"Your Majesty," he said finally, his eyes still on the galleons anchored so far below them, "I don't know. I have to admit, the Emperor's a better man— a better husband for you—than I'd ever truly hoped you'd find. It's good you've found someone I think you can actually love, and who can love you back." He looked at her last. "It's not many a king or a queen who can say that, when all's said and done. But whether or not this 'Empire of Charis' is a good idea or a bad idea . . . That's more than I can say."
"It was only a matter of time, you know, Edwyrd," she said softly. It was her turn to turn back to the anchorage, her eyes unfocused as they stared into the blue distance of Howell Bay, stretching limitlessly to the diamond-hard horizon beyond the harbor breakwater. "Whatever I wanted, whatever I might have preferred, the day was coming when I would have had no choice but to defy the Council of Vicars on my own. I'd always been afraid of that. When Clyntahn and the rest of the Group of Four decided to destroy Charis, and to use us to do it, I knew my fears had been justified."
Seahamper folded his hands behind him in a "parade rest" stance, looking at her sword-straight spine.
"And then, somehow, Charis survived. Not just survived, but devastated the fleets sent against her . . . including my own. And while I was still wondering what I was supposed to do, how Chisholm and everything I cared for might somehow find a way to survive, Cayleb proposed."
She shook her head, breathing deep of the tropical air. To her northern sensibilities, Charis was often swelteringly hot, and the sunlight had to be experienced to be believed. She was glad the healers had advised her to be careful about exposing herself to it; one or two members of her party, including Mairah Lywkys, who'd been less cautious had experienced agonizing sunburns, as a result.
But those things were as much a part of the exotic beauty with which Cayleb's kingdom had entranced her as the year-round fresh fruit, the coconuts, the rich and varied cuisine, and the spectacular forests crawling up the flanks of the Charisian Mountains like tropical green fur. It was all so different from anything she'd grown up with, like some sort of magical fairyland, and yet there were so many similarities between Charisians and her own Chisholmians. Differences, too, of course. Perhaps even more of them than there were similarities. But if the differences were more numerous, the similarities were vastly more important, because under the skin, where their hearts and souls lived, they were so much alike.
"Your Majesty, the Duke doesn't approve," Seahamper said very quietly as Sharleyan's silence stretched out, and she drew a deep, sad breath.
"No, he doesn't," she admitted.
Halbrook Hollow had made his ongoing opposition to—and resentment of—her marriage to Cayleb abundantly clear. Not publicly, perhaps. Even the queen's—or empress'—uncle had to be careful about challenging her policies in public, and however much he disapproved, he would never have permitted himself to show open disagreement, for a whole host of reasons. But Sharleyan knew. So did most of her advisers, and while he might not have voiced open disagreement, his attitude made it abundantly clear that his fundamental sympathies lay with the Temple Loyalists, not the Church of Charis. That much was becoming unhappily apparent to almost everyone.
Including Cayleb, she thought sadly. Her husband had never explicitly mentioned her uncle's feelings, but the very way he hadn't mentioned them told someone as perceptive as Sharleyan a great deal.
"He's not the only one, either," Seahamper said, finally permitting himself to actually voice at least a part of what concerned him. "I'm no lord, Your Majesty, nor likely to be one. God knows, I've never even wanted to be an officer! But I've guarded your back since you were a girl, and maybe I've learned a thing or two along the way, whether I wanted to or not. And there are people in Chisholm who don't like this marriage, this new 'Empire,' one bit. And they won't like it, wherever it goes."
"I know there are." She folded her arms under her breasts and turned back to him. "More of them in the nobility than among the commoners, I think, though."
"With all due respect, Your Majesty, it's the nobility that worries me most," Seahamper said frankly.
"And rightly so, I suppose. Goodness knows we're a lot more likely to see scheming nobles than any sort of spontaneous popular rebellion. Against the Crown, at least. But even if Chisholmians aren't as 'uppity' as Charisians— yet!—they're still a lot less hesitant about making their feelings felt than the subjects of a lot of other kingdoms. That's something Uncle Byrtrym himself helped the nobility learn it has to keep in mind."
Seahamper nodded slowly, although his expression was still worried. She had a point. The common folk of Chisholm had taken their "girl queen" to their hearts when her father died. The fact that Queen Mother Alahnah had been enormously popular hadn't hurt, of course, but it had been the dauntless courage they'd sensed in the "mere slip of a girl" upon whom the crown had so unexpectedly and suddenly descended which had truly won them. And the magic had never faded. Even now, when he knew so many of them cherished reservations about her open defiance of the Church, that deep reservoir of love had carried them with her.
But even the ocean has a bottom, he told himself, trying to keep the worry he felt out of his expression.
"I'm just. . . not happy about being away from home so long, Your Majesty," he said.
"What? No fear of fanatical Charisian assassins, loyal to the Church?" she teased.
"As to that, I've fewer worries in that regard than I had before we arrived, and that's no lie." He shook his head, smiling ruefully. "I'll confess it, Your Majesty. I don't know how you do it, but you've got the Charisians eating out of your hand, too!"
"Nonsense." It was her turn to shake her head, and she did, rather more forcefully than he had. "Oh, I won't deny they've taken me to their hearts, but that has less to do with me than it does with Cayleb, I think. They truly love him, you know. I think they'd have been prepared to welcome anyone if they thought she'd make him happy."
"Aye?" Seahamper quirked one sardonic eyebrow. "And the fact that the beautiful young sovereign queen of another kingdom, thousands of miles away, chose to make their quarrel with the Church hers had nothing to do with it?"
"I didn't say that."
"No, you didn't," Seahamper snorted. "Still and all, I'm less anxious than I was, and that's a fact. Of course, it doesn't hurt any that the Royal—I mean Imperial—Guard knows exactly how unholy a disaster it would be for Charis if they let anything happen to you! I don't think your folk back home would take that kindly, at all."
"No, I don't imagine they would," she agreed with a quirky little smile.
"And with good reason," Seahamper growled, his expression turning sober once again. Then he cocked his head. "Still," he conceded, "I'll not deny I was relieved once I got their measure."
"You're admitting you're impressed by someone else's armsmen?" She stepped back, leaning dramatically against the battlements for support as she pressed one hand to her heart, her eyes wide, and despite himself, he chuckled. But he also shook his head reprovingly at her.
"It's no laughing matter, Your Majesty, and well you know it. And if you didn't, Baron Green Mountain does! Would you like to hear what the Baron had to say to me before we left for Tellesberg?"
"Actually, no." She grimaced. "I expect he said a lot of the same things to me, if not quite so forcefully. Although, you know, the real reason he was so . . . cranky was my decision to leave him home in Cherayth."
" 'Cranky,' was he, Your Majesty?" Seahamper snorted again.
"Among other things. But he also admitted I was right, finally. I had to leave him to keep an eye on things."
"What you mean, Your Majesty," Seahamper said a bit grimly, "is that he's the only man you can trust out of your sight for four or five months at a time."
"Well, yes," Sharleyan acknowledged.
"I think that's what worries me most, Your Majesty," Seahamper said frankly. "I'm not truly concerned for your safety here in Charis. If I'd been inclined to stay that
way, Captain Athrawes would've cured me by now. That man's even more impressive than the tales about him, in some ways. But I am worried about what's happening in Chisholm while we're here."
"To be honest, that's my worst concern, as well." She glanced back out across the harbor. "But it's a chance we have to take, and at least I have mother and Mahrak to manage things for me while I'm in Charis. And, to be honest, I think Cayleb is right. One of us has to be the first to spend time in the other's kingdom, and given the decisions that have to be made—and the fact that even the most dull-witted nobleman in Cherayth must know that at this moment Charis is the military linchpin—it has to be me in Charis, and not him in Chisholm."
"I know that, Your Majesty." He surprised her just a bit by sweeping her a bow. "I only hope you're right about the Baron's ability to juggle all the dragon's eggs we left behind."
"So do I, Edwyrd," she said softly, her eyes once again on the anchored galleons so far below. "So do I."
* * * *
"May I have a moment, Merlin?"
Merlin turned at the question and found himself facing Commodore Seamount. The rather portly officer—in some ways, Merlin had decided, Seamount reminded him of Prince Nahrmahn—had a fat folder under his left arm and the right sleeve of his uniform tunic was thickly smudged with chalk dust, a sure sign he'd been in his office above the Citadel's main powder magazine scrawling diagrams, questions, and notes on its slate-covered walls.
"Of course, My Lord." Merlin bowed slightly, and Seamount snorted.
"There's no one else watching us," he pointed out. Merlin straightened and arched one eyebrow, and Seamount shrugged. "I appreciate the courtesy, Seijin Merlin, but don't you and I have better things to do with our time than waste it bowing and scraping?"
"Courtesy, My Lord, is never wasted," Merlin replied a bit obliquely.
"Smoothly put, Seijin" Seamount chuckled. Merlin gazed at him for a moment longer, then gave up.
"Very well, My Lord. What is it I can do for you today?"
"That's better!" Seamount grinned, then pulled the folder out from under his arm and waved it in the general direction of Merlin's nose.
"I take it there's something inside the folder?" Merlin asked politely.
"Yes, there is. These are my latest notes on the artillery project."
"I see." Merlin's lips twitched, and he tugged at his waxed mustachio. "Ah, just which artillery project would that be, My Lord?"
"All of them!" Seamount said impatiently, and Merlin shook his head.
The official reason for Cayleb and Sharleyan's visit to Helen Island was to sit down with Bryahn Lock Island, General Chermyn, their senior officers, and their staffs to finalize their plans for the invasion of Corisande and officially set that project in motion. Or, rather, to discuss the changes those plans would require in the wake of the Ferayd Massacre, as it was already coming to be known. They wouldn't be boarding any troops for quite some time, after the way Admiral Rock Point's punitive expedition had been given priority over everything else, and in some ways that was a good thing. It gave them more time to deal with the inevitable last-minute snafus, at any rate.
The real reason for the trip to Helen, though, in a lot of ways, was that Sharleyan had wanted to see the place where so many of the innovations which had spelled Charis' survival had been hatched. And then, of course, there'd been the fact that Cayleb was never shy about seizing upon any opportunity to get out of the palace.
The actual meetings with Lock Island, Chermyn, and their officers had gone more smoothly than Merlin had allowed himself to hope they might. No one in Charis (or anywhere else on Safehold) had ever attempted to project a fifty thousand-man invasion army across thousands upon thousands of miles of seawater. On the other hand, the Royal Charisian Navy had amassed a vast amount of experience when it came to handling purely naval logistics. The unavoidable delay imposed by Ferayd had helped, as well. It had not only given them more time to finish building the invasion force's weapons—from flintlock rifles, to breastplates, to saddles and bridles, to Seamount's field artillery—but had given the invasion planners additional time to go over their numbers again and again (using the new Arabic numerals and abacuses Merlin had introduced by way of the Royal College). The result was that no military operation in which Nimue Alban had ever been involved—including Operation Ark—had been more thoroughly planned out.
That doesn't guarantee the plans will work of course, he reflected. But at least if they don't, it won't be because there wasn't time to dot all the i's and cross all the t's!
Because of that, this particular set of meetings had been almost a formality, in many ways. But they'd been a useful formality, especially when it came to bringing Sharleyan fully up to speed. That, alone, would have made the trip thoroughly worthwhile in Merlin's opinion.
And I wish the Brethren would get off their collective . . . dime and decide we can bring her fully inside! Damn it, the woman's even smarter than I thought she was! We need her brains, and we need her insight, and we need them now, not four or five damn years from now!
No sign of his frustration was allowed to touch his expression, and he reminded himself—again—that Sharleyan had been Empress of Charis for less than a full month. It was hard to remember sometimes, given how completely she'd entered into the planning and projects Cayleb had already set into motion. Several of her suggestions, especially on the diplomatic front, had constituted major improvements, and Cayleb had discovered that she was probably the best sounding board he'd ever had. Which, of course, only increased his own frustration with the Brethren of Saint Zherneau's caution.
I'd say with their glacial caution, except that no one in Charis has ever actually seen a glacier, Merlin thought tartly, then gave himself a mental shake and returned his focus to Seamount.
"All of them' takes in a fair amount of ground, My Lord," he pointed out. "Could we possibly be a bit more specific?"
"Well, all right," Seamount said. "Do you want to discuss them here in the hallway, or would you care to step into my office?"
* * * *
The walls of Seamount's office were, indeed, covered with fresh diagrams, Merlin observed. Several of them were quite interesting. It was obvious Seamount had been concentrating on ways to devise explosive shells for smoothbores, which made sense, given the number of smoothbore artillery pieces already in service. Not to mention the minor fact that there were no rifled artillery pieces in service anywhere in the world.
"The biggest problem with the explosive shot—I'm thinking about calling them 'shells,' since they're basically hollow shells filled with gunpowder—is getting them to explode when and where they're supposed to," the baron said.
"Yes?" Merlin encouraged in a neutral tone carefully selected to tease Seamount. The Charisian knew it, too, and his eyes gleamed.
"Well, there's this minor difficulty," he said. "Put most simply, it needs a fuse. One possibility, I suppose, would be to use a short-barreled weapon— something even shorter than a carronade, which could probably lob the shells the same way a catapult lobs stones. Anyway, something with a barrel short enough that one of the gunners could reach down it and light the fuse on the shell after it's loaded into the gun. Of course, I imagine most people would be a little unhappy standing around with a lit fuse on a shell inside a gun which might choose that particular moment to misfire." The baron shook his head. "Waiting for the explosion could be just a little hard on the nerves, I suspect."
"I can see that," Merlin agreed, manfully resisting the powerful temptation to smile.
"I'd gotten that far," Seamount continued more seriously, "when it occurred to me that there was no need to light the fuse by hand if I could use the gun's muzzle flash to do the same job, so I started trying to come up with a fuse which could be 'self-igniting' and give a reasonably reliable and consistent burn time. I've tried slow match and quick match, and I've tried other approaches, as well. The one that seems to work best, at least in test
s, is a hollow wooden plug filled with fine-grained powder. We've finally managed to come up with a composition which actually burns at a predictable, reliable speed, and by using a fairly thin-walled plug, we can actually select for different burn times. We've discovered that if we mark the outside of the plug in increments and punch a hole through it so that the fuse's powder train ignites at a different point in the fuse channel, we can adjust the interval between firing and the shell's explosion with a surprising degree of accuracy."
In this case, Merlin knew, "we've" actually meant "I've," and he folded his arms as he allowed his own expression to match the Charisian's increased seriousness.
"I can see where that would have been difficult," he said. "From what you've already said, though, I suspect that isn't the real problem."
"No, it isn't," Seamount said with what Merlin recognized as massive restraint. "The problem, Seijin Merlin, is that it doesn't matter how reliably the fuse can be timed if the propelling charge keeps blowing the damned fuse into the shell and setting it off inside the gun!"
"Oh!" Merlin nodded, tugging on his mustache again. He frowned in obvious thought, although he wasn't thinking about exactly what Seamount might have thought he was. The difficulty lay less in solving Seamount's problem than in managing to avoid solving it too quickly.
"Let me see if I have this straight," he said, after several seconds. "You don't want the gunner to have to physically light the fuse on these 'shells' of yours for every shot, so you've developed one that the propelling charge's flash ignites. And from what you're saying, the fuse you've come up with lets you time things with a reasonably accurate reliability . . . when it works at all. But when the gunpowder behind the shell goes off, the fuse is a weak point in the shell wall and it goes off prematurely?"
"Basically, yes." Seamount shrugged. "For quite some time I wasn't certain whether the shell wall was fracturing around the fuse, or if the fuse itself was simply being blown bodily into the shell's interior. I suspected that it was the latter, but since no one's had any experience with this kind of projectile before, I couldn't rule out the possibility that the shells I'd designed simply had walls that were too thin to stand the shock of firing. There was no real way to tell from what was left after the shell exploded, so I tried firing a couple of hundred shells with solid plugs instead of fuses. The rate of premature detonations went down enormously, but they were still occurring, so I sat down and thought about it for while.