He'd also sent a request for assistance to his "ally," King Gorjah, as provided for by their treaties. That request had been carefully timed so that its arrival would indicate Haarahld had had no idea Corisande and her allies were mobilizing until barely three five-days ago. And before their departure, none of the crews of those expelled merchant ships had seen the least evidence that the Royal Charisian Navy was fitting its reserve galleys for war. As they'd departed, some of them had seen signs of a frantically rushed, last-minute mobilization effort, but it was obvious Hektor of Corisande and his allies had managed to take Haarahld by surprise.
At this very moment, Merlin knew, the combined strength of Chisholm and Corisande was underway, headed for Eraystor Bay and the formation of what Haarahld had dubbed the Northern Force. The galleys of the Charisian Navy had already assembled to defend Rock Shoal Bay, and a screen of scouting vessels had been deployed to keep distant watch over Eraystor Bay.
That, too, was no less than Charis' enemies had anticipated.
But behind that screen, concealed from any hostile eyes, the galleon fleet moved slowly but steadily out of the crowded harbor of Lock Island, and its business was with the Southern Force.
Lock Island was the most important single naval base of the Kingdom of Charis. Located almost exactly in the middle of the long, narrow passage known as The Throat, it was heavily fortified and separated from the mainland by two channels.
The South Channel was twenty-four miles wide at high water, but it narrowed to only twelve at low water, when the mudbanks were exposed, and most of those twelve miles were too shallow for seagoing craft. The main shipping channel, marked by several sharp bends, was as little as two miles across at some points, and it passed within barely two thousand yards of the Lock Island batteries.
The North Channel was the deeper of the two, although it was under eighteen miles wide at high water. At low tide, it was less than fifteen, but the main shipping channel was almost eight miles wide at its narrowest, and it was also far less twisty than the one to the south. That meant even deep-draft ships could use it without passing within range of the shore batteries on either side. Which made the North Channel the one which required warships for protection . . . and also explained why the galleons, sailing with the falling tide, were passing between Lock Island and North Key, the matching fortress on the far side of the channel.
The geography of The Throat was both a tremendous strategic advantage and an almost equally tremendous handicap for Charis. It made the entire extent of Howell Bay the next best thing to impregnable as long as the Charisian Navy held Lock Island and the Keys, but it also meant a b easterly wind could effectively close The Throat to all sail-powered traffic. A b enough wind could close it even to galleys, which-as Haarahld had noted-could pin an entire defending fleet behind Lock Island.
Fortunately, the prevailing winds were from the north and northwest. That was the case tonight, although spring was the season when Rock Shoal Bay was more likely to get occasional b easterlies. Even then, however, the wind was more often out of the north-northeast than straight out of the east, thanks to the sheltering landmasses of Silver and Emerald.
The cramped waters of even the North Channel might be enough to cause some anxiety, but it also meant the lights of the fortresses, and especially the hundred-foot beacon tower on the highest point of Lock Island, were very visible. They gave the pilots conning the galleons down the channel in line ahead excellent navigational landmarks, despite the darkness, and Merlin reminded himself of that repeatedly as it was Dreadnought's turn to begin forging ahead.
"I suppose I ought to say something along the lines of 'We're underway at last!'-" Cayleb said beside him as a mustache of white began curling back from the galleon's cutwater. The crown prince's voice would have sounded remarkably calm to people who didn't know him well.
"You could say that," Merlin replied judiciously. "Unfortunately, if you did, Ahrnahld and I would be forced to strangle you and throw your body over the side."
Cayleb chuckled, and Merlin smiled.
"At least the fleet doesn't think we're crazy," the prince said.
"There is that," Merlin agreed. "In fact, I think your father came up with just about the perfect cover story."
"And it's going to make so much trouble for Gorjah when it finally gets back to the Temple, too," Cayleb observed with a beatific smile.
"That does lend it a certain added savor, doesn't it?" Merlin said with a broad smile of his own.
The official explanation for how Haarahld had known to get his galleons to sea-and where to send them-was that one of Baron Wave Thunder's spies in Tarot had discovered the Group of Four's plans. He'd supposedly bought them from someone at court, which, as Cayleb had observed, ought to make things . . . interesting for Gorjah and his closest advisers when word inevitably got back to Clyntahn and his associates. And it very neatly provided an explanation-other than the mysterious visions of one Seijin Merlin-for how Haarahld could have planned his counterstroke.
He and the prince stood smiling at one another for several seconds, but then Cayleb's expression sobered.
"All of us-all of this-really depends on you, Merlin," he said softly, and Merlin could see his expression clearly, despite the darkness. "Without you, none of these ships would be here. And without you, we might have been just as surprised by this attack as we hope they'll go on thinking we are. In case I haven't said this in so many words, thank you."
"Don't thank me," the man who'd once been Nimue Alban said. "I told your father in our very first interview. I'm using Charis, Cayleb."
"I know that," Cayleb said simply. "I've known it from the beginning. I would've known it even if Father hadn't told me what you said that morning. And I know you feel guilty about it."
Merlin's eyes narrowed. Cayleb's eyes had none of Merlin's light-gathering capability, but the prince smiled anyway, as if he could see Merlin's expression.
"Rayjhis and I tried to tell you that day on the Citadel," he said. "You didn't cause this, Merlin; you only brought it to a head a bit sooner than it would have happened anyway. And, along the way, you've given us at least a chance of surviving."
"Maybe I have," Merlin replied after a few seconds, "but that doesn't change the fact that a lot of people are about to be killed."
"A lot of people would have been killed without you, too," Cayleb said. "The difference-and I hope you'll forgive me for saying it's a difference I approve of-is in exactly who's going to be killed. I'm selfish enough to prefer for it to be Hektor of Corisande's subjects, not my father's."
"And, speaking for those subjects, if I may," Falkhan put in from behind them, "I approve just as bly as you do, Your Highness."
"There, you see?" Cayleb was almost grinning at Merlin now.
Despite himself, Merlin found himself smiling back. Then he shook his head and patted Cayleb on the shoulder. The prince chuckled again, more softly, and the two of them turned back to the rail once again, watching the night as the galleons forged steadily ahead into the darkness.
II
Judgment Strait,
Southern Ocean
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.
