How Firm a Foundation (54 page)

For the first time in its history, Old Charis faced the threat of being forced to resort to the
sort of impressment other navies had routinely employed for centuries. The Crown had always had the
authority
to impress seamen, but the House of Ahrmahk had been careful not to use it, and for good reason. The fact that the Royal Charisian Navy’s galleys had been manned solely by volunteers built around solid cores of long-service, highly experienced regulars had been its most telling advantage,
and they’d been willing to accept a smaller fleet than they could have built in order to maintain that qualitative edge.

With every mainland realm united against the Empire, however, that was a luxury the
Imperial
Charisian Navy couldn’t afford. It needed as many hulls as it could get, and while galleons didn’t require the hundreds of rowers galleys did, they were far bigger than even Charisian
galleys had been and much more heavily armed. Providing them with gun crews and enough trained seamen to manage their powerful sail plans drove the size of their companies up rapidly, and completely filling the “establishment” crew for a galleon like
Destiny
required approximately four hundred men. With the prizes being put into commission, the Navy’s galleon strength would rise to two hundred
and eleven … which would require over eighty-four thousand men. And that didn’t even consider all of the schooners, brigs, and other light warships and dispatch vessels. Or the competition for the strength to man the Navy’s shoreside establishments. Or the requirements of the Marine Corps, or the Imperial Army. Or the fishing fleet. Or the merchant marine upon which the Empire’s prosperity and very
survival depended. And while the Crown was finding—somehow—all the men it needed for
those
requirements, the manufactories producing both the sinews of war and the goods fueling the steadily growing economy—not to mention the farms feeding the Empire’s subjects—still had to be provided for somehow.

So far, enlistment was managing—barely—to meet demands, but an increasing percentage of the Navy’s
strength was Emeraldian or Chisholmian, and even the native Old Charisians coming forward boasted a lower percentage of experienced seamen. From what Aplyn-Ahrmahk had seen, the basic quality of the new men was just fine; they were simply less well trained and hardened to the demands of life at sea than the Navy was accustomed to. And even with the newcomers,
Destiny
’s official four-hundred-man
company was forty-three men short.

Well,
he thought, watching the gun begin to rise once more,
I guess having too many ships and too few experienced men is a lot better problem to have than the other way around!

*   *   *

Sir Domynyk Staynair leaned back in the window seat, one arm stretched along the top of its cushioned back and his truncated right leg stretched out in front of him, the padded
peg resting on a footstool. It was almost the turn of the watch, and the cabin’s skylight was open, admitting the sounds of King’s Harbor and the closer, quieter voices of the officer of the watch and his senior quartermaster as they discussed HMS
Destroyer
’s log entry. The more distant cries of gulls and sea wyverns drifted down through it, as well, and wavery patterns of bright light reflected
into the cabin through the quarter and stern windows, gleaming on polished bookshelves, sideboards, and tables. It sparkled from the cut crystal of decanters, sending rainbow ripples across the cabin as the galleon stirred gently, and the portraits of Emperor Cayleb and Empress Sharleyan faced each other across the deck’s thick carpets. Those carpets had been a gift from Empress Sharleyan, and
their deep-toned color went just a bit oddly with the gayer fabric of the chair coverings Rock Point favored. The table at the center of the cabin was buried under charts, dividers, and compasses, and Zhastrow Tymkyn, his new secretary, sat at his small desk to one side, pen scratching as he annotated his minutes of the high admiral’s last conference.

The cabin door opened, and Rock Point’s even
newer flag lieutenant ushered another officer through it.

Lieutenant Haarlahm Mahzyngail had stepped into Lieutenant Erayksyn’s position less than two five-days earlier, and he still seemed out of place aboard a Charisian warship. Not because of any lack of competency, but because his fair hair, blue eyes, and pronounced Chisholmian accent remained such a novelty here in Old Charis. They were
becoming more commonplace, though, as more and more Chisholmians enlisted in the Navy. It was surprising, really. Given the Royal Army’s traditional prestige in Chisholm, Rock Point would have expected any adventurous young lad from that island to have been army mad, not drawn to a naval career. As things were working out, though, he’d actually received an only half-humorous protest from the Duke
of Eastshare, the Imperial Army’s commander, about the Navy’s “poaching” on his private preserve.

Probably has something to do with the fact that we’ve kicked the Loyalists’ asses at sea every time we’ve crossed swords
, he thought.
Except
, he corrected himself much more grimly,
where Thirsk is concerned, of course
.

That thought hit harder than usual as the overland convoy carrying Gwylym Manthyr
and his men crept steadily towards Zion. Grief for a friend and anger at his own helplessness seethed just below the surface for a moment, but he made himself push those emotions back into the depths. It felt disloyal, yet there wasn’t anything he could do to change what was going to happen, and Gwylym wouldn’t have thanked him for letting friendship distract him from his own duties and responsibilities.

“Captain Yairley, High Admiral,” Mahzyngail announced, and Rock Point nodded. The young Chisholmian was still feeling his way into his duties, although one might not have supposed that from his confident demeanor. He wasn’t yet as familiar with his admiral’s professional and personal relationships as he might have been, however, and he’d decided—wisely, in Rock Point’s opinion—to err on the side
of formality until he got them all straightened out in his own mind.

“So I see,” Rock Point said, and smiled at the young man. “For future reference, Haarlahm, Sir Dunkyn is an old acquaintance. I know him well. So be sure you keep an eye on the silverware when he’s around.”

Mahzyngail’s nod of acknowledgment bobbled noticeably on the last sentence. He froze for just a moment, then completed
the movement.

“I’ll strive to bear that in mind, Sir,” he said, and Rock Point chuckled.

“See you do,” he said, then held out his right hand to Yairley. “I’m going to stay moored right where I am. Rank has its privileges and I’ll be damned if I’ll clump around when I don’t have to. Sit.”

He pointed with his left hand while the two of them clasped arms, and Yairley settled into the indicated
chair with a small smile of his own. He was a naturally less demonstrative man than Rock Point, and more than one of his fellows had put him down as a dour, fussy worrier. There might actually be some accuracy in that, the high admiral thought, but only a very
small
accuracy.

“How’s
Destiny
coming?” he demanded, coming straight to the point.

“The dockyard says I can have her back Thursday.”
Yairley shrugged. “I’ll believe
that
when I see it, but I think we probably will be able to warp her out to the roadstead sometime in the next five-day or so. We’re taking her gundeck guns back onboard this afternoon, the carronades will come back aboard tomorrow morning, and I’m reasonably satisfied with her repairs. The sail loft’s running behind, though. That’s why I’m doubtful about Thursday.
Once they get the new canvas delivered, though, we’ll be in reasonably good shape.”

“Careless of you to break her that way in the first place,” Rock Point said with a broad smile, and Yairley smiled back with considerably less amusement.

“So you’ll be ready to take her back to sea before the end of the month?” the high admiral continued.

“I don’t think we’ll be anything like properly worked
up by then, but, yes, Sir.” Yairley’s shoulders shrugged very slightly. “I’ve got a lot of inexperienced men and outright landsmen to turn into trained seamen somehow, and getting them to sea’s probably the best way to be about it.”

“You’re not the only one with
that
problem, believe me!” Rock Point said sourly. He looked out the quarter windows at the busy panorama of King’s Harbor. “The only
thing worse than figuring out where to get the men we need is figuring out how to
pay
them once we’ve got them.” He grimaced. “I used to think it was funny watching Bryahn and Ironhill arm wrestling over the budget. Somehow it’s not so humorous anymore.”

He gazed at the anchorage for another moment, then turned back to Yairley.

“Did you go over those notes I sent you about Ahlfryd’s new ‘high-angle’
guns?”

“Yes, Sir. Very interesting stuff, although I was a bit at a loss as to why you were telling
me
about them.” Rock Point raised an eyebrow and Yairley shrugged. “It was pretty obvious he must’ve been working on them for some time, especially if they’re as close to ready to deploy as your memo suggested. Since I hadn’t heard a whisper about them—and no one else had, either, as far as I know—I
have to assume they were another one of Baron Seamount’s ‘Top Secret, Cut Your Own Throat After Reading’ projects. Not the sort of thing a galleon captain would really need to know about, I’d’ve thought.”

“No?” Rock Point smiled a bit oddly. “Well, you did a good job convincing Jahras to stay in port when Harpahr and Sun Rising came calling last year, Dunkyn,” he went on in an obvious non sequitur.
“And even with that little … excitement of yours in Scrabble Sound, you’ve done even better, since. So I’m afraid I’m taking
Destiny
away from you, in a manner of speaking.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir?” Yairley’s tone was considerably sharper than he usually allowed himself, and Rock Point smiled slightly.

“I said ‘in a manner of speaking,’” he pointed out. “Which is my way of telling you you’ve
been promoted to rear admiral. Congratulations, Dunkyn.”

Yairley’s eyes widened, and the high admiral chuckled.

“I hate to say this, but you didn’t get your streamer just because we need flag officers so badly with all this sudden expansion. You also got it because you damned well deserve it. Frankly, it’s overdue, but we also need good galleon captains, and you’re one of the best we’ve got.
As a matter of fact, I actually hesitated about submitting your name to His Majesty. Not because of any reservations on my part, but because I’m only too well aware of how badly we’re going to need those same good captains to lick all these newcomers into shape.”

“I’m honored, Sir,” Yairley said after a moment, “although I’m going to hate giving up
Destiny
. If I may, Lieutenant Lathyk’s overdue
for promotion and he—”

“To repeat myself, I
did
say you’d be giving her up ‘in a manner of speaking,’ Dunkyn. I assumed that given your choice of flagships, you’d probably pick her. Was I correct?”

“Yes, Sir. Of course!”

“Well, unless I’m mistaken, it’s still a flag officer’s privilege to request the flag captain of his choice. Now I’d assumed someone of your well-known demanding disposition
wouldn’t have put up with someone like Lathyk unless he was at least marginally competent. If I was wrong, if you really want him promoted to, say, commander and given one of the new brigs instead, I suppose I could go back to His Majesty and change my current recommendation.”

“And that recommendation would be precisely what, Sir?” Yairley regarded his superior with a distinctly suspicious expression.

“That he be promoted to captain immediately and assigned as HMS
Destiny
’s commanding officer.”

“Upon mature consideration, Sir, I see no reason you should put yourself to the trouble or inconvenience His Majesty by changing your recommendation.”

“I thought that was how you’d see it.” Rock Point chuckled, then heaved himself to his feet. “Come take a look at the chart.”

He crossed to the table,
Yairley at his side, and the two of them gazed down at the huge chart of the Gulf of Mathyas and much smaller Gulf of Jahras. Rock Point leaned over and thumped an index finger on Silkiah Bay.

“As you’ll know better than most, we’ve got an awful lot of ‘Silkiahan’ galleons moving in and out of Silk Town with Charisian cargoes,” he said. “Now, I’ve never been one for subordinating military decisions
to economic ones, but in this case we’re talking about a big enough piece of our total trade to make anyone nervous. To be honest, that’s one reason we’ve stayed away from”—his fingertip slid down to the southwest and tapped once—“Desnair and the Gulf of Jahras. We’re not certain why Clyntahn hasn’t made a bigger push to shut down the Silkiahans’ and the Siddarmarkians’ defiance of his embargo,
and we haven’t wanted to do anything to draw his attention to Silk Town or change his mind in that regard. It’s not just good for our own manufactories and merchant marine, Dunkyn. It’s steadily undermining the Group of Four’s authority in both the Republic and the Grand Duchy, and it’s simultaneously drawing more and more Siddarmarkians and Silkiahans into our arms, whether they realize it or
not.

“Nonetheless,” he tapped the city of Iythria, “it’s time we did something about the Desnairian fleet. Even after the Battle of the Markovian Sea, we actually don’t have much better than parity with the combined Desnairian and Dohlaran fleets. I’d like better numbers than that, of course, but while Gorath Bay and Iythria are barely thirteen hundred miles apart in a straight line, they’re
damned near seventeen
thousand
miles apart as a ship sails. That’s just a
tad
far for them to be supporting one another if we should decide to concentrate our strength in order to overwhelm one of them in isolation, wouldn’t you say?”

He raised his eyebrows, and Yairley heard something suspiciously like a snort of amusement from Zhastrow Tymkyn’s direction.