How firm a foundation

AUGUST, YEAR OF GOD 895

Royal Palace, City of Talkyra, Kingdom of Delferahk

“I could wish they’d just go ahead and get all of this settled,” King Zhames II grumbled across the dinner table.

The king’s kingdom, despite its respectable size, was not one of the great realms of Safehold. In fact, it was on the penurious side, which was one reason his own father had arranged his marriage to one of Hektor of Corisande’s cousins. King Styvyn had had hopes that the relatively wealthy island princedom would see its way to making investments in his longed-for project to turn the port city of Ferayd into the kernel for a Delferahkan merchant marine which, in alliance with that of Corisande, might actually have been capable of challenging Charis’ maritime dominance. Alas, it had never been any more than a hope-a dream, really-although Prince Fronz and, later, Hektor had been relatively generous in loans over the years. Not that Zhames had entertained any illusions that it had been out of the goodness of Hektor’s heart, whatever might have motivated his father. Hektor of Corisande had always invested his marks wisely, and it had been Zhames Olyvyr Rayno’s distant kinship to an up-and-coming bishop of the Order of Schueler which had been the true reason for Hektor’s generosity.

Not that Wyllym Rayno had ever done a damned thing for Delferahk, Zhames reflected grumpily. He’d been willing enough to use Zhames as a go-between to Hektor once or twice, and he’d helped arrange the remittance of the interest on a couple of the king’s more pressing loans from the Temple, but that was about it. And now there was this mess.

“Sooner or later it will all blow over, I’m sure, dear,” Queen Consort Hailyn said serenely from her own side of the table. The two of them dined alone together more often than not, less for any deep romantic reasons than because state dinners were expensive. At the moment, their three grown sons were elsewhere, no doubt entertaining themselves in some fashion of which a dutiful mother would not have approved. The queen consort had grown increasingly accustomed to that over the years. In fact, she’d grown accustomed to a great many things and taken most of them placidly in stride.

“Ha!” Zhames shook his head. Then, for added emphasis, he shook his finger across the table, as well. “Ha! You mark my words, Hailyn, this is going to get still worse before it gets better! And we’re already stuck in the middle of it, no thanks to dear, distant Cousin Wyllym!”

“Hush.”

Few things could disturb Queen Hailyn’s even-tempered world, but her husband’s occasional criticisms of Mother Church-and especially of the Inquisition-were among them. She looked around the dining room, then relaxed as she realized there’d been no servants to hear the injudicious remark.

“Saying things like that isn’t going to help, dear,” she said much more severely than she normally spoke to her royal spouse. “And I really wish you’d be a little more sparing with them. Especially”-she looked straight across the table-“these days.”

Zhames grimaced, but he didn’t protest, which was itself a sign of the times. Despite the distant nature of his relationship to the Archbishop of Chiang-wu, he’d never cherished many illusions about the inner workings of the vicarate. There’d been times when he’d been hard put to visualize exactly how those workings could serve the interests of God, but he’d been wise enough to keep his nose out of matters that were none of his affair.

Until, of course, his wife’s cousin dumped his two surviving children into Zhames’ lap and simultaneously dumped the king into the Temple’s business right up to his royal neck.

It had seemed like a situation with no downside when Hektor first requested asylum for his daughter and younger son. The request had come with promises of a very attractive subsidy in return for the king’s hospitality. And given the fact that Hektor had become the Temple’s anointed paladin in its struggle against the Charisian heretics, it had offered Zhames an opportunity to cement his relations with that dratted distant kinsman of his, as well. It wasn’t likely to make his relationship with Charis any worse, either, given that business in Ferayd. And in a worst-case situation (from Hektor’s perspective, that was) it would give Zhames physical control of the rightful ruler of Corisande. Best of all, he’d had absolutely no responsibility for getting the royal refugees to Talkyra; all he’d had to do was offer them reasonable quarters (or as close to it as the old-fashioned fortress of his “palace” permitted) if they succeeded in getting there.

Then Hektor managed to lose his war against Charis. And to get himself assassinated.

Suddenly Zhames found himself in the middle of what looked like turning into a nasty situation. On the one hand, he was forced to recognize-or at least deal with-Prince Daivyn’s Regency Council in Corisande despite the fact that it had signed a peace treaty with Cayleb and Sharleyan of Charis and sworn to abide by its terms. Vicar Zahmsyn, speaking as Chancellor Trynair, had made Mother Church’s position on the legitimacy of that council abundantly clear, but at least he’d recognized certain pragmatic constraints on Zhames’ position and stopped short of threatening the king for his “dealings” with the proscribed council. On the other hand, Vicar Zhaspahr, speaking as Grand Inquisitor Clyntahn, had made it equally abundantly clear Zhames dared not give any formal recognition to the Regency Council, which forced him to squirm through all sorts of convoluted hoops just figuring out how to phrase his correspondence with it. Yet, simultaneously, both Vicar Zahmsyn and Vicar Zhaspahr had informed him, speaking as Knights of the Temple Lands, that they very much desired for him to retain physical custody of young Daivyn for the foreseeable future.

Zhames often found himself wondering exactly why that was. Surely the boy would be safer in the Temple’s direct custody in Zion, where no Charisian assassin could get at him! And if the Temple intended someday to restore him to his father’s throne, then wouldn’t it have made more sense to see to it that he was trained up from childhood in a spirit of proper respect for (and obedience to) Mother Church in Mother Church’s own imperial city?

The contemplation of those questions had led him to certain unhappy conclusions. Indeed, to conclusions unhappy enough that he hadn’t shared them even with his wife.

“I’m just saying,” he said now, “that we’re in a sticky situation and this squabbling and bloodshed isn’t going to make it any better. Langhorne only knows how the Charisians are going to react when those prisoners Rahnyld captured get to Zion, but it’s not going to be pretty. We’ve had our own demonstration of that, haven’t we?”

His wife frowned the way she always did whenever someone alluded to the “Ferayd Massacre.” She’d never been happy about the part Delferahkan troops had played in the original incident, and despite what she’d said a moment ago, she’d had some tart words of her own for the Inquisition following the murders. The Empire of Charis’ reprisal against the city hadn’t made her one bit happier, although she recognized that the Charisians had actually been rather restrained in their response, however it had been reported by the Inquisition.

“We’re lucky they’ve been too busy elsewhere to go on raiding our coasts,” Zhames continued, “but that can always change, especially now that they’ve settled things with Tarot. Everything they had committed to blockading Gorjah is available for other enterprises now, you know. And leaving that completely aside, the more settled things get in Corisande, the more… awkward they’re likely to get for us here in Talkyra.”

It was the closest he’d yet come to broaching his suspicions about who’d really murdered Prince Hektor and his older son. From the flicker in Hailyn’s eyes she might have been entertaining a few of those same suspicions herself.

“This ‘Regency Council’ of young Daivyn’s is starting to sound far too conciliatory where Charis is concerned for my peace of mind,” he continued, deliberately steering the conversation to one side. “I’m not sure how much longer Vicar Zahmsyn’s going to go on allowing me to correspond with them, and what do we do about Daivyn then?” He shook his head. “The most likely outcome I can see is for the Temple to take him into its direct custody.”

Hailyn’s eyes widened and one hand rose to the base of her throat.

“Whatever else Daivyn and Irys may be, they’re my cousins,” she said, “and prince or not, Daivyn’s only a little boy, Zhames! He only turns eleven next five-day, and Irys isn’t even nineteen yet! They need family, especially after all they’ve already been through!”

“I know,” Zhames said more gently, “and I’m fond of them myself. But if the vicarate”-he saw her grimace slightly, proof both of them knew he was actually speaking about the Group of Four-“decide we’ve gotten too cozy with the Regency Council, and if they decide the Regency Council’s gotten too cozy with Charis, that’s exactly what they’re likely to do. And in the meantime, they’re more or less ordering me to go on corresponding with the Regency Council! And they’re insisting on receiving true copies of every document from the Regency Council to me or to Coris. So if anyone in Manchyr commits anything… indiscreet to writing, that’s likely to come home to roost here in Talkyra, as well!”

“Surely they realize that as well as you do, dear.”

“Is ‘they’ the Regency Council, Coris, or the vicarate?” Zhames inquired just a bit caustically, and her brief, unhappy smile acknowledged his point.

“Well, I suppose all we can do is the best we can do,” he continued. “I’d prefer not to’ve made an enemy out of Charis in the first place, but since it’s a little late to do anything about that, I think we’ll just concentrate on keeping our heads down and staying out of their line of fire. As far as Daivyn and Irys are concerned, we’re just going to have to go on playing it by ear, Hailyn. I don’t say I like it, and I don’t say I’ll be happy if the decision is made to take them out of our custody, but it’s not as if we’ll have a lot of choice if that happens.”

And, he added silently as his wife nodded unhappily, as much as I don’t wish them any ill fortune, it would still be a vast relief to see them somewhere else.

Somewhere where no one could possibly blame me for whatever happens to them.

“So what do we do with this one?” Sir Klymynt Halahdrom asked dourly.

“I presume we go ahead and deliver it to the boy,” Fahstair Lairmahn, Baron of Lakeland and first councilor of the Kingdom of Delferahk, replied. “Why? Does it contain anything dangerous?”

“Nothing except six of the biggest, nastiest-looking wyverns I’ve seen in a while,” Halahdrom replied. “I went through it pretty carefully, you can be sure, but I didn’t see anything else out of the ordinary about it.”

As the palace’s chief chamberlain, he’d seen his share of bizarre royal gifts over the years, and he’d seldom paid much attention to them, if the truth be told. That was no longer true, however, and he’d looked this one over closely.

“Wyverns?” Lakeland repeated, eyebrows arching. “All the way from Corisande?”

“All the way from Corisande,” Halahdrom confirmed. “According to the cover note, they’re a gift from Earl Anvil Rock for the boy’s birthday. Apparently he was just starting to fly his own wyverns for small game before his father packed him off to us.” The chamberlain chuckled. “Be a few years before he’s ready to fly any of these, though! The damned things are big enough to pick him up and fly away.”

Lakeland shook his head with a bemused smile. Worrying about the gifts someone might send a boy for his eleventh birthday wasn’t something which concerned most first councilors. Of course, most first councilors weren’t in Lakeland’s position. Bishop Executor Dynzail Vahsphar had made it abundantly clear that he was to be kept fully informed about anything which was delivered to Prince Daivyn or any other member of his household. Bishop Mytchail Zhessop, Vahsphar’s intendant, had made it equally clear he intended to hold Lakeland personally responsible for the completeness of those reports.

The whole thing struck the baron as excessive, to say the least. Anybody who tried to poison the boy, for example, was unlikely to do it by sending him sweetmeats from Corisande, and that was the most likely threat he could imagine. Well, the most likely threat from anything anyone might openly send him, at any rate, Lakeland amended a bit more grimly.

Still, Halahdrom might have a point about this particular gift. It seemed evident the boy had to take after his mother, since by all reports Hektor of Corisande had been a tall, powerfully built fellow, and Prince Daivyn was never going to be a large man. Three days short of his eleventh birthday, he was a small, slender boy. Not delicate, just small, with a wiry knit frame that seemed unlikely to ever bulk up with muscle. He was smart, too, almost as smart as that sister of his, and Lakeland suspected that under normal circumstances he probably would have been a lively handful. As it was, he was quiet, often pensive, and he spent a lot of time with his books. Partly that was a natural consequence of the king wyvern’s eye his sister, King Zhames’ guardsmen, and the members of his own household kept on him. Given what had happened to his father and his older brother, that sort of suffocating surveillance was inevitable, but it had to have a depressing effect on a lad’s natural high spirits and sense of mischief. Perhaps that was why neither Lakeland nor Halahdrom had seen any sign of a passion for hunting wyverns in him. It wasn’t as if he’d had any opportunity to pursue the sport since arriving here, after all.

“Did any other gifts arrive with them?” he asked.

“No.” Halahdrom shook his head, then made a face. “Most of them got here a couple of five-days ago, courtesy of that Charisian ‘parole.’ These just arrived today, and I think they must’ve been an afterthought. Either that or somebody figured the Charisians might not pass them through for some reason.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, they’re obviously from Anvil Rock-most of the correspondence is in a secretary’s hand, of course, but he sent along a nice little personal note to the boy in his own handwriting, along with a list of devotional readings he’d like the lad to be studying now that he’s getting older.” The chamberlain shrugged. “We’ve seen enough of his handwriting by now to know it’s really his, and the secretary’s writing matches the last several sets of letters we’ve received, as well. But they didn’t come covered by a Charisian guarantee of safe passage, the way the rest of the birthday gifts did.” He chuckled. “In fact, they came upriver from Sarmouth by messenger-courtesy of a smuggler, unless I miss my guess.”

“That’s interesting.” Lakeland rubbed his nose. “A smuggler, you say?”

“That’s my best guess, at any rate.” Halahdrom shrugged. “I’ve got the fellow waiting outside if you’d like to speak to him directly.”

“That might not be a bad idea,” Lakeland said, and smiled slightly. “If the fellow’s a smuggler-or knows somebody who is, at any rate-we might even be able to get some decent whiskey through that damned blockade!”

Halahdrom chuckled, nodded, and departed. A few moments later, he returned with a tall, brown-haired and brown-eyed man in the decent but nondescript dress of a seaman. If the stranger was worried as he was ushered into the first councilor’s office he hid it well.

“Ahbraim Zhevons, My Lord,” Halahdrom said, speaking rather more formally in the outsider’s presence, and Zhevons bobbed a respectful bow.

“So, Master Zhevons,” Lakeland said, “I understand you’ve come to deliver a birthday gift for Prince Daivyn?”

“Aye, My Lord, I have. Or so Sir Klymynt tells me.” Zhevons shrugged. “Nobody told me the lad was a prince, you understand. Mind, it seemed likely he wasn’t what you might be calling a common lad, given how much somebody was willing to pay to get his present delivered to him. And let me tell you, keeping those damned wyverns-begging your pardon-fed without losing a finger was a harder job than I’d figured on!”

There was a twinkle in the brown eyes, and Lakeland felt his own lips hovering on the brink of a smile.

“So you brought them all the way from Corisande, did you?” he asked.

“Oh, no, My Lord! I, um, made connections in Tarot, as you might say. I’ve just… helped them along the last leg.”

“Smuggler, are you?” The baron allowed his expression to harden slightly. This fellow might or might not be a smuggler and he might or might not have known young Daivyn was a prince. And this struck the first councilor as an unlikely way to get an assassin into the boy’s presence, for that matter. Still…

“That’s a hard word.” Zhevons didn’t sound particularly hurt by it, however. “I’m more of a… free-trader. I specialize in small cargoes for shippers who’d sometimes sooner avoid any unnecessary paperwork, as you might say, true, but my word’s my bond. I always see to any delivery myself, you see, and my rates are reasonable, My Lord.” He smiled charmingly. “ Very reasonable.”

“Somehow I suspect your definition of ‘reasonable’ and mine may differ just a bit,” Lakeland said dryly.

“Oh, I’m sure we could come to an agreement suitable to both of us, always assuming you ever had need of my services, of course.”

“Now that I can believe.” Lakeland leaned back. “I don’t imagine you’d have access to any Chisholmian whiskey, would you, Master Zhevons?”

“No, not personally, I’m afraid. Not since the Grand Inquisitor went and declared his embargo, of course. Still, I’m sure I could lay hands on someone who does. Indirectly, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” Lakeland agreed. “Well, if you do manage it, I think I can safely say you’d find it worth your while to deliver some of it here in Talkyra.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, My Lord. Ah, would it be too much of a disappointment to you if it was to arrive here without Delferahkan tax stamps?” Zhevons smiled winningly when Lakeland looked at him. “It’s not that I’m trying to rob you or your King of any rightful revenue, My Lord; it’s more a matter of principle, so to speak.”

“I see.” Lakeland’s lips quivered. “Very well, Master Zhevons, I’m sure I’ll be able to deal with my disappointment somehow.”

“I’m glad to hear it, My Lord.” Zhevons bowed again, politely, and Lakeland chuckled.

“If you can manage to stay unhanged long enough you’ll die a wealthy man, Master Zhevons.”

“Kind of you to be saying so, My Lord, but it’s my aim to live a wealthy man, if you take my meaning.”

“Indeed I do.” Lakeland shook his head, then sobered a bit. “I take it that you don’t know exactly how this delivery got to Tarot in the first place, though?”

“I’ve no certain knowledge one way or the other, My Lord, but I do know the fellow who brought it as far as Tarot is a fine seaman who somehow managed to forget to apply for his tax documents when he docked in Corisande. Well, that’s what I’ve heard, at any rate.”

“And would this fellow have a name?” Lakeland pressed.

It was obvious Zhevons didn’t really like the thought of passing along any additional information. Actually, that made Lakeland think the better of him, since it seemed to indicate a certain honor among thieves… or among smugglers, at least. But the first councilor wasn’t letting him off that lightly, and he sat silently, eyes boring into Zhevons’ until, finally, the smuggler shrugged.

“Harys, My Lord,” he said with a slight but unmistakable emphasis, looking levelly back at the baron. “Zhoel Harys.”

“Ah.” Lakeland glanced quickly at Halahdrom, then nodded to Zhevons. “I realize revealing professional confidences cuts against the grain of a… free-trader such as yourself, Master Zhevons. Nonetheless, I’m sure you understand why we have to exercise at least a little caution where people delivering unexpected gifts to Prince Daivyn are concerned.”

“Aye, I can see where that might be the case,” Zhevons conceded.

“Well, I believe that’s all I really needed to discuss with you,” Lakeland said. “I’m serious about the whiskey, though!”

“I’ll bear that in mind, My Lord,” Zhevons assured him, and bowed again as Halahdrom nodded at the door.

“Wait for me in the hall for a moment, Master Zhevons,” he said.

“Of course, My Lord.”

“Harys, is it?” Lakeland murmured as the door closed behind the smuggler. “Interesting choice of deliveryman, don’t you think, Klymynt?”

“Yes, it is,” the chamberlain agreed. “I wonder why they didn’t just send him all the way to Sarmouth himself?”

“Oh, come now!” Lakeland shook his head. “Cayleb and Nahrmahn’ve had the better part of two years on the ground in Corisande by now. I’d say there’s a good chance they know exactly who Hektor used to get the Prince and his sister to the mainland. They’d probably really like the opportunity to have a few words with him, especially if Anvil Rock and Coris are still using him, too. But they’d be looking for him here or in Corisande, not in Tarot of all places! So it would make sense for him to use somebody they’ve never heard of for the last leg.”

“I suppose so,” Halahdrom agreed. “Of course, if it is Harys, that makes this ‘gift’ a bit more suspicious, don’t you think?”

“It might, and it might not. My thought, though, is that since Anvil Rock apparently had no problem getting permission to send Prince Daivyn’s other birthday presents through the blockade with Charisian approval, if there’s anything ‘suspicious’ about this gift, it’s probably something he didn’t want the Charisians to know about. You haven’t found anything out of order about it?”

“Nothing.” Halahdrom shook his head. “I even had the wyverns moved into another cage while I checked the bottom of the one they came in for false partitions or compartments.”

They looked at one another for a moment while both of them considered the possibility of things like spoken messages which would leave no inconvenient written records behind.

“Well, given the thoroughness of your examination, I think we simply make sure we’ve got copies of all the correspondence, then report its arrival to Bishop Mytchail, send him the copies, and pass it on to Earl Coris for Prince Daivyn,” Lakeland decided. He leaned back in his chair again, meeting Halahdrom’s eyes. “And given the Lord Bishop’s views on smugglers and the embargo, I see no need to describe our conversation with Master Zhevons to him, do you?”

“A gift from Earl Anvil Rock, is it, My Lord?” Tobys Raimair cocked an eyebrow at Phylyp Ahzgood. “Would it happen the boy was expecting any additional gifts from him?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” the Earl of Coris replied. “Which is why it occurred to me that it might be as well for you and I to accept delivery before we let it-or the deliveryman-into his presence.”

“Oh, aye, I can understand that,” Raimair agreed. “Would you like me to ask one of the other lads to step in, as well?”

“I doubt that will be necessary,” Coris replied with a slight smile, considering the sword and dirk riding in well-worn sheaths at Raimair’s side. “Not for one man who’s not even getting into the same room with the boy.”

“As you say, My Lord.” Raimair bowed, then crossed the room to open the door.

A tall, brown-haired man stepped through it, followed by two of the palace’s servants and Brother Bahldwyn Gaimlyn, one of King Zhames’ junior secretaries. Between them, the wary footmen carried an ornately gilded traveling cage which contained six large wyverns. The wyverns gazed about with beady, unusually intelligent-looking eyes, and Coris frowned. It seemed an odd choice for a gift from Anvil Rock, who knew perfectly well that Daivyn had never showed the least interest in hunting wyverns. That had been his older brother’s passion.

“Master… Zhevons, is it?” Coris asked the brown-haired man.

“Aye, Sir. Ahbraim Zhevons, at your service,” the stranger replied in a pleasant tenor voice.

“And you’re an associate of Captain Harys?”

“Oh, I’d not go that far, My Lord.” Zhevons shook his head, but his eyes met Coris’ levelly. “It’s more that we’re in the same line of business, so to speak. These days, at least.”

“I see.” Coris glanced at the footmen and Brother Bahldwyn, who were waiting patiently, and wondered which of them was Baron Lakeland’s ears for this conversation. Probably all three of them, he decided. Or perhaps one was Lakeland’s and one was Mytchail Zhessop’s.

“Did Captain Harys pass on any messages to me?” he asked out loud.

“No, My Lord. Can’t say he did,” Zhevons replied. “Except that he did say as how you might be seeing me or one of my… ah, business associates with another odd delivery now and again.” He smiled easily, but his eyes held Coris’ gaze intently. “I think you might say the Captain’s of the opinion he might’ve become just a bit too well known to be serving you the way he has before.”

“Yes, I suppose I might,” Coris said thoughtfully, and nodded. “Well, in that case, Master Zhevons, thank you for your efficiency.”

He reached into his belt pouch, withdrew a five-mark piece, and flipped the golden disk to the smuggler, who caught it with an easy economy of movement and a grin. One of the footmen smiled as well, and Coris hoped the man had made note of the fact that there’d been absolutely no way for anything written to have been exchanged in the process.

“I’m sure these fellows can see you safely on your way, Master Zhevons,” he continued. “And I’m sure you can imagine there’s a certain young man anxiously awaiting my report on what his mysterious birthday gift might be.”

“Oh, that I can, My Lord! I’d no idea he was a prince, of course, but I’m sure every boy that age is much the same under the skin.”

The earl smiled again and nodded, and Zhevons sketched a bow and followed the footmen and Brother Bahldwyn out. Coris watched the door close behind him, then turned to Raimair.

“And what do you make of our Master Zhevons, Tobys?”

“Seems a capable sort, My Lord,” Raimair replied. “Never heard as how the boy-Prince Daivyn, I mean-was all that fond of wyvern hunting, howsome ever.”

“That’s because he wasn’t… and isn’t,” Coris murmured.

“You don’t say?” Raimair observed. “Now that makes a man feel just a mite suspicious, especially arriving all unannounced this way, doesn’t it just?”

“Perhaps, but Master Zhevons says Captain Harys got them as far as Tarot,” Coris said, lifting his eyes to Raimair’s face. “Of course, by this time it’s entirely possible someone’s figured out how we got here from Corisande, so the fact that Zhevons claims he knows Harys doesn’t necessarily prove anything. It does strike me as an indicator in its favor, though. And then there’s this.”

He pulled out the (already opened) envelope which had accompanied the traveling cage. It contained a sheaf of correspondence, and the earl extracted the letters and showed them to Raimair.

“I recognize the handwriting-both Earl Anvil Rock’s and his secretary’s,” he pointed out.

He looked down at them for a moment, then shrugged and walked across to his bookcase. He ran his finger down the spines of the shelved books until he found the one he wanted, then took it from the shelf, sat down at his desk, and unfolded Anvil Rock’s letter to Daivyn. The chapter and verse notations Anvil Rock had included in his letter were exactly the sort to which a considerably older kinsman and a regent might want to direct a youthful charge’s attention, especially if they had no opportunity for personal contact with the boy. A little somber and weighty for a lad Daivyn’s age, perhaps, but the boy was the legitimate ruler of an entire princedom. Something a bit more serious than the sorts of verses most children memorized for catechism might well be in order, given those circumstances.

Coris wasn’t particularly interested in looking up the passages indicated to check their content, however. Instead, he was turning pages in the cheap novel (printed in Manchyr) he’d taken from the shelf, selecting page numbers, then lines down the page, then words in the lines. Langhorne 6:21-9, for example, directed him to the sixth page, the twenty-first line, and the ninth word. He tracked down each passage’s indicated words, jotting each of them down quickly on a sheet of paper. Then he sat gazing at the sheet for a moment, frowning, before he dropped it into the fire on his sitting room’s hearth, stood, and crossed to the traveling cage. Its gilded bars were topped with ornamental finials, and he counted quickly around them from left to right until he got to the thirteenth. He gripped it, careful to keep his fingers out of reach of the wyverns’ saw-toothed beaks, and twisted, but it wouldn’t budge.

“You’ve got stronger wrists than I do, Tobys,” he said wryly. “See if you can get this thing to screw off. It turns clock-wise to loosen, not counter-clockwise.”

Raimahn raised an eyebrow, then reached out. His powerful hand closed on the finial and he grunted with effort. For a moment, nothing happened; then it yielded. Once it started turning, it went on turning easily until he’d screwed it completely off, revealing that the bar was hollow and contained two or three tightly rolled sheets of paper.

“Well, well, well,” Coris murmured, reaching in and extracting the sheets.

He unrolled them and began to read, then stopped abruptly. His eyes widened in shock, and he looked quickly at Raimahn.

“My Lord?” the guardsman asked quickly.

“It’s… just not from who I thought it would be from,” Coris said.

“Is it bad news, then, My Lord?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that.” Coris managed a smile, beginning to come back on balance with the practice of decades as a spymaster. It was, he admitted to himself, rather harder this time than it had ever been before, however. “ Unexpected news, yes, but not bad. At least, I don’t think so.”

He looked back down at the note, trying to wrap his mind around all it implied. The handwriting in the correspondence was definitely Anvil Rock’s, but if the note in his hand was to be believed, Anvil Rock had never written it. Never even seen it, although exactly how the man who had written it-and had the sheer audacity to personally deliver it to Talkyra-had managed to forge the correspondence so perfectly and gained access to the code book Anvil Rock and Coris had arranged so long ago were certainly… interesting questions.

“Earl Coris,” it began, “First, I beg your pardon for a slight deception on my part. Two of them, to be more accurate. First, I’ve never actually met Captain Harys, I’m afraid, nor has any portion of Prince Daivyn’s ‘gift’ ever been within a thousand leagues of Corisande. And, second, I’m afraid my name isn’t actually Ahbraim Zhevons. It serves me well enough when needed, however, and while I’m aware you’ve never heard of me, I’m an associate of someone I’m certain you have heard of: Merlin Athrawes. I do the occasional odd job for Seijin Merlin when it would be impolitic for him to handle them himself, and he asked me to deliver these wyverns to you as a gift from Earl Gray Harbor. I’m sure you’ve noticed they’re a bit larger than most messenger wyverns, and there’s a reason for that. You see-” . II.

Tellesberg Palace and Tellesberg Cathedral, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

“God, it’s good to be home! ” Sharleyan Ahrmahk sighed, curling up against her husband’s side and resting her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes, feeling as if she were expanding the pores of her skin to absorb the gentle night breeze breathing through the bedchamber’s open windows. Exotic insects she hadn’t heard in too many months sang in the moon-silvered darkness, the brilliant stars of the southern hemisphere hung overhead like ornaments from some cosmic glassblower, and the part of her which had been missing for far too long was back beside her.

“So Tellesberg is ‘home’ now, is it?” Cayleb teased gently, and she nodded.

“At the moment, at least.” She raised her head long enough to kiss him on the cheek, then snuggled back down and wrapped one arm around his chest, all without ever opening her eyes again. “Don’t let this go to your head, but home is wherever you are.”

His own arm tightened around her and he pressed his cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair and savoring its silken texture.

“Works both ways,” he told her. “Except, for me, home is wherever you and Alahnah are.”

“Correction accepted, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Sharleyan giggled.

“What’s so funny?” Cayleb demanded. “You’ve got something against formality and courtesy?”

“Under most circumstances, no, I don’t. But under these…”

Her hand slid down under the light thistle silk sheet covering them to the waist, and Cayleb smiled.

“Courtesy is never wasted,” he informed her. “I’m courteous to every naked lady I find in my bed. In fact-”

He broke off with a sudden twitch, and she raised her head from his shoulder to smile sweetly at him.

“I’d consider my next sentence very carefully if I were you,” she said.

“Actually, my brain doesn’t seem to be working very well at the moment,” he replied, scooping her up and draping her diagonally across his body while he smiled up into her eyes. “I think this may be one of those moments when silence is golden.”

The mood was rather different as the two of them headed for the council chamber they used as a working office whenever both of them happened to be in Tellesberg at the same time.

Not the most exacting of their subjects-and not even the two of them, for that matter-could have demanded they give themselves over to official business the day before. Not after that same “official business” had separated the two of them for over four months. HMS Dawn Star ’s arrival in Tellesberg on yesterday afternoon’s tide had been greeted even more tumultuously than Cayleb’s return from Chisholm. In some ways, the citizens of Old Charis had taken Sharleyan even more deeply to their hearts than Cayleb. They loved both of them, but they adored her, which (as Cayleb put it) indicated the soundness of their taste. And like the majority of their subjects, Charisian and Chisholmian alike, the citizens of Tellesberg were entranced by the deep and obvious love between the handsome young king and beautiful young queen who had married for reasons of state. Half the city had crowded the waterfront to watch Dawn Star being nudged gently up against the Royal Quay’s pilings, and they’d seen Emperor Cayleb go bounding up the gangplank almost before the galleon was fully moored. And when he swept Empress Sharleyan up into his arms, tossed her over one shoulder, and carried her back down the gangplank while she laughed and whacked him on the back of his head, the entire huge crowd had erupted in cheers and whistles. Anyone who had suggested that the two of them should do anything besides take themselves off immediately to the palace would probably have been tarred and feathered on the spot.

It had all been most improper, of course, as Sharleyan was well aware. On the other hand, she didn’t much care. And, on a more pragmatic note, she knew the short shrift she and Cayleb often gave protocol and formal state occasions was part of the legend that made them not simply respected but beloved by their subjects.

She knew Earl Gray Harbor had also decided yesterday belonged to them, not to the Empire, but that had been then. This was now, and she wasn’t looking forward to the news he’d delayed giving them that first, precious day.

They reached the council chamber door, Merlin following at their heels, and Sergeant Seahamper saluted before he opened it for them and stood aside. Cayleb smiled at the sergeant, resting one hand briefly on his shoulder, then escorted Sharleyan into the chamber where the waiting ministers and councilors stood respectfully to greet them.

“Oh, sit back down.” Cayleb waved them back into their seats. “We can get all formal later, if we need to.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course.”

Gray Harbor managed to sound simultaneously patient, amused, and long-suffering, and Cayleb made a face at him while he pulled Sharleyan’s chair back from the table and seated her. The first councilor smiled back, although there truly were times when he found Cayleb’s informality-even by Charisian standards, which were far more flexible than most-a little disconcerting.

All in all, he vastly preferred it to the sort of ego-aggrandizing formality, bowing, and scraping with which too many monarchs (and far too many lesser nobles, for that matter, in his opinion) surrounded themselves. It wasn’t that he had any objection to the way in which Cayleb and Sharleyan handled themselves; it was that the part of him which looked to the future worried, sometimes, about the traditions they were establishing. The two of them had the strength of will, ability, and self-confidence-and the sheer charisma-to handle their roles and responsibilities without taking refuge in strictly regulated, well-worn formality, but what happened when the Empire found itself ruled by someone without those strengths? Someone who wasn’t able to laugh with his councilors without undermining his authority? Someone who lacked the confidence to pick up his wife in public or make jokes at his own expense in formal addresses to Parliament? Someone who couldn’t allow herself to be scooped up without sacrificing one iota of her dignity when she needed it? Someone who lacked the focused sense of duty that prevented informality and tension-releasing humor from degenerating into license and frivolity?

A kingdom was fortunate to have a single monarch of Cayleb or Sharleyan Ahrmahk’s caliber in a century; no realm could count on having two of them at the same time… still less on producing a third to follow in their footsteps. Indeed, much as Gray Harbor loved the baby crown princess, it had been his observation that the children of the towering rulers who dominated the history books had a distinct tendency to disappear in their parents’ shadows. And what soul could have the hardihood to stand in the shadows of rulers like these two without feeling diminished-even angry-under the weight of their subjects’ expectations? No wonder the heirs of so many great kings and queens had ended up giving their lives over to dissolution and sensuality!

You must be feeling more confident about the outcome of this minor war of ours if you’re wasting time worrying about things like that, Rayjhis, he told himself dryly. Cheerful, too. Alahnah’s just turned one and you’re already worrying about her having drunken orgies after her parents are gone? About the way the Empire’s going to fall apart after them? Neither of them is thirty yet, for Langhorne’s sake! It’s not like you’re going to be around for the transition.

No, he wasn’t-God willing-but it was one of a first councilor’s jobs to worry about things like that. Besides, he’d been making a conscious effort to stand back and consider the long view whenever he could. It was entirely too easy to get trapped up in the day-to-day concerns of simply surviving against an opponent the size of the Church of God Awaiting, and when that happened, unhappy consequences could sneak up on someone.

And it also keeps you from thinking about what you’re going to have to tell them on their very first full day together in almost five months, doesn’t it? he asked himself grimly.

Cayleb sat in his own chair, laid his folded hands on the table in front of him, and glanced at Maikel Staynair, sitting at its foot.

“Maikel?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Staynair looked once around the table, then bent his head. “Oh God, maker and keeper of the universe, author of all good things, our loving creator and father, bless these Your servants Cayleb and Sharleyan and all of their advisors. Let us all hear Your voice and be guided by Your council, and let our Emperor’s and Empress’ decisions be worthy of their responsibility to the subjects who are also Your children, even as they are. Amen.”

No one seemed to notice the absence of any reference to the “Archangels,” Cayleb reflected as he opened his own eyes once more. Ever since he’d been elevated to archbishop, Staynair had focused even more directly upon every human being’s personal relationship with God rather than on the intermediary role of the Archangels. By now, people scarcely noticed the subtle but deeply significant shift, and the majority of the Church of Charis’ clergy seemed to be taking their own stance and practices directly from their archbishop’s.

Maikel always did think in terms of long-term strategy, didn’t he? And speaking of long-term thinking…

The emperor looked directly across the table at Gray Harbor.

“Would you care to go ahead and share with us what you were sparing me and Sharley yesterday, Rayjhis?” he asked dryly.

“Your Majesty?” Gray Harbor raised his eyebrows, and Cayleb snorted.

“I’ve known you since I was a boy, Rayjhis. I don’t want to get into anything about books and reading, but it was obvious to both me and Sharley that you had something on your mind yesterday. And since you didn’t bring it up, it seemed equally obvious it had to be something you didn’t think was going to make us happy.” The emperor shook his head. “Trust me, we appreciate that. Still, it’s a new morning and we might as well get down to it.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Gray Harbor smiled involuntarily at Cayleb’s tone, but it was a fleeting smile, quickly faded, and he drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders.

“I regret to inform you, Your Majesty, that we’ve received letters from Admiral Manthyr. One contains a complete roster of the officers and men who surrendered to Earl Thirsk-and of those who died in captivity after surrendering.”

It was very quiet and still, the humor of only a moment before fading as quickly as the earl’s smile. No one else spoke, and he looked steadily at his monarchs as he continued.

“There’s also Sir Gwylym’s formal report. It’s very brief-he had none of his logs or records to consult when he prepared it, and for reasons his other letters make clear, very little time in which to write it. It confirms most of what we already knew and suspected about his final engagement… and also something we’ve all feared.”

Gray Harbor’s eyes flitted briefly aside to Captain Athrawes, standing just inside the council chamber’s door. He’d been taking Merlin’s “visions” into his calculations for years now, but not everyone in the chamber was cleared for that information. And, of course, Merlin had been away from Tellesberg for the better part of a year, during which he’d been unable to provide any updated reports on Gwylym Manthyr’s situation.

“King Rahnyld has formally surrendered custody of Sir Gwylym and all of his officers and men to the Inquisition.” The earl’s voice was flat and harsh now. “They left Gorath overland for Zion either late in May or in the first five-day of June. Given the length of the journey and the quality of mainland roads, they must have already reached the Temple.”

The stillness became absolute. Every man and woman in that chamber knew what that meant, and most of the councilors turned their heads to look at Maikel Staynair. By any traditional reckoning, he was the senior member of the Imperial Council as Charis’ archbishop. His should have been the most important of the opinions offered on any subject, and especially anything touching upon the Church and religion. But Staynair had worked hard to make the Council as independent of the Church of Charis as it possibly could be in what was, after all, a religious war. His position throughout had been that the Church’s proper role was to teach, not to enforce, and more than one of them wondered how he would react to news of this fresh atrocity decreed in God’s name.

He sat motionless for several seconds, then sighed and shook his head heavily, his eyes dark with sadness.

“May God have mercy on them and gather them in arms of love,” he said softly. A quiet chorus of amens ran around the table, and then the others sat respectfully waiting while the archbishop closed his eyes in brief, silent prayer, took a deep breath, sat back in his chair, and looked at his old friend.

“May I ask how these letters come into our possession after all these months of silence, Rayjhis?”

“I can’t answer that question-not completely, at any rate,” Gray Harbor replied. “As nearly as I can tell, they must have traveled by courier from Gorath to Silk Town, where they were handed over to one of the ‘Silkiahan’ merchantmen to be delivered to us here. That part’s fairly obvious. What I can’t tell you is who authorized their delivery, although I have my suspicions.”

“Sir Gwylym didn’t say?” Baron Ironhill asked.

“Reading between the lines, he was very careful not to say, Ahlvyno.” Gray Harbor smiled tightly. “No doubt he knew what would happen to anyone who’d ‘aided and abetted heretics’ if his letters should fall into the Inquisition’s hands.”

“I’m sure he did,” Baron Wave Thunder said. “Of the other hand, I don’t think there’s any doubt your ‘suspicions’ are accurate, Rayjhis. The only person who could have authorized it-who conceivably might have authorized it, from what we know of him-is Earl Thirsk.”

“Agreed,” Cayleb said. In fact, he and Wave Thunder knew perfectly well who’d arranged it. “I wish to God that man wasn’t on the other side,” the emperor continued soberly. “And I wish I hadn’t been quite so hard on him after Crag Reach.” He shook his head. “He deserved better, even if there wasn’t any way for me to know it at the time.”

“I rather hate to suggest this, Your Majesty,” Prince Nahrmahn said delicately, “but if it should happen to leak back to the Inquisition that…”

“No,” Cayleb said flatly, and Sharleyan shook her head firmly at his side. Then the emperor made himself sit straighter in his chair. “No, Nahrmahn,” he said in a more natural voice. “Mind you, you’re not thinking anything that hadn’t already occurred to me. And I suppose from a proper cold-blooded, pragmatic perspective no ruler in his right mind could justify rejecting such a neat way of removing his most capable military opponent from play. But the man who risked sending us Gwylym Manthyr’s final letters deserves better of us than that.”

“I agree, Your Majesty.” Nahrmahn nodded. “Such possibilities need to be considered; that’s why I mentioned it. But not only would it be wrong to betray the Earl to the Inquisition, it would be foolish. Whatever the advantages in removing him as a military commander, the long-term consequence would be to guarantee that there were no more Earl Thirsks within the ranks of the Temple Loyalists. Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s actions have blackened the Group of Four beyond redemption in the eyes of any reasonable person. The last thing we need to do is to put ourselves into that same category by being no better than he is.”

“Cold-bloodedly but cogently reasoned, Your Highness,” Staynair said with a crooked smile. Nahrmahn looked at him, and the archbishop smiled more naturally. “I have no objection to considering the political advantages of doing the right thing, Your Highness. I hope, however, that you’ll understand that from my perspective the fact that it’s the right thing takes precedence over the fact that it also happens to be politically expedient.”

“Your Eminence, I agree with you entirely,” Nahrmahn replied with a wry smile. “It’s simply that the right thing and the politically expedient thing are so seldom the same thing that I couldn’t let it pass without mentioning it.”

“We’re in agreement, then, that we won’t be publishing these letters abroad, Your Majesties?” Gray Harbor asked.

“Why do I seem to hear a little… hesitation in your voice, Rayjhis?” Sharleyan looked at him shrewdly, and the first councilor grimaced.

“There are also letters from others of his officers and enlisted men, Your Grace,” he sighed. “The very last letters any of them will ever write. If we don’t admit we’ve received them, we can’t deliver them to their loved ones, either.”

There was silence again for several seconds. A lot of the people around the table were busy avoiding one another’s eyes, and Gray Harbor wondered how many of them found it as ironic as he did that this decision should arrive so close on the heels of Staynair’s and Nahrmahn’s discussion of the difference between expediency and what was right.

“I believe there may be a solution,” Staynair said finally, and the eyes which had been studying the tabletop or the paintings on the council chamber’s walls swiveled to him. “By now, there’s been time for this same news to have reached Silk Town from Gorath by other means, and for us to have heard of it from someone besides Sir Gwylym or Earl Thirsk. That being the case, I propose we announce it without mentioning the receipt of any formal reports from Sir Gwylym or, for that matter, any of the letters. Instead, in a short time-two or three five-days, perhaps-I’ll announce the Church has come into possession of final letters from many of the prisoners who were handed over to the Inquisition. I’ll refuse to say how those letters reached me, but I’m sure everyone will assume it was courtesy of some Reformist member of the mainland clergy.” His lip curled, and his normally mild eyes glittered. “I rather like the thought that it may inspire the Inquisition to hunt for traitors among its own ranks.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea, Your Majesties,” Nahrmahn agreed enthusiastically. “I’m sure Clyntahn’s response will be to brand any letters which end up being made public as forgeries on our part. They won’t really be from any of our people; we’ll have made them up as another step in our efforts to discredit Mother Church and the Inquisition. He may even actually believe that himself… in which case it could help divert a little pressure from Earl Thirsk.”

Cayleb looked at Sharleyan, who nodded, then turned back to the rest of the Council.

“Very well.” He nodded. “I think you’ve come up with the best solution for that particular problem, Maikel. But there’s still the matter of how we go about making news of this public… and what position we take.”

“I agree.” Staynair nodded gravely. “This is something to which both Crown and Church must respond strongly and clearly, with no ambiguity. Your subjects and God’s children must clearly understand what this means, and where we stand in respect to it. And there’s also the question of timing. We’re less than a five-day from God’s Day, which is about as ironic as it gets, I suppose.” He raised one hand to his pectoral scepter. “Under the circumstances, I think there’s only one possible venue for addressing this matter properly, Your Majesty.”

It was unusually quiet in Tellesberg Cathedral, especially for today. God’s Day-the unnumbered extra day inserted into every year in the middle of the month of July-was the great high holy day of the Church of God Awaiting. Every month had its religious holidays, its saints’ days, its liturgical observances, but this day, God’s Day, was set aside above all others for the contemplation of one’s soul and the state of God’s plan for all humanity. It was a day of solemn celebration, of joyous hymns, as well as a day on which gifts were exchanged, children were baptized, weddings were celebrated, and the praise and gratitude of the entire world ascended to the throne of God.

There was always a special solemnity to the high masses celebrated in the great cathedrals of Safehold on God’s Day, and never more so than in those rare instances when an archbishop had scheduled his yearly pastoral visit to coincide with the religious festival. Of course, that seldom happened; it was far more important to be in Zion, at the Temple, on this holiest of days, and the archbishoprics were usually left to their bishop executors.

But not in Tellesberg, or in places like Eraystor, Cherayth, or Manchyr. In those places, archbishops regularly celebrated mass in their own cathedrals, and Tellesberg Cathedral had filled to overflowing before dawn. Thousands of additional worshippers filled the square outside and spilled down the avenues in every direction, covering every square foot of pavement, sitting in the windows and on the roofs of buildings overlooking Cathedral Square. Priests and deacons formed human chains, stretching through the crowd, waiting for Archbishop Maikel’s sermon so that they could relay his words to every waiting ear.

No one knew what the archbishop intended to say, but Maikel’s sermons were famous, and rightly so, for their warmth and their loving insight into the hearts and minds of human beings. They were followed even in the mainland realms-printed and distributed semi-openly in northern and eastern Siddarmark, and less openly in other lands. Indeed, they formed a major component of the Reformist propaganda so mysteriously and successfully spread across both continents despite all the Inquisition could do.

But there was no mystery about their availability in the Empire of Charis. They were regularly reprinted and distributed in the bookstores and in the Empire’s newspapers, posted in broadside sheets in villages and town squares. Not because the Church or the Crown required it, but because those bookstores and newspapers’ readers, the citizens of those villages and towns, demanded it.

Yet for all that, there was a special tension in the air. There were rumors, whispers, that the archbishop had something especially weighty to discuss today. The air would have been supercharged on God’s Day under any circumstances, given the religious aspects of the war being waged against Charis, but there was more to it this time, and as the Cathedral Choir’s voices faded, they were replaced by a silence so intense a muffled cough would have sounded like a cannon shot.

Archbishop Maikel rose from his throne and crossed to the carved and gilded pulpit. Anyone who’d ever seen the archbishop knew that purposeful stride of his, that sense of powerful forward movement and focused determination. Yet it was more pronounced, more deliberate, even than usual today, and the congregation’s tension ratcheted higher.

He reached the pulpit and stood for a moment with his hand on the Holy Writ and his eyes closed, his head bent in silent prayer. Then he raised his head once more, looking out over the wide expanse of packed, silent pews.

“Today’s Scripture is written in the fifth chapter of The Book of Chihiro, verses ten through fourteen,” he said clearly, and opened the Writ. Pages whispered as he turned them, the tiny sound distinctly audible in the stillness, but when he’d found the passage he sought, he didn’t even look at it. He didn’t need to, and he stood with his hand resting on the huge volume, eyes sweeping the congregation, while he recited from memory.

“‘Then the Archangel Langhorne stood upon Mount Heilbronn, looking down upon the Field of Sabana, where so many had fallen opposing evil, and his eyes were wet with tears, and he said, “The time must come when only the sword of justice can oppose the many swords of evil-of pestilent ambition, of greed, of selfishness and cruelty, of hatred and terror. Might may be used to destroy might, and strength may be used to oppose strength, but justice is the true armor of the godly. That which cannot be done with justice must not be done at all, for only the Dark cannot stand in the brilliance of God’s Light. So you will abide by justice, by keeping faith with that which you know is right. You will do justice not in the heat of battle or the white fury of your anger, be that anger ever so justified. You will do justice soberly, with reverent respect for that love of one another God has placed within you. You will not condemn out of hatred, and he who uses justice for his own ends, he who perverts justice into that which he wishes it to be rather than what it truly is, that one shall be accursed in the eyes of God. Every man’s hand shall be against him. As he sows, so shall he reap, and the mercy he denies to others shall be denied to him in his turn. I will not shield him from his enemies. I will not hear him when he calls to me in his extremity. And in the final judgment, when he comes before the throne of God, I will not see him. I will not speak for him, and God Himself will turn His back upon him as he is cast forever into that bottomless abyss reserved for him throughout all eternity.”’”

The stillness couldn’t possibly have gotten more absolute… yet somehow, as Staynair spoke, it did. God’s Day was a day for celebration, for joyous acknowledgment and thanks, not for the grim, harsh passages of The Book of Chihiro and the clashing iron of condemnation. That was true for any cathedral, any sermon preached upon this day, and to hear such words out of the gentle Archbishop of Charis only made them even more shocking.

Staynair let the stillness linger, then turned his head slowly, surveying the congregation.

“My sermon today will be brief, my children,” he said then. “It is not one I relish. This is supposed to be a day of joy, of the rediscovery of God’s love for His children and the expression of their love for Him, and I wish with all my heart that I could preach that message to you today. But I can’t. Instead I must speak of news which has reached us here, and which will reach homes and families everywhere within the Empire of Charis all too soon.”

He paused, the stillness wrapping itself around him in the smoke chains of incense and the spangled light shafts of the cathedral’s stained glass. His archbishop’s crown glittered in that light, his vestments gleamed with jewels and precious embroidery, and his eyes were dark, dark.

“Word has come to Tellesberg from Gorath,” he said finally, and somewhere in the cathedral a woman’s voice cried out indistinctly. Staynair’s eyes turned in its direction, but his voice never faltered.

“King Rahnyld has chosen to yield Sir Gwylym Manthyr and all of the men under his command who were honorably surrendered to the Dohlaran Navy to the Inquisition. They were consigned to the Inquisition at the end of May. By this time, my children, they have already reached Zion. No doubt they are enduring the Question even as I stand before you.”

More voices joined that first, single protest, crying out. Not in denial of Staynair’s words, but in grief-and anger-as the thing they had all feared would come to pass was finally announced to them. Rage guttered in the depths of those voices, and hatred, and growing under both of them-newborn, yet already with bones of iron and fangs of steel-was vengeance.

The priests and deacons relaying Staynair’s sermon to the crowds outside had repeated his words, and the same instant upwelling of anger rolled across Cathedral Square and down the avenues. That vast crowd’s fury could be heard even inside the cathedral, even over the voices being raised within its walls, and Staynair raised one hand, commanding silence.

He got it, and it was a testimony to his stature, his congregation’s love and respect for him, that he did. That he could.

It didn’t come instantly, that silence. Even for him, it came slowly, limpingly, like a catamount unwillingly surrendering its prey, and it spread even more slowly to the throngs beyond the cathedral’s walls. Yet it came at last, and he looked out across the pews once more.

“Our brothers and fathers and sons and husbands have been given over into the hands of torturers and murderers serving that vile corruption which sits in the Grand Inquisitor’s chair,” the normally gentle and loving archbishop said harshly. “They have been given over not because of anything they’ve done that deserves such hideous punishment, whatever Zhaspahr Clyntahn and his coterie of sycophants and butchers may claim. They’ve been surrendered to suffer all of those agonies and the final and culminating agony of the Punishment of Schueler because they dared- dared, my children!-to defend their families and their loved ones and their fellow children of God against exactly that which they themselves are even now suffering. They dared to defy the evil and corruption and the arrogance of the Group of Four, and Zhaspahr Clyntahn has perverted his office, just as he has perverted his immortal soul, to punish that defiance not of God, but of him.

“This is not the act of the Temple Loyalists, although many among them may be so deceived by the Group of Four’s lies that they applaud it. This is not the act of the neighbor across the street from you who continues to oppose the schism, the ‘heresy,’ of the Church of Charis. This is not the act of someone who truly seeks to know and to understand God’s will. It is not the act of someone who respects law, or justice, or truth, or anything in God’s wide world which is more important than himself.”

More than one of the people in that cathedral stared at him in something very like shock. Not at what they were hearing, but at who they were hearing it from. This was Maikel Staynair, the gentle shepherd-the archbishop who’d cried out for understanding and compassion from the very same pulpit in which he stood today with the blood of his own intended assassins splashed across his vestments. Yet there was no gentleness in him this day.

“As today’s Scripture tells us, ‘That one shall be accursed in the eyes of God. Every man’s hand shall be against him. As he sows, so shall he reap, and the mercy he denies to others shall be denied to him in his turn.’” The archbishop’s voice was ribbed with iron, and his eyes were harder yet. “The Church of Charis does not torture, does not murder, does not massacre-not even in the name of God, far less in the name of foul and vaunting ambition! The Empire of Charis will not strike out blindly, will not mistake the unwilling servant for the corrupt and despicable master. No doubt there will come a reckoning for King Rahnyld, in the fullness of time, yet Rahnyld is nothing. He is only a servant, a slave of his masters in Zion, and we know our true enemies. We know the hand behind this crime. We know the twisted mind and the withered soul which commanded it. We know whose hand this blood is truly on, and we will remember. We will remember… and we will call that hand to account.”

Bared steel clashed in the depths of that promise, and he looked out over the shocked, silent cathedral.

“I have consulted with Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan about this matter,” he said quietly, flatly. “I have urged from the beginning that we leave justice to be done by the Crown, and so I urge now. I beg all of you, as God’s children, to refrain from seeking objects of vengeance. Those Temple Loyalists who live in the Empire had nothing to do with this! The vast, vast majority of Temple Loyalists living even in Dohlar had nothing to do with this. It was done not at the orders of the Dohlaran Navy or the Dohlaran Army, but at the orders of the Inquisition and of that unspeakably vile individual whose every breath profanes the vicar’s robe he wears. And because it was, the Empire of Charis and the Church of Charis will not strike out at the innocent or those who had no choice but to obey corruption’s orders.”

He drew himself up to his full impressive height, and his voice rolled with harsh thunder.

“No doubt there are those who will argue that we should carry out reprisals against the far greater number of prisoners who lie in our hands. That we should make clear to the kings and princes who oppose us in the service of the Group of Four that we will treat their surrendered soldiers and sailors precisely as they treat ours. But we are called upon to wield the sword of justice, my children, not the sword of blind vengeance. Your Emperor and Empress will not dishonor themselves or stain the honor of those who serve in our Navy and our Marines and our Army with the murder of those who have done nothing but follow their officers’ orders and fight honorably and openly upon the field of battle.

“But- but, my children!-the Inquisition has shown itself to be the enemy of all mankind. Whatever it may once have been, it has fallen into the grasp of men like Zhaspahr Clyntahn who have distorted and twisted it into something which it may never be possible to cleanse again. Its members have become not servants of God but His enemies. God gave all men free will, the ability to choose, and they have chosen to serve the Dark, instead.

“So be it. ‘As he sows, so shall he reap, and the mercy he denies to others shall be denied to him in his turn.’ There will be no torture, but neither will there be mercy. From this day forth, Inquisitors-not simply intendants, not simply Schuelerites, but those in the direct and personal service of the Grand Inquisitor-shall receive precisely what the Writ promises them. As they have chosen to deny mercy to others, it will be denied to them. Soldiers and sailors may be allowed to surrender and receive the humane, honorable treatment to which their actions have entitled them; Inquisitors will not. Let the word go forth, my children. Let there be no ambiguity, no misunderstanding. Those who wish to renounce the distorted and twisted policies and commands of Zhaspahr Clyntahn are free to do so. They may still face trial and punishment for acts they have already committed, but they will be granted that trial. And for those who do not wish to renounce their allegiance to Zhaspahr Clyntahn, who continue to willingly lend themselves to his acts of murder and terrorism and torture, there will be a different policy. The only trial they will receive is to determine whether or not they truly are servants of the Inquisition, and if they are so found to be, there will be only one sentence, and that sentence will be executed upon them immediately and without appeal, just as surely as, in the fullness of time and God’s good grace, it will be executed upon Zhaspahr Clyntahn himself.” . III.

Sairaih’s Tavern, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis

Ainsail Dahnvahr had forgotten how good real Charisian beer tasted. His father had been willing to pay the premium for Charisian beer when Ainsail was younger, and he’d developed a taste for it. Of course, that had changed abruptly when the kingdom of Rahzhyr Dahnvahr’s birth turned against Mother Church, although Ainsail was pretty sure his father would have gone ahead paying for the imported beer if that hadn’t become so… indiscreet in the Temple Lands.

It shamed him to admit that, but there was no point trying to pretend otherwise. His father’s faith was weak, no match for the fervor of Ainsail’s mother’s belief. Or Ainsail’s, for that matter. There’d been times Ainsail had suspected that deep in the secret places of his own heart his father was still a Charisian first and a servant of God second, and that had caused him more than shame. That suspicion was the mother of pain, and twice Ainsail had almost mentioned his father’s Charisian sympathies to one of the Inquisition’s agents.

I should have, he thought now, staring down into the beer mug. God forgive me, I should have. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

He took another swallow of beer, trying to wash away the sour taste in his mouth, the knowledge that he’d failed God and the Archangel Schueler. And he wasn’t even positive why. He knew his mother still loved his father dearly, despite Rahzhyr’s lack of conviction. That was the reason he hadn’t informed the Inquisition. He was sure of it. And yet…

Memories flowed through him. Memories of a time when he’d been a boy, not a young man faced with his father’s weakness. Memories of riding on his father’s shoulders, laughing as his father tickled him or wrestled with him. Memories of his father’s hands teaching him the use of plane and miter saw and lathe. Memories of when Rahzhyr Dahnvahr was the tallest, strongest, smartest, most handsome man in all of Ainsail’s world. And as those memories glowed through his mind once more, the suspicion returned. It wasn’t his mother’s love for his father which had made him too weak to do what he knew he should have done.

Well, no mortal man was perfect. Not his father, and certainly not him. But if he was as strong as he could be, and if he truly trusted in God, then he would find he had strengths as well as weaknesses, and he would learn how to use the steel in his soul to offset the soft and flabby iron. And whatever his father’s faults, however badly his father might have failed or the weakness of his father’s convictions, there was nothing wrong with Ainsail’s faith. He’d proven that to Archbishop Wyllym’s satisfaction, and Vicar Zhaspahr had personally chosen him for his mission. That was enough to awaken the sin of pride in any man, however hard Ainsail might fight against it. But perhaps God would forgive him a little pride. And it wasn’t as if Ainsail could have accomplished his purpose without the aid of dozens of others, most of whom he’d never met and none of whom knew who he truly was.

“’Nother round, dearie?” the plump barmaid asked him brightly.

“Yes, I think so,” he replied, setting the empty mug on her tray and dropping a silver tenth-mark beside it. Her eyes widened at the size of the coin, and she started to hand it back to him, but he put his own hand on top of it. “Keep it,” he said, and smiled at her. “I’m leaving on a long voyage, and I won’t have anywhere to spend it anyway. Besides, you can wish me luck for it, if you like.”

“Oh, that I will!” she assured him with a broad smile. “And I’ll have that new beer back to you quicker than a cat lizard could lick her ear, Sir!”

“No ‘sir,’” he told her. “Just a simple sailorman.”

“Not to me, you’re not,” she assured him.

From the glow in her eye she would have been perfectly prepared to demonstrate that to him, as well, but he only smiled and made shooing motions to send her on her way. Not that it wasn’t tempting, but there were other and far more important things to concentrate on at this moment. In fact, it had probably been foolish of him to give the girl such a lavish tip. It might make her remember him later, not that “later” was going to be a problem. Besides, he’d been sent on his way with plenty of cash and, as he’d told her, he wouldn’t have any place to spend the rest of it.

He leaned back in the ancient, leather-upholstered booth, smelling decades of pipe smoke, of beer, of fried sausages, fish, potatoes, and spider crabs. It was a comforting, homey kind of smell that soothed his nerves. And he had to admit there was something soothing about the ebb and flow of the conversations around him, as well.

He’d never quite fitted in in the Temple Lands, with his “islander” accent. The other boys his age had been merciless about teasing him over it, and there’d been several fistfights-one of them fairly spectacular, culminating in an uncomfortable interview with the city guard-before they’d finally learned better. But no matter how hard he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to rid himself of that telltale accent, and in the end that had proven a good thing. It had helped him slip seamlessly back into the land of his birth, yet he was still more than a little amused by how right the dialect he’d tried so hard to eradicate in himself sounded falling upon his ear from others.

Well, it’s not as if they’re all heretics and blasphemers, now is it? he asked himself. There are plenty of Faithful still right here in Charis. They’re just afraid to show it, that’s all. Wave Thunder’s damned spies are everywhere. They’ve managed to sniff out every organization the Grand Inquisitor’s tried to establish here, so of course the Charisian Temple Loyalists are afraid to trust anyone enough to organize any kind of effective resistance!

For that matter, he reminded himself, there had been Charisian Loyalists who’d dared to raise their hands against their heretical, excommunicate king and his apostate bride. They’d almost gotten that bastard Staynair in his own cathedral! And they’d come within inches of getting Sharleyan at Saint Agtha’s. And then there’d been the man who’d made his own mission possible.

“Here you are, dearie,” the barmaid said, sliding the fresh beer onto the table before him. She’d added a complimentary bowl of fried potato slices, and he smiled his thanks as he popped one of the fresh, piping hot slices into his mouth. In fact, it was hot enough he had to follow it rather quickly with an extinguishing swallow of beer.

“Good!” he told her, nodding enthusiastically even as he puffed out air to cool his scorched tongue and lips. “Hot, but good.”

“Not the only thing here you could say that about,” she told him with a saucy wink, and headed back off through the early evening crowd with an even saucier swing of her hips.

He smiled after her, but then the smile faded as he thought about how far he’d come. Not much further to go, though, he thought. Not much further at all.

He never would have admitted it to a soul, but he’d had more than a few reservations after his mission had been fully explained to him. Not about the mission itself, but about the complexity involved in getting him into position and preparing the way for it. The thought of returning to Charis completely on his own would have been enough to make anyone nervous. The fact that he was strictly prohibited from actually contacting any of the people who’d made his trip possible or contributed to the arrangements here in Charis had produced even more anxiety. He had to simply trust that each of the people responsible for moving him along would do his-or her, for all he knew, in some cases-part and that none of the details would go astray. The notion that such a complex set of arrangements could possibly work had seemed absurd, but as Archbishop Wyllym had pointed out, the Inquisition had been conducting similar operations for centuries. Perhaps not under conditions quite this extreme, but close enough to give them the expertise they needed once they’d realized what an efficient counter-spying organization they were up against here in Charis.

And there hadn’t been all that many people involved, not really. It only seemed that way to him because he’d had to rely on them so blindly. But that very blindness had been his own best defense, because they hadn’t known him, either. For that matter, they hadn’t even known why they were doing what they’d been assigned to do. Not only that, every one of them had done his or her job exactly as Ainsail had-with no contact with anyone else in the service of Mother Church from the moment they or their instructions left Zion. No one would overhear any conversations or intercept any communications between them because there were no conversations or communications. There were only Ainsail and his fellow volunteers (none of whom had ever met, so far as he knew, even in Zion) and the detailed directions they’d been given before they were sent out.

When the Charisian powder mill blew up, Ainsail had been certain the entire operation had gone up in the same explosion. He had no idea who the Inquisition’s contact inside the Charisian Navy was, yet it had been obvious there had to be one. And when he’d heard about the explosion-he’d still been in Emerald at the time, waiting for the brig to carry him for the final leg of his wearisome journey from Zion-he’d realized that whoever the contact was, he must have been unmasked somehow. And that meant he hadn’t been able to complete his part of the preparations.

Ainsail had considered aborting the operation. He’d had that option, yet he’d known even as he’d considered the possibility that he wasn’t going to do it. He hadn’t come this far to turn back. And so he’d continued and, to his amazement, he’d found the promised supplies waiting exactly where he’d been told they’d be. Obviously, the Inquisition’s contact had managed to complete his preparations, and Ainsail found himself wondering if perhaps the destruction of the powder mill had always been part of the plan. For that matter, had the contact been in the mill when it blew up? Could he have contrived the explosion with some sort of delay mechanism that let him escape before the blast?

Ainsail didn’t know about that. It wasn’t the way his part of the operation was supposed to work, but there was nothing that said other parts of it couldn’t work differently. In fact, he rather hoped it had. Anyone who could have made Rakurai possible was far more valuable alive than dead.

I don’t suppose I’ll ever know, he reflected now, cautiously testing another of the potato slices to see if it had cooled enough. It had, and he chewed slowly, savoring the taste despite his scorched tongue. It was the best tasting fried potato he’d ever had, he thought, and then snorted in amusement. Sure it is! Then again, maybe it’s not. And maybe the beer isn’t really as good as I think it is, either. Maybe it’s just that knowing how close I am is making me savor everything more than I ever did before.

He didn’t know about that, and he wasn’t going to waste his time worrying about it, either. He had two more five-days here in Tellesberg, and he intended to use those days wisely. . IV.

Citadel of Schueler, The Temple, City of Zion, The Temple Lands

He didn’t know if it was day or night.

They were careful about that. There was no daylight, no moonlight or stars, to help keep track of time, and they deliberately fed them-if you could call it “feeding”-at irregular, staggered intervals. No one was allowed to sleep uninterrupted, either. Buckets of ice-cold water hurled through the bars of their cells were enough to wake anyone up, although sometimes the guards varied their procedure. White-hot irons on the ends of long wooden shafts were quite effective at rousing sleepers, as well.

They’d been stripped of even the ragged remnants of their uniforms before they’d been consigned to their cages under the bowels of the Citadel of Schueler. It wasn’t part of the original Temple complex, the Citadel; it had been built later, expressly for the Inquisition, and its walls were thick enough, its dungeons buried deep enough, that no one beyond its precincts could hear what happened within.

And that was where they’d been thrown into their cells, naked, deprived of any last vestige of human dignity. Beaten, starved, tortured at seemingly random and totally unpredictable intervals. Perhaps the most horrible thing of all, Gwylym Manthyr thought, was that they’d learned to sleep right through the shrieks of their tortured fellows. It wasn’t that they’d become callous; it was that their bodies were so desperately starved for sleep… and that those shrieks had become a routine part of the only hellish world they had left.

He looked down at his own hands in the dim lantern light. There were no nails on those scabbed, scarred fingers now, but he was luckier than some. Naiklos Vahlain-before his valiant heart finally failed him and he escaped-had been held down by two brawny inquisitors while a third had used an iron bar to methodically break every bone in his skilled, deft hands one joint at a time.

He wanted to put it down to nothing but rabid, unthinking cruelty, yet he knew it was far worse than that. All of it had a purpose, and not simply to “punish the heretics.” It was designed not simply to break them, but to shatter them. To stretch their souls upon the rack, not just their bodies, until their faith in themselves, the courage of their convictions, whatever it was that let them defy Zhaspahr Clyntahn, shattered into a million fragments that sifted through their broken fingers to the floors of their cells. It was designed to turn them into shambling scarecrows who would mouth whatever lies were dictated to them when they were paraded before the faithful, if only they would finally be allowed to die.

It was hard, he thought. Hard to maintain his faith, his trust in a God who could let something like this happen. Hard to sustain his belief in the importance of standing for what was just in defense of what he knew was true and his love for his homeland. All of that seemed far away, dream-like, from this unchanging, lantern-lit slice of hell. Not quite real, like something out of a fever delirium. Yet he clung to that faith and belief, that love, anyway, and their unlikely ally was hate. A bitter, burning, driving hate such as he’d never imagined he might feel. It filled his tortured, half-broken body with a savage determination which lifted him above himself. Which drove him onward, despite the sheer stupidity of surviving another single day, because it refused to let him stop.

He heard iron-nailed boots clashing their way across the stone floor, and the sliding sound of someone’s feet trailing across it as the inquisitors hauled him along by his arms. He stepped closer to the front wall of his tiny cell, holding on to the bars despite the way the guards liked to hammer the prisoners’ fingers against the unyielding steel with their truncheons, and peered through them. He heard the soft moaning as the inquisitors drew closer, and he recognized the prisoner being dragged to face whatever fresh torture had been devised for him.

“Hang on, Horys!” he called, his own voice hoarse and distorted. “Hang on, man!”

The words were pointless, and he knew it, yet Captain Braishair managed to raise his head as he heard them. It wasn’t the meaning of the words that mattered; it was the fact of them. The evidence that even here there was still someone who cared, someone who knew Horys Braishair for who he was, not what the Inquisition was determined to make him.

“Aye, Sir Gwylym,” Braishair half whispered. “I’ll do that thing, and-”

He broke off with a strangled grunt, jerking spastically as the weighted truncheon slammed into his kidneys. The inquisitors didn’t even bother to explain why the blow had landed; to do that would have been to acknowledge that their prisoners had some remnant of humanity that deserved explanations.

They dragged Braishair away, and a few moments later Manthyr heard fresh screams echo down the dungeon’s stone-walled gut. He leaned his forehead against the bars, pressing his eyes closed, feeling the tears on his cheeks, and he was no longer ashamed of that “unmanly” wetness, for it was so utterly unimportant against what truly mattered.

The Inquisition wanted to break them all, but especially to break him, and he knew it. They wanted the Charisian admiral-Emperor Cayleb’s own flag captain at Rock Point, and Crag Hook, and Darcos Sound-to admit his heresy. To denounce his emperor as a worshipper of Shan-wei, a liar and blasphemer, and the Church of Charis as a foul, schismatic perversion of God’s true Church. They wanted that so badly they could taste it, and so they tortured his men even more cruelly than they tortured him. They ground his responsibility to them and his utter inability to do anything for them into his heart and soul and they expected that to break him in the end.

But they’d miscalculated, he thought, opening his eyes once more, staring at the stone wall opposite his cell. Even the Inquisition could do that, and it had, because they weren’t going to break him. Not now, not next five-day, not next year- never. And the reason they weren’t was what they’d done to his men. Men who would have died no matter what Sir Gwylym Manthyr did or did not “confess to” before the watching crowd of spectators. Men he couldn’t have saved no matter what he’d done. Duty to his Emperor, faith in his God, loyalty to his Church-all of those things mattered, even here and even now. They were still part of him. But it was love and the hate-that molten, grinding hate which burned so much hotter for what they’d done to his men than for what they’d done to him-which would carry him to the bitter end. They could kill him, they could-and had, and would again-make him scream, but they could not- would not-break him.

“On your feet!” someone snarled, and a braided lash snaked between the bars to pop viciously against Manthyr’s chest.

His head jerked up, and he shoved himself to his feet, the rough stone wall sliding against his spine as he leaned against it for support. He didn’t scream, didn’t even curse. He simply glared at the inquisitor beyond the bars. He didn’t know the man’s name; none of them had names, as far as he could tell. But this one wore an auxiliary bishop’s ruby ring and his purple habit was trimmed in green and ecclesiastic white.

The bishop tucked his hands behind himself, considering the naked, scarred, burned, and welted man behind the bars.

“You’re a stubborn bunch, aren’t you?” he asked finally. “Stupid, too.” He shook his head. “Surely you’ve realized by now that not even Shan-wei can save you from God’s cleansing fire. Maybe you’re so lost to God you refuse to turn back to Him even now, but why cling to the Mistress who’s betrayed you the way she betrays everyone? Confess your sins and at least you can be spared further Question!”

Manthyr considered him for a moment, then spat. The spittle hit the bishop on the right cheek, and the man’s hand rose slowly to wipe it off. There was something ineffably evil about his self-control, the fact that his expression never even changed. It was a statement that the cruelty he inflicted would be carefully measured, not the result of blind fury that might slip and allow its victim to escape into death too soon.

“That was foolish,” he said flatly. “Do you think you’re the only one who can pay for your stupidity?”

“Go to hell,” Manthyr told him softly.

“Oh, no, not me.” The inquisitor shook his head. “But you will, and by your example, you’re dragging others with you.”

He turned his head and nodded to someone beyond Manthyr’s field of view, and two more Inquisitors dragged someone else down the passage. A third unlocked Manthyr’s cell, and they hurled the barely breathing body into his cell with him. He went to his knees, staring in horror at Lainsair Svairsmahn, and the Schuelerite bishop’s laugh was an icicle.

“That boy is clinging to your example,” he said softly. “Look at what your bravado is costing him and see if it’s still worth it.”

He turned on his heel and stalked off, followed by the other Inquisitors, and Manthyr crouched over the body of his midshipman, staring at the seared and puckered wounds where the boy’s eyes had been. Svairsmahn was a brittle bundle of bones and skin, so broken and scarred it was almost impossible to believe he was still alive. But that thin chest continued to rise and fall, and Manthyr laid a gentle, shaking hand on his cheek.

Svairsmahn flinched, one hand rising weakly in futile self-defense, but Manthyr gripped its wrist.

“It’s me, Master Svairsmahn,” he said.

“Sir Gwylym?” He could hardly hear the thready whisper and he bent closer, his ear inches from the midshipman’s mouth.

“I’m here, Lainsair.”

“I… tried, Sir. I tried.” Svairsmahn’s blind face turned towards him. “I tried, but… they made me. I… I told them. Told them… you worshipped… Shan-wei. I’m sorry… Sir. I tried. I tried.”

“Shush, Lainsair.” Manthyr’s voice broke as he lifted that slight, maimed, broken body in his arms. He held the boy to his chest, cradling him as he might have a far younger child and urging his head down against his shoulder. “Shush. It’s all right.”

“But… but I lied,” Svairsmahn whispered. “I lied… about you. About the Emperor. About… everybody… just so they’d stop.”

“Don’t think about that now,” Manthyr said into his ear, feeling the fresh tears on his own cheeks. “You’re not alone. You think no one else’s told them what they wanted to hear? Look what they’ve done to you, Lainsair. Look what they’ve done. Of course you told them what they wanted you to.”

“Shouldn’t.” Svairsmahn tried to shake his head again against Manthyr’s shoulder. “Officers… don’t lie, Sir.”

“I know. I know, Lainsair, but it’s all right.”

Manthyr settled into a sitting position, Svairsmahn in his lap, and stared through the bars of his cell. The boy couldn’t survive much more, yet Manthyr knew why the bishop had left him here. Because they were going to come back, and they were going to torture this broken, dying boy again in front of him until he told them what they wanted to hear.

But they’ve made a mistake, Lainsair, he thought. This time, they’ve made a mistake.

He cradled the boy’s head between his half-crippled but still strong hands, thanking God with all his heart for their captors’ mistake, and leaned forward until his forehead touched the midshipman’s.

“Listen to me, Lainsair,” he said. “This is important. Are you listening?”

“Yes, Sir Gwylym,” Svairsmahn whispered.

“You’ve never done less than your duty as a king’s officer, Master Svairsmahn,” Manthyr said firmly, his voice strong and calm despite the tears. “Not in all the time I’ve known you. What you may have said to them, what you may have told them because they tortured you, can’t change that. And it can’t change who you are, who you’ve always been, either. I’m proud of you, Lainsair. You’ve done well, and I’m proud of you. It’s been my highest honor to serve with you.”

“Thank you, Sir.” He could scarcely hear the wisp of a voice, but the boy’s cracked lips moved in a ghost of a smile.

“No, Lainsair.” Manthyr raised the midshipman’s head far enough to kiss the boy’s forehead and adjusted his grip with careful, loving firmness.

“No, Lainsair; thank you, ” he said, his voice soft… and his hands twisted sharply. .

The Gulf of Jharas, Desnairian Empire

“My respects to the Admiral, Master Aplyn-Ahrmahk, and inform him that Admiral Shain has hoisted the signal.”

“Aye, aye, Sir. Your respects to Admiral Yairley and Admiral Shain has hoisted the signal.”

Aplyn-Ahrmahk was pleased by how calm his voice sounded, under the circumstances, and as he saluted and headed for the ladder, the old saying about things changing and yet remaining the same ran through his mind. He could remember hundreds of times Midshipman Aplyn-Ahrmahk had been sent below with messages for Captain Yairley, and here he was doing it again, except that this message was rather more important than most of those others. Well that, and the fact that Ensign Aplyn-Ahrmahk was taking the message to Admiral Yairley, and he’d been chosen not because he happened to be conveniently available but because he’d become Admiral Sir Dunkyn Yairley’s flag lieutenant.

On the face of it, he was ridiculously junior for such a post. On the other hand, he’d served under Sir Dunkyn for the better part of four years now, and the Navy was as strapped for experienced officers as it was for seamen, especially in the wake of its current expansion. It was unlikely there was a lieutenant equally familiar with the admiral’s ways running around loose. And he had far more experience than his sixteen years (well, sixteen years in another couple of five-days) might have suggested. And, for that matter, he’d be a lieutenant on that birthday of his. So he supposed it all actually made sense, even though he’d discovered that even after Sir Dunkyn’s intensive tutelage, the social skills that normally went with his position were not precisely his strongest suit. Well, he’d just have to make up for it by working on them still harder.

He reached the paneled door to Admiral Yairley’s day cabin. It was, in fact, the same cabin which had belonged to Captain Yairley, since Destiny was not, unfortunately, one of the later and larger galleons which had been built with separate flag quarters.

Another example of things staying the same, he thought, nodding to the Marine sentry and then rapping sharply. For a moment he thought his knock hadn’t been heard, but then a voice answered.

“Enter!”

Aplyn-Ahrmahk took off his hat, tucked it even more carefully than usual under his left arm, and ran straightening fingers through his tousled hair before he stepped through the door. Not that he was worried about the admiral’s reaction to his appearance. Oh no, not his

…

Sylvyst Raigly, Sir Dunkyn’s valet and steward, had become awesomely aware of his employer’s exalted status the instant the brand-new admiral’s streamer had been broken from Destiny ’s mizzen. Raigly was only about thirty years old, well read, and always well dressed and carefully groomed, but when he decided to feel waspish, he was capable of the most icily polite, formal, biting, exquisitely nasty set downs Aplyn-Ahrmahk had ever encountered. The ensign had never heard him utter a single overtly inappropriate or discourteous word… which didn’t prevent Raigly from vivisecting anyone unfortunate enough to rouse his ire. He was also a crack pistol shot and an excellent swordsman, and one of his shipboard duties had been to instruct the midshipmen in sword work. He’d done a great deal to improve Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s combat skills, and the two of them were friends… which wouldn’t save Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s neck if he came into the admiral’s presence with his tunic unbuttoned or a hat on his head below decks.

There was no sharp-eyed and ominous valet waiting for him this time, however; merely an admiral. Well, an admiral and his secretary, who was far less terrifying than any valet!

“Yes, Hektor?” Yairley asked, looking up from the chart he’d been contemplating while he dictated a letter to Trumyn Lywshai, his newly appointed flag secretary.

“Captain Lathyk’s compliments, Sir. Admiral Shain has hoisted the signal.”

“I see.”

Yairley glanced back at the chart once more, then straightened. He stepped to the skylight, looked up at the wind indicator, and nodded in satisfaction.

“I suppose we should go on deck, then,” he said mildly, and looked at Lywshai. “We’ll finish that correspondence later, Trumyn.”

“Of course, Sir Dunkyn.”

Lywshai was ten years older than Raigly, although he and the valet got along well. But whereas Raigly was as Charisian-born and bred as a man came (and looked it), Lywshai’s hair was so dark a black it was almost blue and his eyes had a much more pronounced epicanthic fold. His father had been born in the Harchong Empire and sold to a Harchongian merchant captain by the local baron as a “cabin boy” when he was only seven. Shaintai Lywshai seldom spoke about those years, although they’d left deep and painful scars, and not just of the body. But the captain who’d bought him had decided to dabble in piracy as a sideline and picked the wrong galleon as a prize. Which was how Shaintai had ended up in Tellesberg at the age of thirteen, adopted by the captain of the galleon his previous (deceased) owner had attempted to capture. And which also explained the ferocious loyalty of Shaintai’s son Trumyn and the entire extensive Lywshai family to Charis and the Charisian crown.

“Do you want me to wait until you come back below?” Lywshai asked now. “Or should I start making the fair copies of your other letters for your signature?”

“Go ahead and finish up the ones I’ve already dictated,” Yairley decided. “I don’t believe we’ll be able to get very much done on the rest of it until this little affair is over, though.”

“Of course, Sir Dunkyn,” Lywshai said again, with a small half bow, and Yairley smiled at him. He hadn’t had very long to get to know the secretary, but he’d already decided High Admiral Rock Point’s glowing recommendation had been right on the mark. He watched Lywshai’s skillful fingers adroitly sorting through the correspondence, then raised his voice.

“Sylvyst!”

“Coming, Sir Dunkyn!” a tenor voice replied, and Raigly stepped out of the admiral’s sleeping cabin carrying Yairley’s uniform tunic over one arm and the admiral’s sword belt over the other.

Yairley grimaced at sight of the sword belt, but he didn’t argue. He only slid his arms into the offered tunic, buttoned it, and then buckled the belt around his waist. Unlike many other officers, he carried no pistols, but Raigly made up for that. Technically, the valet was a civilian, not that his lack of official martial standing seemed to cause him any undue concern. Although he wore civilian clothing, he was armed with sword and dirk and no less than four double-barreled pistols, two in holsters and the second pair shoved through his belt.

“We haven’t cleared for action yet, you know, Sylvyst,” Yairley observed.

“No, Sir Dunkyn, we haven’t,” Raigly agreed.

“Then don’t you think that might be a little… excessive?” the admiral asked, waving at the valet’s arsenal.

“No, Sir Dunkyn. Not really,” Raigly replied politely, and Yairley gave up. Between the valet and Stywyrt Mahlyk he’d have the equivalent of an entire squad of Marines keeping an eye on him. And now, no doubt, Aplyn-Ahrmahk, relieved of ship-handling duties, would add himself to the bodyguard corps, as well. In some ways, it was a relief; at other times he found himself wondering a bit plaintively why neither his valet nor his coxswain nor (now) his flag lieutenant had figured out he was an adult capable of looking after himself.

Best not to follow that thought up, he reminded himself again. You probably wouldn’t like where it ended.

“Well, if you’re satisfied that you’re sufficiently well armed, let’s go see what the rest of the fleet is doing,” he said dryly.

“Of course, Sir Dunkyn,” Raigly replied gravely, and Yairley heard something which sounded suspiciously like a chuckle from his flag lieutenant.

“Oh, shit.”

Sir Urwyn Hahltar, Baron of Jahras and Admiral General of the Imperial Desnairian Navy, spoke quietly but with great feeling as he looked at the semaphore message in his hand.

“They’re coming?” Daivyn Bairaht, the Duke of Kholman, didn’t sound any happier than his brother-in-law.

“Of course they’re coming!” Jahras growled. “It was only a matter of time.” He tossed the balled-up message slip into the trash can beside his desk with a disgusted expression. “The only surprise is that they’ve waited this long!”

He stamped his way to the window and looked out across the Iythrian waterfront. The good news was that there’d been time to complete almost all of the Desnairian Navy’s building program. That meant he had ninety-one fully armed galleons at his disposal. The bad news came in two installments. First, all of his ships were smaller than a typical Charisian galleon, with lighter armaments, less reliable guns which were prone to burst at inconvenient moments, and crews which were far less well trained. Second, according to the message from the Sylmahn’s Island semaphore station, something on the order of a hundred Charisian galleons, an unknown number of them armed with the new exploding “shells” which had gutted Kornylys Harpahr’s fleet, were headed directly for his window at this very moment.

Some of Emperor Mahrys’ senior advisers-the ones safely far away from the Gulf of Jahras and with the least responsibility for building and training the emperor’s navy-had urged Jahras to adopt a mobile, aggressive strategy. The idiots in question obviously failed to grasp the difference between ships at sea and the cavalry for which the Desnairian Empire was famed. They’d seen no reason why he shouldn’t have kept the enemy entirely out of the Gulf by using Howard Reach’s constricted waters to tie up any Charisian assault with spoiling attacks launched by smaller, handier squadrons that could dash in, hammer the enemy, and then fall back on his main force. After all, how different could it be from using cavalry attacks to tie up and pin down a more numerous foe trying to fight his way through a mountain pass?

There were times Jahras was tempted to suggest one of them should become admiral general. Unfortunately, none of them were quite stupid enough to accept the job.

Especially now.

About the only thing they are smart enough to avoid, he told himself bitterly. And can anyone explain to them the difference between a spirited and noble cavalry charger on a nice solid piece of ground and a galleon dependent entirely on wind and current? Or the fact that, unlike a cavalry regiment, a ship can sink, or burn, or just damned well blow up if someone shoots at it enough? No, of course they can’t! And they’re conveniently forgetting about the Charisians’ new little weapon, aren’t they?

“I don’t suppose we’ve had any last-minute orders from Vicar Allayn that you just neglected to mention to me?” he asked Kholman over his shoulder, never looking away from the ships in the harbor.

“If he’d said a word since your last dispatch to the Temple, I’d have told you about it.” The duke’s expression was as frustrated as Jahras’ own. As the effective Desnairian naval minister he’d presided over Jahras’ efforts to build the ships Mother Church had required of the empire. He knew exactly how difficult the task had been… and why Jahras was unwilling to face Charis at sea.

“I don’t think we’re going to get a reply from Vicar Allayn,” he continued now, his tone flat. “I think he’s going to wait to see how things work out, then either take credit for ‘allowing us to use our own initiative’ if it’s anything short of a disaster, or point out our ‘failure to comply with Mother Church’s strategic directions’ if it turns out as badly as we’re afraid it will.”

“Wonderful.” Jahras sighed, puffing out his cheeks, his expression pensive. “I’m almost tempted to go ahead and sail,” he admitted. “Assuming I didn’t get blown up, shot, or drowned I could at least point out that I’d followed orders.”

He turned his head, looking his brother-in-law in the eye, and Kholman nodded soberly. Anything that might lead the Grand Inquisitor or his agents to question one’s determination and loyalty was contraindicated.

“Between the doomwhale and the deep blue sea,” the duke said quietly.

“Exactly.” Jahras nodded back, then squared his shoulders. “But if I have to do this, I’m going to do it as effectively as I can and hope for the best. Shan-wei, Daivyn! Thirsk got himself hailed as a hero for capturing four Charisian galleons, and he’d already lost one of his own! For that matter, he’d surrendered an entire damned fleet after Crag Hook! If we can at least bleed them when they come in here after us, maybe somebody in Zion will be smart enough to realize we did the best anyone could have.”

“Maybe,” Duke Kholman replied. “Maybe.”

“The schooners report no change in their deployment, Admiral,” Captain Lathyk said, saluting as Admiral Yairley arrived on Destiny ’s quarterdeck.

“Not surprising, I suppose, Captain,” Yairley replied. A greater degree of formality had crept into his public relationship with Lathyk-inevitably, he imagined. Given his new rank, he was now a passenger in Destiny, not her master after God, and it was important he and Lathyk make that point clearly for the ship’s company. A warship could have only one captain, and any confusion about who that warship’s crew looked to for orders in an emergency could be disastrous. “I wish they would come out, but obviously no one in Iythria is foolish enough to do that. Barring direct orders, of course.”

Lathyk nodded, and Yairley’s lips quirked briefly. As High Admiral Rock Point had pointed out, to date, the Group of Four had been Charis’ best allies when it came to naval matters. Rock Point had hoped, more wistfully than with any great expectation of its happening, that Allayn Maigwair might issue Baron Jahras direct, non-discretionary orders to sortie and engage the Imperial Charisian Navy at sea. Apparently even Maigwair had more sense than that, however… unfortunately.

“Well,” the admiral said now, “if they won’t come out, we’ll just have to go in.”

“Going to be lively, Sir!” Lathyk observed with that irritating prebattle smile of his, and Yairley shrugged.

“I suppose that’s one way to describe it,” he agreed with a smaller, tighter smile of his own.

Destiny ’s motion was a little uneasy as she lay hove-to in the Middle Ground between Sylmahn Island and Ray Island, but that didn’t explain Yairley’s queasiness. He knew what did cause it, of course. The same odd, hollow feeling which always afflicted him when battle drew near was already quivering inside him, and he suppressed a familiar sense of envy as Lathyk chuckled in response to his comment. He didn’t think Lathyk was any less imaginative than he was, but somehow the captain-like so many of Yairley’s fellows-seemed impervious to the sort of tension which gripped him at times like this. And even he wasn’t all that consistent about it, he thought irritably. It made absolutely no sense for the thought of being splattered across the deck by a cannonball to… concern him so much when the thought of drowning in a storm didn’t cause him to turn a hair. Well, not much of a hair, anyway.

“Signal from Terror, Captain!” Midshipman Saylkyrk called out. He was in the maintop with his enormous spyglass trained on HMS Terror, Admiral Shain’s flagship. “Relayed from Destroyer. Our pendant number, then Number Thirty, Number Thirty-Six, Number Fifty-Five, and Number Eight.” He looked down from the maintop to where Ahrlee Zhones had the signal book open, already finding the signal numbers from the grid.

“Make sail on the larboard tack, course south-by-east, and prepare for battle, Sir!” the younger midshipman announced after a handful of seconds.

“Very good, Master Zhones,” Lathyk said. “Be good enough to acknowledge the signal under the squadron’s number.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!” Zhones was obviously nervous, but he also wore a huge grin as he beckoned to the quarterdeck signal party.

“Master Symkee!” Lathyk continued, turning to the lieutenant who’d become Destiny ’s executive officer in parallel with his own promotion.

“Aye, Sir?”

“Hands to braces, if you please. Prepare to get the ship underway.”

“Aye, aye, Sir! Hands to braces, Bo’sun!”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

The signal had scarcely been unexpected, and the colorful bunting had already been spilled out of its canvas bags and bent to the signal halliards. The flags went soaring up while bo’sun’s pipes shrilled and the ship’s company went racing to its stations, and Admiral Yairley folded his hands behind him and crossed to the taffrail to gaze astern while his flag captain and his flagship’s crew got about the business of translating High Admiral Rock Point and Admiral Shain’s orders into action.

The other five ships of his squadron-HMS Royal Kraken, HMS Victorious, HMS Thunderbolt, HMS Undaunted, and HMS Champion -also lay hove-to, keeping close company on Destiny, and High Admiral Rock Point had done him proud when he made up the squadron’s numbers. Destiny was the oldest and smallest of the six, but all of them were purpose-built war galleons from Charisian yards, not captured prizes or converted merchantmen, and between them they mounted three hundred and forty guns. Well found, well handled, and (after the voyage from Tellesberg to Thol Bay to the Gulf of Jahras, at least) well drilled, they were a potent force. Especially since all of them carried shot lockers full of the new exploding shells. Royal Kraken and Thunderbolt also carried massive fifty-seven-pounder carronades, short-ranged compared to the new model krakens on their gun decks but capable of throwing much heavier and more destructive shells. The other four carried uniform armaments of thirty-pounders, and unlike the Battle of the Markovian Sea, all of his gunners had been given ample opportunity to train with the new ammunition.

Which is a very good thing, he thought dryly, that hollowness in his middle feeling somehow even emptier, given our part of the battle plan.

The wind was a stiff topsail breeze out of the northeast-by-east, blowing at a speed of perhaps twenty-four miles per hour and raising eight-to ten-foot waves. On her new heading, Destiny would be sailing large, with the wind almost dead on her quarter. That was just about her best point of sailing, which meant she ought to make good seven and a half or eight knots, with just under thirty miles to go. Call it four hours, he thought. Time to get all the men fed a good, solid lunch before they cleared for action, and then…

“All ships have acknowledged, Sir!” Saylkyrk called from above.

“Very good, Master Saylkyrk!” Lathyk called back, then turned respectfully to Yairley.

“All ships have acknowledged receipt of the signal, Admiral.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Yairley replied gravely, and glanced up at the stiffly starched signal flags himself. By hoisting the squadron’s number above Admiral Shain’s signal, Lathyk had repeated it to all of the squadron’s units. When it was hauled down, Yairley’s command would execute it, the rest of the fleet’s sixteen squadrons would make sail in his wake in succession to execute their own portions of the high admiral’s master plan, and the die would be cast.

My, how dramatic, Dunkyn, he thought wryly. “The die was cast” before you ever left Tellesberg.

“Very well, Captain Lathyk,” he heard himself say calmly. “Execute.”

Sir Domynyk Staynair stood on HMS Destroyer’ s quarterdeck, watching his flagship’s crew scamper about making final preparations. Or that was what he looked like he was doing, at any rate. In fact, he was watching the imagery projected on his contact lenses as Dunkyn Yairley and Payter Shain began to move and the rest of the fleet started unfolding into its own component columns behind them.

The Imperial Charisian Navy had returned to the Gulf of Mathyas in strength within less than a month of Destiny ’s damage-enforced retreat, and this time it hadn’t come simply to keep an eye on the exit from the Gulf of Jahras. Admiral Shain had sent his fleet-footed schooners deep into the Gulf to reconnoiter the approaches to Terrence Bay, Port Iythria, and Mahrosa Bay. In the process, they’d swept the once-sheltered waters clear of Desnairian commerce, and, taking a page from Rock Point’s own tactics in Thol Bay, Shain had used his Marines to seize control of Howard Island, well inside Staiphan Reach and right in the throat of the Howard Passage.

The island was barely thirty-five miles long, and aside from Tern Bay, at its northern end, it didn’t present much in the way of decent anchorages. Even Tern Bay was little more than an open roadstead, offering no protection at all against northerlies. Still, it was a source of fresh water, always a warship’s most limiting supply factor. It had taken two five-days for the heavy naval guns landed across the island’s eastern beaches to batter the fortress guarding the small town of Tern Bay into submission, but they’d been time well spent, given how greatly its capture had eased Shain’s logistics. The admiral had also landed enough Marines and enough artillery to make sure no Desnairian pounce was going to take it back from him, and suddenly the largely worthless island had become a cork driven firmly into the Desnairian bottle.

Operating from the (relative) security of Tern Bay, the Imperial Charisian Navy had gone basically wherever it chose in the Gulf of Jahras. Rock Point had rather hoped Baron Jahras would venture out to dispute the ICN’s invasion of the Desnairian Empire’s most economically vital coastal waters, but what had happened to Kornylys Harpahr had made the baron wiser than that. So the Charisian cruiser squadrons had amused themselves wiping out the Gulf’s coasting trade and sending cutting-out expeditions into its lesser harbors under cover of darkness to capture or burn anything bigger than a fishing boat. And they’d also trailed their coats just beyond artillery range of the Desnairian Navy’s harbor fortifications, counting noses and examining anchorages.

As a result, they’d been able to provide Rock Point with intelligence on his enemy’s dispositions which was almost as good as what Owl’s SNARCs delivered. Not quite, of course, since unlike the SNARCs they couldn’t actually eavesdrop on Jahras’ discussions with Kholman or his ship commanders, but they’d provided more than enough information Rock Point could openly share with his own subordinates for planning purposes. And as he’d studied and discussed those reports with Shain, Yairley, and his other flag officers and senior captains, it had become evident that Jahras realized he simply couldn’t fight the Charisian Navy and hope to win. Not at sea, at any rate. Not only that, but somewhat to Rock Point’s surprise, the baron had demonstrated the moral courage to tell his superiors he couldn’t.

The Navy of God’s shock after the Markovian Sea had been profound enough for those superiors to actually listen to him, as well. Or profound enough that they hadn’t actively overruled him, at least, when he’d turned his galleons into what amounted to no more than floating batteries. Despite the importance of the Gulf’s shipping to the Desnairian economy, he hadn’t even tried to defend most of its ports, either. They’d had to make do with their existing coastal fortifications-which, admittedly, were more than enough to discourage any thought of widespread Charisian landings, especially with the Imperial Desnairian Army hanging about just in case it might be needed – because he’d refused to disperse those galleons. Iythria, with its major shipyards and dockyards, was the Gulf’s largest and most important harbor and its primary naval base. It had been built up into a major node in the Church of God’s shipbuilding and support system, and he’d decided he had no choice but to stake everything on protecting his fleet’s supporting infrastructure, although even that much was a daunting challenge for a fleet which dared not meet its opponent under sail.

Iythria’s approaches were screened by an arc of islands, extending from Sylmahn Island to the west, through Singer Island (the most northeasterly outpost of the port city), and then back to Pearl Point on the mainland. That, unfortunately, was a distance of over a hundred and fifty miles, which was far too long to protect with any sort of fixed defenses.

Sylmahn Island and Ray Island formed a second theoretical line of defense south of that, but the Middle Ground-the stretch of water between Sylmahn and Ray-was still forty-five miles across, and shallow enough in several spots to offer practical anchorages beyond the range of the island fortresses’ artillery. South of the Middle Ground lay the Outer Roadstead, another thirty miles in a north-south line before one reached the Inner Harbor and the waterfront proper of Port Iythria. Taken altogether, it was one of the finest anchorages Rock Point had ever seen, and if Desnair hadn’t been a primarily land-based power with its attention firmly focused on the Republic of Siddarmark and the Harchong Empire, it would have offered a sound base for a thriving merchant marine. Instead, other realms’ shipping-primarily Charis’, before the… current unpleasantness-had made use of its potential, which meant among other things that Rock Point’s charts for Iythria and its approaches were very, very detailed.

The only way to actually reach Iythria from the sea required an attacker to penetrate one of the two openings in the shoals protecting the Inner Harbor. The West Gate, the passage between Rocky Bank Shoal and Sickle Shoal, was the narrower of those approaches. Navigable by small vessels across virtually its entire width at high water, the deepwater channel was unfortunately serpentine and relatively narrow, which made it a much more problematical route for blue water galleons. On the other hand, the North Gate-the opening between Sickle Shoal and Triangle Shoal, directly north of the city-was far broader than the West Gate. It was also deeper, with a twelve-mile ship channel, navigable even at low water, with nary a twist nor a turn.

The Desnairians were well aware of just how wide the door to Iythria’s heart was, and they’d built powerful (and expensive) fortifications on both Sickle Shoal and Triangle Shoal. The masonry forts rose straight out of the water, which put any sort of siege or assault landing out of the question, but the total water gap between them was the better part of twenty-four miles across, and the maximum reach of their artillery was no more than three miles.

As part of Jahras’ strategy to emulate a horn lizard and curl up into an armored ball no one could get at, he’d blocked the West Gate by sinking ships and driving pilings into the main shipping channel. Opening it again was going to be an incredible pain, but for now he could be certain no Charisian galleons were going to come sneaking in on him that way. Boat attacks, and possibly even attacks by the shallow-draft schooners at high water, perhaps, but not those deep-draft galleons with their heavy artillery.

With the West Gate closed, he’d turned his attention to the North Gate and anchored his galleons directly across the ship channel. He’d moored them in a long chain, running twelve miles from east to west, with barely fifty yards between each ship and the next in line. Under normal circumstances, the interval would have been two or three times that great in order to give the vessels room to ride to their anchors with shifting tide and wind without fouling one another. Jahras clearly wasn’t particularly worried about that; besides, each ship had put out no fewer than two bow and two stern anchors, with springs rigged to each of them. Those ships weren’t moving, and he’d laid buoyed hawsers between them, as well. According to Owl’s SNARCs, each of those cables was a good ten inches in diameter, and there were four of them between each ship. Obviously, they were intended to keep anybody from passing through the narrow gaps Jahras had left between his galleons.

In addition to the galleons, he’d managed to throw together thirty genuine floating batteries, essentially just big rafts with heavy bulwarks. He’d run out of naval artillery, so he’d requisitioned every field piece the Desnairian Army could get to Iythria in time, which meant the rafts were armed with an incredible hodgepodge of ancient cannon on every conceivable sort of improvised carriage. Most of them hadn’t even been cast with trunnions, although the Iythrian artillery works had been welding banded trunnions onto them as quickly as possible. The batteries’ fire was going to be a questionable asset, but there were still a lot of them, and he’d anchored them in the shallower water at either end of his line of galleons. Obviously, he intended for them to close as much as possible of the remaining water gap between his ships and the fortifications on Sickle Shoal and Triangle Shoal.

Backing up both galleons and floating batteries were fifteen or twenty old-fashioned galleys. They didn’t have much in the way of artillery, but their job was to lurk on the inner side of the galleon line and to pounce upon and board any Charisian galleon foolhardy enough to force its way between Jahras’ battleships.

It was obvious the baron had paid close attention to the reports he’d received about what had happened in the Markovian Sea. His awareness of the advantage the Charisians’ exploding shells bestowed upon them was probably incomplete, but it was clear enough to explain his flat refusal to lead his fleet to sea against Rock Point. And he’d done what he could to protect his ships and batteries against the new threat, as well. He’d ransacked the entire Gulf for every length of chain he could find and draped it over his galleons’ sides in an effort to make them at least a little more resistant to shellfire. He didn’t have enough of it and it wasn’t heavy enough to stop short range fire, but it was a clear indication he was at least thinking hard about the threat he faced.

The poorly armed floating batteries were actually better protected than his galleons. He’d had their already thick bulwarks fitted with frameworks which extended three or four feet, then he’d filled the frameworks with sandbags. The weight did unfortunate things to the rafts’ stability and reduced their flotation margins dangerously, but a four-foot depth of sandbags was far better armor against smoothbore shells than the chain he’d draped down the galleons’ sides.

Taking everything into consideration, Rock Point had to admit Jahras’ preparations were both more thorough and more competent than he’d anticipated. Obviously, the baron realized that even with exploding shells the Charisians were still going to have to come into his range if they wanted to engage him. His anchors and springs should allow him to turn his ships in place and concentrate a devastating weight of solid shot on anyone approaching his line, and he’d done everything he could to prevent his line from being penetrated and doubled. Nor had he neglected the landward defenses. The waterfront batteries had been reinforced; he’d drafted entire infantry regiments from the Imperial Desnairian Army to reinforce his Marine contingents against the possibility of boarding actions; his decision to fight only from anchor meant he wouldn’t need any seamen for maneuvering and that every man of every crew would be available to serve his guns; and he had something like twenty-five thousand additional men in Iythria’s garrison, from which boats could ferry replacements to his galleons and batteries as they suffered casualties.

Yet despite all that, Sir Domynyk Staynair truly was as confident as he looked. He didn’t expect it to be easy, but then again, few things worth doing were, and he smiled slightly as he recalled a discussion with Prince Nahrmahn.

“I have to say I didn’t expect Jahras to put together such a nasty reception for you, Domynyk,” the little Emeraldian had said over the com. His tone had been somber, obviously concerned, but Rock Point had only chuckled grimly.

“He’s worked hard at it, I’ll give him that,” the admiral had replied. “And given his disadvantages, this is probably about the best plan he could’ve come up with. But there’s a big difference between ‘best plan he could come up with’ and ‘a plan with a chance in hell of succeeding,’ Nahrmahn.”

“I realize this is your area of expertise, not mine, but it looks ugly enough to me,” Nahrmahn had said.

“That’s because you’re not a professional seaman.” Rock Point had shaken his head. “Oh, if we didn’t have the exploding shells and Ahlfryd’s ‘angle-guns’ it would be a lot nastier, I’ll give you-and Jahras-that. But we’d still take him in the end, even with nothing but old-fashioned round shot. The butcher’s bill would be a hell of a lot higher than it’s going to be, but we’d still take him.”

“How can you be so sure?” There’d been only honest curiosity, not disbelief, in Nahrmahn’s question, and Rock Point had shrugged.

“A warship is a mobile gun platform, Nahrmahn, and Jahras doesn’t have the kind of experience a Charisian flag officer has. He thinks he’s taken mobility out of play, but he’s wrong. To a landsman or an army officer, I’m sure his position looks downright impregnable. What a sailor sees, though, are the rat-holes in his ramparts, and I mean to shove an entire fleet right through them.”

That’s what I said, Your Highness, he thought now, and that’s what I meant. Now to demonstrate how it works. . VI.

Outer Roadstead and Inner Harbor, Port of Iythria, Empire of Desnair

The guns on Triangle Shoal opened fire first.

Stupid, Sir Dunkyn Yairley thought. We’re still at least a mile out of range, you idiots! Probably the damned Army; even Desnairian naval gunners would know you couldn’t hit anything-especially with Desnairian artillery-at four miles.

Still, he had absolutely nothing against watching enemy gunners waste powder and shot. The first, most carefully prepared and aimed salvos were always the most effective, which was the reason most captains reserved their fire until they were close enough they figured they couldn’t miss. Of course, fortress guns had the advantage of nice, solid, unmoving firing platforms, which no naval gunner ever had. That was one of the reasons no sane naval commander ever fought a well-sited, well-protected shore battery.

Or that was the way things used to be, at any rate. Charisian galleons had successfully out-dueled masonry-protected harbor defenses at Delferahk, after all. Still, even the majority of Charisian naval officers regarded that as something of a fluke… which it undoubtedly had been. For one thing, the rickety fortifications in question had been in less than perfect condition-indeed, some of them had been about ready to fall down on their own. More importantly, however, Admiral Rock Point had confronted old-style artillery, with a rate of fire less than a quarter that of his own, and he’d had the advantage of total surprise. Not surprise at being attacked, but astonishment-and probably sheer disbelief-at the sheer volume of fire his ships had been able to produce.

That particular surprise no longer applied, and judging by the rapidity with which the Triangle Shoal fortress was pumping out round shot, it had been equipped with updated artillery, as well. If those shore gunners had modern guns, on modern carriages, and were using bagged charges, then the stability of their footing should actually allow them to serve their pieces even more rapidly than the Charisian gunners could.

On the other hand, there’s a difference between rapid fire and effective fire, Yairley reminded himself. Blazing away and not hitting anything is just a more spectacular way to accomplish absolutely nothing, and anybody who’s going to open fire at this range is unlikely to be the most accurate gunner in the world at any range.

He stood on Destiny ’s quarterdeck, hands once more clasped behind him, feet spread, shoulders deliberately relaxed, and concentrated on looking calm.

I wonder if one reason I’m feeling so smug about the standard of Desnairian gunnery in general is that gloating over what lousy shots they are is one way of reassuring myself that they’re not going to hit anything. Like me.

The thought made him chuckle, and he shook his head at his own perversity, then looked at Lathyk. The captain was bent over the binnacle, taking a compass bearing on the smoke-spurting fortress. Then he straightened and glanced up at the masthead weathervane with a thoughtful frown.

“Well, Captain?”

“I make it about another mile and a half before we alter towards them, Sir. Perhaps thirty more minutes.”

Yairley turned to gaze over the bulwarks, considering angles and rates of movement, then nodded.

“I believe you’re right, Captain. I think it’s time to make the signal to Captain Rahzwail.”

“Aye, Sir. I’ll see to it.”

Yairley nodded again, then looked around at the unfolding panorama. At least all the men who were about to die had been given a lovely day on which to do it. The sky was a deep, perfect blue, with only the lightest scattering of high-altitude cloud and the water was a gorgeous blend of blues and greens, creaming in white under the galleons forefeet, in the early afternoon sunlight. The seabirds and sea wyverns who’d followed the Charisian galleons, swooping and bobbing as they hoped for garbage in the ships’ wakes, seemed confused by the sudden, rolling bursts of thunder on such a perfect day. They were circling away from the ships, although they didn’t really seem panicked yet. On the other hand, they were probably bright enough to realize that what was about to happen was none of their business.

The rest of his squadron forged along in Destiny ’s wake, and astern of them was a moving forest of masts and canvas weathered to all different shades of gray and tan and dirty white. The imperial standard flew from mastheads throughout the fleet-some of the more enthusiastic captains had one at each masthead-and the long, thin, colorful tongues of flag officers’ command streamers blew from mizzenmasts for rear admirals and commodores, from mainmasts for admirals, and from foremasts for the newly introduced rank of vice admiral. Up until the last year or two, Yairley couldn’t have imagined seeing that many ships in one place, all bent on a single mission under the command of a single admiral. Even now the sheer magnitude of the spectacle seemed preposterous.

He couldn’t pick Destroyer out of the mass of her consorts, but she was back there, sailing along in the middle of that huge sprawl, rather than leading the way as he knew High Admiral Rock Point would have preferred. But that exposed position wasn’t the proper place for a high admiral-not in something like this. No, that was more properly left to a more expendable flag officer… like one Sir Dunkyn Yairley.

“The signal to Captain Rahzwail is ready, Sir,” Ensign Aplyn-Ahrmahk said respectfully, and Yairley gave himself a shake.

“Very well, Master Aplyn-Ahrmahk, let’s get it sent,” the admiral said with a crooked smile. “And then I think we should probably signal the squadron to reduce sail, don’t you think?”

“They don’t seem very impressed by General Stahkail’s gunnery, My Lord,” Captain Mahlyk Ahlvai observed dryly.

“No, they don’t, Captain,” Baron Jahras agreed.

They stood on the poop deck of HMS Emperor Zhorj, Jahras’ forty-eight-gun flagship. Unlike the majority of the Desnairian Navy, Emperor Zhorj was a purpose-built war galleon, with much heavier framing and planking than her converted merchant consorts. Despite that, she was considerably smaller and more lightly armed than the ships sailing steadily towards her.

Jahras had strongly considered remaining in his shoreside office. With access to the semaphore and the signal flag mast on top of the main dockyard building, he’d actually have been better able to send orders from there (at least until smoke obscured all signals), especially with Emperor Zhorj ’s masts truncated because of his orders to send topmasts and topgallant masts ashore. It would also have been considerably safer, in a personal sense. But while Jahras had steadfastly avoided combat with the Imperial Charisian Navy, there was nothing wrong with his personal courage. If his fleet had to fight, his proper place was with it. And from a somewhat more cynical and calculating perspective, he was more likely to avoid condemnation for the debacle about to occur if he could point out to Vicar Allayn and Vicar Zhaspahr that he’d commanded from the front, in the very heart and fury of the action. He didn’t know how much more likely to avoid condemnation he might be, but anything was worth striving for.

At the moment, however, he could only endorse Captain Ahlvai’s opinion. General Lowrai Stahkail, the commanding officer of the Triangle Shoal fortress, had not been Jahras’ choice for his job. He could think of at least a half-dozen officers he would have preferred to see commanding that fort, but Stahkail had friends at court and a reputation-mostly self-bestowed-as an artillerist. Jahras had never seen any evidence he deserved it, although, to be fair, he was an Army artillerist, not a naval gunner.

Not that the baron was interested in being any fairer to Stahkail than he had to at the moment.

He raised his telescope and picked up the white flaws of round shot skipping across the waves. Perhaps Stahkail was trying to ricochet the shot into the ships, extending his range by bouncing the projectiles the way an artillerist could sometimes do on land. If so, he didn’t seem to be succeeding.

You really should be at least a little fair, Urwyn, he told himself. There’s not much chance the Charisians are going to come into his range. If he wants to hit them at all he’s going to have to do it from a long way away.

Unfortunately, Stahkail’s… enthusiasm seemed to be contagious, and some of the floating batteries closest to Triangle Shoal were beginning to fire sporadically, as well. Their guns were much closer to the water, giving them even less range than the fortress, and he lowered the glass with an angry grimace.

“Signal to the floating batteries if you please, Captain!” he snapped. “Cease fire! Do not waste powder and shot!”

“Aye, My Lord,” Ahlvai replied, then cleared his throat. “Ah, should I address the signal to General Stahkail, as well, Sir?”

“By no means, Captain.” Jahras actually managed a smile. “First, he’s got a lot more powder in his magazines than any of the batteries do. Second, I don’t think he quite grasps that the Navy is in charge of Iythria’s defense. There seems to be some confusion in his mind as to the exact structure of the chain of command, and I’d hate to overtax his clearly overworked brain trying to explain it to him in the middle of a battle.”

“I see, My Lord.” Ahlvai seemed to be having a little difficulty keeping his voice level, Jahras observed. Well, it wasn’t as if his opinion of Stahkail should come as any surprise to his own flag captain, although he supposed he really shouldn’t be throwing more fuel on that particular fire.

The captain turned away, his shoulders quivering with what certainly looked like suppressed laughter, and beckoned to his signals lieutenant. Jahras watched Ahlvai for a moment or two, then turned back to the oncoming Charisians as they began reducing sail.

Stripping down to fighting sail, he thought. Langhorne, I hope you and Chihiro are both keeping an eye on us down here, because I think we’re going to need you.

Sir Dunkyn Yairley had little attention to spare for the line of anchored galleons and floating batteries, even though that was his own squadron’s immediate objective. He was too busy watching Captain Ahldahs Rahzwail’s ship and her half-dozen sisters.

HMS Volcano was an… odd-looking vessel. She was actually larger than Destiny, although she was rated at only twenty-four guns and showed only twelve ports on a side, and all of her guns were mounted on the spar deck, which put her ports a good twenty feet above her designed waterline. Her bulwarks were higher than most galleons’, and the ports piercing them were disproportionately tall, as well. She was disproportionately beamy and massive-looking, too, although that was less evident watching her in profile the way Yairley was at the moment.

There was a reason for her odd appearance, and also a reason she’d been built at King’s Harbor, rather than one of the more publicly accessible yards the Navy was using for the majority of its construction these days. No one had wanted anyone getting a close look at her or her sisters and wondering about their peculiarities. In fact, even though Yairley had seen Volcano herself on the ways, he’d never noticed most of the unusual features of her design until they’d been pointed out to him by High Admiral Rock Point.

The reason she carried so few guns was that each of the ones she did carry weighed more than twice as much as one of the new model krakens on Destiny ’s gundeck. Despite that, the gun tubes looked short and stubby, and their carriages looked downright bizarre. Not too surprisingly, he supposed, since each of those guns had a ten-inch bore and those ridiculous, tall carriages were designed specifically to permit them to be elevated to absurd heights. That had required some tricky engineering, particularly given the recoil forces involved. The mammoth guns took either a hundred-and-fifty-pound solid shot or a hundred-pound shell, and the stresses when one of them fired were… extreme. The downward thrust engendered by their high elevations had to be absorbed by the ship’s deck, which helped to explain Volcano ’s extraordinarily massive frames and thick deck planking. All war galleons were basically mobile gun platforms, but Volcano and her sisters took it to ridiculous extremes.

That had been Yairley’s initial reaction, at any rate. Before he’d sailed to join Admiral Shain, however, he’d had the opportunity to exercise with Captain Rahzwail’s squadron, and he was rather looking forward to sharing that experience with the Desnairians.

That’s odd, Baron Jahras thought, watching the half-dozen or so galleons which had peeled off from the rest of the advancing line.

It was obviously a planned and deliberate maneuver. The meticulous order the Charisians were maintaining as they advanced to battle was sobering for someone who’d tried to get his own fleet organized to at least all sail in approximately the same direction on the same day. It had proven to be an exercise all too like trying to herd cat-lizards, but those galleons were maneuvering with the kind of precision and discipline for which Desnairian cavalry was famed. Given Jahras’ unhappy experiences with his own fleet, he had altogether too good an appreciation for how difficult that was. Despite the vast size of the fleet sailing towards him, there was no sign of confusion anywhere in that mountain-range mass of canvas and masts.

Which made the antics of the ships which had caught his eye even more perplexing. Instead of bearing away from Triangle Shoal, they were actually headed for it, and he realized they had cutters and longboats out in front, taking soundings with lead lines to determine the depth of the water.

No, he realized as one of the longboats put a buoy over the side, they’re running lines of soundings, matching them with the depths on their charts to help determine their exact positions. But why? And that buoy is inside Stahkail’s extreme range. He’s not likely to hit anything on purpose, but if they anchor that close in and he fires enough shots, blind, dumb luck is likely to give him a chance to hurt them after all.

It made no sense. There was no need for them to enter the play of Stahkail’s guns!

Perhaps not, yet that was clearly what they had in mind. In fact, as he watched, the first galleon dropped a stern anchor. Her companions continued onward, and then a second ship anchored by the stern, as well. Then a third. A fourth. They were actually anchoring, forming a line and making themselves unmoving targets, and Jahras frowned in disbelief as he realized they had springs on their anchor cables. They were deliberately courting an artillery duel with heavy fortress guns protected by thick masonry walls!

Thin white waterspouts began to pock the surface of the waves around the anchored Charisians, but they went calmly about the business of taking in sail. Then they began adjusting their positions, using the springs to wind themselves around until they presented their broadsides directly to Stahkail’s fortress. They seemed in no hurry, almost as if they were unaware of the plumes of smoke rising from the furnaces Stahkail was using to heat his round shot until they glowed cherry-red. One or two of those heated shot lodged in a ship’s timbers could turn it into an inferno, yet they appeared unconcerned by the possibility. What kind of madmen-?

“All guns cleared away and prepared to fire, Sir!” Ahldahs Rahzwail’s executive officer informed him. “Elevation thirty-five degrees.”

“Very well, Master Byrk. You may open fire.”

Baron Jahras’ fingers tightened convulsively on the barrel of his spyglass as the first of the galleons fired. He could actually see the trajectory of their shot, and they arched impossibly high, lofting across the blue sky in a delicate arc that took them over the top of the fortress’ curtain wall and dropped straight into its interior.

And then they exploded.

Ahldahs Rahzwail smiled in satisfaction as Volcano ’s first broadside slammed into its target. He couldn’t see it actually hit, but that was rather the point of the exercise, and his smile turned into a fierce, savage grin as the shells exploded inside the fortress.

Rahzwail had had his doubts when Commander Mahndrayn first approached him, but he’d known Mahndrayn for several years. He’d respected the younger man’s brain power, and Baron Seamount was recognized as the Navy’s premier gunnery expert. When both of them insisted Seamount’s new “high-angle gun” was a practical proposition, he’d agreed to become one of the officers involved in developing it as a workable weapon. It was obvious to him that the current high-angle guns (which Volcano ’s crew had already shortened to “angle-gun”-or even just “angles”-for day-to-day use) were only a crude, very early development of what would one day be possible. On the other hand, the entire Charisian Navy had grown accustomed to being a work in progress. Looking back at the breakneck rate of change involved in the conversion from a fleet of two hundred galleys to an equally large fleet of gun-armed galleons in less than five years was enough to make a man’s head spin, and there was no reason to suppose anything was going to change in that regard, whatever the Grand Inquisitor might have preferred.

Mahndrayn’s death had been a tragedy in more ways than Rahzwail could count. The commander had been exactly the sort of brilliant innovator the Charisian Empire needed if it was going to survive. Rahzwail himself wasn’t in the same league, and he knew it, yet he’d also realized he was going to have to step up to the plate and try anyway. He’d already started working on a couple of rough ideas for a proper rotating gun mount, although he was pretty sure it would have to wait for those iron-framed ships Mahndrayn had been talking about. And making it work with all the masts and spars in the way was going to be a challenge, as well. But once they’d managed to rifle the angle-guns, figured out how to lengthen the tubes further, and gotten them into a pivot mount that could stand the recoil, possibly figured out a way to make breech-loading work, then- then…!

For now, though, crude though they might be, Volcano ’s guns were doing exactly what they’d been designed to do.

He turned his back on the fortress. Any hit it managed to score would be a matter of pure luck. Not only that, but Volcano had been built with scantlings which were almost twice the thickness of a standard galleon, and not just to resist the recoil of her own guns. Those thick sides should be the next best thing to invulnerable even to fortress guns at such extreme range. The same, alas, could not be said for fortress walls where her guns were concerned.

Given their sheer size, those guns would have made highly effective battering pieces in a traditional siege, hurling their hundred-and-fifty-pound round shot against those masonry walls again and again, and the fortifications protecting Iythria were old-fashioned masonry, without the shot-absorbing earthen berms which improvements in artillery had imposed on modern fortress designers. They would have shattered quickly under the sort of pounding Volcano could have given them. But why pound your way through a wall when you could simply ignore it, instead?

He watched the gun crews reloading. It was an inevitably slow process, although he and Mahndrayn had done what they could to improve matters. The upper portion of the carriage was a separate structure which recoiled on skids cut into the lower, wheeled carriage. The lower portion was fitted with castered wheels that ran on iron rails set into the deck, arranged so that the entire piece could be pushed around in train (in calm weather, at least) by only two men, despite its massive weight. When the upper portion of the slide carriage recoiled, it did so in an angled plane, which brought the elevated muzzle closer to parallel to the deck. It was still inconveniently high for the members of the gun crew responsible for swabbing out and reloading, but it was workable. And it meant they didn’t have to depress the barrel and then reelevate it between every shot. It was all still clumsy, and the rate of fire was far slower than a standard long thirty-pounder’s, but Rahzwail was trying to come up with a better way to manage things. It all went back to breech-loading, he thought again. If they could ever get that to work…

Despite all their handicaps, Volcano ’s gunners managed to sustain a rate of fire which was almost twice that of the old prebagged charge and pre-truck gun carriage days. As he watched, fresh powder bags slid down the barrels and were rammed home, followed by shells strapped to stabilizing “shoes.” The “shoes”-flat wooden disks the same diameter as the shells-fixed the shells’ attitude in relation to the angle-guns’ bores and made sure their fuses faced away from the powder charges. They also made the shells easier to handle, which was nothing to sneer at when the things weighed a hundred pounds each!

The fuses were a significant improvement on Baron Seamount’s original design, too. The new fuses burned much more consistently, and they could be adjusted for more finicky time increments. It was still something of a “by-guess-and-by-Langhorne” endeavor, but it was less a matter of guesstimating than it had been, and a little spread in detonation times wasn’t going to matter much. They were dropping their fire at steep angles into the fortress’ interior, and those same masonry walls were going to confine the shells-and their blast-right on top of the target. Not only that, but no fortress designer in the world had ever considered ways to deal with plunging fire like this. The interior of that fortress had no overhead protection at all, because it had never been needed before.

Jahras’ jaw clenched as the volume of (thoroughly useless) fire from Triangle Shoal dropped abruptly. The peculiar Charisian galleons were staggering their fire in an obviously preplanned fashion. Their steady, rolling broadsides were timed to see to it that at least one ship’s shells went plunging into the fortress every few seconds. They were maintaining a cauldron of explosions inside the fort. No wonder Stahkail’s fire was dropping! How in Shan-wei’s name had even Charisians come up with-?

The question chopped off with ax-like suddenness as the fortress’ main magazine exploded.

Rahzwail’s eyes widened as the fortress suddenly emulated Volcano ’s namesake. That was unexpected! The plan had been simply to drive the gun crews off their pieces and possibly disable the guns themselves, not to blow up the damned fortress!

Damn. They must’ve had even less overhead protection than we expected, he thought with an odd sense of detachment as he watched stonework, pieces of heavy wooden beams, an entire gun carriage and cannon, and (undoubtedly) bits and pieces of men launch themselves across the heavens, trailing comet tails of smoke as they arced outward. They seemed to hang at the tops of their trajectories for a long moment, and then they came plunging down into the water in explosions of white, and Rahzwail shook his head.

Looks like we’re going to have to introduce some additional new ideas in fortress design, he thought as a sizable piece of one fortress wall pitched wearily outward and slid down into a white cauldron of foam. I wonder how deep we’ll have to bury a magazine to keep a ten-inch shell from reaching it? And if rifled shells are as much heavier as Baron Seamount is predicting, how deep will we have to go to protect against one of them?

He had no idea what the answer to either of those questions might be, but he made a mental note to discuss it with Baron Seamount at his earliest opportunity. It was only going to be a matter of time before the other side figured out how to build its own angle-guns, after all. When that happened, it would probably be a good idea for Charis to be ahead of the defensive game, as well.

“Be so good as to send a boat close enough to the fortress to hail it, Master Byrk,” he said out loud, showing his first lieutenant a bared-teeth grin as shells continued to plunge into the target and the smoke of heavy fires came belching up from its interior to join the smoke and dust plume of the explosions still lingering above it. “I imagine they might be in the mood to consider surrendering, don’t you?”

“Well, that’s a thing, Sir Dunkyn,” Rhobair Lathyk murmured, gazing back at the smoke-gushing fortress. “Can’t say as I expected that! ”

“I don’t think anyone did,” Yairley replied almost absently. “Still, I’m not going to complain.”

“Oh, not me, either, Sir!” Lathyk grinned. “Matter of fact, if it takes a little starch out of those lads in front of us, I’ll be just delighted!”

His flag captain had a point, Yairley thought. His squadron had slowly altered course, coming around to a heading of approximately east-by-south, almost but not quite parallel to the line of Baron Jahras’ anchored galleons. They were closing only slowly now under topsails and jib alone, and here and there a Desnairian gun was beginning to thud in defiance. None of those shots were coming anywhere near Destiny- yet-but as the range continued to fall, that was likely to change.

“Very well, Captain Lathyk,” he said. “I believe it’s time.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.” Lathyk nodded and raised his speaking trumpet. “Man the braces!”

Baron Jahras was still staring at Triangle Shoal when he heard the bellow of fresh gunfire coming from the west. At first he thought the Charisian galleons approaching his line had opened fire, but then he realized his mistake. Somewhere beyond his line of sight, another cluster of those damned… bombardment galleons, or whatever the hell someone wanted to call them, had opened fire on the Sickle Shoal fortress, as well. That was too far away for Jahras to see from his current position, but off the top of his head he couldn’t think of any reason for that fortress to be any more successful than Stahkail’s had been.

He stamped to the forward edge of the poop deck, raising his spyglass and peering through it. From this close to the water he couldn’t actually see the fortress thanks to the curve of the earth, but he could make out the clouds of gunsmoke rising beyond Sickle Shoal. He knew it was pointless, but he was still trying to pick out some sort of detail when Captain Ahlvai cleared his throat.

“Beg pardon, My Lord, but it seems the heretics are about to come calling.”

Jahras lowered the glass and looked across Emperor Zhorj ’s starboard rail, and his expression tightened. The leading Charisian squadron had turned downwind once more, sailing directly into his anchored ships’ broadsides. He had enough of an angle on them to see their rigged anchors and realize they, too, intended to anchor by the stern, undoubtedly on a spring. With the wind setting steadily out of the northeast and the tide making, wind and current alike would help them maintain their positions. There wasn’t much subtlety to it, he thought harshly. A straight broadside duel, a pounding match. One he ought to be able to win, even if his guns were lighter, because he could bring so many more of them to bear. Except for the minor fact that unless he was sadly mistaken, every one of those galleons was about to begin firing the same sort of ammunition which had just blown the guts out of a heavy masonry fortress.

And we’re just a tiny bit more likely to catch fire-or sink-than a fortress, a mental voice told him.

“Open fire, Captain Ahlvai,” he said flatly. . VII.

Inner Harbor, Port of Iythria, Empire of Desnair

The afternoon tore apart in thunder, lightning, smoke, and screams.

HMS Destiny had missed the savage battle in the Markovian Sea, but she made up for it now. The Imperial Desnairian Navy was nowhere near the equal of the Navy of God. Its crews had less training, most of them had less motivation, and although their artillery had been manufactured to the same design, there was an enormous difference in its workmanship and quality. Most of Baron Jahras’ captains refused to load their guns with full charges, given their propensity to explode unexpectedly, and the gun crews (who tended to have a closer association with them) were even more leery of their weapons. Worse, Jahras had been more or less forced to settle for dry-firing their pieces for training, since he couldn’t afford to use them up before they were actually needed in battle. His gunners had mastered the motions of their drill, but it was a largely theoretical mastery, without the experience of the actual thunder of their weapons, the reek of smoke, and-certainly-without a live enemy on the far side of the gunport from them.

On the other hand, there were a lot of guns on those Desnairian ships, and Jahras’ galleons had been in place literally for months. His crews might be nowhere near the equal of their Charisian opponents as seamen, but then very few seamen were. And the Desnairians might not have the Charisians’ tradition of victory-because, again, very few navies did. But what those Desnairian crewmen did have was practice and complete familiarity with their commander’s battle plan, and while they might not have mastered the gunner’s trade in the brimstone reek of actual burned gunpowder, the motions of the evolution had been drilled into them mercilessly. They knew exactly what they were supposed to do, because their captains had explained it to them in detail and they’d practiced it over and over again. And if their fire might not be as accurate or as rapid as their opponents’, it was far more accurate and rapid than it would have been at sea, maneuvering under sail while the ship moved and surged underfoot.

The crewmen assigned to the capstans had spent literally five-days practicing turning their ships, pivoting them to exactly the angles their captains wanted, and they did that now. As the Charisian line, led by HMS Destiny, headed for its enemies, a hailstorm of white splashes rose all about Sir Dunkyn Yairley’s flagship and her consorts. It wasn’t well aimed, but there was so much of it that not all of it could miss, and heavy splintering sounds announced the arrival of twelve-pound and twenty-five-pound round shot. They slammed into Destiny ’s bow as she headed straight into the line of Jahras’ anchored galleons, and Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk saw one of his ship’s long fourteen-pounder bow chasers take a direct hit. Its carriage disintegrated, spewing out a fan of splinters that wounded three men at other guns. Half its own crew was killed by the hit, and one of the survivors was down, kicking in agony on the deck while the fingers of his right hand tried vainly to stanch the bleeding where his left arm had been. Two members of the same gun crew who seemed to be unhurt grabbed their maimed companion and started dragging him towards the hatch and the waiting healers… just as another broadside lashed the water around the ship and another round shot ripped through all three of them.

This time, there were no survivors.

The ensign turned away, looking for his admiral, and saw Captain Lathyk standing on top of the starboard hammock nettings, one arm through the mizzen shrouds for balance while he leaned out, trying to fix the Desnairians’ position in his mind despite the solid wall of smoke their guns were belching out. As Aplyn-Ahrmahk watched, another Desnairian round shot came whimpering and whining out of the thunder. It slammed through the hammock nettings less than three feet from the captain and a flying splinter cut a deep gash in his right cheek, but Lathyk didn’t even seem to notice. He only leaned farther out, as if he thought he could somehow bend down and look under the smoke, between it and the water, to see his enemy clearly.

Sir Dunkyn stood beside the binnacle, hands still clasped behind him, his head moving steadily back and forth as his gaze swept between Captain Lathyk and the masthead weathervane. Sylvyst Raigly stood two paces behind him, head cocked, watching the chaos as if he were considering how best to arrange seating for a formal dinner. Stywyrt Mahlyk stood on the admiral’s other side, arms folded, head settled well down on his neck while he chewed a wad of chewleaf with the air of someone who had seen this sort of nonsense altogether too often.

Yairley seemed unaware of his henchmen’s presence. His expression was calm, almost contemplative as he glanced briefly down at the binnacle compass card, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk drew a deep breath. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen battle before, he reminded himself, remembering the thunder of guns, the screams, the clash of steel on steel from the Battle of Darcos Sound. But there was a difference this time, he realized. For the first time, he wasn’t truly part of Destiny ’s company. He was Admiral Yairley’s flag lieutenant, with no assigned battle station, no responsibility to the ship that he could grasp in mental hands and cling to when the world went mad around him. He couldn’t believe what an enormous difference that made, and yet as the recognition struck him, he also realized it had to be even worse for the admiral. Like Aplyn-Ahrmahk, Yairley was only a passenger this time. The man who’d commanded Destiny, who’d been ultimately responsible for every order given aboard her, found himself with absolutely no decisions to make once the order to engage had been given.

The youthful ensign stepped up beside his admiral. Mahlyk saw him coming and grinned, then spat an expert jet of brown chewleaf juice over the leeward rail. Yairley, alerted by his coxswain’s grin, turned his own head, looking at the ensign, and raised one eyebrow as yet another salvo of round shot plowed the water around his flagship.

“Lively, I believe the Captain predicted, Sir?” Aplyn-Ahrmahk had to speak loudly to be heard through the tumult.

“A sometimes surprisingly apt way with words, the Captain has,” Yairley replied with a nod.

“Exactly what I was thinking myself, Sir.” Aplyn-Ahrmahk managed a smile. “Except I think it’s going to get even more lively shortly.”

“One can only hope, Master Aplyn-Ahrmahk,” Yairley said. “One can only hope.”

Baron Jahras coughed as incredibly foul-smelling gunsmoke rolled back across Emperor Zhorj ’s decks. Hard as he’d tried to prepare himself, he’d never imagined anything like this ear-crushing din. The sheer concussion of hundreds of pieces of artillery, the bubbles of overpressure spreading out when they fired, was unimaginable. He felt the surges of air pressure coming back, punching at his face like immaterial fists reeking of Shan-wei’s own brimstone come hot from hell, and the deck planking underfoot shook to the recoil of his flagship’s guns like a terrified animal. Yet for all the thunder and fury, the range from Emperor Zhorj to her enemies was longer than Jahras had expected… and her fire was proportionately less accurate as a result.

The northeasterly wind swept diagonally across his east-to-west line of anchored ships, rolling the smoke before it. It blew back into his eyes, but he could still make out the Charisian mastheads above the fog bank born of his own artillery, and something like a chill ran down his spine as he watched those implacable mastheads-the ones which had maintained their distance as they approached his line on an almost parallel course, in a long loop from the east-turn suddenly towards it.

They have to be out of their minds! he thought. Langhorne, they’re sailing straight into our broadsides!

He’d never anticipated that. Sail directly into an opponent’s fire, on a heading which let every one of their broadside guns bear when none of yours would? Madness! Yet that was precisely what the Charisians were doing, and that chill in his spine grew colder and stronger as he realized why.

As he watched, the first six ships in the Charisian line headed directly for the six easternmost galleons in his own line. They weren’t going to sail along his line, exchanging broadsides with him, after all. Had their earlier heading been nothing but a bluff to make him think they would? He didn’t know, but whether they’d deliberately tried to deceive him or not was immaterial now. Their new course wouldn’t allow him to concentrate the fire of multiple ships on each of theirs as they moved into position as he’d planned; instead, each of those ships was deliberately taking the fire of its own clearly preselected target end-on in order to close the range far more rapidly than Jahras had ever expected.

They’re going to come to the range they want, then they’re going to anchor, and they’re going to pound the ever living hell out of the end of my line, he realized sickly. They’re going to get hurt doing it, but they’re also going to blow a gap the ships behind them will be able to sail straight through.

He watched those mastheads coming on unflinchingly, knew those ships had to be taking dozens of hits… and recognized that it didn’t matter.

More and more round shot smashed into Destiny ’s sturdy hull. Many of them, especially from the lighter twelve-pounders, failed to penetrate, although no one aboard the Charisian ship realized that was partly because the Desnairian gunners were firing with reduced charges because they distrusted their own artillery. Even with the understrength charges, however, the twenty-five-pounders were another matter. Aplyn-Ahrmahk heard splintering crashes and the screams of wounded men from the crews on the gundeck’s long thirty-pounders as those heavier shot punched through, and a four-foot section of Destiny ’s midships bulwark exploded inward in a tornado of splinters and shredded hammocks. Then “Heads below! Main topgallant’s coming adrift!”

The admiral and the ensign looked up in time to see the entire main topgallant yard, shot clean through right at the slings, begin its fall. The two halves of the yard slipped downward, then plunged like broken javelins, still joined by the shredded remnants of the sail. The braces, secured to the ends of the yard, stopped it before it actually hit the nettings stretched over the deck to protect against falling debris, and it dangled untidily, swinging like an ungainly pendulum in a tangle of canvas, broken wood, and cordage.

“Get aloft and secure that wreckage!” Boatswain Symmyns bellowed, and men went swarming up the rigging to capture and tame that pendulum before it could plunge the rest of the way to the deck with lethal consequences.

“Stand by to anchor!” Captain Lathyk shouted. “Hands to buntlines and clewlines! Stand by the larboard broadside!”

Seamen moved through the smoke and the turmoil with disciplined haste. The crews of the larboard guns crouched down, getting as much out of the way as they could. With only topsails and jib set, Destiny needed only a fraction of the men normally required to make or take in sail, which was just as well under the circumstances, Aplyn-Ahrmahk reflected. At least five of the galleon’s larboard guns had already been knocked out of action, her decks were splashed with blood, he saw at least a dozen bodies lying where they’d been dragged out of their mates’ way, and casualties were piling up at the healers’ station on the orlop deck.

“Larboard your helm!” the captain shouted. “Take in fore and main topsail!”

Destiny turned to starboard as the wheel went over, presenting her waiting larboard broadside to the Desnairian galleon HMS Saint Adulfo , the fifth ship in from the eastern end of Jahras’ line.

“Let go the larboard anchor!”

The sheet anchor rigged from the larboard cathead was released. It plunged instantly, but this time the cable was flaked out on the gundeck, not the upper deck, and run not from the hawsehole, but through a stern gunport. The galleon continued past the point at which the anchor had been dropped under her jib alone, sailing out her cable while the men on the gundeck stayed carefully out of the way of the thick hawser rumbling and roaring out the gunport. Then the cable hit the stoppers, halting its run, and Destiny shuddered and jerked as the anchor’s flukes dug into the bottom and held. The cable snapped taut, and Chief Kwayle and his waiting party pounced, nipping the bitter end of the spring to it.

“Made fast!”

The call came up from below, and Lathyk nodded.

“Take in the jib! Veer the cable, Master Symkee! Take tension on the spring!”

Captain Ehrnysto Plyzyk, of the Imperial Desnairian Navy, watched the Charisian galleon stop moving. She edged a bit further to windward under bare spars as her topsails were brailed up and her jib dropped, and his stomach muscles tensed. She was veering a little more cable, he realized, and when she finished, she’d have the slack she needed for the spring she’d undoubtedly rigged to control her heading just as the springs on his own anchors controlled Saint Adulfo ’s. And when that happened…

“Pound her, boys!” he bellowed, jabbing his sword like a pointer at the Charisian half-obscured by his own gunsmoke. “If you want to live, pound that bitch!”

“Stand by the larboard battery!” Lieutenant Tymkyn shouted.

A hurricane of round shot hammered his ship, although only HMS Loyal Defender, Saint Adulfo ’s next ahead, was able to turn to lend her guns to Saint Adulfo ’s defense. Holy Langhorne, astern of Saint Adulfo, might have assisted her as well, but she no longer had any attention to spare. Captain Bahrdahn’s Undaunted had fetched up to windward of her, and Tymkyn heard the thunder of Undaunted ’s artillery as the other galleon came into action.

Still, between them, Saint Adulfo ’s and Loyal Defender’ s broadsides mounted forty-four guns to Destiny ’s twenty-five… or what would have been twenty-five if she hadn’t been so heavily hit on the way in. In fact, she probably had no more than eighteen or nineteen guns, and Tymkyn peered through the smoke, waiting for the spring to bring her fully around. He wasn’t going to waste that first broadside by firing one second before he was sure all of his guns bore on the target, and The twelve-pound shot from Saint Adulfo ’s starboard battery struck Destiny ’s youthful third lieutenant just below midchest and tore his body in two.

Aplyn-Ahrmahk saw Tymkyn flung aside in a spray of blood and torn flesh. At almost the same instant, he realized Trahvys Saylkyrk, Tymkyn’s assistant in command of the larboard battery, was down as well-wounded or dead, he couldn’t tell. Up until his elevation to Admiral Yairley’s flag lieutenant, that had been Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s duty station when the ship cleared for action, and old reflexes took over. He didn’t stop to think; he simply acted, leaping up onto the larboard gangway. His feet slid in Tymkyn’s fresh blood despite the sand scattered over the decks for traction, and he clutched at the main shrouds for balance to keep himself from falling.

“As you bear, lads!” he screamed, then waited two more heartbeats.

“Fire!”

Saint Adulfo heaved as another broadside blasted out of her smoke-streaming gun muzzles, and there was a sharper, louder report from forward as her number three gun blew up despite the reduced charge. Fortunately, the gun tube simply split lengthwise. Half its crew was killed, the ready charges being brought up for it and the number four gun were touched off in sympathetic detonation by the flame gushing from the shattered cannon, wounding four more men, but it could have been worse. Indeed, it had been worse the last time one of Saint Adulfo ’s guns burst.

But that didn’t change the fact that it had burst, and at the worst possible time, Captain Plyzyk thought bitterly. The entire forward half of his starboard battery was thrown into confusion by the sudden-and fully understandable-terror a bursting gun always produced.

“More hands to the forward guns!” he shouted. “Let’s get some fresh-!”

The Charisian galleon fired at last.

HMS Destiny ’s larboard side belched flame and smoke. She’d closed to within less than fifty yards of Saint Adulfo before she anchored, and the air trapped between the two ships was a fiery maelstrom as her broadside fired for the first time. A quarter of her company lay dead or wounded before she fired her first shot, and even as Aplyn-Ahrmahk shouted the command, a twenty-five-pound round shot cut through her mainmast three feet above the deck. The mast toppled into the smoke like a weary tree, and rigging parted, broken ends lashing out, flailing like maddened serpents. Men who got in the way of that heavy, tarred cordage were swatted casually from their feet, usually with broken bones and torn flesh, and others scrambled madly for safety as the entire massive complex of the mainmast came thundering down. The fore topgallant mast followed it, and the galleon staggered as if she’d just lost her rudder all over again.

But the men on her larboard guns ignored the chaos and confusion. They paid no heed to the damage control parties racing to cut away the wreckage and drag the injured and dying out of the tangles of fallen cordage. They were totally focused on their guns, for this was the reason Destiny had taken so much damage. This was what she’d come to do, and as they heard the youthful ensign’s familiar voice, they did it.

Ehrnysto Plyzyk saw the Charisian mainmast start to topple and opened his mouth to cheer. But before he could, the smoke between the two ships lifted on a fresh furnace blast, and this one didn’t come from his guns.

The deck hammered against the soles of his shoes. It was the first time he’d ever felt heavy shot striking a ship, and a corner of his mind recognized the difference between the recoil from his own guns and the sharper, lighter, and yet somehow more… vicious shock of enemy fire.

And then sixteen of the eighteen shells which had struck his ship exploded almost simultaneously.

“Reload! Reload! ”

Aplyn-Ahrmahk heard the gun captains’ shouted commands and looked around, trying to find Lieutenant Symkee to take over the larboard battery. But then something smacked him sharply on the shoulder.

“Go, Hektor!” His head whipped around as Admiral Yairley smacked his shoulder a second time. “Go!” the admiral repeated, and actually smiled. “Captain Lathyk can have you back for the moment!”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

The ensign leapt into the disciplined madness, knowing better than to disrupt the choreographed training by shouting unnecessary orders. Instead, he watched the gun crews, his eyes trying to be everywhere at once, ready to intervene if something went wrong.

But nothing went wrong. Destiny ’s gunners had trained for two hours every day during their weary voyage from Tellesberg to Iythria. They’d polished old skills and learned new ones as they grappled with the novel concept of exploding shells, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk watched as the number two on each gun removed and pocketed the lead patch protecting the fuse before the shell was loaded. The fuse times had been set by Payter Wynkastair, Destiny ’s gunner, before the ship ever cleared for action, and at the end of the action, the number two on each gun would be required to hand over those patches as proof the shells had been properly prepared for firing.

“Run out! Run out!”

One by one the galleon’s surviving guns were brought back to battery, and gun captains all along the line raised their left hands, right hands gripping the firing lanyards.

Captain Plyzyk clawed his way up from his knees, shaking his head like a dazed prizefighter while he tried to make his brain work. He didn’t know what had hit him, and he probably never would, but he was pretty sure whatever it was had broken his right shoulder blade.

And even at that, he realized, he was better off than his ship.

Smoke-much of it wood smoke now, not just powder smoke-streamed from shattered holes ripped through Saint Adulfo ’s timbers and planking. Some of those holes looked big enough for a man to walk through. They weren’t, of course, but they looked huge compared to the much smaller holes round shot punched through a ship. Splintered and broken wood was everywhere, torn canvas and severed lengths of rigging littered the deck, he heard voices screaming in mingled agony and terror, and at least half the midships upper deck twelve-pounders had been knocked over like toys. The bulwark in front of them was simply gone; the deck edge looked like a cliff shattered by a hurricane, and he realized three or four of the Charisians’ infernal “shells” must have impacted almost together to produce that damage.

But there was plenty of other damage to go with it, and someone grabbed him, dragging him bodily out of the way as his galleon’s mizzenmast came thundering down.

“Fire!” somebody screamed. “Fire in the cable tier!”

Plyzyk staggered back to his feet once more, wondering who’d just saved him from being crushed by the falling mast, but it was an almost absent thought, lost in the terrifying thought that his ship was on fire.

“Away firefighting parties!” he bellowed, and the seamen who were detailed for that very purpose went rushing below with buckets of water and sand.

Langhorne! She can’t take much more of this, he thought. She -

“Fire!” Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk shouted.

Destiny ’s second broadside smashed into Saint Adulfo like an avalanche, but this was an avalanche of iron and fire and a deadly freight of gunpowder. The six-inch shells slammed through the Desnairian’s planking, and this time all of them exploded.

One of Ensign Applyn-Ahrmahk’s shells exploded almost directly under Ehrnysto Plyzyk’s feet, and for him, the fate of his ship became forever moot. . VIII.

Duke Kholman’s Office, Port of Iythria, Empire of Desnair

Daivyn Bairaht watched in stony-eyed silence as the two officers in Charisian uniform were ushered through the door of his office.

“Your Grace, Admiral Sir Dunkyn Yairley and his flag lieutenant, Ensign Aplyn-Ahrmahk,” their guide, Captain Byrnahrdo Fahrya, told him. “Admiral Yairley, His Grace the Duke of Kholman.”

Yairley and his ensign were immaculate, looking as if they’d dropped by for a state dinner, Kholman thought bitterly. Fahrya was another matter. His uniform was torn and filthy, reeking of powder and wood smoke. His expression was grim, tight and strained, but he was lucky to be alive. His ship, Holy Langhorne, had taken fire, burned to the waterline, and sunk under the devastating Charisian assault. She was scarcely the only Desnairian galleon that had happened to, and from the look of things Fahrya had spent some time in the water before he’d been recovered by the victors. He’d obviously done what he could to straighten his hair, wash his hands, wipe the powder grime from his face, but the contrast between him and the two faultlessly attired Charisians’ dress uniforms could not have been sharper.

Or more deliberate, the duke reminded himself as he realized he could even smell the Charisian flag officer’s fresh cologne. Yairley must’ve made damned sure the two of them would be as neat as pins. He obviously recognizes the value of setting the stage properly.

“Admiral,” he made himself say, his tone courteous but cold, and bowed very slightly in greeting.

“Your Grace,” Yairley responded with an even slighter bow, and Kholman’s jaw tightened at that abbreviated bow’s subtle insult to his aristocratic rank. Of course, it was possible- possible! -it hadn’t been Yairley’s intention to do any insulting. Then again…

“Before anything else,” he said, “allow me to express my personal thanks for High Admiral Rock Point’s message about Baron Jahras.”

“I’m sure I speak for the High Admiral when I say you’re most welcome, Your Grace,” Yairley said. “I regret the severity of the Baron’s wounds, but my understanding is that, barring any unforeseen complications, the healers are confident he’ll recover in time.”

And once he learns how to write left-handed, Kholman thought harshly. But at that, he’s lucky to be alive. And maybe the fact that he’s lost an arm will help protect him when Clyntahn gets word of this .

“I hope you’re right,” he said out loud. “However, I doubt you came ashore just to tell me my brother-in-law is likely to survive.” He showed his teeth briefly. “Somehow I don’t think you’re likely to tell me the same thing about my Navy.”

“With the exception of the floating batteries at the western end of Baron Jahras’ line, I’m afraid all your ships have struck,” Yairley said gravely, and despite the way he’d braced himself internally, Kholman flinched visibly.

At least the Charisian hadn’t said “all your surviving ships have struck,” although that would have been more accurate. According to Kholman’s most recent report, nineteen galleons and twelve of the floating batteries had burned, blown up, burned and blown up, or simply sunk as the result of battle damage. He didn’t know how many of the others were damaged, or how badly, and he didn’t even want to think about the human cost, but he knew it had been huge. For that matter, he’d sent over a thousand replacements into the maelstrom before he’d accepted he was simply incurring additional casualties in a lost cause.

All the fortifications on Sickle Shoal and Triangle Shoal had also surrendered, although they hadn’t hauled down their flags until they’d taken massive damage. That was what the reports said, at least, and Kholman had no reason to doubt them. Especially since only one of the four fortress commanders-General Stahkail, inevitably-was still alive and unwounded. Those accursed… bombardment ships were also why they’d lost so many of the floating batteries. The conventional Charisian galleons had declined to venture into the shoal water beyond the main shipping channel to engage them, but the bombardment ships had taken up positions where the batteries’ guns couldn’t reach them and started dropping those damned exploding shells on top of them. Their percentage of hits hadn’t been high, but every hit they had scored had been devastating.

Of course that word-“devastating”-pretty much summed up the entire battle, didn’t it? Once the eastern end of Jahras’ line was blasted out of the way, the Charisians had poured galleons through the gap. They’d doubled the line of Desnairian ships, sailing along it and engaging it from both sides, pouring their accursed exploding shells into their victims. They hadn’t bothered to anchor the way the ships who’d initially broken the line had. Instead they’d simply smashed one ship after another into splintered, all too often burning wreckage. By the time they’d worked their way along half the line, ships were striking their colors before they were even fired upon. Kholman didn’t want to think about how Zhaspahr Clyntahn was likely to react to that, but no reasonable man could possibly condemn them when they’d seen half their entire Navy turned to driftwood in barely two hours by a weapon they couldn’t possibly match.

“I see,” he said out loud, then stiffened his spine. “May I ask what message High Admiral Rock Point has sent you to deliver to me, Admiral Yairley?”

“You may,” Yairley said gravely. “Admiral Rock Point has sent me to require the surrender of all of your remaining harbor fortifications, your shipyards, sail lofts, ropewalks, cannon foundries, and naval supplies.”

“That’s preposterous!” The protest exploded out of Kholman before he could stop it, but he glared at the Charisian. “I have a garrison of over twenty thousand men in and around this city! You may have defeated-even destroyed-our Navy, but the Army is still fully capable of defending the soil of the Desnairian Empire!”

Neither Yairley nor the wiry young ensign standing respectfully at his side so much as turned a hair. They simply waited until he’d finished and stood glowering at them, at which point Yairley shrugged very slightly.

“First, Your Grace, your garrison may or may not be able to defend this city. I mean no disrespect to the Imperial Army, but I rather doubt it would find itself as effective against the Imperial Marines and Army battalions aboard High Admiral Rock Point’s transports as it was against the Republic the last time you clashed with the Siddarmarkians. Second, however, we have no need to land troops to destroy your shipyards, at the very least. Admittedly, the foundries might be somewhat more difficult targets, but I remind you of what happened to your outer fortifications. The Imperial Charisian Navy is fully capable of carrying out the same sort of bombardment of your waterfront batteries and warehouses and, for that matter, the shipyards themselves, without putting a single Marine into Iythria. High Admiral Rock Point has instructed me to point out to you that by requiring the surrenders I’ve described, he’s attempting to minimize the loss of Desnairian life and collateral damage to civilian property.”

“I’ve had reports of what happened to the first of your ships to engage ours, Admiral,” Kholman replied in a chilly tone. “And you wouldn’t have the advantage of surprise this time around. No doubt you could destroy the shipyards-or damage them severely, at any rate-with a bombardment, but you wouldn’t do it without losses of your own! And I doubt you have the range to bombard the cannon foundries and our other facilities at all.”

“You might be surprised in that regard, Your Grace. Nonetheless, the High Admiral has instructed me to inform you that his terms are not negotiable.” The Charisian admiral’s brown eyes looked levelly into Kholman’s, and if there was any bluff in them, the duke couldn’t see it. “He will destroy those facilities-all of them-before he withdraws from Iythria, Your Grace. The degree and extent of additional damage inflicted is, in large part, up to you. Whether or not he’ll succeed in his mission is not.”

“He has a high opinion of himself and his capabilities, doesn’t he?” Kholman inquired acidly, and Yairley surprised him with a slight smile.

“I suppose he does, Your Grace. On the other hand, he’s earned the right to it, I believe. If you don’t think so, you could discuss the matter with Earl Thirsk, or perhaps Bishop Kornylys or Admiral of the Broad Oceans Sun Rising. Or, for that matter”-his eyes stabbed Kholman suddenly-“Baron Jahras.”

“That’s an impressive catalog of defeated foes,” Kholman said in a somewhat milder tone. “As it happens, I mean that sincerely. But it’s not enough to convince me to simply roll over in the face of such demands. If he believes he can accomplish them by force of arms, I invite him to make the attempt.”

“Your Grace,” any trace of humor had vanished from Yairley’s expression and voice, “I strongly suggest you reconsider that position.” He raised one hand in an oddly courteous gesture before Kholman could respond. “I’m speaking for myself, not High Admiral Rock Point, when I say that, Your Grace. The High Admiral truly is trying to minimize bloodshed and destruction here in your city, but he has no intention of shedding Charisian blood unnecessarily in the attempt.”

“I’m afraid he’s going to find it is necessary,” Kholman said coldly. “I have a duty to my Emperor… and to Mother Church.” He suppressed an urge to bite his own tongue for the way that came out, as if the Church was only an afterthought. “I’m responsible for defending this entire city, not simply commanding the naval forces which you’ve already defeated, Admiral Yairley.”

“Then I’m afraid I have an additional message for you, Your Grace.” Yairley’s voice was flat now, cold. “High Admiral Rock Point instructs me to inform you that should you choose to force him to bombard and invade your city, he will unfortunately find it necessary to free himself of the distraction of your surrendered vessels and fortresses first. In that event, he’ll be forced to burn his prizes and blow up the fortresses.”

This time Kholman managed not to wince physically. He doubted there was any way the Empire was getting any of those ships back, anyway. In fact, it would actually be better from his perspective if Rock Point did burn them. At least that way he could point out to the Group of Four that unlike Kornylys Harpahr’s ships, none of his would find their way into Charisian service against Mother Church!

“The High Admiral must do as he thinks best,” he said. “If he truly intends to burn all of those ships, I’ll make arrangements to take off their crews. I’m sure we can arrange a proper parole for them.”

“I’m afraid you didn’t fully understand the High Admiral’s position, Your Grace. Under the circumstances, he regrets to point out to you that it won’t be possible to land any of his prisoners or remove them from their vessels before he burns their ships.”

For an instant, it totally failed to register. Then it did, and Kholman’s face went white as the threat sank home. There were almost thirty thousand men aboard those ships, and that didn’t even count the crews of the floating batteries or the harbor fortresses which had surrendered!

“You can’t be serious!” he heard his voice say.

“On the contrary, Your Grace. The High Admiral is deadly serious.” There was no emphasis at all in Yairley’s voice… which made it the most terrible voice the Duke of Kholman had ever heard.

“That’s monstrous! ”

“As monstrous as King Rahnyld’s decision to hand prisoners of war over to the Inquisition to be systematically tortured and murdered?” Yairley asked softly.

“I had nothing to do with that!”

“Perhaps not,” Yairley conceded. “But if we’d lost here instead of winning, and if Zhaspahr Clyntahn demanded the surrender of your prisoners, do you think for one moment Emperor Mahrys wouldn’t hand them over?”

Kholman stared at the Charisian flag officer, sickness churning in his stomach, because he saw the truth looking back at him out of those level brown eyes. Of course the Emperor would have surrendered them to the Inquisition.

“I was under the impression it was your Empire’s position that honorably surrendered prisoners of war would not be abused in that fashion,” he said, instead of answering the question.

“Whenever possible, that is indeed Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan’s policy,” Yairley replied. “That doesn’t mean their armed forces will incur unnecessary casualties avoiding… unfortunate consequences for those taken in arms against us, however. Unlike you, Your Grace, my Empire is fighting for its very survival, and you know perfectly well what will happen should we lose. We have no intention of losing, and however much we may regret it, we will do what we must.

“You talk about arranging parole for your personnel. Do you think we’re foolish enough to believe for an instant those paroles would be honored? Of course they wouldn’t! Even if you fully intended to honor them-and I’ll grant you the courtesy of believing you would-the Group of Four would never permit it. Anyone who tried to honor a parole to the Empire of Charis would be condemned by the Inquisition and probably suffer the Punishment of Schueler as a warning to anyone else ‘cowardly enough’ to entertain such an arrangement. So let’s be clear here. If High Admiral Rock Point returns your personnel to you, you and I both know none of our own surrendered people will ever be returned to us alive but we will see your people again under arms. He’s under no obligation to hand them back to you under those circumstances, but he’s prepared to do so in return for the surrender-and destruction-of the facilities he’s listed.

“Your Emperor and your Empire have agreed to serve the Group of Four. Perhaps you believe that’s the right thing to do. Perhaps you’ve agreed to serve only because you have no choice. In either case, however, the decision was made, and my High Admiral has instructed me to point out to you that decisions have consequences. The consequence of this decision is that you’ve ranged yourself with our enemies in what, for us, is a war for survival, and the price for your survival and the survival of your men is the destruction of all war-making potential in and around the city of Iythria.”

Tension hissed and crackled in the office, but somehow Kholman couldn’t look away from the Charisian admiral’s eyes.

“That’s High Admiral Rock Point’s message for you, Your Grace,” Yairley said flatly. “I do, however, have an observation of my own to add to it, if you’d care to hear it.”

Kholman made a curt “go ahead” gesture, and the Charisian admiral smiled thinly. It was not a pleasant expression.

“I’d recommend you remember what happened in Ferayd, Your Grace. And who was in command of that punitive expedition. And, for that matter, that there are significant differences between that expedition and today.

“Unlike the situation which existed in regard to the Kingdom of Delferahk at that time, the Desnairian Empire has formally joined the Group of Four’s jihad against Charis, and I invite you to remember what the Writ itself says about the rules of war where jihad is concerned. Many of those rules are specifically set aside under the provisions of The Book of Schueler, and while Charis didn’t begin this jihad, we recognize that there comes a point at which the only way to deter outrages against us or our people is to threaten reprisal. As you’ve pointed out, my Emperor and Empress have specifically rejected the notion of applying the Punishment to any of our prisoners, but they haven’t renounced the right to set aside the same rules of war which have been set aside against us.

“The Group of Four-excuse me, the Grand Vicar, speaking in the holy name of Mother Church in his own good judgment and with the guidance of the Archangels”-the contempt in Yairley’s voice was withering-“has officially declared what’s going to happen to Tellesberg and Cherayth on the day of our ‘inevitable’ defeat. I suggest you consider the terms of the destruction your Empire has pledged itself to help carry out when you consider High Admiral Rock Point’s offer. By simple reciprocity, this entire city is subject to the same treatment. Which means that if the time comes for High Admiral Rock Point to abandon his efforts to minimize death and destruction of Desnairian subjects and their property, your entire city could legitimately be burned to the ground with its citizens still in it. He doesn’t want to do that… but he will if he must. And”-the Charisian admiral’s eyes bored into Kholman once more-“if he has to begin by burning your ships, then so be it.”

It was very quiet and still in that office. The silence lingered for at least thirty seconds before it was broken. Then “Would you care to reconsider your decision, Your Grace?” Sir Dunkyn Yairley asked softly.