Given the size of the armies the Temple Loyalists were prepared to hurl against Siddarmark, even that massive load of weapons was entirely too little for anyone’s peace of mind. Merlin felt certain any Charisian army would demolish any opponent, at least the first time they met. Given time to digest the lessons, though, the Army of God and its secular allies would learn to use their own weapons more effectively, and it wouldn’t be long before they acquired specimens of the Mahndrayn. They might be unable to match its percussion cap ignition, but even a flintlock breech-loader would be far more dangerous than a muzzle-loader. And enough smoothbore artillery would be able to inflict far worse casualties than Merlin wanted to think about.
And the bastards will probably improve faster than we will, he thought grimly. It’s always that way, unless you’re up against idiots. The side with the weaker doctrine and the poorer weapons learns more from its mistakes than the other side learns from doing what it already knows how to do right. And the Republic’s just too frigging big and there are too damned many armies coming at us for us to even daydream about winning a decision on the battlefield this year. Or even the next, probably. We’re simply not going to have a high enough ratio of force to space, and the best we’re going to manage will be to keep from losing any more ground … if that.
He decided that thought was sufficiently depressing to keep to himself.
“At least Ruhsail and Kynt are on their way,” he said instead, and Rock Point grunted far more cheerfully.
Eastshare and Green Valley had embarked the first three infantry brigades of the Charisian Expeditionary Force from Ramsgate Bay. The brigades—twenty-six thousand infantry, with their attached artillery and engineering support—had made the march in even better shape than Merlin had hoped, although their uniforms were already rather the worse for wear. The men and, just as importantly, the draft animals were well fed and generally healthy, however, and Eastshare had been careful to allocate space aboard ship for the draft dragons and horses he’d need when he landed. He hadn’t required any SNARCs to know the Republic’s supply of draft animals of all sorts must have been devastated, and he’d also arranged, on his own authority, for massive shipments of Chisholmian grain and potatoes to follow him to Siddarmark. Chisholm had been too far away to contribute significantly to the emergency food lift over the winter, which meant Sharleyan’s kingdom still had at least some surplus to provide to the war effort, and he was bringing as much of it with him as he could.
“They should reach North Bay by the last five-day in June,” the high admiral said. “And we’ll be picking up the rest of the Expeditionary Force about the same time. As soon as I can turn the shipping around, I’ll be sending it off to Cherayth and Port Royal to pick up the next two corps, but they’re going to be a lot slower arriving.”
“All we can do is all we can do,” Merlin replied philosophically. “And eighty thousand men’s nothing to sneer at, either. Especially not eighty thousand men Eastshare and Kynt have trained.”
“Not to mention your having had a little something to do with that yourself, eh?” Rock Point shot back with a grin.
“We also serve who stand and train. And it’s probably just as well it’s going to take longer to get the rest of the troops loaded on shipboard. There’s a limit to how much food we can ship in. Hopefully, by the time the second wave reaches the Republic, this year’s crops’re going to be coming in.”
“Hopefully,” Rock Point agreed.
The eastern half of the Republic hadn’t truly realized just how dependent it had become on the western provinces’ productivity until that food supply was abruptly chopped off. Now eastern second-growth woodlot was being cleared; land that had lain fallow, in some cases for decades or even longer, was back under the plow; and carefully hoarded seed was going into the ground. By the standards of any mechanized society, Safeholdian agriculture was hideously labor-intensive; by the standards of most muscle-powered societies, it was incredibly productive, and Shan-wei’s genetically boosted food crops bore early and bountifully.
In the Harchong Empire, farming truly was as primitive as it had been on preindustrial Old Earth. Seed was sown broadcast, by hand; single-blade plows were the order of the day, despite the drawing power of the Safeholdian dragon; and human labor was so cheap landowners (despite their ostentatious orthodoxy and the books of Sondheim and Truscott) saw little need to invest in expensive draft animals when there were human backs to bear the load. Wheat, for example, was harvested by men with scythes and then threshed by more men with flails, with the result that it took four men a full day simply to reap a single acre. The greater productivity of Shan-wei’s modified crops, the better use of fertilizers, and an understanding of crop rotation still produced a substantially higher productivity per man-hour than, say, seventeenth-century Old Earth, despite such medieval methods, but the number of farmers required to support a single craftsman remained punishingly high. That was one of the primary contributing factors to the continued existence of not just serfdom but outright slavery in Harchong, where any overseer from an Imperial Roman latifundium would have felt right at home.
The Republic’s farmers were—or had been—more efficient. Without Harchong’s repressive social system workers were far more expensive, so landowners had always substituted horse and dragon power for human muscle power wherever possible. In a way, however, that meant the Sword of Schueler had hurt them even more badly. Because so many of those draft animals had been slaughtered for food—or simply starved—the new farms were badly handicapped by lack of animals to pull the multiblade plows and disk harrows. And Siddarmarkian agricultural equipment wasn’t as efficient as the latest Charisian designs, to begin with. Two men and a two-horse or one-dragon mechanical reaper could cut, rake, and bind about fifteen acres of wheat a day in the Republic, as compared to the sixty serfs who would have been required in Harchong. But the latest Charisian dragon-drawn combine let those same two men and a dragon harvest over twenty-five acres in a day … and simultaneously thresh the grain and bale the hay. That was, perhaps, the most dramatic single example of Charisian innovation in agriculture, but in the last forty years Old Charis had also begun to introduce animal-drawn machines to harvest potatoes, sugar cane, corn, and—especially since Merlin had introduced the cotton gin—cotton and cotton silk.
Siddarmark’s farmers were no fools, and some of them had begun importing the new Charisian designs as soon as they became available. Even so, they’d been twenty years behind Charis because the new equipment had been so expensive, even from Charisian manufactories, before the spate of innovations Ehdwyrd Howsmyn had spearheaded. They’d replaced their existing equipment only on an incremental basis as the old designs wore out and required replacement anyway … and then the Church’s embargo had put a serious crimp in the process. Worse, well over half the imported equipment had been purchased by farmers in the western provinces. The Sword of Schueler had deliberately targeted and destroyed large quantities of that equipment—after all, it had been produced by the hated, heretical, Shan-wei-worshiping Charisians, hadn’t it?—and virtually all of what hadn’t been destroyed was unavailable to the new eastern farms, anyway.
With so much of Charis’ productivity diverted to military ends, it was impossible for the Empire to provide the Republic with all it needed for its new farmland, but Cayleb and Sharleyan had sent what they could. And Ehdwyrd Howsmyn and several other ironmasters had sent teams of experts and plans for harrows, seed drills, plows, cultivators, and harvesters to Siddarmarkian foundries, while the tide of refugees had concentrated vast amounts of human muscle power in the east. The Republic would be short on the skilled farmers it needed—too many of them had gone over to the Temple Loyalists, been trapped behind rebel lines, or simply died—but if they got through this year, by the next, the eastern provinces would be capable of feeding not simply themselves but the armies fighting their enemies as well.
“Do you really think we’ll be able to free up enough manpower??
?? Rock Point asked, and Merlin, standing atop the Charisian embassy in Siddar City, shrugged.
“Pre-technic societies back on Old Earth had all they could do to put about three percent, maximum, of their population into military service. Actually, the numbers were even lower than that until they were into at least the early stages of industrialization. One of my Academy instructors told me the real reason Rome was able to conquer the entire ancient world was that it could support a surplus, a standing military force of eighty thousand men … and no one else could. An industrialized society, especially with mechanized agriculture, could get that up to about ten percent, even twelve. After the development of advanced technology, the percentage started dropping again, because the limiting factor was the cost of the weapons themselves and the training your troops had to have to use them properly. You just couldn’t afford to buy enough of them to put that much of your population in uniform … and they were so lethal you didn’t need that many warm bodies, anyway.
“We’re not going to manage anything like ten percent, even with all our new toys, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we could get as high as, say, six percent. For that matter, we might crack seven sometime in the next few years, if Ehdwyrd’s able to make his more optimistic deadlines on the other foundries and we get even more equipment into production. The other side’s not going to do anywhere near that well, Domynyk.”
“Maybe not, but the other side has eight hundred million warm bodies, give or take, and even with Siddarmark—all of Siddarmark on our side, which it isn’t—we’d have two hundred million. And that, I might point out, counts everybody in Zebediah and Corisande as being on ‘our’ side, which is another one of those questionable calculations. So, let me see here. If we can put six percent of two hundred million into uniform, we get—I’m not Rahzhyr, you understand, but I can do simple math—we get twelve million, which, admittedly, is an absolutely stupendous number. But if they get, say, four percent of eight hundred million, they end up with thirty-two million.” The high admiral smiled mirthlessly. “I think we’re going to need an even bigger technological edge than we’ve already got, Merlin.”
“By the time the numbers get anything like that, the Group of Four’s going to be history,” Merlin replied calmly. “And two hundred million of their total is from Harchong. How many of those serfs can they put into uniform without gutting that miserable excuse for an agricultural sector? For that matter, how many serfs can they give guns before they start ending up with a lot of dead Harchongian aristocrats? Which wouldn’t exactly break my mollycirc heart.”
“Mine, either,” Rock Point agreed. “Something to look forward to, isn’t it?”
“Despite what I just said, I’d really prefer to take down the Church without its going that far,” Merlin said much more somberly. “Peasant rebellions can be even uglier than religious wars, especially when the peasantry in question’s been as systematically abused for as long as the Harchongian serfs have. When you add that to a religious war, we could see the kind of carnage that turns an entire empire into a wasteland. Watching the Republic last winter was bad enough, Domynyk. I’d really rather not see thirty or forty percent of the most populous nation on Safehold murdered, starved, and dead from disease.”
“Point taken.” Rock Point grimaced. “Damn. I hate not being able to look forward to seeing those bigoted, holier-than-thou, decadent bastards get what they deserve. Thank you very much, Merlin. You’ve just wrecked my entire afternoon.”
“You’re welcome.” Merlin smiled out across the roofs of Siddar City.
“And speaking about people getting what they deserve,” Rock Point said, “what’s this business about assassinated vicars? I thought Bynzhamyn was supposed to be monitoring the take from the Temple Lands.”
“Just a fragment that caught my attention.” Merlin shrugged, wondering how Rock Point would have reacted if he’d told the high admiral whose attention that fragment had actually caught. “I know Bynzhamyn’s had his hands full since we lost Nahrmahn, so I’ve sort of been … skimming, I suppose. Especially in the areas Nahrmahn used to have primary responsibility for. It’s not really confirmed, either, you know—only a couple of sentences between two men getting into a carriage.”
“A couple of sentences from a conversation between a general officer of the Temple Guard and one of Clyntahn’s senior inquisitors, however,” Rock Point pointed out. “That may not be ‘confirmation’ as far as you’re concerned, Seijin Merlin, but it’s close enough to it for me to be going on with.”
“Agreed. And if someone has managed to assassinate ‘several’ vicars, it’s exactly the sort of thing Clyntahn would clamp an iron lid on. He wouldn’t want that sort of news getting out.”
“Then maybe we should make sure it does get out.”
“Not until we can confirm it actually happened. One of the things that’s made our propaganda effective is that we haven’t told any lies in the broadsheets Owl’s remotes keep tacking up. We haven’t had to—Clyntahn’s provided us with all of the real live atrocities we could ever need, damn him to hell.”
Merlin paused as he heard the raw, ugly hatred which had flowed into his own voice. He stood silent for a moment, then gave himself a shake.
“As I say,” he continued in a more normal tone, grateful to Rock Point for not mentioning the pause, “we haven’t had to invent anything to give our propaganda teeth. By this time, a lot of people even in the Temple Lands are beginning to figure that out, too. So the last thing we need to do is report vicars are being assassinated right and left and then have Clyntahn produce the supposedly dead vicars alive and well.”
“You know he’s going to claim they’re alive and well even if they’re deader than last five-day’s fish.”
“Yes, but I think that trick’s beginning to wear thin, at least among the more sophisticated. And let’s face it, psychological warfare on this kind of scale, when the other side has such an overpowering advantage at the outset, is going to take a while.”
“Umph.”
Rock Point glowered across the waters of Tellesberg harbor. He much preferred problems he could solve with a sword or a broadside, he admitted. Reeducation and the conversion of the enemy was more his older brother’s forte.
“All right. So we have to sit on that one a while longer. I’ll tell you, though, Merlin—if those two Owl overheard had it right and these mysterious deaths aren’t accidents—I know who could confirm it for you.”
“You’re thinking about Aivah?”
“Of course I am! Nobody has better contacts than her in the Temple Lands. Hell, at least a quarter of the time she hears things even Owl hasn’t snooped on! For that matter, if there really are bodies in the streets of Zion, I’ll bet you a hundred marks she’s the one who put them there.”
“I don’t think I’d take that bet on a bet.” Merlin grinned. “Clyntahn surprised her with the Sword of Schueler, and I’m pretty sure the Reformist groups she was nurturing back home have gone to ground. I hope they have, anyway, because she didn’t have anything like enough time to get them properly armed and organized. But that lady believes in as many strings to her bow as she can manage.”
“Damned right she does.” Rock Point smiled suddenly. “You know, it’s just occurred to me that unlike Maikel, I’ve never married. I never thought a sea officer had the time or the opportunity to raise a family properly, not to mention the chance he’d get himself killed at some absurd young age. But now that I’ve attained a certain degree of maturity and made a place for myself in the world, perhaps it’s time I rectified that oversight. Do you think Madam Pahrsahn might be open to a respectfully phrased proposal of marriage?”
“I think if she did marry you, you’d get exactly what you deserve,” Merlin said repressively.
“Really?” Rock Point cocked his head. “Surely someone of her sophistication and worldly knowledge would appreciate the wonderful matrimonial prize I’d make.”
“I have to go meet with Cayleb and Stoh
nar now,” Merlin told him, heading for the roof stair, “so I’ll just leave you with one final thought where this entire notion of yours is concerned.”
“And that thought is?” the high admiral inquired when he paused.
“And that thought,” Merlin said, starting down the stairs, “is that you might want to remember that the woman you’re talking about has had at least eleven would-be assassins that I know of dropped into North Bay with large rocks tied to their ankles.” He smiled sweetly. “Sailor or not, I don’t think you’d float any better than they did.”
.XI.
The Delthak Works, Barony of High Rock, Kingdom of Old Charis, Empire of Charis
“Excuse me, Master Howsmyn. Might I have a few minutes of your time?”
Ehdwyrd Howsmyn glanced up from his clicking abacus and tried not to look irritated. It wasn’t easy, under the circumstances. Iron output in his mines was climbing, but not rapidly enough, and one of his major coke ovens had to be torn down and completely rebuilt, which was going to put yet another kink in his production. He was quite possibly the wealthiest single man in the entire Charisian Empire, which meant his was almost certainly the biggest single secular fortune in the world, and money was running like water as he tried to juggle one emergency against another.
It was fortunate, he sometimes thought, that his wife Zhain was willing to put up with being married to the fastest-running hamster in that self-same world.