By Heresies Distressed (22 page)

“I am aware of the fact,” Fytzhyw acknowledged, turning to raise one eyebrow at his shorter lieutenant.

“Well, I was just thinking, it's sort of nice to have
someone
we're not at war with. Yet, at least.” Chermyn grinned at him. “Do you think we're about to change that?”

“I don't know. And, to be totally honest about it, I don't really care, either,” Fytzhyw told him, swinging back to look at the high-sided, wallowing Desnairian galleon. “First, Desnair hasn't got a navy. Second, Desnair is already busy
building
a navy for those sanctimonious pricks in Zion, so we might as well already be at war with them. And, third, Tobys, if they don't want to get themselves taken, then they shouldn't be flying that fucking pennant.”

Chermyn nodded without speaking. The practice of flying a Church pennant whenever a vessel was in the service of the Church went back almost to the Creation itself. Traditionally, there were very good reasons for that, including the fact that only the heartiest—or most insane—pirate was going to trifle with a Church galleon. Those traditional reasons had been . . . somewhat undermined of late, however. It seemed to be taking a while for the rest of the world to figure out that flying that pennant these days had much in common with waving a red flag at a great dragon, at least where Charis was concerned, but Chermyn supposed old habits were hard to break.

And to be fair, not even every Charisian's as pissed off by the sight of it as the Old Man
, he reflected.

In point of fact, Chermyn was at least a few years older than Fytzhyw, but it never crossed his mind to use another label for
Loyal Son
's master. Symyn Fytzhyw struck most people as older than his years. Partly that was his size, no doubt—he stood a head taller than most other Charisians—but more of it stemmed from his indisputable
solidness
. And not just the solidness of his undeniably brawny muscle and bone, either. For all his youth, Fytzhyw was a purposeful, disciplined man, which helped to explain how someone his age not only captained but owned his own galleon.

But he was also a man of iron convictions. No one could accuse him of being narrow-minded, or of refusing to look before he leapt, yet once his convictions were engaged, there was no shaking him. Chermyn knew Fytzhyw had entertained his doubts initially about the wisdom of the schism between the Church of Charis and the Temple Loyalists. Those doubts had weakened with King Haarahld's death, and they'd vanished completely as he'd seen Archbishop Maikel and Emperor Cayleb turning their words into reality. The attempt to assassinate the archbishop in his own cathedral, what had happened to Archbishop Erayk, the lies coming out of Zion, and the Ferayd Massacre had replaced those initial doubts with fiery commitment.

And the Old Man doesn't do anything by halves
, Chermyn told himself.
Which suits me right down to the ground, when you come to it
. He bared his teeth at the Desnarian galleon.
I wonder if that fellow over there's smart enough to realize just how quickly he'd better get that pennant down?

“Shit.”

Alyk Lizardherd said the single word with quiet intensity as the Charisian brig—and they were close enough now to see the national banner which confirmed that she
was
Charisian—sliced through the water in surging bursts of white foam. He had to admire the other captain's ship handling, but that was just a bit difficult to remember when he saw the seven opened gun ports grinning in his direction. He'd never—yet—had the opportunity to examine one of the new Charisian guns, but he knew what he was seeing as the squat, short-barreled weapons were trundled forward. His catamounts threw three-pound shot; if those were what he was certain they were, they'd be throwing at least
eighteen
-pound shot.
Wind Hoof
was considerably larger than the Charisian brig, but not enough bigger to be able to survive that sort of imbalance in firepower!

“Sir?” Hairaym said tautly, and Lizardherd looked at him.

“I don't think they look particularly concerned about firing on a Desnairian ship, do you, Gorjah?”

“No, Sir, I don't,” Hairaym said after a moment, yet even as he spoke, his eyes shifted forward to where Lieutenant Aivyrs and his ten Temple Guardsmen stood waiting on the main deck.

“Yes, that
is
a problem,” Lizardherd agreed very softly. Hairaym's eyes darted back to him, and the captain smiled thinly. “If we don't strike our colors and heave to, those guns over there are going to turn us all into kraken bait, and pretty damned quickly. Or, for that matter, I'm sure they've got enough manpower over there to take us by boarding, assuming they somehow know enough about the cargo we're carrying to worry about sinking us with a careless cannon shot. But Lieutenant Aivyrs is going to insist that we
not
strike our colors and heave to, and I'm sure his men will follow his lead if—and when—he cuts down the first man to lay a finger on a flag halyard. Not to mention the fact that if we were so careless as to lose the Church's money by surrendering to a heretical Charisian ‘pirate,' his report would undoubtedly have . . . unfortunate consequences.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hairaym acknowledged in an even quieter voice.

“Trapped between the dragon and the deep blue sea,” Lizardherd murmured. No one could possibly have heard him through the noise of a sailing ship at sea, but Hairaym had been with him for a long time. He knew what his skipper was thinking, and he looked acutely unhappy.

Well, he can look as unhappy as he likes
, Lizardherd thought waspishly.
He's going to look pretty frigging unhappy when we go to the bottom of the Markovian, too!

“Tell the Bosun I need to speak to him,” he said out loud, holding Hairaym's eyes with his own. “I believe he's up forward handing out the muskets.”

For just a moment, Hairaym appeared not even to breathe. Then he inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and nodded.

“Yes, Sir. I'll see to it.”

Well, I don't see any signs of sanity breaking out over there yet
, Fytzhyw thought.
Unless of course it's just that they're all stone blind and don't even realize we're here!

He grimaced and raised his speaking trumpet.

“Master Chermyn!”

“Aye, Sir?” Tobys Chermyn shouted back from the foredeck.

“Clear away the pivot gun! It seems we need to attract these people's attention!”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

Lizardherd stood by the aftercastle rail, gazing steadily—one might almost have said fixedly—at the Charisian brig. He'd discussed his plans for defending the ship with the bosun, who'd been with him considerably longer even than Hairaym, and the bosun had moved all twelve of
Wind Hoof
's matchlock-armed seamen into the waist of the ship, more conveniently located to Lieutenant Aivyrs.

The brig had a single longer gun forward. It looked as if it were mounted on some sort of turntable. Although Lizardherd had never heard of anything like it, he could see the advantages of such a mounting, and he concentrated on it rather than risk glancing towards the Guardsmen. Any time now. . . .

“Fire!”

Loyal Son
's pivot-mounted fourteen-pounder crashed, spitting its round shot across the gray-green waves. It landed well clear of the Desnairian galleon, exactly as warning shots were supposed to do, but its message was crystal clear, and Fytzhyw watched the other ship intently. If that ship's master had an ounce of sense, that Church pennant would be coming down any instant. Unfortunately, Fytzhyw had already spotted at least a handful of Temple Guardsmen on the galleon's deck.
They
weren't going to take kindly to the notion of surrender. On the other hand, their presence suggested that this was, indeed, the ship for which he'd been waiting. And whether they were likely to surrender or not, he still had the responsibility to at least give them the opportunity. Personally, he'd just as soon have handed each of those Guardsmen a round shot and kicked him over the side, but rules were rules. And, he conceded almost unwillingly, following the rules was one way a man could keep himself from waking up and discovering he'd become someone he didn't very much like. On the other hand—

He stiffened suddenly.
Loyal Son
was upwind of the Desnairian, but the popping sound of what was unmistakably musket fire reached him anyway, and his eyes narrowed. Exactly what did that idiot over there think he was going to do with muskets—especially
matchlock
muskets—at this sort of range? It was the
stupidest
thing he could have—

Symyn Fytzhyw's thoughts broke off again as the Church pennant came fluttering down from the other ship's masthead.

“Heave to,” Alyk Lizardherd commanded, and turned away once more as Hairaym passed the order.

One problem solved
, he thought with a sort of lunatic detachment.
Of course, it does leave me with a few others
.

He glanced—briefly—at the eleven bodies sprawled across
Wind Hoof
's deck. He regretted that. Lieutenant Aivyrs had seemed a nice enough young man, if a trifle overly earnest, but he hadn't been picked for his present assignment because of any weakness of faith. Even though he must have realized as clearly as Lizardherd did that nothing they might do could possibly affect the ultimate outcome of the Charisians' attack, he would have insisted on fighting. And when he did that, a lot of Lizardherd's crewmen—all of whom had been with him one hell of a lot longer than Aivyrs had—would have gotten themselves killed uselessly. So might one Alyk Lizardherd, although, to his own surprise, that possibility had played a relatively minor role in his final decision.