Off Armageddon Reef (72 page)

The Earl of Thirsk found himself panting with exertion as he hauled himself through the entry port on to
King Rahnyld
's deck, and he took a minute to catch his breath after scaling the battens on the huge galley's towering side. It was a long climb for a man in his fifties who no longer got as much exercise as he probably should, but he'd made it often enough over the weary five-days of this long, creeping voyage to be used to it by this time. And at least this time he felt a certain grim confidence that his idiot “Admiral General” was going to have to listen to him.

The ship, he noticed, was no longer the immaculate showpiece of the fleet which had departed Gorath Bay in mid-October. She was salt stained, now, her gilding and splendid paintwork battered by spray and weather, and her single sail had carried away in the recent gale. Her crew had done well to save the mast, but the replacement spar was shorter than the one which had carried away with the sail, and she looked awkward, almost unfinished.

It didn't help that the starboard bulwark and the gangway above the oar deck had been crushed for a length of over twenty feet where one of the mountainous seas had slammed into her. There were other signs of damage around the decks, including at least one stove-in hatch cover. The ship's carpenter and his mates would have plenty of repairs to occupy them, and he could hear the dismal, patient clanking of the pumps. He could also hear the moans of injured men floating up through the canvas air scoops rigged to ventilate the galley's berth deck, and he knew she'd suffered at least two dozen casualties, as well.

Frankly, he was astonished the lumbering confection had survived at all. Her captain must be considerably more competent than he'd thought.

“My Lord,” a voice said, and he turned to find one of the flagship's junior lieutenants at his shoulder.

The young man had the look of one of the overbred, undertrained sprigs of the aristocracy who'd attached themselves to Malikai's “staff.” But his red uniform tunic was water-stained and torn on one shoulder, and both his hands were heavily bandaged. Apparently he'd found something useful to do with himself during the storm, and Thirsk smiled at him rather more warmly then he might have otherwise.

“Yes?” he asked.

“My Lord, the Duke and the squadron commanders are assembled in the great cabin. May I escort you to the meeting?”

“Of course, Lieutenant.”

“Then if you'll come this way, My Lord.”

King Rahnyld
's great cabin was as splendidly overfurnished as the galley herself had been, although the boards hastily nailed over one of the storm-shattered stern windows and the general evidence of water damage rather detracted from its splendor. Duke Malikai was a tall, florid-faced man, with the fair hair and light complexion of his Tiegelkamp-born mother. Unlike the water-damaged cabin, or the lieutenant who'd guided Thirsk here, he was perfectly groomed, with no outward sign of the storm his flagship had survived. A carefully trimmed beard disguised the possible fault of a slightly receding chin, but his shoulders were broad, his physique was imposing, and he had what the court ladies persisted in describing as a high and lofty brow.

Actually
, Thirsk thought,
he's probably even got a working brain in there somewhere. It's just hard to tell from the outside
.

Malikai looked up from a discussion with two of the more junior commodores as Thirsk was escorted into the cabin.

“Ah, My Lord!” he said, beaming as if Thirsk were one of his favorite people. “It's good to see you here.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Thirsk replied with a more restrained, but equally false, smile. “And may I say I was most impressed with Captain Ekyrd's handling of his ship under extremely adverse circumstances.”

“I'll pass your compliment on to the Captain,” Malikai assured him, but the duke's smile seemed to thin just a bit at the reminder of the violent weather the fleet had encountered. Or, perhaps, the oblique reminder of
where
the fleet had encountered it. Then he looked around the cabin—crowded, despite its luxurious size—and cleared his throat loudly.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he said. “I believe we're all present, now, so let us to business.”

It wasn't quite that simple, of course. There was the inevitable jockeying for position around the splendid table. Then there were the equally inevitable bottles of fine brandy, not to mention the obligatory fulsome compliments on its quality. One or two of the commodores around the table looked as impatient as Thirsk felt, but most of these officers were senior enough to know how the game was played, and so they waited until Malikai put down his glass and looked around.

“I'm sure we were all rather dismayed by the weather last five-day,” he said, and Thirsk managed to suppress a harsh bark of laughter at the understatement.

“Obviously, the storm, and its consequences, require us to reevaluate our planned course,” Malikai continued in his deep, resonant voice. “I realize there's been some difference of opinion about our best route from the beginning. Given the firm instructions issued by His Majesty before our departure, and repeatedly reconfirmed by semaphore dispatch since, we clearly were obligated to attempt the initial course. Not only that, but the Tarotisian fleet will be expecting to make rendezvous with us on the basis of our having followed our original routing.

“Despite that, I believe it's become incumbent upon us to consider alternatives.”

He sat back, satisfied with his pronouncement, and Thirsk waited a moment to see if anyone else cared to respond. Then he cleared his own throat in the continuing silence.

“Your Grace,” he said, “no one could dispute that it was our duty to follow our original orders insofar as practicable. However, all of the reports I've been able to collect from local pilots and ship masters on our voyage so far indicate that Schueler Strait is by far the harder of the two passages around Samson's Land, particularly at this time of year. The combination of current and the set of the prevailing winds creates exactly the sort of conditions we confronted last five-day, when we attempted that passage. I think, therefore, that we have little option but to consider the relative merits of using Judgment Strait, instead.”

To Malikai's credit, no one could actually hear him grinding his teeth. On the other hand, there was no way anyone—including the duke—could realistically dispute what Thirsk had just said, either. If they'd wanted to, the loss of four galleys and one of the fleet's supply ships would have been a fairly powerful rejoinder. And the fact that they'd been forced to run before the wind, until they'd been blown well south and west of Samson's Land would have been another.

“Your Grace,” Commodore Erayk Rahlstyn spoke up, “I believe the Earl's made a valid point. And I'd also like to point out, if I may, that we're supposed to make rendezvous with the Tarotisians off Demon Head. If we follow our original route, we'll be forced to cross over two thousand miles of the Sea of Justice, directly into the prevailing winds. Making back the distance we've lost, we'd have a total voyage of around fifty-two hundred miles.

“On the other hand, we're already in the approaches to Judgment Strait. If we continue through that passage, Samson's Land will cover us against the worst of the weather coming in off the Sea of Justice. And we can hug the western coast of Armageddon Reef for additional protection once we're through the strait. And, finally, it's less than thirty-eight hundred miles to Demon Head from our current position via the strait.”

Malikai nodded gravely, as if every one of those points hadn't been made to him by Thirsk at least two dozen times in private conversations. But those conversations had taken place before his stubborn adherence to orders which had been written by landsmen who'd simply drawn a line on a chart without regard to wind, weather, or current had cost him five ships destroyed, another dozen or more damaged, and over four thousand casualties.

“You and Earl Thirsk have both made cogent arguments, Commodore,” the duke said after a sufficiently lengthy pause to make it clear he'd considered those arguments carefully. “And, while it's never a light matter to set aside royal instructions, still, an officer's true duty is sometimes to…reinterpret his instructions in order to accomplish their purpose and intent even if changing circumstances require that he go about it in a slightly different manner. As you and the Earl have pointed out, this is one of those times.”

He looked around the table and nodded firmly, as if it had been his idea all along.

“Gentlemen,” he announced in a firm, commanding tone, “the fleet will proceed by way of Judgment Strait.”

Prince Nahrmahn gazed out his palace window at the crowded harbor and tried to analyze his own emotions.

On the one hand, he'd never expected to see so many warships in Eraystor Bay, and certainly not to see them there for the express purpose of helping him conquer the kingdom whose steady expansion had posed such a threat to his own princedom for so long. On the other hand, just arranging to feed their crews was going to be a logistical nightmare, and there was the interesting question of what that fleet's commander intended to do
after
Charis was defeated.

He frowned moodily, munching idly on a slice of melon, and contemplated the rapidly approaching admirals' meeting. At least the fact that it was taking place in the land
he
ruled should give both him and Earl Mahndyr a certain added weight in the various councils of war.

On the other hand, Duke Black Water could always point out that he'd brought seventy galleys with him, compared to Emerald's fifty and Chisholm's forty-two. Another ten Corisandian galleys were due to arrive over the next couple of five-days, as well, whereas it would be at least another four five-days before Nahrmahn was able to produce any additional ships. And he had only twenty more available, at most.

It should at least be an interesting discussion, he thought sardonically, and popped another slice of melon into his mouth.

Lynkyn Rahlstahn, Duke of Black Water, looked around the council chamber with a dignified expression. He couldn't fault the arrangements Nahrmahn's people had made, much as a part of him would have liked to. The spacious chamber had been cleared of whatever other furniture might once have occupied it and out-fitted with a single huge table, surrounded by comfortable chairs. The wall opposite the windows now boasted charts of Eraystor Bay, the Charis Sea, Rock Shoal Bay, and The Throat, and a long, low side table didn't quite groan under the weight of appetizer delicacies, wine bottles, and crystal decanters heaped upon it.

Black Water would infinitely have preferred to host this meeting aboard
Corisande
, his flagship galley. It would have placed it firmly on
his
ground and emphasized his authority, but he could never have crammed this many officers and their aides into
Corisande
's great cabin. And perhaps that was for the better. It might make it more difficult for him to impose his will, but he had to be mindful of Prince Hektor's instructions to avoid stepping on other people's toes any more obviously then he had to.

On the other hand
, he thought,
there's not much question who the Church—I mean
,
the Knights of the Temple Lands, of course—wants in charge of this entire affair
.
That should be worth at least as much as a council chamber, however fancy it is
.

He waited patiently while Nahrmahn finished making polite conversation with Sharleyan's Admiral Sharpfield. The prince took his time—possibly to make the point that it was
his
time—about it. Bishop Executor Graisyn was also present, staying close to Nahrmahn, but smiling at anyone who came in range. If the bishop felt out of place surrounded by so many military officers he showed no sign of it.

Finally, though, Nahrmahn crossed to the chair at the head of the table and seated himself. Graisyn followed him, sitting at his right hand, and everyone else began flowing towards the table, as well.

Black Water took his own chair, facing Nahrmahn down the length of the table, and once the two of them were seated, the rest of the horde of flag officers and staffers found
their
seats.

The prince waited again, this time for the scuffing of chairs and the rustle of movement to fade away, then smiled around the table.

“My Lords, allow me to welcome you to Emerald. I'm sure all of us are well enough aware of our purpose to require no restatement of it by me. And, truth be told, my own naval expertise is limited, to say the very least. Earl Mahndyr will represent Emerald in your discussions and planning sessions. Please be assured that he enjoys my complete confidence, and that he speaks for me.”

He smiled again, this time with a hint of steel, despite his rotundity. Black Water doubted anyone around that table was stupid enough to misunderstand the prince's implications.

“Before you begin your discussions, however,” Nahrmahn continued after a moment, “I'm also sure all of us would appreciate the blessing of Mother Church upon our efforts.”

A quiet murmur of voices agreed with him, and he gestured gracefully to Graisyn.

“Your Eminence,” he said, “if you would be so gracious as to invoke God's good graces upon the warriors assembled here in His name?”

“Of course, Your Highness. I would be honored.”

Graisyn stood, raising his hands in benediction.

“Let us pray,” he said. “O God, Creator and Ruler of the universe, we make bold to approach You as Your servant Langhorne has taught us. We ask Your blessings upon these men as they turn their hearts, minds, and swords to the task to which You have called them. Do not—”

“…so all the indications are that Haarahld never saw this coming until about four five-days ago.” Baron Shandyr looked around the table, then bowed slightly to Black Water.

“That completes my report, Your Grace,” he said, wrapping up a terse, well-organized thirty-minute briefing.

“Thank you, Baron,” Black Water replied. “And may I add that your very clear and concise summation accords quite well with all the other information which has so far reached me.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Your Grace,” Shandyr said. “To be honest, our agents in Charis haven't been…as productive as we might have wished over the past year or so.”

“Our own nets were badly damaged in that same shakeup, My Lord,” Black Water said with a thin smile, forbearing to mention whose botched assassination plan had occasioned the shakeup in question. One must, after all, be polite. “It took months for us to begin putting them back together.”

“A great deal of the information which has come to us here in Eraystor is primarily observational,” Shandyr admitted frankly. “We don't have anyone inside Haarahld's palace or navy at this point. Not anyone reliable, at any rate. But we've been interviewing the crews of the merchant ships he's expelled from Charisian waters since he learned of our own mobilization. It seems clear he hadn't even begun overhauling his own reserve galleys until about three five-days ago.”

“That's true enough,” Earl Sharpfield said. “But I have to admit, Your Grace, that I'd feel much more comfortable if we knew more details about these
galleons
of Haarahld's we've been hearing so many rumors about.”

“As would all of us,” Black Water agreed with another, even thinner smile. “According to the last report we received from our own agents in Tellesberg, they probably have as many as fifteen to twenty of them in service, and all indications are that they're much more heavily armed with cannon than any of our galleys. They may represent a significant threat, although it seems unlikely. While I'm willing to concede that they can probably fire a heavy broadside, they won't have time for more than one or, at most, two before we get alongside them. At which point it's going to be up to the boarders, not the cannoneers.”

A rumble of agreement ran around the table, and Black Water's smile grew broader. No one with a working brain was going to take the Royal Charisian Navy lightly, but there was an undeniable echo of confidence in that rumble. However good the Charisians might be, eighty of their galleys and fifteen or twenty galleons would be no match for his own hundred and sixty. Which didn't even count what was going to happen when the Dohlarans and Tarotisians arrived with
another
hundred and sixty.

The…lack of alacrity displayed by Chisholm and Emerald, while irritating, was really relatively insignificant in comparison to numbers like that.

“Bearing in mind that these galleons of theirs
are
going to have a powerful broadside armament,” Earl Sharpfield said, “I think we might be well advised to consider how best to approach them before we actually meet them.”

“I think that's an excellent idea, My Lord,” Black Water agreed. “May I assume you've already had some thoughts on the subject?”

“I have,” Sharpfield replied with a nod.

“Then please share them with us,” Black Water invited. “I'm sure they'll provoke other thoughts as we discuss them.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Sharpfield said. “In the first place, it seems to me that—”

Black Water nodded thoughtfully, but even as he listened to the Chisholm admiral laying out possible tactics, a corner of his mind remained busy, pondering Shandyr's report…and the maddening silence of his own agents in Charis.

He hadn't known about Maysahn and Makferzahn until he sailed, but Hektor and the Earl of Coris had seen to it that he was fully briefed before his departure. He'd been impressed by the amount of information Coris' agents had been able to assemble, but he'd also expected more information to be awaiting him here, in Eraystor.

Unfortunately, it hadn't been.

One of his staffers had very quietly made contact with Coris' man in Eraystor, who should have been the recipient of any reports from Maysahn or Makferzahn. But he hadn't heard a word from them.

No doubt Haarahld's decision to close his waters would make it difficult for any dispatches to get through, but there should have been
something
waiting for him. He supposed it was possible Maysahn hadn't gotten the word in time, and that the last reports he'd gotten out before Haarahld sealed off Charis had gone to Manchyr instead of Eraystor. It didn't seem very likely, though, which made the man's continued silence even more irritating.

On the other hand, Black Water had never really bought into the notion of secret agents creeping about in the background with vital military information. While he was perfectly willing to admit that spies could be invaluable in peacetime, once the fighting actually started, their value dropped steeply. When the swords were out, it was the information your own scouts provided that mattered, not reports from unknown people whose veracity you couldn't prove.

He grimaced internally, shoved the concern over the oddly incommunicado spies back into its mental cubbyhole, and began actually concentrating on what Sharpfield was saying.