Off Armageddon Reef (70 page)

“A month?” Admiral Zohzef Hyrst looked at the Earl of Sharpfield and shook his head. “That's not very long,” he observed mildly, and Sharpfield chuckled sourly.

“That's what I've always liked about you, Zohzef,” he said. “That gift for understatement.”

“Well, at least it's going to make it easier for us to leave most of our reserve at home,” Hyrst pointed out.

“True.” Sharpfield nodded. “Even without our handpicked idiots.”

He walked across to the window of his office and gazed out across the city of Port Royal and the sparkling water of Kraken Bay. Port Royal had been founded almost a hundred years ago expressly to serve as the Chisholm Navy's primary base. From where he stood, he could see the dockyard crews swarming over the nested together reserve galleys like black insects, tiny with distance. Yard craft of every description dotted the harbor beyond them, tied up alongside other galleys, or plying back and forth between them and the shore establishment.

It was a scene of bustling activity which had been going on at full tilt for over three five-days now. And one which, he hoped, looked suitably efficient, even if it wasn't. Or, perhaps, especially
since
it wasn't.

“What sort of idiot thinks you can move a navy from a peacetime footing to a war footing, without any prior warning, in less than two months?” Hyrst asked.

“No doubt the esteemed Vicar Allayn,” Sharpfield replied.

“Well, I guess that explains it. He probably thinks putting a galley to sea is as simple as hitching draft dragons to army freight wagons.”

“I doubt he's quite that uninformed about naval realities,” Sharpfield said mildly. “And, while I'm sure his lack of sea experience is playing a part, it's really not as stupid as it may seem to us.”

“With all due respect, My Lord,” Hyrst said, “expecting us to produce our full strength, ‘ready for battle in all respects,' if I remember the dispatch correctly, off the coast of Charis two months from today is about as stupid as it gets.”

“If he really expected us to be able to do it, it would be,” Sharpfield agreed. “I doubt very much that he does, though. He's not going to admit that to
us
, of course. The whole object is to get us to Charis with as many ships as humanly possible, and making impossible demands is supposed to inspire us to do better than we think we can. But the main thrust of his strategy is to get us, Hektor, and Nahrmahn concentrated as
quickly
as possible, as well. He's figuring Haarahld won't even know we're coming until we're already there, which means it will be
our
active strength against
his
active strength. That gives us a better than three-to-two advantage, even assuming not a single one of his active galleys is in yard hands. And our reserve units will have at least a two-month head start over his.”

“It would still be smarter to wait until more of our full strength was ready,” Hyrst said. “Three-to-two sounds good, but two-to-one sounds a Shan-wei of a lot better against someone like Charis.”

“Agreed.” Sharpfield nodded. “I didn't say I agreed with him, only that his strategy's basically sound—or, at least, sounder than it might appear at first glance. And don't forget, Zohzef, we're not really supposed to take Haarahld on until Dohlar and Tarot arrive.”

“Then we should be waiting until they get here before we move at all,” Hyrst argued.

“Unless it turns out we catch Haarahld badly enough off guard to get past Lock Island and the Keys before he knows we're coming,” Sharpfield pointed out. “I'll admit it's unlikely, but it
is
possible.”

“I suppose
anything
is possible, My Lord.” Hyrst grimaced. “Some things are more
likely
than others, though.”

“Granted, but if you don't try, you'll never know whether it was possible or not, will you?”

“That was a nasty thing to do to my bishop, dear.”

“Nonsense.” Prince Nahrmahn chuckled as he fitted the onyx bishop into the proper niche in the velvet-lined case. “It's simply retribution for what you did to my castle two moves ago.”

“Then if it wasn't nasty, it was at least ungallant,” his wife said.

“Now that,” he conceded with the sort of smile very few people ever saw from him, “might be a valid accusation. On the other hand,” he elevated his nose with an audible sniff, “I'm a prince, and princes sometimes have to be ungallant.”

“I see.” Princess Ohlyvya gazed down at the inlaid chessboard between them, and a smile of her own lurked behind her eyes. “Well, in that case, I won't feel quite so bad about pointing out to you that it was not only ungallant, but also unwise.”

Nahrmahn's eyebrows rose, then lowered in sudden consternation as she moved one of her knights. The move threatened his queen…which he could no longer move to a position of safety, because the knight's move also cleared the file it had occupied, exposing his king to a discovered check from her remaining bishop. Which was only possible because capturing her other bishop had moved
his
remaining castle out of position to block the check.

He sat looking at the situation for several seconds, then sighed and moved his king out of check. At which point her knight swooped in and removed his queen from play.

“You know,” he said, sitting back as he contemplated his next move, “by now I should realize that whenever you offer me a nice, juicy prize like that, there's always a hook somewhere inside the bait.”

“Oh, no,” she said demurely. “Sometimes I leave them out there with no hook at all. Just to encourage you to bite the
next
time.”

Nahrmahn laughed and shook his head, then looked around the library.

Princess Mahrya was bent over a history text in one of the window seats. At almost eighteen, she was approaching marriageable age, although there were no immediate prospects on the horizon. Fortunately, as the graceful profile etched against the glow of the lamp at her shoulder proved, she took after her petite, attractive mother more than her father. She also had her mother's mischievous personality.

Prince Nahrmahn, her younger brother, at fourteen, looked like a much younger—and slimmer—version of his father and namesake. He, however, wasn't interested in a history text. He was buried in a novel, and judging from his intent expression it must contain quite a bit of derring-do. Not to mention swords, mayhem, and murder.

Their youngest children, Prince Trahvys and Princess Felayz, were up in the nursery in the nannies' care. It would be a few years yet before they were trusted among the library's expensive volumes.

There were moments, like this one, when Nahrmahn almost wished he weren't so deeply involved in the great game. Unfortunately, he was, and he intended to leave Nahrmahn the Younger a much larger and more powerful princedom than he himself had inherited. Besides, whatever its drawbacks, it was the only game truly worth playing.

His smile went just a bit crooked at the thought. Then he shook himself and returned his attention to his wife.

Ohlyvya smiled fondly at him, accustomed to the way his mind sometimes wandered. Theirs was not a marriage of towering, passionate love. Ohlyvya was a daughter of a collateral branch of the previous ruling house, and her marriage to Nahrmahn—arranged when she was all of four years old—had been part of the glue binding the old régime's adherents to the new dynasty. She'd been raised to expect exactly that, but Nahrmahn knew she was genuinely fond of him, and he'd often been surprised by how deeply he'd come to care for her. He wasn't, as he'd realized long ago, the sort of person who allowed people close to him, but somehow Ohlyvya had gotten inside his guard, and he was glad she had. Raising four children together had helped bring them even closer, in many ways, and he had great respect for her intelligence. Indeed, he often wished he'd been able to name her to his Privy Council, but that would have been unthinkable.

“Are you going to move sometime this evening, dear?” she asked sweetly, and he laughed.

“As soon as I recover from the shock of your perfidious ambush,” he told her. “In fact, I think I've just about—”

Someone rapped sharply on the library door. Nahrmahn's head turned towards the sound, eyebrows lowering. All of the palace servants knew his evenings with Ohlyvya and the children were never to be disturbed.

The door opened, and one of the palace footmen stood in the opening, bowing deeply.

“Your pardon, Your Highness,” he said, just a bit nervously. “I deeply regret disturbing you, but Bishop Executor Wyllys has just arrived at the palace. He says it's most urgent that he speak with you.”

Nahrmahn's lowered eyebrows shot upward, and he heard Ohlyvya' little gasp of surprise. Mahrya looked up from her history text, her own expression one of astonishment, and not a little apprehension. The younger Nahrmahn was far too deeply buried in his novel even to notice.

“I'm sorry, my dear,” Nahrmahn said to Ohlyvya after a heartbeat or two. “It looks like we'll have to finish this game later. Tomorrow evening, perhaps.”

“Of course.” Her voice was calm, almost tranquil, but he saw the questions burning in her eyes. Questions, he knew, she wouldn't ask.

“Forgive me for rushing off,” he continued, rising and bending to kiss her forehead. “I'll be along to bed as soon as I can.”

“I understand, dear,” she said, and watched him stride rapidly out of the library.

“Your Highness, I apologize for arriving in such unseemly haste at such an hour,” Bishop Executor Wyllys Graisyn said as he was ushered into the small, private presence chamber.

The footman withdrew, and the bishop executor was alone with the prince and only a single bodyguard.

“Your Eminence, I'm sure no apology is necessary,” Nahrmahn said, sparring politely for time. “I doubt very much that you would have come to call at such an hour without formally informing me you were coming except under pressing circumstances. Please, tell me what I can do for you.”

“Actually, Your Highness, this is somewhat awkward,” Graisyn said. His tone was simultaneously apologetic, embarrassed, and excited, and Nahrmahn's own curiosity—and apprehension—burned hotter.

“A Church dispatch boat arrived here in Eraystor less than three hours ago, Your Highness,” the cleric continued. “It carried dispatches, of course. But when I opened them, I discovered that apparently a
previous
dispatch boat had been sent to me. That vessel never arrived, and I can only assume it foundered somewhere in the Chisholm Sea in that storm last month.”

The bishop executor paused, and Nahrmahn's spine stiffened. He sat straighter in his chair, and his face, he was well aware, was an only too accurate an indicator of his suddenly spiking apprehension. Whatever the lost dispatch boat's messages might have contained must have been vital for a follow-up dispatch to get Graisyn over to the palace at this late an hour. Especially if the follow-up itself had arrived less than three hours earlier.

“As I'm sure you must have guessed, Your Highness, the earlier dispatch boat carried critically important messages. Messages addressed both to you and to me from Chancellor Trynair and Archbishop Lyam. Fortunately, when the dispatch boat failed to return to Traylis on schedule, duplicate dispatches were sent. They've now arrived.”

“I see,” Nahrmahn said. Then he cocked his head. “Actually, Your Eminence, I
don't
see. Not yet.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness.” Graisyn smiled almost nervously. “I'm afraid this is rather different from the sorts of business I normally discharge for Mother Church. Although, actually, as I understand my instructions, I'm not here on Mother Church's behalf. I'm here on behalf of Chancellor Trynair in his role as Chancellor of the Knights of the Temple Lands.”

Nahrmahn felt his breathing falter.

“Your Highness,” Graisyn began, “the Chancellor's become increasingly concerned by the apparent ambition of Haarahld of Charis. Accordingly, speaking for the Knights of the Temple Lands, he's instructed me to tell you that—”

The moon was high in a cloudless sky, spilling gorgeous silver light down over the palace gardens. A small group of the carefully bred night wyverns for which Emerald was justly famed trilled and whistled sweetly in the fronds of the trees, and a cool breeze drifted in through the open window of the council chamber.

The gardens' tranquillity was in pronounced contrast to the occupants of that chamber.

“I can't believe this,” Earl Pine Hollow said. “I simply can't
believe
this!”

“That, unfortunately, doesn't change the situation, Trahvys,” Nahrmahn said rather tartly.

“I know.” The first councillor gave himself a visible shake and smiled crookedly at his cousin. “I'm sorry. It's just that without any warning at all, having it just dropped on us in the middle of the night…”

“If you think it came as a surprise to
you
, you should've been there when Graisyn dropped it on
me
.”

“I'd prefer to not even imagine that, if it's all the same to you,” Pine Hollow said in a more natural tone.

“The thing that occurs to me, My Prince,” Hahl Shandyr said, “is to wonder what could have set this off. None of our contacts in Zion or the Temple even suggested that the Group of Four might be contemplating something like
this
. May I ask if the Bishop Executor gave any indication that
Hektor
might have been behind this?”

“I don't think he has the least idea himself,” Nahrmahn said frankly. “Personally, I'd be inclined to doubt Hektor set it up. Mind you, it sounds like it's designed to give him everything he's ever wanted—or, at least, to make him
think
that's what it's going to give him—but there's no way he could have that much influence with the Group of Four. No,” the prince shook his head, “my guess is that this is Clyntahn. Haarahld must have finally done something to push him over the edge, and it must at least seem threatening enough to let him carry the other three along with him.”

“My Prince,” Shandyr said, in an unusually quiet voice, “I apologize.”

Nahrmahn looked at him sharply, his expression a question, and his spymaster drew a deep breath.

“I ought to have been able to reestablish at least a handful of agents in Charis, Your Highness,” he said. “If I had, we might at least know what's inspired this. And,” he drew another, deeper breath, “we might have known in time to see it coming.”

“I won't pretend I'm happy about the situation in Charis,” Nahrmahn told him. “But judging from the tone of Trynair's messages, even if we'd had agents in place, they might not have realized this was in the wind. In fact, I doubt anyone in Charis has the least idea of what's about to happen.”

“I'm sure that's part of their thinking, My Prince,” Gharth Rahlstahn, the Earl of Mahndyr, said. Mahndyr was Nahrmahn's senior admiral, and his expression was grim.

“I'm sure that's part of their thinking,” he repeated, once he was certain he had Nahrmahn's attention. “But this puts us in a Shan-wei of a spot. It would've been bad enough if the original dispatches had gotten through, but we've lost the better part of an entire month.”

“Frankly,” Pine Hollow said, “the whole tenor of this…correspondence, if I can call it that, worries me. We aren't being offered assistance, Your Highness; we're being ordered to do what Trynair and Clyntahn
want
us to do. And from the way
I
read these messages,” he tapped the elaborately illuminated letter in question, lying on the council table in front of him, “Hektor's the senior partner as far as the Group of Four is concerned. It isn't an alliance of equals. We're
required
to support Hektor…and to place our fleet under the command of
his
admirals.”