"Well, what I've been wondering about is this thing Zherneau called a 'NEAT' in his journal. He said Shan-wei used it to reeducate him after Langhorne and Bédard had erased all of his earlier memories."
He paused, and Merlin nodded.
"And did 'Nimue' have one of the things—whatever it is—in her 'cave'?" the emperor asked.
"As a matter of fact, she did—I mean, I do," Merlin said.
"Well, I got the impression from his journal that they were capable of teaching someone an enormous amount in a very short time. So I've been wondering if it wouldn't make sense for us to use one of those machines to 'educate' some of the rest of us, just in case anything untoward were to happen to you."
"Actually, I think that would be a splendid idea, especially where you, Maikel, and Rahzhyr are concerned. Unfortunately, we can't."
"Why not?"
"Because 'NEAT' is an acronym, which stands for 'Neural Education and Training,' " Merlin said. All of his Safeholdian listeners looked blank, and he raised his right hand, holding it cupped before him as if to contain something.
"What that means is that it directly interfaces—connects with—the human neural system. Your nerves and brain. It's rather like the technology Nimue used to record her personality and her memories when she uploaded them to me."
It felt more than a little peculiar to be having this conversation, Merlin reflected. On the other hand, it probably would have felt equally peculiar to have held it with anyone from Terra. Not least because of the fact that he was so far past the mandated ten-day legal maximum which had been permitted under Federation law for a PICA to operate in autonomous mode.
"The problem is that for a NEAT to interface with a human being, the human being has to have the necessary implants." They looked even blanker, and he sighed. "Think of it as . . . the fitting a water hose screws into aboard one of the water hoys the harbormaster uses to refill a ship's water tanks. It's a very, very tiny . . . mechanism, for want of a better word, that has to be surgically implanted into someone before they can connect to a NEAT. Shan-wei was able to reeducate Zherneau and the others because all of the Adams' and 'Eves' had already received their implants. Everyone on Old Earth received them shortly after birth. No one here on Safehold has them, though. So without something to attach the 'hose' to, I can't just pour knowledge into your heads."
"I'm extremely sorry to hear that," Mahklyn said. Merlin glanced at him, and the doctor chuckled a bit harshly. "Reading over the texts you've had copied for me is exciting enough, Merlin. Having the same knowledge 'magically' made available to me would be even more marvelous. And it would save so much time, too."
Merlin chuckled. Mahklyn was in the process of completely revolutionizing Safeholdian mathematics. It would be some time yet before he was prepared to publish, because at the moment he was busy reading the works not only of Newton, but of several of Newton's contemporaries—and successors—for himself. Brilliant as he undoubtedly was, that was a huge amount of theory and information to soak up, and the task of translating it into his own words, so that it was obviously a native Safeholdian development, and not something which came from the "dark knowledge of Shan-wei" was likely to take the entire remainder of his life . . . and then some. His discomfort at passing off the gigantic work of others as his own was manifest, but at least he seemed to have accepted that he had no choice.
"I don't doubt that it would," Merlin said now. "Unfortunately, we can't do it."
"Well, there it is," Cayleb said philosophically. All of the others looked at him, and he smiled crookedly. "Three strikes, and out," he said.
"I don't think that's a completely fair way to look at things, Cayleb," Staynair said mildly. "None of them were really strikes, you know."
"You can call them whatever you like, Maikel. For me, they were strikes. On the other hand," Cayleb shoved himself up out of his chair, "that's not necessarily a terrible thing. After all, if I've just struck out here, then it's only reasonable for me to head off to the showers. And," he smiled wickedly, "to bed. If I can't tell Sharleyan everything I'd like to tell her, I can at least make it obvious to her just how much I'm going to miss her while I'm away."
.IV.
Ferayd Sound,
Kingdom of Delferahk
They're what?"
Sir Vyk Lakyr jerked upright in his chair, staring at the very young officer on the far side of his desk. Lieutenant Cheryng had become a rather frequent visitor in Lakyr's office since the bloody August fiasco here in Ferayd, because he was in charge of Lakyr's clerks and message traffic. There'd been a lot more of that traffic over the last two and a half months, and very little of it had been pleasant. In fact, Lakyr was more than a little surprised that he was not only still in command of the Ferayd garrison, but that he'd actually been promoted when that garrison was reinforced by providing the gunners for its batteries. He wasn't certain if that meant King Zhames recognized that it hadn't been his fault, but he was certain that he might yet be dismissed if the Church demanded it. Which, given the fact that it was the Church's own bloodthirsty Inquisitors who had truly provoked the massacre, was still entirely possible.
It had become less probable, however, when the Church proclaimed its version of what had happened here. Lakyr didn't know whether he was more outraged or infuriated by the blatant lies, but one reason for his anger was that he couldn't quite shake a sense of gratitude, as well. By placing all of the blame on the Charisian victims, rather than on anyone—especially the Inquisition— here in Ferayd, it had diverted at least some of the heat from him, as well. What had astonished him, at least initially, was how many people living right here in Ferayd actually believed the Church's version. When he'd first realized that was the case, Lakyr had been forced to remind himself that it had all taken place in the middle of the night, and that the first thing anyone in Ferayd—outside his own units and the Inquisition—had known about it was the sudden eruption of cannon fire in the harbor.
But if he'd understood Lieutenant Cheryng correctly, everyone involved was about to get a painful demonstration of the ancient principle that, for good or ill, all actions had consequences.
"Major Fhairly says that at least fifteen Charisian galleons are standing in through the East Pass, Sir," the lieutenant repeated now, in response to his question. "He believes there are more of them than he's seen so far. Or rather, than he'd seen when he dispatched his message."
Lakyr's jaw clenched. Major Ahdym Fhairly commanded the defensive batteries on East Island, which covered the narrowest portion of East Pass, the easternmost of the three navigable passages into Ferayd Sound proper. But East Island was a hundred and thirty miles from Ferayd itself.
"How long did his message take to reach us?"
"Only about four hours, Sir. He sent his dispatch boat across to the mainland, and the semaphore chain transmitted it from there."
Only about four hours, Lakyr thought. I wonder if Fhairly is still alive?
"All right," he said aloud, "it'll take them at least fifteen or sixteen hours to get here, even after they clear the pass. That wouldn't put them off the harbor until after dark, and I doubt they're going to want to launch any significant attacks without enough light to see what they're doing."
He glanced up and paused as he saw Cheryng's expression.
"Yes, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, it's just— Well, what if they don't get past East Keep at all?"
The youngster sounded as if his feelings had been hurt by his commander's automatic assumption that Fhairly wouldn't manage to stop them, Lakyr thought. He started to reply sharply to the question, then reminded himself that he, too, had once been a young and inexperienced lieutenant.
"I'd have to say it's . . . unlikely Major Fhairly and his men will be able to stop them, Taiwyl," he said almost gently. "The Major's already reported fifteen galleons. That's at least seven hundred guns, if our reports on their ships' average armaments are accurate. Major Fhairly has only twe
nty-five. Admittedly, his are protected by stone parapets, but they also can't move. Not to mention the fact that at high tide—and from the timing of his message, the Charisians arranged their arrival to coincide with high tide—even at East Island, the navigable channel is almost six miles wide. His guns have a maximum range of only three miles under absolutely optimum conditions, and their chance of hitting anything at that distance is. . . remote. Unless they choose to engage him, he's not going to be able to do more than annoy them."
Cheryng looked surprised, although what Lakyr had just said ought to have been obvious to him. Then again, just looking at a map, it was easy to overlook the sheer width of the channel. Lakyr had often suspected that that was precisely what the people who'd authorized the construction of East Keep in the first place had done.
"And that," Lakyr continued grimly, "is why I feel confident we're going to be seeing the Charisian Navy right off the port sometime around dawn tomorrow. We've got until then to get ready to greet them."
* * * *
A fresh rumble of thunder washed over East Keep as the galleons sailing regally past pounded the batteries, and Major Fhairly spat out a muddy mouthful of rock dust.
"This is fucking useless, Sir!" his second-in-command shouted almost in his ear. "We're not even marking the bastards!"
That, Fhairly thought, wasn't entirely true. He was confident they'd managed to land at least a few hits of their own. But there couldn't have been very many of them, and there hadn't been any in the last hour or so.
It was the sheer number of guns they'd managed to cram aboard those ships. That, and their obscene rate of fire. Every single one of those galleons mounted more guns than his entire battery in each broadside, and every single one of those guns fired four or five times as rapidly as his did . . . and clearly threw a heavier shot when they did fire. They'd started out using round shot, but as their fire had plowed into and around his guns' embrasures and his own artillerists' fire had begun to slacken, they'd come in closer until they were sweeping his positions with grapeshot from barely three hundred yards out as they sailed past. In fact, three of the bastards had actually shown their contempt for anything he might yet manage to do by coming in to less than two hundred yards and anchoring there. They'd anchored by the stern, with springs on their cables, turning themselves into stable, unmoving gun platforms, and they were pouring a devastatingly accurate storm of grapeshot across his position.
His subordinate was right, and he knew it. They'd already taken over thirty fatal casualties, and he had at least that many more who'd been wounded. That was twenty percent of his total effective force, and the men still in action weren't accomplishing a thing. The galleons anchored off the battery had Fhairly's guns totally suppressed, and the other war galleons— and the dozen or so transports with them—were making their way past the defensive works completely unhampered.
He poked his head up, looking over the parapet as the Charisian fleet sailed by. He didn't recognize the standard they flew, but from the colors, it had to be the flag of the new "Charisian Empire" he'd been hearing rumors about. If it was, the new "Imperial Navy" didn't seem to have gotten any less capable than the "Royal Navy" had been.
Had he not been covered with the rock dust blasted from the walls of his own fortress and half-deafened by the merciless bellowing of artillery, he might have had more appreciation of the martial spectacle in which he had become an unwilling participant. The morning sky was a perfect blue dome, unmarked by a single cloud, and the blue waters of East Pass— fourteen miles wide, at this point, although the navigable channel was much narrower—sparkled in the bright morning sunlight. But not everywhere.
A forest of masts and sails, of tarred ratlines, of standards and signal flags, moved majestically up the channel under topsails and headsails alone. The war galleons were very different from their transport consorts. They were unnaturally low to the water, their hulls a stark black, relieved only by the white strakes along their gun ports. There was none of the gilding, the elaborate carving, and the brave paint of proper warships, but he supposed they didn't really need any of that. Not when those gun ports were open and belching steady flame and destruction at his men.
The more brightly painted merchant ships which obviously had been pressed into service as troop transports made a striking contrast, and even through the blanket of smoke and dust enshrouding East Keep, he could see the blue tunics of Charisian Marines lining the transports' sides to watch the spectacle as the walls of gunsmoke erupted from the warships' sides with such deadly, steady rapidity.
He looked at it all for perhaps one minute, then ducked back into cover, put his back against the inner face of the parapet, and looked at his second-in-command once more.
"You're right," he grated. The words cost him physical pain much worse than the cut a flying fragment of stone had opened across the side of his head at the very start of the engagement. "Tell the men to cease fire and get under cover. Then lower the standard."
* * * *
"Signal from Destiny, Sir."
Sir Domynyk Staynair, Baron Rock Point, looked up from his conversation with his flag captain.
"Yes, Styvyn?"
"East Keep has surrendered, Sir," Lieutenant Erayksyn said. "The Marines have gone ashore and taken the garrison into custody. Captain Yairley reports that Major Zheffyr's men have secured the battery and are preparing its demolition."
"Excellent news, Styvyn!" Rock Point smiled broadly, then glanced back at Captain Darys. "Yairley seems to be developing rather a talent for this sort of thing, doesn't he, Tym?"
"Yes, My Lord, he does."
Darys smiled back. He and Rock Point had both known Dunkyn Yairley since he was a midshipman. They were perfectly well aware of the occasional spasms of self-doubt he experienced . . . and also of the way that he somehow invariably managed to get the job done, anyway.
"If he keeps this up, I'm afraid we're going to have to go ahead and promote him to commodore," Rock Point continued. "Even if that does mean he'll have to give up those enjoyable boating excursions of his."
This time Darys chuckled out loud, but Rock Point's expression sobered as he turned back to Lieutenant Erayksyn.
"A signal to Destiny, Styvyn."
"Yes, Sir?"
"Well done. Chihiro 7:23."
"Aye, aye, Sir," Erayksyn acknowledged.
"Very well, Styvyn. Run along and send it." Rock Point made shooing motions with both hands, and the lieutenant headed back towards the signal party.
"Chihiro seven, Sir?" Darys said, raising one eyebrow, and Rock Point smiled rather more grimly.
"It seemed appropriate, somehow," he said.
* * * *
Captain Sir Dunkyn Yairley read the brief dispatch without comment, then handed it back to the signals midshipman.
"Thank you, Master Aplyn-Ahrmahk," he said, and turned to gaze out over the rail, with his hands clasped behind him, while the words of the verse from the Writ ran through his memory. "And Holy Langhorne said unto him, 'Surely, God will give over His enemies to the destiny prepared for those who serve corruption, to be conquered and humbled for their sins, and to be bound hand and foot and sent into captivity by the just.' "
I suppose he means it as a compliment based on the ship's name, he thought. But it's more than that, too. And given what happened in Ferayd, it's certainly an appropriate choice of text.
He thought for another few moments, then turned back from the rail and beckoned the youthful Duke Darcos back to him.
"Signal to the flagship," he said. "Langhorne 23:7."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
The youngster grinned at him, obviously pleased with his choice of scripture. Then he hurried back over to make the indicated signal, and Yairley's smile was thin as he gazed at the battery where his landing parties were busy. The Delferahkans who had manned the guns, wounded and unwounded alike, had been removed to safety at the far side of East Island. Then the guns had been
loaded with quintuple charges and four round shot each, and quick match had been laid from gun to gun. Another length of quick match had been laid into the magazine itself Both of them branched from the same length of slow match, which had been cut to give the last boat time to get clear after it was lit. The overcharged guns would go off first, almost certainly splitting their breeches and making them useless for anything except scrap. Then the powder magazine would explode with sufficient force to reduce East Keep itself to a heap of rubble. When the smoke cleared, East Island would be home to nothing but wreckage.
Or, as his chosen verse from The Book of Langhorne said, "The inheritance of the wicked is the whirlwind, and I will cast down all the works and strong places of those who would oppress the people of God."
* * * *
Sir Vyk Lakyr climbed down off his horse and watched the groom lead it away.
I really ought to be in bed, he reflected. The one thing I know I'm going to need is rest. Unfortunately, his lips twitched in a humorless smile, sleep is also the one thing I know isn't going to happen.
Actually, he thought as he turned and headed into his office in the city's citadel, that wasn't the one thing he knew was going to happen. Reports had come in over the course of the day as lookouts spotted the steadily moving sails drawing inexorably closer to Ferayd. The semaphore system had kept Lakyr informed of that implacable approach, although that was a mixed blessing. It hadn't done a great deal to inspire peace of mind, and he was also aware that his lookouts hadn't seen anything the Charisians hadn't chosen to let them see. Once they had cleared East Pass, they hadn't had to pass close enough for any shore-bound lookout to see and report them. For that matter, most of the semaphore posts themselves were effectively defenseless against naval landing parties. The Charisians could have cut the signal chain at any of several points . . . if they'd chosen to.
The only question in Lakyr's mind was why any of them had allowed themselves to be seen. He supposed it might be simple arrogance, but somehow he doubted that.