His smile faded as he considered the real reason Hektor had been placed in command of her. They’d needed a scouting vessel which wouldn’t arouse apprehension in any Dohlaran who happened to spot it, and Snapdragon—acquired from her previous Erechian owners two days ago in what might aptly be described as a hostile takeover—fitted that bill perfectly. She’d been able to get close to the convoy Sarmouth and Hektor had known was coming without sounding any alarms, which had provided the baron with a plausible, clearly non-demonic means of “discovering” the opportunity sailing towards his squadron. And Hektor’s access to the SNARCs had allowed him to con his vessel into exactly the right position to “happen across” the prisoner convoy at exactly the right moment.
This time they hadn’t even needed a seijin!
Of course, they aren’t exactly flying a huge banner that says “We’re a prisoner convoy!” he reflected.
Still, he’d allowed himself to leap to at least one intuitive conclusion. Hektor’s report had made it clear that at least three galleons of the Royal Dohlaran Navy were escorting a pair of lightly armed transport galleons somewhere. (Actually, he’d known there were four, but HMS Saint Kylmahn had been too far astern for him to obtain a sighting on her.) Given the timing, it had seemed permissible for Sarmouth to conclude that the transports might—might—be carrying prisoners captured at the Kaudzhu Narrows to Zion. He’d made it quietly clear to Lathyk and to Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht even before setting out from Talisman Island that he’d hoped to encounter something like this, but he’d also cautioned both of them that the odds of a successful interception were no better than moderate. Now that Snapdragon had reported them, he’d seen to it that every man aboard every ship under his command knew that he hoped their targets were transporting those prisoners.
It would never have done to tell them he knew they were … or that he’d also known exactly where those transports had been at any given moment over the last seven and a half days.
His face hardened, with no trace of a smile, as he thought about what else the SNARCs had shown him.
Father Ahndyr Brauhylo, the Schuelerite under-priest assigned to Truculent to oversee the prisoners packed into her hold, was determined to see them delivered to their destination and consigned to the Punishment, but he was disinclined to be any more brutal about it than he had to. He even allowed them out on deck for exercise—only five at a time and chained together, but still on deck—on a daily basis. Father Tymythy Maikyn, aboard Prodigal Lass, was a very different sort, however. A personal favorite of Ahbsahlahn Kharmych, the Dohlaran intendant, he had a sadistic streak he was prepared to allow free rein. For the most part, he’d restricted himself to petty cruelties, close and perpetual confinement, occasional beatings, and psychological torment, but only because Kharmych had personally cautioned him to avoid fatalities on passage. The previous batch of heretics had lost too many to attrition en route from Gorath to Zion, and Zhaspahr Clyntahn wanted as many candidates for the Punishment as he could get. No doubt he was looking forward to a grand auto-da-fé, with hundreds of heretics to burn for their sins, as a way of convincing the Church’s capital city the Jihad was well in hand, regardless of what those lying broadsheets tacked up on the walls of Zion might claim about disastrous reverses in the field.
Sarmouth suspected that if not for the restrictions Kharmych had imposed, Maikyn would have killed at least a third of them on the twenty-seven-hundred-mile voyage to the Bay of Erech.
And if he thinks there’s a chance of their being rescued, he’ll do whatever the hell he can to make sure we rescue as few of them as possible, the baron thought grimly.
Destiny changed heading, altering course to the southwest. Eighteen more galleons of the Imperial Charisian Navy followed in her wake, cleared for action with every gun loaded and run out and showing not a single gleam of light, aside from their shaded stern lanterns … and the tiny glow of the single cigar which was one of rank’s privileges. Sir Dunkyn Yairley drew on that cigar, settled back on his heels, and waited.
* * *
“Captain on deck!”
Lieutenant Trumyn Vyrnyn, third lieutenant in HMS Saint Ahndru, turned and came quickly to attention as Captain Kurnau appeared on deck. Kurnau was a calm, methodical man, the sort who didn’t feel constrained to spend his time looking over his subordinates’ shoulders. It wasn’t unheard of for him to take a turn on deck before retiring for the night, but it wasn’t exactly a habit of his, either.
“Captain,” Vyrnyn greeted him, touching his chest in salute.
“Trumyn.”
Kurnau nodded in recognition of the courtesy, then tilted his head back, gazing up at the dimly visible masts and spars. It was difficult to make out his expression in the uncertain light cast by the binnacle’s lit compass card and leaking up through his cabin’s skylight to illuminate his face from below, but he seemed … thoughtful, Vyrnyn thought. The lieutenant started to ask him if he had any instructions, but the captain hadn’t invited conversation. If he did have any orders, he’d pass them when he was ready. In the meantime, Vyrnyn returned his own attention to his watch standers.
The captain walked to the weather side of the poop deck. He wasn’t a very tall man, and he had to rise on the balls of his feet to look over the bulwark. He gazed out into the night for the better part of a minute, then squared his shoulders and walked back across to the wheel. He looked down at the glowing compass card, glanced around the deck one more time, and nodded to Vyrnyn.
“Keep them on their toes, Trumyn,” he said.
“Of course, Sir.” Vyrnyn tried hard to keep any surprise out of his response, but Kurnau snorted and smiled briefly.
“I don’t know anything you don’t know, Master Vyrnyn,” he said, resting one hand on the younger man’s shoulder for a moment. “I’m just … feeling an itch I can’t scratch. It’s probably nothing, but keep them on their toes.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Kurnau gave him another nod, squeezed his shoulder, and went back below.
* * *
“Cap’n!”
Rhobair Lathyk turned quickly at the soft-voiced call. Bosun’s Mate Ahntahn Selkyr grinned hugely and pointed southeast.
“Lookout’s spied lights a quarter-point off the larboard bow, Sir,” Selkyr said. “Masthead lights, looks like. Least two ships, but prob’ly more, he says. Makes the range ’bout eight thousand yards, but it’s only a guess.”
“Good man!” Lathyk nodded sharply.
Admiral Sarmouth had ordered that all commands and messages aboard the squadron’s ships were to be passed as quietly as possible. Now the flag captain crossed swiftly to the admiral’s side, the sand scattered on the deck for traction when Destiny had cleared for action crunching quietly under his shoes.
“Don’t know how you knew, Sir, but you’ve hit this nail right on the head,” he said admiringly. “Must be something that comes with that admiral’s kraken on your cuff.”
“Are you suggesting this was something I couldn’t have done when I was a mere captain, Rhobair?”
“No, My Lord! Not in a million years. Although,” Lathyk smiled at him, “I don’t recall your ever doing anything quite like this back in those days.”
“That’s only because you weren’t watching closely enough,” Sarmouth said. Then he twitched his head to the southeast. “Now that you’ve been suitably dazzled by my superb seamanship and unfailing instinct, however, I think it’s time we saw about those gentlemen.”
“Aye, aye, Sir!”
* * *
Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht turned to face Lywelyn Pymbyrtyn as HMS Vindicator’s captain materialized on her quarterdeck at his side.
“Destiny’s shown the signal lanterns, Sir Bruhstair,” Pymbyrtyn said. “Two yellow above one blue.” The captain shook his head. “Damned if the Admiral hasn’t done it after all!”
“A remarkable man, Admiral Sarmouth,” Ahbaht agreed. “We’ll alter to starboard and get the topgallants on her, if you please. And be good eno
ugh to repeat Destiny’s signal to the rest of the detachment.”
“At once, Sir!”
Pymbyrtyn saluted and turned back to his crew. Orders flowed in a low-voiced stream, the shaded signal lanterns rose to her mizzen yard, visible only from behind her, and canvas flapped overhead as the courses and topsails were trimmed. Vindicator leaned more heavily as her topgallants blossomed unseen in the darkness and she took the wind over her starboard quarter and gathered speed.
A truly remarkable man, Ahbaht reflected. I never really thought he could do it. Maybe I didn’t want to think he could because it would have hurt so badly when it turned out I’d been wrong to think he could.
He strode to Vindicator’s taffrail, gazing aft as Tydwail Zhaksyn’s Broadsword, Captain Dahnyld Mahkeen’s Cherry Bay, and Captain Sebahstean Hylmyn’s Dynzayl Tryvythyn followed on Vindicator’s heels, and thought about what else that remarkable man had done. Ahbaht had been astounded by Sarmouth’s reaction to the Kaudzhu Narrows fiasco. He’d expected to be relieved pending a court of inquiry, at the very least; instead, Sarmouth had endorsed his decisions and retained him as his second-in-command. His present division consisted of only four galleons, but every one of those galleons was rated at at least sixty guns, making them four of the six most powerful units of the entire squadron.
There was no way in the world he deserved that command, not after what he’d let happen to his last squadron, but Sarmouth had given it to him anyway, and he was unspeakably grateful to have it. And to be entrusted with his current mission.
The shaded lights from Destiny’s stern—two yellow over a single blue—meant the flagship had sighted the enemy bearing almost due southeast. And those lights also meant it was Ahbaht’s job to sweep south, then come in across the Dohlarans’ base course, hopefully well astern of the convoy. Anyone who tried to run from Sarmouth’s attack would break to the south, back into the Trosan Channel, and it was virtually certain that any transports actually carrying Charisian prisoners would be ordered to do just that, trying to escape back to Gorath Bay under cover of darkness while the escorting galleons covered them.
It would’ve been simpler if we’d been able to catch them in daylight, he thought. Except for the minor problem that they’d’ve seen us coming at least two or three hours before we could get to grips with them. No telling what the Inquisition’s butchers would do to our people with that much time.
He didn’t know how long he’d have to make his drive to the south. Baron Sarmouth would give him as much time as possible—the other thing the combination of lights told him was that the rest of the squadron was reducing sail to slow the rate of closure—but it wasn’t likely to be as much time as he really needed. The night was clear, and he’d been told the human eye could see the light of a single candle at up to ten miles under the right conditions. Even so, lights could be hard to pick up at any sort of distance, and—
“Lights on the larboard bow!”
The announcement was relayed to the quarterdeck, and Ahbaht sprang up into the mizzen shrouds to gain more height and peered in the indicated direction. He found the lights quickly—masthead lights well above the sea and a row of illuminated gunports dipping in and out of sight as the two ships rose and fell relative to one another—and his jaw tightened. The other ship was no more than a mile downwind, which was perilously close. If there’d been even a trace of moon tonight, her lookouts must have seen his galleons’ sails against it. But there was no moon, and he watched the lights unblinkingly.
If the commander of that convoy had been given any hint that the Imperial Charisian Navy was anywhere in his vicinity, not one of those lights would have been lit, Ahbaht thought. But he didn’t know that. Indeed, he had every reason to believe there were no Charisian galleons east of Claw Island, and even if that hadn’t been the case, the odds against Charisians stumbling into contact with him in the middle of the night were staggering. Ahbaht wasn’t one bit surprised by his ships’ illumination; given what he knew, it only made sense to light them up in order to help them maintain station on one another in the darkness.
The diminutive Emeraldian wondered if that convoy commander’s superiors would share that opinion if he lived long enough to file an after-action report.
After a moment, he was certain: the other galleon was heading northwest, on an almost exactly reciprocal course. That was good … as long as she kept going, at any rate. Their relative motions would let him sweep in astern of her sooner. On the other hand, the convoy was headed almost directly towards Baron Sarmouth’s main force, which also meant the Dohlarans would run into Sarmouth more quickly. And that would shave time off of how long Ahbaht had to get into position.
He climbed back down to deck level, where only the masthead light was visible, and his brain whirred as he computed relative ship speeds, probable positions for the transports he hadn’t yet seen, and the strength of the wind. After a moment, he felt Pymbyrtyn standing at his shoulder and turned his head. Vindicator’s captain’s expression was invisible in the darkness, but Ahbaht knew he was staring at that illuminated masthead with hard, hazel eyes. There was a reason Sarmouth had assigned Vindicator and Broadsword to their part of the mission. If Captain Kahrltyn’s Firestorm’s damages had been less extensive, she would have formed part of Ahbaht’s division as well instead of remaining anchored in Rahzhyr Bay to continue her repairs.
“How much longer do you think, Sir?” Pymbyrtyn’s Tarotisian accent was more pronounced than ever, and something hungry lurked in the depths of his voice.
“Probably not long enough,” Ahbaht replied softly. “I’ll take every minute we can get.”
“Understood, Sir. But—”
Pymbyrtyn broke off with a shake of his head, and Ahbaht nodded in understanding. Vindicator’s commander knew they needed all the time they could steal to get into position, yet he was as eager to be about it as Ahbaht himself.
“Another ten minutes, Lywelyn,” he said, touching Pymbyrtyn’s elbow lightly. “Another ten minutes. That’s how long we need to come in cleanly behind that bastard. If they’ll just give us that long, I’ll be a happy man.”
* * *
“Ship on the larboard bow!”
The sudden, startled shout came down from Tide’s masthead. Cahnyr Ahlkofahrdoh spun towards the mainmast, eyes widening in astonishment. The lookout had to be imagining things! There couldn’t possibly be a—
“Galleon on the larboard bow!” the lookout bawled. Then, a moment later, “Oh, Sweet Langhorne! Many galleons on the larboard bow!”
“Clear for action!” Ahlkofahrdoh shouted. “Clear for action! Someone call the Captain!”
For just an instant, nothing happened. Then the drums began to roll, ripping startled shouts from Tide’s crew, and bare feet pattered across planking as the ship’s company rolled out of its hammocks and dashed for its action stations.
This is impossible, a voice like ice said in Ahlkofahrdoh’s mind. It’s not possible! No one could sail straight to us in the middle of the frigging dark!
Or at least no one could do it without supernatural aid, he thought, and felt the hairs on the back of his neck trying to stand on end.
* * *
The shouts of alarm were faintly but clearly audible, and Sir Dunkyn Yairley grunted in mingled satisfaction and irritation. He and the rest of his column had covered almost four miles since sighting the convoy’s lights. He’d hoped to get even closer—preferably clear across the Dohlarans’ bows before he was spotted—yet he’d always known the odds were against that. Even though he knew precisely where his opponents were, his ability to communicate with his captains was too cumbersome, too limited, for him to achieve the exact placement he’d wanted. What he had would simply have to do … and, in fairness, it ought to be good enough.
“Well, they know we’re here, Rhobair,” he said calmly to his flag captain. “Let’s shed a little light on the subject.”
“Aye, aye, Sir!”
* * *
Cap
tain Frahnchesko Ohkamohto dashed out onto the main deck and raced up the short ladder to Tide’s raised poop deck. Bangs, thumps, the squeal of gun trucks, and volleys of orders filled the night as his men cleared for action. They were as well drilled a crew as any captain could have asked for, yet he heard—and felt—the edge of confusion as they raced to prepare for battle, and he couldn’t blame them for it. This had to be a mistake—it had to be! There was no way the heretics could really be out there and—
Something hissed and shrieked its way into the night, rising in a pillar of flame from less than a mile away, and Ohkamohto swore viciously. He’d read the Army of Shiloh’s after-battle reports, or as much of those reports as he’d been able to get his hands on, at any rate. That had to be one of the heretics’ rockets, and if it was, when it burst, it was going to—
Then another rocket howled heavenward, this time from starboard, well to the east and downwind of Tide’s position. They soared upward, arcing toward one another, dazzling the eye, killing any night vision. And then they burst in rapid succession, and the pitiless, eye-tearing light of the heretics’ flares blazed down from above.
* * *
Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht’s slitted eyes glowed in the parachute flares’ brilliant illumination. The first rocket had come from Destiny; the second was from HMS Intrepid, one of the ICN’s schooners. Intrepid’s skipper wasn’t exactly where he was supposed to be—not surprisingly, given that the precise location of the Dohlaran convoy had been impossible to predict when his ship was sent off—but he was close enough. He’d seen Destiny’s rocket launch and fired his own promptly, hopefully after taking due precautions to avoid setting his ship’s sails alight with its exhaust. Now it burst in splendor, stripping away the darkness and telling the Dohlarans there were enemies to the east of them, as well.