"I hope Spy doesn't get too enterprising," Merlin said, after a moment. Cayleb looked at him, and he shrugged. "She doesn't know she's only out there to explain how we found them. If her skipper gets too close trying to maintain contact overnight, he could find himself in trouble."
"He knows his job, Merlin," Cayleb replied. "And it's not as if we've got much choice. Domynyk would probably accept your visions without turning a hair, after this long, and so would most of the original squadron's captains. But the rest wouldn't."
"And even if they would, all the reasons for not telling anyone else still apply," Merlin agreed with a sigh.
"Exactly." It was Cayleb's turn to shrug. "And even more so, now that the Church has declared war on us. We don't need to give them any ammunition for declaring that we associate with demons! As for Spy, I don't expect her to get into any trouble, Merlin. But, if she does, she does. Things like that happen in wars."
Merlin regarded him with a carefully hidden sardonic amusement-and sorrow-Cayleb would never have understood. The crown prince wasn't being callous, just realistic, and for all his youthfulness, he truly did understand the difference between the realities of war and the romanticism of heroic ballads. He simply had no way of knowing that the man to whom he was talking was the cybernetic avatar of a young woman who'd seen her species' entire civilization go down in fire and destruction. If anyone on the entire planet of Safehold knew that "things happened" in war, it was Merlin Athrawes.
"So," he said, changing the topic, "you feel confident enough to take time to bring Domynyk aboard for a last-minute discussion?"
"Yes," Cayleb said. "I'm assuming that if Spy's sighted them, they've probably sighted her. But even if they have, they can't do a lot about it. I'm sure Father was right about the impact our sudden appearance is going to have on their morale, but they really have only two choices: fight us at sea, or try to find some place to anchor in order to force us to come to them.
"Given how scattered you say their fleet is, they aren't going to want to fight us at all. Not until they get themselves reorganized, at any rate, and if Spy's estimate of their speed is accurate, just closing up their formation would probably take most of a full day." The crown prince shook his head. "If that's the best they can manage in this wind, then their bottoms must be even fouler than I'd thought."
Merlin nodded, reminding himself that "five knots" on Safehold wasn't quite the same thing as "five knots" would have been on Earth, where the nautical and statute miles had been different lengths. For Nimue Alban, "five knots" would have been the equivalent of just over nine and a quarter kilometers per hour or five and three quarters miles per hour. Here, "five knots" was exactly five miles per hour, and that was that.
Given that the current wind conditions hovered between Force Four and Force Five from the old Beaufort scale, that was pretty poor performance. Wind speed was fairly steady at around eighteen or nineteen miles per hour, and Cayleb's galleys could easily make good a speed of nine to ten knots under those conditions.
"The best way for them to get themselves back into some sort of order would be to find someplace to anchor, at least long enough to get their squadrons reorganized," Cayleb continued. "But there's no place for a fleet to anchor between Thomas Point and Rock Point. In fact, if they're looking for a sheltered anchorage, there's no place between Rock Point and Crag Hook.
"So, their choices are to continue on their present heading, at least as far as Crag Reach or to try to turn around and go back the way they came. If they get as far as Crag Reach, they might be able to get in behind Opal Island and anchor there. For that matter, the Reach is going to be much more sheltered than the open water, which would suit their galleys a lot better if they want to fight under oars.
"Given how little daylight's left, I doubt they've got time to pass the necessary orders to coordinate any major change of plans, which effectively rules out turning around. So, they're probably going to stay on their present course, spend the night doing the best they can to tighten their formation, and hope we're far enough behind Spy that they can get as far as Crag Reach before anything nasty catches up with them. If I'm right, we're going to know exactly where to find them in the morning, and it's important for me to go over our plans with Domynyk one last time and make sure we're in position by dawn to have all day to work on these people.
"And, of course," he grinned, "if I'm not right, it's going to be up to you to tell me about it so I can think up some semi-plausible reason to change our course."
"Don't forget the weather," Merlin cautioned.
The clouds coming in from the northeast marked the leading edge of a series of low-pressure fronts. His satellite observation indicated that the leading front, which was already almost upon them, was a fairly mild one, without the violent thunderstorms such fronts frequently brought. It was going to dump quite a bit of rain, and the wind was going to strengthen, but it should have passed through by sometime before dawn. His best current estimate was that it would push weather conditions to about Force Six, with winds of around twenty five or twenty-six miles per hour, and ten to thirteen-foot seas.
But the front coming on its heels was more powerful, with winds which might reach Force Seven and seas as high as seventeen or eighteen feet.
"I'm not forgetting it," Cayleb assured him, and smiled unpleasantly. "But Malikai isn't going to know it's coming, so it's not going to affect any orders he may try to pass before nightfall. And if the weather makes up, it's going to favor us over them."
* * *
"Any changes in the standing orders, Sir?" Lieutenant Zhoelsyn asked. He had to speak loudly to make himself heard over the sound of the cold, steady rain, but he tried to keep any anxiety out of his voice as he relieved King Gorjah II's first lieutenant, Leeahm Maikelsyn.
"None," Lieutenant Maikelsyn replied. He gazed at Zhoelsyn for a moment, then shrugged. "There's not very much we can do but hold our present course, Phylyp."
Zhoelsyn started to say something, but he stopped himself and simply nodded, instead. It was a pitch-dark, moonless night, the wind was freshening, the sea was making up, everyone on deck was soaked and miserable, despite their oilskins, and the lookouts could barely see the poop and masthead lanterns of the closest ships through the falling rain. It was possible Duke Malikai could have ordered a course change before nightfall, if he'd responded promptly to the sighting report, but he hadn't. Now it had become a physical impossibility. All they could do was hold their present course through the rain and hope.
Everyone knew that, but no one knew where that schooner had come from. Or how it could possibly have found them here.
It's probably just a scout, Zhoelsyn told himself for the thousandth time. For that matter, it might even be no more than one of their merchant ships, swinging wide of the normal shipping routes because there's a war on. A lot of their merchant masters are ex-naval officers, after all. If one of them stumbled across us completely by accident, he'd know how important it was to get closer, find out everything he can before he heads back to Charis with his warning.
Whatever it was, surely the Charisians couldn't possibly have diverted enough of their naval strength to waters this far from Rock Shoal Bay to threaten the combined fleet! The very idea was so insane that there was no wonder Malikai had felt no need to risk the confusion of trying to turn his spread-out fleet around. And yet, there that sail had been, heading straight towards them.
"Very well, Master Maikelsyn," Zhoelsyn said formally. "I relieve you."
* * *
"All right, then. We all understand what we need to do tomorrow," Cayleb said.
He, Sir Domynyk Staynair, their flag captains, Merlin, and Lieutenant Falkhan sat around the dining table in HMS Dreadnought's flag cabin while rain drummed on the cabin skylight and pattered against the stern windows.
Cayleb had no idea of the real reason Merlin had suggested that particular name for the first of the purpose-built gun-armed galleons, but he and his father had both agreed it fit perfectly. Dreadnought was almost forty feet longer than the Charisian Navy's older galleons. Admiral Staynair had retained HMS Gale as his flagship, but Dreadnought carried fifty-four guns to the older ship's thirty-six. She'd also been designed from the beginning with an unbroken sheer, without the exaggerated castles at either end. Her forecastle and quarterdeck were only about six feet higher than her maindeck, connected by bulwarks and spar decks for line handlers, and she carried all of her guns at maindeck level or higher. Despite the fact that she was generally sleeker and lower slung than her older sister-in proportion to her length, at least-the lower sills of her gunports were almost fifteen feet above her waterline, compared to only nine feet for Gale. And her greater ratio of length to beam and more powerful sail plan meant she was faster, as well.
Her greater size had also made her a logical choice as a flagship, and she'd been provided with the sizable (for a cramped, crowded, sail-powered ship, at least) quarters to accommodate an admiral. Or, in this case, a crown prince acting as an admiral.
"I think we understand, Your Highness," Admiral Staynair replied. He looked a great deal like a younger version of his older brother, although his beard was considerably less luxuriant. Indeed, he favored a dagger-style rather like Merlin's, except for Merlin's waxed mustachios. Now he smiled at his crown prince.
"If we don't, it's not because you haven't made it sufficiently clear, at any rate," he added.
"I don't mean to nag, Domynyk," Cayleb said with a rueful smile of his own. "And I'm not trying to pretend I know your job as well as you do. It's just-"
"It's just that the ultimate responsibility is yours, Your Highness," Staynair interrupted, and shook his head. "I understand that, too. And, believe me, I don't feel at all as if you don't trust me. For that matter, you've probably got as much experience in handling squadrons of gun-armed galleons as I do! But, all the same, it's time for you to relax as much as you can."
Cayleb looked at him in surprise, and the admiral shrugged.
"You need to have your head clear tomorrow, Your Highness," he said firmly. "And you need to remember it's not just your squadron commanders and captains who understand what we have to do. By this time, every man in the fleet understands, just as they know you've led them straight to the enemy. Believe me, they also know just how close to impossible that was. They have complete confidence in you and in their weapons, and they know exactly what the stakes are. If mortal men can win this battle, they will win it for you."
He held Cayleb's eyes for several seconds, until, slowly, the prince nodded.
"So, what you need to do right now, is to get as much sleep as you can," Staynair continued then. "You're going to have decisions to make tomorrow. Be sure your mind is fresh enough to make the decisions worthy of the men under your command."
"You're right, of course," Cayleb said after a moment. "On the other hand, I don't know how much sleep I can get tonight. I'll do my best, though."
"Good. And now," Staynair glanced up at the cabin lamp, swaying on its gimbals above the table, and listened to the sound of the rain and steadily freshening wind, "I'd best be getting back to Gale before the sea gets any higher."
He grimaced as a harder gust of rain drove against the skylight, then smiled at Captain Bowsham.
"Khanair and I are going to get soaked enough as it is," he added.
"Of course," Cayleb agreed. He glanced around the table one more time, then picked up his wineglass and raised it. "Before you go, though, one last toast."
All the others reclaimed their own glasses and raised them.
"The King, Charis, victory, and damnation to the enemy!" Cayleb said bly.
"Damnation to the enemy!" rumbled back at him, and crystal sang as the glasses touched.
III
The Battle of Rock Point,
Off Armageddon Reef
Merlin Athrawes stood with Ahrnahld Falkhan and Captain Manthyr behind Crown Prince Cayleb on HMS Dreadnought's quarterdeck in the strengthening gray light and windy predawn chill as Father Raimahnd raised his voice in prayer.
Raimahnd Fuhllyr was Charisian-born. As such, it was unlikely he would ever be permitted to rise above his present rank of upper-priest, but he was still an ordained priest of the Church of God Awaiting. And he was also a priest who knew, just as Cayleb had made certain everyone else aboard his ships knew, who had truly orchestrated this unprovoked attack upon Charis. Not just upon their king, but upon their homes and families, as well.
Now Merlin watched the flagship's chaplain's back carefully. Fuhllyr stood beside the ship's bell at the quarterdeck rail, facing out towards the assembled ship's company, which meant Merlin couldn't see his face and expression. But what he saw in the under-priest's ramrod-straight spine, and heard in Fuhllyr's voice, was satisfying . . . and perhaps as troubling as it was reassuring to the man who'd brought such changes to Charis.
"And now," Fuhllyr brought his prayer to a close, his voice firm and b against the wind's whine through the rigging, "as the Archangel Chihiro prayed before the final battle against the forces of darkness, we make bold to say: O God, You know how busy we must be this day about Your work. If we forget You, do not You, O Lord, forget us. Amen."
"Amen!" rumbled back from the assembled crew with an angry ardor.
Merlin's amen sounded right along with the others, as fervent as any he'd ever uttered, despite the reference to "the Archangel Chihiro's" plagiarization of Sir Jacob Astley's battle prayer. Yet Fuhllyr's very sincerity, the fact that there'd been no reservations in any of his sermons to Dreadnought's company from the day they sailed, only underscored something he felt certain the Group of Four hadn't counted on.
Merlin didn't know how much of their decision to destroy Charis had sprung from genuine concern about the kingdom's orthodoxy and how much had been simply the cynical power calculation of an arrogant, thoroughly corrupt hierarchy. He suspected that they probably didn't know. But one thing he did know, was that it had never occurred to them for an instant that their plan to crush Charis might not succeed. Nor, whatever they might have thought they feared, did they have any true conception of what a genuine religious war might entail. But if they'd been able to hear Father Raimahnd this morning, perhaps they might have recognized in the sound of his firm, angry, consecrated voice, the death knell of their undisputed mastery over Safehold.
