By Heresies Distressed (45 page)

Or might do to some
other
admiral's ships in the future
, she thought rather more grimly.

“I see your point,” she repeated out loud. “On the other hand, Cayleb said something to me on the same head.” It was Gray Harbor's turn to raise an eyebrow, and she shrugged. “He said that once the slash lizard is out of its egg, your only option is to ride it or get eaten. So in this case, our only real choices are whether
we'll
introduce the changes or find out the hard way that someone
else
has already done it.”

“He's said much the same thing to me, and so has . . . Seamount.” For just a moment, Sharleyan had the oddest sensation that he'd been about to mention another name and changed it to the commodore's at the last moment. “And I suppose they're both right about that,” he continued before she could pursue that thought. “Even if they aren't, we can't afford to overlook any advantages when the odds against us are so long. So I tell my bad dreams to leave me alone and try to concentrate on what a nasty surprise it's going to be for someone else, at least the first time we use it.”

“I hope some of the Baron's other ‘surprises' are serving Cayleb as well in Corisande.” Sharleyan's voice was suddenly lower, darker, and Gray Harbor glanced across at her. “I know I probably shouldn't, but I worry about him,” she admitted softly.

“Good,” he said, equally softly, and smiled at her expression. “Your Majesty, I think the way you and Cayleb obviously feel about one another may be one of the best things that's ever happened to Charis. You go right on worrying about him. Don't take counsel of your fears and let them rule you, but don't pretend—especially to yourself—that you
aren't
worried.”

“I'll try to bear that in mind, My Lord.” She reached out and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “I just wish it didn't take so long for letters to travel between here and Corisande!”

“So do I. But so far, if you'll pardon my saying so, you've done an excellent job ruling in Cayleb's absence.”

“How far wrong can I go with your advice, and Archbishop Maikel's, to keep me straight?” she replied with a smile.

“Your Majesty,” Gray Harbor's answering smile actually looked rather more like a grin, “forgive me, but you are a remarkably stubborn young woman. That's a
good
thing in a ruler, in many ways, you understand, so don't think I'm complaining. But I strongly suspect that if Maikel and I both advised against a course of action you thought was the proper one, you'd listen very carefully and courteously and then be exquisitely polite when you informed us that we were all going to do it
your
way.”

She started to shake her head, then paused. After a moment, she gave a gurgle of laughter, instead.

“I'm glad you had an opportunity to get to know Mahrak Sahndyrs before you had to leave for home with me. I have the oddest feeling, though, that the better you get to know me, the more you're going to sympathize with Mahrak. And vice versa, I'm quite sure. He's told me more than once that I could outstubborn a slash lizard with a toothache.”

Gray Harbor chuckled.

“Why do I suspect that when you were younger, Your Majesty, you knew how to pitch a truly royal temper tantrum?”

“What do you mean, ‘when I was younger,' My Lord?” she murmured provocatively, and his chuckle turned into a laugh.

“I await the moment with trembling and dread,” he assured her.

She started to say something else, then stopped as they reached Seamount. She gave Gray Harbor one more smile, then turned to greet the commodore.

“Your Majesty,” Seamount said, bowing deeply.

“Baron,” she replied, and he straightened once more. “I've quite been looking forward to your demonstration ever since I received your last report,” she continued.

“Well, Your Majesty, I only hope it performs as promised. It has so far, but I've discovered that the first law of demonstrations for royalty is the same one Earl Gray Harbor is fond of quoting about battles.”

“Indeed?” Sharleyan glanced at the first councilor, and Gray Harbor shrugged.

“What can go wrong,
will
go wrong, Your Majesty,” he told her. “Although Ahlfryd is probably doing himself an injustice. Most of his demonstrations perform as promised. On the other hand, I must confess, when one of his little displays does go awry, it tends to do so rather . . . spectacularly. Ah, you may have noticed, for example, that he has you at least a hundred yards away from his new infernal device. I'm sure it will prove an unnecessary precaution, of course.”

“Oh, of
course
, My Lord.” Sharleyan chuckled and returned her attention to Seamount. “Well, now that you've both conspired to lower my expectations, I trust you're prepared to dazzle me with your success, instead.”

“I certainly hope so, Your Majesty,” Seamount said more seriously. “And while Earl Gray Harbor is correct when he suggests that I would really prefer not having you physically closer to the weapon than you have to be during the test firings, I would be honored to allow you to examine it
before
the test.”

“
‘Test,'
My Lord?” Sharleyan repeated. “I thought you'd just referred to it as a ‘
demonstration
.' ”

“Up until the moment we actually deploy a weapon, Your Majesty, all demonstrations are also tests,” Seamount replied promptly, and she snorted.

“A splendid recovery, My Lord!” she congratulated him. “And now, I truly would like to see this new wonder of yours.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. If you would accompany me, please?”

Seamount led the way across to the weapon in question, and Sharleyan's eyes narrowed as she inspected it. It looked rather like a cross between a standard field gun and a carronade, she thought. The barrel was shorter and stubbier than one of the twelve-pounders she'd seen demonstrated, but it was longer in proportion to its diameter than a carronade. There was also something a bit peculiar about the way it was mounted on its carriage. It took her a moment to figure out what it was, but then she had it. This weapon had been designed to be elevated to at least twice the elevation of a normal field gun. Not only that, but instead of the wooden wedge all of the other Charisian cannon she'd seen used as a spacer under the breach to hold the gun at its desired elevation, this weapon's cascabel was pierced by a wrist-thick screw with a crank handle on its upper end. Obviously, the gun's elevation was supposed to be adjusted by running the screw up and down, and there was a metal pointer and a scale graduated in degrees to measure precisely what that elevation was.

“This is an ingenious idea,” she commented to Seamount, tapping the crank handle. “Do you intend to go back and apply it to our naval cannon, as well, My Lord?”

“Probably not, Your Majesty.” Seamount seemed pleased by the fact that she'd obviously grasped how the new arrangement worked. “First, it adds to the expense and the foundry time required to produce each weapon. More to the point, perhaps, shipboard guns don't require the same fine degree of control. Or perhaps what I should say is that the practical limitations of shipboard gunnery mean this degree of control wouldn't be extraordinarily useful. Ranges are short, both the firing ship and its target are usually moving—in more than one direction at the same time, given the normal action of wind and wave—and ruggedness of design and the ability to make quick,
rough
adjustments in elevation are much more important features than being able to know the
exact
elevation of the weapon.”

“Is the exact elevation truly that critical, My Lord?”

“It will be, Your Majesty,” he said very seriously. “Dr. Mahklyn is working on the mathematics for me now, but eventually, using this basic design concept—I imagine it will require a great deal of refinement first, you understand—we should actually be able to fire accurately on targets we can't even see from the gun pit.”

“Indeed?” Sharleyan's eyebrows rose. “Your report didn't mention that possibility, My Lord.”

“Mostly because it's still theoretical, Your Majesty. However, as I'm certain you've observed, this gun can be elevated to a much higher angle than our standard field guns. In fact, to distinguish it from our normal field guns, I've dubbed this a ‘high-angle cannon.' I imagine, sailors being sailors and Marines being Marines, that will undoubtedly be shortened to ‘angle-cannon' or even just ‘angle.' ” He sighed. “They
do
have a way of rather brutally simplifying precise terminology.”

“I see.” Sharleyan's lips twitched, but her voice was commendably steady as she continued. “I assume, however, that there's a specific reason for this ‘high-angle cannon's' greater elevation?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. What I've done is to attempt to recapture some of the catapult's ability to fire on an arced trajectory so as to drop the fired round onto its target at a relatively high angle. That should both increase range for a given projectile velocity and allow us to use ‘indirect fire' to engage targets on the other side of walls or hills, the way a skilled catapult crew could.”

Sharleyan's eyes widened as the implications of Seamount's explanation sank home.

“That, My Lord,” she said after a moment, “would be an enormous advantage.”

“At least until our enemies figure out how to duplicate it, Your Majesty,” Gray Harbor pointed out, and she flashed him a smile at the reminder of their earlier conversation.

“That, unfortunately, is unavoidable, Your Majesty,” Seamount said rather more heavily. “There's no way we could—”

“Baron Seamount,” Sharleyan interrupted, “there's no need for you to apologize for—or explain—the inevitability of Earl Gray Harbor's observation. I assure you, the Emperor and I are both perfectly aware of that. And, as he pointed out to me, if our enemies adopt our innovations, then ultimately, they'll be forced to become increasingly
like
us, which means the Group of Four's grip on things will start fraying rather badly. And if they
don't
adopt our innovations, then they systematically undercut their own chances of ever actually defeating us militarily.”

Seamount nodded respectfully, and Sharleyan turned her attention to the ammunition cart parked beside his “high-angle cannon.” The bagged charges of gunpowder were familiar enough, but the gun's projectiles were unlike anything she'd ever seen before. One of them had been laid out for her examination, and she studied it thoughtfully. Instead of a spherical round shot, it was an elongated cylinder with rounded ends, as if someone had stretched a standard round shot to perhaps five or six times its normal length without increasing its diameter. And its smooth skin was interrupted by a series of studs, arranged in three rows, which projected outward from it and encircled the projectile in an angled spiral pattern.

“These, I take it,” she said, touching one of the studs gingerly with a fingertip, “are what engage in the rifling grooves your report described?”

“Precisely, Your Majesty.”

Seamount looked even more pleased than before at the evidence Sharleyan had studied his report with the attention it deserved, and she smiled at him.

“And this,” he continued, picking up a wooden plug, “is our fuse. At the moment, at any rate. There are some problems I'm still working on.”

Sharleyan nodded. Seamount, she thought, would
always
be working on “some problem.” He was the sort of man who was constitutionally incapable of accepting that anything had attained perfection.

“You mentioned that there was a problem with the ‘shell's' impact,” she said.

“Exactly. This,” he waved the wooden plug in his hand, “works . . . adequately for timed detonation. We're still working on refining the composition of the powder we use to improve the consistency with which it burns, but the basic principles are relatively simple. The plug is drilled out and filled with a powder train. The walls of the central cavity are thin enough that they can be easily pierced with an awl. By piercing it at the proper point along the fuse's length before inserting it into the shell, the flash from the powder charge when the shell is fired is admitted to the powder filling, which then burns down to the powder filling of the
shell
, causing it to detonate.

“The problem is that this type of fuse is actually going to work better on a spherical shell, such as might be fired from a smoothbore gun, like our current twelve-pounders. In fact, Master Howsmyn is already beginning to produce shells for our field artillery, as well as larger ones for the Navy's thirty-pounders, in case they're needed for siege work. We ought to be ready to ship the first of them to Corisande within another month, at the outside.”

“And why is—? Oh, I see! These,” Sharleyan tapped the elongated shell again “—are always going to land point-first, aren't they?”

“Yes, they are,” Seamount agreed, nodding vigorously. “We've already discovered that putting the fuse on the side of the shell
towards
the propellant charge doesn't work very well. That means we have to put it on the front—or, on one of these, on the nose—and, fired out of a rifled gun, the shell will always land nose-first, which will quite often tend to destroy or crush the fuse before it can explode. With a spherical shell, on the other hand, there's no way to tell which part of the shell will land first. That means the chances are actually quite good that it
won't
land fuse-first, in which case a fuse which hasn't burned all the way down yet would still have an excellent chance of detonating the shell after all.”

“I see.” Sharleyan frowned. “Surely there has to be a solution for the problem, though, My Lord. It seems to me that what we really need is a fuse which will detonate the shell only
after
it strikes its target. It would obviously simplify things enormously if it didn't matter whether or not the powder burned completely consistently in the fuse, or whether the range had been estimated absolutely correctly. For that matter, there must be any number of instances in which it would be much more desirable for the shell to
penetrate
its target before it exploded.”