I'll just let you come across that little difficulty for yourself, My Lord, he thought dryly. I'm sure it will occur to you soon enough. It probably won't do all that much good, but I can at least pretend I don't have all of the answers. Besides, I want to see how you approach the problem. One thing I'm sure of—it'll be interesting.
"Don't worry, Merlin," Seamount continued, his eyes gleaming almost as if he'd just read Merlin's mind. "I promise to be good. But I'll be interested to see Howsmyn's reaction to 'my' suggestions about how to approach this. You realize you're about to set off another round of 'infernal innovation,' don't you?"
"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind," Merlin said with immense—and completely false—sincerity.
"Oh, of course it hadn't!" Seamount chuckled, shook his head, and turned back to his chalked notes. "I'm glad Father Paityr is back on board with Archbishop Maikel, because this is going to be at least as upsetting to certain people I could think of as the first batch of artillery improvements were."
Oh, I hope so, Sir Ahlfryd, Merlin thought, watching the commodore ponder his notes. I do hope so!
.II.
Galleon Raptor,
Southern Ocean
Larys Shaikyr, master after God of the galleon Raptor, looked away from his conversation with Hahl Urbahn, his first officer, as fresh cannon fire rumbled and crashed like Langhorne's own thunder. The schooner Slash Lizard was dashing down from windward once again, hammering away at the flagship of the convoy's escort, and Shaikyr shook his head in exasperation. The crippled galley had fallen well astern of the rest of the convoy, crawling on a handful of crippled oars while white water jetted from her pumps in clear proof of damage below the waterline.
"Signal Slash Lizard to break off action!" Shaikyr told his signal party sharply.
"Aye, Sir," the senior signalman acknowledged, and Shaikyr looked back at Urbahn.
"We can always finish him off later, assuming he doesn't just go ahead and sink on his own," he growled.
"Yes, Sir." Urbahn nodded, then grinned crookedly. "I think some of our skippers are beginning to forget how to think like privateers!"
"Then they'd best remember." Shaikyr shook his head. "I'm just as determined to carry out the King's—I mean, the Emperor's—instructions as the next man. But there's reason in all things, Hahl. And even if I wasn't worried about the money at all, wasting time attacking galleys that're already crippled is the best way I can think of to let the real prizes slip away!"
Urbahn nodded, and the two of them returned their contemplation to the galleons fleeing before them . . . and the three Delferahkan war galleys which were still more or less intact and trying desperately to cover the merchant ships' escape.
They're gutsy, those captains, Shaikyr acknowledged to himself as he glowered at the remaining galleys. They've already seen what happened to the rest of the escort, and they're still trying to hold us off.
Under the current relatively light wind conditions, those galleys could have shown most of the attacking Charisian privateers a clean pair of heels if they'd chosen to run for it. Some of the faster schooners, like Slash Lizard or Fist of Charis, probably would have been able to catch them anyway, but the bigger, slower galleons like Raptor could never have hoped to overtake them.
Fortunately, the Delferahkan galleons, which were what the privateers truly wanted, were substantially slower and less weatherly than Raptor or Shaikyr's other three galleons. With their old-fashioned sail plans and towering freeboards, they might as well have been sea anchors as far as the galleys were concerned. All the gallantry in the world couldn't have changed what was going to happen to that convoy, and the galleys' commanders had to know that, yet still they stayed stubbornly between the privateers and their prey.
War Hammer, the leading galleon of Shaikyr's "squadron," was close enough already to begin engaging the rearmost galley with her forward chasers. Another twenty or thirty minutes, and she'd be able to bring the galleons under fire, as well. And the schooners Windcrest and Sea Kiss had already overtaken the merchant ships, keeping well up to windward of the galley escorts and out of the reach of their broadside guns. Windcrest, in fact, was already slanting downward on a course to intercept the leading Delferahkan galleon, and there was nothing at all the galleys could do about it.
The panorama, Shaikyr reflected, would make a magnificent painting. Although he'd never had any formal training, he had a self-taught, private passion for canvas and oils, and a back corner of his mind was busy recording all the details for the future. The green of the ocean water, shading to a steadily deeper and darker cobalt as it stretched away towards the horizon. The high, white clouds drifting like infinitely tall, infinitely vast galleons across an even deeper sea of blue. Sunlight striking downward, flashing off the green and blue mirror of water, touching the dirty-white spurts of powder smoke, glinting on helmets, pikeheads, swords, and boarding axes. The complex patterns of weathered canvas, shrouds, and wind shadows, and the long spider-legs of the galleys stirring the sea to froth as the oarsmen pulled furiously. The sheer visual impact of moments like this touched something deep inside Larys Shaikyr.
But however spectacular the panorama might be, there were practical things to consider, as well, and he smiled with cold satisfaction as War Hammer's round shot began slamming into the lightly built galley. Even without his spyglass, he could see the galley's starboard oars flailing in sudden confusion as the Charisian fire began to rip across the ship's oardeck. The closer sound of the galleon's artillery swallowed up the distant thunder of Windcrest's guns, but the sudden billow of gunsmoke surging above the schooner told him she'd brought her target into at least extreme range, as well.
Or maybe not, he told himself. We don't want to break any more eggs than we have to, so she may just want to pointedly suggest that it's time to heave to before she does bring the bastards into range.
Frankly, that was just fine with Larys Shaikyr. He was as infuriated as anyone else over the Ferayd Massacre, but he was also a pragmatic businessman . . . and a fifteen-percent shareholder in Raptor. Vengeance for coldblooded murder was a fine thing, and he wouldn't pretend, even to himself, that it wasn't exactly what he wanted. But vengeance was already on its way to Ferayd, in the form of Admiral Rock Island and his fleet. It would arrive soon enough, and in the meantime, there were bills to pay, as well.
War Hammer's target was beginning to fall astern of her consorts as her oars floundered in greater and greater confusion. That was one of the problems with galleys, he reflected with grim satisfaction. Losing a sail or, even worse, a mast could have serious consequences for any galleon, but a galley under oars depended upon the synchronized, carefully controlled effort of literally hundreds of oarsmen. Aboard a ship like War Hammer's current prey, there might be four or five men on each oar, whereas one of the Charisian Navy's larger galleys would have had as many as ten men to each sweep, half of them facing aft and pushing while the other half faced forward and pulled. Keeping that many men working smoothly, as an integrated team, even under perfect conditions, could be a daunting task.
With five-inch round shot pitching in among the rowers, mangling them, sending knife-edged clouds of splinters swirling through them, splashing even unwounded men with the blood of someone who'd been pulling the same oar beside them only a heartbeat before, keeping the sweeps moving in any sort of organized fashion was simply out of the question.
More cannon thundered as Sea Kiss came down on the merchant ships in Windcrest's wake, and he bared his teeth as one of the galleons—which hadn't even been brought under threat of fire yet, as far as he could see—suddenly let her sheets fly, spilling the wind from her sails in token of surrender.
"I believe we're almost in range to give War Hammer a hand, Hahl," he observed.
"I believe you're right, Sir." Urbahn returned his thin smile and touched his left shoulder in salute. "I'll just go have a talk with the Gunner and bring that to his attention, shall I, Sir?"
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"I think that would be an excellent idea," Shaikyr agreed, and watched the first officer heading forward to where Raptor's gunner was fussing over the chase weapons on the galleon's foredeck.
Then he returned his attention to the convoy which was his prize. There were only six galleons in it, which meant he had enough privateers to chase each of them down and still have two left over to finish off the galleys. Normally, Shaikyr, like any prudent privateer, would have preferred to leave the galleys astern once they were too crippled to interfere with his operations. After all, galleys weren't worth very much these days. They didn't carry valuable cargoes, and no sane Charisian admiral would even contemplate adding a captured galley to his fleet. That meant the possibility of prize money would have been virtually nonexistent, and even Delferahkan artillery was likely to inflict at least some damage and—especially—casualties.
In this instance, however, he had every intention of finishing those galleys off—yes, and taking intense satisfaction in the doing. He would have been inclined to under any circumstances, after what had happened in Ferayd. The fact that Emperor Cayleb had pledged the resources of the Crown to support operations against Delferahk, and the fact that the Crown would be paying privateers "head money" for the crews of captured or destroyed warships, exactly the way it did to regular Navy crews, meant that inclination would actually show a profit. Of course, the privateers in question also had to accept the Crown's rules for awarding prize money. Under those rules, the ships which brought prizes in were entitled to only a fourth part of their actual value, with the remainder going to the Crown, but that wasn't entirely bad. More than one privateer had returned from a cruise with no prizes at all. Sometimes fortune simply deserted a hunter, after all, and game was beginning to become increasingly scarce for everyone. But as long as they were cruising in Delferahkan waters, the Crown would cover their operating expenses and at least a minimal lump sum payment to their ships' companies. Under those circumstances, the amount they did receive from the prize court's awards would be pure profit.
Which meant Shaikyr could do his patriotic duty punishing Delferahk rather than chasing after the normally richer prizes of Dohlaran or Tarotisian merchant shipping and still show Raptor's financial backers a profit. Not as great a one as they might have realized from the same number of Dohlaran prizes, but at least a reliable one.
Raptor's chasers began to bellow. The powder smoke rolled steadily downwind on the light breeze, and round shot began to seed the water around her target with white feathers.
Not much longer, friend, Shaikyr thought nastily. And you'd better be grateful we are sailing under Crown orders. I am, anyway. Because if I weren't, if it were up to me, there wouldn't be any prisoners. But the Emperor's a better man than I am, thank God. Which means I won't be facing God's justice someday with the blood of a massacre on my hands.
He took one more painter's look at sky, sun, water, and ships, then put that thought away and turned to his second officer.
"Stand to at the port battery," he said coldly. "We'll have some work for them in a few minutes, I believe."
* * * *
"Captain?"
Shaikyr looked up as Dunkyn Hyndyrs, Raptor's purser, appeared in the chart room doorway. The captain had been studying the local charts, considering where to take his hunting pack next, and he blinked against the bright sunlight framing the purser as he stood in the open door.
"Yes?"
"Captain, I think maybe you'd better come on deck."
"What?" Shaikyr straightened. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, Sir," Hyndyrs said in a very careful tone. "I'm just afraid things are about to get a little noisy, and I thought you'd prefer to be there when they do."
"Noisy?" Shaikyr's eyes were beginning to adjust to the brightness haloing Hyndyrs', and he frowned as the purser's expression registered. He looked, the captain thought just a bit uncharitably, like someone who'd swallowed a spider and wasn't entirely certain it was going to stay swallowed.
"What's going on, Dunkyn?"
"A boat from Windcrest just came alongside," Hyndyrs replied. "It brought a note from Captain Zherahk. Along with the bill of lading for one of the prizes."
"And?" Shaikyr growled a bit impatiently.
"And there's a reason those galleys were so stubborn, Sir," Hyndyrs told him. "The entire convoy was under charter to the Delferahkan crown. Four of the galleons were loaded mainly with naval stores for the Temple's shipbuilding project. Another one is carrying several hundred tons of copper and tin ingots, apparently for casting into artillery, also for their new fleet. I'm sure the Emperor and the Navy will be suitably glad to see all of those cargoes. But the sixth wasn't under charter to Delferahk, at all. Not really. It was under charter to the 'Knights of the Temple Lands.' "
Shaikyr's impatience disappeared abruptly, and he settled back on his heels.
"Number six wasn't carrying naval stores or copper and tin, Sir." Hyndyrs shook his head. "She's loaded with gold and silver bullion. I don't begin to know how much of it yet, but whatever I might estimate right now would almost certainly be low, I think. She was carrying over six months' worth of the Temple's payments to the shipyards building new galleys for the Church at Ferayd. And, on top of that, the Council of Vicars has apparently authorized the payment of subsidies to the ports which are losing the most money because they've been closed to our shipping. And, according to the galleon's skipper—who is not a happy man right this minute, Captain— there's also a goodly chunk of money which was destined to pay pensions to the survivors of the brave Delferahkans who were murdered by those nasty Charisians."
"Langhorne!" Shaikyr murmured. A prize like the one Hyndyrs was describing came along possibly once in a privateer's lifetime, and he felt the sudden tingle of wealth running along his nerves. But then his expression altered abruptly.
"Langhorne!" he repeated in a very different tone, and Hyndyrs chuckled harshly.
"Yes, Sir. That's one of the reasons I expect it to get noisy when I tell the men."
" 'Noisy' may not begin to describe it," Shaikyr said sourly as his own earlier thoughts came back to him. Raptor and the other ships operating with her were under Crown warrant. Which meant the Crown was going to pocket three-fourths of the treasure ship's value while the privateers who'd actually captured her got only a quarter to split among them.
You know, Larys, he told himself, it's amazing how much better that arrangement sounded to you an hour or so ago, isn't it?
"Well," he said finally, laying his dividers on the opened chart, "I suppose I'd better come." He detected a certain lack of enthusiasm in his own voice, and smiled crookedly at Hyndyrs. "The men aren't exactly likely to be singing loud hosannas when we remind them about the prize court, are they?"
"I'd say that was probably a fairly safe prediction, yes, Sir," Hyndyrs agreed.
"I don't really blame them," Shaikyr admitted. "On the other hand, from the way you've described things, even a quarter share of the total, distributed over every man and ship's boy, is still going to be at least four or five years' earnings for most of them."
"I realize that, Sir," Hyndyrs said, and smiled encouragingly. "You just go right on telling them that. I'm sure that by the time those ship's boys are, oh, fifty or sixty years old, they'll come to accept things without complaining."
.III.
Tellesberg Palace,
City of Tellesberg,
Kingdom of Charis
In many ways, Safeholdian music wasn't all that different from the music Nimue Alban had known during her biological life. In other ways, it was. . . weird.
Yes, definitely weird, Merlin thought, standing his post yet again to watch over the king—no, dummy, he reminded himself yet again, the Emperor—and his wife.
The familiar part included a whole host of stringed instruments from humanity's past: guitars, violins, cellos, violas, even balalaikas and (here in Charis, at least) banjos. Personall
y, Merlin could have done without the banjos just fine. Most of the traditional brasses and wind instruments were still around, as well, although a few new ones had been added. Or, Merlin suspected, perhaps it would be more accurate to say that some extremely old ones had been resurrected. After all, it was unlikely that the citizens of Safehold, in a mere eight and a half centuries, could have reproduced all of the musical variants humanity had managed on Terra in well over fifty thousand years. One of the instruments Merlin wasn't familiar with was a brass, its tube so long the marching variants required a second musician to help carry it, but which was played using the same tongue and breath control as the Old Earth bugle. There was another one which looked something like a French horn crossed with a tuba. Then there were woodwinds—the piccolos, flutes, and fifes—not to mention the piano, the pipe organs of the various churches and cathedrals, and even harpsichords. Percussion instruments were well represented, as well, with drums, cymbals, xylophones (especially in Chisholm), and everything in between.
And then there were the bagpipes. Several versions of them, actually, from the multi-pipe version with which Nimue had been familiar, all the way up to a decidedly peculiar confection which combined the bag of the traditional bagpipes with something very like a trombone.
But it wasn't so much the instruments themselves which struck Merlin as peculiar as it was the combinations of instruments Safeholdians favored. For example, Nimue Alban had never imagined a concerto written for guitar, banjo, fife, drums, and bagpipes. Merlin, unfortunately, no longer had to imagine it.