glass and raised it, holding it there until Ahbaht and the other two officers had raised their glasses to meet it.
“I’m glad it’s understood,” Sarmouth said then, holding Ahbaht’s gaze with his own, “because I have no intention of allowing the Dohlarans to savor this victory one second longer than I have to. That means you and I have a great deal of work before us, Captain. All of us do. So let’s be about it, shall we?” He smiled thinly and glanced at his flag lieutenant with a nod.
“I give you Their Majesties,” Hektor said, lifting his own glass just a bit higher. “The toast is loyalty, honor, victory … and damnation to the enemy!”
AUGUST
YEAR OF GOD 897
.I.
Royal Palace, City of Gorath, Kingdom of Dohlar, and Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Old Charis
Soft cooing and the rustle of pigeons’ wings floated in through the open window. It was an incongruously gentle combination of sounds, given the place and the occasion, but not one the Earl of Thirsk found soothing. In fairness, that had more to do with the reason for this meeting than with the sounds themselves, yet he couldn’t avoid the thought that there was a certain irony in it. Or perhaps what he meant was that there was a connection between those sounds and the reason he was sitting in this room at this moment.
King Rahnyld IV of Dohlar was not the most competent monarch in the history of Safehold. Thirsk didn’t especially like admitting that even to himself, since he was Rahnyld’s sworn vassal and a man who took his oaths seriously. That didn’t make it untrue, however, although to be honest it probably wouldn’t have mattered, given the madness which had gripped the entire world, if Rahnyld had been a political genius ra
ther than a ruler of … erratic notions and enthusiasms. The fact that he’d come to the throne thirty-six years ago as a boy of only fourteen had probably contributed to his uneven record, and Thirsk knew the King resented the demands his crown placed upon him and his family. Clearly, Rahnyld would have been much happier in a less stressful role, and that had become only more evident since the beginning of the Jihad. In fact, rumor said he’d discussed abdication with Duke Fern on more than one occasion.
Those rumors might well be true, Thirsk thought. Yet however ill-suited to his role he might be, he couldn’t simply step down. Crown Prince Rahnyld wouldn’t be sixteen until next month, and the last thing Dohlar needed at a time like this was a four- or five-year regency for a minor king. If abdication was out of the question, though, the King seemed determined to avoid as many of the Crown’s day-to-day responsibilities as he could.
That was why the sounds drifting in through the window irritated Lywys Gardynyr rather profoundly. They came from the elaborate pigeon coop mounted outside the window, and it was mounted there because King Rahnyld raised racing pigeons. In fact, he concentrated on that hobby with a focused intensity Thirsk couldn’t help wishing he’d spend just a little of on the affairs of his kingdom. It was … disconcerting, to say the least, when a crowned king spent his time leaning out the council chamber window to putter with his pigeons during meetings of his Royal Council rather than actively engaging with the advisors and councilors inside the chamber.
Although, the earl thought now, the King’s absence actually might not be a bad thing today, given the agenda.