safehold2

APRIL, YEAR OF GOD 891

I

Off the Trhumahn Bank,

South Howell Bay

"Signal from the flagship, Sir!"

The Earl of Gray Harbor turned from his place at the quarterdeck rail as the shout floated down from the senior of the two midshipmen perched in the mizzentop. He folded his hands behind him, adjusting to the easy movement of the deck with the remembered reflexes of twenty-plus years at sea, and watched HMS Typhoon's captain look up at the teenaged midshipman who'd announced the signal.

That young man had his eyes glued to the flagship. The noises of a ship at sea-wind humming through the rigging, the rhythmic surge of water past the hull, the creak of timbers and masts, the high-pitched cries and whistles of seabirds and wyverns following in Typhoon's wake-flowed around Gray Harbor while he watched the senior middy straining to read off the signal flags streaming from HMS Gale's mizzen yard. The other youngster sat with his back against the mast, holding the outsized book in his lap firmly against the insistent wind while he waited to turn its pages.

"Well, Master Mahgentee?" Captain Stywyrt prompted, glowering up at the mizzentop as the seconds trickled past.

"I can't quite make out the hoist, Sir, and-" Midshipman Mahgentee began, then broke off. "I've got it now, Sir! Numbers Nine and Thirty-Seven-form line of battle on the port tack, Sir!"

"Very good, Master Mahgentee," Captain Dahryl Stywyrt said, and looked at yet another midshipman, this one standing expectantly on the quarterdeck with him.

"Hoist the acknowledgment, Master Aymez," the captain said. "Lively, now!"

"Aye, aye, Sir!" Midshipman Aymez responded, and began barking orders to the seamen of his detail.

Gray Harbor watched without any temptation to smile, despite the fact that Aymez's thirteen-year-old voice had yet to break and that the youngest of the seamen under his command had to be twice his own age. The earl had once stood in Aymez's shoes, and the youngster clearly knew what he was about.

Balls of brightly colored bunting spilled out of the flag bags, and four of them were bent on to the signal halyards in the proper sequence. Aymez watched carefully, making certain of that, then gave a final order, and the flags rose swiftly. The topmost flag reached the yardarm, and a quick jerk broke them to the wind. They streamed out, duplicating the signal at Gale's yardarm, simultaneously indicating receipt of the flagship's signal and repeating it to show it had been properly read.

Mahgentee had never taken his eyes off the flagship. A few more moments passed, and then, as Gale's signal officer hauled down the original hoist, he shouted down to the quarterdeck once again.

"Execute, Sir!"

"Very well, Master Ahlbair," the captain said to his first officer. "Lay the ship on the port tack, if you please."

"Aye, aye, Sir!" Lieutenant Ahlbair replied, and lifted his leather speaking trumpet to his lips. "Hands to sheets and braces!" he barked.

Gray Harbor watched Stywyrt's well-drilled crew as petty officers bellowed and seamen scampered to their stations. The evolution was more complicated than it had been aboard Gray Harbor's own final command, but Typhoon was a galleon, not a galley. At a hundred and twenty feet, she was thirty feet shorter than a typical galley, and she was also both beamier and taller, which made her look undeniably stubby. And she had three masts, compared to a typical galley's single one, of course, but some additional changes had been made, as well.

The most immediately apparent change-and the one which, Gray Harbor had discovered, had actually most offended his view of the way ships were supposed to look-was the disappearance of the towering forecastle and aftercastle. Those castles had provided the advantage of height both for defense against boarders and for pouring fire from matchlocks, crossbows, and light cannon down onto the decks of an opponent. Their disappearance seemed . . . wrong, somehow. Which, he knew, was a foolish attitude. They were no longer needed, and he'd already noticed how much more weatherly Typhoon had become without their wind resistance helping to push her to leeward. Besides, their removal had been an important part of Merlin's and Olyvyr's efforts to reduce top weight and displacement. But however he might feel about the way the castles had been cut down to the upper deck level, the alterations in her sail plan were actually a far more profound change.

Her square-rigged spritsail had been replaced with three of Sir Dustyn Olyvyr's new "jibs"-triangular staysails set "fore-and-aft" on the forward-leading stays supporting the foremast, and the mizzenmast's lateen sail had been replaced by a "spanker," a gaff-rigged fore-and-aft sail, with its foot spread by a heavy boom. They looked decidedly . . . odd to Gray Harbor's eye, but he had no intention of complaining. Nothing was likely to change the fact that square-rigged vessels always had been (and would remain) clumsy and awkward to maneuver. The improvement the new headsails and spanker made possible, however, had to be seen to be believed.

It wasn't enough to match the nimbleness and weatherliness of the "schooners" Olyvyr was producing, of course, but Typhoon's jibs and spanker still gave her a huge maneuver advantage over more conventionally rigged ships. They were located well forward and aft of Typhoon's natural pivot point, which gave them far more leverage than their sail area alone might suggest, and they helped her sail far closer to the wind than any square-rigger had ever before managed. That meant she had a shorter distance to go across the eye of the wind when it came time to tack, and the headsails' and spanker's leverage imparted a powerful turning moment as she began her turn, as well. The combination brought the vessel through the maneuver much more quickly and reliably. It was still easy for an unwary skipper to be caught aback and end up in irons, head-on to the wind and drifting to leeward, but it had become less easy, and the new sail plan helped a vessel regain way much more quickly if it did happen.

Personally, Gray Harbor knew, he would always be a galley captain at heart, but he was far too experienced not to grasp the enormous changes Lock Island, Seamount, and Merlin had wrought.

Typhoon completed her maneuver, settling onto her new heading, and Gray Harbor stepped back to his position at the rail, admiring the precision with which Commodore Staynair maneuvered his squadron's vessels.

In addition to all his other innovations, Merlin had radically overhauled the Navy's signal procedures, as well. The Royal Charisian Navy had evolved its own set of signals over the years, but they'd been restricted to fairly simple, straightforward messages. Hoisting a single red flag to the masthead, for example, as an order to engage the enemy. Adding the golden kraken on black of the Charisian ensign above it to order an attack on the enemy's van, or below it, to order an attack on his rear. Hoisting a black and yellow striped flag below the national flag as an order to "form line astern of me," or above it, as an order to form line abreast. There simply hadn't been a way to transmit more complicated orders . . . until Merlin stepped in, that was.

Baron Seamount had been too deeply involved in producing the new, modified artillery to deal with the signals issue himself, so he'd delegated that particular responsibility to Sir Domynyk Staynair. Staynair, the younger brother of Bishop Maikel Staynair, had been handpicked by High Admiral Lock Island to command Seamount's "Experimental Squadron."

He'd been chosen in part because his superiors' faith in his loyalty-and ability to protect the Navy's secrets-was absolute. But he'd also been chosen because of his raw ability. At thirty-seven, with over twenty-five years of seagoing experience, Staynair was young enough to remain flexible, yet more than experienced enough to help the seijin construct a comprehensive vocabulary of just under eight hundred standard commands. Those commands were listed in the signal book clasped so firmly by Midshipman Mahgentee's assistant in the top, and each of them had been assigned a numerical value.

Using the new signal flags, based on Merlin's "arabic numerals," each of those commands, which dealt with the overwhelming majority of possible evolutions, could be transmitted using a simple hoist of no more than three flags. The simple inclusion of a plain black flag-already called the "stopper" by the signals parties-between numerical flags served as punctuation. By inserting it to indicate breaks between individual values, multiple commands-such as Staynair's order to form line, followed by the order to do so on the port tack-could be hoisted simultaneously.

Staynair's vocabulary also contained a thousand of the words most commonly needed by seamen, each also represented by a single numerical hoist, to permit more complicated signals to be exchanged. And, if it should happen that a required word wasn't in the vocabulary, the letters of the alphabet had also been assigned flag values. Any word could be spelled out, although that was a laborious, time-consuming process.

The result was a vast increase in tactical flexibility . . . before battle was joined, at least. The amount of gunsmoke even old-style naval battles produced was quite sufficient to reduce the utility of any visual signaling system to virtually nothing once the actual shooting began. But any professional sea officer knew the ability to send quick, positive orders to the units of a squadron during the approach to battle was still a priceless advantage.

"Excuse me, My Lord."

Gray Harbor looked up, shaking himself out of his reverie, as a diffident young officer appeared beside him.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Captain Stywyrt's respects, My Lord, but we're coming up on the target."

"Ah, of course! Thank you, Lieutenant. And please thank the Captain for me, as well."

"Of course, My Lord."

The lieutenant touched his left shoulder with his right fist in salute, then returned to his duties while Gray Harbor carefully inserted the cotton Seamount had provided into his ears.

"Beat to quarters, Master Ahlbair!" Stywyrt's voice sounded muffled through the cotton, but the order was clear enough, and the traditional deep-voiced drums began to boom.

Once again, bare feet pattered over wooden decks as the crew scurried to their stations. It wasn't necessary actually to clear for action-Stywyrt had seen to that long since-but the galleon's decks offered a seething flood of humanity in what seemed like utter chaos.

Gray Harbor's experienced eye saw through the apparent chaos to the intense, disciplined order underneath it. Where a landsman would have seen only confusion, he saw the precise choreography of a formal ball, and the fact that so much of what Typhoon's crew was doing was completely new only made that precision even more impressive.

"Load starboard, Master Ahlbair," Stywyrt said.

"Starboard batteries, run in and load!" Lieutenant Ahlbair shouted, and Gray Harbor stepped closer to the quarterdeck rail to gaze down and watch the gundeck gun crews casting off the breeching ropes which secured the newfangled gun carriages to the ship's side. Men tailed onto the side tackles, grunting with effort as they heaved, and their massive charges moved backward in a thunderous squeal of wooden gun trucks across deck planks which had been sanded to improve the gun crews' traction. The guns on Typhoon's main deck were krakens which had been rebored by Ehdwyrd Howsmyn. They weighed two and a half tons each, and they moved heavily, reluctantly, despite their carriages' wheels.

"Avast heaving!" gun captains shouted, announcing their satisfaction as their ponderous charges moved far enough inboard. The Number Three from each gun crew removed the wooden tampion which normally sealed the bore against spray, and the Number Two removed the sheet-lead "apron" which protected the secured gun's vent so Number One could attach the gunlock.

Powder monkeys-boys, some of them as young as seven or eight-dashed up to each gun with their wooden cartridge buckets. Each bucket contained a single flannel bag, filled with gunpowder and then stitched shut, and each monkey dumped his cartridge on deck at his assigned gun, then went racing back for another.

The gun's Number Five picked up the cartridge and passed it to Number Three, who slid it down the muzzle of the gun. Number Six had already selected a round shot from the garland along the bulwark. He passed it to Number Three while Number Four rammed the powder charge home. The gleaming round shot-just under six and a half inches in diameter and weighing over thirty-eight pounds-went down the bore next, followed by a fat, round wad of rope yarn to keep it from rolling around inside the gun as the ship moved, and Number Four tamped everything down with another stroke of his rammer.

Gun trucks squealed again as the cannon were run back into firing position. They snouted out of their gunports all down the galleon's starboard side as Typhoon bared her claws, and the Number Eight and Number Nine of each crew slid stout wooden handspikes under the gun tube. The gun carriage had been designed with "steps" cut out of the brackets-the heavy side timbers which supported the main weight of the gun-and the crewmen used those steps as purchase points, grunting with effort as they levered the breech of the gun upward.

The trunnions were placed so that the gun was slightly breech-heavy, and as the handspikes heaved the breech to the desired elevation, the gun captain inserted the elevation wedge-a simple wooden shim, designed to fit under the breech and hold it there. More work with handspikes levered the guns around, training them as far forward as possible, and then the gun captains drove priming irons-small iron skewers-down the guns' touchholes, piercing the cartridges, and reached for the primer boxes each wore at his belt.

That, too, was a new innovation. Before Merlin's intervention, each gun had been primed with loose powder from the gun captain's powderhorn and, when the moment came, it had been touched off with a red-hot iron rod or a length of slow match. But burning matches and glowing irons had never been the safest things to have around loose gunpowder, especially on a narrow, pitching deck filled with moving men, so still more changes had been made.

Now the gun captains took goose quills packed with fine-grained gunpowder from the cases at their waists, and inserted them into the vents. They stripped away the wax-covered paper seals to expose the powder filling, and metal clicked as their Number Twos cocked the gunlocks. The firing mechanism was an adaptation of Merlin's "flintlock," which was essentially identical to the lock used on the new muskets, but without a priming pan. Instead, when the striker came forward, the flint struck a milled steel surface and showered sparks over the powder-charged quill.

The entire evolution of running in, loading, and running back out took less than two minutes. Intellectually, Gray Harbor had already known it could be done that quickly with the new guns and carriages, but actually seeing it drove home the enormity of the changes about to transform naval warfare. Bringing a kraken into action on an old-style wheelless carriage, without cartridges, and with powderhorn priming, would have taken at least four times that long.

The earl stepped across to the bulwark, careful to keep well clear of the recoil paths of the lighter "carronades" which Seamount had cast specifically for the quarterdecks and fore decks of ships like Typhoon. They threw the same weight of shot as the rebored krakens, but they weighed less than half as much, they were less than half as long, and they required only half the crew. They also used a much lighter charge and were shorter ranged, although the care Seamount had taken in boring them out meant they-like the refurbished krakens-had substantially smaller windages than any previous artillery piece and were correspondingly more accurate across the range they did have.

Gray Harbor looked forward. The old galley Prince Wyllym and three equally old, worn out merchantmen had been anchored at two hundred-yard intervals in the relatively shallow water just off the Trhumahn Bank. The extensive sandbank lay far enough off the normal shipping routes to allow the Navy to train unobserved, and the water shoaled enough in its vicinity to make it practical to anchor the target vessels. Now Commodore Staynair's flagship led the other four ships of his squadron in line-ahead towards his targets under topsails, jibs, and spankers alone.

Compared to Gray Harbor's old galley command, Typhoon seemed to crawl under so little sail, and, in fact, despite the breeze, she was making good no more than two knots, at best, with barely a fifth of her total canvas set. But those sails were what Merlin and Seamount had designated "fighting sail"-yet another change from Gray Harbor's day, when galleys had struck their yards and canvas completely below before engaging.

Even at their slow, dragging pace, the ships of the meticulously dressed line were covering almost seventy yards every minute, and the waiting targets drew closer and closer. Gray Harbor was almost as impressed by the station-keeping displayed by Staynair's captains as he was by any of Merlin's innovations. In his experience, even galleys found it difficult to maintain precise formation, and sailing ships were still less prone to staying where they were supposed to be. On the other hand, by the time fleets of galleys smashed into each other for the hull-to-hull melee which resolved their battles, formation-keeping was seldom an issue any longer. That wasn't going to be the case for gun-armed galleons, and Seamount and Staynair had drilled their crews mercilessly with that in mind.

There!

Gale drew even with Prince Wyllym and the early afternoon was filled with a sudden bellow of smoky thunder. Even at this range-two hundred yards astern of the flagship-the abrupt, simultaneous detonation of eighteen heavy guns was like a hammer blow across the top of Gray Harbor's head. The flagship disappeared into a sudden, dense cloud of powder smoke, and Gray Harbor's eyes widened as a hurricane of shot slammed into the anchored galley.

Splinters and broken bits of timber flew. The galley shuddered visibly as the tempest of iron blasted into it, and something deep inside Gray Harbor cringed as he visualized-or tried to-what it would have been like for Prince Wyllym's crew, had she had one aboard.

He knew he'd failed. He'd seen battles enough during his own Navy days, but even the heaviest galley carried no more than ten or twelve guns, of which no more than four or five could normally be brought to bear upon a single target. And broadside weapons were seldom much bigger than the three-inch piece called a "falcon," which threw only an eight-and-a-half-pound ball. He'd seen what single heavy cannon balls could do, as they demolished hulls and smashed through the fragile bodies of human beings in hideous sprays of blood, torn tissue, and flying limbs. But he'd never seen what the next best thing to twenty of them could do in a single one of Seamount's new "broadsides."

Gale was a hundred and fifty yards from her target. That was long range by most naval gunnery standards, although her krakens had a theoretical maximum range of three thousand yards. The chances of actually hitting something from a moving ship's deck at anything over a quarter-mile or so were remote, to say the least, however. Indeed, most captains reserved the single salvo they were likely to have time to fire before closing for the melee until the very last moment, when they could hardly have missed if they'd tried and might hope to sweep their opponents' decks with grapeshot and wreak carnage among the other ship's boarders. The number of guns Typhoon and her consorts carried, coupled with their rate of fire, changed that calculation, however.

Even at the squadron's slow rate of advance, and even given its rate of fire, there was just time at this range for each gun in Gale's broadside to fire twice before her own movement carried her beyond the zone in which it could be trained far enough aft to bear on Prince Wyllym.

The second "broadside" was a much more ragged affair as the guns fired independently, each going off as quickly as its own crew could reload and run out again. The first broadside's billowing smoke, rolling downwind towards the anchored targets, more than half-obscured the crews' line of vision, as well, yet both of those broadsides smashed home with devastating effect. The actual holes the round shot punched in the galley's hull weren't all that large, but Gray Harbor knew exactly what was happening inside that hull. Splinters-some of them four and five feet in length, and as much as six inches across at the base-were being blasted loose. They were scything across the ship like screaming demons which would have clawed down any unfortunate seaman in their paths.

Other shots went home higher up the galley's side, smashing down entire sections of her stout bulwarks, sending yet more lethal clouds of splinters howling across her upper deck. Commodore Staynair had thoughtfully placed straw-stuffed mannequins here and there about the target ships' decks, and Gray Harbor saw huge clouds of straw flying in the sunlight, like a golden fog bank which would have been a ghastly red under other circumstances, as splinters and round shot tore them apart.

Then Gale was past Prince Wyllym, ready to fire upon the first of the anchored merchantships, while Typhoon, following in the flagship's wake, approached the battered galley.

"Stand ready, Master Ahlbair. We'll fire by sections, I believe," Captain Stywyrt said conversationally through the rumbling crash of Gale's last few shots.

"Stand ready to fire by sections!" Ahlbair shouted through his speaking trumpet in turn, and Typhoon's captain stepped up beside Gray Harbor at the bulwark as the gun captains took tension on the lanyards attached to the gunlocks. Stywyrt gazed thoughtfully at his approaching target, shoulders relaxed, eyes intent. This might be the first time Gray Harbor had actually seen the new weapons in action, but Stywyrt and the other members of the Experimental Squadron had been drilling with them for five-days now. The captain clearly knew what he was about, and his left hand rose slowly. He held it level with his left ear for several seconds, then brought it slashing down.

"By sections, fire as you bear!" Ahlbair bellowed, and the forward guns thundered almost as he spoke.

Gale had fired every gun which would bear in a single, massive broadside. Typhoon's guns fired in pairs, gundeck and upper deck together, as soon as the gun captains could see their target in front of their muzzles, and she mounted nineteen broadside weapons to Gale's eighteen. It was a long, drawn out, rumbling roll of thunder, not a single brazen bellow, and the ship's fire was even more accurate than Gale's had been. So far as Gray Harbor could tell, not a single shot missed, despite the range, and Prince Wyllym shuddered in agony as round shot after round shot smashed into her splintering timbers.

The guns themselves lurched back, wooden trucks thundering across the planking, muzzles streaming smoke and embers. The stink of burning powder clawed at Gray Harbor's nose and lungs, and he coughed, more than half-deafened despite the cotton stuffed into his ears. The deck seemed to leap up underfoot, battering the soles of his feet, and Typhoon twitched as each pair of guns recoiled and the breeching tackle transmitted the force of three and a half tons of recoiling bronze directly to her timbers. The thick, choking clouds of smoke turned the deck into twilight before they went rolling slowly away from the ship on the breeze.

By allowing his gunners to fire independently, as soon as they bore upon the target, Captain Stywyrt had bought them a few precious moments of extra time to reload. As in Gale's case, each gun crew was responsible for reloading and firing as rapidly as it could, and Gray Harbor watched them as they launched into yet another choreographed burst of chaos.

The Number Four on each gun drove home the soaking wet sponge on one end of his rammer. It slid down the bore, hissing as it quenched any lingering embers from the previous charge. The gun captain stopped the vent, pressing his thumb-protected from the heat by a thick leather thumbstall-over the vent hole to prevent air from entering the bore and fanning any embers the sponge might have missed as a fresh cartridge was rammed home, followed by another round shot and wad. Gun trucks squealed as the gun was run back out. Handspikes clattered as it was trained farther aft, priming quills went down vent holes, gunlocks cocked, the gun captains drew the firing lanyards taut, looked to be certain every member of their crews were clear of the recoil, and yanked. The flint strikers snapped down, sparks showered over the priming quills, and the guns bellowed yet again.

It was ear-stunning, a bedlam which had to be experienced to be believed, and Prince Wyllym's battered side began to literally cave in.

Ahead of Typhoon, Gale's broadside thundered again as she took the first of the anchored merchantmen under fire. The merchant vessel was more lightly built than the galley, and the effect of the flagship's concentrated fire was even more horrific. Gray Harbor could make out few details, thanks to the obscuring gun smoke, but he saw the target's mainmast suddenly quiver, then topple slowly over the side. Even as it toppled, he heard a crashing rumble from HMS Tempest, Typhoon's next astern, as her forwardmost guns came to bear on Prince Wyllym, and he shook his head.

Thank God Merlin is on our side, he thought.

II

King's Harbor Citadel,

Helen Island

"I'm impressed," Earl Gray Harbor said.

He, Cayleb, and Merlin stood atop the King's Harbor Citadel, looking down at the anchored ships of the Experimental Squadron in the basin below. Ahrnahld Falkhan and the rest of Cayleb's Marine bodyguards waited for them on the uppermost floor of the stone keep. It was much cooler there, for the summer sun was hot overhead, and it gave the crown prince and his companions privacy as they stood under a canvas awning that popped quietly in the breeze blowing over the fortress.

"Sir Ahlfryd told you you would be, Rayjhis," Cayleb replied now, and Gray Harbor chuckled.

"Baron Seamount told me I would, true," he acknowledged, and glanced at Merlin. "He also told me I shouldn't pay much attention to your efforts to give him the credit for it, Merlin."

"I suppose there's some truth to that," Merlin acknowledged, turning to face the earl fully. His relationship with Gray Harbor was very different from what it had been, and the first councillor raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"I did provide the original impetus," Merlin said in response. "And I suppose many of the underlying concepts came from me, too. But I would never have had the practical knowledge and experience to put those concepts into effect without Sir Ahlfryd and Sir Dustyn. And the work on tactical formations has been almost entirely Sir Domynyk's and Sir Ahlfryd."

Which, he reflected, was truly the case. The Royal Charisian Navy had developed a sophisticated tactical doctrine for its galleys, along with standard formations and an entire conceptual framework. As Baron Seamount had noted that very first day, however, none of those formations or tactics had been built around broadside armaments. But his navy was accustomed to thinking in terms of developed doctrine, not the sort of free-for-all brawl most other navies seemed prepared to settle for, and he and Staynair had sat down and essentially reinvented the line-of-battle tactics of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries before the first conversion had been completed for the Experimental Squadron. They'd been practicing and refining them ever since, and Merlin was frankly awed by their accomplishments.

"As I say," he went on, "we really needed that experience. And Cayleb's had more than a little to do with making things work, for that matter."

"That much, I can believe," Gray Harbor said, and smiled approvingly at his crown prince. "Cayleb's always been mad about the Navy."

"Oh, no, he hasn't!" Cayleb said with a chuckle. "Not since you and Father sent me to sea, at any rate!" He looked at Merlin and shuddered dramatically. "There's this unfortunate tradition, here in Charis," he explained. "For some reason, people seem to feel the heir to the throne ought to know how the Navy works, so they send him off to sea as a midshipman. And," he added feelingly, "his superior officers are expressly forbidden to treat him differently from any other midshipman. I got to 'kiss the gunner's daughter' more than once."

"-'Kiss the gunner's daughter,' Your Highness?" Merlin repeated with raised eyebrows, and it was Gray Harbor's turn to chuckle.

"The bosun's responsible for disciplining the midshipmen," he explained. "That means miscreants find themselves bent over one of the guns while the bosun thrashes them firmly enough even a midshipman might think twice about repeating his offense."

"Oh, I always thought twice," Cayleb said cheerfully. "I just went ahead and did it anyway."

"Somehow, I find that depressingly easy to believe," Merlin said.

"So do I." Gray Harbor did his best to produce a properly disapproving glower. Unfortunately, it bounced off the crown prince's unrepentant grin without even a scuff mark.

"All the same," the earl continued more seriously, "that 'unfortunate tradition' exists for a reason, Your Highness, and the way you've taken hold out here shows why. I'll be honest, Cayleb. When your father first assigned this to you, a part of me thought it was solely a way to get Merlin out here without raising any questions. But I was wrong. He gave you this job because he knew how well you'd do it, too."

Cayleb waved one hand, still enough of a boy at heart to be embarrassed by anything which sounded like praise, but Merlin shook his head.

"The Earl is right, Your Highness," he said, rather more formally than he normally spoke to Cayleb these days. "In fact, I've been very impressed watching you and Baron Seamount in action. I think you have a natural feel for this sort of thing."

And, Merlin thought, you're young enough not to have too many preconceptions to overcome in the process.

"So do I," Gray Harbor agreed. "And I can understand why the two of you wanted me out here to see all this firsthand. I've read your reports to the King, and, of course, Cayleb's briefed the senior members of the Council several times, but until you've actually seen it, you can't really believe it or grasp all of the implications."

Merlin nodded. Cayleb had handled those briefings because even now Gray Harbor and Wave Thunder were the only councillors who knew the truth about Merlin's contributions. But even though Gray Harbor had been privy to the full details from the very beginning, this had still been his first chance to actually see the new hardware. The demonstration had been carefully planned to show the new artillery in action under near-perfect conditions, as the earl understood perfectly well, but his genuine enthusiasm pleased Merlin enormously. It wasn't really a surprise-the first councillor was a highly intelligent man who also happened to be an experienced naval commander-but that made it no less welcome.

"At the same time," the earl said, turning to look back out over the squadron's anchored ships, "I'm worried about how much time we have. Hektor's obviously getting more and more nervous about what we're up to, and I'm afraid our time may be running out more quickly than we'd hoped. Especially"-he turned his eyes back to Merlin's face-"in light of the reports we're getting out of the Temple and Bishop Zherald's offices right here in Tellesberg."

"I know," Merlin sighed. He leaned forward, bracing his folded arms on the battlements, and his sapphire eyes were distant, unfocused as he gazed across the harbor.

"I'm hoping," he continued, "that the Temple's . . . agitation will settle down a bit once Father Paityr's latest reports have a chance to circulate."

"In a reasonable world, that's probably what would happen," Gray Harbor told him. "In a world where Hektor and our good friend Nahrmahn are pouring their lies into the Church's ear, it probably won't."

The first councillor's expression was grim, and Cayleb nodded in bitter agreement.

"Do you think the Council of Vicars is likely to take an official position?" Merlin asked.

Even with his unwillingness to risk putting bugs inside the Temple proper, he had an excellent feel for what the Church's hierarchy was saying, thanks to his ability to eavesdrop on the Vicars' subordinates living in Zion. But he'd discovered that knowing what it was saying wasn't the same thing as knowing what it was thinking. Just as he'd come to realize that Gray Harbor and Haarahld had far more insight into the realities of Safehold's theocratic politics than he did.

"Probably not," Gray Harbor said after a moment. "Not openly, at least. Their own intendant is reporting that we've violated none of the Proscriptions, which is only true, after all. The Church can issue whatever decrees and commandments she chooses, and no one has the authority to gainsay her, but the Council's usually cautious about appearing capricious. That doesn't mean the Vicars-or, at least, the 'Group of Four'-won't do whatever they believe they have to, but, traditionally, they've preferred to act deliberately, after considering all of the evidence. Officially, at least."

It was Merlin's turn to quirk an eyebrow, and Gray Harbor chuckled. The sound was both cynical and rather sad.

"Mother Church is supposed to be above issues of political power and greed, Merlin. Some of her clergy truly are-like Father Paityr, for example, or Bishop Maikel. But others-like Chancellor Trynair and his allies in the Group of Four-aren't. I wouldn't say this before any other ears, but the truth is that the episcopate and even the Council of Vicars is more concerned with the wielding of power than with the salvation of men's souls these days." He shook his head slowly, brown eyes distant, and Merlin sensed how much it cost him to admit his own cynicism where the keepers of his religious beliefs were concerned. "Calculations are made in the Temple, and in the brothels and gaming houses of Zion, on the basis of political expediency and greed, as often as on the basis of doctrine or the Writ, I'm afraid."

"More often," Cayleb said harshly. Merlin looked at him, and the crown prince's eyes were deep and dark with bitter memory. "There was a time," the prince continued, "when Mother Church truly was a mother to all of her children. That day is gone."

Merlin managed to keep his expression tranquil, but this was the most frankly he'd ever heard Cayleb or Gray Harbor express themselves on the subject of the Church, even after the interview with Father Paityr, and Cayleb's bitter observation hit him like a splash of cold water. He hadn't truly realized until this moment just how fully justified the Council of Vicars' concerns over Charisian restiveness under the Church's oppressive control actually were.

"Cayleb's right, I'm afraid, Merlin," Gray Harbor said heavily. "On the other hand," he continued, "probably exactly because of the way those political factors have come to influence the Council's decisions, the Vicars are extraordinarily careful to avoid drawing attention to them. The Group of Four will be very certain that any decision-any official decision-the Council or the Grand Inquisitor may hand down is carefully written. It will make the Council's orthodoxy and devotion to truth crystal clear. And, so long as Father Paityr insists on reporting we haven't fallen into error, haven't violated the Proscriptions by thought or deed, the Council has no justification for moving openly against us.

"That, unfortunately, doesn't mean the Group of Four won't move against us. Never forget, Merlin, that the Temple Lands are one of Safehold's great kingdoms. The Vicars aren't simply the princes of the Church; they're secular princes, as well. As such, they're as subject to political pressures and calculations-and ambitions-as any other ruler. Whether or not Mother Church openly condemns Charis for doctrinal error, the Council may well choose to put forth its secular power against us. We have not, perhaps," he smiled faintly, "appeared sufficiently pliant for the Council's taste."

Merlin looked at the first councilor, and Gray Harbor shrugged.

"Don't misunderstand me, Merlin. The King-and Cayleb and I-doubt neither the power nor the love of God. Nor do we doubt the Church was created and ordained to safeguard the salvation of men. But the Vicars are also men, and if those responsible for the salvation of others fall into error, into the snares of ambition, greed, and corruption, who will redeem them?"

"I don't know, My Lord," Merlin said after a moment, his voice soft. If Cayleb's bitterness had been eye-opening, the implications of the earl's analysis were breathtaking.

"Neither do I," Gray Harbor said sadly. "But, whether or not any of us dare to admit it openly, much of the Kingdom's current danger is the direct result of the Church's encouragement of Hektor and Nahrmahn. Charis has grown too wealthy, too powerful, for the Council's taste. There are many reasons for that, but the consequence is that the Group of Four has quietly and quite unofficially supported Hektor's ambition to . . . reduce our power. I suspect Hektor, for all his cunning, fails to grasp that having used him to humble us, the Council is scarcely likely to allow him to assume our present position. Nor does that matter at the moment.

"What matters is that, to date, the Group of Four has had only to support our enemies' natural ambitions. That, without your arrival, would have been quite sufficient for the Vicars' purposes, in the fullness of time. But you have arrived, and I very much doubt that the Council has any concept of how radically the conflict between us and Hektor and his allies is about to change as a consequence. When the Group of Four does realize the truth, it will act. Not officially, perhaps-or not as Mother Church, at least. But there are many avenues open to it, and I feel quite confident it will find one of them."

The earl's voice was even grimmer than his expression, and Merlin turned to face him fully.

"My Lord," Merlin said quietly, "if this 'Group of Four' chooses to act against Charis with all of the Church's resources, can Charis survive?"

"I don't know," Gray Harbor said softly. "I truly don't know. Before your arrival, I would have said we couldn't-that no single kingdom could possibly hope to. Now, I see some possibility we might, but only a possibility."

"It wasn't my intention to bring Charis into direct conflict with the Church," Merlin said. Not yet, at least, he added to himself with painful honesty. Not until we'd built the kingdom up into something which might survive the confrontation.

"I never said-or thought-it was," Gray Harbor replied. "But the truth is, Merlin, that I'd long ago accepted that the best we could hope for was to stave off disaster for a time. For my lifetime, probably. Possibly for Cayleb's. But not any longer than that."

Merlin glanced at the bitter-faced crown prince, and Cayleb nodded. For just a moment, the crown prince's mask slipped, and Merlin saw through the young man's habitual cheerful humor to the ultimate despair which had hidden behind it.

It seemed to be a day for revelations, he reflected, as Gray Harbor continued.

"It's certainly possible the things you've done will bring the Council's suspicion and distrust of the Kingdom to a head sooner, but that day would have come eventually, with or without you. The King's decision to insist upon a Charis-born priest as Bishop of Tellesberg wasn't made lightly, and Bishop Maikel's seen the coming storm as clearly as any of us. The only thing which has changed is that you may have made it possible for us to survive that storm. And, if you haven't-if my Kingdom and my King and Prince and what we believe God requires of us all go down into ruin anyway-that will still be a better fate than to live as the gelded slaves of someone like Hektor. Or"-the earl looked directly into Merlin's eyes-"of a Council of Vicars so corrupted by its own secular power that it uses the authority of God Himself for its own gain in this world."

"Father agrees," Cayleb said softly. "And so do I, Merlin." The crown prince looked straight into Merlin's sapphire eyes. "Perhaps you're beginning to understand why Father was so ready to listen when you appeared. Don't think either of us-or Bishop Maikel-have failed to notice how careful you've been never to openly criticize the Church. And don't think we haven't recognized that you recognize that, ultimately, what we believe, what we see as our responsibility to our subjects, is a threat to the Council."

There were shadows in the prince's own eyes, and in those shadows Merlin saw Cayleb's memory of their conversation following the kraken attack, as well.

"I won't," he said after a moment.

"Good," Gray Harbor said, his voice as soft as Cayleb's had been. But then he drew a deep breath and spoke much more briskly.

"That, however, brings us back to this Experimental Squadron of yours. While I would never wish misfortune upon a prince of the Church," his smile, Merlin noted, was downright nasty, "I must admit that the way Archbishop Erayk's accident's prevented him from visiting us as scheduled has provided a useful cushion. By the time he actually gets here, Father Paityr's reports probably will have made it even more difficult for the Council to contemplate any official action against us. And," he gave Merlin a piercing glance, "we'll have had time to further obscure the fact that so many of 'our' recent innovations have come from a single man. Trust me, Merlin-seijin or no, the Inquisition would look very closely at you if the Temple realized everything you've shown us over the past few months."

"That it would," Cayleb agreed.

"But whatever the Council's position," Gray Harbor continued, "Hektor, and Nahrmahn aren't going to react well if-when-they realize just how you, Cayleb, and Sir Ahlfryd are in the process of increasing the fleet's fighting power. At the moment, Bynzhamyn shares your confidence that they haven't tumbled to what's going on out here at King's Harbor, but they have to be aware of the other changes you and the College have been introducing."

"I know," Merlin agreed. And, he thought, Wave Thunder's right about what Hektor and his buddies know . . . so far. The SNARCs' bugs make that clear enough. How long we can keep it that way, though, is another question, isn't it?

"They've been careful to avoid open warfare with us this long, Rayjhis," Cayleb pointed out, and Gray Harbor nodded.

"That's true. But that's been because our fleet is almost equal in numbers to Hektor's and Nahrmahn's, combined, and they know our captains and crews are better than theirs. As Merlin's visions have shown, however, they're working hard to acquire new allies to increase their own naval strength. If they succeed in doing so, and especially if they should realize how things like the new cannon are going to increase our existing strength, they may well choose to strike quickly, in an effort to destroy us before we can complete our plans and preparations."

"The Earl's right, Cayleb," Merlin said soberly. "At the moment, they believe they've got time-that our present strength is effectively the greatest we can sustain. That means time favors them, if they can acquire those allies Rayjhis is talking about. If they decide time's no longer on their side, though, their plans are likely to change."

"Precisely." Gray Harbor nodded energetically. "Which brings me back to the point I wanted to raise originally. How quickly can we complete our planned expansion?"

"In a lot of ways, that's really a question Sir Ahlfryd and Master Howsmyn could answer better than we can," Cayleb replied after glancing at Merlin.

"That's true," Merlin agreed. "I think we could probably make a fairly accurate guess, though."

"Please do, then," Gray Harbor invited, and Merlin shrugged.

"The problem is how few galleons the Navy had in commission when we began," he said. "That, and the fact that your galleys carried so few heavy guns, which means we don't have that many existing weapons to work with."

Gray Harbor nodded patiently, and Merlin grimaced internally. As he'd told the earl earlier, the combined experience and knowledge of Ehdwyrd Howsmyn, Sir Ahlfryd Hyndryk, and Sir Dynnys Olyvyr had been priceless. There'd been countless difficulties inherent in taking the conceptual knowledge Merlin had been able to provide through to a practical hardware stage which would never even have occurred to him. And because of that, unfortunately, he'd underestimated how long it was going to take to put that hardware into production in adequate numbers.

Except, he reflected wryly, for the coppering technique. The one thing that's gone perfectly is also the one that's the hardest to conceal when we put it on, and the one that has the least immediate effect on our ships' firepower. Of course, his amusement faded, there's more to combat effectiveness than gunpower alone.

Still, even-or, perhaps, especially-coppering the hulls in adequate numbers was taking longer than he'd originally let himself allow for. Especially in light of the numbers of ships Charis' enemies could muster between them.

Traditional Safeholdian navies counted their strength in galleys. Those galleys-or most of them, at any rate-might no longer mount old-fashioned beaked rams, but aside from that, they would have been right at home when the Athenian navy went up against Xenophon at Salamis. Well, that was probably unfair, but they would certainly have been familiar to Don Juan of Austria at the Battle of Lepanto. They had evolved from purely coastal craft into something which at least had aspirations to a true seagoing warship, especially in the case of Charis, but they would never have survived typical Atlantic weather conditions on Old Earth.

Fortunately, Safehold's seas tended to be smaller than those of Old Earth, and the crude state of Safeholdian navigation meant that until relatively recently, even the most daring mariners had tended not to stray far from sight of the coast. One of the things which had fueled Charis' rise to maritime supremacy had been her captains' iron-nerved willingness to undertake longer voyages, like the two-thousand-mile voyage across the heart of the sea known as the Anvil, steering by the stars and pure dead-reckoning.

Surviving such journeys had been more than the traditional coastal ship types could manage, and the galleon-like the ships of Commodore Staynair's squadron-represented a relatively new type which had evolved in response to the new challenges. Merlin found himself thinking of the galleys as "Mediterranean types," and the galleons as the prototypes-crude, and far from fully developed so far-of the "Atlantic type." They were less maneuverable than galleys, slower in light airs, and immobile in calms, but far more survivable than any galley in heavy weather.

Most of Safehold's navies felt no great pressure to adopt the galleon as a warship, however. Partly out of ingrained conservatism, but also for some very practical reasons. Every major naval battle in Safehold's history had been fought in coastal waters, and naval strategy focused on control of strategic straits, passages, and seaports. Deep-water survivability was scarcely a major factor for that sort of warfare, and the galley's maneuverability, ability to move even in a dead calm, and large crew made it a far more suitable platform for the boarding actions which climaxed virtually all naval engagements in the absence of truly effective artillery.

But as Baron Seamount had recognized that very first day, the galley was about to become hopelessly obsolete, regardless of where battles were fought. The unavoidable fact that a ship which depended upon long banks of oars as its primary means of movement simply could not mount the sort of broadside which could be mounted by a sail-powered ship doomed it as a type.

Unfortunately, the Royal Charisian Navy had possessed only a few more galleons than anyone else . . . and every one of them was anchored in King's Harbor as part of Commodore Staynair's squadron.

That was bad enough, but the fact that the Navy's galleys had mounted so few cannon was almost equally bad. Staynair's ships each carried between thirty-six and forty guns. The five of them mounted a total of a hundred and eighty-four . . . which represented the kraken armament of almost fifty galleys.

Matters weren't quite as bad as that might have seemed to suggest, given that over a third of the squadron's total artillery consisted of the newly designed and cast carronades, but he, Cayleb, and Seamount had still exhausted the Navy's entire reserve stockpile of krakens.

The eighty galleys the Royal Navy kept in permanent commission could have provided the krakens for another seven or eight galleons, and there were also the fifty galleys of the reserve fleet, which he and Cayleb were already planning on stripping of guns. But fifteen or sixteen gun-armed galleons weren't going to be sufficient to take on the combined fleets of Charis' enemies.

It was fortunate Charis had both copper and substantial deposits of tin. Merlin was aware that sooner or later-and probably sooner-they would have no choice but to begin using iron (especially given the voracious appetite for copper of the new anti-borer and anti-fouling sheathing), but bronze was actually a better alloy for smoothbore artillery. It was too soft to stand up to the wear of rifled shells, but it was more elastic and much less brittle than iron, which made bronze pieces less likely to burst, with catastrophic results for everyone in the vicinity.

Unfortunately, even bronze guns still had to be manufactured, and that took time. Howsmyn's welded trunnions had helped enormously as far as the existing guns were concerned, and he'd used some of the saved time for his reboring project, as well. That had finally produced a genuinely standardized gun caliber, and by reaming out the krakens' often irregular bores, he'd been able to reduce windage, which had simultaneously improved accuracy and increased both muzzle velocity and shot weight. It had also allowed him to use the same shot for the long guns and the new carronades, which greatly simplified ammunition requirements.

"We have to make some decisions," Merlin told Gray Harbor now. "We've pretty much exhausted the existing supply of krakens, and we can't afford to call in the existing fleet and strip it of artillery to get more of them. Even if that wouldn't make Hektor and Nahrmahn suspicious, we're going to need the existing ships to back up the new types whatever happens.

"We can produce almost three carronades for the same amount of metal that goes into a single kraken, and we've got large numbers of lighter artillery pieces-and quite a few heavier ones-we can melt down and recast. In fact, we're already doing that, partly because reclaiming the existing bronze lets us reserve more of the available copper for hull sheathing. But even if carronades can be cast and bored faster than long guns, it still takes at least half or two-thirds as long to produce one. And they're shorter ranged."

"Range would concern me less than many other factors, for now, at least," Gray Harbor said thoughtfully. "As I understand it, these 'carronades' are accurate out to at least two or three hundred yards, true?"

"Close to twice that, actually," Cayleb agreed.

"Well, most naval battles-most old-fashioned naval battles-are resolved at somewhat shorter ranges than that." Gray Harbor's tone was desert-dry. "Actually, they're usually resolved at sword's length. If you can stand off to a range of fifty or a hundred yards and pound them the way Staynair's squadron pounded its targets today, that should be more than sufficient."

"I tend to agree, My Lord." Merlin nodded. "And there's another advantage to the carronade: the weight of the individual pieces. No one's ever designed ships to carry this weight of artillery. Despite everything Sir Dustyn and I have have been able to do to reduce topweight, Staynair's galleons are still overloaded by the weight of their own guns."

It was Gray Harbor's turn to nod soberly.

"If we use carronades instead of krakens, we'll cut the weight of the guns by almost two-thirds for the same broadside," Merlin continued. "That, in turn, would mean not only that the new ships we're building could carry a more powerful armament, but also that we could convert more existing merchant ships. In some ways, I don't really like the thought of conversions. Merchant ships aren't built as heavily as warships; they can't take as much pounding or carry the same weight of artillery. On the other hand, if any battles we fight work out the way we hope they will, that shouldn't be a decisive factor."

"And the carronades weigh almost exactly the same as falcons," Cayleb pointed out. "If we've got time to cast enough of them, we can replace our galleys' broadside weapons, as well."

"Good points, all of them," Gray Harbor said. "Still, I think the range problem is one we're going to have to address in the long term. Eventually, our enemies are going to discover most of what we're up to, even if we manage to keep the surprise concealed until the first time they face the new ships in combat. When they do discover it, anyone but an utter idiot-which, unfortunately, neither Hektor nor Nahrmahn is-is going to realize they need the same sorts of ships. And when they have them, we won't be able to choose our own ranges. That means longer guns, eventually, so we'll have to find a way to solve the topweight problem."

"That's certainly true, Rayjhis," Cayleb said. "Most of the squadron's ships are already beginning to hog at least a little."

"I'm not surprised." Gray Harbor grimaced. The phenomenon known as "hogging" was scarcely unknown among galleys, after all. When you put heavy weights at the ends of a wooden hull (which was where most of a galley's guns happened to be mounted), it inevitably put a severe strain on a ship's keel. The usual result was that the ship's ends drooped downward and its keel "hogged"-literally warped and bent upward in the middle, sometimes severely enough to threaten the ship's safety.

"Sir Dustyn and I have been discussing that very problem with Baron Seamount . . . in our copious free time, of course," Merlin said dryly. "I believe Sir Dustyn may be on the track of a solution, but for right now, none of us want to make any changes in existing building practices unless we absolutely have to. It's more important to get the ships built than that we build the very best ships we possibly could."

"I agree," Gray Harbor said again, firmly. "Even if it does offend my sensibilities to build so many ships out of green timber."

Cayleb made a face which mirrored the earl's unhappiness. Ships made out of unseasoned timber rotted quickly. The Safeholdian teak tree, which really did resemble the terrestrial tree of the same name, was the most favored ship-building timber on the planet. It was very b, very hard, and remarkably resistant-when properly seasoned-to rot. But they weren't using teak for most of the new ships. Charis had large stands of teak, at least half of which were owned outright by the Crown and the Royal Navy. But not even teak could resist rot effectively without time to season properly, and Haarahld and Cayleb had flatly refused to use up their precious reserves of teak on ships whose life spans were inevitably going to be short, to say the very least.

They'd be lucky if they got more than five years of service out of any of the vessels whose construction Olyvyr was currently overseeing here at King's Harbor, Merlin knew. Unfortunately, the available supply of seasoned ship timber was limited, and a ship which rotted into uselessness five years down the road but could be available this year was far preferable to one which wouldn't rot but couldn't be built in time. Which meant they didn't have a lot of choice.

"Sir Dustyn believes we should be able to find most of the timber we'll need for several dozen ships by breaking up the reserve galleys," Merlin offered. "We can't do that until we have enough newly built galleons, of course, but we'll begin as soon as we safely can, with your and the King's permission, My Lord."

"My permission you already have," Gray Harbor told him. "I feel confident the king will also agree."

"We're still going to be hard-pressed to build the new ships," Cayleb warned the first councillor. "I'm delighted by Master Howsmyn's success in providing the sheet copper for the hulls, but just finding the spars to mast them is going to be a genuine problem. And you can't roll spars out in a private foundry the way you can sheet copper. When the Navy starts buying up all of the suitable timber for that, it's going to make someone like Hektor start asking questions, anyway."

"And spars and copper are only part of it," Merlin agreed. "We need canvas, cordage, pitch-everything you can think of."

He shook his head ruefully. On the one hand, he'd been astounded by how quickly Sir Dustyn Olyvyr could get new ships laid down and built. The naval constructor's estimate-and it looked accurate-was that he could complete a new galleon's hull in no more than ninety days from the moment the green timbers arrived at the King's Harbor shipyard. From Merlin's research, that compared favorably with the construction times for eighteenth-century shipbuilders on Old Earth under emergency pressure. Unfortunately, Olyvyr could build only about half a dozen of them at a time, and however quickly he could build the hulls, the ships, as Cayleb had just pointed out, still needed to be masted and rigged. Not to mention finding the guns to put aboard them and the men to crew them.

"That's another place where converting merchant ships will help," Gray Harbor pointed out. "Surely we can cut gunports and modify existing sail plans more quickly than we can build from scratch."

"I'm sure you're right, My Lord," Merlin said, "although we have to think about strengthening their hulls against the recoil forces, as well. Still, I'm afraid our most optimistic estimates suggest that it's going to take us at least another full year to reach our original target numbers."

Gray Harbor looked grim.

"I don't think we're going to be able to keep all of this secret that long," he said.

"I agree," Cayleb said. "In fact, I think we need to reconsider laying down additional ships at Hairatha."

Gray Harbor's eyes narrowed unhappily at the suggestion, and the crown prince shrugged.

"I'm not blind to what Merlin calls the 'security aspects' of the idea, Rayjhis. As soon as the Navy starts building large numbers of galleons someplace people know we're doing it, someone's going to start wondering why. I know that. But after Tellesberg itself, Hairatha has our biggest shipyards. We could build a dozen in the royal dockyard at Hairatha alone."

"That's true, I realize, Cayleb," the first councillor said. "And once we're within striking range of our final projected numbers, finishing up the final ships 'in public,' as it were, won't be a problem, I suppose. But still . . ."

He let his voice trail off, and Cayleb nodded in glum agreement. But then the crown prince's eyes narrowed as Merlin stroked one of his waxed mustachios thoughtfully.

"What?" the prince asked. Merlin looked at him, and Cayleb snorted. "You're pulling on your mustache again. Are you going to tell us what new deviousness you've thought of this time, or not?"

"I don't know that I'd call it 'devious,'-" Merlin said mildly, "but I have just had a thought."

"Well," Gray Harbor said with a grin, "in that case, while Cayleb may have spoken with the impetuosity of youth, he does have a point. Spit it out, man!"

"It's just occurred to me," Merlin said, "that there's no reason we can't build additional ships right out in the open, if we really want to. I think we've all been forgetting that Sir Dustyn is one of the Kingdom's best known private ship designers. He's already taken orders to build at least a dozen schooners I know of in Tellesberg, all for different owners. There's no reason we couldn't have him lay down another dozen or so galleons for the Navy in privately owned yards without telling anyone who he's actually building them for."

"But-" Cayleb began, only to stop as Gray Harbor held up one hand.

"You're suggesting we announce-or, rather, that he and the shipyard owners announce-to everyone that he's building them as merchant vessels for private owners?"

"Exactly." Merlin shrugged. "They won't look exactly like existing galleons, even on the building ways, but they won't look all that different, either. We couldn't copper them as they were built without giving away the game, but once they were launched and rigged, we could sail them to King's Harbor or Hairatha, drydock them, and copper them there. That would probably actually save time. And if the hulls look a little odd compared to standard merchantmen, everybody knows Sir Dustyn's just introduced a brand-new type with the schooner, and he's rigging two galleons he already had under construction with the new square-rigger sail plan, as well. Given that everyone knows he's experimenting, why shouldn't he be building galleons with hulls that don't look quite like those of existing ships?"

"And," Cayleb said, any initial temptation to object vanishing into sudden enthusiasm, "the very fact that we were building them openly would actually help keep anyone from suspecting what we were up to! How likely is Hektor or Nahrmahn to expect us to be building 'secret weapons' right out in front of everyone?"

"Hmmm." Gray Harbor tapped his chin for a moment, then nodded. "I think you have a point, Merlin. Both of you have points, in fact. I'll recommend to the King that he seriously consider authorizing the suggestion. But I think I'll also suggest that we don't bring the shipyard owners into the secret unless we absolutely have to. Better, I think, to pick a handful of shipowners we know we can trust and act through them. They can place the orders for us, with the Treasury to actually pay for the ships when they're completed."

"If that's practical, I think it would be a very good idea, My Lord," Merlin agreed.

"Very well, then." Gray Harbor looked back out across the anchored squadron once more, then drew a deep breath.

"I think it's time I was returning to Tellesberg," he said. "The King and I will have quite a lot to discuss, but at least I can tell him"-he looked back at Merlin and Cayleb and smiled broadly-"that our efforts out here are in excellent hands."

III

Royal Palace,

Eraystor

"I don't much care for Hektor's tone lately," Trahvys Ohlsyn said.

The Earl of Pine Hollow sat across the dining table on the covered terrace from Prince Nahrmahn, watching his cousin pry shellfish out of their shells with gusto. Hahl Shandyr had joined them, but the spymaster's appetite obviously hadn't accompanied him. He'd done little more than nibble at the salad on his plate.

"I don't care for it, either," Nahrmahn grunted around a mouthful. He swallowed, then sipped fastidiously at a glass of fruit-juice-laced water.

"I don't care for his tone," the prince continued, setting the glass down, "and I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that I don't much care for him, either."

"Unfortunately, My Prince," Shandyr said, "the feeling appears to be mutual."

Nahrmahn glowered at the baron. Shandyr wasn't exactly basking in his prince's admiration at the moment. The fact that Nahrmahn knew as well as Shandyr did that his current problems weren't entirely his fault didn't make the prince any happier. Unfortunately, he couldn't disagree with what Shandyr had just said.

"It's never been more than an alliance of convenience," he said, after a moment, reaching for another shellfish and the silver tongs. "It's not exactly as if we have to love one another."

"No," Pine Hollow agreed. "But what bothers me is this attitude of his. Look at this, for example." He tapped one of the letters he'd brought to the working lunch. "He's not discussing things with us; he's telling us what he's already decided. It's the kind of letter I might have sent the bailiff on one of my secondary estates!"

"It's not quite that bad," Nahrmahn disagreed. His cousin snorted, and the prince shrugged. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Trahvys. I'm just saying Hektor's always seen himself as the senior member of our little partnership. As nearly as we can tell, things aren't going a lot better for him in Tellesberg than they are for us right now, so he may be getting just a little testier as a result."

"It's not the insult that bothers me, Nahrmahn. Or, not much, at least. It's the mind-set behind it. If he's talking to us this way while the two of us are still allied against Charis, what's his attitude going to be after Charis goes down? And just who do you think he envisions getting the lion's share of the spoils?"

"I'm sure he plans on it being him," Nahrmahn said comfortably. "Of course, his calculations may just prove to be slightly in error."

Pine Hollow's eyes narrowed. He sat back for a moment, gazing at his cousin in intense speculation. Then he cocked his head to one side.

"Is there something going on here that I ought to know about?" he asked.

"Well," Nahrmahn said, opening up another shell and inspecting its contents thoughtfully, "actually, there are two things going on. First, there's a little side conversation I've been having with Bishop Executor Wyllys. It seems Archbishop Lyam is already sounding out support in the Temple for granting us a Church mandate over Margaret's Land on the basis of our historic association with its people. From what the Bishop Executor says, the Archbishop's meeting with a fairly favorable reception on that point. After all we're already on excellent terms with the new Earl of Hanth. And our orthodoxy is much firmer than Haarahld's. Or, for that matter, Hektor's."

He scooped out the shellfish and popped it into his mouth, managing to chew and smile sardonically at the same time.

Pine Hollow frowned thoughtfully. Lyam Tyrn, the Archbishop of Emerald, was greedier than most archbishops. Which was saying quite a lot, actually. Of course, Tyrn hadn't drawn the most lucrative of archbishoprics, either. Emerald wasn't exactly poverty-stricken, but compared to someplace like Charis-or Corisande, for that matter-its tithes were decidedly on the penurious side. And Tyrn's holdings outside Emerald weren't precisely the most prosperous imaginable. Still, the man came from one of the more powerful of the Church dynasties, and his name and family connections gave him considerably more influence than his lack of wealth might indicate. And that lack of wealth made him much more willing to use that influence in return for suitable consideration.

"All right," the earl said after a moment. "I can see that. After all, presumably the Church will incorporate any new territory into his archbishopric. But that still leaves Silver and Charis Island itself."

"The Church isn't going to let anyone snap up all of Charis, Trahvys," Nahrmahn replied. "The Council of Vicars is perfectly willing to let Hektor and me break Charis, but the vicars aren't about to let either of us gobble up everything that's made Haarahld so . . . irritating to them. Hektor has visions of sneaking around them somehow, and I suppose it's possible he may get them to sign off on a mandate over Silver. For that matter, he may even manage to acquire outright title to it. But Silver's worth a lot less than Margaret's Land, and the people living there are even more firmly attached to the Ahrmahks. Controlling them's going to be a fairly strenuous pastime-one I'd just as soon avoid.

"As for Charis proper, I'll be very surprised if the Church doesn't step in and establish either direct rule-possibly in the name of Haarahld's minor children, assuming either of them survive-or else install a suitable puppet of its own. Possibly both. A regency for Haarahld's younger son might give them enough transition time to accustom Charis to direct Church rule, and there'd always be plenty of opportunities for him to suffer one of those tragic childhood accidents when he was no longer necessary. Either way, neither Hector nor I is going to get possession of Tellesberg. The difference between us is that I know I'm not, and I'm already making arrangements to be sure I do get the second most desirable slice of the pie."

"Fair enough." Pine Hollow nodded. "On the other hand, I am your First Councillor, Nahrmahn. I think it might be a good idea to keep me informed on these little side negotiations of yours. Just to keep me from stepping on any toes because I didn't know they were there."

"A valid point," Nahrmahn agreed. He sipped wine and squinted out across the sunlit gardens from the terrace's shade. "I'll try to bear it in mind," he promised, although Pine Hollow had no great expectation that he'd succeed. Nahrmahn probably didn't even tell himself about all of his various plots.

"But you said there were two points Hektor wasn't aware of," the earl prompted after a moment, and Nahrmahn chuckled nastily.

"I know Hahl hasn't had very much luck rebuilding his agents in Tellesberg," he said. "But whatever may be happening to him there, he's doing quite well other places. Which is one reason," the prince's voice turned somehow subtly darker, "I'm being patient with him about Charis."

Pine Hollow nodded. Baron Shandyr's every effort to replace the departed Braidee Lahang's operation in Charis had failed. Every attempt seemed to be detected almost instantly, and Shandyr had lost at least a half-dozen of his better people trying to figure out what was going wrong.

"Among the things he's done right," Nahrmahn continued more lightly, "is to establish contact with Baron Stonekeep."

Pine Hollow's eyes narrowed once more; Edymynd Rustmyn, Baron Stonekeep, was not only King Gorjah of Tarot's first councillor, but also his equivalent of Hahl Shandyr.

"Stonekeep is keeping us informed about Gorjah's negotiations with Hektor. His services aren't coming cheaply, but when the time's ripe, we'll use him to tell Gorjah what Hektor really has in mind for Tarot. Which is for it to get exactly nothing out of the deal, except relief from its treaties with Charis. I'm sure Gorjah won't care for that, at all. Especially if we offer to support his claim to at least a chunk of Charisian territory of his own. We're providing Stonekeep with some of our homing wyverns, as well, which may come in handy if quick political decisions have to be made."

Pine Hollow nodded again, this time in unalloyed approval, although he was tempted to point out that this was another of those little stratagems which Nahrmahn might have wanted to bring to his first councillor's attention.

"And, as a measure of last resort, as it were," Nahrmahn continued, "Hahl has a man in place in Manchyr. In fact, he has two of them. In a worst-case situation, Hektor's health may turn out to be much more fragile than he assumes it is."

The prince smiled again, then nodded at one of the serving platters.

"Pass the rolls, please?" he requested pleasantly.

JUNE, YEAR OF GOD 891

I

Tellesberg

"So what's this all about?"

Zhaspahr Maysahn knew he sounded just a bit testy as he sat across the table from Zhames Makferzahn, but that was perfectly all right with him. Makferzahn hadn't been due to make contact with him for another two days under their agreed-upon schedule. Given Oskahr Mhulvayn's hasty departure and the fact that he and Maysahn had met fairly regularly-and publicly-Maysahn had ample reason to feel decidedly unhappy at the prospect of frequent meetings with Makferzahn.

"I know we're off schedule," Makferzahn said now, "but this is important, I think."

"I hope so, anyway," Maysahn grumped, then shrugged.

Part of it, he knew, was that he and Makferzahn sat in the same sidewalk café-at the exact same table, in fact-as they had on the day of Cayleb's attempted assassination. That struck him as a potentially bad omen, but he told himself he was being silly. In fact, he'd picked the site and the table deliberately. It was one of the places he used regularly for business meetings in his shipping house owner's persona, after all, and Makferzahn-whose cover was that of a purchasing agent for a Desnairian merchant house which was constantly hiring cargo vessels-had a perfectly logical ostensible reason for meeting with him.

"All right," he said after moment. "What's so important it couldn't wait two more days?"

"I finally got one of my people into the King's Harbor dockyard," Makferzahn said, and despite himself, Maysahn sat a bit straighter, eyes narrowing. "I know it's taken longer than either of us hoped it would," Makferzahn continued, "and he was only there for a few hours, but he managed to pick up at least a little information."

"And?"

"And I'm not sure what to make of it," Makferzahn admitted.

"Well don't just sit there," Maysahn commanded.

"Sorry." Makferzahn gave himself a little shake and sipped from his chocolate cup. Then he set the cup back down and leaned a bit closer to his superior.

"They've got half a dozen new ships under construction in the yard," he said. "Not galleys-galleons."

"Galleons?" Maysahn frowned in perplexity. What in Langhorne's name could the Royal Charisian Navy want with galleons?"

"I know." Makferzahn's small shrug was eloquent with frustration. "It doesn't make a lot of sense, but that's what they're doing."

"Did your man manage to pick up any indication of why?"

"No one's talking about it very much, even in the taverns and bars," Makferzahn said. "But according to the gossip he did overhear, they're arming them with cannon. Lots of cannon. According to one fellow he got drunk enough to risk pumping a bit, they're putting as many as thirty or even forty guns aboard some of them."

Maysahn's frown deepened. That was as silly as anything he'd heard lately. Oh, it might explain why they were building galleons, since he couldn't think of any practical way to put that many guns aboard a galley. But it didn't explain why they wanted to mount that many guns in the first place. No doubt they'd be able to fire a devastating broadside before boarding, which would certainly be worthwhile. But they wouldn't have time for more than a single broadside each, and given how clumsy and unmaneuverable galleons were, closing with a galley in the first place would be all but impossible.

"Whatever they're up to," Makferzahn continued, "they seem to think it's pretty important. My man managed to confirm the rumors about Cayleb. He's taken personal charge of their efforts out there, and he's pushing hard. Seems to be doing a damned good job of it, too, I'm afraid."

"I wish I could say I was surprised by that," Maysahn said sourly. "Unfortunately, he's a lot like his father in that regard. Life would be so much simpler if they were both just idiots. But then the Prince probably wouldn't need us here, would he?"

"Probably not," Makferzahn agreed. "But what do you make of it?"

"I'm not at all sure, either," Maysahn admitted.

He leaned back in his chair, drumming lightly on the tabletop while he watched the hucksters in the square across the street hawking their wares. A huge, articulated eight-wheeled freight wagon rumbled past, big enough to require two draft dragons, and one of the big six-limbed lizards snuffled wistfully as it smelled the fresh vegetables on display.

"You're right about the importance they must attach to whatever it is they're doing, especially if that's where Cayleb's disappeared to," he said finally. "And I suppose those new rigging plans Olyvyr has introduced could have something to do with it, too. Every report about them indicates that even the square-riggers he's been experimenting with are lots more maneuverable. Maybe they actually think they can get a galleon into effective artillery range of a galley."

"I just don't see them doing it without getting swarmed," Makferzahn objected. He wasn't rejecting Maysahn's theory out of hand, but clearly he wasn't convinced, either. "I could believe they thought they could get into range to smash one galley, but an entire fleet? What do they think all the other galleys are going to be doing in the meantime? And how do they expect to coordinate their own galleys with galleons?"

"I didn't say I thought they could do it." Maysahn shrugged. "I'm just trying to figure out what they could possibly be thinking. And," he continued a bit reluctantly, "the fact that I can't makes me very nervous. Whatever else the Charisian Navy may be, it's not exactly run by fools."

Makferzahn nodded in emphatic agreement. Like Maysahn, the more Makferzahn saw of the Royal Charisian Navy, the more he came to appreciate its quality. The Corisandian navy was one of the best in the world, but it wasn't in the Charisian Navy's league. No one else's Navy was, and Makferzahn had found himself sharing Maysahn's concern over the fact that not even Prince Hektor seemed to realize just how true that was.

But the immediate point, he reminded himself, was that Charisians normally didn't do stupid things where their navy was concerned.

"There were two other tidbits of information," he offered. Maysahn quirked an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. "First, Olyvyr seems to think he's finally worked out a way to sheath a ship in copper without having it fall apart. At any rate, according to my man, the ships they're building are all supposed to be coppered when they're finished."

He and Maysahn looked at one another thoughtfully. Sir Dustyn Olyvyr's mania for finding some way to protect his ships' hulls from the depredations of borers was well known. Not that he was alone in that, of course. The several varieties of shellfish and worms which fell under that general heading could literally devour a ship's timbers in a matter of only a few months, and every attempt to stop them with pitch or some other form of protective coating had failed. If Olyvyr truly had managed to solve the problems which had so far stymied his efforts to use copper, the long-term implications would obviously be significant. But at this particular moment, Zhaspahr Maysahn was rather more concerned with short-term implications.

"You said two tidbits," he observed. "What's the other one?"

"The minor fact that they appear to have assembled a squadron of galleons to practice whatever it is they're up to," Makferzahn said grimly. "It's only five ships, but it seems to spend a fair amount of time out on exercises. And it anchors in the Citadel Basin, well away from any other shipping, whenever it's in port. According to the fellow my man got drunk, it's commanded by a Commodore Staynair."

"Staynair?" Maysahn repeated slowly. The last name was scarcely unique in Charis, but it wasn't especially common, either. "Would that be Sir Domynyk Staynair?"

"The Bishop's younger brother," Makferzahn agreed with a nod.

"Now that's interesting," Maysahn murmured while his brain raced.

On one hand, it was reasonable enough, he supposed. If this mysterious project of theirs was important enough for Cayleb to take personal command of it, then they'd want one of their best naval officers working with him on it, and everything he'd ever heard about Commodore Staynair suggested the commodore certainly fell into that category. But there was also the connection to Tellesberg's bishop. Rumor had it that Bishop Executor Zherald had been known to express more than a few qualms about Staynair's ultimate loyalties. If his younger brother was this deeply involved in whatever Haarahld and his son were up to, then Bishop Maikel probably knew all about it, too. Which meant the Church-or, at least, the Charisian branch of the Church-also knew about it. Although that didn't necessarily mean the bishop executor did.

"I wonder," Makferzahn said. His thoughtful tone drew Maysahn's attention back to him, and the younger man shrugged. "I was just wondering," he continued once he was certain he had his superior's ear, "about those galleons Olyvyr is building right here in Tellesberg."

"What about them?"

"Well, it just occurred to me while we were sitting here that he has a dozen of them under construction for eight different owners. That's in addition to all these 'schooners' of his, of course."

"Every shipyard in the Kingdom's laying down ships right and left," Maysahn pointed out dryly. "The yards that aren't actually building are all busy rerigging existing ships to take advantage of the new sail plans. And it's all Olyvyr's fault, one way or another. Well, his and Howsmyn's."

"I know. But apparently all these new galleons of his are identical to one another. And according to a couple of carpenters working in Howsmyn's Tellesberg yard, there are some significant changes in their design. For one thing, they're a good twenty or thirty feet longer and a hell of a lot more heavily built than any galleon those carpenters have ever worked on before. I know Olyvyr's reputation, and I know these new rigging notions of his have only strengthened that reputation. Still, doesn't it strike you as a bit odd that eight different shipowners should simultaneously order a dozen new ships, all built to a new and untested design?"

"That does sound a bit peculiar," Maysahn acknowledged. He sipped chocolate thoughtfully, gazing out at the busy street scene once more.

"You'd think they'd be a little bit more conservative, wouldn't you?" he mused aloud. "Maybe let Olyvyr build a couple of these new designs of his, get them into service and see how they actually performed, before they sank that much money into them."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Makferzahn agreed. "At the same time, as you just pointed out, he has stood the entire Charisian shipbuilding business on its ear. At the moment, people are so busy throwing money at him if he'll just design a ship for them that these people may've simply decided that if they want an Olyvyr-designed a ship at all, they have to take what they can get. And," the younger spy admitted, "they've already seen plenty of evidence that his new ideas about rigging work pretty much as advertised."

"That's all true enough. But I think the possibility that he's actually building them for the Navy needs to be considered seriously," Maysahn said. "And if that's true, we'd better report that possibility to the Prince while we work on either confirming or denying it."

He sat for a moment longer, contemplating the news, then shrugged.

"It may not make a lot of sense to us right this minute, but at least we know a bit more than we did. Good work, Zhames. I'll get a dispatch off to Manchyr with Captain Whaite tomorrow morning."

* * *

"-with Captain Whaite tomorrow morning."

Merlin Athrawes frowned as Owl played back the day's take from the bug assigned to follow Zhaspahr Maysahn around.

The endless hours he was investing in what he'd come to think of as "Project Bootstrap" left him far less time than he would have preferred to deal with things like monitoring Maysahn's whereabouts. He'd had to leave virtually all of that sort of activity up to Owl, and that made him nervous.

To be fair, the AI seemed to be handling the task adequately so far. It was Owl who'd identified Makferzahn as Mhulvayn's replacement, and the computer did an excellent job of keeping anyone in its sights after Merlin had tagged that individual for surveillance. But Owl remained hopelessly literal-minded and unimaginative, and Merlin had no choice but to allow the AI to sort and analyze the take from the majority of the SNARCs and hope nothing critical got lost. Some of the SNARCs Merlin continued to monitor personally-those watching Hektor, Nahrmahn, and Archbishop Erayk, for example-but even there he was forced to rely on Owl's recognition of critical keywords to direct his attention to relative bits of information.

Which category the afternoon's conversation between Maysahn and Makferzahn certainly fell into.

Merlin leaned back in his chair in his darkened quarters while he pondered. The fact that he could get along with so little "sleep" helped some, at least, although he had to remember to disarrange his bedding every night.

Should I take this information to Wave Thunder? he mused. It had to happen sooner or later, and at least they don't seem to've picked up on the changes in the artillery itself. But just what they already know is going to start someone like Hektor asking questions I'd really prefer not get asked just yet.

If he told Wave Thunder about this particular "vision," the baron might just feel inclined to pick up Makferzahn and all of his identified agents. In many respects, Merlin wouldn't have minded shutting down Hektor's network again. But if they did that, Hektor was going to wonder just what had inspired them to do so. And if they didn't shut down his entire network, then the information Makferzahn had already picked up would probably get through to Corisande anyway. Which would almost certainly start Hektor's agile mind down the same path.

Of course, there is another possibility, he thought more grimly. Nothing says "Captain Whaite" has to survive to get Maysahn's dispatches to Hektor.

Given the voyage time between Tellesberg and Manchyr, Sea Cloud's failure to arrive on schedule would probably throw at least some serious delay into Hektor's information loop. The transit time was almost forty days either way for the disguised courier. If she should suffer a mischief, it would be eighty days, at the earliest, before Maysahn learned of her loss, and then it would take his replacement dispatch another forty days or so to reach Hektor.

It was tempting. In fact, it was very tempting, and the recon skimmer could eliminate Sea Cloud almost effortlessly. Doing so would require the deaths of "Whaite" and his entire crew, of course. That thought was enough to make Merlin hesitate, but it wasn't as if they were exactly innocent bystanders. Every one of them was a member of the League Navy, and arguably all of them were spies, as well.

Which, Merlin admitted to himself, was really largely beside the point, except for his own desire to justify the action he was contemplating.

He replayed the entire conversation between Makferzahn and Maysahn one more time, then shrugged.

Destroying Sea Cloud wouldn't really do that much for us, he decided. Maysahn's obviously going to be sending follow-up dispatches as he and Makferzahn turn up additional information, anyway. So taking out Sea Cloud would only delay things a bit, unless I'm prepared to start picking off every courier Maysahn and Hektor send back and forth.

He grimaced distastefully at the thought and shook his head.

No. I need to discuss this "vision" with Wave Thunder and Haarahld. They've still got a lot better "ear" then I do for how Hektor's likely to respond. Besides, it's not going to be all that much longer before Erayk gets here for his pastoral visit. That's going to cause more problems than letting this snippet of information get through to Hektor ever could.

And this way, he admitted to himself, at least I won't have to feel like I'm shooting fish in a barrel.

He stopped shaking his head and nodded, satisfied with his conclusion, and turned his attention to the SNARC which kept tabs on Prince Nahrmahn.

JULY, YEAR OF GOD 891

I

Royal Palace,

Tranjyr,

Kingdom of Tarot

"Good morning, Your Majesty," Father Zhoshua Makgregair murmured, bowing deeply as the chamberlain ushered him into the private audience chamber.

"And to you, Father," King Gorjah of Tarot replied.

Gorjah was a slender man, especially compared to Makgregair's solid, broad-shouldered bulk. He was also barely into his mid-thirties, with dark hair and a complexion substantially darker than Makgregair's, and he was dressed in loose robes of silk. He also wore the "kercheef"-the traditional bandana-like headdress of Tarot-instead of the heavy three-cornered cap of the priesthood, and he looked irritatingly comfortable despite the weather.

As if thoughts of the weather had summoned it, thunder rumbled once more out over Thol Bay, gentle with distance and almost lost in the sound of rain. The equatorial downpour pounded heavily outside the audience chamber's open windows, beating on the tile roof of Gorjah's palace. Waterfalls spilled from the eaves and ran gurgling down the gutters, and the warm air was heavy with moisture. It was also curiously still, despite the thunderstorm, settling about Makgregair like a humid fist, and his undergarments were damp with sweat.

Tarot's no assignment for a boy born in Northland, he reflected, thinking back to his boyhood in the Republic of Siddarmark's Northland Province. He'd grown up fishing in the cold, deep waters of Hsing-wu's Passage-when the ice melted enough to let him-and this wet tropical oven pressed down on him with an almost physical weight. It's amazing to me that any of them have working minds, putting up with this kind of heat. I'd think just the mold would be enough to rot their brains!

At least his summer-weight cassock was made of cotton instead of the traditional wool, but that was relatively little comfort at the moment, and a part of him looked longingly at Gorjah's even lighter silken robes.

"Thank you for making time in your busy schedule for me. And for agreeing to see me privately," he said as he straightened his back once again, just a bit more quickly than most diplomats would have. Gorjah was a king, whereas Makgregair was a mere upper-priest. But that upper-priest was here as the direct representative of God's holy Church, and he looked Gorjah squarely in the face. There was nothing disrespectful about it, but it was always best to make one's status clear from the outset.

"It's my pleasure to adjust my schedule in order to meet with Mother Church's representative at any time," Gorjah said. He actually sounded as if he meant it, too, Makgregair noted. On the other hand, kings got a great deal of practice sounding as if they meant things.

Almost as much as those of us who serve as diplomats in the Chancellor's service, he thought with a small inner smile.

"That's the sort of thing any priest is happy to hear, Your Majesty." He allowed himself an outer smile, as well, but then his expression sobered. "I'm grateful for it, nonetheless, Your Majesty. Indeed, I only wish all of Safehold's princes and kings were equally mindful of their responsibilities to God and His Church."

Gorjah's expression seemed to freeze, and his eyes narrowed.

"Excuse me, Father," he said after the briefest of hesitations, "but what prince or king could be so lost as to forget those responsibilities?"

"Mother Church, and the Holy Inquisition, must be always mindful of the fashion in which the duties and responsibilities-and temptations-of worldly power may draw a ruler away from his duty to God," Makgregair said gravely. "Not all of them are as scrupulous as you when it comes to the observation those duties, Your Majesty."

"I find that thought distressing, Father," Gorjah said slowly. "And, to be honest, a little frightening, since I must assume you're telling me this for a reason."

"Don't be concerned that anyone is displeased with your own respect for Mother Church, Your Majesty," Makgregair's tone was reassuring, and he smiled once more, albeit a bit sadly. "Yet you're quite correct. I am here to see you because of the failings of princes. Specifically, Vicar Zahmsyn's grown increasingly and deeply concerned about another ruler. One whose preoccupation with worldly power and wealth has led him perilously far from the path of obedience to God and His Church. And one with whom, I fear, you are closely associated."

Gorjah's swarthy complexion paled ever so slightly, and a few fine beads of sweat which had nothing to do with the morning's heat and humidity appeared on his forehead.

"I assure you, Father, that I would never associate myself with anyone who would defy God!" He shook his head emphatically. "If I believed for a moment that Prince Hek-"

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Makgregair broke in gently. "I had no intention of implying that you or anyone in Tarot was guilty of any such thing. Indeed, I ought to have made it clear from the beginning that you yourself are not responsible for your relationship with him. It was your father who signed the treaty of alliance with his father."

Gorjah had opened his mouth, but he closed it again with an all but audible click. Makgregair could almost literally see the thoughts chasing one another through his brain and waited patiently while the King of Tarot worked his way through them.

It didn't take very long, and Gorjah's shoulders straightened as if a weight had been removed from them. Obviously, he'd feared that Makgregair was in Tranjyr because the Council of Vicars had learned about his secret negotiations with Hektor of Corisande. It was far from unheard of for the Chancellor to use the Church's priestly diplomats to warn secular rulers away from alliances of which the Church disapproved. And under normal circumstances, the Temple would have been most unhappy with Hektor's machinations. The combination of his obvious ambition and the skill with which he'd been manipulating the situation would have made him a substantial threat to the balance the Church sought to maintain to prevent any one secular ruler from growing too powerful.

Gorjah was as well aware of that as Makgregair. Just as he was also aware the Temple had, on more than one occasion, encouraged the ambition and avarice of a secular ruler as a counter to the power of someone else of whom the Council of Vicars disapproved even more bly. So if the Chancellor's personal representative wasn't trying to warn Gorjah away from Hektor . . .

"Father," the king said after a moment, "from what you've said, I can only assume you're referring to Haarahld of Charis."

"Alas, I fear I am," Makgregair replied gravely.

"I'm . . . shocked to hear that," Gorjah said, and rubbed his short-trimmed beard thoughtfully. "While I've always known Haarahld was . . . deeply aware, let's say, of the opportunities his kingdom's wealth and naval power make available to him, I'd always believed he was equally aware of his responsibilities before God and His Church. I assure you, if I'd believed for a moment that he wasn't, it would have caused me to think very seriously and critically about the treaty between Tarot and Charis."

"Vicar Zahmsyn fears that the temptation of worldly power, coupled with his no doubt genuine sense of responsibility to his dynasty, is leading Haarahld astray." Makgregair stressed the noun "dynasty" ever so slightly, and watched Gorjah's eyes narrow as he recognized the implication.

Odd, Makgregair thought, how well the vicars can differentiate between someone else's responsibilities to the land he rules and those to the ambition of his dynasty.

It wasn't the sort of thought a priest was supposed to think, but those who served as Mother Church's diplomats required an appreciation of the realities behind their missions. Makgregair had that appreciation, but he allowed no trace of his reflections to touch his expression as he shook his head sadly.

"We're hearing some disturbing reports out of Charis," he continued. "Obviously, there's always been some cause for concern, given Charis' distance from the Temple. These latest 'innovations,' are most disquieting, however. While none of them appears to violate the Proscriptions, change begets change, and it cannot be long before violations do occur."

"May I ask if Mother Church intends to take action?" Gorjah asked diffidently.

"However concerned Mother Church may be, or may become," Makgregair replied, "she must be always mindful of her responsibility to act only after careful deliberation and mature consideration. Nor must she ever forget she is governed by mortal men, and that mortal men-even those called to the orange-are always fallible. Because of that, she hesitates to unsheathe her sword until and unless she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that transgression has occurred. With Mother Church's enormous power, and her equally great responsibility to exercise that power judiciously and in accordance with God's will, comes an obligation to be certain beyond question that the line between darkness and light has truly been crossed before she may act. What we may fear lies in Charis' future cannot justify Mother Church in taking official action if no offense has yet been committed."

"I see." Gorjah leaned back slightly on his throne, the fingers of his right hand drumming lightly on the upholstered armrest as he gazed at Makgregair.

"Should I understand, then, Father," he said after a few seconds, "that the reason for your visit is primarily to warn me? To alert me to the Church's concerns so that I don't follow in Haarahld's wake if he does cross that line?"

"That is, indeed, a major portion of the reason for my visit, Your Majesty," Makgregair agreed, bowing slightly but gravely. "And I don't believe the Chancellor would be upset with me if I added that other princes and rulers will be receiving similar . . . alerts."

Gorjah's eyes flickered visibly at that, and Makgregair hid a smile of satisfaction.

"I am, of course, deeply distressed to learn that a ruler and a kingdom with whom I've been so closely associated has come to cause God's shepherds such concern," the king said. "Obviously, given how many years Tarot and Charis have been allied, it's difficult for me to believe Haarahld could be so lost to his duty to God. But I thank you and Vicar Zahmsyn for the warning. However distressing it may be, it's far better to be forewarned. I fear it will behoove me to very seriously reconsider my relationship with Charis in light of what you've told me."

"You must, of course, act as your own sense of responsibility to God and your realm requires," Makgregair said gravely. "I'm merely Vicar Zahmsyn's messenger, and it would be inappropriate for me to urge any specific course of action upon you without instructions to that effect from the Chancellor. I will say, however, speaking strictly for myself, that I believe it would, indeed, be wise to review your relations with Charis, and your treaty obligations, most carefully."

"I appreciate such wise counsel," Gorjah said with matching gravity. "Please tell the Chancellor I'm most grateful for his timely warning, and that I'll be thinking very seriously about all you've told me this morning."

"I feel confident nothing could please Vicar Zahmsyn more than to hear that, Your Majesty," Makgregair said with another bow. "And now, having discharged my instructions from the Chancellor, I'll bid you farewell and allow you to return your attention to the pressing matters from which my visit must undoubtedly have distracted you. With your permission, Your Majesty?"

"Of course, Father." Gorjah waved his right hand in a graceful gesture of permission. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome, Your Majesty," Makgregair murmured, and withdrew from the presence chamber with yet another bow.

II

The Galleon Blessed Langhorne,

Markovian Sea

"Good afternoon, Your Eminence."

"Good afternoon, Captain Braunyng." Archbishop Erayk Dynnys smiled pleasantly at Ellys Braunyng, the captain of the galleon Blessed Langhorne, although he didn't feel particularly pleasant.

It wasn't Captain Braunyng's fault, nor was it the fault of the weather. Although the Markovian Sea could be as rough and treacherous as any body of water in the world, especially in the late spring and early summer, it had been kind to them for this voyage-so far, at least. The water was a deep, sparkling blue; the heavens were a crystalline vault of lighter blue, banded with billows of white cloud; and the sun shone with surprising warmth as the crisp northwest wind, just cool enough to bite, came whipping briskly in over Blessed Langhorne's starboard quarter.

Unfortunately, Dynnys had rather more to worry about than the current weather.

He'd left Home Port on Temple Bay aboard one of Vicar Allayn's dispatch galleys almost a full month before, as soon as the ice had sufficiently melted, and made a swift transit of Hsing-wu's Passage. The dispatch boats carried very large crews for their size so that they could change off rowers regularly and maintain a high rate of speed. But their shallow, lightly built hulls were poorly suited to open water, and the archbishop had transferred to the slower but more seaworthy galleon five days ago. Which meant he was only another five or six five-days from Tellesberg.

Another thing those idiots like Cahnyr who think I should spend more time in Charis don't think about, he thought grumpily. Making my "one-month" pastoral visit uses up four months just in transit time! I spend half an entire year either in Tellesberg or traveling back and forth between it and the Temple.

At least the semaphore chain along the shore of Hsing-wu's Passage had let him stay in touch with the Temple until he'd hit the open sea. But that was hardly the same thing as being able to attend personally to his archbishopric's business. Semaphore messages were, by their very nature, short and terse, and there was always the risk any cipher one used might be broken by someone who wished one ill.

He was fairly confident he could rely upon Mahtaio Broun to interpret even his briefest semaphore messages correctly, and to manage his affairs as well as anyone below the ranks of the episcopate could, yet he couldn't quite feel totally comfortable about it. He'd certainly trained the upper-priest carefully enough, and he had no doubts about Broun's intelligence or competence. But the Council's attitude towards Charis had grown even more suspicious and hostile over the winter, and if the Group of Four decided it was necessary to take action against Charis, Dynnys' own position in the Temple hierarchy would be severely damaged, at the very least. Broun was as aware of that as anyone, which meant any of Dynnys' rivals might scent an opportunity to entice his aide into betraying him.

All of which helped to explain his unhappy mood, despite the stiff, invigorating breeze and fresh sea air, as he leaned on his silver-headed ironwood cane.

"I trust lunch was satisfactory, Your Eminence?" Braunyng continued, and Dynnys hid an unwilling smile. The captain seemed . . . uncomfortable. Obviously, he'd realized Dynnys was feeling less than cheerful, yet he had no choice but to offer at least some small talk. The captain of a Temple galleon couldn't very well simply ignore an archbishop who arrived on his poop deck for a post-luncheon constitutional.

"Your cook manages surprisingly well, actually, Captain," Dynnys said, taking pity on the man. "I have to confess that I'd never make a good sailor, though. I miss fresh vegetables too badly for that!"

"I appreciate the compliment, Your Eminence, and I'll pass it along to the cook, with your permission. As for fresh vegetables"-Braunyng shrugged with a smile-"I can only agree with you heartily. In fact, the first thing I do whenever I return to Port Harbor is to take my wife to one of our favorite restaurants and sit down to the biggest, freshest salad I can find."

"Please, Captain!" Dynnys half-laughed. "Don't get me started on missing fresh lettuce!"

"Forgive me, Your Eminence." Braunyng inclined his head in a half-bow, clearly relieved by the genuine humor in the archbishop's response. Then he straightened, and his expression was rather more serious.

"Still, Your Eminence, as boring as our diet may be at sea, at least it keeps us healthy, thank Pasquale." He touched his heart and then his lips, and Dynnys repeated the gesture. "I hate to think what my men's state would be without Pasquale's teachings."

"I certainly agree with you there, Captain," Dynnys said with complete sincerity. The Archangel Pasquale's dietary laws were particularly ironclad for those-like men who spent five-days on end at sea-who lacked ready access to fresh provisions. On the occasions when those laws had been inadvertently or unavoidably broken, the consequences had been . . . ugly.

Dynnys recalled one instance from not too many years ago when a Dohlaran galleon had been all but dismasted by a terrible storm which had blown her far into the trackless depths of the Southern Ocean. Her surviving crew had managed to contrive a jury rig and had somehow found their way home once more, but her speed had been slowed to an agonizing crawl, and most of her provisions had been lost or ruined by the storm. By the time she'd finally managed to crawl into port on Westbreak Island, two-thirds of her crew had been dead of scurvy, for they'd been unable to keep Pasquale's laws and, as always happened, disease had followed quickly.

At least the unfortunates in her crew had still had water. They'd managed to catch some of the torrential rain in funnels made of old sails in order to refill their water tanks, and whatever might have happened to their provisions, those tanks had been intact, thank Pasquale!

Dynnys remembered a classroom experience from his own youth. Regardless of the order for which a churchman was destined, he was expected to be at least generally familiar with the basic teachings of the other orders. That particular day, an upper-priest of the Order of Pasquale had demonstrated why Pasquale required ships to store their water in iron tanks rather than wooden casks. The casks would have been far cheaper, but one look at the slimy green algae which had turned the water in the demonstration cask into a thick, stinking semi-sludge had been more than enough to make the point to young Erayk. Shipboard water might sometimes taste a little rusty, but he was perfectly prepared to put up with that. Just as he was prepared to dutifully consume his daily ration of lemon juice, or eat his bean sprouts.

Of course, an archbishop had rather more dietary options than a common seaman. The fresh eggs from the chicken coop on the main deck were reserved first for Dynnys and his clerical staff, and then for Blessed Langhorne's officers. The petty officers and common seamen wouldn't taste eggs-or chicken-before they made land once more. And there were still five sheep in the pen beside the chicken coop, as well.

"What's your best estimate for our arrival in Tellesberg, Captain?" Dynnys asked after a moment.

"We're actually making better time than usual, Your Eminence," Braunyng said. "This time of year, the wind's mostly out of the northwest, like today, which puts us on our best point of sailing. It won't be quite as favorable once we pass Hammer Island and get out into the Anvil, but it should still be more with us than against us. One of those new 'schooners' I've been hearing about could make the passage more quickly, I'm sure, but by the Master's best reckoning, we're only about twenty-four days out of Tellesberg."

Dynnys suppressed a grimace, his mood darkening once again at Braunyng's reference to the new ship type. The captain was obviously blissfully unaware of the Church's reservations about Charisian innovation, or he would have watched his words much more carefully with Charis' archbishop.

Still, Dynnys reflected, perhaps it's as well he didn't. He's a professional seaman, so maybe his reaction might provide a more realistic measure of the threat the Council sees coming out of Charis.

"Have you actually seen one of these-'schooners,' did you call it?-yourself, Captain?"

"Indeed I have, Your Eminence." Braunyng's eyes brightened, and he reached out to lay one hand on the poop-deck rail. "Mind you, I love Blessed Langhorne. She's a good, stout ship, and she's been good to me and given the Temple good service. But while I know the Writ teaches envy is a sin, I'm only mortal. When I saw that schooner standing so much closer into the wind than any ship I've ever sailed in could have done-!"

He shook his head, smiling in memory.

"Any seaman worth his salt would love to get his hands on a vessel like that, Your Eminence," he finished simply.

Dynnys nodded slowly, smiling back at the captain even as he felt his own heart sink.

The messages which had arrived from Ahdymsyn as steadily as the weather permitted had made it increasingly clear Charis was becoming even more of a hotbed of innovation and new concepts than initial reports had suggested. Dynnys' own sources in the Temple and in Zion bly suggested that accounts from other sources-like Prince Nahrmahn and Prince Hektor-were deliberately and severely exaggerated, but he couldn't simply ignore Ahdymsyn's correspondence. And if Ahdymsyn was to be believed, then the "schooner" which so entranced Captain Braunyng was only the tip of the iceberg.

"If you'll excuse me, Captain," he said courteously to Braunyng, "I believe I'd like to spend some time meditating while I walk off a little of that excellent luncheon your cook served us."

"Of course, Your Eminence. I'll pass the word to see to it that you aren't disturbed."

"Thank you, Captain. I appreciate that."

The captain bowed once again, and withdrew, leaving the windward side of the narrow poop deck to the archbishop. Dynnys composed his expression into one of suitable gravity, adjusted the light cloak he wore over his cassock, and paced slowly up and down, up and down, with the dragging limp his broken leg had left as a permanent legacy, leaning on his cane against the roll of the ship.

Twenty-four days, Braunyng estimated. The next best thing to five whole five-days. And who knew what was happening in Tellesberg-or the Temple-while Blessed Langhorne inched across the thousands of miles between Haven and Charis?

He remembered the meeting in which he'd steered the ecclesiastical court into settling the dispute over the Hanth succession in favor of Tahdayo Mahntayl. The proposition had seemed so simple then. Simply a routine matter, a decision rendered in return for a generous personal gift. But that decision loomed much larger now. Then, it had been no more than one more step in the well understood dance of Temple insiders. Now it was clear to Dynnys his archbishopric's future was far more fragile than he'd ever thought before, and that his own action, however innocuous and routine it had seemed at the time, had served the interests of the men who wanted to see that archbishopric's wealth and power broken forever.

He thought back to his winter conversation with Vicar Zahmsyn. The Chancellor's concern had been evident, yet the Vicar's reassurances that no decision about Charis was imminent had calmed the worst of Dynnys' worries. But that calm had been seriously undermined as spring crept steadily closer and the ice in Hsing-wu's Passage had begun to melt. And Dynnys' final interview with Trynair before his departure for Tellesberg had been anything but reassuring. Not because of what the Vicar had said, but because of what he hadn't said.

There was no question in Dynnys' mind that the Chancellor-probably the entire Group of Four-were taking their own steps to deal with any threat arising from Charis. But none of his sources had been able to tell him just what sort of "steps" they might have in mind, and Trynair's failure to tell him anything at all about the Group of Four's plans took on ominous overtones.

He paused for a moment, staring out to sea, eyes unseeing. Try as he might, he could think of only two things which might stave off the storm which loomed steadily closer.

One was to demonstrate his own firm control by taking decisive action. If the more worrisome of the new innovations could be ruled violations of the Proscriptions-or even if they could be ruled simply to approach violations-and he ordered their attestations revoked, it might convince the Group of Four he could control the situation without their intervention. It was by no means certain it would have that effect, but it might.

Failing that, the only option he saw was to convince them their dire interpretation of events in Charis was in error. If they could be brought to the conclusion that they'd overreacted, that the reports from places like Emerald and Corisande had, in fact, been grossly exaggerated, then they might well step back from taking active steps against the kingdom. At the very least, they were certainly aware of how much Charis' tithes contributed to the Church's coffers every year. Surely they'd hesitate to destroy that revenue stream unless they felt they absolutely must!

He hoped they would, at least, because if the Church, or even "just" the Council of Vicars acting in its secular role, decided Charis must be destroyed, Charis would perish. And if Charis perished, the career of the archbishop who'd been responsible for its orthodoxy would come to a sudden, shattering stop. Erayk Dynnys would lose his archbishopric, the wealth it represented, and at least two-thirds of his power and prestige, and he'd suddenly discovered that beside that, the bribe he'd pocketed from Hektor was meaningless.

How can they do this to me? his mind demanded harshly. For years, I've been their archbishop, looked after them, protected them from the Inquisition and those on the Council who are automatically suspicious of any change. And how do they repay me? By embracing all of these damnable new notions of theirs! By walking straight into the dragon's lair-and taking me with them-because they're too stupid to see what they're doing!

He gazed out over the rolling blue water of the Markovian Sea, and deep inside his heart railed at the unfairness of a world in which God permitted this to happen to him.

III

Royal Palace,

City of Gorath,

Kingdom of Dohlar

"Now, Father Ahlbyrt," Samyl Cahkrayn, the Duke of Fern, said to Ahlbyrt Harys as the palace footman showed the young priest into his private office in the Royal Palace. "What can I do for you today?"

"First, Your Grace, let me thank you for agreeing to see me," Harys said. "I know how busy you are as the Kingdom's First Councillor, and I, alas, am only an under-priest." He smiled charmingly. "Believe me, I'm only too well aware of what a small fish that makes me!"

"Nonsense, Father!" Fern smiled back at him, considerably more broadly. "You serve the Council of Vicars. Indeed, your letters of introduction are signed by the Chancellor himself. That makes you a rather larger fish than you may believe it does."

"That's kind of you, at any rate, Your Grace," Harys replied. In fact, as both of them understood perfectly well, it made him a very big fish indeed. But both of them knew how the game was played, and so both of them were also aware that his junior status allowed him to be an unofficial big fish. The one difference between them was that Harys knew why that was important.

"The Chancellor's letter implied you were here to discuss some diplomatic matter, Father?"

"Actually, Your Grace, it might be more accurate to say I'm here in an advisory capacity. Vicar Zahmsyn is rather concerned about certain developments-not here in Dohlar, of course-which could have . . . unfortunate implications for God's Plan, and my instructions are to share his concerns with you."

Fern had been listening with a grave smile. That smile disappeared with Harys' last few words, and he straightened a bit abruptly in his chair.

"That sounds ominous, Father," the duke said after a moment into the small silence Harys had allowed to fall, and his tone was cautious.

"It's always possible the Chancellor's concerns are misplaced," Harys said with precisely metered reassurance. "And, of course, I myself am not so experienced as he in matters such as this. It's possible my understanding of those concerns is less than perfect. I may be overreacting to what he said to me when he briefed me for this journey."

"That's always understood, of course," Fern murmured, but his sharp eyes told Harys he knew better. That he perfectly understood the diplomatic camouflage of the priest's last two sentences, even if he didn't yet know the reason for it.

"Well, having said that," Harys continued, "I'm afraid there are persistent reports of disquieting changes and initiatives coming out of Charis. At this stage, there's no concrete evidence any of the Proscriptions have been violated, of course. If there were, Mother Church and the Inquisition would already have acted. However, there's a growing level of concern, let us say, that the Proscriptions are being more and more closely approached."

"I see," Fern said, although it was clear to Harys he didn't-not yet, at least.

"Mother Church cannot take action based upon mere suspicion," the under-priest continued. "That, as I know you're aware, is a fundamental principle which was established long ago. But what's binding upon Mother Church in a corporate and temporal sense, as the anointed guardian of God's Plan, is less restrictive when the Church's servants discover they must act in a more secular role."

Fern nodded silently, this time in genuine comprehension.

"In a sense," Harys said, just to make sure they truly did understand one another, "I'm here not in the service of Vicar Zahmsyn or the Chancellor of the Council of Vicars so much as in the service of the Knights of the Temple Lands as they seek to discharge their responsibility for the secular administration of the Temple Lands. Of course, the Knights also sit upon the Council of Vicars, so there must be a certain commonality between their responsibilities as rulers in this world and the Church's temporal responsibility for men's souls in the next. Still, that which is binding upon Mother Church must not be lightly set aside by any of her servants, whether they act in the secular or the temporal role."

"I've often thought it must be extraordinarily difficult for the Vicars to discharge all their heavy responsibilities," Fern observed. "Obviously, as King Rahnyld's first councillor, my own duties are only a shadow of those which fall upon their shoulders. Despite that, there are times when I find myself torn between conflicting obligations, and that must be far worse for someone like the Chancellor. On the one hand, he has all of the responsibilities of any secular ruler, but on the other, he must be eternally vigilant against even the suggestion of capriciousness in how he might go about meeting them because of his even graver responsibilities to God and Mother Church."

"That, unfortunately, is only too true, Your Grace," Harys said with a sad little smile. "And in the case of Charis, the situation is further complicated by the fact that neither Mother Church nor the Temple Lands maintains any great strength at sea. Should it happen that . . . direct action against Charis became necessary, neither the Church nor the Temple Lands would have the means for it."

"Does the Chancellor think such an eventuality is likely?" Fern asked, his voice was calm, merely thoughtful, but his eyes were very narrow, and Harys shrugged.

"Again, Your Grace, you must remember my relative youth and inexperience. I may very well be reading more into the Chancellor's instructions than he intended. However, my own interpretation is that he does, indeed, fear such a day of direct conflict may dawn. How likely it is, I'm in no position to say. But the Chancellor will have been derelict in his duty if it happened such a terrible situation should arise, despite all his earnest prayers, if he's taken no steps to prepare against it. Hence my visit to Gorath."

"Indeed?" Fern cocked his head to one side.

"Your Grace, unlike the Temple Lands, Dohlar has a powerful fleet," Harys said frankly. "Moreover, without wishing to suggest that considerations of material gain could drive your Kingdom's policy, Charis' maritime strength is a direct threat to Dohlar's own needs and aspirations. In light of those considerations, the Chancellor has asked me to point out to you that the Temple Lands and Dohlar share a natural common interest. While the Chancellor's concerns are a direct reflection of his duties as one of God's senior shepherds, he's also well aware of the fashion in which Charis' growing wealth and power menace Dohlar's future. The primary reason for my mission here is to alert you to his growing disquiet . . . and to assure you that he-and Mother Church-understand any reservations you and King Rahnyld may feel about Charis."

Duke Fern's eyes were very narrow indeed now.

"And is the Chancellor preparing to take action if it should become necessary?" he asked.

"As I say, Your Grace, he has no naval forces at his command. Or, rather, no naval forces sufficient for a threat such as this. Nor is there likely to be time for the Temple Lands to increase their naval strength to that point. However-" Harys looked Fern directly in the eye. "-the Temple Lands' treasury is deep. Should it become necessary to take action, I feel confident the Chancellor and the Grand Vicar would recognize Mother Church's responsibility to support the sword arm of any prince or king acting in defense of God's Plan."

There was silence in the chamber for several seconds, and then Fern nodded slowly.

"I thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Father. I assure you I'll inform His Majesty as promptly as possible about the Chancellor's concerns, and also about your own analysis of the . . . constraints under which he must address them. While I certainly can't speak for the King at this time, I'm sure he'd want me to ask you to inform the Chancellor that, as a loyal son of Mother Church, he stands, as always, ready to defend her against any threat."

"Your Grace, I see your reputation for graciousness and piety is well deserved." Harys bowed again. "I'll relay your words directly to the Chancellor. And, of course"-he looked up and met the duke's eye once again-"I'll keep you informed of any new messages I receive from him."

AUGUST, YEAR OF GOD 891

I

The Archbishop's Palace,

Tellesberg

"Your Eminence." Bishop Executor Zherald Ahdymsyn bowed to kiss Archbishop Erayk Dynnys' ring as the archbishop was shown into the Archbishop's Palace. Although the Palace was officially Dynnys' residence, it was Ahdymsyn's home, and the bishop executor always felt just a bit odd when the archbishop arrived. As always, he'd met Dynnys in the entry hall, whose black and white marble squares stretched away, glistening in the sunlight pouring through the wide, deep set windows.

"Welcome to Tellesberg," he continued, straightening from his bow.

"Thank you, Zherald," Dynnys responded with a somewhat tart smile. "I appreciate the welcome, although, to be frank, I'd rather be in Zion."

"That's understandable, Your Eminence." Ahdymsyn returned his superior's smile, but inwardly he was somewhat shocked by Dynnys' appearance. It wasn't the ironwood cane and the hipshot stance, obviously designed to relieve pressure on the archbishop's right leg. Those he'd expected, more or less, following the dispatches about Dynnys' injuries. What he hadn't expected was the semipermanent vertical furrow between the archbishop's eyes. Or, for that matter, the worry in those eyes themselves.

"We have much to discuss," Dynnys said, then glanced over his shoulder as the rest of his party filed respectfully into the entrance hall behind him. Ahdymsyn recognized most of them, but there were a few new faces. There always were.

He was a bit surprised by Mahtaio Broun's absence, but only for a moment. Broun's steady climb in the archbishop's service and confidence made him the logical choice to be left home to see to Dynnys' interests in the Temple in his absence, and Ahdymsyn cocked his head with a slightly inquisitive expression as Dynnys waved one of the new faces-a young under-priest-forward.

"Zherald, this is Father Symyn Shumakyr, my new secretary. Symyn, Bishop Zherald."

"An honor, Your Eminence," Shumakyr murmured, bending to kiss Ahdymsyn's ring.

"Welcome to Tellesberg," Ahdymsyn responded.

Shumakyr was a personable-looking young man, in the habit of the Order of Langhorne with the white crown of a prelate's secretary on his sleeve. His eyes were bright and alert, and after his introduction, he stepped back into precisely the right position, one pace behind and to the left of his patron. On first impression, at least, he seemed a more than adequate replacement for Broun.

"I'm sure that after the fatigue of your long journey, you need an opportunity to rest and refresh yourself, Your Eminence," the bishop executor said, turning back to Dynnys.

"I certainly do," the archbishop agreed. "At the same time, thanks to my accident, I've been absent from Charis for much too long." He gave Ahdymsyn a sharp, straight look. "I'd like to get right to work, make up some of that lost time. I thought we might take time for a fairly leisurely lunch, then begin immediately with a general overview of the Archbishopric's affairs."

"Of course, Your Eminence," Ahdymsyn replied, not really surprised, given the anxiety in the archbishop's eyes and body language. He gestured to a liveried servant. "Hauwyrd will escort you to your chamber so that you can refresh yourself before lunch. We'll get the rest of your people settled in, as well."

"Thank you, Zherald," Dynnys said with a genuinely grateful smile. "That sounds excellent."

* * *

"So, while I'm not totally easy in my own mind over this recent spate of new ideas, Father Paityr assures me there's absolutely no evidence of a violation of the Proscriptions."

"I gathered as much from your dispatches. And, of course, from young Wylsynn's reports," Dynnys said. He leaned back in the comfortable chair behind the desk in the large office permanently reserved for his exclusive use on his visits to his archbishopric. Ahdymsyn sat in a facing chair, and Father Symyn sat at a smaller desk to one side, the nib of his pen scratching as he took notes.

"As you, I'm more than a little uneasy over the abruptness with which all these . . . innovations have emerged," the archbishop continued. "That was why I requested Father Paityr to revisit his original evaluations of them."

He paused, then grimaced and glanced at his secretary.

"I think we'll go off record for a moment, Symyn," he said.

"Of course, Your Eminence," Shumakyr murmured, laying down his pen and folding his hands on his desk.

"To be totally candid, Zherald," Dynnys said then, "I'm not the only person in the Temple or in Zion who's been anxious about reports coming out of Charis. The Chancellor himself has expressed his concerns on more than one occasion."

He paused, and Ahdymsyn nodded very slightly. There was no need for the archbishop to explain that if Vicar Zahmsyn had expressed an opinion, it was actually that of the Group of Four.

"My impression is that those concerns encompass more than simply these new ship designs, or the new spinning and weaving machines, or new ways of counting," Dynnys continued after a moment. "Nonetheless, all those things are symptomatic of what appears to be worrying him. So I very much hope it will be possible to put his mind at ease over these matters. We need to reassure him that we're aware of our responsibilities, both to the Council and to God, and that we're meeting them with vigilance and forethought. And we also need to demonstrate that we're determined to keep an open mind-to continue to test, and to withdraw the certification of suspect devices or processes if we subsequently determine that the original attestation was in error."

"I understand, Your Eminence," Ahdymsyn assured him.

"Good. In that regard, I'd like you to arrange a personal interview for me with Father Paityr as early as possible tomorrow morning."

"Of course, Your Eminence."

"Thank you." The archbishop nodded to Shumakyr, who picked up his pen once again, then looked back at Ahdymsyn.

"And now, Zherald, please continue."

"Of course, Your Eminence." Ahdymsyn cleared his throat. "I have been a little concerned over a few minor points of doctrinal interpretation on the part of some of our local priesthood," he said carefully. "While I've seen no signs of any deliberate or intentional challenge to orthodoxy, there are some points upon which I think it might be well for you to counsel our priests and bishops, Your Eminence."

Dynnys' eyes narrowed slightly, and Ahdymsyn continued in a deliberately unhurried voice.

"Such minor matters of correction are far from uncommon, of course, and I've dealt with them as they arose. Nonetheless, while you're here in Charis, I feel it would be most appreciated by all of our priesthood to hear a frank expression of your own views and to receive your pastoral instruction."

"I'm sure you're right," Dynnys agreed after a moment. "Please see to working that into our schedule. And perhaps it would be well for me to meet privately with Bishop Maikel first?"

"I think that might be wise, Your Eminence, as well as courteous," Ahdymsyn said with a nod.

"See to that, as well, then, too."

"Of course, Your Eminence."

Ahdymsyn cleared his throat once more.

"One of the brighter spots has been the readiness with which the archbishopric's tithes have come forward," he said much more cheerfully. "That's not to say there hasn't been a certain degree of grumbling-there always is-and pleas for extenuating circumstances. I've granted a few commutations, subject to your approval, of course.

"The Church's estates and manors, not to mention the monasteries and convents, are generally in good order. I'm a little concerned about the management of one or two of our manors in Margaret's Land, but over all I have few complaints or criticisms. In the case of-"

* * *

"Your Eminence."

Father Paityr Wylsynn crossed Archbishop Erayk's large, luxuriously furnished office with quick, brisk strides. He went to one knee before the archbishop and bent his head to kiss Dynnys' ring, then remained kneeling until Dynnys touched him lightly on the shoulder.

"Rise, Father," the archbishop said, and Wylsynn obeyed.

He folded his arms in the sleeves of his cassock, waiting silently, his expression both attentive and respectful, and Dynnys studied him thoughtfully.

He had the Wylsynn look, the archbishop thought. That b nose and the stubborn, one might almost say mulish, set of the mouth were all too familiar, but there was something else about this youngster. Something in the gray eyes . . . or perhaps the set of the shoulders. It wasn't defiant, or disrespectful. Indeed, it was almost . . . serene.

Whatever it was, it made Dynnys uneasy, and he smiled a bit more broadly than usual to conceal it.

"I appreciate the promptness with which you responded to my request for a reexamination of your conclusions concerning the new processes and devices introduced here in Charis over the past year or so, Father."

"I'm gratified that I was able to meet your requirements, Your Eminence."

"Yes. Well," Dynnys turned and limped around behind his desk and sank into the comfortable chair, "while I appreciate how quickly you responded, it occurred to me that it was possible I might have rushed you just a bit. Do you feel confident you were able to take sufficient time to be certain in your own mind of your conclusions?"

He met the young upper-priest' eyes steadily. Any cleric of Wylsynn's seniority in the Temple or Zion would almost certainly have taken the hint. Wylsynn only looked back calmly and nodded.

"Yes, Your Eminence, I am, thank you."

"So you remain of your original opinion that there are no violations involved? No need for the Church to issue any cautionary notices? Revoke any attestations?" Dynnys asked pleasantly.

"Yes, Your Eminence, I do."

"I see."

Dynnys continued to gaze at the red-haired young intendant with a pronounced sense of frustration. Wylsynn couldn't possibly be as blind to the Church's political realities as he chose to appear, but his serenity was a shield, impervious to the archbishop's prods.

The Group of Four wanted proof Dynnys was doing something . . . and that Charis was sufficiently obedient to its archbishop that they need not take action. And if he ordered the revocation of an attestation and Charis accepted it-which he was certain the kingdom would-he would have convincing evidence the situation was under control. But if Wylsynn gave him no opening, there was no way he could act.

With another intendant, Dynnys might have been tempted to order him to rewrite his initial evaluations to give him what he needed. With this intendant, that was out of the question. Besides, when it came right down to it, Dynnys wasn't truly certain he really wanted Wylsynn to disallow any of the Charisian innovations.

Or I think I'm not, anyway, he told himself. Of course, that might be no more than putting the best face on it, since the stubborn little bastard isn't going to give an inch. On the other hand, as long as Wylsynn stands firm-which he obviously intends to do-even Clyntahn's going to find it hard to move against Charis for heresy. And if I emphasize his confidence in my "everything's all right down here, really" reports to the Temple . . .

"In that case, I suppose there's nothing more to be said on that head," he resumed aloud after a moment. "However, I would like to ask you for your personal impression of this Merlin Athrawes. I read your dispatch, of course, but I've found the written word frequently fails to convey all of the nuances."

"Of course, Your Eminence," Wylsynn said when Dynnys paused with one eyebrow arched. "As I wrote in the dispatch to which you just referred, I personally interviewed Lieutenant Athrawes. Although you hadn't specifically requested me to, I felt the stories flying about required a closer look. Of course, all manner of wild rumors about him were undoubtedly inevitable, given the part he played in saving the Crown Prince's life. And then again, in that matter of the Duke of Tirian's treason.

"In light of those rumors, however, I specifically raised the point of whether or not he was a seijin. He told me he does possess at least some of the abilities attributed to the seijin, as the result of many years of study. It was scarcely necessary for him to tell me he had the seijin's martial-arts abilities, of course, given what he's already reputed to have accomplished. But he also told me he doesn't claim that title for himself."

Wylsynn shrugged.

"My own study of the accounts concerning the seijin as a group indicate that very few supposedly genuine seijin have ever claimed that title for themselves. It seems to be awarded to them after the fact, based upon their accomplishments. Bearing that in mind, my own judgment is that Lieutenant Athrawes probably is a seijin, in the sense that his skill as a warrior will cause him to be so regarded in the fullness of time."

"And this business with the children he saved from the kraken attack?" Dynnys pressed.

"My best estimate, Your Eminence, is that the children involved were understandably hysterical and grossly exaggerated what happened. It's true the authorities in King's Harbor recovered one kraken which had been killed with a harpoon. No others were recovered, however, and according to Crown Prince Cayleb, who's an experienced naval officer in his own right, and who also had by far the best view of what actually happened, the youngsters were much closer to the wharf than they believed they were.

"As closely as I can reconstruct what probably really happened, they were close enough for Lieutenant Athrawes to make what probably was a fairly remarkable cast with the harpoon. That would be in reasonable accordance with his previously displayed abilities as a warrior. He then dove into the water and swam to the boat, where the kraken he'd harpooned continued to attack the children until the mortal wound it had already suffered overcame it. The lieutenant may have helped to fend off the dying creature, but I suspect he was actually most concerned with getting the children out of the water, onto the overturned boat, where the wounded kraken would be less likely to attack them.

"Without wishing in any way to detract from the lieutenant's undeniable courage, I believe that must constitute the probable extent of his actions. And, to his additional credit, he's never claimed to have done more than that. At any rate, and making all due allowance for the fundamental truthfulness of the children involved, I sincerely doubt that even a seijin could throw a harpoon a hundred and fifty yards, swim the same distance in the twinkling of an eye, and then strangle three or four krakens with his bare hands! Indeed, I'm somewhat inclined to the opinion that there's a snowballing effect at work here. Lieutenant Athrawes initially appeared under rather dramatic circumstances, after all. With that in mind, it's not surprising the gossip of the uninformed attributes all sorts of semi-miraculous capabilities to him."

"But you believe it is 'the gossip of the uninformed'?"

"Probably not entirely, but in the main, yes, Your Eminence."

"And his purpose here?" Dynnys asked, eyes narrowing very slightly.

"I believe his purpose here is to offer his services as a warrior-an extraordinary one, perhaps, but still a warrior-to the House of Ahrmahk. I believe he genuinely . . . admires King Haarahld, and it's readily apparent that he's deeply attached to young Cayleb."

"You have no evidence of anything . . . deeper than that?" Dynnys pressed.

"None, Your Eminence," Wylsynn said firmly. "I realize there have probably been reports and rumors-some of which may have reached clear to the Temple-of some malevolent purpose on his part. Given the obvious trust he's won from Haarahld and Cayleb, jealousy and spite would certainly have produced those rumors, whether there was any foundation to them or not. And to be realistic, it's unlikely Lieutenant Athrawes is a complete stranger to ambition. He's certainly in an excellent position to rise quite high in the Royal Guard, for example, and I doubt he'd refuse promotion or wealth if they were offered to him.

"On the basis of my own conversations with the man, and with King Haarahld and Crown Prince Cayleb, though, I feel quite confident he has no more malign purpose than that. Indeed, my considered opinion is that this man has a profound respect for God and would never dream of defying God's will."

Dynnys blinked. He couldn't help it. There was a note of absolute certitude in Wylsynn's voice, as if God Himself had whispered in the under-priest's ear. He might be wrong, but there was no way Dynnys was going to shake his belief in this Lieutenant Athrawes' worthiness.

And, truth to tell, the archbishop thought wryly, if a Wylsynn is prepared to vouch for the man, who are we mere fallible mortals to question that vote of confidence?

"I see," he said again, after a moment. "Well, Father, I must say you've put my mind at ease on several points this morning. I appreciate that, just as I appreciate your devotion and zeal in attending to these matters."

"I'm very happy to hear that, Your Eminence. And I hope that if there's any other way in which I can be of service to you during your pastoral visit, you'll call upon me."

"Of course, Father." Dynnys rose, extending his right hand across his desk, and Wylsynn bent to kiss the episcopal ring once more. "Go with my blessing, Father."

"Thank you, Your Eminence," Wilson said.

Dynnys reseated himself as the under-priest withdrew, closing the door quietly behind him. The archbishop sat gazing at that door for a few seconds, then turned to Father Symyn at his own desk.

"Well, Symyn, what's next on the morning's agenda?"

* * *

"This is a really excellent brandy, Zherald," Archbishop Erayk commented, inhaling deeply as he passed the deep, tulip-shaped glass under his nose.

"Yes, it is," Ahdymsyn agreed. "It was a gift from the Prior of Saint Trevyr's." He smiled slightly. "I didn't ask the Prior where it came from."

"Probably just as well," Dynnys agreed with a chuckle, and glanced over his shoulder.

"I think you've put in enough hard work today, Symyn," he told his secretary. "Put down your pen and pour yourself a glass."

"If you're certain, Your Eminence. I don't mind taking a few more notes," Shumakyr said.

"Nonsense!" Dynnys shook his head. "You may be willing to continue making notes, but I've put in a long, hard day. I don't intend to discuss anything else on the record tonight."

"Of course, Your Eminence."

The secretary carefully cleaned his pen and put it away, then capped his inkwell and straightened his papers with equal care before closing the cover on his own desk. Then he crossed to the side table and poured himself a glass of brandy as instructed.

The sun had almost disappeared beyond the western horizon outside the windows of Dynnys' office. The archbishop had been in Tellesberg for eighteen days now, and they truly had been arduous ones. Ahdymsyn was forced to concede that Dynnys had applied himself to the many problems facing him with a degree of energy and intensity the bishop executor had never seen out of him before.

"I must say," the archbishop said after a moment, propping his feet on an embroidered ottoman, "that I feel considerably relieved on several fronts. Which isn't to say-" He shot Ahdymsyn a sharp look. "-that I'm not still a little anxious about others."

"Isn't it always that way, Your Eminence?" the bishop executor allowed himself a small, weary smile.

"Yes. Yes it is," Dynnys sighed.

For just an instant, his face looked years older, worn with worry as well as the fatigue of the pace he'd set himself over the past three and a half five-days. Ahdymsyn, to his own surprise, felt a twinge of sympathy which actually had nothing at all-or very little, at least-to do with his own position and ambitions.

"I've drafted my preliminary report," Dynnys continued after another sip of brandy. "I'd appreciate it if you'd glance over it in the morning. Give me the benefit of your own perspective."

"Of course, Your Eminence." Ahdymsyn managed to keep any surprise out of his voice, but the request was unusual, to say the least.

Of course, it's probably not that surprising given how . . . carefully he has to have written it, the bishop executor thought after a moment. And at least he's not asking me to cosign it!

He felt a brief flicker of something almost like shame. Whatever else might be true, at least a large part of Dynnys' potential problems were none of his making. He'd never asked for this sudden, unsavory rush of inventiveness.

At least he could say honestly that his intendant had no qualms at all about all of the new devices and ideas. That should help quite a lot, in Ahdymsyn's opinion. Perhaps it wouldn't suit the more vengeful members of the Office of the Inquisition as much as making a few sharp examples would have, but it should at least pour a little water on that particular fire.

As for the other, more fundamental problems of the archbishopric, those had begun before Dynnys ever assumed office. Perhaps he should have dealt with them sooner, but that was a case of being wise after the fact, Ahdymsyn thought. For that matter, he himself clearly hadn't been sufficiently proactive in dealing with Bishop Maikel, not that he intended to admit it to anyone.

Ahdymsyn hadn't taken part in Staynair's private meeting with Dynnys. Only Father Symyn had been present for that in his role as the archbishop's secretary. The bishop executor's impression was that it might have gone better, but at least Staynair couldn't have offered any open defiance. If he had, Dynnys would have had no option but to discipline him, which-thank God!-he hadn't. The last thing anyone needed was for the Group of Four to add concerns over the doctrinal reliability of the local priesthood to the pot, and if the kingdom's senior bishop had to be disciplined-!

But they'd manage to avoid that, at least. And if the Group of Four's current worries could just be allayed, even temporarily, they might manage to save the situation after all. The archbishopric only needed a little time-a year or two, perhaps, without the Group of Four intervening to make the situation still worse-to put its house in order. That was all they really needed, he thought, and found himself wondering just how the archbishop had dealt with his own concerns about Bishop Maikel.

Well, I suppose I'll find out tomorrow, won't I? he told himself, and lifted his own brandy glass appreciatively.

II

King's Harbor,

Helen Island

"How does Domynyk feel about Captain Maylyr?" Merlin asked.

He and Cayleb sat at a table under an awning atop the citadel, enjoying a brisk afternoon breeze as they gnawed on spider-crab legs. Gahlvyn Daikyn, Caleb's valet, had a particularly tasty recipe for them, and Merlin had found he was genuinely fond of the local delicacy, although he didn't think he could have matched Cayleb's prodigious, barely-post-adolescent appetite for them even if he'd had a full-sized flesh and blood "stomach" to pack them into.

Now the crown prince took time to swallow-and wash the swallow down with a long draft of beer-before he responded.

"I think he's reasonably satisfied," he said then, and shrugged. "Maylyr's only had a couple of five-days to settle in, after all."

"But Domynyk has a point about how long we've got to let people 'settle in,'-" Merlin pointed out in his best devil's advocate manner, and Cayleb's teeth flashed in a smile.

"Yes, he does," he agreed. "And, no, I'm not prepared to override him on a whim. But I think we can give Maylyr another day or so before I order him fed to the krakens."

Merlin chuckled, although mention of feeding anyone to the krakens didn't really strike him as the most humorous possible joke.

"Time really is getting short, I'm afraid," he said after a moment, and Cayleb nodded soberly, his own mood darkening.

"You haven't had any more 'visions' of Gorjah or Rahnyld?" he asked.

"Not of their having any more conversations with representatives of the Council of Vicars." Merlin shook his head. "But Gorjah's been spending a lot more time chatting up Hektor's ambassador. And Rahnyld's had Admiral Gardynyr very quietly getting his navy ready to move if it has to."

"None of which is really much of a surprise," Cayleb pointed out in a voice which sounded much less concerned than Merlin knew he actually was.

"Perhaps not. But the fact that the Council's involved at all is hardly what I'd call good news, Cayleb!"

"Agreed. Agreed! But you heard what Rayjhis had to say right here on this very roof." Cayleb's expression was much grimmer for a moment. "Sooner or later, the members of the Council who fear us would've come out of the shadows, anyway. At least now, thanks to you, we know they're doing it."

"Thanks to me" in more ways than you know, Cayleb, Merlin thought with a spasm of guilt, then shook himself.

"I don't like the odds if they do bring Dohlar in," he said frankly.

"I can't say I'd care for them a lot, myself," Cayleb conceded. "Still, even adding Dohlar and Tarot to the balance sheet, Hektor wouldn't have much better than a three-to-two advantage in hulls."

Merlin gave him a skeptical look, and the crown prince snorted. In fact, as Cayleb knew perfectly well, the official strength of the Royal Charisian Navy, when fully mobilized, was a hundred and thirty galleys, including the fifty in the reserve fleet. Hektor of Corisande had an active-duty strength of fifty, with another thirty in reserve. Nahrmahn of Emerald had forty-five in permanent commission and another twenty-five or thirty in reserve. That gave the two of them a combined active-duty strength of ninety-five with another sixty or so in reserve, or a total of a hundred and fifty, although almost all of them were indivdually smaller and less powerful than their Charisian counterparts.

Tarot's fleet was smaller, with only thirty galleys in permanent commission and no reserve worth mentioning. But the Dohlaran Navy had sixty in permanent commission and another seventy in reserve, and their galleys were big, powerful ships, although they were very definitely designed as a coastal force, not for the high seas. So, if Tarot and Dohlar were added to the ranks of Charis' enemies, King Haarahld's hundred and thirty galleys could find themselves opposed by well over three hundred.

"All right," Cayleb said after a moment. "I'll grant you that if they got every hulk in their reserve fleet into commission, they'd have us by better than two to one. But, first, it's unlikely they will manage to get all of them into commission. And, second, Dohlar is over seven thousand miles from here as the wyvern flies . . . and over twenty-three thousand as the ship sails. That's a Shan-wei of a voyage for a batch of coastal galleons, Merlin! And Charis-and our entire navy-is squarely between Dohlar and Corisande. They'd have to get past us before they could combine."

"Which doesn't mean they won't try," Merlin pointed out.

"No, but if they don't coordinate things carefully, we'd be able to smash each wing of their strategy separately. And even using the Church's semaphore, it's going to take time for any operation that complex to be coordinated. You were there when I discussed it with Father and Rayjhis."

Cayleb shrugged.

"I agree with them. It's already early August. We're into midwinter down here, and by the time Erayk's report gets back to the Temple, it's going to be the end of the month, or even September. That means they're going to be heading into fall up north. It takes over a month for even the semaphore system to get a message from the Temple to Manchyr, and from your visions, they haven't even spoken to Hektor yet. So let's say they spend a five-day or two thinking things over, then send a message to Hektor. That means it's going to be somewhere around the middle of November by the time they can hear back from him. And that means it's going to be the end of February by the time they can get a second message to him. So, the earliest they should be able to move is going to be very late February or March, which is the middle of winter in Dohlar. Then it's going to take at least seventy days or so for the Dohlaran navy to get any of its ships as far as Charis. So if they get underway by the middle of March, they'll get here sometime in May. Which is the middle of fall again, and only an idiot would fight a sea war in these waters in the middle of storm season."

He shrugged again.

"If I were running the Temple, I'd accept that I was going to have to wait at least another two or three months, which would mean the earliest we'd see them down here would be sometime in the spring. Say October of next year."

"That all sounds perfectly reasonable and reassuring," Merlin said. "The only thing that bothers me about it is that it requires the other side to be smart enough to see the same objections we see."

"Granted." Cayleb reached for another spider-crab leg and waved it at Merlin. "At the same time, they don't know about Domynyk and his little surprise."

"No," Merlin agreed. "At least, not so far as I can tell."

"Well, there you are." Cayleb shrugged again and cracked the spider-crab leg to get at the succulent inner meat.

"And how many galleons do we have?" Merlin asked.

"Not as many as I'd like," Cayleb agreed rather indistinctly, then swallowed.

"Not as many as I'd like," he repeated, more clearly. "But if they'll hold off until spring, that will change."

It was Merlin's turn to nod. Commodore Staynair-except it was going to be Admiral Staynair very soon now-had his squadron of galleons up to fifteen, six of them converted merchantships armed solely with carronades. By November, that number would have just about doubled, although many of the additional ships would just be starting their working up exercises at that point. And by next March, the total should be up to almost fifty, many of which-especially the purpose-built units-would carry many more guns than the original Experimental Squadron's units. In addition, Haarahld and High Admiral Seamount had already earmarked almost a dozen largish schooners building in Tellesberg for impressment into naval service.

Unfortunately, it was far from certain they'd be able to effectively arm all their new units as soon as they were built. Howsmyn was working not so minor miracles at the vastly expanded King's Harbor foundry, and his new foundry at Delthak would be pouring its first run of artillery by late October, if all went well. Even so, things were going to be tight, and they'd been forced to effectively strip the entire reserve fleet of its heavy armament already. Which meant that adding fifteen galleons had reduced the Navy's effective strength by fifty galleys.

It also meant they were becoming increasingly strapped for competent galleon captains. Dunkyn Maylyr was a case in point. He was an experienced naval officer, who'd commanded his own ship for over five years, but he was a galley captain. He thought like a galley captain, and although he was in the process of becoming an enthusiastic recruit to the concept Merlin had described as "peace through superior firepower," he didn't have very much experience yet in commanding a galleon. Still, he was working hard, and they'd managed to quietly recruit several merchant skippers with previous naval experience. They had plenty of experience managing galleons; it was their naval skills which had gotten rusty.

At least Staynair's unyielding concentration on merciless gun drill had paid off. He'd insisted, with Cayleb's b support, on training every member of every one of his original gun crews as a fully qualified gun captain. As a result, they'd been able to provide each ship with a nucleus of trained gun captains as it commissioned, and the Royal Charisian Navy's current gunnery standards were on a totally different plane from anyone else's.

Now if we only had more guns for them to shoot with, he thought sardonically.

"At least Erayk seems to be trying to keep the lid on the pot," he said to Cayleb after a moment.

"I know." Cayleb grimaced. "I'd call the man a toad, if it wouldn't be an insult to all toads. Still, at the moment his own motives are pushing him to do what we want. And Father Paityr's position hasn't hurt anything. All we can do now is wait and see. But if the Council only listens to him for a couple of more months, I'm pretty sure we'll have that break until next year. At which point," the crown prince's smile was not a pleasant expression, "we'll have enough galleons in commission to make them very unhappy."

III

Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair's Suite,

The Temple

Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair spooned up the last bit of his dessert custard and swallowed it with a sigh of pleasure. A mouthful of water cleansed his palette, and he sat back from the table sipping his wine with a feeling of profound satisfaction.

The August day had been warm, the reports from his bailiffs all indicated his manors were likely to enjoy bumper harvests, and the year's tithing was almost an entire month ahead of schedule. It had been his turn to host the Group of Four's once-a-five-day working supper, and for once, he'd looked forward to it without worrying that anything would affect his digestion afterward.

He'd taken extra pains with this five-day's supper, and his chef had done him proud. Everyone except Clyntahn had obviously reached the point of repletion, and the only flaw in his own pleasure was the reflection that next five-day it would be Magwair's turn to feed them. And Magwair's idea of properly cooked vegetables required them to be boiled into an unappetizing pulp.

"Well," he said in his role as host, "I suppose it's time we got to business." He took another sip of wine. "Personally, I have to say I'm rather relieved by the tenor of Dynnys' dispatches."

"You are, are you?" Clyntahn half-grunted. He leaned forward and helped himself to one of the unclaimed rolls, spreading it liberally with butter and stuffing half of it into his mouth in a single bite.

"I have to agree with Zahmsyn, Zhaspyr," Duchairn said mildly. "I know you're not particularly fond of the entire Wylsynn family, but according to Dynnys, Father Paityr went back and reconsidered his original findings very carefully. He continues to insist there's no violation of the Proscriptions. To me, that bly suggests the reports we've been getting-a lot of them from enemies of Charis, I think it should be noted-truly are exaggerated."

"I see." Clyntahn's response was indistinct. He swallowed the mouthful of bread, washing it down with a hefty gulp of Trynair's expensive wine, and shook his head.

"I might be willing to agree with you, Rhobair," he said then. "If, of course, our good Archbishop had told us the truth in his dispatches."

"What?" Trynair sat up straighter, aware Duchairn and Magwair had done the same thing, and looked demandingly at the Grand Inquisitor. "What do you mean, Zhaspyr?"

"I mean I've never trusted that little snot Wylsynn as far as I could spit," Clyntahn replied. "And I had my doubts about Dynnys' reliability, if it came right down to it. So, unbeknownst to our beloved Archbishop of Charis, his new secretary, Father Symyn, is an agent of the Inquisition. And his report covers a few things Dynnys inexplicably . . . overlooked."

The Inquisitor's smile was ugly, his eyes bright, and Trynair felt his stomach clench. Clyntahn's hatred for Charis had been bad enough before Paityr Wylsynn was assigned as its intendant. Since then, it had grown even more virulent, but he hadn't mentioned to any of the rest of the Group of Four that he intended to plant one of his own agents on Dynnys. Then again, his office gave him the authority to place agents and investigators anywhere he chose, any time he chose, and Trynair suddenly found himself wondering just how many others he had scattered about. And just whom they were keeping watch on.

Which was all somewhat beside the point at the moment, he supposed.

"Should we gather from what you've just said that your agent-Father Symyn, was it?-disagrees with Dynnys' appraisal of the situation?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, I think you could gather that," Clyntahn said sarcastically.

He finished the wine in his glass picked up the bottle, and poured another glassful, then leaned back in his chair with an expression which mingled triumph, hatred, and genuine worry.

"According to Father Symyn's observations and quiet investigation, Wylsynn's 'reconsideration' of his original findings was limited to a single interview with Haarahld and Cayleb. One at which, I might add, Maikel Staynair was also present . . . having been invited by our dear Father Paityr.

"Not only that, Archbishop Erayk somehow neglected to mention to us that this same Maikel Staynair has been preaching sedition from Tellesberg Cathedral itself."

"That's a rather serious charge, Zhaspyr," Duchairn observed, after a moment or two, into the sudden silence around the table.

"Staynair should never have been confirmed as Bishop of Tellesberg in the first place," Clyntahn half-snapped. "That position's far too important to be left in the hands of a Charisian. But," he waggled one hand, showing his teeth in a caricature of a smile, and his eyes were ugly, "that's all water under the bridge, I suppose. Except that Staynair's been preaching sermons about the fallibility of the Inquisition's judgment."

"Forgive me, Zhaspyr," Trynair said, "but I find that a bit difficult to believe. Surely, Bishop Zherald would have reported any such sermons! And whatever your opinion of young Wylsynn, I can't believe he would have allowed such a challenge to Mother Church's authority to pass unreported."

"Oh, you can't, can't you?" Clyntahn's laugh was as ugly as his eyes. "Well, Father Symyn was able to absolutely confirm that Ahdymsyn sent for Staynair following one of his heretical sermons and gave him a royal tongue-lashing. So obviously Dynnys' bishop executor was aware of the problem. And Dynnys had his own little discussion with Staynair, one Father Symyn was present for. Neither Dynnys nor Staynair came right out and admitted what was going on, but it was obvious Dynnys was warning him to keep his mouth shut . . . and that Staynair wasn't what you might call penitent, either. But Dynnys certainly didn't report anything about his need to 'counsel' Staynair to me. And I think you'll all agree it's significant that neither he nor Wylsynn has reported a word about it to us even now."

Trynair frowned. Even allowing for Clyntahn's hatred for all things Charisian, he had a point.

"There's another possible aspect to all of this," Magwair said after a moment, and all eyes turned to him.

"What sort of 'aspect,' Allayn?" Duchairn asked.

"I've received a handful of reports about the Charisian Navy." The Temple's captain general shrugged. "Most of them are coming out of Emerald and Corisande, so I've tended to discount them somewhat. But in light of what Zhaspyr's just said, and particularly in light of the possibility that Wylsynn's been less scrupulous in the discharge of his duties than we'd thought, perhaps I shouldn't have been so quick to do that."

"What sort of reports?" Trynair managed to keep his tone short of an impatient demand, but it wasn't easy.

"Apparently the Charisians have undertaken some major changes in their navy," Magwair replied. "Details are sketchy, but they all agree that in addition to these new rigging plans of theirs, and this new 'cotton gin,' and all of the other . . . innovations they've introduced, they've obviously done something we don't know about where their navy is concerned. It's the only explanation for how secretive they're being, or, for that matter, for why they should suddenly be building galleons instead of galleys."

There were several moments of intense silence, and then Clyntahn belched. The sound was startling, and Trynair twitched in surprise.

"So," the Grand Inquisitor said, without bothering to apologize, "what do we have here? We have a bishop who's preaching sedition. We have this huge spate of changes and new techniques. We have a kingdom in the process of some sort of secret military buildup. We have a king whose family has a tradition of defiance towards Mother Church, and whose own policies have scarcely been accommodating to her just demands. We have a bishop who's preaching heresy and sedition from his own cathedral. We have an archbishop who's concealing information from us-probably just to cover his own arse, although I wouldn't be prepared to bet my soul on that. And we have a so-called intendant who hasn't reported any of this to us. What does that sound like to the rest of you?"

"Not good," Magwair grunted. Duchairn and Trynair said nothing, but Clyntahn's venomous summation had shaken them, as well.

"I'm still not convinced the situation is quite that bad," Duchairn said after several seconds. "Still, I'm certainly willing to concede that I'm not as confident of that as I was a few minutes ago. Assuming all of your assumptions are correct, Zhaspyr, what do we do about it?"

"If Staynair's truly preaching sedition, and if neither Ahdymsyn nor Dynnys has reported it to us, I see no option but to summon him-and them-to appear before a proper tribunal," Trynair said.

"And that young whippersnapper Wylsynn, as well," Magwair growled, but Clyntahn shook his head.

"I'm not sure that's the wisest course," he said, and all three of his colleagues looked at him in disbelief.

"Oh, I'm not saying they shouldn't all face the Inquisition, eventually. Or that they shouldn't suffer the full penalty for their actions. But if we summon Staynair to the Temple and he refuses the summons, what happens?"

"He can't refuse the summons," Duchairn protested. "The entire matter comes under the authority of the Church's justice."

"And if Haarahld, who's already defied the Church's obvious desires by insisting this man be made Bishop of Tellesberg in the first place, intervenes and prevents the Church courts in Charis from remanding Staynair to the Temple?"

"Surely he's not prepared to go that far," Trynair argued, yet he heard a certain lack of certitude in his own voice.

"He's making preparations for something," Clyntahn pointed out. "And don't forget how many of the clergy in Charis are native Charisians. I've argued for years that we should have assigned more non-Charisians to that pesthole, but would anyone listen? No. And now what do we have? Barely the tenth part-if that much-of the clergy is from outside Haarahld's kingdom. If he should choose to defy Mother Church, at least a sizable minority of those Charisians are likely to support him. And then what do we have?"

A fresh, even more profound, silence descended upon the dining room.

It was amazing, Trynair thought, how swiftly his own mood had gone from one of pleasant content to something very, very different. But if Clyntahn was correct, if his worst-case assumptions proved accurate, they would be looking at a nightmare the Church had never confronted before: the armed resistance of an entire kingdom to God's will. And if that resistance prospered, or even if it simply took some time to quell-which was scarcely unlikely, given Charis' sheer physical distance from the Temple and the Temple Lands-its example might well spread.

The Chancellor shuddered at the thought of what might happen if Siddarmark, for example, were to fall prey to the same madness. And if Charis were allowed to continue its military expansion-an expansion which, it now seemed, might be violating the Proscriptions after all-it might well seize Emerald, Corisande, and even Chisholm by force of arms before the Church could mobilize against it in sufficient strength. And if that happened . . .

"So how do we avoid all of that, Zhaspyr?" he asked finally, and Clyntahn shrugged.

"I think the answer to that is fairly simple, really."

His colleagues' surprise was obvious, and he chuckled, the sound harsh, almost hungry.

"Of course it is. Zahmsyn, you yourself started putting the pieces into place to support Hektor if it proved necessary. Well, I submit that it has proven necessary. I think our simplest, safest, and best course is to go ahead and support Hektor and Nahrmahn, but as the Knights of the Temple Lands, not the Council of Vicars. Bahrmyn's in Manchyr on his own pastoral visit right this minute, so tell him to . . . speak frankly with Hektor. Then bring in Dohlar and Tarot-and Chisholm, for that matter-but Mother Church stays out of it. The Temple Lands can support our friends-just forgiving Rahnyld the interest on all the loan payments he still owes the Treasury would be more than enough to buy his support-but the Church and the Inquisition will have nothing to do with it. Until, of course, Haarahld's been defeated."

"And then?" Trynair asked, trying to ignore the queasiness stirring in the pit of his stomach.

"I think we can count on Hektor and Nahrmahn to wreak sufficient havoc on Charis. If necessary, we can . . . encourage them just a bit. But by the time Tellesberg and most of their other major towns and cities have been burned, and their precious merchant fleet's been destroyed, what's left of Charis will be destitute, desperate for aid. At which point, Mother Church's loving arms will reach out to her distressed children. The Treasury will pour gold into rebuilding their shattered homes, and in the process, the Office of Inquisition will be perfectly placed to purge the unreliable elements of the priesthood."

He smiled with cold, vicious satisfaction.

"In short, I believe we're in a position to solve the Charisian problem for generations to come, my friends."

SEPTEMBER, YEAR OF GOD 891

I

Royal Palace,

Manchyr, Corisande

Prince Hektor of Corisande watched with carefully hidden anxiety as Borys Bahrmyn, the Archbishop of Corisande, strode past the throne room guards and paced gravely down the runner of carpet towards his throne. The guards watched him pass with carefully expressionless faces, although the stiff set of their spines showed how little they cared for their instructions, then closed the throne room doors behind him . . . from the other side.

The ragged ends of a late-winter thunderstorm had cleared earlier in the day, and sunlight through the stained glass windows threw flowing patterns across the floor. The gems on the archbishop's formal priest's cap sparkled whenever he stepped through one of those pools of light, and his expression was solemn.

Bahrmyn reached the foot of the dais and bowed his head gravely. Then he straightened, and Hektor inclined his own head in a gesture of respect.

"I must admit, Your Eminence," he said, "that I was a bit startled, and more than a little apprehensive, when I received your message."

"I apologize for that, Your Highness," Bahrmyn said. "Only the most pressing circumstances would have led me to request an audience on such short notice."

"I realize that. Which explains my apprehension," Hektor replied, showing his teeth in a slightly tight smile, although "request" was a pale choice of verb. The archbishop's message had been a none too thinly veiled peremptory demand for an immediate-and completely private-meeting.

Had he been anyone else, Hektor would have told him, none too politely, what he could do with his "request." Since he was who he was, however, the prince had had no choice but to comply. Which explained his guardsmen's unhappiness.

And his own.

"The world knows that you are your own first councillor, Your Highness." Bahrmyn produced a small smile of his own. "Were you not, I would undoubtedly have made whoever served you in that capacity . . . apprehensive instead of yourself."

"An excellent point, Your Eminence. Perhaps I should consider changing my arrangements."

Bahrmyn chuckled dutifully, and Hektor drew a deep breath.

"Nonetheless, Your Eminence, you did request the audience, and you're here now. So, how may the League of Corisande assist Mother Church?"

"Actually, Your Highness," Bahrmyn said slowly, "I'm not really here in Mother Church's name this morning." Hektor's eyes widened in surprise, and the archbishop shrugged slightly. "I am here on behalf of Chancellor Trynair, but not in his capacity as Vicar Zahmsyn."

Hektor's widened eyes narrowed in sudden speculation as he recognized Bahrmyn's distinction. As Chancellor, Trynair might speak officially for the Council of Vicars, or for the Knights of the Temple Lands; as Vicar Zahmsyn, he could speak only for the Church. Which put an abruptly different face on Bahrmyn's "request" for a completely private audience.

"I see," he said, after a moment. "In that case, how may be League serve the Chancellor?"

"In point of fact, Your Highness, I'm here to discuss how the Chancellor can be of assistance to you."

"Indeed?" Hektor kept his voice and expression alike under careful control, but it was hard.

"Your Highness," Bahrmyn said, "I've been instructed to speak very frankly, without the normal diplomatic circumlocutions. With your permission, that's precisely what I intend to do."

He raised his eyebrows, and Hektor nodded.

"Thank you, Your Highness." Bahrmyn bent his head once more, then cleared his throat.

"Your Highness, all the world knows that you and Prince Nahrmahn have, for some years now, found yourselves increasingly at odds with Haarahld of Charis. Mother Church, of course, must always be grieved when those she's anointed as secular rulers view one another with enmity. Nonetheless, Chancellor Trynair recognizes, as one charged with heavy secular responsibilities of his own in the Temple Lands, that even reasonable men may sometimes find themselves on opposite sides of irreconcilable differences. When that happens, it may result in open war. Other times, it may result in an ongoing, festering wound which poisons all about it."

The archbishop had Hektor's undivided attention. The prince made himself sit calmly in his throne, listening only attentively, but if Bahrmyn was headed where he appeared to be headed . . .

"Although both Corisande and Charis are far from the Temple Lands, the fact that between your lands-and, of course, Emerald-your ships carry so much of the world's cargoes means that any quarrel between you affects everyone who depends upon that shipping. The Knights of the Temple Lands are no different from any other rulers in that respect, and they've watched with increasing alarm as the hostility between you and Haarahld has deepened.

"Until recently, however, they've embraced a policy of neutrality in this particular dispute. That seemed the most reasonable course for them to pursue. But in recent months, the Knights of the Temple Lands have become aware of what they believe represents a dangerous shift in policy on Charis' part. Since the ecclesiastical courts decided against Haarahld's protégé, Breygart, in the matter of the Hanth succession, he appears to have resolved to settle the quarrel between you-and, no doubt, to 'avenge himself' for the part he seems to feel you played in the succession dispute-by force of arms."

Hektor managed not to blink. Despite his own concerns over the reports from Maysahn and Makferzahn, he rather doubted, as he'd told Earl Coris, that Haarahld had any intention of attacking Emerald or Corisande anytime soon. If nothing else, fear of the Church's possible reaction would have to hold him in check.

"Under most circumstances, I suppose," Bahrmyn continued, "any quarrel, even a war, fought this far from the Temple Lands might not appear to be of great consequence to the Knights of the Temple Lands. Given, however, Haarahld's obvious resentment of Mother Church's decision against him, and the fact that he's clearly contemplating a war of conquest against his neighbors, and the fact that should he succeed in defeating you and Nahrmahn, he would acquire near dictatorial control of so much of the world's seagoing trade, they simply can't view his clear intentions with equanimity. Indeed, they believe Haarahld's ambition poses a clear threat to that peaceable state of relations Mother Church is charged to maintain between all lands.

"Mother Church herself may not, of course, take sides in a purely secular conflict, unless one side should be proven to be in violation of God's law or plan. No one would suggest those circumstances apply at this time. But in their capacities as rulers, the Knights of the Temple Lands would be derelict in the discharge of their responsibilities to their own lands and subjects if they allowed such aggression to prosper.

"Therefore, Chancellor Trynair has charged me to inform you that the Knights of the Temple Lands have decided the time to restrain Charisian aggression has come. They are prepared to assist you and Prince Nahrmahn against Haarahld's overweening ambitions."

Bahrmyn paused, and it was Hektor's turn to clear his throat.

"Obviously, Your Eminence," he said, "I must welcome this evidence of the Chancellor's support. I do, I assure you. However, gratifying though it is, I fear the Knights of the Temple Lands are far away. And even were they not, they possess but little naval strength."

"Of themselves, that's certainly true, Your Highness," Bahrmyn agreed. "However, you aren't the only prince to whom the Chancellor has communicated his concerns over Charis. It's become obvious to him that Charis' ultimate ambition is to secure control of all the world's maritime trade for its own selfish profit. Accordingly, the interests of other lands, beyond Corisande and Emerald, are equally, if less immediately, threatened. In the Chancellor's view, it would be only just for those other lands to bear their fair share of the burden of defeating that ambition."

"I see."

Hektor could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and he cautioned himself to go slowly. This totally unanticipated offer went far beyond anything he'd ever dared allow himself to hope for, and the temptation to seize it instantly was overwhelming. But he had no idea what had prompted Trynair to send Bahrmyn to him, nor did he see where the Chancellor's own ultimate objectives might lie. On the other hand . . .

"May I know which 'other lands' the Chancellor has in mind, Your Eminence?"

"Of course, Your Highness. I'm instructed to tell you that the Chancellor has been in contact with King Rahnyld of Dohlar. He's also suggested to King Gorjah of Tarot that he might, perhaps, positively consider any initiatives your ambassador might extend. And it's also my understanding that Archbishop Zherohm has been charged to deliver a message to Queen Sharleyan, as well, urging her to support your efforts in this matter."

Despite all he could do, Hektor's jaw dropped slightly. Probably the only person in the entire world who hated him more than Haaralhd of Charis did was Sharleyan of Chisholm, yet even she would be unable to defy a "suggestion" from Trynair to support him. Which only made the Chancellor's offer even more breathtaking. An alliance of virtually every other maritime power against Charis? With the backing of the Temple Lands and their enormous wealth? And, whatever fiction Trynair might choose to maintain, the implicit support of the Church itself?

"Your Eminence, I'm . . . I'm stunned," he said, with total honesty. "I had no idea the Chancellor was so well informed on affairs so far from the Temple Lands. Nor did I realize how clearly he saw the ambitions of Charis. Obviously, if he feels this bly about it, I would be eternally grateful for any assistance he or the Knights of the Temple Lands might be able to provide."

"Then should I inform the Chancellor you accept his offer?"

"Of course you should, Your Eminence!"

"I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to hear that, Your Highness." Bahrmyn smiled broadly. "And he's instructed me to tell you, should you accept his offer of assistance, that the messengers of the Temple will be at your disposal for coordinating with your new allies."

"Please tell him I am deeply, deeply grateful for all he's so generously offered," Hektor said sincerely.

"I will," Bahrmyn said. "And now, Your Highness, I'm sure you have a great deal to attend to, and with your permission, I'll leave you to it."

II

Queen Sharleyan's Palace,

Cheryath,

Kingdom of Chisholm

Queen Sharleyan of Chisholm stormed into the council chamber like a hurricane. Sharleyan wasn't a particularly tall woman, but at the moment, that was easy to overlook. Her dark hair seemed to crackle, her dark brown eyes flashed with fury, and her slender, petite frame seemed coiled like an overstrained cable as her quick, angry stride carried her across the chamber to the chair at the head of the table.

She seated herself, half-crouched forward in her chair, and glared at the two men who had awaited her. Neither one of them was at all happy to find himself the object of their youthful monarch's furious gaze, although both of them knew her anger wasn't directed at them.

She sat without speaking for perhaps ten seconds, then made herself draw a deep breath and sit back.

"Mahrak, Sir Lewk." Her voice was sharp, clipped. "I suppose I ought to say good afternoon, not that there's anything good about it."

Mahrak Sandyrs, Baron Green Mountain and First Councillor of the Kingdom of Chisholm, winced slightly. He knew that tone, not that he blamed her for it today.

"Has Mahrak brought you up to date, Sir Lewk?" the queen asked.

"Not really, Your Majesty," Sir Lewk Cohlmyn, the Earl of Sharpfield, replied cautiously. Sharpfield was the senior admiral of the Chisholm Navy, and he was more at home on a galley's quarterdeck then he was with the political maneuverings which routinely went on at court. "I arrived only a few moments before you did, and he hasn't had time to give me more than the very bare bones. I know there was some sort of message from the Church, and that whatever it was affects the Navy, and that's about all."

"Then let me give you the summary version," Sharleyan said harshly. "This morning, Archbishop Zherohm requested-no, demanded-an audience. Obviously, I granted it. And at that audience, he informed me that Chancellor Trynair requires us to support Hektor of Corisande against Charis."

"What?"

Surprise startled the question out of Sharpfield. He gawked at his queen, then turned to stare at the first councillor. After a moment, he shook himself and turned back to Sharleyan.

"Your pardon, Your Majesty. That was . . . unseemly of me." He seemed to take a certain comfort from the familiar veneer of courtesy. "Mahrak-Baron Green Mountain-had told me the Archbishop's message was insulting and demanding, but I had no idea Vyncyt had said anything like that!"

"Well, unfortunately, he did," Sharleyan grated. Fresh fury flickered in her eyes, but then her nostrils flared and she inhaled once more.

"He did," she said, more calmly. "And he wasn't especially polite. Obviously, he knows how we feel about Hektor here in Chisholm, but it's clear the Chancellor-speaking, of course, for the Knights of the Temple Lands, not for Mother Church-doesn't care."

"What sort of 'support' are we expected to provide, Your Majesty?" Sharpfield asked warily, and the queen smiled thinly.

"Exactly what you're obviously afraid we are, judging by your tone," she said. "We are required to provide our maximum possible naval support, under Hektor's command, against the Royal Charisian Navy."

"That's insane!" Sharpfield said. "We're probably the only people Hektor hates as much as he hates Haarahld!"

"Probably not quite that much," Green Mountain disagreed. "But I'll grant you, we're almost certainly second on his list. Or possibly third. He has to have a slot in his plans for betraying Nahrmahn, after all."

"But they're asking us to help our worst enemy destroy our most likely ally!" Sharpfield protested.

"No, they aren't asking us to," Sharleyan said. "They're ordering us to. And, unfortunately," some of the fire seemed to leak out of her eyes, and her slender shoulders slumped, "I don't think we have any option but to obey."

"Your Majesty," Sharpfield said, "if we have no choice but to obey, then, obviously, I'll follow whatever orders you give me. But Mahrak is right. If Hektor succeeds in defeating Charis-and with the Temple Lands backing him, ultimately, I don't see how he can fail to-then he'll turn on us as soon afterward as he can. He'll be planning for that from the outset, and if he can, you know who he'll arrange to have suffer the heaviest losses. His navy's already bigger than ours, and his building capacity's greater, as well. If we take significant losses against Charis, it will only be a matter of time, and not much of it, before he attacks us."

"I know, I know," Sharleyan sighed. She leaned forward, propping her elbows on the polished table, and massaged her closed eyelids. Then she lowered her hands and looked at Green Mountain.

"Have you thought of any way out, Mahrak?" she asked, and for just a moment she looked even younger than her age.

The silver-haired first councillor had been almost a surrogate father to the barely teenaged girl who'd inherited the throne of Chisholm eleven years before, following her father's death in battle against a Trellheim piracy confederacy subsidized (unofficially) by Corisande. The two of them had weathered more than one potentially deadly crisis during that time, but now his expression was grim as he looked back at her.

"No, Your Majesty," he said heavily. "I've considered every alternative I could think of, and none of them will work. We can't possibly defy Trynair and the Group of Four over this."

"But Sir Lewk is right," she said almost desperately. "If-when-Hektor wins, he'll turn on us the moment he can. And without Charis to offset his power, we can't possibly defeat him. So whether we obey Traynyr's orders or not, we'll still lose in the end."

"I understand, Your Majesty."

Green Mountain rubbed his forehead. Very few people had expected young Queen Sharleyan to stay on her father's throne. That was partly because they'd underestimated her, but even more, perhaps, because they'd left Mahrak Sandyrs out of their calculations. But this time, not even the first councillor could see a way out.

"I understand," he repeated, "but if we defy Trynair, we know what will happen. If we obey him, there may still be some way we can stave Hektor off afterwards. If nothing else, it's possible Trynair will be unwilling to allow Hektor to become too powerful. In that case, we'll almost certainly be the only kingdom they could support as a counterweight."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Sharpset said, "but it's not that certain a thing that Hektor and Nahrmahn can defeat Charis, even with our support. Our combined fleets would outnumber Haarahld's by a considerable margin, but his galleys are bigger and individually more powerful. And, much as it pains me to admit it, his captains and crews are better than ours are. He'll try to catch isolated detachments of our fleet and chop them up. Even if he's forced to offer battle against unfavorable odds, he'll probably give at least as good as he gets. And if nothing else, he could choose to remain in port, behind the Keys and Lock Island, and engage only to defend the straits. We won't have enough of an advantage to fight our way through such narrow passages. If he holes up in the Throat, he can stay there until we're forced to disperse our forces once more, in which case the odds of Hektor's dealing him a knockout blow would be less than even, at best."

"I'm sorry, Sir Lewk," Sharleyan said. "I forgot to tell you. According to Vyncyt, we're not the only 'allies' Trynair's providing for Hektor. He's also adding Tarot and Dohlar to the list."

Sharpset looked at her for a moment, then shook his head slowly.

"What in Heaven's name could Charis have done to provoke this sort of reaction?"

"I don't know," Sharleyan said frankly. "The official line is that Haarahld intends to attack Hektor, and the Knights of the Temple Lands are concerned by his plans of aggression and evident desire to secure total control of all the world's merchant shipping."

Sharpset's eyes widened in disbelief, and she gave a sharp, harsh crack of laughter.

"It's all dragon shit, of course, My Lord!" she said scornfully. "My best guess is that Clyntahn's really behind it. He doesn't trust any of us, this far away from the Temple, and all these new departures coming out of Charis-the new ships, the new spinning and weaving, the new numbers-have to've flicked him on the raw. So this is his response. What else should we expect out of that fornicating pig?"

"Your Majesty," Green Mountain said quietly. She looked at him, and he shook his head.

"Very well, Mahrak," she said after a moment, her tone less caustic but heavier, "I'll watch my tongue. But that doesn't make anything I just said untrue. Nor does it change the fact that if they actually do manage to combine our fleet with Hektor's, Nahrmahn's, Dohlar's, and even Tarot's, Charis is doomed."

"No, it doesn't," Green Mountain agreed. He sat back in his own chair, bracing his forearms on the armrests. "On the other hand, with that much other naval strength committed, even Hektor shouldn't need our full fleet to defeat Haarahld."

"And?" Sharleyan prompted when the first councilor paused.

"And over half our fleet is laid up in reserve, Your Majesty. Nor did we have any advance warning that we were going to be required to support our good friend and neighbor against the vicious aggression of Charis." Green Mountain's smile would have curdled fresh milk. "Under the circumstances, I don't see how anyone could find it surprising if we were to . . . experience some difficulties mobilizing our strength."

He paused again, and there was silence around the table once more. But this time, it was a thoughtful, calculating silence.

"That could be a risky game, Mahrak," Sharpfield said finally. "This business about the Knights of the Temple Lands is nonsense. It's the Church behind this, and that means every under-priest and sexton in the Kingdom would be a potential spy. If Trynair-or, worse, Clyntahn-decides we've deliberately held back . . ."

He let his voice trail off, and shrugged.

"Yes, it could be risky," Sharleyan agreed. "On the other hand, Mahrak has a point. You were just telling Parliament last month what poor shape the reserve is in, how far our supplies of spars and cordage have been drawn down to meet the active fleet's needs. All of that's on the official record."

"And, Lewk," Green Mountain said, "you've been complaining for years about all the incompetent grafters in the Navy's administration. Look at it this way. If we see to it that the directives go to those incompetents you've been trying to get rid of for so long, they're bound to screw up, even without a little judicious assistance from us. And when they do, not only will it keep a sizable chunk of our own Navy right here, safely out of harm's way, but when Trynair demands to know what happened, we'll simply tell him." The first councillor smiled unpleasantly. "Do you really think the patrons who've been protecting them this far will do the same thing when we offer them up to appease Mother Church's ire?"

"You make it sound very tempting, Mahrak," Sharpset said with a chuckle which carried at least some genuine, if grim, amusement.

"I think Mahrak's right." Sharleyan tossed her regal head. "It's not much, but it's the best we can do. And I think we'll probably be able to get away with it. Which may let us stave off disaster for at least a little while. But if the Church is willing to do this to Charis for no better reason than the Grand Inquisitor's temper, then, ultimately, no one is safe. And when Clyntahn doesn't have Charis to suspect anymore, he's going to fasten on someone else, equally far away."

"You may be right, Your Majesty," Green Mountain said heavily. "In fact, you probably are. It's not like we haven't seen this situation building for a long time now, however little we might have expected it all to explode like a powder magazine right this moment. But all we can do is the best we can do."

"I know." Sharleyan sighed again, her expression sad. "You know," she said, almost whimsically, "if I had my choice of who to support, I'd pick Haarahld in a heartbeat. In fact, if I thought he had a single chance of surviving, I'd be very tempted to throw my lot in with his right now, even with the Church on the other side."

"Then perhaps it's just as well he doesn't have a chance of surviving, Your Majesty," Green Mountain said gently. She looked at him, and his smile was as sad as her own had been. "He might have a single chance of beating off this attack, Your Majesty. But ultimately, with the Church against him-?"

The first councillor shook his head.

"I, too, respect Haarahld," he said. "And I would infinitely prefer an alliance with him to one with Hektor. But Charis is doomed, Your Majesty. We can't change that."

"I know," Sharleyan said softly. "I know."

III

Royal Palace,

Tellesberg

"How bad is it?" Earl Gray Harbor asked.

Oil lamps burned brightly, illuminating the Privy Council chamber, and a huge chart was spread out across the table. Copied from the "Archangel Hastings'-" maps, it showed all of Charis and stretched as far east as the western coast of the island of Zebediah. To the west, it showed the Kingdom of Tarot, the eastern coast of Armageddon Reef, and most of the Sea of Justice.

Gray Harbor was there, and King Haarahld, but most of the Council was absent. Wave Thunder sat in his accustomed place, and Bishop Maikel sat to the king's left, while Merlin and Cayleb sat together, facing the king down the length of the polished table. Lieutenant Falkhan stood at Cayleb's shoulder, and the prince wore a scruffy-looking tunic and well-worn trousers. They'd made a fast passage back from Helen Island aboard one of the Navy's new schooners, and Cayleb hadn't bothered to change into court dress.

Aside from the six of them, the council chamber was empty as Gray Harbor's question hung in the air.

"About as bad as it could be," Cayleb said grimly, after a moment. He nodded sideways at Merlin. "According to Merlin's visions, the Group of Four's obviously decided it's time to eliminate Charis once and for all."

"What have you seen, Seijin Merlin?" Bishop Maikel asked softly, and Merlin looked at him.

"Go ahead and answer him, please, Merlin," Haarahld said. Merlin looked at the king, in turn, and Haarahld smiled wearily. "I keep no secrets from my confessor. Of course, I understand he keeps a few from his religious superiors."

"The seal of the confessional is inviolable, Your Majesty," Staynair said serenely.

"Even against the demands of your own archbishop?" Haarahld's tone was that of a man engaged in a long-standing discussion.

"The conscience of a priest, and what he believes God requires of him, outweigh the demands of any mortal power," Staynair replied. Merlin's eyes widened slightly at hearing such a statement out of a bishop of the Church, even now, but Staynair continued in that same, calm voice. "That would be true even if the archbishop demanding I violate the seal of the confessional were worthy of the ring he wears. Which, unfortunately, he isn't."

"You see, Merlin?" Haarahld produced another smile. This one looked genuine, almost lighthearted. "What's a monarch to do when he falls into the hands of a spiritual counselor like this one?"

"I don't know, Your Majesty," Merlin said, after a moment. "But a king could find himself in far worse company, I believe." He half-rose and bowed to the bishop.

"I would prefer to hope we won't all find ourselves giving a personal account to God 'in my company' in the immediate future, Seijin Merlin," Staynair said dryly. "So, if you please, tell us what you've seen."

"Of course, Your Eminence."

Merlin seated himself once more, then cleared his throat.

"I don't know what exactly was in Archbishop Erayk's dispatches," he began. "Based on what I'd seen and heard during his pastoral visit, it seemed clear he intended to be as reassuring and placating as possible, if only to protect himself. If that's what he meant to do, though, he obviously failed. Chancellor Trynair's agents have been in contact with Hektor, Sharleyan, Rahnyld, and Gorjah. They haven't contacted Nahrmahn yet, but I expect they intended to. There was a nasty storm in the Chisholm Sea last five-day. My guess is that the courier boat crossing the water gap from Chisholm to Eraystor got caught in it. At any rate, I can't see them putting this together without bringing him in on it, especially since Archbishop Borys specifically suggested that they concentrate their forces forward at Eraystor Bay."

He shrugged, and continued.

"Hektor, obviously, was delighted to hear from the 'Knights of the Temple Lands' and fell all over himself accepting their offer of support. Sharleyan was less pleased about it. In fact, she was furious, but she and Green Mountain can't see any way to refuse and survive.

"Gorjah's not quite so indecently happy about it as Hektor, and he probably wouldn't have had the courage to contemplate switching sides on his own. But with Makgregair leaning on him for Trynair, he's informed Hektor's ambassador that Hektor can count on the Tarotisian Navy, as well."

"And Rahnyld?" Staynair asked as Merlin paused.

"And Rahnyld is almost as delighted by the prospect as Hektor," Merlin said flatly. "He's up to his eyebrows in debt to the Temple, and Trynair's agreed to forgive the interest on almost all his loans. Not only that, but the Knights of the Temple Lands have offered lucrative subsidies to Dohlar, Tarot, and even Chisholm to help defray their military expenses. As Rahnyld sees it, he gets plenty of return for virtually no out-of-pocket expenses of his own-aside, of course, from any of his subjects who may happen to get killed along the way-plus removing Charis from the list of competing maritime powers."

"I'll wager his navy commanders are less delighted than he is," Haarahld said with a grim smile.

"Malikai thinks it's a splendid idea," Merlin replied. "Thirsk is a lot less enthusiastic. Not that he's going to say so, when the King's so pleased about the entire thing."

"That's because Thirsk is a seaman, and Malikai isn't, even if he is Rahnyld's 'high admiral,'-" Haarahld said.

"I'm afraid I really know very little about the two of them, Your Majesty," Merlin said, and Haarahld snorted.

"The Earl of Thirsk is about as sound a sailor as you're going to find in most navies. In my opinion, which is admittedly biased, I don't think he's as good as my admirals, but he's no fool, and he recognizes exactly what Trynair and Clyntahn are telling his navy to do. And how ill-suited his ships are to the task.

"Duke Malikai, on the other hand, isn't a seaman. He doesn't need to be; he has the birth and connections to command their navy, anyway. At heart, he thinks like an army commander, not an admiral. In fact, their navy's officially under their army's orders, and I'm sure he doesn't have the least conception of what a voyage of fourteen or fifteen thousand miles is going to be like."

"It may not be as bad for them as we'd like it to be, Father," Cayleb said quietly. The king looked at him, and he shrugged unhappily. "The Council's representatives have also been in touch with the Emperor, and with the Prince of Selkar and the Prince of Maratha. They've 'requested' permission for Dohlar to use their harbors along the way."

"I see." Haarahld sat back and inhaled deeply. Then it was his turn to shrug.

"I see," he repeated, "and it will make a difference. But they're still going to be operating at the end of a supply line-and a line of retreat-thousands of miles long. That's going to have an effect, especially on their morale and aggressiveness, and so is the sheer wear and tear their ships are going to experience. Especially after they clear Samson's Land and have to cross the Sea of Justice." He smiled thinly. "Their galleys are less well suited to blue water even than ours are, and ours would have a hard enough time in those waters. And even without that, their bottoms are going to be foul, their gear's going to be worn, and unless I'm seriously mistaken, they're probably going to have managed to lose at least a few ships in transit, even if they have good weather all the way."

"That's true enough, Your Majesty," Gray Harbor said, "but it sounds as if the Group of Four's moving much faster than we'd allowed for."

"They are," Merlin agreed. "In fact, that's what disturbs me the most, in a lot of ways, My Lord. Archbishop Zherohm called on Sharleyan on the same day Archbishop Borys broached the entire idea to Hektor. They may want to preserve the illusion that Hektor's in charge, but it's obvious Trynair and the others are the puppetmasters. The Group of Four is telling Hektor's new 'allies' what to do before Hektor even knows he has them, and when the time comes, someone-probably Magwair-is going to be the one really giving their navies their orders."

"Which suggests they've decided they have to move much more rapidly than we'd believed they could," Gray Harbor said, nodding sharply.

"Which, in turn, suggests we'll have less time to prepare than we'd hoped," Cayleb added harshly.

"You're right." His father nodded in turn and puffed out his cheeks thoughtfully.

"All right," he said after a moment. "Let's assume Trynair and Magwair set this whole plan they and their cronies have come up with-and I'll bet you it was really Clyntahn's idea-into motion as soon as they hear back from Hektor. It's the middle of September. Hektor's acceptance can be back in the Temple by early October. If Magwair immediately sends the order to Rahnyld to get his fleet underway, it could be at sea by the third five-day of October."

He ran a fingertip across the chart, north and west of Armageddon Reef, and his eyes were intent.

"Assuming it doesn't run into any storms or other misadventures along the way, it could be as far as the Cauldron by, say, the end of November or the first couple of five-days of February. What they ought to do is take their time and bring them up the Howard and Haven coasts, then in across the north coast of Tarot. They're going to take a beating, whatever happens, and any seaman would know they're going to need to refit before they're really fit for battle. So they ought to send them to Tarot and allow a month or so for them to recover there before continuing on across the southern stretches of the Anvil and around to Eraystor."

He tapped the waters between Tarot and Charis with his finger, then paused. He looked around the table for any disagreement with his calculations, but he saw only nods.

"In that respect, the fact that Magwair's no seaman and they're in such a hurry may work for us. I'm not going to count on that until we know more, but if we're really, really lucky, he'll try to send them across the Parker Sea to come down around MacPherson's Lament.

"As I say, I'm not going to count on that, but I am going to assume Hektor's already started fully manning his active galleys and mobilizing his reserves," he continued. "And Nahrmahn's going to do the same, as soon as they get around to telling him about the new arrangement. Assuming the fat little bugger doesn't do us all a favor and drop dead of apoplexy when he finds out, at least.

"That's unlikely to happen, unfortunately. But he and Hektor will both probably need at least two months to fit out and man the reserves. So, Hektor can probably be ready to move at least a couple of five-days before Thirsk and Malikai could rendezvous with Gorjah's ships. Nahrmahn's probably supposed to be ready by the same time, under Magwair's plans. Unless they get word to him quickly, though, he's going to be late getting his full strength manned and ready. On the other hand, he's a lot closer to us, so he's got less passage time to worry about."

The king paused again, eyes thoughtful as he brooded down at the chart. Those eyes moved back and forth for several seconds, and then he nodded yet again.

"Since we're not supposed to know anything about this, and since the people planning this have even less naval experience than Malikai, they'll probably expect to have the advantage of strategic surprise. There's virtually no chance anyone could actually manage to move something the size of the Dohlaran Navy all the way to Charis without our finding out about it well before it got here, but they won't think that way. So, what they'll probably do, is use Nahrmahn's, Hektor's, and Sharleyan's forces to occupy our attention and tie us down defending Rock Shoal Bay and the Throat. Hopefully with a threat sufficiently serious to keep us from diverting any of our own strength from the immediate confrontation even if we figure out Dohlar and Tarot are coming."

His fingertip moved back to the Charis Sea, between Margaret's Land and Emerald.

"If they're feeling really clever, they may try to pincer us between-let's call them the 'Northern Force' and the 'Southern Force'-at sea. That sort of thinking would appeal to a planner who's basically a land animal and who's accustomed to passing messages between widely separated locations faster than anyone else can.

"If they're smart, on the other hand, they'll simply combine everything they've got into one huge fleet and throw it straight at us."

His right hand clenched into a fist and thumped the waters off Rock Shoal Bay.

"How bad would the odds be in that case, Haarahld?" Bishop Maikel asked quietly.

"Bad," the king replied frankly, sitting back from the table and laying his forearms on his chair's armrests. "Assuming Hektor and Nahrmahn are able to get all their reserve galleys manned, and that Rahnyld and Gorjah can do the same, they can muster about three hundred and twenty between them. Chisholm has thirty in active service, and another fifty in reserve, so if Sharleyan's entire fleet comes in, they'll have roughly four hundred.

"We, on the other hand, are down to the eighty galleys of the active fleet, with no remaining reserve fleet, and right this minute we have a total of fifteen galleons in full service and another six, all converted merchantmen, in the process of working up. Assuming the Dohlaran Navy doesn't arrive in our waters until the first five-day of February, we'll have somewhere around thirty-five or thirty-six in service and another fifteen or sixteen working up. So call it a total of a hundred and twenty or so of all types, galleys and galleons combined."

"Don't forget the schooners, Father," Cayleb said. "We'll have at least twelve of them, as well."

"True." Haarahld nodded. "On the other hand, they won't be very heavily armed, and they don't have ships' companies the size of the galleons."

"And even with them, we'll still be outnumbered on the order of four-to-one," Staynair said.

"Exactly, Maikel," the king agreed.

"If we concentrate on defending the Bay, we could offset a lot of their numerical advantage," Gray Harbor observed, gazing down at the chart. "If we concede Rock Shoal Bay and make our stand at Lock Island, they'll only be able to come at us head-on in restricted waters."

"No." Haarahld shook his head decisively. "Oh, I agree with what you just said, Rayjhis. But if we concede the initiative to them, we lose. If we get a b easterly-unlikely, I'll admit, but more likely in the spring than any other time-we could be pinned inside Lock Island and the Keys. Besides, a close action in the North Channel would be so constricted it would deprive us of most of the advantages Seamount, Olyvyr, and Merlin built the galleons to exploit. They're designed to stand off and pound galleys with artillery, not for that sort of close-in melee. If we could suck them in-convince them to attack us head-on, as you say-before they know about the galleons, the sheer shock of our firepower might be able to wreak enough damage-and inflict enough panic-to drive them off. But it might not, too, and if they keep coming, they'll have the numbers to absorb all the damage we can hand out and still beat us. They'll pay a heavy price, but they can do it.

"Or, if they're smarter than that, they may simply refuse to cooperate by seeking battle at all. They'll have the numbers to blockade us where we are and ignore us, and they'll have the shipping available to lift an entire army from Emerald and Corisande and land it in Rock Shoal Bay to attack the Keys from the landward side without ever facing us ship-to-ship at all."

"But if we don't stand on the defensive there, Your Majesty, where can we?" Gray Harbor asked reasonably.

"We can't stand on the defensive anywhere and win," Haarahld said. "The only chance we have is to take the battle to them."

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?" Gray Harbor sounded as if he wasn't entirely certain he'd heard his monarch correctly, and Haarahld gave a harsh bark of laughter.

"Wondering if I've finally lost my senses, are you, Rayjhis?" he asked.

"By no means, Your Majesty." Gray Harbor still sounded more than a little dubious, but there was a flicker of humor in his eyes.

"Oh, yes, you are," Haarahld told him roundly. "And, hopefully, the other side's going to agree with you."

"Just what do you have in mind, Father?" Cayleb asked, regarding the king intently.

"I doubt very much that Sharleyan's going to be an enthusiastic member of our 'Northern Force,'-" Haarahld said. "And if she's cooperating grudgingly, against her will, her admirals aren't exactly likely to throw themselves wholeheartedly into operations to accomplish Hektor's plans. Which means that, in practical terms, adding her squadrons to Nahrmahn's and Hektor's navies isn't going to affect the balance of power here in home waters nearly as severely as the raw numbers might indicate."

"I think you have a point there, Your Majesty," Merlin put in. "I believe Queen Sharleyan intends to drag her heels just as hard as she thinks she can get away with."

"Hardly surprising, given her history with Hektor," Gray Harbor agreed, and Haarahld nodded.

"Exactly. So, in realistic terms, until Dohlar and Tarot arrive, what we'll really be facing will be the hundred and fifty or so galleys we always expected Nahrmahn and Hektor to be able to mobilize against us. And, of course, there's the question of just how many of Nahrmahn's will be available, given the apparent interruption of their mail. So the numbers could actually be quite a bit better than that.

"I also doubt that the clever little 'puppetmasters,' as you put it, Merlin, in the Temple are going to commit Tarot's ships immediately. They're going to rely on the fact that we don't know what they're up to. Gorjah's going to go right on being our loyal ally up until the coin actually drops and they tell him to turn his coat. So, they're probably going to plan on the Dohlarans making rendezvous with the Tarotisians somewhere in the Sea of Justice before either of them enters our waters."

Merlin sat back in his own chair, nodding thoughtfully. Nimue Alban had been a tactical specialist, and a good one. But Merlin recognized his clear superior as a strategist-at least in this particular sphere of operations-in King Haarahld VII.

"Which route would you expect them to take after they make rendezvous, Father?" Cayleb asked.

"That's harder to say." Haarahld shrugged. "Hopefully, Merlin's visions will tell us that. And also, hopefully, keep track of where they actually are at any given moment."

He looked at Merlin and raised his eyebrows, and Merlin nodded back.

"I can't guarantee how close a watch I'll be able to keep on all their various fleet commanders, Your Majesty," he said, "but I ought to be able to track the fleets themselves fairly well."

"Good," the king said. "But to get back to your question, Cayleb, the shortest route would be the northern one, up through the Cauldron and the Tranjyr Passage and around the Stepping Stones."

His finger traced the route as he spoke.

"But that's also the route they'll expect us to be scouting most carefully," he continued, "so they might opt for the southern passage, especially with the prevailing northeasterlies in the Sea of Justice that time of year." His finger moved back to the south, down along the eastern coast of Armageddon Reef, across the Parker Sea west of Tryon's Land, and then up past MacPherson's Lament and across Linden Gulf. "It's the longer route, but they might actually make a faster passage. And February's the start of summer in these latitudes, so they'll have the best weather they're likely to get for the crossing. For all the good it's likely to do a fleet of Dohlaran galleys."

He paused again, gazing down at the map, then looked up, eyes gleaming in the lamplight, and smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.

"But it doesn't really matter which route they plan on following," he told them. "Either way, they still have to get across at least the southern reaches of the Sea of Justice, and they still have to make rendezvous somewhere. And they don't know Merlin will be able to tell us where they are and when. Which means they won't be expecting us to intercept them several thousand miles from their destination."

"Intercept them, Your Majesty?" Gray Harbor didn't really sound very surprised, Merlin noticed.

"It's the last thing they'll be looking for," Haarahld said, "and reasonably so. Even assuming we knew they were coming-which I'm sure the geniuses planning this operation will expect we don't know-there shouldn't be any way we could even find them. And they won't expect us to split our forces just to run the risk of missing them at sea and letting them past us unintercepted, even if they thought we'd have enough strength to make the attempt."

"Which means we'll turn their surprise around on them," Cayleb said, and as his eyes brightened, he looked more like his father to Merlin than he ever had before.

"Precisely," Haarahld agreed. "Sea battles aren't fought by ships, Rayjhis; they're fought by men. And the men commanding and crewing those galleys will be dumbfounded when they see Royal Charisian Navy ships standing in to attack them five-days away from Charisian waters. That's likely to produce the sort of panic that takes a fleet halfway to defeat before the enemy fires a single shot."

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, it had better produce it," Gray Harbor said wryly. "I'm assuming you're planning on using the galleons for this?"

"It's the sort of blue-water battle they were designed to fight," Haarahld said. "It would play to their advantages-and the galleys' disadvantages-more bly than we could arrange anywhere here in home waters."

"I agree. But to get them there, assuming your worst-case estimate that the 'Southern Force' could be in our waters by the second five-day in February, the galleons would have to sail by the middle of November. How many of them will we have then?"

"Merlin? Cayleb?" Haarahld looked at them, and Merlin glanced at Cayleb.

"What if we abandon work on the ships furthest from completion and concentrate on the ones closest to launch and the conversions?" Cayleb asked him.

"That . . . might work." Merlin stroked a mustachio for a moment, then nodded. "If we do that, we could probably have thirty of them ready to sail by the middle of November. Maybe one or two more. But they're still going to be pretty green, Cayleb."

"The gun crews will be the least green," the prince countered. "And they'll have at least four or five five-days for sail drill-and more gun drill-before we can reach the enemy."

"That's true enough." Merlin considered it for a moment, and then they turned as one to face the king.

"I think we might count on thirty, Your Majesty," Merlin said.

"Against somewhere around a hundred and sixty galleys," Gray Harbor said.

"Just comparing the numbers looks bad," Haarahld said. Gray Harbor gave him a politely incredulous look, and the king snorted once more. "All right," he conceded, "it looks bad because it is bad. But it's not as bad as it looks. Either this entire new concept of ours works, or it doesn't. And if it's going to work, these are the best conditions we're going to be able to come up with. And don't forget that element of surprise."

"Indeed," Bishop Maikel put in. "As you've already pointed out, Your Majesty, surprise begets panic. If the galleons can inflict sufficient damage, and create sufficient panic, the Southern Force may well turn back even if its actual losses are less than crippling. At which point, the galleons can return to home waters, allowing you to concentrate your full strength against the Northern Force."

"Assuming our own galleys can successfully play tag with them until the galleons get back," Gray Harbor said. The bishop looked at him, and the first councillor smiled crookedly. "I used to be a sea officer, Your Eminence, and every sea officer knows the first law of battle is that what can go wrong, will go wrong."

"True," Haarahld said. "But that law applies to both sides."

"That's fair enough," Gray Harbor acknowledged.

"I must be on to something if you're prepared to admit that much, Rayjhis!" the king said with a laugh. Then he shook himself and looked around the council chamber more soberly.

"I'm sure there are a lot of points we'll need to refine," he said, "but I've been thinking about how to deal with Dohlar ever since Merlin first warned us Trynair was talking to Rahnyld. I'm convinced this is our best response. And I'm also convinced that it's imperative that our captains and our crews be as confident and motivated as possible. Especially given the possibility that the fact that the Council of Vicars is really behind all of this, whatever it says, may leak out. Even the most stouthearted are going to feel a few qualms if they think Mother Church has decided we need to be crushed.

"Bearing that in mind, I think it will be necessary for me to take personal command of our galley fleet. Oh," he waved one hand as Gray Harbor stiffened in his seat, "I know it's been years since my own Navy days, Rayjhis! I won't attempt to exercise actual tactical command. That will be up to Bryahn-that's why he's High Admiral! But it's going to be important for our people to know I'm there with them, live or die."

"Your Majesty, if something were to happen to you-" Gray Harbor began, but the king shook his head.

"If we don't manage to defeat this combination of forces, and defeat it decisively, it's over, Rayjhis," he said quietly. "We've got to at the very least win another six months or a year, more preferably two or three years, to get more of the new ships into commission. And, if they defeat us, it doesn't matter where I am when it happens. If having me there, if knowing I'm with them, helps our people fight more effectively-and you know as well as I do that it will-then that's where I have to be."

Gray Harbor stared into his monarch's hard, unyielding eyes for a long, silent moment. Then his own eyes fell.

"And me, Father?" Cayleb asked, breaking the silence.

"And you, my son," King Haarahld said soberly, meeting Cayleb's gaze steadily, "will be with Admiral Staynair-and Merlin-with the galleon fleet."

Cayleb's eyes brightened. Gray Harbor, on the other hand, seemed to hover on the brink of a fresh protest, and the king smiled at him without any humor at all.

"Everything I just said about the importance of our galleys' morale is even more true of the galleon fleet, Rayjhis," he said. "However confident they may be, no one's ever fought a battle like this one will be, and they'll be outnumbered much more heavily than the galley fleet will be. They'll need to have someone from the royal house there, and Cayleb's spent the last year learning everything there is to know about the new ships and the new artillery."

"And me, Your Majesty?" Gray Harbor asked very quietly. "Where do I fit into this master strategy of yours?"

"Exactly where you're afraid you do," Haarahld said sadly. "Right here in Tellesberg, as the head of the Privy Council and as Zhan's regent if something should happen to Cayleb and me."

"Your Majesty, please, I-" Gray Harbor began, but Haarahld shook his head once more.

"No, Rayjhis. I need you here."

Gray Harbor seemed prepared to continue, but then he stopped himself and bent his head in silent submission.

"Thank you," Haarahld said quietly. Then he chuckled harshly. Gray Harbor looked up again at the sound, and the king smiled at him.

"I know that wasn't what you wanted to hear, Rayjhis," he said. "So, I have a little treat for you. Well, you and Bynzhamyn."

He smiled at Wave Thunder, who'd sat silent so far. The baron's expertise lay in other areas than grand naval strategy, and he knew it. But now his eyes brightened and he sat straighter in his chair, and the king chuckled again at the evidence of his eagerness.

"Under the circumstances," he said, "I see no particular advantage in allowing Hektor's and Nahrmahn's spies to continue to operate in Charis. I'd like to wait another two or three five-days, just in case we miss someone who manages to go scurrying off to Emerald before we're ready. But, as of . . . twelve days from today, the two of you have my permission to pick up every single spy you and Merlin have been able to identify."

OCTOBER, YEAR OF GOD 891

I

Gorath Bay,

Kingdom of Dohlar

Trumpets sounded across the dark blue water of Gorath Bay, and harsh, answering shouts of command rang out across the decks of the gathered strength of the Dohlaran Navy. White storms of seabirds and many-hued clouds of coastal wyverns swept back and forth across the crowded harbor in a ruffling thunder of wings, shrill cries, and high-pitched whistles. Brisk wind and thin, high bands of cloud polished a sky of autumn blue, and the broad waters of the bay had never before seen such a concentration of warships. The green wyvern on red of the kingdom's banners snapped and cracked sharply in the brisk wind, command streamers flew from the mastheads of the squadron flagships, and, despite himself, Admiral Lywys Gardynyr, the Earl of Thirsk, felt a stir of pride at the sight of such massed power.

It faded into something much less pleasant a moment later, however, as he turned his eyes to the galley King Rahnyld. The towering, high-sided vessel flew the command streamer of "Admiral" Malikai, and Thirsk felt a sudden temptation to spit over the side at the sight.

Shouted commands swept over his own flagship, and the capstan's pawl clanked steadily as the crew of Gorath Bay hove her anchor short. Gorath Bay was smaller and older than King Rahnyld, with less gilding, and her carving was far less intricate and ornate, while her figurehead was a simple carved kraken, rather than the half-again lifesized, magnificently painted and gilded figure of King Rahnyld which graced the fleet flagship. She was also lower to the water and far handier than the huge, lumbering white dragon of the fleet flagship. Malikai's ship had been built as an exercise in royal ego, plain and simple, as far as Thirsk could tell. Which, of course, made it unthinkable that Malikai should fly his streamer from any other ship.

Gorath Bay curtsied suddenly as the flukes of her anchor broke out of the sandy bottom of her namesake anchorage. The men on the pump heaved the handles up and down, and a stream of water gushed from the hose, sluicing mud and slime off the anchor hawser as it came steadily up out of the water.

The anchor had held the galley's head to the wind; now she fell off, and fresh orders rang out and the row master's drum began its deep, steady beat as her oars dipped. The bay's waters were ruffled with white, and the rowers had to lean hard into the sweeps before they could get steerage way on her and the helmsman could bring her back up into the wind.

That wind was out of the southwest, which meant it was almost directly into the fleet's teeth as it headed out of the bay. The galleys would leave the anchorage under oars, and stay that way until they cleared Lizard Island and turned northwest. After that, the wind would be almost broad on the beam, at least until they had to turn due west for the run down the Gulf of Dohlar to the Sea of Harchong. That promised to be an exhausting ordeal, given the prevailing winds this time of year.

Thirsk grimaced at the thought and folded his hands behind him as he strode briskly to the after rail and gazed back at the rest of the fleet. King Rahnyld, predictably, was slower and clumsier getting underway than almost any of the other ships. Not that it mattered all that much. A fleet of over a hundred and twenty galleys, accompanied by twenty-six clumsy transports and supply ships, wasn't going to get out of the bay in a tearing hurry. There'd be time for Malikai's lumbering flagship to tag along with the others.

Now if the "Admiral General" only had the least damned idea of what he was supposed to do with all these ships.

Thirsk stood atop the aftercastle, watching the panorama of the huge harbor as Gorath Bay moved slowly past the breakwater. The Dohlaran capital's walls gleamed in the sunlight, and the massive crowd of shipping made a splendidly stirring sight. But despite the dutifully cheering crowds which had seen Thirsk's crews off, and despite the stern proclamation from the king setting forth Dohlar's reasons for enmity with the distant Kingdom of Charis, none of the seamen and soldiers aboard the galleys really seemed to understand exactly where they were going, or why.

Which doesn't make the poor bastards so very different from me, does it? he thought mordantly. Of course, I do understand whose idea this really is. That puts me at least a little up on them, I suppose.

His lips tightened at the thought, and he spread his feet a bit further apart, balancing easily as Gorath Bay's motion freshened.

Magwair, he thought. That's who came up with this. And Rahnyld and Malikai actually think it's a good idea, Langhorne save us all!

He drew a deep breath and commanded himself to stop fretting. It was an order more easily given than obeyed, but he was a disciplined man. Besides, if he didn't get a grip on his temper, sheer spleen was going to carry him off long before they reached the Straits of Queiroz. Still, only a landsman-and an idiot general, at that-could have come up with this brilliant idea.

We're supposed to "sneak up" on Haarahld, he thought disgustedly. As if anyone could move a fleet this size through the Harthlan Sea without every trading vessel west of Tarot knowing all about it! And what they know, Haarahld will know within five-days. Certainly, he's going to know we're coming long before we get there.

Well, he supposed surprise wasn't really essential when you'd been able to assemble four times your enemy's maximum strength. But committing a fleet of coastal galleys to the passage of the Sea of Justice wasn't exactly an act of genius.

Left to himself, and assuming he'd had no choice but to carry out these lunatic orders and attack a kingdom which had never threatened his own, he would have gone about it quite differently.

Their orders were to follow the eastern coast of Howard as far as Geyra, in the Desnairian Empire's Barony of Harless, then swing due east for the rendezvous off Demon Head, at the northern tip of Armageddon Reef. He would have hugged the coast all the way up to the Gulf of Mathyas and then around southern East Haven to reach Tarot, without going anywhere near the Reef. It would have added five-days to the journey time, but it would also have gotten them there without facing the Sea of Justice. And he would have taken his fleet straight from Tarot to Eraystor Bay, around the Stepping Stones and the southern part of the Anvil, and availed himself of the Emerald Navy's yard facilities to scrape his bottoms and get his galleys fit for combat once more before he went picking any fights with the Royal Charisian Navy in its own waters.

Unfortunately, he was only a professional seaman, not important enough to be consulted over minor matters like choosing the fleet's course or deciding upon its tactics.

Well, that's probably not entirely fair, he told himself. Obviously, they've got some sort of wild hair up their arses about Charis-Langhorne knows why! Whatever it is, though, they want Haarahld smashed fast, which means there's no time to follow a coastal passage all the way. Still, I wish to hell they'd let me stay out of the middle of the Sea of Justice! If we have to use the southern route, then I'd prefer to stay still farther east, closer to Armageddon Reef, all the way.

His lips twitched as he realized what he'd just thought, but it was true. Just thinking about Armageddon Reef made him . . . nervous, but not as nervous as the thought of crossing through the heart of the Sea of Justice outside of sight of land.

He blew air through his mustache and gave himself a shake.

If it worked, everyone was going to call Magwair's plan brilliant. If it didn't work, Malikai would undoubtedly blame Thirsk for failing to execute it properly. And whatever happened, when they got to the other end-in whatever shape they were in when they arrived-they were going to have to take on a Royal Charisian Navy fighting in defense of its own homes and families and with it's back to the wall.

Which, he thought grimly, is going to be about as ugly as it gets. And all because Trynair offered our useless sot of a King a break on his loan payments.

He grimaced and gave himself another, harder shake. That sort of thought was dangerous, not to mention being beside the point. King Rahnyld was his sovereign, and he was duty and honor bound to obey his king's orders, whatever he thought of the reason they'd been given. Which was why it was also his job to do whatever he could to rescue this campaign from Admiral General Duke Malikai.

It promised to be an . . . interesting challenge.

II

King's Harbor,

Helen Island

"They're on their way," Merlin said grimly as he nodded to the Marine sentry and stepped through the doorway.

Cayleb looked up from the big table in the large, lamp-lit chamber Merlin had dubbed their "Operations Room." The table was completely covered by a huge chart, pieced together out of several smaller ones. Now Merlin crossed to the table and grimaced down at the chart. Big as it was, it would be five-days before the Dohlaran fleet reached the area it covered, but the campaign's opening move had begun.

"Any more indication of their course?" Cayleb asked, and despite his own grim mood, Merlin's lips quirked in a small smile.

Cayleb hadn't discussed Merlin's more-than-mortal nature with him since the night after he'd killed the krakens. Not explicitly, at any rate. But by now, the crown prince took the "seijin's" abilities so much for granted that he didn't even turn a hair over them anymore. Still, however . . . blasé Cayleb might have become, he realized exactly how valuable Merlin's "visions" truly were.

"Unless something changes, they're almost certainly going to follow the southern track," Merlin replied. "Thirsk doesn't like it. He'd really prefer to stay in coastal waters all the way to Tarot, but since he can't do that, he's trying to convince Malikai to at least pass to the east of Samson's Land and hug the east coast of Armageddon Reef."

"Because he's not an idiot," Cayleb snorted, walking around the table to stand beside Merlin and gaze down at the chart. "Mind you, there's something to be said for not going any further south than you have to, and I'd just as soon not try looking for an emergency anchorage on the Reef, given what it would be likely to do to my crews' morale. On the other hand, at least you could count on finding one if you needed it. And a fleet of galleys trying to cross those waters probably will need one at some point."

"That's basically what Thirsk is saying," Merlin agreed. "Malikai's opposed because he thinks it will take longer. Besides, it's going to be late spring by the time they reach the Sea of Justice, right? That means the weather should be fine."

"You know," Cayleb said, only half whimsically, "having Malikai in command of the Southern Force is one of the reasons I'm inclined to think God is on our side, whatever the Council of Vicars might think."

"I know what you mean. Still," Merlin shrugged, "he's got a lot of ships. And it looks to me as if Thirsk's squadron, at least, is going to be well drilled and ready to fight when they get here, regardless of how rough the passage is."

"I don't doubt it. But he still going to be hampered by Malikai."

Merlin nodded, and Cayleb cocked his head, frowning.

"And how does Admiral White Ford feel about all this?" he asked, after a moment.

"White Ford, and Gorjah, both agree with Thirsk, whether they know it or not," Merlin said. "They'd far rather have the Dohlarans make straight for Tarot, then either cross the Cauldron or sail up and around through the Gulf of Tarot. Unfortunately for them, Magwair-and Malikai-are convinced that would cost them the element of surprise."

Cayleb's laugh sounded like the hunting cough of a catamount. It also showed remarkably little sympathy for Gorjah and Gahvyn Mahrtyn, the Baron of White Ford, who commanded his navy.

"Well, if we were deaf, dumb, blind, and as stupid as Rahnyld, they might be able to surprise us, even without you," he said.

"You're probably right," Merlin said. "But you might want to reflect on just how big a stretch of water they have to hide in. As it is, you know they're coming, and you know the Tarotisians are supposed to rendezvous with Thirsk and Malikai off Armageddon Reef. But even armed with that knowledge, pulling off an interception that far from your own harbors wouldn't exactly be a walk in the park for most navies, now would it?"

"Not a walk in the park, no," Cayleb conceded. "On the other hand, assuming we could have known they'd be taking the southern route without you, we'd still have had a pretty fair chance. They're going to want to stay close to the coast, at least until they get south of Tryon's Land, and that would tell us where to find them. With the schooners to do our scouting, we could cover an awful lot of coastal water, Merlin." He shook his head. "I fully intend to make the best use I possibly can of your visions, but you've already done the most important thing of all by telling us they're coming and what course they're likely to follow."

"I hope it's going to be enough," Merlin said soberly.

"Well, that's up to us, isn't it?" Cayleb showed his teeth. "Even without the galleons and the new artillery, they'd have had a fight on their hands. As it is, I think I can safely predict that win or lose, they aren't going to enjoy their summer cruise."

Merlin returned his tight, hungry grin for a moment, then sobered once more.

"Cayleb, I have a favor to ask of you."

"A favor?" Cayleb cocked his head. "That sounds ominous. What sort of favor?"

"I've got some . . . equipment I'd like you to use."

"What kind of equipment?"

"A new cuirass and hauberk. And a new sword. And I'd like to get your father into new armor, as well."

Cayleb's face smoothed into non-expression, and Merlin felt himself tensing mentally. Cayleb might have accepted his more-than-human capabilities, but would he be able-or willing-to accept this, as well?

Merlin had thought long and hard before making the offer. He himself was, if not indestructible, at least very, very hard to destroy. His PICA body wasn't simply built out of incredibly tough synthetics, but incorporated substantial nanotech-based self-repair capabilities. Very few current-generation Safeholdian weapons could realistically hope to inflict crippling damage. A direct hit by a round shot could undoubtedly remove a limb, or even his head, but while that might be inconvenient, it wouldn't "kill" him. Even a direct hit by a heavy cannon couldn't significantly damage his "brain," and as long as his power plant remained intact-and it was protected by a centimeter-thick shell of battle steel-and as long as his nannies had access to basic raw materials (and lots and lots of time), they could pretty much literally rebuild him from scratch.

But his friends, and there was no point pretending these people hadn't become exactly that, were far more fragile than he was. He'd accepted his own potential immortality when he first awoke in Nimue's Cave and realized what he was. But until he'd become close to Cayleb, Haarahld, Gray Harbor-all the rest of the Charisians he'd come to know and respect-he hadn't realized how painful immortality could be. Even now, he knew, he'd only sensed the potential of that pain. Over the centuries, if he succeeded in Nimue's mission, he'd come to know its reality, but he was in no hurry to embrace it.

Even if that hadn't been a factor-and it was; he was far too honest with himself to deny that-he'd also come to recognize just how important Haarahld and Cayleb were to the accomplishment of that mission. He'd been extraordinarily fortunate to find a king and a crown prince intelligent enough and mentally flexible enough-and aware enough of their responsibilities to their kingdom-to accept what he'd offered them. Even from the most cold-blooded perspective, he couldn't afford to lose them.

And so, he'd instructed Owl to use the fabrication unit in Nimue's Cave to manufacture exact duplicates of Cayleb's and Haarahld's personal armor. Except that, instead of the best steel Safehold could produce, this armor was made of battle steel. No blade or bullet could penetrate it. Indeed, it would resist most round shot, although the kinetic transfer of the impact from something like that would undoubtedly kill its wearer, anyway.

He'd already replaced his own Royal Guard-issue armor. Not because he needed it to keep him alive, but to avoid any embarrassing questions about why he hadn't needed it. It would be much easier to explain-or brush off-a bullet that failed to penetrate his breastplate when it should have than to explain why the hole that same bullet had left in his torso wasn't bleeding.

But now he was asking Cayleb to accept what the prince had to think of as "miraculous" armor of his own. And flexible though he might be, Cayleb was still the product of a culture and a religion which had systematically programmed their members for centuries to reject "forbidden" knowledge on pain of eternal damnation.

Silence hovered between them for several seconds, and then Cayleb smiled crookedly.

"I think that's a favor I can grant," he said. "Ah, are there any . . . special precautions we should take with this new armor of ours?"

"The only real thing to worry about," Merlin said, trying-not completely successfully-to restrain his own smile of relief, "is that it won't rust. That may require just a little creative explanation on your part. Oh, and you might want to be a little careful with the edge of your new sword. It's going to be quite sharp . . . and stay that way."

"I see." For just an instant, Cayleb's expression started to blank once more, but then the incipient blankness vanished into a huge, boyish grin.

"So I'm getting a magic sword of my very own, am I?"

"In a manner of speaking," Merlin said.

"I always wanted one of those. I was younger than Zhan is now the first time I read the tale of Seijin Kody and the sword Helm-Cleaver."

"It's not quite that magical," Merlin told him.

"Will I be able to slice right through other people's swords now?" Cayleb demanded with a laugh.

"Probably not," Merlin said in long-suffering tones.

"Pity. I was looking forward to it."

"I'm sure you were."

"Well, does it at least have a name?"

Merlin glowered at him for a moment, then laughed.

"Yes, Cayleb," he said. "Yes, as a matter of fact it does. You can call it 'Excalibur.'-"

"Excalibur," Cayleb repeated slowly, wrapping his tongue around the odd-sounding syllables. Then he smiled. "I like it. It sounds like a proper prince's sword."

Merlin smiled back at the youngster. Who really wasn't all that much younger than Nimue Alban had been, he reminded himself once more. Cayleb's reaction was a huge relief, but Merlin had no intention of telling him about the other precaution he'd taken.

He'd found a use for the med unit Pei Kau-yung had left Nimue, after all. He couldn't have offered Cayleb or Haarahld the antigerone drug therapies even if he'd trusted the drugs themselves after so many centuries. Having Cayleb running around at age ninety still looking like a twenty-something would have been just a bit awkward to explain. But he'd been able to acquire a genetic sample from the prince, and the med unit had produced the standard antigerone nanotech.

Merlin had injected it one night, five-days before. Keyed to Cayleb's genetic coding, the self replicating nano-machines would hunt down and destroy anything that didn't "belong" to him. They wouldn't extend Cayleb's life span-not directly, at any rate-but he would never again have a cold, or the flu. Or cancer. Or any other disease or infection.

Injecting it without Cayleb's informed consent had been a serious breach of the Federation's medical ethics, not to mention a violation of Federation law. Under the circumstances, Merlin had no qualms about either of those. What mattered was that the young man whose survival he'd come to recognize as critical to the success of Nimue's mission had been given the best chance of survival he could possibly provide.

And if, in the process, Merlin Athrawes had selfishly prolonged the life and health of someone who had become personally important to him, that was just too bad.

III

Royal Palace,

Manchyr

Prince Hektor of Corisande reminded himself that the Knights of the Temple Lands were doing exactly what he wanted them to do.

It wasn't easy.

"Excuse me, Father," he said, "but I'm not at all certain we can be ready to move that quickly."

"Your Highness must, of course, be better informed upon these matters than I am," Father Karlos Chalmyrz, Archbishop Bahrmyn's personal aide, said politely. "I merely relay the message I was instructed to deliver to you."

Which, as he carefully did not point out, came directly from Vicar Allayn Magwair.

"I understand that, Father Karlos." Hektor smiled just a little thinly at the upper-priest. "And I appreciate all your efforts deeply, truly I do. I'm simply concerned about the ability of my admirals and captains to meet the . . . proposed schedule."

"Shall I inform Vicar Allayn that you can't do so, Your Highness?" Chalmyrz asked politely.

"No, thank you."

Hektor smiled again, and reminded himself it truly wasn't Chalmyrz' fault. But assuming Dohlar had been able to obey its marching orders from the Temple, the Dohlaran Navy had been in motion for almost two five-days already. The fact that it was going to be hugging the coast all the way across the Harthlan Sea meant the Church's semaphore system could get a message to Duke Malikai from the Temple in no more than a few days. So, technically, Magwair could always adjust its progress at any point up to Geyra, when it was due to head out across the Sea of Justice. Unfortunately, it would require over a month for any message from Hektor to reach Magwair, or the reverse, which made any notion of close coordination a fantasy.

"I'll consult with Admiral Black Water this afternoon, Father," the prince said after a moment. "I'll know better then if it will be necessary to send any messages to the Vicar."

"Of course, Your Highness." Chalmyrz bowed. "If it should prove necessary, please don't hesitate to inform me."

"I won't, Father," Hektor promised.

* * *

"I can't do it, Your Highness," Ernyst Lynkyn, the Duke of Black Water, told his sovereign prince. He was a compact, muscular man with a short, salt-and-pepper beard and an expression which had become increasingly harassed over the past several five-days. "I'm sorry, but a month isn't long enough. It simply can't be done that quickly."

"I already knew that, Ernyst," Hektor said. "What I need to know is how much of the fleet we can have ready to move by then."

Black Water squinted his eyes and scratched at his wiry beard. Hektor could almost feel the painful intensity of the duke's thoughts. Black Water wasn't the most brilliant of Corisande's nobles, but he was reliable, phlegmatic, and-normally-unflappable. Hektor had summoned him as soon as Chalmyrz had departed, and the duke had arrived with commendable speed. Now he looked very much as if he wished he hadn't.

"We've got the active-duty galleys almost completely manned now, Your Highness," he said, thinking aloud, "but at least a half-dozen of them are still in dockyard hands. Mostly for fairly minor things. We should be able to have all of them ready to sail. It's the reserve ships that worry me."

Hektor simply nodded and waited as patiently as he could.

"Most of the reserve's going to need at least another four or five five-days, minimum, to refit. Then we're going to have to put the crews aboard them, and it's going to take them at least another several five-days to work up. I don't see any way we could have more than ten of them ready to move within the time limit. So, call it sixty galleys. The rest won't be available-not fit to fight, at any rate-for at least another five five-days after that."

"I see."

Hektor was scarcely surprised. Galleys laid up in reserve always deteriorated to at least some extent, however careful the maintenance effort. It wasn't at all unheard of for them to become completely rotten in an amazingly short time. Assuming Black Water's estimate was accurate, the dockyard would be doing extraordinarily well to get the entire reserve ready for service once again that quickly.

"Very well, Ernyst," he said, after a moment. "If that's the best we can do, it's the best we can do. And if everything goes according to plan, it's going to be two months yet before we actually have to commit them to battle."

"I understand that, Your Highness. It's that bit about 'going according to plan' that worries me." Black Water shook his head. "With all due respect, the timing's too tight on all of this."

"I tend to agree," Hektor said with massive understatement. "Unfortunately, there's not very much we can do about that. And at least Haarahld's going to have even less notice than we do. I'm sure he has his agents here in Corisande, but by the time they realize we're mobilizing the fleet and get the message to him, we'll already be on our way."

"I can't say I'm sorry to hear that, Sire," Black Water said frankly.

IV

Port Royal,

Kingdom of Chisholm

"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?"

V

Royal Palace,

Eraystor

"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."

"I assure you, it does more than simply 'worry' me," Nahrmahn replied.

He started to say something more, then stopped and swallowed the words unspoken. Even here, among his closest advisers, he didn't quite dare to express the full, scathing fury he'd felt as he realized the Group of Four saw his entire princedom as a footpad it could whistle up on a whim and command to cut the throat of someone who'd irritated it.

"But," he continued after a moment, "however I may feel about it, we're stuck with it. Unless anyone here thinks refusing Chancellor Trynair's 'assistance' in this matter would be advisable?"

No one spoke, nor did they have to, and Nahrmahn's alum-tart smile held at least some genuine amusement.

"In that case," he said, "the really important question is one for you, Gharth. Is it possible for us to meet this schedule?"

"I don't know, Your Highness," Mahndyr said frankly. "I won't know until I've had a chance to kick some of my staff awake and get them started asking the right questions down at the dockyard. Off the top of my head, though, it's unlikely we can get the reserve activated in time. We're supposed to have our entire fleet ready for battle by early November, but nobody warned us it was coming. Just fully manning our active-duty galleys is going to stretch our current manpower to the breaking point. We'll have to send out the press gangs to man the reserve, and every merchant seaman who can see lightning or hear thunder's going to realize the press is coming as soon as we start refitting the reserve. So they're going to make themselves scarce. Which doesn't even consider where we are in terms of the supplies we need."

He shook his head.

"Your Highness, I'll do my best, but I'm not sure we could have had the entire reserve manned and worked up within the original time schedule. With the time we've lost just finding out about it-"

He shook his head again.

"I can't say I'm surprised to hear it," Nahrmahn said. "And, to be totally honest, I'm not certain I'm unhappy to hear it."

Mahndyr's surprise showed, and the prince chuckled harshly.

"Hektor's known about this longer than we have," he said. "That much is obvious from the nature of Trynair's dispatches. So he's going to've already started bringing his fleet to a war footing. Well, if we're going to be obliged to follow his orders, then I'd just as soon see his admirals forced to take the lead. He's going to be thinking in terms of his own advantage out of this. All right, let him pay the price for it. It's not our fault no one told us about this soon enough. We'll do our best, of course," he smiled thinly, "but surely no one will be able to blame us if we can't get the majority of the reserve fitted out and manned in the unfortunately short time available to us."

NOVEMBER,

YEAR OF GOD 891

I

Royal Charisian Navy Anchorage,

Lock Island

The spring night was warm and humid, and distant lightening flickered far to the west, over Howell Bay, as the fleet weighed anchor.

Merlin stood beside Cayleb on the quarterdeck of HMS Dreadnought, with Ahrnahld Falkhan just behind them. Harsh commands cut through the darkness, but they were hushed somehow, as if the people giving them believed that if they were all very quiet, no one would notice what they were doing.

Merlin smiled slightly at the thought, despite the tension coiling within. All around him, a total of thirty-two galleons were getting underway. Thirty of them were warships of the Royal Charisian Navy; the other two were impressed merchantmen assigned to serve as supply ships. Unlike anyone else, his artificial eyes could pick every one of them out clearly, and a part of his tension stemmed from the very real possibility of collisions as, one by one, the fundamentally clumsy square-riggers raised their anchors and set sail. Fortunately, the wind was with them, blowing steadily, if not overly bly, out of the west.

But that natural fear of accidents was only a part of his tension, and not the greatest one.

Inevitably, word of the mobilizing navies of Corisande, Chisholm, and Emerald had gotten out, carried by nervous merchant skippers to every port from Manchyr to Tanjyr. As the news reached Charis, Haarahld had responded by closing his waters and expelling all foreign shipping. His enemies had expected that response. In fact, they might have been suspicious if he hadn't done it, and if he was a bit less than gentle with Corisandian or Emerald-flagged merchantmen, who could blame him?

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.

"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."

III

Eraystor Bay,

Emerald

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 outfitted 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.

IV

Grand Council Chamber,

The Temple

Archbishop Erayk tried very hard to conceal his nervousness as he was escorted into the Grand Council Chamber.

He was fairly certain he'd failed.

The taciturn Temple Guard colonel who'd awaited him on the dock as his galley rowed into Port Harbor through snow flurries and the crackle of thin surface ice hadn't informed him of why the archbishop was to return immediately to Zion with him. He'd simply handed him the message-simple, stark, and to the point-requiring him to appear before a committee of the Council of Vicars for "examination." That was all.

The colonel was still with him . . . and still hadn't explained.

The two of them stepped past the statue-still Guardsmen outside the Grand Council Chamber's door, and the archbishop swallowed as he saw the four vicars of the "committee" waiting for him.

Ancient tradition said the Archangel Langhorne himself had sat in council with his fellow archangels and angels in that chamber, and it was certainly spacious enough to have served that purpose. Its walls were adorned with magnificent mosaics and tapestries. Portraits of past Grand Vicars hung down one enormous wall, and a beautifully detailed map of the world, four times a man's height, had been inlaid into the facing wall. The entire Council of Vicars could be accommodated comfortably, along with their immediate staffs, within its immensity and the four men actually waiting there seemed small, almost lost.

They weren't seated at the raised table on the dais reserved for the Grand Vicar and the senior members of the Council on formal occasions, although any one of the four of them could have claimed a seat there. Instead, they'd chosen to sit behind a smaller, plainer table, one obviously brought into the Council Chamber for the occasion and set up in the center of the vast horseshoe shape of the richly inlaid tables where their fellows would have sat, had they been present. Nor were they completely alone, for two silent upper-priests in the habit of the Order of Schueler stood behind the Grand Inquisitor's chair.

Erayk Dynnys did not find that fact comforting.

The colonel escorted him down the long, crimson runner of carpet to the table, then stopped and bowed deeply.

"Your Grace," he said, directing his words to Allayn Magwair, who was the Temple Guard's commanding officer, "Archbishop Erayk."

"Thank you, Colonel. You may go," Magwair replied, holding out his ring hand. The colonel bowed once more, kissed the sapphire stone, and departed without another word, leaving Dynnys alone before the four most powerful men in the entire Church.

"How may I serve the Council, Vicar Zahmsyn?" he asked. He was pleased that there was no quaver in his voice, but no one responded. They only gazed at him, their eyes cold and thoughtful, and he felt sweat beading his scalp under his priest's cap.

They let him stand there for altogether too many seconds. His stomach churned, knotting itself in anxiety, and still they let him stand.

Then, finally, Zhaspyr Clyntahn tapped a folder on the table in front of him.

"This, Archbishop Erayk," he said softly, eyes glittering, "is a copy of the dispatches you and Bishop Executor Zherald sent by courier and semaphore from Tellesberg. We read them with considerable interest. Particularly since they seem to be in sharp disagreement with other reports we've received from that city."

He paused, waiting, and Dynnys swallowed as unobtrusively as he possibly could.

"May I ask what other reports you've received, Your Grace?" he asked.

"You may not," Clyntahn said coldly. "The Inquisition has its own sources, as you well know. They may not be challenged."

Dynnys' heart seemed to stop beating for an instant. Then he drew a deep breath.

"In that case, Your Grace," he said with a steadiness which surprised him just a bit, "may I ask what portions of my dispatches . . . conflict with those reports?"

"There are several points," Clyntahn said, still in that cold, precise voice. "We note, for example, that you allowed your intendant to skimp scandalously on his so-called reexamination of potential violations of the Proscriptions. We note that you failed even to rebuke him for permitting a local-and, I might add, suspect, on the basis of his own preaching-cleric to be present during his interrogation of the King of Charis, where he might influence or affect that examination. We note also that you failed to discipline the Bishop of Tellesberg for the crime of preaching heresy from the pulpit of his own cathedral. And we note, in addition, that you somehow inexplicably failed to mention any of these . . . minor difficulties in your dispatches to the Temple, despite the fact that your attention had been specifically directed to those matters by no less than Vicar Zahmsyn himself before your departure."

Dynnys tried to swallow again. This time, his mouth was too dry.

"These are serious charges, Archbishop," Trynair said. His voice was only marginally less cold than Clyntahn's. "Should they be sustained before a Court of Inquisition, the penalties which attach to them will be severe."

"Your Grace," Dynnys replied hoarsely, "it was not my intention to mislead you or the Council, or the Inquisition. My judgment, formed there in Tellesberg, was that Father Paityr had, indeed, very carefully considered his initial rulings. And while Bishop Maikel may have chosen his words poorly in one or two of his sermons, my reading of the text of those sermons was that they did not approach the threshold of heresy. I assure you, if they had, I would have removed him from his see immediately."

"It was indeed your intention to mislead us." Clyntahn's voice was no longer cold; it was harsh, biting. "What remains to be discovered is whether it was no more than an effort to protect your own incompetent arse or whether it goes deeper than that. In either case, Archbishop, you've lied to Mother Church, and you will suffer the consequences for your actions."

Dynnys looked at the Grand Inquisitor mutely, unable to speak. Then his head snapped back around to Trynair as the Chancellor spoke once more.

"You will face the consequences here," he said in a voice like doom itself, "but the consequences for Charis will be equally severe."

Dynnys' eyes widened.

"Within the month-two months, at the most-" Magwair said harshly, "the Kingdom of Charis will be destroyed. The canker of heresy and defiance will be cut out with fire and the sword, and the archbishopric which once was yours will be purged once and for all of these dangerous, heretical elements you have allowed to flourish."

"Your Grace," somehow Dynnys found his voice once more, "I beg you. I may have failed in my responsibility to the Temple. It was never my intention to do so, but it may be that I failed despite that. But I swear to you, on my own immortal soul and my own hope of Heaven, that nothing I saw in Charis merits punishment such as that!"

His words hung in the air, almost as surprising to him as to the seated vicars. But the men behind the table only gazed at him, their eyes flat, their expressions unyielding. Then Clyntahn turned and looked over his shoulder at the two waiting Schuelerite upper-priests.

"Escort Archbishop Erayk to the suite prepared for him," he said coldly.

V

Off Triton Head,

The Charis Sea

Haarahld VII looked up from the correspondence on his desk as the Marine sentry outside his cabin door slammed the butt of his half-pike on the deck.

"Midshipman of the watch, Sire!" he announced loudly.

"Enter," the king replied, and a very youthful midshipman came just a bit timidly through the door, his hat clasped under his arm, and snapped to attention.

"Captain Tryvythyn's respects, Your Majesty," the youngster half-blurted, "but Speedy reports the enemy is coming out!"

"Thank you, Master Aplyn," Haarahld said gravely.

At eleven, Master Midshipman Aplyn was the youngest of HMS Royal Charis' midshipmen. That was a heavy burden to bear aboard any Navy ship, and it was made worse in Aplyn's case by his first name: Hektor. Haarahld was quite certain the boy had been teased unmercifully ever since reporting aboard, but he'd borne up under it well. He was also remarkably serious about his duties, and the king suspected that Captain Gwylym Tryvythyn had sent him with the sighting report as a reward.

"Ah, was that the Captain's entire message, Master Aplyn?" Haarahld asked after a moment, and the boy blushed fiery red.

"No, Your Majesty," he said, blushing even more darkly. "The Captain asks if you'd care to join him on deck."

"I see."

Aplyn looked as if he would have much preferred to evaporate on the spot, and the king was hard put not to laugh outright and complete the boy's destruction. Somehow, calling on decades of experience dealing with foreign diplomats and ambassadors, he managed not to.

"Very well, Master Aplyn. My compliments to Captain Tryvythyn, and I'll join him on deck directly."

"Yes, Sir-I mean, Your Majesty!" Aplyn got out. He whirled to flee the cabin, but Haarahld cleared his throat.

"A moment, Master Aplyn, if you please," he said gravely, and the youngster froze statue-still.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" he replied in a tiny voice.

"Master Aplyn, you delivered the Captain's message speedily and well. I don't believe it will be necessary to mention any small . . . irregularities about our exchange. Do you?"

"No, Your Majesty!" the midshipman blurted gratefully.

"Then you may go, Master Aplyn."

"Yes, Your Majesty!"

This time, Aplyn did flee, and Haarahld heard something remarkably like a smothered laugh from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Sergeant Gahrdaner. The Guardsman's face was creased in a grin, and Haarahld cocked one eyebrow at his bodyguard.

"Something amuses you, Charlz?" he asked mildly.

"Oh, nothing in the world, Your Majesty," Gahrdaner replied earnestly. "Nothing in the world."

* * *

Haarahld arrived on deck ten minutes later. He climbed the ladder to the conning position atop the galley's aftercastle, moving slowly but steadily with his stiff knee. Sergeant Gahrdaner followed him, and Captain Tryvythyn was waiting when he reached the top.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," the captain said.

"Good morning, Captain," Haarahld replied formally. He drew a deep breath of the fresh spring air, then raised one hand to shade his eyes and looked into the northeast.

Royal Charis was just south of the chain of islands off Triton Head, leading the centermost of the five columns into which the galley fleet had been deployed. All five columns were barely making steerage way under oars alone, moving just fast enough to maintain formation in the face of the steady breeze out of the northwest.

East Cape, the easternmost of the two capes guarding the entrance to Rock Shoal Bay lay just over four hundred miles west-northwest of their present position, and a chain of scouting vessels extended another sixty miles to the northeast, keeping an eye on the approaches to Eraystor Bay.

That chain was composed of schooners, specifically designed for the Navy by Sir Dustyn Olyvyr, although the shipyards building them hadn't known it. They were shallow-draft vessels, fitted to row if necessary, and small enough to row better and faster than the vast majority of galleys. Armed only with from six to twelve carronades, depending on their size, they were designed specifically to be used as scouts. They were fast, nimble, weatherly, and under express order to run away from any threat.

Now HMS Speedy, the northernmost schooner in the chain, had hoisted the signal that the combined Northern Force was sortieing. Haarahld could just see the topsails of HMS Arrow, the closest of the four schooners making up the entire chain. The midshipman perched in the lookout platform high up on Royal Charis' single mast, on the other hand, had one of the long, heavy spyglasses with which to read the colorful flags which repeated Speedy's original signal.

"So, our friends are coming south, are they?" Haarahld was careful to project a note of amusement. "Odd. I'd started to think they were too shy to come to the dance, Captain."

One or two of the seamen and Marines stationed on the aftercastle smiled, and Captain Tryvythyn chuckled. Like Haarahld, he knew the king's joke, small as it was, would be repeated all over the ship within the hour.

"They aren't in any hurry about it, Your Majesty," he replied after a moment. "Speedy reports their speed at no more than five knots, despite the wind. She also says their formation is . . . disorderly."

"At that rate, they won't be up to us before dark," Haarahld reflected aloud, and Tryvythyn nodded.

"That's my own conclusion, Your Majesty."

"Well," the king said slowly, thoughtfully, "I suppose the prudent thing to do is to avoid a decisive action until Prince Cayleb and Admiral Staynair can return. Still, I think it's time we showed our hesitant dance partners the steps, Captain. Be so good as to signal Tellesberg. Inform Admiral Lock Island that we intend to pass within hailing distance, and then shape your course for her, if you would."

"Of course, Your Majesty. Master Aplyn!"

"Yes, Sir!"

"Signal Tellesberg that we intend to pass within hailing distance."

"Aye, aye, Sir!"

"Lieutenant Gyrard."

"Yes, Sir."

"Come four points to port, if you please. Lay us within hailing distance of Tellesberg."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Orders rang out, and Royal Charis' oars quickened their stroke as the royal flagship altered course to close with Tellesberg. The columns were only seven hundred and fifty yards apart, and it didn't take long for the two flagships to find themselves side by side, separated by barely thirty yards of water.

"Good morning, Your Majesty!" Earl Lock Island called through his leather speaking trumpet. "How may I serve you this morning?"

"I believe it's time to go and see if these shy and retiring gentlemen are serious about venturing out of their nice, snug harbor, Admiral," Haarahld called back. "Be so good as to see to that for me, if you would."

"Of course, Your Majesty. With pleasure." Lock Island bowed across the gap, then turned to his own officers. A moment later, signals began to break from Tellesberg's yardarm while Royal Charis turned to resume her original station, leading her own column.

"Well, Captain Tryvythyn," Haarahld said, watching Tellesberg pick up speed as she and the twenty-nine other galleys of the fleet's two port columns headed off to the northeast, "I'm afraid I have some letters and reports I need to deal with. Please inform me if there are any additional signals."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

* * *

Duke Black Water stood atop Corisande's aftercastle, hands clasped behind him, and concentrated on not cursing.

He hadn't really expected today's sortie to go smoothly, but he'd hoped it might go more smoothly than it actually had.

Yet another example of hope triumphing over experience, he thought sourly.

But that wasn't really fair, and he knew it. No one had any actual experience at hammering together three totally separate navies, two of which were accustomed to thinking of one another as mortal enemies, on less than three months' notice. With the greatest goodwill in the world, getting three different fleets coordinated would have been extraordinarily difficult, considering the inherent differences in signals, structure, tactics, and seniority.

Given the fact that "goodwill" was conspicuously lacking, just getting all their ships moving in the same direction on the same day was something of an accomplishment.

He snorted in wry amusement at the thought. Biting as it was, it at least restored some badly needed perspective to his current predicament. And however reluctant this particular arranged marriage might have been, the fact that it had been made by Mother Church (whether she admitted it or not) meant all of its participants had damned well better dig in to make it work. Which they undoubtedly would, given time.

Which, in turn, brought him back to the point of today's exercise.

Prince Hektor, he knew, would be simply delighted if an immediate opportunity to crush the Royal Charisian Navy should present itself. Well, Black Water would, too, but he wasn't going to hold his breath waiting for the chance. He estimated that he had a superiority of approximately two-to-one in hulls over Haarahld's active galley fleet, but there were still those galleons to worry about. And, whatever his theoretical numerical advantage might be, until he could count on his various squadron commanders to at least understand what he wanted them to do, numbers as such didn't mean a great deal.

He turned and gazed out over the panorama which underscored that brutal fact.

His huge force of galleys was spread out across the rolling blue plain of Eraystor Bay in a mob-like formation. The Triton Peninsula lay about twenty miles to starboard; to port, the nearest land was the big near-island known as The Wyvernry, almost four hundred and fifty miles to the southeast. The wind was out of the northwest, brisk enough to lift whitecapped waves of about four feet and move the galleys much more rapidly than they were moving. Few of his subordinate commanders, however, seemed to feel any particular need to take full advantage of that wind, despite any exhortations from him. The fleet was like some vast gaggle of sea wyverns bobbing on the surface of the waves and drifting leisurely along. Most of its units appeared to be on approximately the right heading, but that was about the best he could say.

It was relatively easy to pick out the divisions between his and his "allies'-" galleys; theirs were the ones falling steadily farther behind. His own squadrons formed the vanguard, exactly as planned, although he was forced to admit that even their stationkeeping was far from perfect. His lead squadron was well in advance of his main formation, for example, and he shook his head.

Donyrt Qwentyn, Baron Tanlyr Keep, was an aggressive, thrusting officer, not the sort to let sailing conditions like these go to waste. Those qualities were to be encouraged, but Tanlyr Keep's disdain for what he considered Emerald's tardiness and lack of enthusiasm was only too evident, and his dislike for Corisande's traditional Chisholmian foes was equally pronounced. Which probably had something to do with the baron's determination to get his ships out in front and keep them there while he showed Mahndyr, Sharpfield, and their "laggards" how a real admiral did things.

Black Water had chosen him to command his own vanguard specifically because of those qualities, and Tanlyr Keep had responded by getting his ships to sea almost a full hour before dawn, well before anyone else had even cleared the breakwater. He'd opened the gap between him and the rest of the fleet steadily since then, and the hulls of his ships were only intermittently visible from deck level now.

Black Water made a mental note to discuss the concept of coordination and at least outward respect for allies with his subordinates. Not just Tanlyr Keep, either.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," a voice said, and he turned to find one of Corisande's lieutenants at his elbow.

"Yes?"

"Captain Myrgyn asked me to inform you, Your Grace, that Baron Tanlyr Keep is signaling that a sail is in sight to the southwest."

"Only one?"

"That's all the Baron has reported, Your Grace."

"I see."

Black Water considered for a moment, then shrugged. They knew Haarahld had been keeping scout ships spread across the approaches to Eraystor Bay. It was the only sensible thing for him to do, after all, and Black Water wouldn't be a bit surprised to discover he was using those infernally weatherly schooners of his for the task. If that was the case, no galley was going to catch one on a day with winds as brisk as today's, but that might not always be the case. For now, it was simply confirmation of what they'd anticipated all along.

"Thank the Captain for keeping me informed," he said.

"Of course, Your Grace."

The lieutenant bowed and withdrew, and Black Water returned to his earlier thoughts. He was tempted to signal the straggling components of "his" fleet to keep better station. The probability of any signal from him accomplishing any good, however, had to be weighed against the querulousness it would reveal. Nagging ineffectually at them to close up their formation would only make it more difficult in the long run to exercise effective command.

Whatever he might think of Sharpfield and Admiral Mahndyr, both of them were experienced men, he reflected. They had to be as well aware as he was of what they were seeing, and it would be far more effective to discuss that with them face to face than to fire off signals which probably wouldn't be obeyed, anyway. Assuming, of course, that their signal officers could even recognize them as signals in the first place!

He sighed and shook his head. No doubt this had all looked far simpler from the comfort of a planning session somewhere in the Temple.

* * *

Earl Lock Island stood in his chart room, contemplating the various ships' positions marked on the chart spread out on the table before him while he scratched his chin. His aide, Lieutenant Tillyer, stood quietly to one side, watching and waiting.

The earl gazed at the chart for several more seconds, his eyes focused on something only he could see, then nodded.

"I think it's time to go back topside, Henrai."

"Yes, My Lord." Tillyer reached the chart room door before the earl and stood aside, holding it open for his superior. Lock Island smiled at him and shook his head as he stepped through it, but the smile faded quickly as he climbed the short ladder to the aftercastle.

"My Lord!"

Captain Sir Ohwyn Hotchkys, Tellesberg's commanding officer, saluted as Lock Island appeared. The earl returned his salute a bit more casually, then gazed up at the masthead pendant.

"Any change in our friends' formation?" he asked.

"No, My Lord. Not according to the schooners' reports, at any rate."

"Good." Lock Island turned away from the pendant and smiled unpleasantly at the captain. "In that case, Ohwyn, I believe it's time to put your signal parties to work. Here's what I want to do. . . ."

* * *

"Pardon me for interrupting, Your Grace, but I think Baron Tanlyr Keep's sighted something else."

Black Water looked up from his belated breakfast as Sir Kehvyn Myrgyn stepped into Corisande's great cabin.

"What do you mean, 'sighted something else,' Captain?" the duke asked, chocolate cup hovering in midair.

"I'm not certain, Your Grace," Myrgyn said a bit apologetically. "He's shaken out the reefs in his squadron's sails, and he's gone to oars, as well."

"Did he make any signals at all?" Black Water demanded, setting the cup down.

"Not that we could make out, Your Grace. Of course, he's far enough ahead of us that he might have signaled something without our spotting it."

Black Water scowled and pushed his chair back from the table. He'd known Tanlyr Keep was edging steadily, if gradually, further and further ahead, but he hadn't expected the baron's squadron to get that far out in front.

He strode on deck, Myrgyn following at his shoulder, and climbed to the top of the aftercastle.

Tanlyr Keep's ships were completely hull-down over the horizon from Black Water's position on Corisande's deck. All the duke could see was their sails, and even they were dipping towards the hard, clear line of the horizon, but it was obvious the baron had, indeed, shaken the reefs out of his galleys' big, single square mainsails. With the wind out of the northwest, it was broad on Tanlyr Keep's starboard quarter, and he was taking full advantage of it.

"He's under oars, as well, Captain?" Black Water asked.

"Yes, Your Grace," Myrgyn confirmed, and the duke grimaced. That meant Tanlyr Keep was probably moving almost twice as fast as any of the rest of the allied force.

"Signal him to return to his station," he said.

"At once, Your Grace," Myrgyn replied, and turned to give the orders.

Another of the flagship's lieutenants sprang to obey the instructions, but Myrgyn's expression wasn't hopeful when he turned back to Black Water.

"He's far enough ahead I don't know if he'll even see the signal, Your Grace."

"I know." Black Water gripped his hands together behind him, rocking gently up and down on his toes while he considered. Then he looked astern, where the Emerald and Chisholm contingents had strayed even further out of position. Finally, he looked up at the sun.

The basic plan for today's sortie called for the fleet to return to its anchorage before nightfall. To do that, especially with the wind where it was, they were going to have to reverse course within the next three hours, at the outside. Given the speed Tanlyr Keep's squadron was making, Corisande and the rest of the Corisandian galleys wouldn't be able to overtake him, no matter what they did, and the baron knew when he was supposed to return to port.

The duke growled a silent mental curse. It was a comprehensive curse, directed at his laggardly allies, his . . . overly enthusiastic squadron commander, and at himself, for not keeping Tanlyr Keep's leash shorter. But curses wouldn't undo anything that had already happened. Signaling the baron to resume his station was all he could do, since he couldn't overtake Tanlyr Keep, anyway. And that being the case, he might as well do what he could to bolster his own reputation for phlegmatic confidence.

"Well, Captain Myrgyn," he said, after moment. "If he sees the signal, he sees the signal, and if he doesn't, he doesn't." He shrugged. "We'll be reversing course in the next few hours, anyway, and I still have an appointment with breakfast. If you'll excuse me?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

The captain bowed, and Black Water produced a confident smile as he headed back towards the breakfast which no longer seemed nearly so appetizing. But, appetizing or not, he intended to eat every last bite of it . . . and make certain everyone aboard his flagship knew he had.

* * *

"We've just received another signal from Commodore Nylz, My Lord," Lieutenant Tillyer said.

"Ah?"

Earl Lock Island looked up from the fried chicken he was hungrily contemplating. The fleet hadn't been at sea long enough yet for fresh food to become a dreamed of, unobtainable luxury, but no seaman worth his salt ever turned up his nose at a decent meal.

"Yes, My Lord. He reports that the squadron pursuing him is still overhauling. In fact, it's into long cannon shot."

"I see." Lock Island rose from the table and stepped out onto Tellesberg's spacious sternwalk. The railed platform ran the full width of the galley's high, ornate stern and wrapped around either quarter. The admiral stood for a moment, gazing up at the sky, gauging visibility and the remaining hours of daylight.

"I believe it's time, Henrai," he said, returning to the table and reaching for a drumstick as he seated himself once more. "Signal Commodore Nylz to engage at his discretion."

* * *

"My Lord, the enemy-"

Donyrt Qwentyn, Baron Tanlyr Keep, had been gazing astern, where the white sails of Duke Black Water's main body had disappeared into the whitecapped blue of the bay, while he wondered why the duke hadn't cracked on more speed in response to his own earlier signals. Now he wheeled towards the lieutenant who'd spoken just as a sudden dull thud sounded across the water. Sudden clouds of smoke from the sterns of the six Charisian galleys he'd been pursuing for the last several hours, and the white, skipping splashes of round shot plowing across the waves obviated the report the lieutenant had been about to make.

"Good!" the baron barked, and wheeled to Thunderbolt's commander. "It looks like they've figured out they can't get away, Captain. Now let's go get them!"

* * *

Commodore Kohdy Nylz watched critically as his stern chasers opened fire. Despite the whitecaps, it was easy to spot where the shots had plunged into the sea, quite close to their targets, and he nodded in satisfaction.

"I hope the gun crews remember to fire slowly," one of HMS Kraken's lieutenants murmured.

The commodore glanced at the youthful officer, but it was evident the lieutenant didn't realize he'd spoken aloud. Nylz considered replying to him anyway, then changed his mind. It would only embarrass the youngster, and the lieutenant hadn't said anything Nylz wasn't thinking.

His squadron had been selected for this particular maneuver because its artillery had been improved considerably. When Prince Cayleb and Admiral Staynair concentrated their efforts on the most advanced galleons, work on less advanced ships had been temporarily abandoned. The guns for some of those incomplete galleons had already been delivered, however, and Earl Lock Island and King Haarahld had seen no reason to leave them sitting uselessly ashore in an arsenal somewhere. Which meant Kraken and the other five galleys of her squadron had traded in their old-fashioned guns for the new-model weapons, with long krakens mounted fore and aft and carronades replacing falcons on their broadsides.

If everything went according to plan, the ten Corisandian ships pursuing him were going to find out about that shortly, but it wouldn't do to alert them too soon.

The commodore looked astern at his enemies, and his smile turned nastier as he thought about what was coming up from the east-southeast under oars alone.

* * *

"We've got the bastards now!" Tanlyr Keep exulted.

The Charisian galleys had obviously been assigned to keep a protective eye on their scout ships in case Duke Black Water had decided to send out a few fast ships of his own to pounce upon them. But the "protectors" clearly hadn't realized the allied fleet was actually at sea. They'd continued towards him, as if seeking to make positive identification, until he'd managed to close to within no more than ten miles.

They'd turned to run then, but one of them had suffered damage aloft making the turn. It looked as if her weather sheet had carried away, and her single big sail had flogged and flapped furiously for several minutes before her crew had been able to get it back under control. That had cost her precious speed, and his own ships had charged forward in pursuit.

Her consorts, instead of abandoning her to her own resources, had reduced speed to stay in company with her. They shouldn't have. The six of them were each individually bigger than any of Tanlyr Keep's ships, but he had ten galleys to their six, and heavy drafts from the Corisandian Army had been put aboard to serve as marines. More than that, his ships' smaller size made them faster under oars.

He'd taken advantage of that, going to the sweeps and adding their power to the power of his ships' sails, and the gap between him and the fleeing Charisians had slowly but steadily narrowed. Now it was time to—

"Deck, there!" The shout echoed down from the crow's-nest atop the mast. "More ships, bearing east-southeast!"

Tanlyr Keep froze, staring up at the lookout.

"I make it at least fifteen galleys!" the seaman shouted down. "They're coming up fast under oars!"

* * *

"Ah, they've seen the Earl!" Commodore Nylz observed as the galleys which had been pursuing him so doggedly suddenly wavered in their steady course. They were swinging wildly around, turning back up to the north, but that took them almost directly into the wind.

"Turn us around, Captain," he said to Kraken's commander.

* * *

"It looks like it worked, My Lord," Captain Hotchkys observed.

"So far, at least," Lock Island agreed.

The pursuing Corisandian galleys had dropped their masts. Lock Island's own ships had been waiting with their sails already down while Commodore Nylz' squadron baited the trap. With their sails and yards sent down to leave only their bare, white-painted masts, Lock Island's twenty-four galleys had been far harder to spot; indeed, they'd been effectively invisible at any range much over ten miles or so. And, as Lock Island had anticipated, the Corisandians' attention had been focused upon their intended prey. No one had even noticed him until he'd closed to a range of less than seven miles, sweeping in on the Corisandians from their eastern flank.

Nylz' ships were turning upon their pursuers, as well. The range there had fallen to under two miles even before Nylz opened fire. And, just as Lock Island had hoped, the Corisandian rowers were already badly fatigued from their long, grueling pursuit. Apparently it hadn't occurred to them to wonder why Nylz hadn't been rowing nearly as hard as they had.

The Charisian ships had cleaner bottoms, as well as fresher rowers, and Nylz was closing quickly. Lock Island wouldn't be able to get into action with the Corisandians as soon as the commodore, but his galleys-coaxed carefully into position by signals from the scouting schooners and Nylz himself-would be up with the enemy within two hours. Probably less, if Nylz could manage to slow them down a bit.

Kraken and her squadron mates had increased their rate of fire now that the trap had sprung. They were careful not to fire as rapidly as they could have-Lock Island and Nylz had no intention of letting Black Water realize just how dangerous Charisian artillery had just become-but as Lock Island watched, one of the Corisandian galley's starboard oars flailed in sudden confusion as a round shot pitched into them in an eruption of spray and splinters. At least four of the long sweeps shattered, splintered ends flying, and the earl could picture only too well what the butt ends of those shattered oars must have done as they flailed wildly about, breaking ribs and arms and cracking skulls.

The confusion was only brief, but more round shot were plunging into the water around their targets, or striking home with deadly force.

"Signal from Speedy, My Lord," one of Tellesberg's midshipmen announced.

"Read it," Lock Island commanded.

"-'Enemy van bears north-northwest my position, distance eighteen miles, speed seven knots,'— " the midshipman read from the piece of paper in his hand.

"Thank you," Lock Island said, and cocked his head as he consulted his mental chart. He couldn't see the schooner himself from deck level, but the masthead lookout and signal party could. She was still too far away for her signals to be read directly, so they were being relayed by her sister ship North Wind. Which put the main body of the straggling enemy fleet at least twenty-five miles-probably more-astern and directly to windward of Nylz' pursuers.

Those ships were making possibly three or four knots, while his own were moving at at least six, and cutting the angle to boot. If the rest of the enemy fleet was making good the seven knots Speedy's captain estimated, then it would take at least two and a half hours for its most advanced units to reach the ships he was pursuing.

If they realized what was happening in time-and moved quickly and decisively enough-it could get tight, but not, he thought grimly, tight enough to save his intended prey.

* * *

"That's the last of them, Your Grace," Captain Myrgyn grated as a fresh pillar of smoke billowed upward.

"So I see, Captain," Duke Black Water replied.

He forced his own voice to come out calm, but he knew he wasn't fooling anyone. Especially not Myrgyn.

He gripped his hands together behind him tightly enough to hurt and inhaled deeply.

"Very well, Captain," he said, "there's no point continuing the pursuit. Take us home."

"Yes, Your Grace," Myrgyn said heavily, and turned away to begin giving the necessary orders.

Black Water glared across the miles of water still separating him from the last of Tanlyr Keep's galleys. It would take him a good hour and a quarter to reach that flaming hulk, by which time it would have burned to the waterline and vanished beneath the waves. Nor was there any point in pursuing the Charisians, who'd already turned for home with the wind behind them, a good headstart, and-for all he knew-the rest of their accursed fleet waiting to ambush anyone who pursued them.

Even assuming he could overtake them at all, it would be a night battle, with all the confusion and chaos that implied. And it would have been his galleys-his sixty remaining galleys-alone against whatever he encountered, because neither the Emerald nor the Chisholm squadrons could possibly have made up the gap which had opened between them and him.

A part of him cried out to continue the chase anyway, to avenge the losses and humiliation which had been visited upon him. But the coldly logical part of him knew better.

They say you learn more from a defeat than from a victory, he thought grimly. Well, in that case we've learned a lot today, and I intend to see to it that all of us "allies" draw the same conclusions from our lesson.

What had happened to Tanlyr Keep this afternoon would serve as a very pointed reminder of the need for all of them to learn to function as a single, coordinated force. That would probably be worth what it was going to cost him and Corisande in prestige and moral authority.

Probably.

FEBRUARY, YEAR OF GOD 892

I

Broken Anchor Bay,

Armageddon Reef

"Unknown ships entering the anchorage!"

Gahvyn Mahrtyn, Baron White Ford, jerked upright in his chair as the lookout's shout echoed down through the open skylight. King Gorjah II, the flagship of the Tarotisian Navy, moved uneasily to her anchor even here, in the shelter of Demon Head. Which was fair enough; everyone aboard her was much more than merely uneasy just to be here.

Someone knocked sharply at the great cabin's door, and he heard his valet open it. A moment later, one of the flagship's lieutenants appeared in his private chart room.

"Excuse me for disturbing you, My Lord, but-"

"I heard, Lieutenant Zhoelsyn." White Ford smiled thinly. "Should I assume our unknown visitors are our long-awaited Dohlaran friends?"

"That's what it looks like, My Lord," Zhoelsyn acknowledged with a smile of his own.

"Well praise Langhorne," White Ford said lightly. "Please tell Captain Kaillee I'll be on deck in about fifteen minutes."

"Of course, My Lord."

Lieutenant Zhoelsyn withdrew, and White Ford raised his voice.

"Zheevys!"

"Yes, My Lord?" Zheevys Bahltyn, the baron's valet since boyhood, replied.

"My new tunic, Zheevys! We have a duke to impress."

"At once, My Lord."

* * *

Two hours later, White Ford stood on King Gorjah II's aftercastle in the cool spring sunlight and watched the Dohlaran Navy rowing slowly and heavily into Broken Anchor Bay. The bay, even though sheltered from the northeast wind by the projecting finger of Demon Head, was no glassy mirror. Outside the bay, ten-and-a-half-foot waves, whitecaps, and spray showed only too plainly what sort of weather awaited the combined fleets.

Not that White Ford had needed the reminder. He'd lost two galleys, with all hands, just getting here. And from the looks of the Dohlaran galleys straggling into the more sheltered waters of the bay, they'd had an even worse time of it than he had.

Several of the ships he saw flew command streamers, but none of them showed the red and green stripes of the fleet flagship. Then, finally, he saw a mammoth galley, dwarfing those about her, creeping around the southern headland. The single yard her mast crossed was too small, obviously a jury-rigged replacement for the original, and she towered above her smaller consorts. In fact, she was double-banked, something White Ford hadn't seen in at least twenty years, and he shook his head in disbelief as he watched waves sweep higher than the lower oar bank while jets of white water cascaded from her pumps.

"What is that thing, My Lord?" Captain Zhilbert Kaillee asked quietly beside him, and the baron snorted.

"That, Zhilbert, is the flagship of the Dohlaran Navy. The King Rahnyld."

"King Rahnyld," Kaillee repeated, and White Ford chuckled.

"At least we named our flagship for a previous king," he said. "And unless I miss my guess, that monstrosity must've cost almost as much as two more reasonably sized galleys. Not to mention the fact that she has to be Hell's pure bitch to manage in a seaway."

"To say the least," Kaillee murmured as white water burst over the enormous galley's cutwater and swirled back around her struggling sweeps.

"But they got her here somehow," White Ford pointed out. "Even if they are a five-day late."

"For my money, My Lord, they did a damned incredible job to get her here at all."

The baron nodded, gazing at the sea-slimed hulls, the occasional empty oarport, the patches of bare planking which marked hasty repairs. Just watching the way the Dohlarans moved through the water, it was obvious their bottoms were badly fouled from the long voyage, which must have reduced their speed even further.

He wondered once again what lunacy had possessed the genius who'd planned this campaign. It would have made so much more sense to send the Dohlarans up the western coasts of Howard and Haven, then straight to Tarot, where the host of minor repairs they so obviously required could have been seen to. But, no, they had to come here, to the most haunted, ill-fated, unlucky place on the face of Safehold, and sail directly from here against their enemies.

"Well, I suppose the real fun starts now," he told Captain Kaillee, and there was no more humor in his tone.

* * *

Earl Thirsk watched from his place behind Duke Malikai as Baron White Ford and his flag captain were shown into King Rahnyld's great cabin.

The Tarotisian admiral was a small man, shorter even than Thirsk himself and slender, with dark eyes and dark hair, just starting to silver. Zhilbert Kaillee, the commander of his flagship, could have been specifically designed as a physical contrast. Nearly as tall as Malikai, he was far more massive, almost block-like, with enormous shoulders, and probably outweighed the duke by at least fifty or sixty pounds, none of it fat.

The two of them were followed by a small cluster of more junior captains and senior lieutenants, and Malikai greeted them with a broad, welcoming smile. Thirsk doubted the duke was even aware of that smile's patronizing edge.

"Admiral White Ford," Thirsk murmured as it was his turn to clasp the Tarotisian's hand, and a flicker of amusement danced in the smaller man's dark eyes.

"Admiral Thirsk," he replied, and Thirsk's mouth twitched in an effort not to smile at the Tarotisian's slight but unmistakable i. White Ford had greeted Malikai as Duke Malikai, which was certainly correct, but obviously he'd recognized that however nobly born Malikai might be, he was no seaman.

Thirsk and the baron stood there for a few seconds, hands clasped, each recognizing a fellow professional, and then the moment passed and White Ford moved on. But Thirsk treasured that brief exchange, which seemed to promise a potentially sane ally. He hoped it did, at any rate, because he suspected he was going to need one.

* * *

"I apologize for our tardiness, Baron White Ford," Duke Malikai said, as the formal after-dinner council of war got down to business. "I'm afraid the weather on our original route was worse than anticipated. I was forced to choose an alternate passage."

"I anticipated that that was the probable cause, Your Grace," White Ford said. "As you know, the semaphore system kept us reasonably well apprised of your progress. Given the weather we encountered on our own passage here, I wasn't surprised you were delayed. Indeed, I'm gratified you lost as few ships as you did."

"That's very understanding of you, Baron." Malikai smiled. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say I hope the worst of the weather is behind us now, and-"

"I'm sure we all do hope that, Your Grace. Unfortunately, it's most unlikely that it is."

Malikai closed his mouth with an expression which was both surprised and perhaps a bit affronted by White Ford's polite interruption. He looked at the Tarotisian for a moment, as if unsure how to respond, and Earl Thirsk cleared his throat.

"I'm sure you and your navy are much more familiar with the weather in these waters, Admiral White Ford," he said, and White Ford shrugged.

"We seldom come this far south, ourselves, of course. No one comes to Armageddon Reef unless he has to. But we are rather familiar with weather in the Parker Sea and the Cauldron. And at this time of year, weather seems to beget weather, as they say. This northeasterly may veer, possibly all the way round to the northwest, but it isn't going away. Or, rather, there's going to be another one, probably at least as b, on its heels."

"That sounds . . . unpleasant," Thirsk observed in a carefully neutral tone, not even glancing at Malikai. For once, the duke appeared to have enough sense to keep his mouth shut, and the earl devoutly hoped it would stay that way.

"It's not that bad for galleons," White Ford said with a casual little wave of his hand. "It's not often we get seas much over fifteen or sixteen feet. But it can get a bit-what was the word you used, My Lord? Ah, yes. It can get a bit unpleasant for galleys."

There was a sudden, thoughtful silence from the Dohlaran end of the great cabin, and Thirsk had to raise his own hand to hide his smile.

"We do get the occasional full gale, as well, of course," White Ford continued. "When that happens, the waves can hit as much as thirty feet, but they're more common in the fall than in the spring. And you practically never see a hurricane in these waters, even in the fall."

"Since you're so much more familiar with the weather in these latitudes, My Lord," Thirsk said, choosing his words and his tone with care, "would you care to comment on our course from this point?"

"Well, since you ask, Admiral," White Ford said, "I'm afraid I feel we would be ill advised to cross the Parker Sea north of Tryon's Land, as our original orders specify. The weather's unlikely to cooperate with us, and we've both already lost ships and men. I'm no fonder of Armageddon Reef than any other sane human being, but my advice would be to continue around Demon Head, then pass between Thomas Point and the most southern of Shan-wei's Footsteps and hug the eastern coast of the Reef through Doomwhale Reach and the Iron Sea until we're at least as far east as MacPherson's Lament."

"Excuse me, Baron," Malikai said, "but that would add many miles to our voyage, and wouldn't we risk being caught on a lee shore if the wind does stay in the northeast?"

At least, Thirsk thought, it was a question, not an arrogant statement of objection.

"Yes, it would add some miles to the trip, Your Grace," White Ford conceded. "But the weather in the Parker Sea isn't going to moderate very much, whatever we want. And the weather south of MacPherson's Lament is going to be worse-considerably worse. We don't have any choice about swinging south of the Lament, into the Iron Sea, and while there's something to be said for skirting around through Tryon Sound and avoiding as much as possible of the Iron Sea, we'd still have to cross the Parker Sea to get there."

He paused, as if to see if his explanation was being followed. Malikai said nothing, and the Tarotisian continued.

"We're going to be looking at foul weather, whichever route we take, Your Grace, and while we'll certainly find ourselves traveling along a 'lee shore,' the entire coast of the Reef is broken up by bays and inlets. If we hit the sort of weather that's already cost us so many ships, we'll probably be able to find cover, someplace we can anchor and ride it out." He shrugged once more. "As I say, Your Grace, these waters aren't kind to galleys."

There was silence in the great cabin. King Rahnyld's massive bulk shifted uneasily, even here, at anchor, as if on cue, and every ear could hear her the steady sound of the pumps, still emptying her bilges of the water she'd taken on through her lower oarports.

Thirsk knew Malikai couldn't be pleased to hear White Ford say exactly what Thirsk had been arguing all along. Still, the long, painful voyage to this point seemed to have been capable of teaching even the duke a little wisdom. It was a pity he hadn't had enough of it earlier to gather the sort of information Thirsk had before they ever set out. He might even have had the wit to argue against their proposed route from the outset. Still, Thirsk was a great believer in the proposition that it was better for wisdom to come late than never to come at all.

Of course, the fact that White Ford was an allied fleet commander, not simply one more subordinate, even if the entire Tarotisian Navy amounted to less than a quarter of Malikai's fleet, probably gave his words additional weight.

"Baron White Ford," Malikai said finally, "I bow to your greater familiarity with conditions in these waters. What matters most is that we reach our destination in a battle-ready condition, and from what you've said, it would seem to me your proposed route is more likely to deliver us in that condition."

Thank you, Langhorne, the Earl of Thirsk thought very, very sincerely. And thank you, Admiral White Ford.

* * *

"What do you think, My Lord?" Captain Kaillee asked as he and White Ford stood on King Gorjah II's aftercastle and watched the long chain of galleys rowing out of Broken Anchor Bay.

"Of what?" the baron asked mildly.

"What do you think of our allies?"

"Oh."

White Ford pursed his lips thoughtfully, studying the fleet as he considered his flag captain's question.

His flagship's motion was uneasy, to say the least, but at least the seas had moderated a bit in the two days since the Dohlarans' arrival. The galley's bows threw up a cloud of spray as she drove into a wave, but her sweeps moved steadily, bly.

The bigger Dohlaran galleys coming along astern moved more heavily. In some ways, their larger size helped, but it was obvious to White Ford that they'd never been designed for the open sea. Their narrow, shoal hulls, typical of coastal-water designs, produced a vessel which was fast under oars but dangerously tender under sail . . . and less than stable, even in seas this moderate. He doubted they'd ever been intended to operate outside the Gulf of Dohlar, and by his estimate, the odds of their losing at least another half-dozen of them before they reached MacPherson's Lament were at least even.

"I'd say," he told Kaillee judiciously, "that the sooner that ridiculous flagship of theirs sinks, the better."

The flag captain's eyebrows rose. Not so much in surprise at White Ford's judgment, but at how openly his admiral had expressed it. White Ford saw his expression, and chuckled without very much humor.

"This entire notion of our 'sneaking up' on Haarahld from the south is ridiculous," he said. "Only an idiot would think he isn't going to have scouts posted all along the passage between Silver and Charis. So, in the end, it's going to come down to our combined strength against his combined strength in a head-on attack. Would you agree with that much?"

"Of course, My Lord."

"Well, if Thirsk had been in command of the Dohlarans, he would have found some plausible reason his ships had to continue clear up the coast to the Gulf of Mathyas. Which would have meant we could have taken the entire fleet up through the Anvil, in which case we probably wouldn't have lost anyone to simple bad weather. But Malikai's going to stick by his orders, come hell or high water. He's already done that, and I don't see any reason to expect him to change his style now. Which means he's going to command his forces like the landlubber he is. And that means Haarahld's people are going to ream us all new ones. Oh," he waved one hand, "we'll take them in the end. The odds are just too heavy for it to come out any other way. But we're going to lose a lot more ships, and a lot more people, with that idiot giving the orders."

Kaillee sat back on his mental heels, chewing on his admiral's acid analysis, then sighed.

"What?" White Ford asked.

"Nothing, really, My Lord." Kaillee shook his head. "I was just thinking how nice it would be if I could come up with a reason to disagree with you."

II

South Parker Sea,

Off Armageddon Reef

The Earl of Thirsk watched the clouds of seabirds and wyverns following the fleet like banks of gunsmoke. He had no idea how many of them made their nests along the deserted coasts of Armageddon Reef, but he'd never seen so many of them in one spot in his entire life. They wheeled and climbed, swooped and dove, exploring the ships' wakes for any scrap of garbage, and the mingled cries of the birds and the high, somehow mournful whistles of the sea wyverns came clearly through the sound of wind and wave, the occasional order and response, the creak of timbers.

The sun was settling into the west, beyond the barely visible smudge of Armageddon Reef. White Ford's warning that more heavy weather was coming had been justified, but they'd been past Demon Head and closing on Anvil Head, heading across the hundred and forty-mile mouth of Rakurai Bay, by the time the fresh heavy swell came rolling in. It had still been more than Thirsk's own galleys and crews were accustomed to-or, at least, than they had been accustomed to before beginning this insane trip-but at least they'd had the wind broad on the port beam. That meant they'd been able to ship oars and hold a reasonably steady course under double-reefed sails alone, despite the galleys' heavy rolling.

The difference that had made, even for the lumbering bulk of King Rahnyld, had been remarkable. Thirsk still felt like a new-hatched wyvern who'd strayed out into water too deep for it, but he was beginning to think White Ford's advice might actually get them all the way to MacPherson's Lament without losing another ship. They'd already passed Thomas Point, passing between it and the southernmost of the islands known as Shan-wei's Footsteps, which had made everyone happy. No one had wanted to take cover in Rakurai Bay if they had any choice at all.

He gazed up at the sky and frowned, wondering if perhaps he'd tempted fate by allowing himself such a dose of optimism. Clouds were building up along the eastern horizon. The breeze had freshened noticeably since noon, as well, and it felt chillier than their steady progress towards the colder waters of Doomwhale Reach could explain.

It was possible the weather was about to turn nasty again, but at the moment, Gorath Bay was about thirty miles off the coast, and they should make Rock Point before dawn. Once they'd cleared the point, the coast would curve away from them to the west, giving them more sea room if they needed it. Even better, they were only a couple of hundred miles from Cape Ruin, and the vast stretch of Demon Sound and Heartbreak Bay cut deep into Armageddon Reef south of the cape. The names were far from reassuring, but between them, they offered a sheltered anchorage ample to the needs of a fleet ten times the size of their own, or a hundred . . . and without stirring up the ghosts which undoubtedly inhabited Rakurai Bay.

Still, he'd prefer not to have to anchor anywhere, and—

"Sail ho!"

Thirsk jerked as if someone had just poked a particularly sensitive part of his anatomy with a well-heated iron. He wheeled around to stare up at the masthead lookout, and even as he did, he sensed the same incredulous reaction out of every other man on Gorath Bay's deck.

The man had to be mistaken, the earl thought. There was absolutely no reason for anyone to be traveling through these ill-fated waters unless they'd been ordered to by a lunatic like the one who'd written his orders.

"Where away?" Lieutenant Zhaikeb Mathysyn, who had the watch, bellowed.

"Broad on the port beam, Sir!" the lookout shouted back down.

"The man's drunk!" one of the army officers serving as a marine muttered.

Mathysyn appeared torn between irritation at the landsman's criticism and matching incredulity. He glowered at the army officer for a moment, then snapped his fingers and pointed at one of the flagship's midshipmen.

"Take a glass and get aloft, Master Haskyn!" he snapped.

"Yes, Sir!"

Haskyn seized the heavy spyglass, slung it across his back on its carrying strap, and scampered up the ratlines with the nimbleness of his fifteen years. He clambered into the crow's-nest, unslung the glass, and rested it on the crow's— nest rail for steadiness while he peered through it for several minutes. Personally, Thirsk suspected the youngster was spending at least part of that time catching his breath.

"It's a single ship, Sir!" Haskyn shouted down finally. "She's making almost straight for us on the wind!"

Thirsk frowned in fresh consternation. Even if a merchant ship had been passing through these waters for some unimaginable reason of its own, no merchant skipper could have a legitimate reason to make for Armageddon Reef. And even if he'd had such a reason, a single ship could hardly have failed to spot the galleys' miles-long, straggling formation before he was spotted in turn! Which should have sent him heading in the opposite direction at the best speed he could manage.

Unless, of course, it was a courier ship sent to find them?

He shook his head almost as quickly as that thought occurred to him. They were over five hundred miles south of the course they'd been ordered to follow, and almost three five-days behind schedule. Even if someone had wanted to send them a courier, it would never have looked for them here. So what-?

"She's schooner-rigged, Sir!" Haskyn shouted, and Thirsk's heart seemed to skip a beat.

"Repeat that!" Mathysyn's bellow sounded disbelieving, but Haskyn stood his ground.

"She's schooner-rigged, Sir!" he repeated. "I can see her topsails clearly!"

"Get down here!" Mathysyn ordered, and Haskyn obeyed. He didn't bother with the ratlines this time; he reached out, caught a backstay, wrapped his legs around it, and slid down it to thump solidly on the deck almost at Mathysyn's feet.

"Yes, Sir?" he said.

"Are you sure it's a schooner?" the lieutenant demanded, almost glaring at the young man.

"Yes, Sir."

"Why?"

"Don't you remember that Tarot-owned schooner we saw when we made port at Ferayd in Delferahk, Sir?" The midshipman shook his head. "There's no mistaking that rig, Sir."

Mathysyn had opened his mouth. Now he shut it again and nodded slowly, instead.

"Very well, Master Haskyn. Present my respects to Captain Maikel and inform him of your observations."

"Yes, Sir!"

Haskyn bowed in salute and headed for the aftercastle ladder at a run.

* * *

"I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but we've just received a signal from Spy," Captain Manthyr said as he stepped past Lieutenant Falkhan into the chart room.

"Have we?" Crown Prince Cayleb asked calmly, turning from the chart table to face him.

"Yes, Your Highness. 'Enemy in sight,'-" he read from a notepad. "— 'Bearing from my position west-southwest, distance eighteen miles. Enemy course southwest, estimated speed six knots. Thirty-plus galleys in sight.'-"

He lowered the notepad, and the expression on his face was a curious mix of awe and intense satisfaction.

"Thank you, Gwylym," Cayleb said, without even glancing at Merlin. "Please make certain Admiral Staynair has that information, as well."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Also, request the Admiral to come on board and bring Captain Bowsham with him, please."

"Yes, Your Highness."

Cayleb nodded, and Manthyr came to attention and touched his left shoulder in salute, then departed. Cayleb waited until the chart room door had closed behind him, then, finally, turned to look at Merlin.

"So here we are," he said.

"Here we are," Merlin agreed.

"You know, don't you," Cayleb said with a crooked grin, "that the fleet's starting to think I'm almost as peculiar as you are?"

"Nonsense." Merlin shook his head with a chuckle. "You explained your logic perfectly."

"Sure." Cayleb rolled his eyes, and Merlin chuckled again, louder.

All of Cayleb's captains were already convinced Wave Thunder's putative Tarotisian spies had gotten inside information on the course the Southern Force had been ordered to follow. The tricky part had been allowing for the possibility-probability, really-that Thirsk and White Ford would be able to talk Duke Malikai into following the southern course, instead of the one they'd actually been given, in a way which would explain any changes in their own course which Merlin's "visions" might require.

Cayleb had simply observed at one of the early captains' conferences that only a lunatic would sail directly across the Parker Sea in a fleet of coastal galleys. He'd commented that he himself would have ignored his orders and stayed closer to Armageddon Reef. And, when Merlin confirmed that Thirsk and White Ford had managed to talk Malikai around, Cayleb decided during the next meeting with his captains that they were going to "play his hunch" and cover the Armageddon Reef route, instead.

It was unlikely Manthyr was particularly astounded by the fact that the Southern Force had, indeed, followed Cayleb's predicted route, although that obviously didn't keep him from deeply respecting Cayleb's iron nerve in playing his "hunch." What had surprised the prince's flag captain was the unerring-one might almost say uncanny-accuracy with which the prince's "seaman's instinct" had permitted the galleons to intercept that galley fleet on a course which left them perfectly placed to run down on the enemy force.

Of course, he didn't know Cayleb, courtesy of Lieutenant Merlin Athrawes, had the benefit of satellite reconnaissance.

"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.

It was exactly what Merlin had wanted, although he'd never wanted it this soon, before he-and Charis-had had time to prepare for it. But Nimue Alban had been a student of military history, and so, unlike the Group of Four, Merlin did know what all-out religious war could be like, and as he listened to that hard, powerful "Amen!" and joined his own to it, the heart he no longer had was cold within him.

Cayleb turned his head, surveying his flagship one last time. The decks had been sanded for traction. The guns had already been run in, loaded with round shot and a charge of grape, and run back out. Marines, armed with the new muskets and bayonets, were positioned along the spar deck hammock nettings and in the fighting tops, along with sailors manning the swivel guns Safeholdians called "wolves" which were mounted there. Buckets of sand and water for firefighting, should it prove necessary. Boat chocks, empty where the boats had been swayed out to tow astern. Above the deck, the rigging and sails stood in sharp, geometric patterns, capturing the power of the wind itself. And below decks, Merlin knew, as he watched one of the younger midshipmen swallow hard, the healers and surgeons waited with their knives and saws.

"Very well, Captain Manthyr," Cayleb said finally, deliberately raising his voice for others to hear as he turned to his flag captain. "Please hoist that signal for me."

"Aye, aye, Your Majesty!" Manthyr replied crisply, and nodded to Midshipman Kohrby. "Hoist the signal, if you please, Master Kohrby."

"Aye, aye, Sir!" Kohrby saluted, then turned to issue sharp, clear orders of his own to the signal party.

The hoist rose quickly to the yardarm just as the rising sun, with perfect timing, heaved itself over the cloud-girt eastern horizon. It illuminated the signal flags in rich, golden light, and a huge, hungry cheer went up from Dreadnought's company. Few of them could read that signal hoist, but all of them had been told what it said, and Merlin's lips twitched under his mustachios.

If I'm the only person on this entire planet who remembers any of Old Earth's history, he thought, I might as well go ahead and crib all the good lines I can think of!

Cayleb had loved the message when Merlin had suggested it to him last night, following Staynair's departure.

"Charis expects that every man will do his duty," those flags said, and as the rising sun picked out the signal, Merlin heard Dreadnought's cheer echoing wildly from her next astern, frayed by the wind but powerful.

Cayleb turned to him with a smile.

"Well, you were certainly right about that," he said. "In fact, I-"

"Sail ho!" The shout from the lookout echoed down.

"Enemy in sight!"

* * *

Earl Thirsk heaved himself up into Gorath Bay's crow's-nest, panting from the exhausting climb up the ratlines. He was too old-and too out of shape-for that sort of exertion these days, but he had to see this for himself.

He settled his back against the vibrating tree trunk of the mast, and forced himself not to wrap one arm about something to steady himself. The galley's roll was far more pronounced this high above the deck, and the crow's-nest seemed to be swooping through an even wide arc than he knew was the case.

It's been too long since I had to climb up here, a corner of his mind thought, but it was only a very distant reflection as his own eyes confirmed the lookout's impossible reports.

The wind had freshened steadily overnight and veered around perhaps one point to the north. The waves were high enough to make rowing far worse than merely awkward, especially for the Dohlaran galleys, with their lower oarports, and shallower hulls. In fact, he knew he was driving Gorath Bay harder than was really safe under these conditions, and if he'd dared, he would have considered ordering his squadron to take a third reef to reduce sail area further.

But the one thing he couldn't possibly do was to reduce speed. Not when there was already such a gap between his squadron and Duke Malikai's flagship. King Raynahld was hull-down from Gorath Bay's deck, almost completely out of sight, and White Ford's ships were even further ahead. This was no time to let the gap between them widen . . . especially not when at least twenty-five galleons of the Royal Charisian Navy were bearing down upon the spread out, straggling "formation" of the combined fleet.

They couldn't be here. Despite the evidence of his eyes, despite the golden kraken on black flying from their mizzen peaks, his mind insisted upon repeating that disbelieving thought. Even if Haarahld had known what was coming, he couldn't possibly have predicted where to find the combined fleet! And only a madman would have sent so much of his own navy out into the middle of this vast wasteland of saltwater on some quixotic quest to find the enemy.

And yet, there they were.

The rain which had soaked the fleet all through the night had started to taper off as the overcast began breaking up shortly before dawn. There were still a few lines of showers following behind it, though, and fresh clouds were billowing up along the eastern horizon, promising still more rain by nightfall. And the earlier rainfall had reduced visibility to no more than a few miles until it cleared, which explained how those galleons could have gotten so near without being spotted.

Of course, it didn't explain how those same galleons could have known exactly where the fleet was through that same curtain of rain.

He drew a deep breath and raised his spyglass to examine the enemy.

He'd never seen sailing ships hold such precise formation. That was his first thought, as the lead ships of the two columns bearing down upon him swam into focus through the spyglass.

I've never seen that many gunports before, either, he thought a moment later as he watched them surging boldly through the whitecaps and ten-foot waves in explosions of flying spray. Obviously the rumors about how many guns the Charisians were putting aboard their galleons had been accurate. In fact, it looked as if they'd probably understated the ships' armaments.

As he continued to study them, he began picking out differences between the individual ships. At least half of them must be converted merchant ships, he decided. All of them had the new, Charisian-invented sail plans, but the conversions were smaller, although some of them seemed to have more gunports even than ships considerably bigger than they were. He was willing to bet they didn't all handle equally well, either, although there was no evidence of that yet. Still, they were approaching at least half again his own ships' speed, and they were doing it under topsails and headsails alone. It was obvious they still had speed and maneuverability in reserve . . . unlike his own laboring, foul-bottomed galleys with their single sails.

His mouth tightened at the thought. These weather conditions hugely favored the more seaworthy, more weatherly galleons. Almost worse, he knew his own stunned disbelief at seeing those ships here must be echoing through the entire fleet as the sighting reports were confirmed, demoralizing his officers and crews. The morning's prayers and exhortations from his ships' chaplains, for all the fervor with which they'd been delivered, weren't going to change that. And when those already frightened and apprehensive crews realized just how great a maneuver advantage the enemy held, their demoralization was going to get still worse.

Stop that! he told himself. Yes, it's going to be bad. Accept that. But you've still got over a hundred and fifty ships against no more than thirty! That's an advantage of five-to-one!

He nodded sharply, crisply, and lowered his spyglass, then swung down from the crow's-nest and started clambering back down the ratlines to the deck. All the way down, he repeated the numbers to himself, over and over again.

It didn't help.

His feet finally touched the deck, and he handed the spyglass to a white-faced midshipman, then walked gravely, calmly, across to Captain Maikel.

"There are twenty-five or thirty of them," he said levelly, waving one hand in the direction of the clutter of topsails appearing against the blue-patched, shredding gray rain clouds to the northeast. "They're formed in two columns. It looks to me as if they're planning to cut straight through our line-such as it is, and what there is of it"-his mouth twitched in a smile which held at least a ghost of genuine humor-"and then try to chew up whatever they catch between them."

He paused, and Maikel nodded in understanding, his expression strained.

"If they hold their present course, their weather column's going to cut across our course at least five or six miles ahead of us. I suspect-" he smiled again, tightly "-that King Rahnyld's sheer size has attracted their attention and they're planning to make her their first objective. If that happens, all we can do is maintain our present heading and try to come to the Duke's aid as quickly as we can."

"Yes, My Lord," Maikel said when the earl paused once more.

"Signal the rest of the squadron to maintain course and close up on us. I know most of them won't be able to, but every little bit will help."

"At once, My Lord." Maikel nodded to Lieutenant Mathysyn. "See to it," he said.

"After that, Captain," Thirsk said, "all we can do is prepare for battle."

"Yes, My Lord." Maikel bowed, and as Thirsk walked across to the weather bulwark and gazed up to windward at those oncoming topsails, he heard the deep-throated drums booming out the call to battle.

* * *

"Well, they've seen us," Cayleb commented as a final line of showers poured rain across Dreadnought's decks.

The prince ignored the water dripping from the brim of his helmet while he frowned thoughtfully.

The rain was clearing, but if Merlin's prediction was accurate, fresh, heavier rain-and still ber winds, veering yet further around to the north-would make themselves felt no later than midafternoon. He had perhaps six hours before visibility began to deteriorate once more.

He could see the nearest galleys quite clearly now from deck level. The entire western horizon, as far north and south as he could see, was dotted with more sails, and he grimaced. Despite Merlin's descriptions and the sighting reports from Spy and her consort Speedwell, he hadn't truly visualized just how enormous-and spread out-his target was.

He considered what he could see, wondering if he ought to adjust his battle plan. The six schooners attached to his fleet were up to windward, under orders to stay out of the battle but remain close enough to see and repeat signals from or to Dreadnought or Gale. If he wanted to order any changes, he still had time, but not a great deal of it.

Dreadnought was the lead ship in the weather column. In some ways, it would have made more sense to put the flagship in the center of the line, where Cayleb would be better placed-at least in theory-to see more of the engagement and coordinate at least its opening stages more closely. Unfortunately, once the gunsmoke started billowing, no one was going to be able to see very much, even with this wind; that much had become painfully clear from Staynair's work with the Experimental Squadron. So both Cayleb and Staynair were leading their respective columns, which gave them the greatest degree of control over where those columns went before action was joined. And as long as the ships in line behind them followed in their wakes, it would give them the greatest control over where the action went after battle was joined, as well.

His frown deepened. Each column was almost three miles long, and Staynair's fifteen ships were about six miles to leeward of his own as they angled towards the enemy. Dreadnought was creeping just a bit to the north of the point Cayleb had originally selected, but that didn't bother him. Captain Manthyr had spotted the enormous galley flying the command streamer of a Dohlaran admiral and adjusted his course to pass astern of it accordingly.

Spurts of dirty, gray-white smoke began to erupt from some of the nearer galleys. The probability of anyone hitting anything from that range, especially with pre-Merlin artillery, was as close to nonexistent as anything Cayleb could think of. He couldn't even see the splashes where most of the round shot-which had to be aimed at Dreadnought-hit the water.

He pondered the situation for a moment longer, then shrugged. The plan he and Staynair and Merlin had put together was the best they'd been able to come up with between them. He wasn't going to start mucking about with it simply because he had a bad case of first-battle nerves.

He snorted quietly, amused by his own thoughts, and didn't even notice how his sudden smile relaxed the shoulders of the officers standing about him on the flagship's quarterdeck.

"About fifteen minutes, I make it, Captain Manthyr," he said conversationally.

"About that, Your Highness," Manthyr agreed.

"Very well, then, Captain," Cayleb said more formally. "Engage the enemy."

"Aye, aye, Your Highness!"

* * *

Faidel Ahlverez, Duke of Malikai, stood on King Rahnyld's aftercastle and watched the column of galleons headed towards his flagship. The lead ship in the enemy line was one of the largest in the Charisian formation, and Malikai's jaws clenched as it drew close enough for him to see the coronet above the golden kraken flying from its mizzen peak. Only one person in all of Charis was entitled to fly that flag: the heir to the throne.

Cayleb, he thought. Crown Prince Cayleb Ahrmahk himself, bearing down upon him like the get of some demon. Malikai hadn't placed much faith in the Church's obvious suspicions about Charis' orthodoxy, but how else to explain those galleons' presence, better than seven thousand miles' sail from Rock Shoal Bay? How else to explain how they could even have found his fleet, much less appeared in exactly the right position to press home their attack?

Cold, dull terror burned deep inside him, made still worse by the proximity of Armageddon Reef. He should never have allowed Thirsk and White Ford to talk him into staying so close to this accursed land! He should have sailed as he'd always intended to, as he'd been ordered to. Far better to have risked losing his entire fleet to wind and storm than to have it destroyed by the legions of Hell!

Captain Ekyrd stood by the port bulwark, watching the oncoming enemy intently, and Malikai glared at his flag captain's back. Ekyrd had recommended ordering the fleet to put about, even if it had to do so under oars, after the first unknown sail had been sighted. Malikai had brushed the suggestion aside, of course. The sighting report had probably been in error, and even if it hadn't, there couldn't possibly have been anything else behind that lone sail-certainly not anything capable of threatening a fleet the size of his!

Now his own flag captain was ignoring him.

Malikai glared at Ekyrd's straight spine, then touched the hilt of his sword. He eased it in its sheath, making certain it moved freely, and then looked at the gunners crouching above the breeches of their cannon.

Ekyrd had argued against Malikai's orders this morning, as well. He'd wanted to try to stay away from the Charisians, far enough that the guns of his lofty ship could at least hope to hit them, rather than close straight into their own guns, but Malikai had overruled him harshly. Those galleons might have more artillery than any of his ships did, but his galleys each carried enormous crews, buttressed by heavy drafts on the finest regiments of the Royal Army. If they could ever lay one of those galleons alongside, sweep over its decks with their boarding pikes, swords, and axes, it wouldn't matter how many guns the accursed thing had! And whatever Ekyrd might think, Malikai had five times as many galleys as they had galleons.

He bared his teeth, matching anger at his flag captain's cowardice against the cold poison of his own fear, as more guns began to fire aboard other galleys and the Charisians drew implacably closer and closer.

* * *

The first few round shot whimpered through the air above Dreadnought like lost, damned souls. One of them hit the main topsail and punched through the wet canvas with the slap of a giant's fist. Another skipped across the ship's bows barely five feet in front of her, and then she took her first true hit.

A round shot, probably an eight-pounder from a long falcon, slammed into her below the spar deck hammock nettings and just forward of the mainmast. It erupted through the starboard bulwark in a burst of jagged splinters and cut a standing Marine in half in an explosion of blood. Yells and a few screams announced that the splinters had inflicted wounds of their own, and more than one member of Dreadnought's crew flinched. But she continued to forge steadily ahead, and the massive bulk of King Rahnyld was less than seventy yards away.

* * *

"Stand ready to port your helm!" Captain Ekyrd said to his first lieutenant. "Our best chance is going to come after they pass astern of us!"

"Yes, Sir."

Malikai's lips twisted with contempt as he heard the faint quaver in the lieutenant's voice. The other man's obvious fear was a welcome distraction from his own, and he drew his sword as the end of Dreadnought's long bowsprit began to pass across King Rahnyld's wake barely fifty yards behind the flagship.

* * *

"Fire as you bear!" Captain Manthyr bellowed as Dreadnought presented the muzzles of her forward guns to her target.

King Rahnyld's high, massive stern towered above the low-slung galleon. Despite the wear and tear the galley had suffered over the thousands of miles she had voyaged to reach this point, despite the sea slime and tendrils of weed along her waterline, traces of gilding still clung to the magnificent carving, gleaming against the vibrant color of broken gray cloud and bright blue sky in the morning light. Green water and white spray curled back from her hull as the seas washed higher than her lower bank of oarports, and the rows of her vast stern windows flashed back the sun, despite the rime of salt which encrusted them. Helmets could be seen above the aftercastle's bulwark, glinting dully with the sheen of steel, and more sunlight glittered from the points of boarding pikes and the blades of axes and halberds, the barrels of matchlock muskets. The galley's reefed replacement sail, patched and worn, bellied out like a shield, and shouts of defiance rang out.

But those shouts sounded halfhearted, and they were met only by silence from Dreadnought's disciplined crew.

Fire flashed in King Rahnyld's stern gunports, but the ports were too high, the gunners had mistimed the ship's motion, and Dreadnought was too close to her. Her guns, unlike Charisian artillery, couldn't be depressed, and the balls screamed across Dreadnought, without hitting a thing, and plunged uselessly into the water far beyond her.

And then the galleon's forward guns came to bear.

Gun by gun, the muzzles belched flame and choking smoke as the captains jerked their firing lanyards. The range was less than sixty yards, and unlike King Rahnyld's gunners, the gun crews had timed their own ship's motion almost perfectly. Gunport by gunport, down the full length of the galleon's side, guns lurched back, recoiling in a mad chorus of squealing gun trucks, as their round shot-each shot with a charge of grapeshot for good measure-smashed into King Rahnyld like an iron avalanche.

The galley's stern windows disappeared, blotted away as Dreadnought's raking fire turned that magnificent sternwork into the mouth of a gaping cave of horror. Roundshot and grapeshot ripped down the full length of the ship. Splinters flew, men screamed, and the billowing smoke of the broadside hid the carnage of its impact.

There was time for only one shot from each gun as the galleon crossed King Rahnyld's stern, but Captain Manthyr's voice rang out.

"Off sheets and braces! Starboard your helm!" he shouted.

* * *

Duke Malikai's world disintegrated in a stunning eruption of devastation. He'd never imagined, never dreamed of, anything like the long, unending bellow of Dreadnought's broadside. Twenty-seven guns hurled round shot six and a half inches in diameter, each weighing over thirty-eight pounds and accompanied by twenty-seven inch-and-a-half grapeshot, into his ship. They came crashing in through the galley's stern, totally undeterred by the flimsy glass and carved planking, and smashed clear to the bow, killing and maiming anyone in their path.

That carefully aimed and timed broadside killed or wounded over a hundred and thirty of King Rahnyld's crew. Men shrieked as round shot, grapeshot, and splinters of their own ship ripped into them. Blood sprayed across deck planks in great, grotesque patterns, and men who'd never imagined such a hurricane of fire-men already demoralized and frightened by the inexplicable appearance of their enemies so many thousands of miles from Charis-stared in horror at their mangled crewmates.

Most of Dreadnought's fire went in below the level of King Rahnyld's aftercastle. Half a dozen round shot crashed directly through the galley's great cabin, exploding out from under the break of the aftercastle and cutting great, blood-splashed furrows through the men packing her deck. But at least two shots ripped upward, directly through the aftercastle, and Malikai staggered as a blizzard of splinters howled through the officers gathered there.

Something big, heavy, and fast-moving slammed into his own breastplate, nearly knocking him from his feet. But the armor held. The impact spun him around, just in time to see Captain Ekyrd stumble backward, clutching at the thick splinter which had driven into the side of his neck like a jagged-edged harpoon. Blood sprayed around the splinter, like water from the nozzle of a pump, and the captain thudded to the deck.

Malikai fought for balance as the final shots of Dreadnought's thundering broadside hammered into his flagship. His mind seemed stunned, as if it were caught in some thick, dragging quicksand. He stared about wildly, and saw Dreadnought passing clear of his ship to starboard.

The galleon put her helm over, turning steadily to port, taking the wind broad on her beam rather than directly astern. Her yards moved smoothly, with machinelike precision, as she settled on the port tack, a hundred yards to leeward, between King Rahnyld and Armageddon Reef, like a kraken between a new-hatched sea wyvern and the land.

The confusion and carnage her fire had wreaked paralyzed King Rahnyld. The galley's captain was dead; her first lieutenant was mortally wounded; her helmsmen lay bleeding their lives out on the deck. By the time her second lieutenant could begin reasserting control, Dreadnought had settled on her new heading and her broadside thundered again.

Fresh round shot battered into the galley's towering starboard side, not her flimsier stern. The thicker planking offered little more resistance to the galleon's heavy shot, but it provided more and bigger splinters to slice lethally into her crew. And as Dreadnought fired into her yet again, HMS Destroyer, Dreadnought's next astern, crossed King Rahnyld's wake and raked her all over again.

Malikai turned back from Dreadnought as Destroyer opened fire, and in the second galleon's thundering guns he saw the destruction of his fleet. None of his galleys could begin to match the concentrated firepower of Cayleb's galleons; they were hopelessly spread out and disordered while the Charisian ships were in a compact, well controlled formation, firing their guns with impossible rapidity; and galleys were at a hopeless maneuver disadvantage in the existing sea conditions. Numbers meant nothing unless they could be brought to bear, and his couldn't be.

He heard the flagship's second lieutenant shouting orders to the replacement helmsmen, fighting desperately to at least turn King Rahnyld's stern away from that terrible, raking fire. But even as the lumbering galley began finally, reluctantly, to answer to her helm, a round shot cut away her mainmast below deck level. It came thundering down, spilling over the side in a tangle of shattered timber, flailing canvas, and broken rigging. It smashed across the deck and into the water, and the galley lurched wildly, indescribably, as she found herself suddenly helpless. The wreckage alongside acted like a huge sea anchor, dragging her around, and still that merciless fire smashed into her again and again and again.

Malikai stared aft, his stunned brain reeling, as the third ship in Cayleb's line came crashing in. King Rahnyld had turned enough for HMS Daring's fire to hammer into her quarter, instead of directly into her stern, but the flagship wasn't really her primary target.

Duke of Fern, the next galley astern of King Rahnyld, had shaken out one of her reefs as she fought to come to the fleet commander's assistance. She heeled dangerously under the greater sail area, but she also drove through the water faster . . . only to find herself driving straight into the fire of Daring's starboard broadside, as well.

Malikai cringed as the volcanic fury of the galleon's fire erupted. He could hardly see through the choking pall of gunsmoke, but the wall of smoke lifted on the fiery breath of yet another galleon's broadsides as HMS Defense came into action, as well. She blasted her fury into his ship, and into Duke of Fern, and behind her came HMS Devastation.

All he could hear was the thunder of Charisian artillery. It seemed to come from every direction-from all directions-as Dreadnought's consorts followed her around, pushing steadily southwest. They were faster-much faster-under sail than any of his galleys, and their guns fired steadily, mercilessly, with that same impossible rapidity, as they overtook ship after ship.

King Rahnyld's motion was growing heavier and heavier. Her hull must be filling with water, Malikai thought vaguely as he staggered to the side. He leaned on a shattered bulwark, aware of the heaps of bodies and parts of bodies littering the aftercastle. The main deck was a chaos of corpses where the men Captain Ekyrd had assembled for the boarding attempt which had never happened lay piled in mangled drifts, and he looked over the side at the thick tendrils of blood oozing from the galley's scuppers. It was as if the ship herself were bleeding, a corner of his brain thought. And then something made him look up as Devastation swung around the shattered, slowly foundering hulk which had once been the pride of the Dohlaran Navy.

He raised his head just in time to see the thunderous flash of the galleon's guns.

It was the last sight he ever saw.

* * *

Dreadnought forged steadily south, leaning to the press of the northeasterly wind. The thunderous cannonade astern of her continued unabated as the other ships of her column crossed the Southern Force's line of advance, then turned to follow in her wake.

The b breeze rolled a billowing fog bank of gunsmoke towards the barely visible smudge of Rock Point, and the ferocity of the fire still roaring behind her indicated that at least some of the galleys north of Malikai's sinking flagship continued trying to fight their way through to the duke's side with futile gallantry.

Neither Cayleb nor Merlin was much concerned by that possibility. The entire enemy fleet was too spread out and straggling to concentrate enough ships for the sort of hammer blow it would take to break past the galleons' broadsides. If they wanted to come in ones and twos, Cayleb was content to leave the problem of their destruction to his captains' discretion while he concentrated on the rest of the Southern Force.

"I think we need a little more speed, Gwylym," he said, glancing up from the billow of smoke still two miles ahead, where Admiral Staynair's column had also broken across the enemy's course, to check the sun's height.

Captain Manthyr glanced upward at the topsails and masthead pendant, gauging the strength of the wind, then waited while a fresh broadside thundered. The galley which had tried to break west, away from Dreadnought, staggered as the galleon's starboard guns hammered her from astern. Rigging parted, her single mast crashed over the side, and she rounded to as the wreckage dragged at her.

"Set the topgallants?" the captain suggested.

"For now," Cayleb agreed.

"Aye, aye, Your Highness." Manthyr lifted his leather speaking trumpet. "Master Gyrard! Hands to make sail, if you please! Let's get the topgallants on her!"

"Aye, aye, Sir!" the first lieutenant acknowledged the order and started giving orders of his own, and seamen from the port gun crews went scampering up the ratlines to lay out along the topgallant yards while others raced to the forecastle and afterdeck and along the spar decks above the guns to the pinrails to cast off sheets, buntlines, and clewlines.

"Loose topgallants!" Manthyr bellowed through his speaking trumpet, and the hands aloft ungasketed the sails, untying the gaskets which fastened the canvas to the yards. The captain watched them critically, fingers of his left hand drumming slowly against his thigh while his ship's guns put another bellowing broadside into the galley to starboard.

"Let fall the topgallants!" the captain shouted, and the hands aloft pushed the canvas off the yard into its gear.

"Sheet home the topgallants!" Manthyr commanded.

"Sheet home!" the officer in charge of each mast echoed.

"Ease the buntlines and clewlines!" the pinrail captains commanded, and the topgallant sails fell like vast curtains, billowing above the already drawing topsails as the powerful wind filled them.

"Haul around on the sheets!"

Dreadnought leaned harder to the press of her increased canvas as her topgallants were braced round. She drove across the beam sea in sharp, white explosions of spray, and her starboard gunports dipped closer to the water. But the same increased angle of heel lifted her weather gunports higher, and she bore down upon the galleys ahead of her like a stooping hawk.

A final broadside from her starboard guns slammed into the galley to leeward, and Cayleb looked astern. Destroyer was setting her own topgallants to match the flagship, and beyond her, above the billows of smoke as she fired into the same hapless galley, he could see more canvas blossoming from the other ships in his column.

He glanced at Merlin with a tight, kraken-like grin, then turned back to the south as Captain Manthyr altered course very slightly to bring his port guns to bear upon yet another Dohlaran galley.

* * *

Gahvyn Mahrtyn, Baron White Ford, stood like a statue atop King Gorjah II's aftercastle. Captain Kaillee stood beside him, and both of them stared up to the north. The Tarotisian galleys had been leading the combined fleet, and King Gorjah II was near the head of the entire formation. White Ford was too far south to see clearly what was happening, but his lookouts left him in little doubt of the totality of the disaster.

"How did they do it, My Lord?" Kaillee muttered beside him, and the baron shrugged.

"I have no idea, Zhilbert," he admitted candidly. "But how they did it doesn't really matter at the moment, does it?"

"No, My Lord," Kaillee agreed grimly, and turned to look at his admiral.

White Ford continued gazing northward. The wind carried the intermittent rumble of the heavy cannonade to him, and the sound was growing both steadier and louder as it drew closer. His lookouts had reported "many" galleons, but he was quite certain they hadn't seen all of them yet. If Haarahld of Charis had run the insane risk of sending any of his galleons this far from Rock Shoal Bay, he would have sent all of them. And just from the weight of fire White Ford could hear, they had to be steadily reducing the Dohlaran ships astern of him to wreckage.

He looked up at the sky. The sun had moved well to the west of noon, and the clouds which had hovered on the eastern horizon earlier in the day were sweeping steadily-and rapidly-closer. Indeed, their outriders were already overhead. More rain, he thought. Soon. And judging by how quickly it was coming on, the wind was going to increase still further, as well.

He turned and looked to the west. Crag Hook, the finger of rocky cliffs reaching out to the southwest to shelter Crag Reach, was broad on his starboard beam, and he felt a deep, burning temptation to alter course. If he passed between Crag Hook and Opal Island into the sheltered waters of the reach, his ships would be protected from the weather rolling in from the west. And in those sheltered waters, they'd be able to maneuver under oars, able-in theory, at least-to give a better account of themselves against the vengefully pursuing galleons.

But . . .

"We'll hold our course," he said, responding to Kaillee's unasked question. "And we'll shake out a reef, as well."

Protest hovered behind the flag captain's eyes, and White Ford's bark of laughter was harsh.

"It's tempting," he admitted, waving his right arm at the passage into Crag Reach. "It's very tempting, and I know I'm risking the ship by increasing sail in this wind. But if we take shelter in the reach, they'll either come straight in after us or else hover off Opal Island to keep us penned up like sheep until they're ready to attack. And when they do, those guns of theirs will chop us up for kraken bait."

Kaillee looked rebellious, and White Ford shook his head.

"I know what you're thinking, Zhilbert, but listen to that." The wind brought the thunder of cannon to them more clearly, and the baron grimaced. "They don't just have more guns; they're firing them much more rapidly, as well. It's the only explanation for how they can be producing that much fire. And"-he smiled grimly-"it also explains why they were putting so many guns aboard galleons in the first place, doesn't it?"

"Yes, My Lord. I suppose it does."

Kaillee's look of rebellion faded, but one of deep concern remained, and White Ford understood perfectly. They were still almost two hundred and fifty miles north of Cape Ruin, and there was no protected anchorage between Crag Reach and Demon Bay.

"I imagine we're going to lose some more galleys, if the wind makes up the way it looks like it's going to," the baron said unflinchingly. "But bad weather will make it harder for them to run any more of us down, and we'll have a better chance against the sea than we will against that."

He jerked his head back to the north, and finally, slowly, his flag captain nodded not just in acceptance, but in agreement.

"Yes, My Lord," he said.

"Good, Zhilbert." White Ford laid one hand lightly on Kaillee's shoulder, then inhaled deeply. "And make a signal to all ships in company to make more sail, as well."

IV

HMS Dreadnought,

Off Armageddon Reef

"Secure the guns, Captain," Crown Prince Cayleb said.

"Aye, aye, Sir," Captain Manthyr replied. "Master Sahdlyr, secure the guns."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Lieutenant Bynzhamyn Sahdlyr was Dreadnought's second lieutenant, but he was acting as first. Lieutenant Gyrard was among the ship's nineteen wounded.

All along the ship, bone-weary seamen ran the guns in one last time, cautious with their two-ton charges on the pitching deck. Handspikes under the cascabels heaved up, depressing the guns' muzzles until the loaded round shot rolled out onto the deck, pushing the wads before them. Then hook-headed staffs were used to extract the powder cartridges before the guns were wormed to scrub away the worst of the built-up powder fouling and vent holes were thoroughly cleaned. Gun captains inspected the pieces carefully, then tampions and vent aprons were replaced and they were hauled back up to the closed gunports and secured for sea.

While the guns crews worked, Cayleb strode to the taffrail and looked astern. Destroyer still forged along in Dreadnought's wake. She'd fallen farther astern-at six hundred yards, the interval between them had grown to twice what it had been at the start of the action-but she was making up the lost ground steadily.

It was hard to make out very much beyond her. The setting sun was invisible beyond the thick cloud cover, foam was beginning to blow in streaks, and what had begun as gusting showers of rain was turning into a steady downpour. The sails of Destroyer's next astern were dimly visible through the rain and spray, but the ship herself was impossible for Cayleb to identify, and he couldn't see the other ships of his column at all.

The crown prince turned his head as Merlin stepped up beside him. Lieutenant Falkhan stood between them and the rest of the quarterdeck, affording them privacy and serving as a discreet suggestion to others that they should do the same.

"Are they all still back there?" Cayleb asked. He had to raise his voice to a near shout to carry through the tumult of rain, wind, creaking timbers, and waves.

"Not quite." Merlin raised his own voice as he gazed out into the darkening rain. But his eyes were unfocused as he studied not Destroyer, but the overhead imagery Owl was feeding him from his SNARC. "The column's not as neat as it was. Dagger and Dreadful are sailing almost abreast, and most of the ships have changed their relative positions. All of them left the line at some point to deal with a cripple or someone trying to run, and Damsel and Torrent never managed to rejoin-they're making for Samuel Island-but we didn't lose any of them. The other twelve all got back into formation somehow, and they're still back there."

"I can hardly believe it," Cayleb confessed. He turned to look forward along Dreadnought's decks. "I mean, I knew the new guns were going to give us a tremendous advantage, but still . . ."

His voice trailed off. Merlin nodded, but his expression was shadowed with more than rain and spray.

"We may not have actually lost a ship, but didn't get off scot-free," he pointed out, and it was Cayleb's turn to nod grimly.

Dreadnought herself had taken sixteen hits, nine of them from guns at least as heavy as her own. She'd been holed below the waterline twice, but the carpenter and his assistants had hammered wooden shot plugs into the holes to stop the leaks. One of her foredeck carronades had been dismounted, and most of its crew had been killed by the same hit. Another round shot had taken a bite out of her mainmast. That, fortunately, had been a glancing hit, and before he'd been wounded, Lieutenant Gyrard had "fished" the wounded portion of the mast by lashing spars into place to stiffen it, like a splint on a broken arm.

The port anchor had been shot away, as well, and there were dozens of new splices in the running rigging, not to mention holes in almost every one of her sails. But despite all that, and despite her seventeen dead and nineteen wounded, the majority cut down by flying splinters, she was in incredibly good shape.

Other galleons, Merlin knew, had been less fortunate. HMS Typhoon, from the original Experimental Squadron, in Admiral Staynair's column, had found herself running along between two particularly ably handled Tarotisian galleys. She'd hammered both of them into wrecks, but a lucky hit from their own artillery had cut her mainmast no more than a dozen feet above the deck. Worse, the collapsing mast had fallen across the Tarotisian to leeward, and the surviving members of the galleon's crew had stormed across the tangle of fallen spars in a desperate boarding attempt.

It had failed, amid horrendous casualties, inflicted in no small part by the flintlock muskets and bayonets of Typhoon's eighty Marines. But it had inflicted even more losses on Typhoon's company, as well. The galleon's total casualties amounted to over two hundred, better than half her total ship's company, and she'd lost contact with the rest of Staynair's column. But Captain Stywyrt was still on his feet, despite having suffered a minor wound of his own during the boarding attempt, and he had the situation under control. Despite the damage to her masts and rigging, she was still seaworthy, and he was conning her carefully through the rain and steadily rising wind towards the prearranged rendezvous off Samuel Island where the two supply ships awaited the rest of the fleet.

Very few of Cayleb's ships were undamaged, but none of the others had been as badly hurt as Typhoon. In fact, Dreadnought's damages were worse than most, probably because she'd been at the head of her column.

"What can you tell me about Domynyk and the other side?" Cayleb asked, leaning closer, until their heads were only inches apart.

He still had to raise his voice to be heard through the noise of wind and sea, but not even Ahrnahld Falkhan could have overheard him, and this time Merlin turned his head to look at him levelly. He raised one eyebrow, and Cayleb showed his teeth in a tight grin.

"It's a bit late for either of us to be pretending you need to withdraw to your quarters and meditate, Merlin," he said, eyes flickering with humor.

"All right," Merlin agreed, then stroked one of his mustachios thoughtfully for a moment.

"Traveler and Summer Moon are waiting at the rendezvous with Intrepid," he said, beginning with the supply ships and their escorting schooner. "All the other schooners are still in good shape, but they're worrying more about the weather than anything else right now. I imagine most of them will make for Samuel Island, too, as soon as they can.

"Domynyk's column is pretty much intact. Typhoon, Thunderbolt, and Maelstrom have all gotten separated from his formation-they're proceeding independently to Samuel Island, like Damsel and Torrent-but the others are still in company with him. Domynyk himself is still in action with the trailers from White Ford's formation, but I think at least ten or twelve of the Tarotisians are going to evade him in this stuff," he waved an arm at the weather. "White Ford's leading them, and he's driving them awfully hard for these conditions. He's also well past Cape Ruin. I think he's making for Dexter Point at the moment, but whether he's thinking in terms of Demon Reach or continuing to run I couldn't say.

"There're another five or six galleys to the east," he continued, gesturing at the almost pitch-dark eastern horizon, and his expression was grim. "Two of them are pretty badly damaged; I don't think they'll survive the night. The others may, but two of them are Dohlarans, and they're already in trouble."

He paused for a moment, staring off into the darkness where the men crewing those galleys fought for their lives against the hunger of the sea beyond even the sight of his eyes, then looked back at Cayleb.

"Earl Thirsk's in command of what's left," he said. "He's got about sixty galleys and all the remaining store ships, and he's rounding Crag Hook right this minute. He'll be safely anchored in Crag Reach within another two or three hours."

"I see."

Cayleb frowned, staring at nothing while he considered what Merlin had told him. He stayed that way for several seconds, then looked back at Merlin.

"What's our own current position?" he asked.

"So, now I'm your navigator, as well, am I?" Merlin retorted with a smile.

"When a wizard-or a seijin-appears to offer you his services, you might as well take full advantage of them," Cayleb replied with another of those tight grins.

"Well, for your information, we're about thirty-three miles south-southeast of the northern tip of Opal Island."

"And is Thirsk anchoring behind Crag Hook or in the lee of Opal?"

"Behind Crag Hook," Merlin replied.

Cayleb nodded again, obviously thinking hard, then grimaced.

"I can't remember the chart well enough," he admitted. "Could we make the passage between Opal and Crag Hook from here in a single tack?"

It was Merlin's turn to frown as he studied the satellite imagery relayed to him from the overhead SNARC.

"I don't think so," he said after a moment, speaking just a bit more slowly. "The wind's veered too far round."

"I was afraid of that. Still, it may be for the best. The men can use the rest."

Merlin turned to face the prince squarely.

"Cayleb, you aren't thinking about going into Crag Reach after them tonight, are you?"

"That's exactly what I'm thinking," Cayleb said, and Merlin's frown deepened.

"Cayleb, you've got only thirteen ships-assuming none of the others lose contact on the way, and you're talking about threading a needle in the dark! The passage between Opal and Crag Hook is barely twenty-two miles wide; it's raining hard; night's falling; the wind's still rising; we've got sixteen-foot seas; and every depth your charts show is eight hundred years out of date!"

"Agreed," Cayleb said calmly. "On the other hand, according to the charts, the main channel's over nine miles wide and almost sixty feet deep until you're past the northern tip of the island. Things may have changed since Hastings created the original charts, but there should be enough margin to let us in."

"In the middle of a rainy night?" Merlin demanded. "Without waiting for Domynyk or any of the stragglers?"

"We'll lose at least a couple of days making rendezvous with Domynyk and then getting back into position," Cayleb pointed out.

"Which doesn't change the fact that it's going to be darker than the inside of a barrel by the time we can get there. Your lookouts won't even be able to see Crescent Island, much less avoid running into it!"

"Ah, but I have the aid of a wizard, don't I, Seijin Merlin?" Cayleb replied softly. "You can see Crescent Island, and probably Opal Island and Crag Hook, all at the same time. So Dreadnought will take the lead, and the others will follow in our wake."

"But why run the risk of having one of them go astray?" Merlin argued. "If one of our galleons goes ashore in weather like this, we'll probably lose her entire company, and Thirsk isn't going anywhere. Certainly not before daylight!"

"No, he isn't," Cayleb agreed. "But I'll tell you what he is going to be doing." Merlin raised both eyebrows, and Cayleb shrugged. "He's going to be putting springs on his anchor cables. He's going to be ferrying as many of his heavy guns as he can ashore and setting them up as shore batteries. He's going to be thinking about what we did to him, and thinking about the fact that Crag Reach is a lot better suited to his galleys than the open sea was. And he's going to be doing everything he can to offset his men's panic and shock. He's going to use every single day-every hour-we give him to make arrangements to kill as many of my men as he can when we finally attack."

"But-" Merlin began, and Cayleb shook his head.

"I know that if we wait for Domynyk, we can still destroy every ship Thirsk has, whatever he does in the meantime. But if we give him the time to prepare, we're going to lose ships of our own. Nowhere near as many as he will, I'm sure, but we'll be forced to come to him on far less favorable terms, and there's no way he'll give in without a fight-probably a nasty one, at such close quarters.

"On the other hand, if we go in tonight, while his men are still exhausted and terrified, while he himself is probably still trying to grapple with what we've already done to him, the momentum will all be on our side. His men will feel trapped and helpless, and men who feel that way are a lot more likely to simply surrender instead of fighting to the bitter end."

Merlin had started to open his mouth in fresh protest, but now he closed it. He still thought Cayleb's scheme was risky, but he had to admit the prince appeared to have adjusted quite nicely to the notion that the more-than-human abilities of his seijin-or wizard-were there to be used. And given Merlin's own capabilities, the notion of entering Crag Reach in the middle of a near gale, wasn't quite as insane as it had appeared at first glance.

Yet that wasn't what chopped off his protest. No, what did that was the realization Cayleb was right.

It wasn't really something which would have occurred to Nimue Alban, for there'd been no surrenders in the war she'd fought. There'd been only victors and the dead, and the very concept of quarter had been meaningless. Merlin had allowed for the effects of demoralization and panic on the combat capability of the enemy, but he hadn't gone the one step further and remembered that honorable surrender was a deeply enshrined part of Safeholdian warfare.

And, he admitted to himself, he'd been too concerned with the potential difficulties of simply penetrating Crag Reach to consider how terrifying a night attack in a "secure anchorage" must be. Especially on a night such as this one promised to be . . . and on the heels of the sort of nightmare day the men on the receiving end of it had just endured.

It was still a questionable decision, he reflected. It could be argued either way, and rightfully so. Yet he was coming to suspect that Cayleb Ahrmahk would always prefer the more audacious solution to almost any problem. That could be a bad thing, but only if the prince allowed his instincts to overrule his cold calculation of potential advantages and disadvantages. And despite Merlin's initial reaction, that wasn't what was happening here.

It looks like he's inheriting more than just a throne from his father, Merlin thought, remembering Haarahld's cool, calculating response to the horrendous odds against his kingdom. I wonder if there's a gene for this sort of thing?

"All right, Your Highness," he said finally, his tone rather more formal than had become the norm. "If you're determined to do this, I suppose the least your tame 'wizard' can do for you is help."

"That's the spirit!" Cayleb said, smacking him on the water-streaming backplate of his cuirass, and turned to look over his own shoulder.

"Captain Manthyr! General signal: 'Form line astern of me. Prepare for night action. Repeat to all units.' Then let's get our night lights lit and hoisted while we've still got a little daylight. After that," he bared his teeth at the flag captain, "I want you to change course."

V

Crag Reach,

Armageddon Reef

Earl Thirsk stifled a groan of pure exhaustion as he lowered himself into the chair. His belly rumbled, with a sudden sharp pang, as the aroma of the hot food his valet had managed to put together reminded him he hadn't eaten since breakfast, the better part of thirty-six hours ago.

He started to reach for his wineglass, then stopped, and his mouth twitched wryly. The last thing he needed on a completely empty stomach was wine, and he picked up a large buttered roll, instead.

He bit into it, and at that instant, it was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He forced himself to chew slowly, savoring it rather than wolfing it down like a half-starved slash lizard, then swallowed with a sigh of pleasure.

He leaned forward, gathering up his fork and knife, and cut a piece of the broiled mutton on his plate. It followed the roll into his mouth, and he closed his eyes, chewing blissfully.

It was a small enough pleasure after a day like this one, he thought, and swallowed. He allowed himself a small sip of wine, and grimaced as it washed the mutton down.

He didn't know even now exactly how many ships he still had under his command. The best estimate he'd been able to put together was that there were between forty-five and eighty, including what he thought were all the surviving supply ships. That wasn't very much out of a combined fleet which had numbered over a hundred and seventy only that morning.

He forked up a steaming bite of buttered potato, although the food suddenly seemed less tasty, despite his hunger, as he contemplated the day's endless chain of disasters.

He didn't know how many of the other ships of the fleet had actually been lost, but he knew the number was high. He'd personally seen King Rahnyld's corpse-littered wreck-and the wave-washed bodies floating away from it-just before the shattered hulk rolled over and sank. He'd seen the funeral pyres of at least another dozen ships, billowing up where they'd either taken fire in the midst of combat or been set ablaze by the Charisians. He hoped the enemy had at least allowed their crews to take to any surviving boats before firing their ships behind them, but he wasn't even certain of that.

He paused a moment, then shook his head, irritated with himself.

Yes, you know they did allow the crews of at least some of their prizes to abandon first, he told himself. Hell, you've got over a hundred and ninety survivors aboard Gorath Bay, alone!

Which was true enough. But the number his own ship had picked up only underscored all of the hundreds-thousands-of other men who'd been aboard Malikai's other galleys.

He cut another piece of mutton and put it in his mouth, chewing methodically.

He'd seen nothing but sinking wrecks and blazing hulls as his flagship sailed along in the wake of the running battle. The Charisian galleons appeared to have left no surviving galleys behind them. They'd been twice as fast as his own ships, especially after they'd set their topgallants, and they'd used that speed to chase down their prey relentlessly, steadily overtaking-and sinking-every galley in their path. There'd been nothing at all he could do about that, but it was probably just as well they'd been too fast for him to catch, he told himself grimly, remembering the old story of the hunting hound who'd "caught" the slash lizard.

He shook his head again, this time in still-stunned shock. The survivors Gorath Bay had picked up had confirmed what he'd already realized. Somehow, the Charisians had figured out a way to fire heavy cannon three or four times as rapidly as anyone else in the world. He was still trying to get his mind wrapped around the consequences that implied for the art of naval war, but Prince Cayleb-and several of the survivors had identified the Charisian crown prince's flag aboard one of those deadly galleons-had delivered a brutal demonstration that those consequences would be . . . profound.

At least Thirsk had managed to get the ships still in company with Gorath Bay into the shelter of Crag Hook. Even here, behind the stony barrier of the curved headland, his flagship jerked and snubbed harshly, uneasily, at her anchor. Pelting rain drummed on the skylight overhead and ran gurgling off the decks and through the scuppers, and he could hear the wind whining in the galley's shrouds and lifting blowing spray.

The lamps swayed on their gimbals above him, flooding the familiar comfort of his great cabin with warm light, and he remembered other nights. Remembered sitting here, smoking his pipe, enjoying a cup of wine or a tankard of beer, warm and comfortable and made even more aware of it by the sound of rain or the sigh of wind.

But there was no comfort tonight. There was only the awareness that he'd won no more than a breathing space. Cayleb would deduce where he was without any difficulty. And having deduced it, he would do something about it.

From the survivors' stories, and his own observations, he doubted very much that Cayleb had lost more than one or two of his galleons, at most. The young Charisian prince had just won what was undoubtedly the greatest, most one-sided naval victory in history, and unlike Malikai, Cayleb was a seaman. The Royal Charisian Navy knew about finishing the tasks to which it set its hand, and the prince was unlikely to pass up the opportunity to make his victory complete. Within a day or two, Thirsk would see those galleons standing into Crag Reach, and when he did, it would be his turn to see his ships shot to pieces in front of his eyes.

But they won't win as cheaply against us as they did against Malikai, he promised himself.

He'd already issued orders for every galley to rig springs to their anchor cables as soon as it was daylight. The springs-hawsers led out of gunports and attached to the ships' anchor cables at one end and to their capstans at the other-would allow any of his ships to turn in place by simply winding the hawser around the capstan. It would enable them to aim their guns in any direction, which was about the best he could hope to do. His artillery still wouldn't be able to fire as quickly as Cayleb's obviously could, but Cayleb wouldn't be able to bring all of his firepower to bear simultaneously, either.

And next time, Thirsk thought grimly, what he can do to us won't come as a complete surprise, either.

He stabbed his fork into another potato and bared his teeth.

As soon as it was light, he would start putting parties ashore to find suitable spots for shore batteries, as well. It wasn't going to be easy, but he was confident he could find at least some-and given the steepness of the hillsides rising beyond the beach, probably high enough to give his guns greater reach. Once they were in place, the price Cayleb would pay for any victory would climb steeply.

It was even possible, he told himself, that if he could make the probable price high enough, Cayleb might decline to pay it. After all, he'd already shattered this prong of the allies' planned offensive, and his galleons had to represent a huge part of Charis' total naval strength. Given the choice between heavy losses in return for the destruction of an already defeated foe or returning with his own ships intact to support the rest of the Charisian Navy against the combined forces of Corisande, Emerald, and Chisholm, he might well choose the latter.

And you really want to convince yourself of that, don't you, Lywys? he told himself with a sour snort.

He swallowed yet another bite of potato, then blinked in groggy surprise as he realized it was the last bite. He'd also managed to consume the entire thick slice of mutton and the side of green peas. And, he discovered, peering into the empty bread basket, at least another three rolls.

He laughed and shook his head tiredly. Clearly, he was even more exhausted than he'd thought he was, and it was time he got some desperately needed sleep.

Things may not look any better in the morning, he thought, but at least a few hours of sleep on a full belly will leave me in better shape to deal with them.

He finished the glass of wine, stood, and stumbled off to his sleeping cabin.

VI

HMS Dreadnought,

Off Armageddon Reef

Merlin Athrawes stood in the mizzenmast ratlines, eight feet above the quarterdeck, and peered into the darkness.

The wind, as he'd predicted, had continued to rise, but it actually seemed to be tapering off slightly now. It was down to "only" about thirty-four miles per hour, but the rain was even heavier then it had been earlier. Even his artificial eyes couldn't see very far through the almost solid wall of rain and spray.

It was a pity, he thought, that PICAs didn't come equipped with radar. Still, he supposed it would've been a bit much to put radar emitters powerful enough to do him much good under these conditions into PICAs intended to wander around the environs of a high-tech civilization.

"Owl," he subvocalized, climbing back down to the deck and grasping one of the lifelines rigged across it.

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander?"

"I need that imagery now."

There was no response, and Merlin grimaced.

"Begin feeding the previously specified imagery," he said, quite a bit more snappishly.

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander," the AI replied, totally unperturbed by his tone, and a detailed, see-through schematic blinked into existence across his field of view.

Unlike Merlin's eyes, the SNARC's sensors were perfectly capable of penetrating the stormy darkness, and Merlin felt an undeniable surge of relief as he saw the icons of all thirteen of Cayleb's galleons. Precisely how the merely mortal lookouts aboard any one of those ships had been able to keep sight of the poop lanterns and the additional lanterns suspended from the mizzen peak of the ship in front of them was more than Merlin was prepared to explain. But somehow, they'd done it.

Now it was up to him to get them into the sheltered waters of Crag Reach.

He considered the schematic's terrain imagery. It looked as if Dreadnought was just about on the proper heading, but "just about" wasn't nearly good enough.

"Owl," he subvocalized once more.

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander."

"Add current wind vector and vector and course projections for Dreadnought to the imagery and update continuously."

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander."

The requested arrows and dotted line appeared effectively instantaneously, and Merlin snorted. Then he made his way across the steeply tilted, pitching quarterdeck, moving hand-over-hand along the lifeline, to where Cayleb stood with Captain Manthyr beside the helmsmen. There were two men on the wheel, and a third seaman stood ready to lend his weight, as well, if it should prove necessary.

Manthyr really should have been getting some rest of his own, Merlin thought, but the flag captain hadn't even considered the possibility. Dreadnought was his ship. Everything about her was his responsibility, and now that he'd seen to the immediate needs of his men, he was undoubtedly standing there silently praying that his crown prince wasn't quite as insane as he seemed.

Merlin's mouth quirked at the thought, but perhaps he was doing the captain an injustice. What Cayleb had accomplished already this day (with, of course, Merlin's modest assistance) seemed to have given every man aboard the flagship a near idolatrous faith in the prince's seaman's instinct. If he wanted to sail them straight towards a cliff-girt lee shore in the middle of a midnight gale, they were prepared to do just that . . . although Manthyr obviously intended to stay right here and personally keep an eye on the entire process.

Cayleb himself appeared totally unworried by anyone's possible concerns about his mental stability. The prince's feet were spread wide apart as he clung to another lifeline for balance with his right fist, and he'd draped an oilcloth poncho over his cuirass and mail. The wind whipped the loose fall of the poncho, rain and spray ran from the rim of his morion-like helmet like a waterfall, and the light gleaming up from the binnacle's illuminated compass card lit his face from below. There were lines of fatigue in that face, and his cheekbones were gaunt, etched against the tight skin, yet his mouth was firm and confident, and the glow in his brown eyes did not come solely from the binnacle light.

He might, Merlin realized, be a very young man, but this was the sort of a moment for which he'd been born.

Cayleb looked up at his approach, and Merlin leaned close, half-shouting in his ear.

"We're pointing too high! The wind's backed a little to the east, and we need to come about a point and a half to leeward!"

Cayleb nodded, and Merlin walked over to where Ahrnahld Falkhan stood, half his body illuminated by the glow of the great cabin skylight, watching Cayleb's back even here.

Cayleb waited several minutes, then bent deliberately over the binnacle, squinting at the compass. He straightened and gazed up at the set of the barely visible sails, then stood in obvious thought for a second or two before he turned to Manthyr. No one could possibly have heard what he said to the flag captain, but the conversation lasted only a minute or so. Then Manthyr leaned close to his helmsmen.

"Make your course southwest-by-west!" he bawled through the tumult.

"Aye, aye, Sir!" the senior helmsman shouted back. "Sou'west-by-west, it is!"

He and his companion eased the wheel, spoke by spoke, eyes locked to the compass card. Holding an exact heading under any conditions was impossible for any sailing vessel. In this weather there wasn't any point even trying, but they were highly experienced helmsmen. They'd stick as close to it as anyone could, and Merlin smiled in satisfaction as Dreadnought's projected track extended directly into the deepwater channel north of Opal Island, between Crag Hook and the much smaller Crescent Island.

Or, he reminded himself, into what was a deepwater channel eight hundred years ago, at least.

"He did that well!"

Merlin turned to look at Falkhan as the Marine shouted in his ear. They could see one another's faces clearly in the glow of the skylight, and Merlin raised one eyebrow.

"Who did what well?" he asked.

"Cayleb," Falkhan replied with a grin. He wiped water from his face and shook his head. "Those men will never guess you gave him the course correction!"

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Merlin replied as innocently as anyone could under the current conditions of wind and sea.

"Oh, of course not, Seijin Merlin!" Falkhan agreed with an even broader grin, and Merlin laughed. Then he sobered.

"You're right, he did do it well!" he shouted back. "And that's more important than ever!"

"Agreed!" Falkhan nodded vigorously. Then he glanced at the prince, and his smile was deeply approving. "He's growing up, isn't he?" he said to Merlin.

"That he is!" Merlin agreed. "That he is!"

Falkhan was right, he reflected, and in more ways than one. Cayleb had already demonstrated his own tactical and strategic insight, and also his willingness to back his own evaluation of a situation. He wasn't deferring to Merlin's suggestions-not unless he happened to agree with them, at least. He was using Merlin's abilities . . . then making his own decisions.

And the young man was showing an impressive attention to detail, as well. He'd deliberately sailed further east than he had to before turning back towards Armageddon Reef. He'd added at least two more hours to the total transit time, and Captain Manthyr had used that time to get the galley fires relit and feed every man as much hot soup, stew-thick with rice and vegetables, as he could eat.

It was impossible to estimate how much that hot food was going to mean to men who'd already had an exhausting day and faced an even more exhausting night. But Manthyr had also managed to give each man at least two hours in his hammock, as well. Dreadnought's seamen and Marines would be going back into combat as well fed and rested as they could possibly be, and the captain had even managed to rig canvas scoops to gather rainwater to replenish their water tanks, then ordered the cooks to prepare gallons of hot tea before they doused the galley fires once more.

The men aboard Dreadnought recognized all of that, and word had gotten around that the prince had deliberately given them the time for it. That was the sort of consideration-and preparation-they weren't going to forget.

Those of them who survived the night, at least.

VII

Crag Reach,

Armageddon Reef

"Thank Langhorne we're not out in that," Lieutenant Rozhyr Blaidyn observed, listening to the storm.

It was blacker than the inside of a boot, but the regular, savage pounding of the heavy surf on the far side of Crag Hook and Opal Island could be heard even through the wind and rain. Of course, the wind-like the waves-was far weaker here, inside the sheltered waters of Crag Reach. Not that those waters were precisely what Blaidyn would have called "calm."

The anchorage was deep, with its walls rising sheer-sided out of the water, especially on its eastern side, where deep water ran to the very foot of the hundred-foot cliff which formed Crag Hook's western face. On the western side, the shore was less vertical and the water shoaled much more sharply. There were actually some smallish rocky beaches in pockets scalloped out of the feet of the steep hills on that side. But the shallower water was also rougher, and most of the fleet's captains had opted to anchor further out, in deeper water which gave them more safety room if their ships should happen to drag their anchors.

Blaidyn's ship, the Royal Bédard, had been one of the last galleys to reach safety. Visibility had been worse than bad by the time she arrived, and she'd collided with her consort, Royal Champion, on their way into the reach, losing one of her bow anchors in the process. Given her late arrival and the gathering darkness, she'd been forced to find the best spot to anchor she could, effectively on her own, and her captain had felt his cautious way as far into the reach as he'd dared, then dropped his remaining bow anchor. As a result, she was one of the southernmost of the huddled fleet's ships, and also one of the furthest east, separated from Paladin, the next nearest galley, by about a hundred and twenty yards. She was well into the lee of Crag Hook, but more exposed than many of the other ships, and even now she seemed to jerk nervously, as if frightened by the fury of the weather outside the anchorage, as she snubbed and rolled to her single anchor.

"I didn't realize you were so devout, Rozhyr," Nevyl Mairydyth said in response to his remark.

He and Blaidyn stood sheltering from the wind and rain in the lee of the forecastle, at the foot of the starboard forecastle ladder. Mairydyth was Royal Bédard's first lieutenant, while Blaidyn-who'd just completed a personal check of the anchor watch-was the galley's second lieutenant. The first lieutenant was due to relieve him as officer of the watch in another ten minutes or so. After which Blaidyn would finally be able to stumble below, find something to eat, and get at least a few hours of desperately needed sleep.

"After a day like today?" Blaidyn grimaced at his superior. "Every damned man aboard is a hell of a lot more devout tonight than he was this morning!"

"Summed up like Grand Vicar Erayk himself," Mairydyth said sardonically.

"Well, would you rather be out there, or safe and sound in here?" Blaidyn demanded, waving one arm in the general direction of the seething white surf invisible through the thick, rainy night.

"That wasn't exactly my point," Mairydyth replied. "My point was-"

He never completed the sentence.

* * *

The three-man anchor watch saw it first.

They weren't stationed in Royal Bédard's bows as lookouts. They were there solely to keep an eye on the anchor cable, to be sure the galley wasn't dragging and that the cable wasn't chafing-a point which had assumed more than usual importance, given that it was now the only anchor she had. There was a lookout stationed in the galley's crow's-nest, but not because anyone-including him-really thought there'd be anything for him to spot. He was there solely because Earl Thirsk had ordered every ship to post lookouts, and the unfortunate seaman in Royal Bédard's crow's-nest deeply resented the orders that put him up on that cold, vibrating, rain and wind swept perch for absolutely no good reason.

He was as wet, chilled to the bone, miserable, and exhausted as anyone else, and his body's need for rest was an anguished craving. He huddled in the crow's-nest, his oilskin draped to protect him as much as possible, and concentrated upon simply enduring until he was relieved and could finally collapse into his own hammock.

In fairness, even if he'd been fresh and alert, it was unlikely, given the visibility conditions, that he would have seen anything, despite the low range, more than a handful of seconds before the anchor watch did. But that was because HMS Dreadnought had extinguished all of her lanterns and running lights except for a single shaded poop lantern whose light was directed dead astern.

Unfortunately for Royal Bédard, she-like every other vessel anchored with her, and unlike Cayleb's flagship-was illuminated by anchor lights, poop lanterns, and lanterns at entry ports. More lights burned below deck, spilling illumination out of stern and quarter windows, out of oarports, deck hatches, and opened scuttles. Despite the darkness, and the rain, she wasn't at all hard to see.

One of the anchor watch straightened up suddenly, peering into the night as a shadow seemed to intrude between him and Paladin's stern windows, almost due north of his own ship.

"What's that?" he demanded of his fellows.

"What's what?" one of them retorted irritably. He was no fonder of the weather, or any more rested, then any of them, and his temper was short.

"That!" the first man said sharply as the vague shadow became suddenly much clearer. "It looks like-"

* * *

Captain Gwylym Manthyr stood very still by the quarterdeck bulwark. Not a voice spoke as Dreadnought's entire crew waited, poised statue-still at its action stations. The captain was aware of the crown prince, his Marine guards, and Lieutenant Athrawes standing behind him, but every ounce of his attention was focused on the lanterns, windows, and scuttles gleaming through the rain.

Even now, Manthyr could scarcely believe Prince Cayleb had brought them unerringly into Crag Reach with the flood tide behind them. The combination of tide, current, and wind had created a wicked turbulence, but the channel between Crag Hook and Opal Island was as broad as their charts had indicated. It was a good thing it was, too. The sudden blanketing effect of Crag Hook's towering height had robbed Dreadnought's sails of power for several minutes before the in-rushing tide and her momentum carried her out of its wind shadow.

In more cramped waters, that might well have proved fatal, but Cayleb had put them in what was, as nearly as Manthyr could tell, the exact center of the deepwater channel. And now they were about to reap the rewards of the crown prince's daring.

The captain discovered he was holding his breath, and snorted. Did he he expect the enemy to hear him breathing, despite the tumult of the storm outside the reach? He grimaced in wry self-amusement, but the thought was only surface deep as his ship crept between the galley so far to the south of the main enemy fleet and the next closest one, a hundred or so yards north of her. The gleam of the southern ship's anchor light stood out sharply at her bow, marking her out for his port gunners. Her consort to the north was even more visible, for her stern windows glowed like a brilliant beacon for Manthyr's starboard gunners.

Another few seconds, he thought, raising his right arm slowly, aware of the gun captains crouching behind their weapons in both broadsides. Another . . . few . . .

"Fire!"

His right arm went downward, and the darkness came apart in the thunderbolt fury of a double broadside.

* * *

"It looks like-"

The alert seaman never had the chance to finish his observation. A thirty-eight-pound round shot came howling out of the sudden gush of smoky flame directly ahead of Royal Bédard and struck him just above the waist.

His legs and hips stood upright for an instant, thick blood splashing through the rain. Then they thumped to the deck as the screams began.

* * *

"Port your helm!" Manthyr barked as the smoke-streaming guns recoiled and their crews hurled themselves upon them with swabs and rammers. "Bring her two points to starboard!"

"Aye, aye. Two points to starboard it is, Cap'n!"

"Stand by the stern anchor!"

* * *

Lieutenant Blaidyn recoiled in horror as a screaming round shot ripped into the bows, punched through the break of the forecastle in a cyclone of lethal splinters, and struck Lieutenant Mairydyth like a demon. The first lieutenant literally flew apart, drenching Blaidyn in an explosion of hot, steaming blood so shocking he scarcely even felt the sudden flare of agony in the calf of his own right leg.

Dreadnought's guns had been double-shotted. The gun crews had prepared with exquisite care, taking the time to be certain everything was done right. Each gun had been loaded with not one round shot, but two, with a charge of grape on top for good measure. It decreased accuracy and put a potentially dangerous strain on the gun tubes, but the range was short, every one of her guns was new, cast to withstand exactly this sort of pressure, and the consequences for their target were devastating.

The range was little more than forty yards, and Dreadnought's gunners might as well have been at target practice. It wasn't physically impossible for them to miss, but it would have been very, very difficult.

Twenty-seven guns hammered their hate into Royal Bédard with absolutely no warning, no time for the galley to prepare. Her own guns were secured. Her off-duty crew were in their hammocks. Her captain was asleep in his cabin. Her Marines were neither armed nor armored. That dreadful avalanche of cast-iron shot came howling out of the heart of the storm like an outrider of Hell, almost directly down the centerline of the ship, and the carnage it inflicted was unspeakable.

Paladin, thirty yards farther away, might have expected to fare better at the greater range, but her lighted stern windows offered an even better target . . . and far less protection than Royal Bédard's stoutly planked bows. The devastating broadside ripped into her, rending and killing, and the shrieks of the maimed and dying followed on its heels.

* * *

Lywys Gahrdaner, the Earl of Thirsk, stirred in his sleep at the sudden rumble. He grimaced, not quite waking, his sleeping mind identifying the sound of thunder which might have accompanied any storm, far less one as b as the one pounding at Armageddon Reef this night.

But then it came again. And again.

His eyes popped open . . . and it came again.

* * *

Dreadnought answered to her helm. She swung to starboard under topsails and headsails alone, streaming smoke from both broadsides, as she turned away from Royal Bédard and deeper into the main anchorage. Her long bowsprit thrust into the Dohlaran formation like a lance, and her starboard battery roared again as she swept around Paladin's port quarter. She pushed between her target and Archangel Schueler, lying almost directly west of her. The two of them, like every other ship in the Dohlaran force, had been carefully anchored far enough apart to allow them to swing to their anchors without risk of collision, and that left ample room for Dreadnought to slide between them.

Captain Manthyr stood behind his helmsmen, one hand resting on each seaman's shoulder, almost crooning his orders into their ears. He conned his ship with exquisite care, and smoke and thunder jetted from either broadside, blasting into the anchored ships whose crewmen were only just beginning to rouse from exhausted slumber.

Behind her, HMS Destroyer followed her as she threaded her way deeper and deeper into the mass of anchored galleys. And behind Destroyer came Danger, and Defense, and Dragon.

"All hands, stand by to anchor!" Manthyr shouted.

"Stand by to reduce sail!" Lieutenant Sahdlyr barked through his speaking trumpet, while Midshipman Kohrby crouched beside the anchor party in the stern.

"Let go the stern anchor!" Manthyr commanded, and Kohrby echoed the order. The anchor disappeared into the whitecaps, and the cable led aft down the center of her berthdeck smoked as it burned across the sill of one of her after gunports.

"Clew down!" Sahdlyr shouted.

The officers in charge of each mast repeated the order, and the seamen at the pinrails eased the halyards, lowering the topsails' yards into their lifts and spilling their wind. Other seamen tended the buntlines and leechlines as the yard came down, and Sahdlyr watched closely.

"Round in the lee brace! Clew up the topsails!"

The canvas disappeared as the hands on the clewlines hauled it up to the yards and belayed. More men on the foredeck took in the jibs while the anchor hawser ran out, and the ship came to a stop as the flukes of her anchor dug into the bottom of Crag Reach.

"Clamp on the spring!" Manthyr ordered, and Kohrby's seamen made the already prepared bitter end of the spring cable fast to the anchor hawser just outside the gunport.

"Hands to the after capstan!" the captain shouted, and the seamen previously detailed went running to the capstan to take tension on the spring.

* * *

Earl Thirsk stumbled out of his cabin into the rain, barefoot, wearing nothing but his breeches, as still more cannon began to thunder. He hurled himself up the ladder to the top of the aftercastle, ignoring the icy water sluicing over his naked torso as he stared in horrified disbelief at the savage flashes lighting up the rain.

It was a sight such as no Safeholdian had ever seen before. The Charisian cannon rumbled and roared, the muzzle flashes impossibly long and brilliant in the darkness. Smoke gouted, fuming up in sulfurous clouds reeking of Shan-wei's own brimstone. Each muzzle flash etched every plunging raindrop against the night, like rubies, or diamonds of blood, and the banks of smoke towered up, lit from below, like the fumes above erupting volcanoes.

And there was nothing at all the Earl of Thirsk could do about it.

* * *

Royal Bédard lurched as yet another galleon-the sixth, Lieutenant Blaidyn's cringing mind thought-swept slowly past her bow, cannon thundering. The lieutenant stood at the top of the port forecastle ladder-the starboard ladder was a shattered ruin, like the mast whose broken stump stood ten feet off the deck-clinging to the forecastle rail for support, and the calf of his right leg had been laid open by a splinter as if by a sword. He felt hot blood sheeting down his leg but ignored it as he ignored the rain while he shouted encouragement to the seamen trying to get two of the galley's bow chasers loaded despite the round shot howling around their ears.

But then he smelled the smoke. Not powder smoke, rolling on the rain-slashed wind from the enemy guns, but a far more terrifying smoke. The smoke of burning wood.

His head snapped around, and he blanched in fresh horror. The severed mast had fallen across the decks at an angle, draping the broken yard and its burden of sodden canvas across the midships hatch. But now smoke billowed up out of the half-blocked hatch, funneling through the fallen rigging and wreckage, thickening into a dense, flame-lit pillar as it streamed up around the yard and mast.

He didn't know what had happened. Most likely, one of those lighted lanterns below decks had been shattered, spilling flaming oil across the decks. Or it could have been an accident by one of the powder monkeys trying to carry ammunition to the guns. It might even have been a flaming wad, hurled out of one of the Charisian cannon.

But it didn't really matter how it had started. Wooden ships' worst enemy wasn't the sea; it was fire. Built of seasoned timbers, painted inside and out, caulked with pitch, rigged with tarred cordage, they were tinderboxes awaiting a spark, even in this sort of weather, and Royal Bédard's spark had been supplied.

Under other circumstances, the fire might have been fought, might have been contained and extinguished. But not under these circumstances. Not while round shot continued to crash through the ship's hull, mangling and disemboweling terrified crewmen whose exhausted brains were still clawing their way out of sleep and into nightmare.

"Abandon ship! Abandon ship!"

Blaidyn didn't know who'd shouted it first, but there was no fighting the panic it induced. For that matter, there was no point fighting it, and he dragged himself the rest of the way up the ladder and across to the port bulwark. He peered down over it, and his jaw clenched. The galley's boats had been lowered when she anchored, and men were flinging themselves over the side, struggling through the water, trying to reach that at least temporary sanctuary.

Blaidyn turned at the bulwark. One of the gun crews was still fighting to get its weapon loaded, and he limped back over to grab the closest man by the arm.

"Forget it!" he shouted. "There's no time! Over the side, boys!"

The rest of the gun crew stared at him for a moment, wild-eyed. Then they were gone, scrambling over the bulwark. Blaidyn watched them go, then turned to take one last look around the deck, to be sure everyone was gone or going.

Flames were beginning to spurt out of the hatchway. He could feel their heat on his face from here, even through the rain, and he tried to close his ears to the agonized shrieks of men trapped below in that blazing inferno.

There was nothing more he could do, and he turned to follow the gun crew . . . just as a single round shot from a final thundering broadside struck him squarely in the chest.

Fourteen minutes later, the flames reached his ship's magazine.

* * *

At least three of the anchored galleys were on fire now, illuminating the anchorage brightly despite the rain. Merlin stood beside Cayleb on Dreadnought's quarterdeck as the galleon's guns continued to rave at their targets, and the wild vista of destruction all about him dwarfed anything Nimue Alban, who'd warred with the power of nuclear fusion itself, had ever seen with her own eyes.

The ship was no longer moving. She was motionless-not as stable as a shoreside fortress in these whitecapped waters, perhaps, but close enough to it for gunners accustomed to the rolling, pitching motion of a ship at sea. Scoring hits on equally anchored targets was child's play for them under these conditions, and their rate of fire was far higher than it would have been from a moving ship's deck. They loaded and fired, loaded and fired, like automatons, reducing their targets to shattered, broken wrecks.

Steam curled from the hot gun tubes between shots, hissing up like tendrils of fog to be whipped away by the wind. The reek of powder smoke, blazing wood, burning tar and cordage raced across the waves in spray-washed banners of smoke, twisted and broken above the whitecaps, starkly silhouetted against the flash of guns and flaming ships.

One of the blazing galleys drifted free as her anchor cable burned through. The wind sent her slowly in Dreadnought's direction-not directly towards her, but close enough-wreathed in the fiery corona of her own destruction. Captain Manthyr saw her, and his orders sent the capstan around, tightening the spring until the galleon's starboard broadside bore on the fiery wreck.

He stood ready to cut his own cable and make sail, if necessary, but three quick, thunderous broadsides were enough to finish the already sinking galley. She settled on her side in a huge, hissing cloud of steam as water quenched flame, a hundred and fifty yards clear of his ship, and another snarling cheer of victory went up from his gunners.

* * *

Royal Bédard exploded.

The deafening eruption when the flames reached her magazine dwarfed every other sound, even the brazen voices of the Charisian guns. The tremendous flash seemed to momentarily burn away the spray and rain. It illuminated the bellies of the overhead clouds, flashed back from the vertical western face of Crag Hook, and hurled flaming fragments high into the windy night, like homesick meteors returning to the heavens.

The fiery debris arced upward, then crashed back, hissing into extinction as it hit the water, or smashing down on the decks of nearby galleys and galleons alike in cascades of sparks. Crewmen raced to heave the burning wreckage over the side, and here and there small fires were set, but the pounding rain and windblown spray had so thoroughly soaked the topsides of both sides' vessels that no ship was seriously threatened.

Yet the furious action paused, as if the galley's spectacular, terrifying disintegration had awed both sides into a temporary state of shock.

The pause lasted for two or three minutes, and then it vanished into renewed bedlam as Cayleb's gunners opened fire once more.

* * *

Earl Thirsk stared helplessly at the hellish panorama.

He had no idea how long he'd stood on Gorath Bay's aftercastle. It seemed like an eternity, although it couldn't really have been much longer than two hours, possibly a bit more. Someone had draped a cloak over his shoulders-he had no idea who-and he huddled inside it, holding it about him, while he gazed upon the final ruin of his command.

The Charisians had split into at least two columns, or perhaps three. They were deep inside his anchored formation, firing mercilessly, and everywhere he looked the rain was like sheets of bloody glass, lit by the glare of burning galleys and flashing artillery.

He'd underestimated his enemy. He'd never dreamed Cayleb would have the insane audacity to lead an entire fleet of galleons into Crag Reach at night through the fury of a near-gale. He still couldn't believe it, even with the devastating evidence burning to the waterline before his very eyes.

Royal Bédard was gone, taking her flames with her, but a half-dozen of his other ships blazed brightly, and even as he gazed out at the carnage, another kindled. He watched flames shooting up out of its holds, licking up its tarred shrouds, and silhouetted against the light he saw crowded boats pulling bly away from the inferno. As far as he could tell, no Charisian had even been firing at the blazing ship, and his teeth ached from the pressure of his jaw muscles as he realized the crew had deliberately fired their vessel and then abandoned ship rather than face the enemy.

He turned away from the sight, only to see another of his as yet undamaged galleys getting underway. Not to close with the enemy, but to row directly towards the western shore of the anchorage. Even as he watched, she drove herself bodily up onto the rocky beach, and her crew flowed over her sides, splashing into the shallow water, stumbling ashore, fleeing into the darkness.

Part of him wanted to curse them for their cowardice, but he couldn't. What else could anyone have expected? Destruction was upon them all, appearing out of the night like the work of some demon, and were they not anchored in the waters of Armageddon Reef itself?

That was the final straw, he thought. This very land was cursed. Every single one of his men knew the story of the monumental evil which had been birthed here so long ago and the terrible destruction which had been visited upon it, and that was enough, added to the terror of the totally unexpected attack, the sudden explosion of violence, and their completely unprepared state.

Another galley flamed up, fired by its own crew, and a second started moving towards the beach. And a third. And beyond that, silhouetted against the smoky glare of their burning sisters, he saw other galleys hauling down their flags, striking their colors in token of surrender.

He stared at them for a moment longer, then turned away. He climbed down the aftercastle ladder slowly, like an old, old man, opened his cabin door, and stepped through it.

III

HMS Dreadnought,

Crag Reach,

Armageddon Reef

"Earl Thirsk is here, Your Highness," Ahrnahld Falkhan announced with unusual formality as he opened the door to HMS Dreadnought's flag cabin.

Cayleb turned from the vista of whitecapped water beyond the stern windows to face the door as his senior Marine bodyguard ushered the Dohlaran admiral through it.

"Your Highness," Thirsk said, bending his head.

"My Lord," Cayleb returned.

The Dohlaran straightened, and Cayleb studied his face thoughtfully. The older man was soaking wet from the rough passage in an open boat, and he looked worn and exhausted, but more than fatigue was stamped upon his features. His dark eyes-eyes, Cayleb suspected, which were normally confident, even arrogant-carried the shadows of defeat. Yet there was more to it even than that, and the crown prince decided Merlin had been right yet again when Cayleb explained what he had in mind. Not even this man, confident and b minded though he was, was immune to the reputation and aura of Armageddon Reef.

Which was going to make this morning's conversation even more interesting.

"I've come to surrender my sword, Your Highness," Thirsk said heavily, as if each word cost him physical pain.

He reached down with his left hand, gripping not the pommel, but the guard of the sword sheathed at his hip. He drew it from its scabbard, ignoring the eagle eye with which both Falkhan and Merlin watched him, and extended it to Cayleb, hilt-first.

"No other man has ever taken my sword from me, Prince Cayleb," the Dohlaran said as Cayleb's fingers closed upon the hilt.

"It's the sword of a man who deserved a better cause to serve," Cayleb replied quietly. He looked down at the weapon in his hand for a moment, then handed it to Falkhan, who set it gently on Cayleb's desk, in turn.

The crown prince watched Thirsk's face carefully for any reaction to his comment. He thought he saw the Dohlaran's lips tighten slightly, but he couldn't be positive. After a moment, he gestured at one of the pair of chairs set ready on opposite sides of the dining table.

"Please, be seated, My Lord," he invited.

He waited until Thirsk had settled into the indicated chair before seating himself on the opposite side of the table, and Merlin, in his bodyguard's role, moved to stand behind him. A decanter of brandy sat on the linen tablecloth, and the prince personally poured a small measure into each of two glasses, then offered one to Thirsk.

The Dohlaran commander accepted the glass, waited for Cayleb to pick up his own, and then sipped. He drank very little before he set the glass back on the table, and Cayleb smiled wryly as he set his own beside it.

"I've also come, as I'm sure Your Highness has deduced, to discover what surrender terms the remainder of my fleet may expect," Thirsk said in a flattened voice.

Cayleb nodded and sat back in his chair.

Nineteen of Thirsk's galley's had been sunk or burned. Another three had been battered into shattered, foundering wrecks which had barely managed to beach themselves before they went down. Eleven more had struck their colors, and eight had driven themselves ashore, undamaged, before their crews abandoned them. Yet a third of Thirsk's total warships remained, along with all his supply ships, and Cayleb had paid a price of his own for that victory.

HMS Dragon had found herself in the path of one of the burning galleys after the Dohlaran ship's anchor cable burned through. The blazing wreck had drifted down upon the galleon, and though Dragon had cut her own cable and tried to evade, she'd failed. The two ships had met in a fiery embrace, and both had been consumed in a floating, roaring inferno which had eventually engulfed two more of Thirsk's anchored ships.

Over two-thirds of Dragon's company, including her captain and all but one of her lieutenants, had been lost, killed when their ship's magazine exploded, or else drowned before they could be plucked from Crag Reach's waters.

Despite that, Thirsk's remaining twenty-one warships were helpless. Cayleb's surviving twelve galleons were anchored in a somewhat ragged line between them and any hope of escape. After what those galleons' guns had already done, none of those galleys' crews-or the admiral in command of them-had any illusions about what would happen if they tried to attack the Charisians or break past them to the open sea.

"My terms are very simple, My Lord," the crown prince said finally. "I will expect the unconditional surrender of every ship in this anchorage."

Thirsk flinched, not so much with surprise, as in pain.

"I might point out, Your Highness," he said, after a moment, "that you don't begin to have sufficient men aboard your ships to take my own as prizes."

"True," Cayleb conceded, nodding equably. "On the other hand, I have no intention of taking them with me."

"No?" Thirsk gazed at him for a moment, then cocked his head. "Should I assume, then, that you intend to parole them and my surviving men?"

"You should not," Cayleb said in a far, far colder voice.

"Your king sent his navy to attack the Kingdom of Charis in time of peace," he continued in that same icy voice, aware of Merlin standing at his back. "Charis did nothing to offend or harm him in any way. He made no demands upon us, nor did he declare his intent. Instead, like an assassin, he dispatched Duke Malikai-and you, My Lord-to join with the forces of one of our own allies to treacherously attack a land over six thousand miles from his own."

Surprise, and perhaps a flare of anger at Cayleb's biting tone, flickered in Thirsk's eyes, and Cayleb snorted.

"We weren't as unsuspecting as you-and your masters among the 'Knights of the Temple Lands'-expected, My Lord. Our agents in Tarot knew all about your plan to attack us. How else do you think we could have known which waters to watch for your approach? And never doubt, Earl Thirsk, that Gorjah of Tarot will pay for his treachery, as well.

"But what matters to us at this moment is that your king neither deserves, nor can be trusted to honor, any parole you or your men might give. And so, I regret to say, you won't be offered that option."

"I trust," Thirsk said through tight lips, "that in that case you aren't so foolish as to believe my men won't attempt to take back their ships from whatever prize crews you may be able to put upon them, Your Highness?"

"There will be no prize crews," Cayleb informed him. "Your ships will be burned."

"Burned?" Thirsk gaped in shock. "But their crews, my men-"

"Your men will be put ashore," Cayleb said. "You'll be permitted to land supplies, materials from which shelters may be built, and provisions from your vessels, including your supply ships. You will not be permitted to land any weapons other than woodcutter's axes and saws. Once all of your men are ashore, all of your vessels, except a single, unarmed supply ship, will be destroyed. That vessel will be permitted to sail wherever you wish to send it with dispatches for your king."

"You can't be serious!" Thirsk stared at him, his expression horrified. "You can't put that many men ashore and simply abandon them-not here! Not on Armageddon Reef!"

"I'm entirely serious," Cayleb replied mercilessly, holding the older man's eyes with his own and letting Thirsk see his angry determination. "You brought this war to us, My Lord. Don't pretend for a moment that you were unaware of the plans the 'Knights of the Temple Lands' had for my kingdom's total destruction and what that would mean for my father's subjects! I can, and will, put you and your men ashore anywhere I choose, and I will leave them there. Your choice is to accept that, or else to return to your flagship and resume the engagement. If, however, you choose the latter course, no further surrenders will be accepted . . . and no quarter will be offered."

Merlin stood behind Cayleb's chair, his own face an expressionless mask. He heard the absolute, unyielding steel in Cayleb's voice and prayed that Thirsk heard it, as well. The terms Cayleb had offered were the crown prince's, and no one else's. Merlin had been only slightly surprised by what Cayleb had decided to do with Thirsk's surrendered personnel, but he'd felt an inner chill when Cayleb explained what he intended to do if Thirsk rejected those terms.

Now Thirsk gazed at Cayleb Ahrmahk's unyielding face and recognized the youthful prince's total willingness to do precisely what he'd just said he would. Cayleb might not like it, but he would do it.

"Your Highness," the earl grated, after a long, tense moment of singing silence, "no commander in history has ever made a threat such as that against enemies who have offered honorable surrender."

"No?"

Cayleb looked back at him, then showed his teeth in a smile his dynasty's kraken emblem might have envied and spoke with cold, deadly precision.

"Perhaps not, My Lord. Then again, what other commander in history has discovered that no less than five other kingdoms and princedoms have leagued together to destroy his own, when his king's done no harm to any of them? What other commander has known his enemies intend to burn his cities, rape and pillage his people, for no better reason than that someone's offered to hire them like the common footpads they are? I told you our agents in Tarot know what your paymasters had in mind, and honorable and generous terms of surrender are for honorable foes, My Lord. They are not for hired stranglers, murderers, and rapists."

Thirsk flinched, his face white and twisted, as Cayleb's savage words and vicious contempt bit home. But his eyes flickered, as well-flickered with the knowledge that those words, however savage, however contemptuous, were also true.

Cayleb let the silence linger for a full minute, then looked Thirsk squarely in the eye.

"So, now you know the conditions under which your vessels and their crews will be permitted to surrender, My Lord. Do you wish to accept them, or not?"

* * *

Merlin stood with Cayleb on Dreadnought's sternwalk, watching as Thirsk's launch rowed away through the still rough waters of Crag Reach.

"You were a bit harsh with him," the man who had once been Nimue Alban observed.

"Yes," Cayleb conceded. "I was, wasn't I?"

He turned to face Merlin squarely.

"Do you think I was harsher than he deserved?" he asked.

It was a serious question, Merlin realized, and he considered it seriously before he responded.

"Actually, I do think you may have been harsher than he deserved," he said after a moment. "Which isn't to say King Rahnyld didn't deserve everything you said. Although you might want to think about the potential diplomatic consequences of flaying him quite as thoroughly as he deserves."

"After what we've done to him-and what he's tried to do to us-I don't really think it's very likely even Father or Rayjhis could negotiate any sort of treaty with him, whatever I said or didn't say," Cayleb said with a snort. "Even if Rahnyld had any desire to forgive and forget-which he won't have-Clyntahn and the rest of the Group of Four wouldn't let him. And unlike Charis, Dohlar is effectively right next door to the Temple. So I might as well tell him what I really think of him."

"I'm sure it was personally satisfying," Merlin said mildly, and Cayleb barked a laugh.

"Actually, it was extremely personally satisfying," he corrected. "That wasn't why I did it, though." Merlin quirked an eyebrow, and the crown prince shrugged. "Thirsk's going to report this conversation when he finally gets home. And when he does, Rahnyld's going to be absolutely livid. Well, that was going to happen anyway, no matter how 'diplomatic' I might have been. But now two other things are going to happen, as well.

"First, in the impetuousness of my youth and immature anger, I've 'let slip' the penetration of our agents in Tarot. That should serve as an additional layer of protection for your 'visions,' Merlin. But, possibly even more importantly, Rahnyld-and, hopefully, the Group of Four-are going to believe Gorjah was responsible for letting out the information that allowed us to intercept the Southern Force. Either he deliberately fed it to us, or else he was criminally careless, and the fact that the only survivors of this entire debacle are all going to be Tarotisian galleys may help convince his 'friends' he set the whole thing up intentionally. In either case, it's going to leave him just a tiny bit of a problem, don't you think?"

Cayleb's evil smile made him look remarkably like his father in that moment, Merlin reflected.

"Second," the crown prince continued, "what I said to Thirsk, and what he's going to repeat to Rahnyld, is going to get out. Don't think for a moment it won't. And when it does, it's going to affect the thinking of all Rahnyld's nobles. It's also going to get out to all the other rulers of Howard and Haven, as well, and I suspect that's going to make it a bit more difficult for the Group of Four to arrange a repeat performance of this. They certainly won't be able to approach it as if it were no more than 'business as usual.' And if their next batch of potential catspaws understand exactly how we're going to regard them, and what can happen to their navies if they lose, it may make them just a bit less eager."

Merlin nodded slowly. He wasn't at all certain he agreed with everything Cayleb had just said, but the decisiveness it reflected was typical of what he was coming to expect out of the youthful heir to the throne.

As far as the effect on Tarot and King Gorjah was concerned, he probably had an excellent point, Merlin reflected. It was the other side of it Merlin found worrisome. Yes, it might make it more difficult for the Group of Four to marshal the forces for their next attack, but the stark ruthlessness of Cayleb's expressed attitude might also provoke a matching response from future opponents.

Still, Merlin asked himself, how much worse could it get? Cayleb's absolutely right about what the Group of Four wanted to happen to Charis this time. Is it really likely their objectives are going to get less extreme after their tools got hammered this way the first time around?

"Well," he said aloud, "at least Thirsk accepted instead of forcing your hand."

"Yes." Cayleb nodded. "And you were right this morning when you suggested offering him the option of putting his men ashore on Opal Island, instead of the mainland. Personally, I don't think I'd find putting Crag Reach between me and the demons he expects his people to be so worried about would be all that reassuring. But I'm just as glad they'll find it that way, if it makes them happier about accepting and means I don't have to kill them all after all."

"I'm glad to have been of service," Merlin said dryly. "And, now that he's accepted, what are your other plans?"

"Well," Cayleb said slowly, turning to look out across the water at the tree-covered slopes of Opal Island's three thousand-plus square miles, "I'd really prefer to head back home immediately. But if Typhoon's as badly damaged as you say, she's going to need time for repairs. We've got damage to other ships, as well, and all of us used a lot of powder and shot. We need to get Traveler and Summer Moon in here and replenish our ammunition. And I'm thinking that before we burn Thirsk's galleys, we'll strip them of anything we can use, as well-especially spare spars, lumber, cordage and canvas, that sort of thing-then stay here long enough to complete at least our major repairs."

"Is that wise?" Merlin asked in a deliberately neutral tone.

"I'll discuss it with Domynyk, get his suggestions and advice, of course," Cayleb said, "but I don't think we have a lot of choice. We can't leave just one or two ships here to repair by themselves, not when Thirsk's going to have several thousand men right here on Opal Island to try something with. So, either we burn our worst-damaged ships right along with the galleys-which, much though I don't want to, may turn out to be our best choice-or else we all stay here long enough to repair them and take them with us when we leave."

The crown prince shrugged unhappily.

"I'm not delighted with either option, Merlin. But whatever we do, we're still the better part of a month's hard sail away from Charis. Taking another five-day or two to make repairs isn't going to add very much to how long it takes us to get home. And, for that matter, Hektor and Nahrmahn won't be expecting Malikai for almost another month, anyway. Your own 'visions' say they're still waiting under the original timetable, and they aren't going to be that surprised if Malikai and his fleet are later even than that. Not after traveling that far in Dohlaran galleys.

"So, unless Domynyk comes up with some compelling argument which hasn't already occurred to me, I think it's more important for us to fully repair all of our surviving galleons than it is to try to get home a couple of five-days earlier."

MARCH, YEAR OF GOD 892

I

HMS Dreadnought,

Off Armageddon Reef

Merlin gazed across the hammock nettings as the southern tip of Opal Island passed slowly to port.

The schooner Spy led the line of Charisian ships, moving with saucy grace as her more ponderous consorts followed heavily in her wake. The summer sun shone brightly out of a blue sky polished by a handful of fair-weather cumulus clouds, while torrents of the gulls, puffins, and sea wyverns which nested in the cliffs of Crag Hook circled and dove. A gentle surf broke against Sand Islet, off the port bow, and the lower line of cliffs leading the way to Bald Rock Head, to starboard.

Nothing, he thought, could have presented a greater contrast to their arrival in Crag Reach.

"I can't say I'm sorry to be going," Cayleb remarked from beside him, and Merlin turned his head to look at the prince.

Cayleb wore a tunic and trousers, not the armor and helmet he'd worn that violence-wracked night, and he ran a hand over his bare head as he, too, looked across at Opal Island.

"You do realize this is going to go down as one of the greatest naval battles in the history of the world, don't you?" Merlin said quizzically.

"And rightly so, I suppose." Cayleb shrugged. "On the other hand, I did have certain . . . unfair advantages."

He smiled, and Merlin smiled back.

"I do feel sorry for Thirsk, though," Merlin said after a moment, his smile fading. "You were right when you said he deserved a better cause to serve."

"He'd be more likely to find one of those if he'd find a better king," Cayleb said tartly. "Trust me. That's something I know a little about."

"Yes, you do."

Merlin turned his eyes back to the island's forested slopes. Earl Thirsk and his survivors should be just fine until someone sent the necessary ships to take them home again. Opal had plenty of fresh water, they'd already erected sufficient shelter, especially for the summer, and landed enough provisions to carry them for at least six months, even if they were unable to add anything by hunting and fishing. And Cayleb had relented, just a bit, and left a small store of captured matchlocks and arbalests on the beach when his ships weighed anchor this morning.

Of course, what's going to happen to Thirsk when he gets home may be something else entirely, Merlin thought grimly. He's the senior Dohlaran admiral who's coming home after the worst naval disaster in Dohlar's history, and what I've seen of King Rahnyld suggests he's going to be looking for scapegoats, more than explanations.

He thought about it for a moment longer, then put the matter of Earl Thirsk's future away and leaned out across the hammock nettings to look back at the line of sails following along astern of Dreadnought.

The last thick, dark pillars of smoke from over fifty blazing ships still trailed across the sky, following the galleon fleet out of its anchorage. The line of ships looked impressive and proud after two five-days of repairs, with the brooms lashed to the heads of their main topgallant masts. Cayleb had laughed out loud when Merlin suggested that gesture and explained the symbolism behind it, but then he'd sobered as he realized how apt it was. His galleons certainly had swept the sea clean of their enemies.

Merlin's lips twitched in a remembered smile of his own, but then it faded, for three sails were missing, and he felt a fresh stab of grief for the schooner Wyvern.

He didn't know what had happened to her. She'd been there, riding the fury of the gale, in one SNARC pass; in the next, she'd simply been gone. He'd been able to locate no survivors of her ninety-man crew, not even any wreckage.

Then there was Dragon, lost so spectacularly in the final stage of the Crag Reach action. And HMS Lightning, one of the converted merchantmen, from Sir Domynyk Staynair's column, had taken more damage in the action off Rock Point then Merlin had first thought. She'd made it to the rendezvous in the lee of Samuel Island with the rest of Staynair's ships, but then she'd slowly foundered over the course of that long, stormy night. The good news was that they'd at least gotten almost all her people safely off before she finally went down.

Typhoon's repairs had taken the full two five-days Cayleb had predicted, but she had a brand new mainmast, and the rest of the fleet had made good use of the time it had taken to replace the original. They'd replenished their water from Opal Island, their provisions from captured stores, and their magazines and shot lockers from Traveler and Summer Moon, and all of the other galleons had been able to repair their own battle damages while Captain Stywyrt worked on his. The survivors from Dragon and Lightning had been distributed throughout the rest of the fleet, making up the worst of their personnel losses, as well, so at least all of the surviving galleons were combat-ready.

"I wish we could have gotten out of here sooner," Cayleb muttered. The prince was talking to himself, but Merlin's hearing was rather more acute than most, and he gave Cayleb another look.

"You were the one who said we needed to make good our damages," he pointed out. "You had a point. And Domynyk agreed with you."

"But you didn't," Cayleb said, turning to face him fully while the steady, gentle breeze ruffled his hair.

"I didn't disagree, either," Merlin responded, and shrugged. "You were right when you pointed out that there wasn't a perfect decision. Somebody had to choose, and you happen to be the Crown Prince around here."

"I know," Cayleb sighed. For just a moment, he looked twice his age, then he shook himself and produced a wry smile. "You know, usually being Crown Prince is a pretty good job. But there are times when it's really not so much fun."

"So I've observed. But the important thing, I suppose, is that you need to remember you are the one who has to make the decisions, and you aren't usually going to have lots of time to sit around and ponder them. By and large, the people who're going to second-guess and criticize you after the fact are going to be doing it from someplace nice and safe, with all the advantages of hindsight and plenty of time to think about what you did wrong."

"That's more or less what Father's said, once or twice," Cayleb said.

"Well, he's right. And the good news, you know, is that when you do get it right, like the decision to go straight into Crag Reach, you also get all the credit for it." Merlin grinned. "Just think-now you're a certified military genius!"

"Yeah, sure." Cayleb rolled his eyes. "And I can already hear Father cutting me back down to size when I get too full of myself over it, too!"

II

Eraystor Bay,

Princedom of Emerald

"What's so important you have to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night?" Duke Black Water demanded irritably, tying the sash of a light robe as he glowered at Tohmys Bahrmyn, Baron White Castle.

The baron rose from the chair in Corisande's great cabin as the duke stamped in from his sleeping cabin. Black Water had been in bed for less than three hours after yet another contentious conference-or perhaps "acrimonious debate" might have been a better term-with his unwilling allies.

He was not in a particularly good mood.

"I apologize for disturbing you, Your Grace," White Castle said, bowing respectfully. "I think, however, that you'll agree this is something you need to know about now."

"For your sake, I hope you're right," Black Water growled, and waved the baron brusquely back into his chair.

The duke snapped his fingers, and his servant appeared as if by magic, carrying the brandy decanter and glasses on a silver tray. He poured two glasses, handed one to each nobleman, and then disappeared just as expeditiously.

"All right," Black Water said, a bit less snappishly, as he lowered his half-empty glass a moment later. "Tell me what's so important."

"Of course, Your Grace." White Castle leaned forward in his chair, clasping his own unsampled glass in both hands. "As you know, of course, I've been stationed here as the Prince's ambassador to Emerald for over four years now. During that time, by and large, he's been very careful to keep me separate from Earl Coris' operations here in the princedom."

He paused, and Black Water grimaced, waving impatiently for him to continue, yet White Castle noticed that a spark of interest had begun to glow in the duke's eyes.

"That's just changed," he said in response to the duke's gesture. "I was contacted this evening-less than two hours ago, in fact-by a man I'd never met before, but who had all of the correct codewords to-"

"Correct codewords?" Black Water interrupted.

"Yes, Your Grace." If White Castle was irritated by the interruption, he was careful not to show it. "When I was first sent to Emerald, my instructions included a sealed envelope to be opened only under certain specific conditions. That envelope contained a series of codewords to be used by especially trusted agents of Earl Coris."

Black Water was listening very intently now, leaning slightly forward while he rested one elbow on the table beside him.

"This man, who correctly identified himself, was placed in Tellesberg over twelve years ago, Your Grace. He was placed in complete isolation, totally separate from any other agents in Charis. None of Earl Coris' other agents knew him; he knew none of them. His job-his sole job-was to be a good, loyal Charisian, hopefully employed in or near the royal dockyards, until and unless war broke out between the League of Corisande and Charis. Apparently, Earl Coris assumed that in the event of a war he'd lose access to at least a portion of any spy web he'd established, and this man was part of his insurance policy."

He paused again, and Black Water nodded.

"Continue, Baron," he said. "I assure you, you have my attention."

"I rather thought I might, Your Grace." White Castle finally allowed himself a small smile. Then his expression sobered once more.

"Apparently, Wave Thunder and his people knew a great deal more than any of us had imagined about Earl Coris' 'official' spies in Charis. And, it would appear, Wave Thunder-and Haarahld-also knew what was coming quite a bit earlier than we thought they did."

"Why?"

"Because, Your Grace, they very, very quietly arrested virtually all foreign spies in Tellesberg, and apparently everywhere else in the entire kingdom, clear back in early October."

"October?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Obviously, they must have realized at least part of what was coming much earlier than we've been assuming they did. And I think that probably accounts for the silence from Earl Coris' other agents which you've mentioned."

"But they missed this man because not even Coris' other agents knew about him," Black Water said slowly.

"That's certainly what appears to have happened, Your Grace."

"But," Black Water's eyes sharpened, "I'm willing to guess he didn't come to you just to tell you all the rest of our spies had been arrested three months ago. So, Baron, what brought him to your door at this particular time?"

"Actually, Your Grace, he's been trying to get to me for over two months now, but it hasn't been easy. The Charisians have put an iron clamp on traffic through The Throat and around Lock Island, and they've got light units patrolling the Charis Sea north of Rock Shoal Bay. He had to travel overland to avoid The Throat, then find a smuggler willing to run him across to Emerald. In fact, it took him three tries to get across, because the smuggler in question turned back twice after sighting a Charisian schooner.

"But you're quite correct that he didn't come on a whim. In fact, he came to tell us the entire Charisian galleon force left Charis, under Crown Prince Cayleb's personal command, in October."

"What?" Black Water blinked in surprise, then half-glared at the ambassador. "That's ridiculous! Our scouts have seen their topsails behind Haarahld's galleys!"

"Not according to this man, Your Grace," White Castle said diffidently. "He's been a ship's chandler, supplying ships in the Royal Dockyard in Tellesberg, for over five years. And according to what he's picked up from 'friends' he's cultivated in their navy, thirty of the galleons the Charisians have been working so hard to arm sailed from Lock Island five-days before you reached Eraystor Bay. And," the baron said, "also according to what he's learned, the Charisians still haven't activated their reserve galleys. Not only that, but King Haarahld's chartered two or three dozen merchant galleons for unspecified purposes. While he wasn't able to absolutely confirm that, he did observe himself that at least a dozen merchant ships which had been idled by the war have left Tellesberg flying the royal banner. No one seems to know exactly where they are."

Black Water's jaw clenched. Was it truly possible-?

"You say he says they sailed in October. He doesn't have any idea where?"

"None," White Castle admitted.

"Well, they wouldn't have sailed without some destination in mind," Black Water said slowly, thinking aloud. "I wonder . . ."

He glowered at the floor, rubbing his chin, then shook his head and looked back up at White Castle.

"We've all been assuming Haarahld didn't know what was coming until shortly before we sailed. But if he got those galleons to sea that early, he must have known something, and he probably knew it almost as soon as we did. But he couldn't have found out about it from spies in Corisande; there wasn't time for anyone to get a message to him all the way from Manchyr that quickly. And he couldn't have found out about it that early from spies in Emerald, because Nahrmahn didn't know that soon, thanks to those lost dispatches. Which means he could only have found out from Tarot."

The ambassador frowned for a moment, obviously considering Black Water's analysis, then nodded.

"I think you're right, Your Grace. But how much did anyone in Tarot know?"

"I can't answer that," Black Water admitted. "Obviously, Gorjah had to know at least the bare bones of what we were going to be doing, because he had to coordinate what he was supposed to do with it. But I don't have any idea how fully informed he may have been about our plans. And," his mouth tightened, "it doesn't really matter. Not if the galleons sailed that long ago and Haarahld's been using the sails of chartered merchantships to fool our scouts-and me-into thinking they're still with him."

"Your Grace?" White Castle looked confused, and Black Water laughed harshly.

"He sent his galleons off somewhere his galleys didn't have the seakeeping ability to go, My Lord," he said. "And if he learned what was happening from agents in Tarot, I can only think of one thing that would have taken them away so soon and prevented them from returning by now."

The duke shook his head, his expression bemused, almost awed.

"He's decided to risk an all-or-nothing throw of the dice," he said. "He's sent his galleons-and his son-off to intercept the Tarotisians and the Dohlarans. He doesn't have them here, not protecting Rock Shoal Bay. They're off somewhere with Cayleb in the Sea of Justice, or the Parker Sea, depending on how good his spies' information really was, hoping to find Duke Malikai and stop him from ever getting here."

"That's cr-" White Castle began, then stopped. He cleared his throat. "I mean, that strikes me as a very risky thing for him to have done, Your Grace."

"It's an insane thing for him to have done," Black Water said flatly. "At the same time, it's the only possible answer for where his galleons have really been all this time. And . . ."

His voice trailed off again, and his expression darkened.

"Your Grace?" White Castle said quietly after several moments.

"It's just occurred to me that there could be one way for him to pull it all together with a fair degree of confidence." Black Water's lips twitched in something that was much more snarl than smile. "If his spies in Tarot were good enough, or if someone highly enough placed were deliberately feeding him information, he could have learned from the Tarotisians where they were supposed to find the Dohlarans."

"Your Grace, are you suggesting Gorjah himself might have delivered the information to Charis?" White Castle asked in a very careful tone.

"I don't know." Black Water shrugged. "At first glance, I can't see any reason for him to have done it-certainly not to have risked angering Vicar Zahmsyn or the Grand Inquisitor! But that doesn't mean someone else highly placed in his court couldn't have done it."

The duke glowered at the deck again for several more seconds, then gave his entire body a shake.

"We may never know the answer to your question, My Lord. But if your man's report is accurate, what matters is that at this moment there are only eighty galleys or so between us and control of Rock Shoal Bay. And if we can defeat those galleys and take control of Rock Shoal Bay, we can both hold it against his galleons, if and when they finally return, and bring in troops to besiege the Keys from the land side."

"Those numbers assume their reserve fleet truly hasn't been activated, Your Grace," White Castle pointed out, and the duke snorted.

"If I'm prepared to believe this spy of yours really knows his business and risk trusting what he's said about the galleons, I may as well believe him about the galleys, as well!" Black Water shrugged. "And, to be honest, we've seen no sign of the Charisian reserve galleys. I've been assuming all along that the manning requirements of their galleons prevented them from manning the galleys, as well. So I'm bly inclined to believe he is right about that."

"And what do you intend to do about it, if I may ask, Your Grace?" White Castle asked. The duke quirked an eyebrow at him, and it was the baron's turn to shrug. "I am Prince Hektor's ambassador, Your Grace. If whatever you decide to do requires Prince Nahrmahn's support, then I may be in a position to help nudge him into doing what you want."

"True enough," Black Water conceded. "As for what I intend, though, that's going to depend on what I can talk my gallant allies into."

III

HMS Dreadnought,

The Cauldron

Crown Prince Cayleb sat up in the box-like cot suspended from the low beams of his sleeping cabin's deckhead as someone rapped sharply on the cabin door.

"What?" he said, rubbing his eyes before he glanced out the opened stern windows into the warm, clear night. The moon hadn't even risen yet, which meant he'd been in bed only an hour or so.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Cayleb," a deep voice said, "but we need to talk."

"Merlin?" Cayleb swung his legs over the side of the cot and stood. There was a note in Merlin's voice he'd never heard before, and he crossed the cabin in two strides and yanked the door open. "What is it? What's happened?"

"May I come in?"

"What?" Cayleb gave himself a shake, then grinned crookedly as he realized he'd opened the door without bothering to dress. In fact, he was stark naked, the way he habitually slept on such warm nights, and he stepped back with a chuckle, despite the tension in Merlin's voice.

"Of course you can come in," he said.

"Thank you."

Merlin stepped past Sergeant Faircaster, the sentry outside Cayleb's door, bending his head to clear the deck beams, and closed the door quietly behind him.

"What is it?" Cayleb asked, turning away to pick up the tunic he'd discarded when he turned in and drag it over his head.

"I've . . . just had a vision," Merlin said, and Cayleb turned back quickly at his tone, waving sharply at a chair.

"What sort of vision?"

"A vision of Duke Black Water in Eraystor Bay," Merlin said, his voice almost flat as he settled into the indicated chair. "It seems Bynzhamyn and I missed at least one of Hektor's spies, and he's just reported to Black Water that-"

* * *

"-so that's about the size of it," Merlin finished grimly several minutes later.

Cayleb sat on the edge of his cot, his face almost totally expressionless, as he concentrated on what Merlin had just told him.

"What do you think he's going to do?" the prince asked now, and Merlin shook his head.

"I think he was right when he told White Castle that depends on what he can convince his allies to do, Cayleb. All I can tell you right now is that Corisande's finally managed to get practically its entire reserve sent forward. Emerald has about sixty of its galleys into full commission, too, and despite everything Sharleyan, Sandyrs, and Sharpfield have been able to do, they've been forced to send another twenty of their galleys forward to Eraystor, as well. Even with the losses Bryahn and your father inflicted on them, that brings them up to a hundred and eighty to your father's eighty. Well, seventy-six, given the four he lost on the reef off Crown Point last five-day."

"Better than two-to-one," Cayleb muttered.

"And," Merlin added, "given that Black Water knows-or bly suspects-that we're somewhere else, he's almost certainly going to be tempted to try to strike before we can get back. If he can talk his 'allies' into it."

"Fifteen days, if the wind holds steady," Cayleb grated. "Three five-days." He slammed his right fist into his left palm suddenly. "Damn! I should have started home without making repairs!"

"Remember what I said about hindsight," Merlin told him. The youthful crown prince glared at him, and he gave a small shrug. "You made a decision. You didn't know this was going to happen. Right now, you need to concentrate on what we do next, not on what we've already done."

"What I've already done, you mean," Cayleb said bitterly. Then he threw back his shoulders and inhaled deeply. "But whoever did it, you're right. The problem is, there doesn't seem to be a lot we can do."

Merlin tried to think of something to say, but there wasn't much he could. The surviving galleons were already making their best speed, driving hard as they close-reached across the Cauldron on a steady wind out of the east-northeast at almost ten knots. They might be able to squeeze a little more speed out of some of the ships, but the merchant conversions had the typical high-capacity hulls of their merchant ancestry. They tended to be shorter and tubbier than naval galleons-especially Olyvyr's designs, like Dreadnought. They were already carrying virtually all the canvas they had, just to stay with their special-built consorts. If the fleet tried to sail faster, it could only be at the expense of leaving its slower ships behind. And it probably would shave no more than a day or two off its total transit time, anyway.

"If only Father knew about this," Cayleb said softly to himself, pounding his fist gently but rhythmically into his palm once more. "If only-"

His hands suddenly stopped moving, and his head came back up, his eyes locking on Merlin in the dimly lit sleeping cabin.

"Can you tell him?" he asked softly, and Merlin froze.

He looked back at the young man sitting on the cot, and his thoughts seemed to grind to a complete halt.

"Cayleb, I-" he began, then stopped.

How much was Cayleb truly prepared to accept about him? The prince had already taken far more in stride than Merlin would ever willingly have shown him, but where were the limits of Cayleb's flexibility? He might half-jestingly refer to Merlin as his "wizard," and he might have accepted Merlin's more-than-human strength and vision. He might even have recognized the inevitable clash between his kingdom and the corrupt men sitting in power in the Temple. But he was still a Safeholdian, still a child of the Church of God Awaiting, which was the very reason he was so angry about the corruption which afflicted it. And he'd still been steeped from birth in the belief that Pei Shan-wei was the mother of all evil and that the angels who'd fallen into evil with her had become demons, determined to tempt humanity into following Shan-wei's thirst for forbidden knowledge into damnation.

"Do you really want me to answer that question?" he asked after a long, still moment. Cayleb started to answer, but Merlin raised one hand. "Think first, Cayleb! If you ask and I answer it, you'll never be able to un-ask it."

Cayleb looked at him for perhaps three heartbeats, then nodded.

"I want you to answer it," he said steadily.

"All right, then," Merlin replied, just as steadily. "The answer is yes." Cayleb's expression started to blossom in relief, and he opened his mouth once more, but Merlin shook his head. "I can tell him this very night, even though he's four thousand miles away," he continued, "but only by physically going to him."

Cayleb's mouth snapped shut.

Silence hovered once more in the sleeping cabin. A taut, singing silence, enhanced but not broken by the background sound of water sluicing around the hull, the bubble of the wake below the opened stern windows, the creak of rigging and hull timbers, and the occasional sound of the rudder.

"You can go to him?" Cayleb said finally.

"Yes," Merlin sighed.

"Merlin," Cayleb said, gazing at him levelly, "are you a demon, after all?"

"No." Merlin returned his gaze just as levelly. "I'm not a demon, Cayleb. Nor am I an angel. I told you that before, in King's Harbor. I'm-" He shook his head. "When I told you then that I couldn't explain it to you, I meant I literally can't. If I tried, it would involve . . . concepts and knowledge you simply don't have."

Cayleb looked at him for fifteen endless, tense seconds, his eyes narrow, and when he spoke again, his voice was very soft.

"Would that knowledge violate the Proscriptions?" he asked.

"Yes," Merlin said simply, and if he'd still been a creature of flesh and blood he would have held his breath.

Cayleb Ahrmahk sat very, very still, gazing at the being who had become his friend. He sat that way for a long time, and then he shook himself.

"How can you say you stand for the Light when your very existence violates the Proscriptions?"

"Cayleb," Merlin said, "I've told you before that I've never lied to you, even when I haven't been able to tell you all the truth. I won't lie to you now, either. And if there are still things I simply can't explain, I can tell you this: the Proscriptions themselves are a lie."

Cayleb inhaled sharply, and his head flinched back, as if Merlin had just punched him.

"The Proscriptions were handed down by God Himself!" he said, his voice sharper, and Merlin shook his head.

"No, they weren't, Cayleb," he said. "They were handed down by Jwo-jeng, and Tsen Jwo-jeng was no more an archangel than I am."

Cayleb flinched again, and his face was pale. Merlin's eyes-his artificial eyes-could see it clearly, despite the dim light.

"How can the Proscriptions be a lie?" the prince demanded hoarsely. "Are you saying God lied?"

"No," Merlin said again. "God didn't lie. Jwo-jeng lied when she claimed to speak for Him."

"But-"

Cayleb broke off, staring at Merlin, and Merlin held out his right hand, cupped palm uppermost.

"Cayleb, you know the men who currently rule the Temple are corrupt. They lie. They accept bribes. They use the Proscriptions to extort money out of people who try to introduce new ideas, or from people who want new ideas suppressed. You yourself told me, standing on top of the citadel with Rayjhis, that the vicars are more concerned with their secular power than with saving souls. They're willing to destroy your entire kingdom-burn your cities, murder and terrorize your subjects-when you've done nothing at all wrong! Is it so inconceivable to you that other men have also used God, and twisted His purpose, for ends of their own?"

"We aren't talking about 'men,'— " Cayleb said. "We're talking about the archangels themselves!"

"Yes, we are," Merlin acknowledged. "But the beings who called themselves archangels weren't, Cayleb. They were men."

"No!" Cayleb said, yet his voice's certitude wavered, and Merlin felt a small flicker of hope.

"If you want me to, I can show you proof of that," he said gently. "Not tonight, not here, but I can show it to you. You've seen the things-some of the things-I can do. The men and women who claimed to be archangels could do the same sorts of things, and they used that ability to pretend they were divine beings. I can prove that to you, if you're willing to let me. The problem, Cayleb, is that if your faith in the lie you've been taught all your life is too b, you won't believe any proof I could show you."

Cayleb sat motionless, his jaw clenched tightly and his shoulders hunched as if to ward off a blow. And then, slowly-so slowly-his shoulders relaxed just a bit.

"If you truly are a demon, despite whatever you say," he said at last, "then you've already tempted me into damnation, haven't you?" He actually managed a twisted smile. "I've known for months now that you were more than mortal, and I've used you-and your . . . abilities-for my own ends and against the princes of the Church. And that's the definition of heresy and apostasy, isn't it?"

"I suppose it is," Merlin said, his voice as neutral as he could make it. "In the eyes of the Temple's present management, at least."

"But you didn't have to tell me you could warn Father, any more than you had to save those children in King's Harbor. Or to save Rayjhis from Kahlvyn. Or to lead me to Malikai's galleys, or into Crag Reach."

"I suppose not. But, Cayleb, if I were a demon out to tempt you into damnation, I'd do it by appealing to your desire, your need, to protect the people and kingdom you love. You aren't Hektor, or even Nahrmahn. I couldn't appeal to your greed, your hunger for power, so I'd tempt you through the goodness of your own heart, your fear for the things you care so deeply about."

"And probably tell me you would have done exactly that, on the assumption that I'd believe it proved you hadn't," Cayleb said, nodding with that same crooked smile. "But you missed my point. Perhaps you are a demon, or what the Writ calls a demon, at any rate. And perhaps you have tempted me-after all, you always told Father and me you were using us for your own ends. But if you've tempted me into the damnation of my soul, Merlin Athrawes, then so be it, because you've never asked me to do one single thing which wasn't what a just and loving God would have had me do. And if the God of the Writ isn't a just and loving God, then he isn't mine, either."

Merlin sat back in his chair, gazing at the young man in front of him. The young man, he realized, who was even more extraordinary than Merlin had believed.

"Cayleb," he said finally, "in your place, I doubt I could reach beyond everything I'd been taught the way you just have."

"I don't know if I really have," the prince replied with a shrug. "You say you can prove what you've said, and someday I'll hold you to that. But for now, I have to make decisions, choices. I can only make them on the basis of what I believe, and I believe you're a good man, whatever else you may be. And I believe you can warn my father."

"And how do you think your father will react if I suddenly simply appear aboard his flagship, four thousand miles from here?" Merlin asked wryly.

"I don't know," Cayleb said, then grinned suddenly, "but I'd dearly love to see his expression when you do!"

IV

The Cauldron

Merlin Athrawes lay stretched out, swooping up and down with the swell as he floated on his back, watching the moon.

Somewhere beyond his toes, invisible from his present water-level position, HMS Dreadnought and her consorts continued on their course, unaware one of their crewmen was missing. Hopefully, they'd stay that way.

This, he thought philosophically, gazing up at the stars, is probably the . . . least wise thing I've done yet. Aside from the krakens, maybe, anyway. No matter how well Cayleb took it, there's no way of telling how Haarahld is going to react.

Still, right off the top of his head, he couldn't come up with any alternative course of action which offered a better chance for Haarahld's survival.

In cold-blooded terms, now that he'd had a chance to think about things a bit more, it probably didn't matter to the long-term survival of Charis what happened to King Haarahld and his galleys. What Cayleb and Sir Domynyk Staynair had already done to one galley fleet promised they could do the same to another, if they had to. Especially one which was going to take losses of its own-serious losses-if it pressed an attack home against the Royal Charisian Navy. So even if Black Water succeeded in gaining control of the Charis Sea and Rock Shoal Bay, it would be only a temporary possession, lasting just long enough for Cayleb to get home and take them back again. And however badly Haarahld's death might hurt the rulership of Charis, Merlin felt confident of Cayleb's fitness to take the crown, especially with Gray Harbor and Wave Thunder to advise him.

But while Charis might survive King Haarahld's death, Merlin had discovered he wasn't prepared to do that himself. Or to see Cayleb forced to do it. Not without doing everything he possibly could to prevent it.

It was odd, he reflected as he rose high enough on the swell to glimpse the lights of one of the galleons in the distance, but when he'd first set out to shape Charis into the tool he needed, it hadn't occurred to him how close he might come to the Charisians themselves as people, as individuals he cared about. Haarahld Ahrmahk wasn't simply the King of Charis; he was also Merlin Athrawes' friend, and the father of another, even closer friend, and the man who had once been Nimue Alban had lost too many friends.

Is that the real reason I let Cayleb "talk me into" telling him I could do this in the first place? Or, he frowned as another thought occurred to him, was it because I'm so lonely? Because I need someone to know what I'm trying to do? How far from home I truly am? These people may be my friends, but none of them know who-or what-I really am. Do I have some sort of subconscious need to know that someone who considers me a friend knows the truth-or as much of the truth as he can comprehend, anyway-about me?

Perhaps he did. And perhaps that need was a dangerous chink in his armor. No matter how Cayleb, or even Haarahld, might react, the vast majority of Safeholdians, even in Charis, would, indeed, regard him as the very spawn of Hell if they discovered even a tenth of the truth about him. And if that happened, everything which had ever been associated with him would be tainted, rejected with horror. So, in the final analysis, if he allowed a need for friendship to lure him into revealing the truth to someone not prepared to accept it, or simply to someone who might inadvertently let the secret slip, everything he'd accomplished so far-and all the people who'd died along the way, and who were still going to die-would have been for nothing.

All of that was true. He knew that, but he wasn't prepared to psychoanalyze himself in an effort to parse his motivation, even assuming a PICA was subject to psychoanalysis. Because, in the end, it didn't matter. Whatever the reasons for it, this was something he had to do. Something he couldn't not do.

He rose to the top of another swell. This time, there were no lights in sight, and he gave a mental nod of satisfaction as he checked the overhead visual imagery being relayed from the stealthed recon skimmer hovering above him. The fleet was moving along nicely, drawing steadily further away from him as he floated alone in the immensity of the sea.

Getting someone off a crowded, cramped sailing vessel without being noticed, he'd discovered, was only marginally less difficult than he expected getting someone onto a crowded, cramped galley without being noticed to be. The fact that the full moon had risen now only made the task even more challenging.

Fortunately, he and Cayleb had already put a defense in depth into place, even if they'd never contemplated using it for exactly this purpose. Ahrnahld Falkhan, and the other members of Cayleb's Marine bodyguard detachment, all knew the "truth" about "Seijin Merlin." Every one of them knew Merlin had visions, and that it was necessary for him to retire and meditate in order to see them. And every one of them knew that concealing the fact of his visions from anyone outside King Haarahld's or Cayleb's innermost circle was absolutely essential.

And so, Merlin, as an officer of the Royal Guard and Cayleb's personal guardsman, had been provided with his own small private cabin. It was right aft, just below Cayleb's quarters. It even had its own stern window, and Falkhan and the other Marine sentries who guarded Cayleb were well placed to intercept anyone who might have disturbed the seijin during his meditations.

They were also well accustomed to leaving Merlin to those same meditations themselves. All of which meant it had been relatively simple for him to crawl through that window and lower himself hand-over-hand down a rope into the water. Once in the water, he'd submerged and swum the better part of a half-mile, then surfaced and waited while the fleet sailed past him.

He was down-moon from them, and he'd probably been far enough away when he surfaced that no one would have noticed anything, but he felt no great urge to take any chances. The night was as clear as only a tropical night could be, with glowing phosphorescence spilling back along the ships' sides as they sailed along the silver moon path, their canvas like polished pewter, their ports and scuttles glowing with the lamps and lanterns within. The odds against anyone happening to glance in exactly the right direction to see something as small as a human figure floating into the heavens was undoubtedly minute, but he had plenty of time. Certainly enough to avoid taking any chances.

Or, he corrected himself wryly, any more chances, at least.

He checked the visual imagery one last time, then activated his built-in communicator.

"Owl," he said, speaking aloud for a change, still contemplating Safehold's alien heavens.

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander?"

"Pick me up now."

"Yes, Lieutenant Commander."

V

HMS Royal Charis,

Charis Sea

King Haarahld VII waved his valet out the door.

"Are you sure you won't need me any more tonight, Sire?"

"Lachlyn, you've already asked me that three times," Haarahld said affectionately. "I'm not yet so feeble that I can't climb into bed by myself, even at sea. So go. Go! Get some sleep of your own."

"Very well, Sire. If you insist," Lachlyn Zhessyp said with a small smile, and obeyed the command.

Haarahld shook his head with a chuckle, then crossed the great cabin, opened the lattice-paned door, and stepped out onto Royal Charis's sternwalk.

He stood there, gazing off into the west, as if watching the setting moon slide the rest of the way below the horizon could somehow bring him closer to his son.

It was even harder being separated from Cayleb than he'd expected it to be. It wasn't like the year Cayleb had spent aboard ship as a midshipman. Then all he'd really had to worry about were the risks of disease, accidents, or shipwreck. Now he'd knowingly sent his elder son off to battle against an enormously numerically superior foe seven thousand miles away. If all had gone well, the battle Cayleb had been sent to fight was long over, but had his son won, or had he lost? And in either case, had he survived?

Not for the first time in the long, hard years of his kingship, Haarahld Ahrmahk found that knowing he'd made the right decision could be very cold comfort, indeed.

"Your Majesty."

Haarahld twitched uncontrollably, then whirled, one hand dropping to the hilt of the dagger he wasn't wearing. He half-crouched, despite his bad knee, his incredulous eyes wide, as he saw the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in the shadows at the far end of the sternwalk.

Disbelief and shock held him motionless, paralyzed as a statue, staring at the man who could not possibly be there.

"I apologize for startling you, Your Majesty," Merlin Athrawes said calmly and quietly, "but Cayleb sent me with a message."

* * *

The Ahrmahk Dynasty, Merlin decided, must have some sort of genetic defect. That was the only explanation he could think of, because something was obviously badly wrong with its "fight or flight" instincts.

King Haarahld should have reacted by at least shouting for the guards, assuming he hadn't simply bolted for the cabin, or even flung himself over the sternwalk to escape the apparition. In fact, Merlin had brought along a stun pistol for the express purpose of dealing with any such perfectly reasonable reaction, although he hadn't looked forward to explaining its effect to an irate monarch afterward.

But, instead of doing any of those things, Haarahld had simply stood there for almost exactly ten seconds by Merlin's internal chronometer, then straightened and cocked his head to one side.

"Well, Seijin Merlin," he'd said with appalling calm, "if Cayleb sent you with a message, at least I know he's still alive, don't I?"

And he'd smiled.

Now, twenty minutes later, the two of them stood together, still on the sternwalk, the one place on the flagship where they could hope to find true privacy. The noise of wind and sea as Royal Charis and her squadron moved slowly along with the rest of the fleet neatly covered their voices, as well.

"So Cayleb sent you to tell me Black Water's seen through our little masquerade, did he, Master Traynyr?" Haarahld asked, and Merlin chuckled, shaking his head, as he remembered the first time Haarahld had called him that.

"Yes, Your Majesty." Merlin inclined his head slightly, then snorted gently. "And, if you'll permit me to say it, Your Majesty, you've taken my . . . arrival rather more calmly then I anticipated."

"Over the last year, Merlin, I've come to expect the unexpected from you. And don't think I missed how carefully you answered Father Paityr's questions when he brought his truth stone with him. Or the way Cayleb watched you while you did it. Or any of several other . . . peculiar things you've accomplished over the months. All the interesting bits and pieces of knowledge you've produced. The fact that, despite your rather glib explanation at the time, there's not really any way you could've gotten to Kahlvyn's townhouse as quickly as you did."

The king waved one hand in an oddly gentle gesture of dismissal.

"I decided long ago," he said calmly, "that you were far more than you chose to appear, even to me, or possibly even to Cayleb. And, yes," he smiled, "I know how close you've become to my son. But as I believe I mentioned to you once before, a man-any man, regardless of his . . . abilities-must be judged by his actions. I've judged you on the basis of yours, and, like my son, I trust you. If I'm in error to do so, no doubt I'll pay for it in the next world. Unfortunately, I have to make my decisions in this one, don't I?"

"Your son is very like you, Your Majesty." Merlin inclined his head once more, this time in a bow of respect. "And I can think of few greater compliments I might pay him."

"In that case, now that we've both told one another what splendid people we are," Haarahld said with a smile, "I suppose we should decide what to do with this latest information of yours."

"It's not certain yet what use Black Water will be able to make of his spy's report," Merlin replied. "From what I've seen of him, however, I expect him to bring the other admirals around to his own view. He has a more forceful personality than I'd first expected, and the fact that all his 'allies' know he's being backed by the Group of Four gives him a powerful club whenever he chooses to use it."

"In that case, he certainly will try to press the attack, and as quickly as possible." Haarahld gazed up at the stars where the moon had finished setting while he and Merlin spoke. He frowned, stroking his beard.

"He can't know how much time he has before Cayleb's return," the king continued, obviously thinking aloud. "So he'll probably try to press an attack directly into Rock Shoal Bay. He'll expect us to either stand and fight, or else retreat behind Lock Island and the Keys. In either case, he'll have control of the Bay, and the Charis Sea, at least until Cayleb gets home."

"That's essentially what Cayleb and I decided his most likely course of action would be," Merlin agreed.

"And Cayleb's suggestion was?" Haarahld looked back at Merlin.

"He suggests that you go ahead and concede the bay." Merlin shrugged. "As long as you still control The Throat, even if you were to lose one or both of the Keys, they aren't going to be able to press a serious attack on any of your vital areas. And Cayleb's only fifteen days away. If they're deep enough into the bay when he arrives, they'll be trapped between your forces and his."

"I see my son is concerned about his aged father's survival," Haarahld said dryly.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty?"

"I've already discovered that Black Water, while he may be lumbered with allies who aren't exactly the most cooperative ones imaginable, is no fool, Merlin. He knows Cayleb's going to be coming home. If he sends his fleet into Rock Shoal Bay, he's not going to send it so deep he can't get it out again in a hurry. Nor is he going to neglect the elementary precaution of picketing the approaches. Whether Cayleb comes south, from Emerald Reach, or north, from Darcos Sound, he'll be spotted long before he can trap Black Water in the bay. So what Cayleb's strategy would really accomplish would be to keep me safely behind Lock Island while almost certainly affording Black Water the time to fall back on Eraystor Bay, or even retreat past Emerald to Zebediah or Corisande, to avoid him when he arrives. And, of course, my own forces would take so long to clear the bottleneck between Lock Island and the Keys that we'd never be able to stop Black Water before he ran."

"If we approached under cover of night," Merlin began, "then-"

"Then, if everything went perfectly, you might be able to pull it off," Haarahld interrupted. "But, as Rayjhis pointed out, what can go wrong in a battle plan, will. No. If we want to finish Hektor's navy, hiding behind Lock Island is the wrong way to go about it."

"It sounds to me as if you plan to do something else, Your Majesty," Merlin observed with a slight sense of dread.

"I do, indeed." Haarahld showed his teeth. "I have no intention of allowing myself to be penned up in The Throat. Nor do I intend to give Black Water the battle he wants. However, I do intend to dangle the possibility of that battle in front of him."

"How, Your Majesty?"

"I'm about to shift my main base of operations south from Rock Shoal Bay to Darcos Sound. Darcos Keep isn't as well suited as a major fleet base as Lock Island, but it will serve well enough for long enough. When Black Water manages to launch his offensive, I'll dance and spar for time, and I'll withdraw south, away from the bay. He's smart enough to recognize that my navy is his true objective. Once the fleet's out of his way, he can do basically whatever he wants; as long as the fleet exists, his options are cramped, at best. So, unless I miss my guess, he'll be so happy to have shifted me away from a well fortified bolthole like Lock Island and The Throat that he'll follow me up."

"You're planning to draw him south of the Charis Sea," Merlin said. "Away from his shortest line of retreat."

"Precisely." Haarahld nodded. "I'm sure he'll cover his rear with picket ships, but he'll only have so much reach. If I can pull him far enough south, keep his attention firmly enough focused on me-and the fact that my standard will be flying from this ship should certainly help to do that-then when Cayleb comes down from the north behind him, you'll be between him and retreat."

"Cayleb won't like it, Your Majesty."

"That's unfortunate," Haarahld said calmly. "As it happens, I'm King, and he's Crown Prince. Which means we'll do it my way."

"But if you move your fleet south," Merlin said, searching for counter arguments, "you'll expose The Throat. The North Channel's broad enough they could slip galleys right through it, if you're not there to stop them."

"Not anymore." Haarahld chuckled. "I see you haven't managed to keep an eye on quite everything, Seijin Merlin."

"Your Majesty?"

"Baron Seamount and Sir Dustyn have been busy in your absence. It was Seamount's idea. The two of them have thrown together what Seamount calls 'floating batteries.' They're basically just rafts-big ones, but just rafts-with solid, raised bulwarks about five feet thick and gunports. They've got fifteen of them, each with thirty carronades and a half-battalion of Marines to discourage boarders, anchored on springs squarely across North Channel, directly between Lock Island and North Key's shore batteries."

The king shrugged.

"I don't believe anyone's likely to get past them, do you?"

"No, but-"

"Then we'll do it my way, won't we?" Haarahld asked inflexibly.

Merlin looked at him for a long moment, then nodded heavily.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"The one thing I wish we could do," Haarahld said thoughtfully, "is find some way for Cayleb and me to coordinate our movements. If what I've got in mind works, Black Water's going to be directly between Cayleb's galleons and my galleys when you turn up in his rear. That means he'll see you, know you're there, before I do. If there were some way-aside, of course, from this rather dramatic personal visit of yours-for you to let me know when Cayleb is about to make contact with him, it would be an enormous help."

He cocked his head again, looking at Merlin with an expression so much like that of a hopeful little boy that Merlin chuckled.

"As a matter of fact, Your Majesty, I've given a little thought of my own to that possibility. Here."

He held out a small object. Haarahld gazed at it for an instant, then took it just a bit hesitantly, and Merlin was hard pressed not to chuckle again. Apparently even an Ahrmahk's imperturbability had its limits.

"That's a pager, Your Majesty."

"A 'pager'?" Haarahld repeated the bizarre word carefully.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Merlin had considered providing the king with a full-capability communicator, but he'd decided against it. Given how well Haarahld had handled his appearance on Royal Charis' sternwalk, his concern that the king might have found voices coming out of a tiny box more than he was prepared to accept had probably been misplaced. Unfortunately, he'd selected the pager instead, before he left the skimmer.

"It's set to vibrate when I need it to," he said now. "May I demonstrate?"

"Of course," Haarahld said.

"Then put it on your palm, please, Your Majesty. No, with the flat side down. That's right. Now-"

Merlin used his internal com to trigger the pager, and the king's hand jerked as the vibration tingled sharply against the palm of his hand. He looked up at Merlin, and his eyes were wide-with as much delight as surprise, Merlin realized.

"You felt that, Your Majesty?"

"I certainly did!"

"Well, what I'd like you to do, is to carry that under your clothing somewhere," Merlin said. "I was thinking you might use the wristband-its adjustable, Your Majesty, like this"-he demonstrated-"to wear it on your forearm, under your tunic. If you do, then I can signal you when we sight Black Water's ships. I was thinking I might cause it to vibrate one time when we first sight one of his scout ships, then twice when we sight his main body, and three times when we're prepared to engage."

"That sounds as if it should work quite well," Haarahld said, gazing down at the pager now strapped to the inside of his left forearm.

"Next time," Merlin said dryly, "I'll try to provide something a bit more . . . exotic, Your Majesty."

Haarahld looked up sharply, then laughed.

"Point taken, Seijin Merlin. Point taken."

He gave the pager one last look, then smoothed the sleeve of his tunic over it.

"I suppose it's time you were getting back to Cayleb now, Merlin." He reached out, resting his hands on Merlin's shoulders. "Tell him I'm proud of him, very proud. And that I love him."

"I will, Your Majesty. Not that he needs to be told."

"Maybe not, but sometimes it's as important to say it as to hear it. And," Haarahld gazed directly into Merlin's sapphire eyes, "for yourself, accept my thanks. The thanks of a king, for helping him to protect his people, and of a father, who knows you'll do all you can to keep his son safe."

"Of course I will, Your Majesty." Merlin bowed again, more deeply than ever, then straightened. "And now, as you say, it's time I was getting back to Cayleb."

He boosted himself up to the sternwalk's rail, gazing down at the water below.

"Do you really have to leave that way?" Haarahld asked.

"Excuse me, Your Majesty?"

Merlin looked back over his shoulder in surprise, for the king's tone had been almost wistful.

"I was just thinking it would be marvelous to see someone fly," Haarahld said in an undeniably wheedling tone.

"I wish I could do that for you, Your Majesty," Merlin said, and almost to his surprise, he meant every word of it. "Unfortunately, I'm afraid your officers and seamen aren't quite ready for flying seijin. Maybe another time, but if one of them happened to look in exactly the wrong direction at exactly the wrong moment tonight . . ."

He shrugged, and Haarahld nodded.

"I know, and you're right," the king said. "But one of these days, when there's no one else about, I'm going to hold you to that 'maybe' of yours!"

"Somehow, I'm sure you will, Your Majesty," Merlin said with a laugh, and dropped into the night with a quiet splash.

VI

Galley Corisande,

Eraystor Bay

Duke Black Water sat in his chair at the head of the table in Corisande's great cabin, his face impassive, as he listened to Sir Kehvyn Myrgyn's voice. After careful consideration, he'd decided to allow his flag captain to present the new information to his allies instead of doing it himself. He couldn't change the fact that it was coming from one of Prince Hektor's spies, but he could at least try to minimize the sense that he was personally ramming it down their throats.

Not that he expected to fool anyone about that.

He considered the faces of his two fellow admirals. Sharpfield looked skeptical, but then, Sharpfield always looked skeptical. None of Black Water's spies had been able to intercept any of Queen Sharleyan's dispatches to her fleet commander, despite their best efforts, but the duke was privately certain of what he would have found if he had been able to read any of them. And, to be honest, he didn't blame Sharleyan a bit. In her shoes, he would have done everything he thought he could get away with to minimize his own exposure and losses in the service of one of his most bitter enemies. Not that understanding her motives made their consequences any more pleasant.

Still, Sharpfield was also a considerably more experienced naval commander then Prince Nahrmahn's Earl Mahndyr. And however unwillingly his queen had been compelled to support this entire campaign, Sharpfield was far too intelligent to do anything overt to which the Group of Four might take exception.

Mahndyr was another matter. Unlike Sharleyan, Nahrmahn had every reason to want this campaign to succeed. Well, to see it avoid failure, which wasn't precisely the same thing, perhaps. Black Water, now that he'd met the Prince of Emerald, had come to the conclusion that his own ruler had underestimated him. Nahrmahn was anything but the fool Black Water had been warned to expect, and, the duke was quietly certain, he'd made arrangements of his own to protect himself from the consequences of a victory by Prince Hektor. Whether or not those arrangements would work was another matter, of course. But, either way, he was even more certain Nahrmahn would prefer to take his chances against a victorious Hektor rather than against a victorious-and enraged-Haarahld.

That would definitely appear to be the case judging by the way Nahrmahn's navy had responded to Black Water's orders in the two months since the destruction of Baron Tanlyr Keep's squadron, at any rate. Mahndyr had pitched in and goaded his own captains and crews into energetic-if not necessarily wildly enthusiastic-cooperation with Black Water's rigorous training exercises.

Sharpfield's cooperation had been less enthusiastic than Mahndyr's, but, by the same token, his captains had been better trained to begin with. And Black Water had taken Sharpefield's own experience into consideration and sought his advice in planning the fleet's exercises, which actually appeared to have gotten the senior Chisholm officer actively involved in the process. The duke had also been careful to stay fairly close to home during those two months, unwilling to offer the Charisians the opportunity to lure another detachment into a trap until he'd whipped his command into something a bit more cohesive, and his efforts had borne fruit.

There were still weak spots, of course. Black Water suspected there would have been in any coalition this diverse, even if all of its members had wanted to join it in the first place.

The worst weakness of all was that the components of the fleet were still organized on a national basis. Black Water would really have preferred to break up all three of the allied fleets and recombine their units into integrated squadrons. Not even Mahndyr was going to agree to that one, though.

Short of achieving that particular impossible goal, the duke was about as satisfied with his command as he had any right to expect in this less-than-perfect world. It wasn't going to get much better, at any rate, and at least he could count on its doing pretty much what he asked it to at sea. The problem was convincing his fellow admirals that what he wanted to do needed doing before they put to sea.

"Thank you, Sir Kehvyn," Black Water said as the flag captain completed his briefing. Then he looked down the table at Sharpfield and Mahndyr.

"I believe this information puts rather a different complexion on our own situation," he said. "Clearly Haarahld's known a great deal more about our plans-and our capabilities-than any of us had believed was possible. Exactly how that information came into his hands is something I'm sure all of us would like to know. What matters for our purposes right this minute, however, is what we do now that we know what he's apparently done on the basis of his knowledge."

"With all due respect, Your Grace," Sharpfield said, "do we really know what he's done? We have a single report from a single one of Prince Hektor's spies. Even granting that the man is completely honest, and that the information he's reported is true to the best of his own knowledge, he could be in error on some-or all-of the points in his report. And even if every word of it's completely accurate, we have no way of knowing what's come of Haarahld's actions."

The Chisholm admiral shook his head with a half-snort.

"Personally, I think Haarahld would have to have been out of his mind to try something this idiotic, and I can't remember the last time someone accused Haarahld of Charis of stupidity. The chances of his even finding Malikai and White Ford at sea, whether he knew the originally proposed location for their rendezvous point or not, would be minute. And, even if Cayleb did find them, his galleons would have been outnumbered by something like six-to-one when they engaged."

He shook his head again.

"I simply can't see Haarahld taking that sort of chance with that big a piece of his total navy-and his own son's life-when he'd have to be shooting almost completely blind."

"Then what do you think he's done, My Lord?" Black Water asked courteously.

"I don't have the least idea," Earl Sharpfield said frankly. "I suppose it's remotely possible he's trying some sort of complicated double bluff. If he ostentatiously sent his galleons off early, counting on us to still have at least some spies in Charis to report the fact, he could want us to believe the topsails we've been seeing belong to merchantmen, when they're actually the sails of his war galleons. On the other hand, I'd have to admit that trying something like that doesn't strike me as a great deal more reasonable than sending his entire force of galleons haring off into the middle of the Parker Sea!"

"Well, he's obviously done something with them," Mahndyr said, "and I, for one, am inclined to trust your man's information, Your Grace." He inclined his head in Black Water's direction. "I'll defer to Earl Sharpfield's greater experience at sea and agree it seems like a remarkably foolhardy risk on Haarahld's part. Still, if he did have better knowledge of our plans than we believed he did, he must have known the odds, the forces being assembled against him. He may have calculated that he couldn't hope to defeat our combined forces after all of them were joined together and decided that some chance-even if it were a slim one-of preventing us from ever uniting all of our ships at all was better than a certainty of seeing his own fleet destroyed after we did."

"That's certainly possible," Sharpfield acknowledged a bit grudgingly. "It just seems so . . . unlike Haarahld. He's very like his father was. I met the old king when I was a captain. The Queen's father chose my ship to transport a diplomatic mission to him, and my impression of him was that he was always ready to take chances, even bold ones, but only when the possible return outweighed the risk and the odds were in his favor. Everything I've ever heard about Haarahld says he thinks exactly the same way, and that isn't-can't-be the case here, whatever this report seemed to indicate."

"I would tend to agree with you, under normal circumstances, My Lord," Black Water said. "In this case, though, I believe we have to at least tentatively accept that the information is correct. And if it is, then I think we must also assume that either Cayleb managed to intercept Duke Malikai, or else he didn't. If he did, they've fought a battle, which one of them won. If Cayleb won-or even if he simply failed to make contact at all-he should be back sometime in the next two to four five-days. If Duke Malikai won, he should be here within the same timeframe. If he slipped past Cayleb without making contact at all, he should be here within no more than the next two five-days. What we have to do is to decide how to proceed until one or the other of them turns up."

"I'm very tempted to suggest we do nothing to bring on a general engagement until Duke Malikai arrives," Sharpfield said. "That was the original plan for the campaign, and it would offer at least some protection against the possibility that Haarahld truly is trying some sort of complicated misdirection with the movements of his galleons. And," he added, looking Black Water straight in the eye, "if Duke Malikai and Baron White Ford don't arrive, that should be a fairly pointed indication of what will happen to our galleys in a battle against these new galleons of theirs."

"I disagree, Sir Lewk," Mahndyr said in a courteous tone. "I believe we should do our very best to provoke, even force, a general engagement as soon as possible. If Duke Malikai won against Cayleb, then we'll be in an even better position to proceed after his arrival if we've managed to defeat Haarahld, in the meantime. If he lost, but still managed to inflict heavy losses on Cayleb, then it's important that we neutralize Haarahld's galleys to prevent them from supporting and covering Cayleb on his return. And if Cayleb won without suffering significant losses, it's more important than ever that we not have to worry about facing Haarahld's galleys at the same time we confront him."

"I find myself in agreement with Earl Mahndyr, My Lord," Black Water said to Sharpfield. "I'll confess that I myself would feel much more comfortable if we had some independent confirmation of this single report. Nonetheless, it seems to me we have to at least probe to see whether or not Haarahld's galleons are in company with the rest of his fleet.

"If it turns out they are, our information is obviously in error. If it turns out they aren't, then I think Earl Mahndyr's suggestions will have considerable merit. While it's true the original plan for this campaign required us to wait for the arrival of the Tarotisian and Dohlaran squadrons, it's also true the reason we were waiting for them was to attain a decisive numerical superiority over the Charisians. If all we face is the eighty galleys of Haarahld's peacetime navy, then we have a decisive superiority at this moment."

There was silence for a moment, and then, almost as if against his will, Sharpfield nodded slowly.

VII

Off Triton Head,

Charis Sea

"They are coming south, Your Majesty."

Captain Tryvythyn gave King Haarahld a rather peculiar look. The sort, Haarahld reflected, which was normally reserved for prophets, madmen . . . or seijin.

"Are they, indeed, Dynzyl?" he responded mildly, looking up from his lunch.

"Yes, they are, and in considerable strength," his flag captain said. "According to Flash, it looks like their entire fleet, in fact."

"I see."

Haarahld picked up his wineglass and sipped, then wiped his lips with a snowy napkin.

"Well, Dynzyl," he said then, "if they seem intent on offering battle, I suppose they have a reason to. We, on the other hand, do not."

"Not an immediate reason, Your Majesty, no," Tryvythyn agreed. The i on the adjective was slight, but unmistakable, and Haarahld smiled.

"Dynzyl, Dynzyl!" The king shook his head. "I know giving ground against these . . . people goes against the grain. And I know Bryahn kicked their arses for them the last time they came this far south. But you and I both know they wouldn't be here if Black Water didn't feel fairly confident we wouldn't be doing that to them again. And whatever they may want, what we want is to continue to buy time until Cayleb returns."

"True enough, Your Majesty," Tryvythyn conceded.

He did not, Haarahld noticed, point out that no one in the Charisian fleet knew whether or not Cayleb was returning. The king felt a sudden, powerful temptation to tell his flag captain what he knew, but he suppressed it easily enough.

"Pass the word to Bryahn," he directed instead. "Tell him to execute the plans we discussed yesterday."

* * *

"Well, this is unexpected," Duke Black Water commented, and Sir Kehvyn Myrgyn chuckled beside him.

"I hadn't realized what a gift for understatement you have, Your Grace," the flag captain said, when Black Water looked at him, and the duke smiled. But then the smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown, as he considered the report.

"South," he murmured, scratching the tip of his nose while the brisk northeasterly ruffled his hair. "Why south?"

"It does seem peculiar, Your Grace," Myrgyn observed. "I would have expected him to fall back towards Rock Shoal Bay, if he was intent on avoiding action."

"So would I," Black Water agreed.

He cocked his head and clasped his hands behind him, standing by the starboard bulwark of Corisande's aftercastle, and rocked up and down on his toes for several seconds.

"Whatever he's up to, Your Grace," Myrgyn offered, "it does look as if he wants to avoid a general engagement."

"Which would appear to confirm the report that his galleons are somewhere else." Black Water nodded. "If all he has is eighty galleys, of course he doesn't want to fight our combined strength. But this business of falling back away from Rock Shoal Bay . . . That bothers me."

"You think he's trying to draw us into some sort of ambush, Your Grace?"

"An ambush by what?" Black Water asked. The frustration in his question wasn't directed at his flag captain, as Myrgyn understood perfectly, and the duke flung out one arm in a sweeping gesture at the long columns of allied galleys forging steadily southwest.

"If our information's correct, he doesn't have anything he could 'ambush' us with! And if our information isn't correct, what point would be served by moving clear down into Darcos Sound before offering battle?"

"Perhaps he's simply trying to avoid being trapped inside the Bay, Your Grace," Myrgyn suggested after a moment. Black Water looked at him, one eyebrow raised, and the flag captain shrugged.

"We've always assumed the Charisians would fight to hold the bay, Your Grace. What if we were wrong? What if Haarahld's willing to let us have the bay, if that's what it takes to prevent us from pinning him down?"

"In theory, if he did that, it would give us the opportunity to send a raiding force past Lock Island," Black Water said thoughtfully. "Would he run that risk?"

"That depends on how great a risk it would be, doesn't it, Your Grace? If we got even a few galleys loose in Howell Bay, we could do a lot of damage. But if he has a few galleys of his own waiting there, or just on the other side of Lock Island, covering North Channel, we'd have to commit a much larger force if we hoped to break through successfully."

"Which might give him the opportunity to come in behind our main force after we've weakened it by detaching a big enough squadron for the job," Black Water said, nodding slowly.

"There's this, too, Your Grace," Myrgyn said. "If he's waiting for his galleons to come back from wherever they've been, he'll try to avoid a fight to the finish until they get here. And he won't want to be stuck in a pocket like Rock Shoal Bay if his son needs his help out in the Charis Sea."

"I was thinking the same thing." Black Water frowned some more.

"If he is waiting for Cayleb's return," he went on after a few seconds, "then perhaps the fact that he's falling back to the south indicates the direction from which he expects Cayleb to appear. The last thing he'd want would be for our complete fleet strength to be between him and Cayleb, where we'd have the best chance of defeating either of his two forces in isolation."

"Unless he's thinking in terms of a converging attack," Myrgyn pointed out, and Black Water laughed harshly.

"Sharpfield hates our guts, Kehvyn, but he's got a point about Haarahld and the sort of risks he's likely to take. Try to catch us between two widely separated fleets, each of them weaker than we are? When he can't even be certain when the other fleet is going to arrive?" Black Water shook his head. "Neither one of them would even know we were engaged with the other until after the battle was over!" He shook his head again, even more firmly. "No, that's the sort of overclever plan someone like Magwair might come up with. Haarahld's too good a seaman to try something that foolish."

"I didn't say it was likely, Your Grace," Myrgyn pointed out. "I simply threw it out as one possibility."

"I know." Black Water reached out and patted his flag captain on the shoulder in a rare public display of affection. "And I do think you have a valid point about the reasons he'd want to stay out of Rock Shoal Bay, especially if he is expecting Cayleb's return."

"How far south to you think he'll go before standing and fighting?" Myrgyn asked.

"Probably no further than Darcos Strait," Black Water replied after a moment. "Darcos Keep's nowhere near as good a base as Lock Island, but it would do in a pinch, at least for a while. And the passage between Darcos Island and Crown Cape is less than thirty miles wide at high water. At low water it's a lot narrower, and the safe channel's even narrower than that. He could fall back into the strait, and we'd play hell trying to follow him up."

"But we could always circle around through Silver Strait and come up behind him," Myrgyn pointed out.

"Not without splitting our own forces," Black Water countered. "We'd have to leave someone to keep him from simply heading north again, which would give him the opportunity to defeat one of our forces in isolation. Or that's what he may be thinking, at least."

"And what are you thinking, Your Grace?" Myrgyn asked, looking at him shrewdly.

"I'm thinking that if he's foolish enough to let himself be trapped inside Darcos Strait, I'll go ahead and split my forces," Black Water replied. "If we drive him back into the narrows, then we can afford to reduce our forces north of the the strait, because we'll have the same narrow front to protect he does. Which means we can probably hold any attempt of his to break back out into the Sound with no more than a quarter or a third of our total strength while we send all the rest around behind him."

"Do you really think he'll be that foolish, Your Grace?"

"No, he probably won't. But I can always hope. In the meantime, it's the next best thing to six hundred miles to Darcos Island. At our present speed, that's almost a five-day. And however shy he's being right now, I think we can count on him to do his best to make our lives miserable between now and then. The next several days ought to be interesting.

VIII

HMS Royal Charis,

Darcos Sound

Haarahld of Charis stood on his flagship's aftercastle, gazing towards the eastern horizon, where summer lightning seemed to flash and blink through the darkness.

It wasn't lightning, of course, and his jaw tightened as he wondered how many of his subjects were dying out there.

Not many, if it's going according to plan, he told himself. Of course, it never does go "according to plan," does it?

"Commodore Nylz knows his business, Your Majesty," Captain Tryvythyn murmured, and Haarahld turned to look at the flag captain.

"Do I look that anxious?" he asked wryly, and Tryvythyn shrugged.

"No, not really. But I've come to know you rather better than most, I think, Your Majesty."

"That's certainly true," Haarahld agreed with a chuckle. "Still, you're right. And someone had to do it."

"Exactly, Your Majesty," Tryvythyn agreed.

The flag captain bowed slightly and turned away, allowing his king to return to his own thoughts. Which, Haarahld discovered, were somewhat lighter after Tryvythyn's intervention.

The king drew a deep breath and made himself consider the last eleven days.

Black Water was clearly determined to pin him down and destroy his fleet once and for all. To be honest, Haarahld was a bit surprised by the Corisandian's tenacity and the degree of tight control he seemed able to maintain over his composite fleet. After Haarahld had used the cover of night to slip his entire fleet around Black Water's right flank and break back north of the duke, Black Water had simply turned around and started following him back towards Rock Shoal Bay.

He'd refused to spread his units in an effort to cast a wider net, which was what Haarahld had more than half-hoped he might do. Instead of offering up more isolated squadrons for the Charisians to snap up, however, Black Water had maintained his concentration-except for his scouting ships-and continued his dogged pursuit. Clearly he wanted a decisive battle, but, equally clearly, he wasn't prepared to court a defeat in detail in his efforts to get one.

And despite all Haarahld's maneuvers, all the wiles and cunning he could bring to bear, the Corisandian had gradually closed the distance between their two fleets.

Haarahld's galleys were individually bigger than their opponents, and better designed for open water. But that also meant they were at least marginally slower under oars at the best of times, and they'd been continually at sea for almost three months now, except for brief returns to port on a ship-by-ship basis to replenish their water tanks. Their bottoms had become foul, which was making them even slower.

Under sail, that wasn't much of a problem, because they also had bigger, more powerful sails. But working to windward under oars, it was. Which was why Black Water's fleet had been less than twenty-five miles south of Haarahld's flagship at sundown.

I've got to get back south of him again, where I can run on the wind, Haarahld told himself yet again, watching the gun flashes grow in intensity. But at least this should be the last time I need to.

He wanted to go below, to the refuge of his cabin, away from that silent "heat lightning," but he couldn't. Commodore Kohdy Nylz was out there with his squadron, attacking a force many times his own strength, solely to convince Black Water that Haarahld was trying to break past him to the east, not to the west.

The least the king who'd sent them out could do was stand here and watch.

IX

Galley Corisande,

Darcos Sound

The Duke of Black Water walked on deck after an abbreviated breakfast and looked sourly over the bulwark.

Under normal circumstances, he conceded, the sight before him would have caused him considerable pleasure. Two big galleys lay on Corisande's port quarter. The nearer ship flew the gold-on-black standard of Charis under the white-on-orange of Corisande; the other flew the Charisian colors under the silver doomwhale and royal blue field of Chisholm. They were the first two important prizes Black Water's fleet had captured, and it was already obvious from the preliminary reports that there were some significant peculiarities about the way their guns were mounted.

"Peculiar" or not, he thought grimly, they obviously work well enough, don't they?

Capturing those two ships-and destroying a third-had cost him four of his own galleys. Actually, it had cost him six, but the damage to two of them was repairable. Of the other four, one had been sunk outright, and the other three had been reduced to such shattered wrecks that he'd ordered them burned himself, after taking off the survivors of their crews.

And after all of that, almost two-thirds of the Charisian force had actually managed to disengage and run.

Two-to-one losses, he reflected. And we'll probably never know why the third one caught fire and blew up, which means we can't exactly count on doing it again.

He didn't much care for the implications. Of course, he had more than twice as many galleys as Haarahld, but having a dozen or so battered ships left after finishing off the last Charisian wasn't exactly likely to delight Prince Hektor.

"Good morning, Your Grace."

"Good morning, Kehvyn." He turned to face the flag captain, whose breeches were soaked to well above the waist. "Have you had an adventure this morning?" the duke asked mildly, raising one eyebrow.

"I mistimed it when I jumped for the entry port ladder, Your Grace."

Myrgyn grimaced humorously, and Black Water snorted, although it wasn't always funny, by any means. Mistiming the transfer from a small boat to the ladder-like battens fastened to a galley's side for the steep climb to its deck could have fatal consequences. More than one man had been crushed against the side of his own ship when an unanticipated wave slammed the boat he'd just left into him. Others had been washed off their perch by similar waves, sucked under the bilge, and drowned. Black Water had almost suffered that fate himself when he was a much younger man.

"I'm glad to see you're no worse for wear," he told the flag captain, then jerked his head at the two prizes. "What do you make of them?"

"I'm . . . impressed, Your Grace," Myrgyn said soberly. "And I understand what happened to Tanlyr Keep much better now. They're bigger than our ships, which I expected, of course. But those guns of theirs." The flag captain shook his head, his expression half-admiring and half-chagrined. "I don't know why no one else ever thought of it, Your Grace. Their broadside weapons are much shorter than our guns, and lighter-lots lighter. They're like sawed-off krakens mounted where only a falcon ought to be able to go. And all their guns have these . . . these pivot things on the sides of the barrel, almost like the sheaves in a block." Myrgyn's hands moved, as if trying to twist something invisible in the air in front of him. "It lets them actually elevate and depress their guns. And there's something different about their gun powder, too."

"Different? Different how?"

"It's like . . . grains, Your Grace. Grains of sand. Or maybe more like coarse-ground salt."

"Hmmm." Black Water frowned, trying to visualize what Myrgyn was describing.

"I found out how they're managing to fire that quickly, as well, Your Grace," Myrgyn told him, and the duke's eyes sharpened.

"It's another thing I can't understand why nobody else ever thought of," the flag captain said. "They've simply sewn the charges for their guns into cloth bags. They ram the entire bag down the barrel with one shove, instead of using ladles. And they've got some sort of . . . thing mounted on the gun. It's like a little hammer with a piece of flint stuck onto it and a spring. They pull the hammer back, and when they're ready to fire, the spring snaps it down and strikes sparks onto the priming, instead of using slow match or an iron."

Black Water grimaced. He'd always known Charisians were irritatingly innovative. After all, that was a big part of what the Grand Inquisitor had against the kingdom. But from even his present grasp of Myrgyn's explanation, which he knew was imperfect at this point, he began to understand how eight galleys had done so much damage before they were driven off.

No, he told himself harshly. Not "driven off"; the other five voluntarily disengaged after they'd done what they came to do.

"That's all very interesting, Kehvyn. I mean that, and I'd appreciate it if you could sketch some of the things you're talking about for me, so I could look at them over lunch. But for right now, what do we know about the rest of Haarahld's ships?"

"About what you'd surmised at sunup, Your Grace," Myrgyn replied, and it was his turn to grimace. "You were right. It was a diversion, and while we were all looking east, Haarahld slipped back past us to the west. His main body's about twenty miles south of our main body and opening the range, slowly but steadily, with these wind conditions."

"Shan-wei seize the man," Black Water said, far more mildly than he felt, and shook his head in grudging admiration. "Now we'll have to chase him all the way to Darcos Island all over again."

"Do we really want to do that, Your Grace?" Myrgyn asked diffidently, and Black Water looked at him sharply. "What I mean, Your Grace, is that as you yourself pointed out when we began pursuing them, if they're expecting Cayleb to return from the south, and if they've managed to make us spend this long chasing them, we may not be able to catch up again before he gets here."

"Or before Duke Malikai gets here," Black Water said. "He's supposed to be coming from the same direction, if you recall."

"With all due respect, Your Grace, Duke Malikai is already the better part of a month overdue. He may still be coming, but if they've managed to put as many guns like the ones I was just examining aboard their galleons as our spies had reported, and if they actually managed to intercept Malikai, then the Duke's taken significant losses. Those galleys-" He waved at the two prize ships. "-only have six guns in each broadside. According to our spies, their galleons have as many as twenty."

"I know."

For a moment, Black Water's expression showed a bleakness he would not have permitted anyone else to see. Then he drew a deep breath and shook himself.

"I know," he repeated. "But we did manage to take or sink a third of their galleys last night, and Cayleb would have been outnumbered by Duke Malikai by an even greater margin than they were outnumbered by the column they attacked. You're probably right about what galleons with that much firepower could do, but surely they would have suffered losses of their own, and they didn't have that many galleons to begin with."

"With all due respect, Your Grace, I certainly hope you're right about that," Myrgyn said with a wry smile.

"So do I," Black Water admitted. "Still, whatever their galleons look like, they can't have these new guns of theirs widely distributed through their galleys. If they did, they'd have sent more of them along last night. For that matter, if all their galleys had them, they wouldn't have bothered to run away from us in the first place!"

He snorted with bleak humor and glowered at the prizes, then shook his head.

"I expect they concentrated on putting all the new guns they had aboard the galleons," he said. "Which should mean that if we can ever get to grips with that slippery bastard Haarahld, we should still be able to crush him. And if they do have galleons headed back this way from the Parker Sea, we'd better deal with Haarahld before they get here."

"To be honest, Your Grace," Myrgyn said slowly, his expression troubled, "I'm not at all sure the galley hasn't just become thoroughly out-of-date."

"I think you're probably right about that," Black Water said grimly. "And the bad news is that we don't have any galleons of our own. But the good news is that the Charisians don't have a lot of them, and we can start building them from an almost even footing, now that we've figured out how they're mounting their guns."

"Exactly, Your Grace." The flag captain nodded. "And what I'm wondering, if that's true, is whether or not there's any point in engaging Haarahld."

Black Water looked at him sharply, and Myrgyn shrugged.

"Even if we completely destroy Haarahld's fleet, we'll only be capturing-or sinking-ships nobody's going to want in another year or two," Myrgyn pointed out.

"Oh. I see what you're thinking now," Black Water said, but he also shook his head.

"I see two reasons to go ahead and smash Haarahld," he said. "First of all, we don't know what's happened to Cayleb. He may have been badly defeated by Malikai and White Ford, despite all our present doom and gloom. Even if he won, he's probably taken losses-quite possibly enough losses that even with all the wonderful new guns he could put aboard his remaining ships, we could still beat him.

"But, second, even if Cayleb is coming back with a fleet we can't possibly face in battle-at least until we've built ourselves a fleet just like it-we still need to destroy this fleet. Their king's aboard one of those galleys, Kehvyn. If we kill him, or even better, capture him, the consequences will be enormous. And even if we fail to do that, those ships have got thousands of trained officers and seamen aboard them. Those are the men they'll use to crew any more galleons they might build. We need to kill as many of them as we can now, while our ships are still equal to theirs, to deprive them of all that experienced manpower."

Myrgyn looked at him for several seconds, then nodded slowly with an expression of profound respect.

"I wasn't thinking that far ahead, Your Grace. Perhaps," he smiled thinly, "that's why you're an admiral, and I'm not."

"Well," Black Water said with an answering, somewhat crooked, smile, "one of the reasons, anyway. Perhaps."

"Of course, there's still the little problem of what happens if Cayleb turns up at an inopportune moment, Your Grace," Myrgyn pointed out.

"We've got picket ships out to the north," Black Water countered, "and Haarahld is south of us. If Cayleb turns up from the south, then we turn around and run north. And while I realize these new rigging ideas of theirs make their galleons more weatherly, I bly doubt that they can sail straight into the wind the way we can row."

"And if we're wrong, and he turns up from the north, Your Grace?"

"Then our pickets will tell us he's there long before Haarahld can know anything about it," Black Water replied. "In that case, we make straight for Silver Strait and run for it. We'll probably have enough forewarning to get around Haarahld before he realizes what's happening, if we stop chasing him and just concentrate on running. And if Haarahld does get in our way-" The duke shrugged. "-we cut our way through him and inflict all the damage we can in the process."

X

Darcos Sound

"You hardly touched your supper," Lachlyn Zhessyp observed.

King Haarahld turned from his contemplation of the stern windows at his valet's complaint.

"Was there something wrong with it, Your Majesty?" Zhessyp inquired with a certain hurt dignity as he gathered up the dishes on his tray, and Haarahld shook his head with a smile.

"No, there wasn't anything wrong with it," he said patiently, ignoring the grin on Sergeant Haarpar's face as the guardsman watched from the great cabin door he'd opened for Zhessyp. "And, no, I have no complaints for the cook. And, no, I'm not ill. And, no, you can't bring me a snack later tonight."

Zhessyp regarded him with the mournful, martyred eyes only the most loyal and trusted of retainers could produce, and the king sighed.

"But," he said, "I promise to eat a simply enormous breakfast. There. Are you satisfied now?"

"I'm sure," Zhessyp said with enormous dignity, "that it's not my place to be extracting promises from you, Your Majesty."

He picked up his tray, elevated his nose ever so slightly, and left the cabin. Haarpar held the door for him, and his grin got even bigger as the departing valet stepped past him.

"You know, Gorj," the king said dryly, "the frightening thing is that he really thinks he means that."

"Aye, Your Majesty, he does," the guardsman agreed. "Still and all, down inside somewhere, he knows better."

"Yes, he does." Haarahld smiled fondly, then shook his head. "Goodnight, Gorj."

"Goodnight, Your Majesty." The guardsman touched his left shoulder in salute, then shut the door.

Haarahld gazed at the closed door for the better part of a minute, then rose, his smile fading, and stepped out onto Royal Charis' sternwalk.

He gazed up at the sky, where the fingernail paring of a new moon gleamed faintly in the east. The musical bubble of the galley's wake came to him from below, coupled with the rhythmic sound of water sluicing along the sides of his flagship's hull. Stars burned brightly high overhead, and the following wind had freshened slightly and veered a bit back towards the west.

It was a beautiful night, if a little on the dark side, and he gazed astern at the running lights of the other ships in Royal Charis' column. The men aboard those galleys were every one of them obedient to his orders. And, he knew, they executed those orders willingly, by and large, trusting him to get it right. But beyond the running lights he could see were those of the fleet he couldn't see, yet which was once again creeping closer.

Soon now, very soon, he was going to have to decide whether to fall back south of Darcos Island or try to break around Black Water's flank once more. He didn't want to go any farther south than he had to-if nothing else, there wasn't another base as good as Darcos Keep once he got down into the Middle Sea. But Black Water was staying close to his heels, and the chances of his bamboozling someone as shrewd as the Corisandian duke got slimmer each time he had to make the attempt.

That's not what's really worrying you, though, he told himself, gazing out at the night. What's worrying you is that according to Cayleb's and Merlin's estimate, and even allowing for how much further south we are right now, they should have made contact with Black Water's picket ships no later than day before yesterday.

He smiled without a great deal of humor and braced his forearms on the sternwalk railing as he leaned over it to take some of the weight off of his right knee.

He was certain the rest of the fleet must be beginning to wonder exactly what he had in mind with all this bobbing and weaving about the Charis Sea and Darcos Sound. He would have liked to have been able to tell them, too. But just exactly how was he supposed to inform even his most trusted officers that he'd decided to base his strategy-and, for that matter, his hope for the very survival of his entire kingdom, the lives of all their families, and very possibly their immortal souls-on the services of what might well turn out to be a demon?

He laughed softly, shaking his head, remembering Merlin's expression on this very sternwalk. Whatever else Merlin might be, he was clearly no omniscient being. In fact, that was one of the reasons Haarahld had decided to trust him, although he'd never told the seijin-or whatever he truly was-that.

Merlin could be surprised. Which undoubtedly meant he could also make mistakes. But what Merlin could not do was to conceal what he felt. Perhaps the seijin didn't realize that. Or perhaps it was only his friends from whom he couldn't hide. But Haarahld had long since realized Merlin was a deeply lonely man. One who'd been hurt, but refused to surrender to the pain. And whatever his origins, whatever his powers, he truly was committed to the purpose he'd explained to Haarahld in their very first interview.

I realize it's possible he really is a demon, God, Haarahld Ahrmahk thought, gazing up at the clean, untouched beauty of the glittering handiwork of the deity he worshiped. If he is, and if I shouldn't have listened to him, then I apologize, and I ask for Your forgiveness. But I don't think he is. And if he isn't, then perhaps You truly did send him, whatever he is. He's not very much like what I always expected an archangel to be like, either, of course. The king smiled wryly in the darkness. On the other hand, I suppose You could send whoever You wanted to to teach those corrupt bastards in the Temple the error of their ways. If it's Your will that I live to see that happen, I'll die a happy man. And if it isn't, then I suppose there are worse causes a man could die serving.

It wasn't the sort of prayer of which the Council of Vicars would have approved, and not just because of the content. But that was just fine with King Haarahld VII of Charis.

It was odd, he reflected. Despite his concern for Cayleb's tardiness, despite the fact that the Group of Four had decreed Charis' destruction, despite even the fact that he fully realized that the defeat of this onslaught would only prompt the Group of Four to try again, with even ber forces, he felt a deep sense of content. He was far from blind to the realities of what was about to happen. If Charis lost this war, the consequences for all Haarahld cared for and loved would be catastrophic. And even if Charis won this war, it would only be to face another, and another beyond that.

Haarahld doubted he would live to see the end of the titanic conflict which he prayed nightly was only just beginning. But perhaps Cayleb would. Or Zhan and Zhanayt. Or his grandchildren. And at least he'd taken a stand. At least he'd provided for the possibility that those grandchildren he hadn't met yet would live in a world in which evil and venal men, hiding their avarice and corruption behind the face of God Himself, could not dictate their beliefs, exploit their faith in God for their own vile purposes.

Poor Merlin, he thought. So afraid I'd see where his purposes must ultimately lead! I wonder if he's started to figure out that I've been in front of him almost all the way?

It was probably time he sat down and discussed the entire subject openly and frankly with Merlin, he decided. There was no longer any point pretending, after all. And once they could stop wasting time on all this diplomatic indirection, they could probably—

King Haarahld's thoughts broke off as the "pager" strapped to his forearm vibrated suddenly.

* * *

Prince Cayleb and Merlin leaned over the chart table. The prince's frown was intense as he gazed at the copper coins Merlin had used as map tokens.

"So this is their main force over here," Cayleb said, tapping a roughly rectangular area of the chart delineated by the coins placed at each corner.

"Yes." Merlin stood back, folding his forearms and gazing at the prince's intent expression.

Despite the tension of the moment, Merlin felt a temptation to smile at Cayleb's almost absent tone. The prince's frustration as adverse winds delayed their passage had been palpable to all around him. Now that same frustration had transmuted itself into something else, and he was so focused on the task at hand that it clearly no longer even occurred to him to worry about where-and how-Merlin got his information. Just as he hadn't worried about how Merlin had just finished informing King Haarahld of their arrival.

"And these," Cayleb's hand swept over the arc of smaller coins scattered to the north of Duke Black Water's main fleet, "are his picket ships."

"Yes," Merlin said again, and the prince straightened, still frowning.

"If these positions are accurate, he's let his pickets get too far astern," he said. "And too far from one another, as well."

"True," Merlin agreed. "On the other hand, it's a clear night. Any cannon fire's going to be visible for a long way."

"Granted. But," Cayleb looked up with an evil smile, "there doesn't necessarily have to be any cannon fire, does there?"

"What do you have in mind?" Merlin asked.

"Well," Cayleb crossed his own arms and straightened up, settling back on his heels, "he's using light units. For all intents and purposes, they're basically no more than dispatch boats. At most, they've got a few wolves."

Merlin nodded. "Wolf" was a generic term for any Safeholdian naval gun with a bore of two inches or less. Such small pieces, like the ones in Dreadnought's fighting tops, were intended almost entirely as antipersonnel weapons-essentially, enormous single-shot shotguns-although they could also be used effectively against boats and launches.

"I'm thinking," Cayleb continued, "that if this picket here-" He unfolded his right arm to reach out and tap one of the coins with his forefinger. "-were to suffer a mischief sometime around Langhorne's Watch, it would leave a gap between these two." He tapped two more coins. "Not only that, but I'm betting it's the relay ship for both of them, so even if they did see us, they couldn't report it to Black Water. Which means we could get the main fleet to within ten miles of his main body, maybe even less, between moonset and dawn."

Merlin considered the chart, then nodded slowly.

"And just how do you intend to arrange for it to suffer that mischief?" he asked politely.

"I'm glad you asked that," Cayleb said with a toothy smile.

* * *

I've really got to talk to this boy about appropriate risks for fleet commanders to run, Merlin told himself three hours later, standing on the afterdeck of the schooner Seagull.

Seagull was one of the larger of the schooners attached to Cayleb's galleons. She mounted twelve carronades, six in each broadside. Unlike Dreadnought's, the schooner's carronades' bores measured only five and a half inches, and the round shot they threw weighed just a bit over twenty-three pounds each. That was far lighter than her larger consorts' weapons, but much, much heavier than anything her size had ever been able to mount before.

At the moment, however, the weight of her broadside was irrelevant. The flush-decked schooner, barely ninety feet in length, was crammed with Marines. Cayleb had managed to pack an additional eighty men into her, plus Merlin, Cayleb's Marine bodyguards, and Cayleb himself.

"This is not something you should be doing," Merlin said quietly into the prince's ear. The two of them stood to one side of the helmsman as he leaned on the tiller bar.

"No?" Cayleb returned, equally quietly, and his teeth flashed white in the dim light of the setting moon as he smiled.

"No," Merlin said, as deflatingly as possible. "Getting yourself killed doing something as minor as this would be stupid, not gallant."

"Father always told me 'gallant' and 'stupid' usually meant exactly the same thing," Cayleb said.

"A smart man, your father," Merlin replied.

"Yes, he is," Cayleb agreed. "But as it happens, I think I do have to be here. Unless, of course, you're prepared to explain to the Captain just how it is that you know exactly where to go?"

Merlin had opened his mouth to respond. Now he closed it again, glowering at the prince. Unfortunately, Cayleb had a point. By now, every man in the galleon fleet was firmly convinced Cayleb could literally smell his way to the enemy. They were thoroughly prepared to follow his "instincts" anywhere, and not at all surprised when they found enemy warships wherever he took them, which neatly deflected any attention from Merlin's contributions. In the long term, that was undoubtedly a good thing, but in the short term, Merlin wasn't at all happy about Cayleb's risking himself on a harebrained stunt like this one.

Come on, he told himself. It's not really a "stunt" at all, is it? Because Cayleb's right; if we pull this off, Black Water's going to be in for a really nasty surprise about sunrise.

No doubt he would, but Merlin could think of all too many examples from Old Earth's history of essential men and women who'd gotten themselves killed doing important but not essential things.

"Well," Merlin murmured into the prince's ear now, "if you're the one doing all the explaining to the Captain, you'd better tell him to alter course about half a point to starboard."

"Aye, aye, Sir," Cayleb said with an ironic smile and crossed to where the schooner's captain stood watching his ship's sails.

* * *

The light galley Sprite ghosted slowly along on one more leg of her endless patrol. Sprite's Emeraldian crew wasn't especially fond of Duke Black Water. They hadn't particularly cared for the orders which subordinated their own navy to the Corisandian's command. And they especially hadn't cared for the orders which had kept them at sea for the last three and a half five-days.

Every member of the galley's seventy-five-man company knew they were out here primarily as an afterthought. Oh, it was always possible the mysteriously absent Charisian galleons might try to come creeping up behind the combined fleet from the north. It wasn't very likely, though. Especially not in light of how persistently the Charisian galleys had insisted on heading south. Sprite's crewmen didn't object to the notion of having someone watch the main fleet's back; they simply didn't see why they should be stuck with the job.

Her captain had ordered a single reef taken in her sail just after sundown. Not because the wind had freshened enough to pose any sort of threat, but because he had to reduce sail if he wanted to maintain his assigned position to windward of the main fleet's bigger, slower galleys. He'd also turned in after supper, leaving the deck to his second lieutenant, and most of the rest of his ship's company was working assiduously to get all the sleep it could before yet another boring day of playing lookout.

* * *

"There," Cayleb whispered into the ear of Seagull's captain, and pointed to leeward.

The schooner was on the starboard tack, broad reaching with the wind coming in over her starboard quarter. And there, almost precisely where the prince had predicted, were the running lights of a small vessel.

The moon had set, and the schooner, all of her own lights extinguished, was sliding along under jibs and foresail alone as she crept stealthily closer to the galley.

The picket boat was even smaller than Seagull, little more than sixty feet in length, if that. Her stern lanterns picked out her position clearly, and the schooner's captain nodded to his crown prince.

"I see her now, Your Highness," he whispered back, and Cayleb's lips twitched as he heard the semi-awe in the man's voice.

"Lay her alongside, just like we planned," he said, carefully suppressing the amusement in his own voice.

"Aye, aye, Your Highness."

The captain touched his shoulder in salute, and Cayleb nodded, then stepped back over beside Merlin and Ahrnahld Falkhan.

"And when he does lay us alongside," Merlin said just loud enough to be certain Falkhan could hear, "you stay right here aboard Seagull, Your Highness."

"Of course," Cayleb replied in a rather absent tone, watching as Seagull changed course very slightly, edging ever closer to the unsuspecting galley, now little more than a couple of hundred yards clear.

"I mean it, Cayleb!" Merlin said sternly. "Ahrnahld and I are not going to explain to your father how we managed to let you get killed taking a dinky little galley, is that understood?"

"Of course," Cayleb repeated, and Merlin looked across at Falkhan.

The Marine lieutenant looked back and shook his head, then jerked it to indicate Sergeant Faircaster. The burly, powerfully built noncom stood directly behind the crown prince, and he looked quite prepared to rap the heir to the throne smartly over the head if that was what it took to keep him aboard Seagull.

Which, Merlin reflected, suited him just fine.

* * *

"Now!"

Seagull's helmsman put his tiller sharply up to windward, and the schooner slid neatly alongside Sprite. Someone aboard the galley spotted her at the very last minute and shouted in alarm, but it was far too late to do any good.

Grappling irons flew, biting into Sprite's timbers as the two vessels ground together. The watch on deck-no more than a dozen men, all told-whirled, gaping in horror as Seagull came crashing out of the night. The schooner's side was a solid mass of rifle-armed Marines, bayonets gleaming with the dull, murderous reflection of Sprite's running lights, and then those same Marines swept across Sprite's deck.

Bayonets thrust. Clubbed musket butts struck viciously. There were a few screams and more shouts, but not a shot was fired, and it was over in less than thirty seconds. It took a little longer than that for the crew trapped below decks to realize what had happened, of course, and for Sprite's captain to accept it and formally surrender his ship. But there were only seven casualties, all of them Emeraldians, and only two of them fatal.

It was a neat little operation, Merlin conceded. And, best of all from his perspective, there hadn't been time for Cayleb to get himself involved in the boarding action even if he'd wanted to.

"All right," the crown prince said now, standing beside Merlin on the afterdeck of the captured galley, where he'd just accepted the surrender of Sprite's stunned, disbelieving captain. "Let's get the prize crew aboard. Then we've got to go back and get the rest of the fleet up here."

* * *

King Haarahld lay in the gently swaying cot, dutifully pretending to sleep.

The fact that there wasn't very much else he could do didn't make it any easier. What he really wanted was to call Captain Tryvythyn into the chart room and begin discussing possible deployments. In fact, the temptation was very nearly overwhelming. Except, of course, that Tryvythyn would undoubtedly wonder what had inspired it. And except for the fact that although he knew Cayleb was almost certainly less than fifty miles from where he himself lay, that was all he knew.

It wasn't as if he and Admiral Lock Island and their commodores and captains hadn't discussed possible tactical situations and their responses to them exhaustively over the past months. Every one of his senior officers knew exactly what all of them were supposed to do, and Haarahld felt confident they would understand not simply his orders, but the purpose behind those orders, when the time came.

But the fact that there wasn't anything he needed to be doing didn't keep him from wishing there were.

He glanced at the stern windows, wondering if the sky beyond them really was just a bit lighter than it had seemed the last time he looked. It was possible, although it was more likely wishful thinking on his part.

He smiled at the thought, amused despite the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside.

Yes, the sky definitely was lighter, he realized, and—

The pager vibrated against his forearm again. This time, twice.

* * *

"It's a good thing you're young enough to not need very much sleep," Merlin said a bit sourly, and Cayleb grinned at him.

"Be honest, Merlin," he said. "You're just pissed because I behaved myself last night and didn't give you anything to complain about."

"Nonsense. I'm not 'pissed'; just astonished," Merlin replied, and this time Cayleb laughed out loud.

"Do you think they've spotted us yet, Your Highness?" Falkhan asked, and the crown prince sobered.

"If they haven't yet, they will shortly," he said, rather more grimly, and Falkhan nodded.

Cayleb's galleons were formed into a single column this time, forging ahead with all sail set to the topgallants, and headed almost exactly southeast-by-east on the port tack. Dreadnought led the column, and the sails of the closest of Black Water's galleys were clearly visible from deck level against the steadily brightening sky to the east.

"We've still got a minute or two, I think," Merlin said quietly. "The sky's still dark behind us. But you're right, Cayleb. They're going to pick us up any minute now."

"Be ready with those signals, Gwylym," Cayleb said over his shoulder.

"Aye, aye, Your Highness," Captain Manthyr replied, and glanced at Midshipman Kohrby's signal party.

* * *

The lookout in the Emerald Navy galley Black Prince stretched and yawned. His relief in the crow's-nest was due in another half-hour or so, and he looked forward to breakfast and some hammock time.

He finished stretching and turned, making a leisurely visual sweep as the sky in the east turned pale-cream and salmon colored. A few wisps of cloud were high enough to the north and west to pick up some of the color, standing out like misty golden banners against a sky of graying velvet, still pricked by stars.

He started to turn back to the east, then paused as something caught his eye. He frowned, peering more intently to the northwest. He was looking almost into the eye of the wind, and his own eyes watered slightly. He rubbed them in irritation and looked again.

His heart seemed to stop. For an instant, all he could do was stare incredulously at the impossible sight as the steadying light from behind him turned gray, weather-stained canvas briefly into polished pewter. Then he found his voice.

"Sail ho!" he screamed. "Sail ho!"

* * *

"Well, they've seen us," Merlin commented quietly to Cayleb as the nearest ship, the rearmost galley in the Northern Force's westernmost column, flying the red and gold standard of Emerald, turned suddenly into a kicked ants' nest of furious activity.

He didn't need his SNARC's overhead imagery to see it, either. He could scarcely believe how close Cayleb had managed to get, although he knew Cayleb himself was more than a little frustrated.

The crown prince was running well over two hours behind his own original ambitious schedule. He'd hoped to overtake Black Water's fleet before dawn, announcing his arrival only with the first broadsides, delivered from total darkness. But even with perfect information on the relative positions of the two fleets, he'd been unable to allow properly for vagaries of wind and current.

His irritation at the delay was probably a bit more evident than he fondly believed it was, Merlin thought with a grin. For all he'd already accomplished, there were times when Crown Prince Cayleb was very young.

Fortunately, he'd allowed for at least some slippage in his original timing, and the weariness of the enemy's lookout, coupled with the poorer visibility to the west, had allowed Dreadnought to get to within less than six miles before being spotted. Black Water's nearer two columns were hull-up, clearly visible from Dreadnought's deck, although no one else could see them quite as clearly as he could.

"Hoist the signal, Captain!" Cayleb snapped.

"Aye, aye, Your Highness! Master Kohrby, if you please!"

"Aye, aye, Sir!"

The colorful flags rose to Dreadnought's yardarm, streaming out in the wind, repeated by the schooners stationed up to windward of the galleons' battle line, and a hungry cheer went up from Cayleb's men.

"Number One hoisted, Sir!" Kohrby reported. "Engage the enemy!"

* * *

King Haarahld was half-finished dressing when the pager on his forearm vibrated yet again. This time there were three pulses, and he raised his voice in a shout to his cabin sentry.

"Charlz!"

The door flew open instantly, and Sergeant Gahrdaner stepped through it, sword half-drawn. His eyes snapped around the cabin, seeking any threat, and then he relaxed-slightly-when he found none.

"Your Majesty?" he said.

"Pass the word for Captain Tryvythyn," Haarahld said. "And then, get me my armor."

* * *

Lieutenant Rholynd Mahlry spun in place, staring disbelievingly up at the crow's-nest.

"Ships on the starboard quarter!" the lookout bawled frantically. "Many ships on the starboard quarter!"

Mahlry stared for another heartbeat, then raced across Black Prince's aftercastle to stare up to windward himself. For just a moment, he saw nothing-then he saw altogether too much.

"Beat to quarters!" he shouted, watching the endless line of galleons bearing down upon his ship. "Someone wake the Captain!"

* * *

"Signal to Gale," Cayleb said, eyes fixed on the rapidly nearing enemy vessels.

"Yes, Your Highness?" Kohrby asked, chalk poised over his slate.

"Engage the enemy column nearest to windward," Cayleb said.

"Engage the enemy column nearest to windward, aye, aye, Sir!" Kohrby said, and turned to his signal party once more.

"Captain Manthyr, we'll pass astern of at least the two nearer columns, if we can."

"Aye, aye, Your Highness." The flag captain gazed at the nearest enemy galleys for a moment, then looked at his helmsmen. "Bring her head two points to port."

* * *

Captain Payt Khattyr came bounding up Black Prince's aftercastle ladder like a hedge lizard with its tail on fire. He hadn't waited for his armor, or even to dress, and he was bare to the waist as he arrived at Mahlry's side.

"Where-?" he began urgently, then chopped the question off as he saw the galleons for himself.

"They've altered heading in the last few minutes, Sir," Mahlry said, pointing at the lead ship. "They're edging further up to windward."

"Steering to cut us off from home," Khattyr muttered. Mahlry didn't know whether the comment was intended for him, or not, but he found himself nodding in grim agreement with his captain's assessment.

"Make the signal for enemy in sight," Khattyr said.

"I already have, Sir," Mahlry replied, and Khattyr spared him a brief glance of intense approval.

"Good man, Rholynd!"

The captain turned back to his perusal of the enemy, and his jaw tightened as he saw the lines of gunports opening and the cannon muzzles snouting out like hungry beasts.

He turned to stare south, along the line of his ship's column. Black Prince was the rearmost ship in the westernmost of nine columns. There were twenty galleys in her column, all of them Emeraldian, and the next two columns to eastward were also Emeraldian, with the nearer one headed by Earl Mahndyr's flagship Triton. The fourth column was headed by the last ten Emeraldian galleys, followed by nine Chisholmian ships. The fifth consisted of another twenty Chisholmian galleys, led by Earl Sharpfield, in King Maikel. Then came the sixth column, composed entirely of Corisandian ships and led by Duke Black Water in the fleet flagship. Then another column of Chisholmians, and two final columns of Corisandians.

With an interval of two hundred yards between ships, even the shortest column was over two and a half miles long, and the the interval between columns was three miles. That meant the entire formation stretched twenty-four miles from east to west . . . and that a masthead lookout in Black Prince couldn't quite see the ships in the farthest column at all.

It also meant it was going to take time for Black Water to receive word of what was happening, and even longer for him to respond to it.

"Any signal from Earl Mahndyr?" he asked.

"No, Sir," Mahlry said tensely, and Khattyr swallowed a curse.

He looked back at the inexorably advancing Charisian galleons. They had to be making good at least ten or eleven knots in the stiff breeze, he thought, watching them lean to the press of their mountains of canvas, probably more, and they were slicing steadily eastward. In another fifteen minutes-twenty-five, at most-they were going to be squarely across Black Prince's stern, and the captain felt his belly tightening down into a cold, hard knot at the thought. He'd seen what galleys armed with the new Charisian artillery could do, and the nearest Charisian galleons had at least twenty-five guns in her broadside, four times what their galleys had mounted.

"Sir!" Mahlry said suddenly, pointing across at the Charisian leader. "That's the Crown Prince's standard!"

"Are you certain?" Khattyr asked urgently. "Your eyes are better than mine, boy-but are you certain?"

"Yes, Sir," Mahlry said firmly.

Khattyr slammed his balled fists together, wheeling to stare along the column once again. He could hear other galleys' drums beating to quarters, see crewmen dashing about the decks of the nearer ships, but still there was no signal from Earl Mahndyr.

He waited another five minutes, then drew a deep breath and nodded sharply.

"Take in the sail!" he ordered harshly. "Out sweeps! Bring her about!"

* * *

"There's someone with his wits about him, Your Highness," Captain Manthyr observed as the northernmost galley in the nearest column suddenly brailed up her single big sail.

Her oars thrust out of their ports, and she turned sharply, swinging out of her column. One or two derisive taunts went up from some of Dreadnought's seamen, but that galley wasn't fleeing. As they watched, she turned into the wind and steadied on her new course-straight for Dreadnought.

"They've seen your standard, Your Highness," Ahrnahld Falkhan said quietly as the galley's oars started to stroke.

"Yes, they have," Cayleb agreed.

He gazed at the oncoming galley for a moment, judging relative motions with a seaman's eye. Then shook his head slowly.

"They've seen it, but they didn't turn quite soon enough," he said.

"With your permission, Your Highness, I'd still prefer to give him a bit more sea room," Manthyr said. "The last thing we need is to have your flagship damaged or taken out of action early."

"Oh, no, we couldn't have that, Captain," Cayleb agreed, eyes glinting with amusement at his flag captain's careful choice of words.

"I'm glad you agree, Your Highness," Manthyr said gravely, and looked at his helmsmen again. "Bring her up another point to port."

* * *

"Shan-wei seize it!" Khattyr snarled as the long line of galleons altered course slightly. His eye was as good as Cayleb's, and he could see clearly what was about to happen.

He'd waited too long, assuming there'd ever been any real chance of success at all. But the absolute necessity of maintaining formation had been drilled into every captain of Black Water's fleet. Leaving it without orders was a court-martial offense, and he'd taken too much time wrestling with himself before he acted.

Unfortunately, there wasn't much he could do about it now. Turning away would only make it worse, and there was always at least the chance he might actually be able to carry through despite their guns, still get to grips with the Charisian heir's flagship. If he could do that, then every Charisian ship in sight would swarm in to save Cayleb. The consequences for Black Prince would undoubtedly be fatal, but if he could just delay those galleons, just tie them up for an hour or two while the rest of the fleet reacted . . .

* * *

"Open fire!"

Captain Manthyr's order rang out clear and sharp. The inevitable noises of a ship underway seemed only to have enclosed and perfected the taut silence of Dreadnought's company, and despite everyone's tense anticipation, the command came almost as a surprise.

For one tiny slice of a second, nothing happened. And then, every gun captain in her starboard broadside yanked his lanyard simultaneously.

* * *

"You wanted me, Your Majesty?"

Captain Tryvythyn had arrived quickly. Quickly enough, indeed, that he hadn't fully completed dressing and appeared in his cotton shirt, without his uniform tunic.

"Yes, Dynzyl."

Haarahld turned to face his flag captain as Sergeant Gahrdaner finished buckling his cuirass for him. The captain's eyebrows had risen in surprise at finding his king obviously arming for battle, and Haarahld smiled tightly.

"No, I haven't lost my mind," he said reassuringly. "But I've got a . . . feeling we're going to be busy today, and shortly."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Tryvythyn couldn't quite keep his mystification-and perhaps just a hint of skepticism-out of his voice, and Haarahld snorted in amusement.

"I don't blame you for cherishing a few doubts, Dynzyl, but trust me."

"I do, Your Majesty," Tryvythyn said, and there was no hesitation at all in that statement.

"Good. In that case-"

"Excuse me, Your Majesty," Midshipman Marshyl said from the cabin door. "We've just received a signal from Speedy."

"What signal?" Haarahld asked.

"She reports hearing gunfire to the northeast, Sire. She's moving to investigate it."

Tryvythyn stared at the midshipman for a moment, then back at his king, and Haarahld saw the wonder-and the questions-in the flag captain's eyes.

"General signal, Dynzyl," he said. "Prepare for battle."

* * *

The Charisian flagship disappeared behind a sudden blinding eruption of gunsmoke shot through with flashes of fire. The range was still almost two hundred yards, but these guns weren't double-shotted. The press of Dreadnought's canvas heeled her to starboard, bringing the sills of her gunports closer to the water, but she had ample freeboard, and it actually made her a more stable gun platform. Better than half her shots still missed . . . but almost half of them didn't.

* * *

Captain Khattyr saw the fiery blast of smoke an instant before the first round shot slammed murderously into his galley's port bow. It was a quartering broadside, coming in at an angle of perhaps sixty degrees, and splinters flew as thirty-eight-pound spheres of iron crashed through her timbers. Shrieks of agony came from the oardeck, and her forward sweeps flailed as the men manning them were smashed and mangled by cast-iron and the pieces of their own vessel.

More shots came in higher, slamming through the bulwarks, carving gory furrows through the borders still assembling on her forecastle and in the waist. Bits and pieces of men were snatched up in that iron hurricane, and blood sprayed as human bodies were torn apart.

Black Prince staggered, like a runner who'd caught his toe on some unseen obstacle, and Khattyr shouted orders to the helmsmen, trying to compensate for what had just happened to a third of his port sweeps.

* * *

"What did you say?" the Earl of Mahndyr demanded of his flag captain.

"Black Prince reports enemy in sight, My Lord," Captain Nyklas Zheppsyn repeated.

"That's ridiculous!" Mahndyr said. "How could Haarahld have gotten clear around us that way?"

"My Lord, I don't know," Zheppsyn said. "We've just received the signal, and-"

"What was that?" Mahndyr snapped, cocking his head at the sound of distant thunder.

"Gunfire, My Lord," Zheppsyn said grimly.

* * *

Dreadnought's gunners hurled themselves onto their recoiling guns, swabs and rammers jerking. Gun trucks squealed as carriages were hauled back into battery, and muzzles spewed fresh smoke and flame.

As always, the shorter, lighter carronades fired faster than the long guns on her main deck. Merlin stood well clear of the quarterdeck carronades, between Cayleb and the rail, and watched the heavy shot tear into the Emeraldian galley across the steadily shortening range.

Her port sweeps flailed in wild disorder as Dreadnought's fire smashed into the crowded confines of her oardeck, and Merlin felt a mental chill as he pictured the butchery and carnage. A galley under oars depended on the intricate coordination of her rowers, and no one could maintain that coordination while everyone about him was being torn into bleeding meat.

The galley's forward guns managed to return fire, but their shots went wide, and Dreadnought was passing directly across Black Prince's bows. Her fire ripped down the centerline of the galley, killing and maiming, and the sound of the Emeraldian crew's screams was clearly audible in the fleeting instants in which none of Dreadnought's guns was actually firing.

* * *

Captain Khattyr clung to the aftercastle's forward rail.

There was nothing else he could do. Even his worst nightmares had fallen short of what a galleon's broadside could do. Black Prince's hatchways belched men, many of them bleeding from terrible wounds, as her panicked rowers boiled up through them. But there was no shelter from the Charisians' merciless fire on the open deck, either.

His ship was losing way, his people were dying for nothing, and he couldn't simply stand here and watch them be slaughtered for no return at all.

"Lieutenant Mahlry, strike-" he began, turning to the lieutenant. But the young man lay on the aftercastle deck, eyes already glazing, both hands clutching the spear-like splinter which had driven deep into his chest.

Khattyr's jaw tightened, and he grabbed a midshipman by the shoulder.

"Strike the colors!" he barked. "Get forward and-"

The thirty-eight-pound round shot killed both of them instantly.

* * *

"Why doesn't he strike?" Cayleb muttered. "Why doesn't he strike?"

The galley wallowed helplessly, shuddering under the tempest of iron ripping her apart. Devastation and Destruction, the two galleons following in Dreadnought's wake, were firing into her as well, now, and thick streamers of blood oozed down her sides. There was absolutely nothing that ship could do to hinder Cayleb's progress, but still her captain obstinately refused to haul down his colors in token of surrender.

"She's done, Cayleb!" Merlin half-shouted in his ear.

Cayleb looked at him for a moment, then nodded sharply. He crossed to Manthyr and gripped the flag captain's shoulder.

"Let her go, Gwylym!" he commanded.

Manthyr glanced at him, and the captain's eyes were almost grateful.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!" he shouted.

Dreadnought's guns fell silent, but Devastation and Destruction continued to fire for another minute or two. Then, finally, the savage bombardment trailed off.

The wind rolled the fog bank of smoke away, and more than one man aboard Cayleb's flagship felt a touch of horror as he looked at their target, heard the screams and moans of her broken and bleeding crew. The galley rolled heavily, oars smashed, mast leaning drunkenly, and it sounded as if the ship herself were crying out in agony.

The entire crew stared at the shattered hulk, and even as they watched, the tottering mast toppled wearily into the sea beside her. Then Captain Manthyr's voice cut through the stillness in a tone of unnatural calm.

"Let her fall off a point," he told his helmsmen, and Dreadnought altered course to starboard, closing on the second column of her enemies, now less than two miles ahead.

* * *

"They took the northern passage?"

Duke Black Water looked at Captain Myrgyn in disbelief.

"That's what the signal says, Your Grace," the flag captain replied tautly.

Black Water turned away, staring out the great cabin's stern windows while his brain tried to grasp Myrgyn's message. The north? How could Cayleb-and it could only be Cayleb-have come at him from the north when Haarahld had been so stubbornly clinging to a southern position? And how had he gotten through Black Water's screen of picket vessels without being spotted? What demon had let him time his arrival so perfectly? Come sweeping in exactly with the dawn?

He clenched his jaw and shook himself viciously. How didn't matter. All that mattered was what he did about it.

His mind began to function once more, sorting out possibilities, options.

The initial sighting report had come in from one of the ships in his westernmost column. That meant Cayleb was either due west of him, or else coming down with the wind from the northwest. Given the limitations of his signaling system, Black Water couldn't be sure which, and it mattered.

A part of him insisted Cayleb couldn't possibly have placed himself north, as well as west, of the combined fleet. No one could have that much battle luck! But, then again, no one could have enough luck to come straight to him like this in the first place.

In either case, Cayleb was going to hit Mahndyr's Emeraldians first, and he was going to hit them hard. Surprise was almost total, and that was going to produce panic. Mahndyr was no coward, and neither were most of his captains, but Black Water felt grimly certain he was going to lose at least one of Mahndyr's columns completely.

The question, he thought, is whether I try to fight him or simply cut and run?

Every instinct told him to turn towards Cayleb. To bring his entire fleet and its massive numerical superiority sweeping in on the Charisian crown prince's galleons and crush them. But intellect shouted in warning, remembering Myrgyn's descriptions and sketches of the new Charisian artillery . . . and what those outnumbered, far more lightly gunned galleys had done with it.

But if I run, this entire campaign's been for nothing, he thought grimly. The Prince won't like that-and neither will Clyntahn and the Council. And I can't really know how effective their broadsides are without fighting them. Besides, at this point I'm only guessing about his actual position, his strength-everything! Heading north might actually be the best way to evade him.

"General signal," he said harshly, turning back to Myrgyn. "Enemy in sight to windward. Prepare for battle. New course north."

* * *

"Fire!"

Dreadnought swept across the second galley column, and her broadside bellowed yet again. The range was a bit shorter this time, and this galley was still headed almost due south, directly away from her. The Emeraldian vessel's stern windows and ornate carving shattered as the broadside slammed home, and more guns began to thunder from the west as Sir Domynyk Staynair's squadron separated from Cayleb's. Staynair's ships began forging down to the south, paralleling the rest of Black Prince's column as it clung to its original course, away from Cayleb, and the outgunned galleys' fired back far more slowly.

Cayleb's decision not to reduce sail was paying a huge dividend, so far, at least, Merlin reflected. The prince's experience off Armageddon Reef had convinced him that old-style guns had very little chance of inflicting crippling hits on his galleons' rigging. They simply couldn't fire fast enough, couldn't be pointed high enough. And so, he'd opted to come in under all plain sail, without brailling up even his courses until he'd come fully to grips with the enemy.

That gave him a clear speed advantage, and he and Staynair were using it ruthlessly.

* * *

"Anything more from Speedy?" King Haarahld asked as he finished the climb to Royal Charis' aftercastle.

"Yes, Your Majesty!" young Midshipman Aplyn replied with a huge grin. "Speedy's just repeated a signal from Seagull! 'My position one hundred miles north Darcos Island with twenty-eight galleons. Enemy bears south-by-southeast. Engaging. Cayleb.'-"

The cheer which answered the eleven-year-old's announcement ought by rights to have deafened Hektor all the way back home in Manchyr, Haarahld thought.

"Thank you, Master Aplyn," he said quietly through that torrent of shouting voices, resting one hand on the boy's slight shoulder. "Thank you very much."

He squeezed the midshipman's shoulder for a moment, then turned to Tryvythyn.

"If they have any sense at all, they're going to turn and run for Silver Strait."

"They still have him outnumbered at least six-to-one, Your Majesty," Tryvythyn pointed out, and Haarahld snorted with harsh, fierce pride.

"Cayleb is here, Dynzyl, with the loss of only two galleons, and Duke Malikai isn't. What do you suppose that means happened to the last galley fleet that outnumbered my son six-to-one?"

"A point, Your Majesty," his flag captain conceded. "Definitely a point."

"And one that won't be lost on Black Water," Haarahld said, his expression and voice grimmer. "I wish it would be. I wish he were stupid enough to stand and fight, but he's smarter than that, and I think he has the moral courage to run if that's the only way to save what he can."

"That's my own assessment of him, Your Majesty," Tryvythyn agreed.

"Well, in that case, I think it's up to us to argue with him about his choice of courses." Haarahld gazed up at the masthead pendant and the royal standard of Charis, then turned back to his flag captain.

"General signal, Dynzyl. Form in columns of squadrons, course east."

* * *

The Emeraldian galleys in Black Water's two western columns never saw his signal. There was too much smoke, and they had other things on their minds.

Staynair's squadron forged steadily down the flank of Earl Mahndyr's column, pounding savagely. None of the other nineteen ships were hammered quite as brutally as Black Prince had been, but that was mostly because they were able to strike their colors while they still had at least some men on their feet. Staynair closed to within fifty yards, artillery bellowing, dismasting his targets, wreaking carnage on their crowded oardecks, slaughtering the hapless soldiers and seamen packed together on their decks and aftercastles for boarding attacks that never came.

Staynair had no time to take formal possession of the surrendered ships, but there wasn't much need. While some of them might violate the terms of their surrender, or claim they'd never struck their colors in the first place, and escape, most of them were too shattered and broken to do much more than tend their wounded as best they could until someone did arrive to take custody of them. And if Staynair and Cayleb didn't have sufficient ships to gather them all in, King Haarahld certainly did.

While Staynair finished crushing that column, Cayleb continued steadily to the east, angling slightly southward. He crossed the tracks of the third and fourth columns, close enough to rake the last ship or two in each column as he passed.

"Black Water's trying to break north!" Merlin shouted in Cayleb's ear as Dreadnought poured fire into yet another victim. "He's got four columns-about ninety ships-turning north-northwest!"

Cayleb glanced at him, then closed his eyes, obviously summoning up a mental chart. He studied it from behind his eyelids, then nodded sharply.

"Captain Manthyr!"

* * *

Duke Black Water paced savagely back and forth atop Corisande's aftercastle. He knew it wasn't doing a thing to settle the nerves of his flagship's officers and crew, but standing still was beyond his power.

He paused every so often, glaring west and north. The signaling procedures he'd worked out for his combined fleet were more sophisticated than those of most navies, but far inferior to the ones Staynair, Seamount, and Merlin had developed. They simply weren't up to the task of keeping him accurately informed of what was happening, even assuming any of his squadron commanders and captains had truly known in the first place.

What he did know was that at least one column of Sharpfield's Chisholmian galleys had failed to see-or chosen to ignore-his signal to turn north. It was continuing steadily to the south, taking a tenth of his total strength with it.

And he also knew he could hear the thunder-grumble of massed cannon fire, distantly and intermittently, but growing ber and steadier.

The turn to the north had reversed the order of sailing in the columns which had obeyed. Corisande had been leading her column on its original heading; now she found herself the last ship in line, which meant the admiral supposedly commanding the fleet was going to be one of the last to find out what in Shan-wei's name was happening.

"Your Grace."

Black Water whirled and found himself facing Captain Myrgyn.

"What?" he managed-somehow-not to snap.

"Your Grace, the masthead's reported gunfire and heavy smoke to the west and north. I sent Lieutenant Wynstyn to the crow's-nest for a better evaluation."

The flag captain indicated Corisande's first lieutenant, standing tight-faced at his shoulder, and Black Water turned to Wynstyn.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Your Grace, I couldn't see very much to the west, but the smoke extends from about one point abaft the port beam to about one point forward of the starboard bow."

Wynstyn's voice was steady enough, but Black Water heard the control it took to keep it that way, and he couldn't blame the lieutenant.

"Thank you, Master Wynstyn," he said, after a moment, and turned to the aftercastle rail, leaning on it with both hands while he considered what Wynstyn had said.

If the lieutenant's observations were correct, Cayleb must, indeed, have arrived in almost the perfect position. With the current brisk breeze, the far greater sail area of his galleons gave him a marked speed advantage, and he must have split his ships into at least two forces. One of them was obviously sweeping south, and if Wynstyn's bearings were accurate, it must already have overtaken the head of Black Water's most western column, which meant it was probably smashing Mahndyr's Triton even now. Even worse than that, it was also in a position to start curling around to the east, directly across his original line of advance.

That was bad enough, but the smoke to the north was even more frightening. Cayleb was casting his net about Black Water's entire fleet, despite the fact that he must be hugely outnumbered. And if he was already so far east, he'd already cut across at least a third of Black Water's formation, probably more.

The duke's hands clenched into fists on the rail, and he swore with savage, silent venom.

From the speed with which Cayleb's galleons were advancing, it was clear no one was even slowing him down. Surprise, and the resultant panic, could explain a lot of that, possibly even all of it, yet Black Water was sickly certain the true reason was far simpler.

He remembered again what the Charisian galleys had done, and the rumble of the galleons' guns came to him on the wind once more.

If he continued north, he would be heading directly into those guns, and his own flagship would be one of the last of his vessels to engage. It seemed obvious that Cayleb's northern division had the speed to get across in front of him whatever he did, and he could count on the force to his west to sweep in astern of him, as well.

It was possible his galleys would be able to absorb the galleons' fire and still close with them for a conventional boarding melee, but he doubted it. Even if the galleons' firepower advantage was less than he feared, he could already sense the incipient panic of his personnel, even here, aboard his own flagship. It took courage and determination to close with an enemy under the best of circumstances. Closing through the sort of rapid, rolling broadsides he heard echoing down from the north would require far more determination than usual. Determination his badly shaken officers and men almost certainly no longer had.

But there were still the comparative numbers to consider. Even if it proved impossible to bring on the sort of close action which was his galleys' only hope of victory, Cayleb simply didn't have enough ships to take or destroy all of Black Water's fleet. Some of them would have to break through, if only because the galleons would be too busy with other victims to stop them. Yet Cayleb was in a position to smash every ship he could engage, and Black Water's own words to Myrgyn came back to whisper viciously in the back of his brain.

You wanted to kill as many as possible of Haarahld's trained seamen even if their ships were out of date, he thought. Now Cayleb's in a position to do that to you, isn't he?

He looked at the sun's position, then back to the northwest.

If he held his present course, he would be feeding his ships directly into Cayleb's guns by the quickest possible route. He'd be giving Cayleb a gift of time. Time to shatter and splinter Black Water's galleys as they closed on him. Time for him to pursue anyone who managed to break past him. Time for Haarahld to bring his own galleys sweeping up from the south behind Black Water.

But if the duke turned southeast himself, made directly for Silver Strait, he'd be headed away from both of Cayleb's divisions. A stern chase was always a long chase, he reminded himself, even if the pursuer did have a significant speed advantage, and if he could stay away from Cayleb until nightfall, then order his remaining ships to scatter and evade pursuit individually . . .

Yet turning away from Cayleb would give Haarahld an opportunity to intercept him, assuming the king reacted quickly enough. Still, Haarahld's galleys were a known quantity, and surely Black Water still had the strength to fight his way through anything Haarahld might manage to put into his path.

Besides, he told himself grimly, his galleys aren't those Langhorne-damned galleons. The men are less likely to panic at the thought of taking him on.

"Captain Myrgyn," he said, turning from the rail to face the flag captain.

* * *

Merlin watched yet another ship stagger as Dreadnought's first broadside ripped into her. The sight was becoming horrifically familiar, like some infinitely repeating act of butchery. The galley's sweeps flailed wildly as the round shot slammed home among her rowers, and bits and pieces of her hull flew lazily through the air until they hit the water in white feathers of spray.

He looked away, concentrating once again on the SNARC's overhead imagery, and stiffened. Then he turned quickly to Cayleb.

The prince stood beside Captain Manthyr, his young face bleak as he watched his flagship's guns slaughtering yet another crew.

"Cayleb."

Cayleb turned at the sound of his name, and Merlin leaned closer.

"Black Water's changed his mind," he said, speaking as quietly as he could and still be heard. "He's turning his columns back around, heading southeast."

"Silver Strait," Cayleb said flatly.

"Exactly," Merlin agreed, and his expression was grim. Cayleb raised an eyebrow as his tone registered, and Merlin grimaced.

"Your father obviously anticipated what Black Water might do. He's already heading to cut them off short of the strait."

Cayleb's eyes widened, then they narrowed in comprehension, and he sucked in a deep breath and nodded. Not in approval, or even in simple comprehension of what Merlin had just told him. He nodded in decision and turned sharply to his flag captain.

"Captain Manthyr, we'll alter course to the south, if you please. General signal: engage the enemy more closely."

* * *

"Your Grace, the Charisian galleys are standing directly into our path," Captain Myrgyn said harshly.

Black Water looked up from the chart before him. The flag captain stood in the chartroom door, and his expression was concerned.

The duke didn't blame him. The fleet's formation had become badly disordered when he turned it around yet again. The columns were still sorting themselves out, or attempting to, although the Chisholmian units didn't seem to be trying all that hard to obey his orders. Several of them seemed to have creatively misconstrued-or simply ignored-his signals, depriving him of still more desperately needed strength. He was scarcely in the best possible condition for a general engagement with Haarahld's fleet, and he'd hoped to break past the king before Haarahld realized what he was about.

Obviously, that wasn't going to happen.

Still, he had at least a hundred galleys still under his own command, and Haarahld had only seventy.

"Let's go on deck," he said quietly to Myrgyn, and the flag captain stood aside, then followed him out of the chartroom.

The duke blinked in the bright sunlight. It was just past noon. The long, running battle had raged for over eight hours now, and his jaw tightened as he heard the continuing rumble of artillery from astern. It seemed to be growing louder, and he smiled grimly. Cayleb couldn't know exactly what his father was doing, but it was evident that the Charisian crown prince understood the importance of staying close on a fleeing enemy's heels.

Black Water looked up at the sky, then forward, to where a forest of galley masts and sails loomed almost directly ahead. Even as he watched, sails were being furled and yards were being lowered, and he bared his teeth as he recognized the traditional challenge to a fight to the finish.

Part of him wanted nothing more than to give Haarahld exactly that. But if he did, Cayleb would close in from behind, and by this time, the Charisian galleys and galleons combined would actually outnumber the ships actually still under Black Water's command. His earlier huge numerical advantage had evaporated, and a general engagement, especially with those galleons added to the fray, could result only in his defeat.

"We'll hold our course, Captain Myrgyn," he said calmly. "Don't reduce sail."

* * *

"They're going to try to break right past us, Your Majesty," Captain Tryvythyn said.

"What they try to do and what they actually do may turn out to be two different things, Dynzyl," Haarahld said calmly.

The king stood on Royal Charis' aftercastle, watching the clutter of enemy galleys bearing down upon his own fleet. Unlike the four long, disordered lines of Black Water's fleet, Haarahld's was formed into a dozen shorter, more compact columns of a single squadron each, and despite himself, the king felt something almost like satisfaction.

He was far too intelligent not to recognize the enormous advantages Merlin's changes had conferred upon his navy. But the Royal Charisian Navy and the ferocity and deadly skill of the Charisian Marines had made themselves the terror of their enemies long before Merlin and his new artillery ever came along. This would be a battle in the old style, possibly the last one, and Haarahld had grown up in the old school.

His flagship led her own squadron, but the King of Charis had no business in the first, crushing embrace of battle. Especially not of the sort of battle Charisian galleys fought.

"General signal, Dynzyl," he said as Black Water's fleeing squadron's bore down upon him. "Close action."

* * *

Black Water's eastern column had drawn well ahead of the others. Now its lead galleys crunched into the Charisian formation like a battering ram.

That was what it might have looked like to the uninformed observer, at least. But what actually happened was that the Charisian squadrons swarmed forward like krakens closing on a pod of narwhales.

Traditional Charisian naval tactics were built uncompromisingly on ferocity and speed. Charisian Marines knew they were the finest naval infantry-the only professional naval infantry-in the world, and Charisian squadron commanders were trained to bring their ships slashing in on any opponent as a unit.

Admiral Lock Island's flagship led the first assault, crashing alongside one of Black Water's Corisandians. Tellesberg's port oars lifted and swung inboard with machinelike precision as Lock Island's flag captain smashed his ship's side into the smaller, more lightly built galley Foam like a battering ram.

Foam's mast snapped at the impact, thundering down across her deck. Hull seams started, spurting water, and Tellesberg's port guns fired into the mass of fallen cordage and canvas as she ground down Foam's side. Lock Island's flagship swung clear, her sweeps snapped back out, and she gathered fresh momentum as she hurtled down on Foam's consort Halberd. Behind Tellesberg, HMS Battleaxe hammered Foam with her own artillery, then launched herself at the Corisandian Warrior.

Tellesberg slammed into Halberd almost as violently as she'd collided with Foam. Halberd's mast didn't quite come down, but the smaller, lighter galley staggered under the impact, and dozens of grappling irons arced out from the Charisian ship. They bit into Halberd's bulwarks, and the first Charisian Marines swarmed across onto the Corisandian's deck behind the high, quavering howl of their war cry. No one who'd survived hearing that sound ever forgot it, and the well earned terror of the Royal Charisian Marines was borne upon its wings.

Most of the new muskets and bayonets had gone to Cayleb's galleons, but Tellesberg's Marines didn't seem to mind. They swept across Halberd in a tidal wave whose very ferocity disguised its intense discipline and training. Boarding pikes stabbed, cutlasses and boarding axes chopped, and the first rush carried Halberd's entire waist.

But then Halberd's company rallied. Matchlocks and "wolves" fired down into the melee from aftercastle and forecastle, killing and wounding dozens of the Marines. Corisandian soldiers counter-charged with the power of desperation, slamming into the boarders violently enough to throw even Charisians back on their heels.

For a few minutes, the tide of combat swirled back and forth, first this way, then that, as men hacked at one another in a frenzy of destruction and slaughter. Then Tellesberg's consort Sword of Tirian came thundering along Halberd's other side, and a fresh wave of Charisian Marines overwhelmed the defenders.

* * *

Duke Black Water watched bleakly as his fleeing galleys merged with their Charisian opponents.

It wasn't working. His jaw muscles ached as he recognized that. His own column, the westernmost of them all, had fallen perhaps a mile and a half behind the others, but he could see what was happening. The tangle of colliding galleys as the Charisians flung themselves bodily upon the ships of his first two columns was simply too thick for him to cut his way through them. As the second and third and fourth galleys in each long, unwieldy column caught up with the leaders, they were unable-or, in some cases, unwilling-to avoid the knots of vessels which were already grappled together. Some of them tried to, but there always seemed to be another compact Charisian column waiting, another Charisian galley perfectly placed to crash alongside them, grapple them, add them to the steadily growing barricade of timber, stabbing steel, and blood. It was like watching autumn leaves swirl down a racing stream until they encountered a fallen branch and, suddenly, found themselves piling up, heaping together into a solid mass.

And even as Haarahld's fleet threw itself in front of him, he heard Cayleb's guns growing louder and louder behind him as the galleons began savaging the rearmost ships of his own column.

He glared at the tangle of ships, fallen masts, smoke, banners, and wreckage, and saw the complete and total failure of his entire campaign. But then, to one side of the main engagement, he saw a single Charisian squadron, and his eyes flamed as he recognized the banner it flew.

The way his column had fallen a little behind the others was what had allowed Cayleb to get at its rearmost units. But it also meant his flagship, and the galleys behind it, hadn't yet been swept into the general melee.

Most of Haarahld's galleys had, however, and Black Water's lips drew back from his teeth. He grabbed Captain Myrgyn's shoulder and pointed at the royal standard of Charis.

"There!" he snarled. "There's your target, Kehvyn!"

* * *

Captain Tryvythyn saw the line of Corisandian galleys sweeping down upon Royal Charis. There were at least fifteen ships in the column-he couldn't be certain of the exact number; there was too much smoke-and there was no question that they'd recognized the royal standard.

The rest of the flagship's squadron saw the enemy almost as soon as he did, and oarmasters' drums went to a more urgent tempo as the other five galleys swept forward, charging around Royal Charis to intercept the attack. Tryvythyn glanced at his king and half-opened his mouth, but Haarahld only looked back steadily, and the flag captain closed it once more.

"Better," Haarahld said with a thin smile, then nodded at the oncoming Corisandians. "If these people get past us, there's no one left to stop them."

"I realize that, Your Majesty," Tryvythyn said. "But I hope you'll forgive me for saying that I think you're worth more to Charis then all of those ships put together."

"I appreciate the compliment, Dynzyl. But no one man is essential, and victory is. And not just victory, either. This war's only just beginning, whatever happens here today, and our ability to control the sea is the only thing which may let us survive. We need a victory so complete, so crushing, the next admiral to think about fighting us will be half-defeated in his own mind before he ever leaves port. So devastating our men will know they can do anything, defeat anyone, no matter what the odds. And we need an example that will make them willing to fight at any odds. That's more important than the life of any one man-even a king. Do you understand me?"

Tryvythyn looked into his king's eyes for a moment, and then he bowed.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he said steadily. "I understand."

* * *

Dreadnought overtook another galley.

Devastation had fallen astern, but Destruction had out sailed her and forged up almost abreast of the fleet flagship, and the two of them had spread further apart. Destruction lay further to the east than Dreadnought, passing down the galley Scimitar's port side, and her starboard guns thundered. Dreadnought was still a ship's length ahead of her consort, and her port guns smashed in the galley's starboard side. A few of her shots missed, two of them whipping across Destruction's bows at dangerously close range, but the concentrated fire, crashing in on Scimitar simultaneously from both sides, was devastating.

Cayleb glared at the crippled hulk as the Corisandian flag came down. Dreadnought's gunners were too exhausted to raise a cheer this time, and ammunition was getting low. The gunner was almost out of made-up cartridges, and Captain Manthyr had detailed a long chain of Marines to pass more round shot up from the shot lockers. Despite that, the crown prince already knew Charis had won a crushing victory this day. He knew that, yet he fretted inside like a caged slash lizard as Manthyr tried to wring still more speed out of the flagship.

Cayleb's own squadron-more than a little disordered as the faster ships, like Destruction, overtook and passed the slower ones in front of them, but still intact-was closing rapidly on Duke Black Water's fugitives. To the north, Staynair had wreaked dreadful havoc upon the western half of Black Water's original fleet, and over twenty Chisholmian galleys had surrendered with only minimal resistance. At least a few determined Emeraldian and Corisandian captains had managed to evade both squadrons of Cayleb's galleons in the smoke and confusion and break north successfully. There weren't more than a double handful of them, however, and at least two-thirds of the ships still with Black Water were locked in melee with the galleys of his father's fleet.

Only thirty or so Corisandians still had any hope of escape. They were trying to break around the western edge of the huge, confused hand-to-hand fight raging between their consorts and the main body of the king's fleet. Cayleb and his squadron were on their heels, already engaging their rearmost units, but some of them might yet win free.

Except for the six Charisian galleys steering to meet them head-on.

* * *

Black Water looked astern. He could see the topgallants of the nearest galleons now, looming above the smoke. They were still well astern, but they were coming up fast, and there was plenty of daylight left.

His mouth was a hard, thin line as he glanced at Captain Myrgyn and he saw the same knowledge in the flag captain's eyes.

"At least we can take a few more of them with us," the duke said grimly, and Myrgyn nodded.

* * *

HMS Queen Zhessyka charged to meet Corisande as Black Water's flagship led the attack. Queen Zhessyka's captain judged relative positions and motion carefully, steering to lay his ship hard alongside the Corisandian flagship, but Captain Myrgyn stood tensely beside his helmsman, judging those same motions with equal care.

The two ships came together with a closing speed of at least fifteen knots, with Queen Zhessyka angling slightly to leeward, and Myrgyn showed his teeth in a thin little smile. He watched the Charisian unwaveringly, waiting for the moment when the other galley shipped its port oars. That would be the instant when her captain committed, and Myrgyn waited . . . waited . . . waited . . .

"Now!" he barked, and his helmsman put his helm a-lee.

Corisande turned sharply-not downwind, into the Charisian, but upwind, away from her. Queen Zhessyka tried to compensate, following her around, but the Charisian captain had expected an opponent under sail to turn with the wind, not against it. He still managed a glancing contact with Corisande's port quarter, and at least a dozen grappling irons slammed across the gap. But the momentum of two thousand-plus tons of wooden galleys, moving in different directions, snapped the irons' lines like thread.

Corisande staggered and timbers screamed as her quarter gallery was smashed in, and twenty-five feet of the aftercastle's bulwark went with it. Five of the army troopers put aboard as marines were killed, crushed by the same impact which demolished the bulwark, and at least another half-dozen crewmen were injured. Two planks were stove in below the waterline, and water began gushing into her hold. But her mast held, she was still underway, and Myrgyn's crisp orders brought her quickly back under control.

She was past the rest of Royal Charis's squadron, and King Haarahld's flagship lay almost dead ahead, rushing to meet her.

* * *

Haarahld watched the other five galleys of his squadron as the hammer blow came down. Corisande might have gotten past Queen Zhessyka, but the next seven galleys in line were all intercepted.

HMS Rock Shoal Bay sideswiped the galley behind Corisande, crashing into her hard enough to bring down her mast, then staggered directly across the path of Confederate, the third ship in Black Water's line. Galleys might no longer mount rams, but Confederate's bows slammed into Rock Shoal Bay like an ax, cutting a third of the way through the bigger Charisian ship in a dreadful rending, tearing crunch of shattered timbers. Mortally wounded, Rock Shoal Bay began to fill rapidly, leaning against her opponent and trapping Confederate's bow in the wound it had torn. At least thirty of Rock Shoal Bay's rowers were killed by the impact, and dozens more of them were injured, many hideously. Their companions struggled to pull them out of the in-rushing water as their ship began to settle, but the Charisian gunners fired a deadly salvo of grapeshot down the length of Confederate's deck, and Rock Shoal Bay's howling Marines charged across onto the other ship in an unstoppable flood of edged, thrusting steel.

Queen Zhessyka recovered way quickly after her grazing collision with Corisande and swerved to meet the oncoming Harpoon. This time, Queen Zhessyka made no mistake, turning neatly onto the same heading as her intended victim and allowing Harpoon to run up alongside her. Grappling irons flew a second time, and this time the two ships were headed in the same direction. They ground together, timbers groaning and shuddering under the impact, and another tide of Charisian Marines streamed across onto Harpoon's decks.

The other three Charisian galleys-Sand Island, Margaret's Land, and King Tymythy-picked their own opponents with care. They each crashed into their chosen victim, deliberately fouling the enemy column's line of advance, and at least two more Corisandian ships plowed into the sudden roadblock which had materialized before them.

But Corisande was already past them, and eighteen more galleys were streaming down upon them.

* * *

This time, Corisande's mast went down.

Captain Myrgyn's ship slammed alongside Royal Charis with a rending, grinding shriek of timbers. Grappling irons flew in both directions; matchlocks, wolves, and cannon thundered; and men screamed and died. Haarahld's flagship had replaced her original broadside falcons with carronades, and the carnage they wreaked splashed Corisande's decks with blood. Royal Charis' Marines had been issued the new flintlocks, as well, and a deadly volley added its share to the butchery.

For a moment, it looked as if the battle had been decided in that single cataclysmic moment, but then Black Water leapt up onto the aftercastle bulwark, drawn sword flashing in his hand.

"After me, lads!" he bellowed, and a savage roar of anger went up from Corisande, overpowering even the screams of the wounded.

The duke leapt across the gap between the two ships, landing all alone in an open spot where one of Corisande's own guns had heaped the Charisians in a mangled pile of bodies. His boots slipped on the blood-slick deck, and he sprawled backward, which undoubtedly saved his life. The closest Charisian Marines were still turning towards him when the rush of additional boarders from Corisande swept over him.

His surviving soldiers and seamen abandoned their own ship, hurling themselves across onto Haarahld's flagship, half-crazed with terror, desperation, and a fiery determination to reach the man whose standard Royal Charis flew. They slammed into the defenders like a human tidal wave, and even Charisian Marines were forced to give ground before such fury.

The attackers drove clear across Royal Charis' waist, then most of them turned aft, fighting their way towards the aftercastle, while the remainder tried to hold off the Marines counterattacking from the forecastle.

The battle swayed desperately back and forth for several endless minutes, but Corisande's people had taken too many casualties before they ever closed, and Charisian Marines were simply the best in the world at this sort of fight. They regained the momentum Black Water's reckless gallantry and courage had won and drove the Corisandians steadily back.

And then, suddenly, the Corisandian galley Sea Crest came crashing in on Corisande's disengaged side, and a fresh tide of attackers flooded across Black Water's flagship, using her like a bridge, and hurled themselves into the fray.

* * *

Cayleb Ahrmahk's face was a mask of grim, savage determination as Dreadnought drove into the rear of the disintegrating Corisandian column. He could see the tangled knot of intermixed Charisian and Corisandian galleys coming up quickly on Dreadnought's port bow, but at least three more enemy ships had evaded the massed melee. They were charging down on his father's flagship, already engaged with two opponents.

There was no need for him to exhort Captain Manthyr to greater efforts. That was Cayleb's father up there, but it was also Gwylym Manthyr's king, and Merlin, standing behind the two of them, could almost physically feel Manthyr leaning forward, as if to add his own weight to the wind driving his ship.

Yet they could only move so quickly, and Dreadnought's guns blazed on either broadside. The only way to reach Royal Charis was directly through the Corisandian ships in front of them, and Manthyr took his galleon in among them under full sail, as if she'd been a ten-meter sloop at a racing regatta back on Old Earth.

Guns fired at ranges as low as twenty yards. Flintlocks barked, swivels banged from the fighting tops, and return fire came back from Corisandian wolves, matchlocks, and cannon.

At that range, even the slow-firing Corisandian artillery could inflict dreadful wounds, and one of Dreadnought's maindeck guns took a round shot almost directly on its muzzle. The entire gun and carriage flew backward, the gun tube flipping up like a terrestrial dolphin standing on its tail. Then it crashed down, like a two-ton hammer, crushing the members of its crew who hadn't been killed outright by the round shot into gruel.

A section of hammock nettings flew apart as a charge of grapeshot blew through the tightly rolled hammocks stowed there to stop bullets and splinters. Those hammocks had never been intended to stop grapeshot, though, and the deadly missiles killed six Marines and three seamen and wounded five others. Screams told of other casualties, and a round shot chewed a splinter-fringed bite out of the mainmast, but Dreadnought's gunners ignored the carnage around them. It wasn't simply courage, nor training-it was also exhaustion. They'd been reduced to automatons, so focused on what they were doing that nothing else was really quite real.

* * *

"Fall back! Fall back to the aftercastle!"

Captain Tryvythyn's desperate order cut through the chaos as yet another Corisandian galley, the Doomwhale, surged alongside Royal Charis. His ship was bigger than any of its opponents, with a larger crew and more Marines, but no less than five of the Corisandians had managed to get to grips with him.

The enemy had completely overwhelmed the defenders of Royal Charis' forward third. Perhaps half his Marines and a quarter of his seamen were still on their feet aft of the forward hatch, but they were being driven back, step by bloody step, by an ever mounting flood of enemies. Dynzyl Tryvythyn watched their stubborn retreat, and his eyes were desperate. Not with fear for himself, but for the king who stood behind him.

"Hold the ladders!" he shouted. "Hold-"

A musket ball from one of Doomwhale's embarked musketeers struck him at the base of the throat. It flung him backwards, and he went down, choking on his own blood as the boots of desperately fighting men stamped all about him.

The King, he thought. The King.

And then he died.

* * *

Dreadnought passed down the leeward side of another galley. Her guns savaged the fresh target, and she shuddered as more shots slammed back in reply. Her fore topgallant mast quivered as its shrouds were shot away, then toppled slowly forward to hang like a broken cross, canvas billowing. But then she was past her enemies, her gunports streaming smoke, as she bore down on the galleys grappled to Royal Charis at last.

"Lay us alongside!" Cayleb snapped, drawing the sword Merlin had given him, and his eyes blazed coldly.

* * *

Duke Black Water stared about wildly. The crews of his galleys were hopelessly intermixed. All unit organization had disappeared into the indescribable confusion of savage hand-to-hand combat, but he found himself briefly behind the battle driving steadily aft.

He didn't understand why he was still alive. His breastplate was battered and scarred from blows he scarcely remembered, and his sword was red to the hilt with the blood of men he hardly recalled killing. He could hear the ongoing thunder of artillery even over the screams and shouts around him, and as he turned to look up into the north, he saw Cayleb's galleons bursting out of the smoke and confusion at last.

They hadn't fought their way through his entire fleet unscathed. He saw missing topmasts and sails pocked and torn by splinters and round shot, saw broken rigging blowing on the wind, saw shot holes in bulwarks and sides, saw bodies lying across hammock nettings and hanging in their fighting tops. But they were still there, still intact, their gunports still streaming smoke, and he bared his teeth in hatred.

He snarled, then began pushing his way through the men about him, elbowing them aside as he forced his way towards Royal Charis' beleaguered aftercastle.

* * *

A musket ball screamed off Haarahld Ahrmahk's breastplate as he leaned on the half-pike for support with his left hand. He grunted and staggered under the rib-snapping impact, but the ball whined away, leaving not even a dent, only a smear of lead, on Merlin's gift to mark its passing. He held his feet, and his right hand drove his sword into the chest of a Corisandian seaman trying to claw his way up the ladder from the maindeck. The man fell back with a bubbling scream, blood spraying from his mouth and nose, and Haarahld grunted at the fresh stab of pain from his bad knee as he recovered.

Sergeant Gahrdaner dropped his own opponent with a two-handed blow and then shoved the king unceremoniously aside, taking his place at the head of the ladder. Haarahld grimaced, but he knew better than to argue, and he fell back, panting heavily as he watched his bodyguard's back.

The aftercastle was an isolated island of resistance, and it couldn't hold much longer. Haarahld hadn't seen Tryvythyn die, but he'd seen the captain's body, along with those of at least three of Royal Charis' lieutenants. Midshipman Marshyl was down, as well, lying across the body of Major Byrk, the commander of the flagship's Marines. Gahrdaner was the last of Haarahld's guardsmen still on his feet, and the knot of defenders around the king was contracting steadily under the unremitting savagery of their attackers.

Midshipman Aplyn stood beside him, his face pale and tight with terror. Yet the boy's eyes were determined, and he clutched a seaman's cutlass in both hands, like a two-handed sword. He hovered there, as if trapped between the compulsion to fling himself forward and the desperate need to live, and Haarahld released his grip on the half-pike to grip the boy's shoulder, instead.

Aplyn jerked as if he'd just been stabbed, then whipped around to look up at his king.

"Stay with me, Master Aplyn," Haarahld said. "We'll have work enough soon."

* * *

Dreadnought smashed into the tangle of grappled galleys. Gwylym Manthyr wasn't worrying about damage to his ship-not now. He refused to reduce sail until the very last moment, and wood splintered and screamed as he drove his ship squarely into Doomwhale's starboard side

Dreadnought's bowsprit loomed over the galley's waist, driving forward until her jibbom shattered against Royal Charis' taller side. Her cutwater sliced into Doomwhale's hull, crushing timbers and frames. Her entire foremast, already weakened by the topgallant mast's fall and two other hits, just above deck level, toppled forward, crashing across her target in an avalanche of shattered wood, torn cordage, and canvas. The Marines and seamen in the foremast fighting top went with it, and the main topgallant mast and topmast came toppling down, as well.

Men stumbled, fell, went to their knees, as the impact slammed through both ships. Others were crushed by the falling masts. But then every one of Dreadnought's surviving Marines was back on his feet. They stormed forward, dodging through the broken spars and rigging, muskets firing, and crashed into the backs of Corisandian boarders still pushing towards Royal Charis. Gleaming bayonets thrust savagely, then withdrew, shining red, and Marine boots trampled the bodies underfoot as they drove furiously onward.

Even as the Marines charged, Merlin went bounding forward along the starboard hammock nettings, katana in one hand, wakazashi in the other. Cayleb, Ahrnahld Falkhan, and the prince's other bodyguards charged on his heels, but they were merely human, and he left them far behind.

Most of the wreckage had gone to port, and the two or three seamen who got in his way might as well have stood in the path of a charging dragon. They went flying as he slammed past them, and then he launched himself in a prodigious leap across at least twenty-five feet of trapped water, churning in the triangle between the two locked hulls.

He landed all alone on Doomwhale's deck amid a solid mass of Corisandians. Three of them had seen him coming and managed to turn around in time to face him . . . which made them the first to die.

* * *

Sergeant Gahrdaner went down with a pikehead in his thigh. He pitched forward to the maindeck, and the swords and boarding axes were waiting as he fell.

Howling Corisandians stormed up the ladder he'd held, and the remaining handful of Charisians fell back to the after rail, forming a final, desperate ring around their king. For a fleeting instant, there was a gap between them and their enemies as the Corisandians funneled up the two ladders they'd finally taken.

Haarahld had lost his helmet somewhere along the way, and the wind was cold on his sweat-soaked hair. He and Midshipman Aplyn were the only officers still on their feet, and he heard his last defenders' harsh, gasping exhaustion. He looked at their enemies, and for a moment, he considered yielding to save his men's lives. But then he saw the madness in the Corisandians' eyes. They were in the grip of the killing rage which had brought them this far; even if they realized he was trying to offer his surrender, they would probably refuse to accept it.

I ought to come up with something noble to say. The thought flashed through his brain, and to his own amazement, he actually chuckled. Aplyn heard it and glanced up at him, and Haarahld smiled down at the white-faced boy.

"Never mind, Master Aplyn," he said, almost gently. "I'll explain later."

And then the Corisandians charged.

* * *

Merlin Athrawes crossed Doomwhale in an explosion of bodies, then vaulted up onto Royal Charis' deck and charged aft, killing as he came.

The Corisandians who found themselves in his path had no concept of what they faced. Very few of them had time to realize that they didn't.

He was, quite literally, a killing machine, a whirling vortex of impossibly sharp steel driven by the strength of ten mortal men. His blades cut through flesh, armor, pike shafts, and cutlasses, and no one could face him and live. Bodies and pieces of bodies flew away from him in spraying patterns of blood and severed limbs, and he went through his enemies like an avalanche, more hampered by their corpses than by their weapons.

But there were hundreds of those enemies between him and Royal Charis' aftercastle.

* * *

Cayleb couldn't follow Merlin's leap. No one could have, but he and his bodyguards continued their own charge along the hammock nettings. Faircaster managed to get in front of the prince somehow, and the burly Marine led the way onto Doomwhale. The Marines already aboard the galley recognized the prince and his bodyguards, and they redoubled their efforts, fighting to stay between him and his enemies.

They failed.

Cayleb, Faircaster, and Ahrnahld Falkhan were the point of the Charisian wedge hammering its way across Doomwhale to Royal Charis, and the sword Merlin had called "Excalibur" flashed in the crown prince's hand as it tasted blood for the first time.

* * *

The Corisandians hit the thin ring of Marines and seamen protecting Haarahld. For a few incredible moments, the defendeus held, throwing back their enemies. But then one or two of them went down, and Corisandians flooded through the gaps.

The Charisians gave ground. They had to. They broke up into small knots, fighting back to back, dying, still trying desperately to protect the king.

Haarahld braced himself against the after rail, bad knee afire with the anguish of supporting his weight, and his sword hissed. He cut down an attacking seaman, then grunted under a hammer-blow impact as a Corisandian soldier swung the spiked-beak back of a boarding ax into his chest with both hands. That awl-like spike was specifically designed to punch through armor, but it rebounded, leaving his breastplate unmarked, and the Corisandian gawked in disbelief as Haarahld's sword drove through his throat.

He fell aside, and for a moment, there was a gap in front of the king. He looked up and saw a Corisandian with a steel-bowed arbalest. Somehow, the man had actually managed to respan the weapon before he leapt up onto the aftercastle bulwark. Now he aimed directly at Haarahld.

"Your Majesty!"

Hektor Aplyn had seen the arbalest as well. Before Haarahld could move, the boy had flung himself in front of him, offering his own body to protect his king.

"No!" Haarahld shouted. He released the after rail, his left hand darted out and caught the back of Aplyn's tunic, and he whirled, yanking the midshipman back and spinning to interpose the backplate of his cuirass.

The arbalest bolt struck him squarely in the back and screamed aside, baffled by the battle steel plate. He felt its hammering impact, then gasped with pain as something else bit into his right thigh, just above the knee.

At least it's not the good leg!

The thought flashed through his mind as he turned back towards the fight. The Corisandian seaman who'd wounded him drew back his boarding pike with a snarl, shortening for another thrust, but Aplyn hurled himself past Haarahld with a sob. The slightly built boy darted in below the pike, driving his cutlass with both hands, and the Corisandian screamed as the blade opened his belly.

He collapsed, clutching at the mortal wound, and Aplyn staggered back beside the king.

They were the only two Charisians still on their feet, and Haarahld thrust desperately into the chest of a seaman coming at Aplyn from the right, even as the sobbing midshipman slashed at another Corisandian threatening the king from his left. The boy cried out as a sword cut into his left shoulder. He nearly fell, but he kept his feet, still slashing with the heavy cutlass. A sword cut bounced off Haarahld's mail sleeve, and the king slashed that seaman aside, as well, yet he felt himself weakening as blood pumped down his right leg.

* * *

Some instinct warned the Corisandian soldier at the top of Royal Charis' starboard aftercastle ladder. His head turned, and he had one instant to gape at the bloodsoaked apparition which had suddenly vaulted all the way from the deck below to the bulwark beside him. Then he died as a battle steel katana went through his neck in a fan of blood.

"Charis!"

Merlin's deep voice boomed the battle cry, cutting through all of the other noises, and then he was onto the aftercastle itself. One or two of the men facing him managed to launch defensive blows of their own. He ignored them, letting them rebound from his armor as he hacked his way towards the king.

"Charis!"

He carved a corridor of bodies through the Corisandians, sapphire eyes merciless, katana and wakazashi trailing sprays of blood, and panic spread from him like a plague.

And then, somehow, he was through the final barrier between him and Haarahld. He whirled, facing back the way he'd come, and for a long, breathless moment, not one of the forty or fifty Corisandians still on the aftercastle dared to attack.

Behind him, Haarahld went to his left knee, sword drooping, and Aplyn thrust himself in front of the king.

"Take him, you fools!" a voice shouted, and the Duke of Black Water shouldered through the frozen ranks of his surviving boarders.

His armor was hacked and battered, and he bled from half a dozen shallow cuts of his own. His sword's point dribbled tears of blood, and his eye were mad, but his hoarse voice crackled with passion.

"Take him!" he bellowed again, and charged.

His men howled and followed him, hammering straight at Merlin, and Merlin met them with a storm of steel. He never moved. His feet might have been bolted to the bloody planking, and his eyes never blinked.

Black Water had one instant to realize he faced something totally beyond his experience, and then he, too, went down under Merlin's merciless steel. At least a dozen more of his men fell to the same blades. Most of them never even had the chance to scream. They were like a stream of water, hurling itself against a boulder only to splash from its unyielding strength.

No man could enter Merlin's reach and live, and after ten shrieking seconds of slaughter, the survivors drew back in terror from the breastwork of bodies he'd built before the wounded King of Charis.

* * *

Hektor Aplyn felt something touch the back of his leg.

He whirled, cutlass raised, then froze. It had been the king's hand, and Aplyn's eyes widened in horror as he saw the steadily spreading pool of blood around him.

"Your Majesty!"

The boy fell to his knees, eyes searching frantically for the king's wound, but Haarahld shook his head. The motion was terrifyingly weak.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," the bleeding young midshipman sobbed. "I'm sorry! You shouldn't have pulled me out of the way!"

"Nonsense," the king said. His voice was weak as his life flowed out of him with the blood still pumping from the deep wound in his thigh. "It's a king's duty to die for his subjects, Master Aplyn."

"No!" Aplyn shook his head.

"Yes," Haarahld said. It was amazing, a distant corner of his mind thought. There was no pain anymore, not even from his knee. Not physical pain, at any rate, and he reached out an arm which had become impossibly heavy and put it around the weeping boy rocking on his knees beside him. About the child who had become so important to him . . . and for whom he might yet do one more service, as a king should.

"Yes," he whispered, leaning forward until his forehead touched Aplyn's. "Yes, it is. And it's a subject's duty to serve his new king, Hektor. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes," the boy whispered back through his tears. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"It's been . . . an honor . . . Master Aplyn," Haarahld Ahrmahk murmured, and then his eyes closed. He slumped forward against Aplyn, and the boy wrapped his arms around him, put his face down on his armored shoulder, and sobbed.

APRIL, YEAR OF GOD 892

I

Royal Palace,

Tranjyr

King Gorjah III's expression was stony as Edymynd Rustmyn, the Baron of Stonekeep, stepped into the council chamber.

"You sent for me, Your Majesty?" Stonekeep said calmly, keeping his face expressionless, despite the other two men already waiting with the king. Baron White Ford sat on Gorjah's left, but the Earl of Thirsk sat to the king's right, in the place of honor.

"Yes, I did," Gorjah said, and his voice was much colder than Stonekeep's had been. "Be seated."

The king pointed at the chair at the far end of the council table, and the tall, silver-haired Stonekeep seated himself in it, then cocked his head interrogatively.

"How may I serve you, Your Majesty?" he asked.

Gorjah glowered at the man who was both his first councillor and the man in charge of his own spies. Under normal circumstances, Stonekeep was one of the very few men who enjoyed the king's near total confidence, which made him far too valuable to sacrifice. But these circumstances were far from normal, and Gorjah wondered just how clearly the baron understood that.

"I've just been discussing certain matters with Earl Thirsk," the king said coolly. "In particular, he's been kind enough to share with me what Prince Cayleb had to say to him. Just before he put him ashore on Armageddon Reef."

Stonekeep simply nodded silently, but his eyes were intent. Thirsk's arrival in Tranjyr was hardly a secret from him, although the rest of the court had yet to discover it. King Gorjah's senior councillors had known for almost two five-days, ever since White Ford's King Gorjah II had limped back into port, that Cayleb had managed to intercept the combined fleet off Armageddon Reef with disastrous consequences. Stonekeep had argued successfully in favor of keeping that news to themselves until they knew precisely how disastrous those consequences might have been.

Apparently, they'd been even more disastrous than Stonekeep had feared from White Ford's initial reports.

"Cayleb," Gorjah continued, pronouncing the name as if it were a curse, "took and destroyed every ship remaining under Earl Thirsk's command. It would seem the six galleys which have so far returned, and the single store ship upon which Earl Thirsk sailed to Tranjyr, are the only survivors of the entire combined fleet."

This time, despite all of Stonekeep's formidable self-control, he blanched.

"The question which exercises my mind at this particular moment," the king said, "is precisely how Cayleb and Haarahld managed this miraculous interception of theirs. Would you have any thoughts on that subject, Edymynd?"

White Ford simply looked at the first councilor thoughtfully, but Thirsk's eyes could have bored holes in a block of stone. Which, coupled with the fact that the Dohlaran was present at all for what was becoming an increasingly unpleasant conversation, warned Stonekeep that things were about to get ugly. Or, perhaps, more ugly.

"Your Majesty," he said reasonably, "I'm not a naval man. The deployment and utilization of fleets is far beyond my own area of competence. I'm sure Baron White Ford or Earl Thirsk is far better qualified than I am to suggest answers to your question."

A slight flicker in White Ford's eyes, and the tightening of Thirsk's mouth, suggested he might have chosen a better response.

"Interestingly enough," Gorjah said, smiling thinly, "Gahvyn, the Earl, and I have already discussed that point. According to them, Cayleb couldn't possibly have done it."

Stonekeep considered that for a moment, then looked Gorjah straight in the eye.

"Your Majesty, I can only assume from what you've said, and the fact that you've said it to me, that you believe I may have been in some way responsible for what happened. So far as I know, however, I had virtually nothing to do with any of the decisions about the fleet's organization or movement. I'm afraid I'm at something of a loss to understand how I might have contributed to this disaster."

What might almost have been a shadow of grudging respect flickered across Thirsk's face. Gorjah, however, only regarded Stonekeep coldly for several seconds. Then the king gestured at the Dohlaran admiral.

"According to Prince Cayleb," he said, "Haarahld's known our plans for months. His 'failure' to mobilize his reserve galleys, his 'assistance request' under the treaty, were both ruses. In fact, Cayleb must have already sailed by the time Haarahld's messages arrived here in Tranjyr. Both Baron White Ford and Earl Thirsk have confirmed to me that Cayleb couldn't possibly have reached Armageddon Reef when he did unless that were true, so I think we must assume Cayleb knew what he was talking about. Wouldn't you agree, Edymynd?"

"It certainly sounds that way, Your Majesty," Stonekeep said cautiously. "Of course, as I said, my own familiarity with such matters is limited."

"I'm sure it is." The king's smile was even thinner than before. "The problem, however, is just how Haarahld came by that information. And according to Cayleb, he got it from us."

Stonekeep's belly seemed to tie itself into a knot, and he felt sweat breaking out under his kercheef.

"Your Majesty," he said, after a mouth-drying second or two, "I don't see how that could be possible."

"I'm sure you don't," Gorjah said.

"I understand now why you summoned me," the baron said, speaking as calmly as he could, despite the king's tone, "and I also understand why Earl Thirsk is as angry as he appears to be. But I literally don't see how it could be possible."

"Why not?" Gorjah asked coldly.

"Because so far as I'm aware, no one outside this council chamber at this very moment, aside from one or two of Baron White Ford's subordinates, knew where the fleets were to rendezvous, or what route they would follow from the rendezvous to Charis. For that matter, I didn't know the route."

Gorjah's eyes flickered, and Stonekeep permitted himself a tiny sliver of relief. But Thirsk shook his head.

"Baron Stonekeep," he said, "someone must have known and passed that information on to Charis. As a foreigner here in Tarot, I have no idea who that someone might have been. But the timing indicates that Tarot is the only possible source. No one else could have told them in time for them to get their fleet into position to intercept us."

"Forgive me, My Lord," Stonekeep replied, "but unless I'm very much mistaken, King Rahnyld and his court knew about this proposed operation long before anyone here in Tarot did."

"But we didn't know the rendezvous point or the course we were to steer after it until just before our fleet actually departed," Thirsk said. "And there wasn't time for that information to reach Haarahld from Dohlar early enough for him to respond this way."

"I see." Stonekeep managed to maintain his outward aplomb, but it wasn't easy.

"As for the exact route we followed after the rendezvous," White Ford said, speaking for the first time, and sounding as if he truly wished he didn't have to, "I'm afraid someone as experienced as Haarahld wouldn't have needed exact information. In fact, we didn't follow the course laid down in our original orders. The one we did follow was dictated by sailing conditions, and Haarahld is fully capable of predicting what changes sea and wind would be likely to force upon us. And of dispatching Cayleb's fleet accordingly."

"So, you see, Edymynd," Gorjah said, drawing the baron's eyes back to him, "all the available evidence suggests Haarahld did get the information from us."

Stonekeep might have debated the use of the word "evidence" to describe what they had to go on, but he knew better than to make that point just now.

"And if he did get it from us," Gorjah continued, "Vicar Zahmsyn and Vicar Zhaspyr are going to be most displeased. And if they're displeased with me, I'm going to be . . . displeased with whoever allowed that to happen."

He held Stonekeep's eyes levelly, and for once, the baron could think of absolutely nothing to say.

II

Royal Palace,

Eraystor,

"Your Highness."

Nahrmahn of Emerald gave a most un-prince-like snort, then sat up in bed. It looked rather like a particularly round narwhale or an Old Earth walrus rising from the depths, and his expression was not happy.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Your Highness." The night chamberlain's words came out almost in a gabble in response to that expression. "I assure you, I wouldn't have done it if I'd had any choice at all. I know you don't wish to be dist-"

"Enough," Nahrmahn didn't-quite-snarl, and the man chopped himself off in midsyllable.

The prince rubbed his eyes, then drew a deep breath and gave the chamberlain a slightly less hostile look.

"Better," he said. "Now, what is it?"

"Your Highness, there's an officer here from the dockyard. He says-"

The night chamberlain broke off for an instant, then visibly steeled himself.

"Your Highness, there's been a battle. From what the officer says, we lost."

"Lost?"

Nahrmahn's irritation disappeared into shock. How could they have lost a battle when they outnumbered their enemy by almost three-to-one?

"The dockyard officer is waiting for you, Your Highness," the chamberlain said. "He's far better qualified than I am to explain what happened."

"Bring him," Nahrmahn said harshly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Shall I send for your body servants, first, Your Highness?"

The chamberlain seemed almost pathetically eager to fasten upon some reassuringly normal routine, but Nahrmahn shook his head angrily.

"Bring him!" he snapped, and stood, reaching for the robe laid ready beside the bed.

"Yes, Your Highness!"

The chamberlain scurried out, and Nahrmahn fastened the robe's sash, then turned to face the bedchamber door, waiting impatiently. Less than two minutes later, the chamberlain returned with a naval officer who looked even less happy than the chamberlain did. The officer wore no sword, and his dagger sheath was empty, but a quick shake of Nahrmahn's head told the guardsman outside his bedchamber door to stay there.

"Captain Tallmyn, Your Highness," the chamberlain said, as the officer bowed deeply.

"Leave us," Nahrmahn told the chamberlain, who promptly disappeared like a wisp of smoke in a high wind.

The door closed behind him, and the naval officer straightened his spine and met Nahrmahn's eyes, although he clearly would have preferred not to.

"Captain Tallmyn," Nahrmahn said. "And you would be-?"

"Captain Gervays Tallmyn, Your Highness." Tallmyn had a deep voice, undoubtedly well suited to bawling orders. At the moment there was an echo of shock in its depths, and Nahrmahn's lips tightened as he heard it. "I have the honor to be the assistant commander of the Royal Dockyard here in Eraystor."

"I see. And what's this about a battle?"

"At the moment, Your Highness, our information is far from complete," Tallmyn said a bit cautiously, and Nahrmahn nodded impatient understanding of the qualification. "All we really knew so far is that Sea Cloud's returned to port. According to her captain, she's the only survivor of her entire squadron. And-" The captain inhaled, visibly bracing himself. "-she may be the only survivor of our entire fleet."

Nahrmahn's round face went pale.

"I don't say she is, Your Highness," Tallmyn said quickly. "I said she may be. At the moment, she's the only ship which has returned, but her captain is obviously badly shaken. It's entirely possible, even probable, that even though he's being as honest as he possibly can, his own experiences are causing him to overestimate our total losses. But"-the captain's voice went lower and darker-"even if they are, there's no question that we've suffered a very serious defeat."

"How?" Nahrmahn demanded.

"I'm afraid it's going to be some time before we can really answer that question, Your Highness. However, it appears from Sea Cloud's report that Cayleb and the Charisian galleons have returned. Apparently, they struck our fleet from behind, just at dawn, and their gunfire was even more effective than Duke Black Water's last reports suggested it might be. Sea Cloud managed to escape to windward, but her captain personally saw at least eleven of our galleys, including every other ship in his own squadron, strike."

Nahrmahn simply stared at him for several seconds. Then he nodded slowly and walked across to gaze out his bedchamber's window across the palace gardens.

III

Tellesberg Cathedral,

Tellesberg

King Haarahld VII's body lay in state before the high altar in Tellesberg Cathedral. Six halberd-armed men of the Royal Guard surrounded the bier, gazing rigidly in front of them, the heads of their weapons draped in the black of mourning. By King Cayleb's orders, Sergeant Gahrdaner and Sergeant Haarpar lay on either side of the king they'd died to protect, and Midshipman Hektor Aplyn sat at his dead king's feet, one arm in a snow-white sling, keeping watch over King Haarahld's sword.

Aplyn was one of only thirty-six survivors of Royal Charis' entire crew. Every one of the survivors had been wounded. Some of them might yet die, despite all the healers could do.

For four days now, King Haarahld's people had shuffled quietly, reverently, through the enormous cathedral to bid their old king farewell. Many had sobbed, most had wept, and all had been grim faced with grief.

Yet there'd been little or no despair.

Merlin Athrawes stood behind King Cayleb, gazing over the young monarch's shoulder as he sat in the royal box with his younger brother and sister, waiting for the funeral mass to begin. Zhan and Zhanayt looked as if they were still trying to comprehend the enormity of their father's death. Cayleb's expression was less stunned and far, far harder.

And that, Merlin thought as he, too, gazed sadly at Haarahld's body, summed up the mood of most of Charis quite well. The death of their beloved king tempered the Charisians' joy and pride in the victories their navy had won, but nothing could erase their understanding of what those victories meant.

Nineteen of Haarahld's galleys, a quarter of his entire fleet, had been sunk or so badly damaged that Cayleb had ordered them burned; Dreadnought's bow had been so shattered by the collision with Doomwhale that it had been impossible to keep her afloat; and casualties throughout the galley fleet had been heavy. But as compensation, a hundred and seventeen of Black Water's galleys, most badly damaged, but including thirty-six Chisholmian galleys which had surrendered virtually undamaged, were anchored in Tellesberg's harbor under Charisian colors. Another forty-nine had been sunk in action or burned afterward. Only seventeen-less than ten percent of the fleet Black Water had taken into action-had managed to escape.

Of the total combined force of over three hundred and fifty warships the Group of Four had assembled for the attack on Charis, less than thirty had escaped destruction or capture. It was, by any measure, the most one-sided naval victory in Safehold's history.

The Kingdom of Charis' pride in its navy was like a bright, fierce flame, one which burned even more brilliantly against the darkness of its dead king, and Merlin understood that only too well. He wished, with all his molycirc heart, that Haarahld hadn't done it. Wished he himself had reached the aftercastle of Royal Charis even a minute earlier. Wished he'd realized how serious the king's wound had been, or that he'd been able to somehow treat that wound while simultaneously holding the Corisandian boarders at bay.

But none of those things had happened, and so the king he had come to admire and respect so deeply-had come, without even realizing it, to love-had died behind him in the arms of an eleven-year-old midshipman.

It was a tragedy made even greater and far more painful because the victory had already been won. If every single ship in Black Water's column had escaped, Darcos Sound would still have been a crushing triumph. And yet . . .

Merlin stood behind King Cayleb, watching, listening, and he knew that whether or not Darcos Sound would have been a victory anyway was really almost immaterial. The SNARC he'd had monitoring Haarahld had recorded the king's conversation with his flag captain, and he knew the king's death had purchased exactly what Haarahld had flung his life into the scales to buy. The entire Kingdom of Charis knew King Haarahld could have avoided action. It knew he'd chosen to engage at odds of six-to-one rather than turn his back and let those ships escape, and that he'd done it because Charis needed far more in this war than mere victories. Just as it knew his flagship's crew had fought literally to the last man, building a ring of their own bodies about their king. And just as it knew that in the final decision he would ever make, its king had lost his life protecting an eleven-year-old midshipman. Young Aplyn had told Cayleb the last thing his father had ever said. The words had come hard from an officer who was also a boy, trying desperately not to weep, and they had already spread throughout the entire kingdom.

Charis knew as well as Merlin did that Haarahld hadn't had to meet the enemy head on. That, in many respects, it had been the wrong decision for a king to make. But it had been the right decision for a man to make, and Charis knew that, too . . . just as it would always treasure the last words he had said to an eleven-year-old boy. He had become a martyr and, even more importantly, an example, the yardstick against which his navy would forever be measured, and the legend of HMS Royal Charis' last battle would do nothing but grow with time. Haarahld had provided that legend by showing what he had expected of himself, showing his people the measure to which they must now hold themselves if they would be worthy of their dead king.

Merlin had no doubt that they would hew to the standard Haarahld had set.

Nor was that example all Haarahld had left his people, for he'd left them a new king, as well, and the Charisians' pride in him burned as bright as their pride in his father. They knew it was Haarahld who'd planned the Battle of Darcos Sound. The entire campaign had been his strategic concept, and his had been the mind-and courage-which had made it so decisive, even at the cost of his own life. But it was King Cayleb who had won the crushing victories of Rocky Point and the Battle of Crag Reach in the demon-haunted waters off Armageddon Reef, and it was Cayleb whose arrival and ships had made Darcos Sound possible. They were united behind their young monarch as very few kingdoms in human history had ever been.

And that was a good thing, because they also knew now who had orchestrated the attack upon them.

Cayleb and Gray Harbor had decided to make that information public, and Merlin thought they'd been right to do so. It wasn't a secret which could be kept for long, anyway, and it was time for the people of Charis to know what their kingdom truly faced. Time for them to know that the rulers of the Church of God Awaiting had decreed their destruction.

That information was still sinking in, Merlin knew. It would be five-days, probably months, before it sank fully home, but the reaction of Cayleb's subjects to the news was already clear.

As was Cayleb's.

King Haarahld's funeral mass would not be celebrated by Bishop Executor Zherald. The bishop executor was currently Cayleb's "guest" in a comfortable palace suite. No bishop in the history of Safehold had ever been arrested or imprisoned by a secular ruler. Technically, that was still true, but no one doubted the reality behind the polite pretense. Just as no one doubted that the true prelate of all Charis was now Bishop Maikel Staynair.

It would take some time, but Merlin could already hear the echoes of Henry VIII. Whether or not Cayleb would formally assume the position of the Church's head in Charis remained to be seen, but the Charisian Church's separation from the Temple was an accomplished fact which awaited only official ratification.

It was not a fact which had met with universal approval. Almost a quarter of the kingdom's clergy, including its native Charisians, were outraged and horrified by the very suggestion. So was at least a portion of the general population, but the percentage there was much smaller, so far as Merlin could tell.

There was quite a lot of fear and concern, not to mention confusion, but the vast majority of Cayleb's subjects had never been especially fond of the corrupt men in Zion. The fact that the Council of Vicars had launched an overwhelming attack upon them when they'd done nothing to deserve it had turned that lack of fondness into virulent hatred. The fact that it was actually the Group of Four, and not the entire Council of Vicars, was at best a meaningless, artificial distinction for most of them, nor had Cayleb and Gray Harbor gone out of their way to emphasize it.

The Safeholdian Reformation which Merlin had hoped to delay until Charis was ready for it was already a fact. There was nothing he could do to undo that, nor would the white-hot anger of Charis and its new monarch have permitted him to, even if he could have.

And at least for now, the initiative lay firmly in Cayleb's hands. Despite its own losses, the Royal Charisian Navy held uncontested command of the sea, for there was quite literally no other navy in existence.

God only knew what the Group of Four would do when it discovered that fact. In the short term, there wasn't very much it could do without a fleet. In the long term, the Temple controlled somewhere around eighty-five percent of the total planetary population and a huge proportion of the planet's total wealth. Those were daunting odds, but if they dismayed Cayleb Ahrmahk, Merlin had seen no sign of it. And Cayleb was already working to improve them.

Queen Sharleyan's distaste for the orders forced upon her by the Group of Four offered him an opening, and the fact that so many of her warships had surrendered offered him a lever. He'd already dispatched a special ambassador to Cherayth with an offer to return her vessels, along with all of her personnel, in return for a formal end to hostilities.

That was the official message. The private letter from Cayleb to Sharleyan which accompanied it suggested a somewhat closer relationship. It very carefully did not mention the fact that the Group of Four was likely to be rather upset with her kingdom and her navy's performance against Charis. Nor did it even hint that Cayleb's return of her surrendered ships would almost certainly make the Group of Four even angrier. Which, of course, only emphasized those facts more bly. It did specifically point out all of the reasons to hate and despise Hektor of Corisande which Charis and Chisholm had in common, however, and suggest that they do something about them.

And, of course, there was always Nahrmahn of Emerald. Who now found himself on the other side of the Charis Sea with no navy, no allies, and very little in the way of an army.

But that could wait, Merlin thought, as the organ music swelled and the cathedral doors opened. The time would come when all those other threats must be dealt with. The time for analysis, planning, the identification of opportunities and perils. But that time was not now, and even if it had been, Merlin would not have cared.

Perhaps it was as "wrong" of him to feel that way as it had been for Haarahld to steer to meet Black Water's flagship instead of turning away. Merlin Athrawes, after all, was a creature of circuitry and alloys, of the cool whisper of electrons and not flesh and blood, or the beating of a human heart. It was his duty to look to those threats, to scent those opportunities, to determine how best to turn even King Haarahld's death to advantage. And he would discharge that duty.

But not today. Today belonged to the man who had become his friend. The man who'd trusted him with his own life, and his kingdom, and his son, and died without ever truly knowing what Merlin was. This day belonged to Haarahld Ahrmahk, and to all the other men who had died in a war whose true objectives had never been explained to them. It belonged to their memory, to Merlin's own prayers for forgiveness as he contemplated the blood upon his hands and the greater tides still waiting to be shed.

As he gazed at Haarahld's bier and the wounded midshipman at its foot, Merlin Athrawes tasted the full, bitter weight of immortality. Of knowing how many endless years stretched out before him, how many more men and child-officers-and women, in days to come-would die in the war he had begun.

He felt that weight, saw it in his mind's eye, looming before him like an Everest of the soul, and it terrified him. But Haarahld's example-and Pei Kau-yung's, and Pei Shan-wei's, and even Nimue Alban's-burned before him, as well. That Everest was his, and he would bear it, for however long it took, for however far he must journey. He knew that. But for today, it could wait while the Kingdom of Charis-and the man who had been Nimue Alban-said their final farewell to King Haarahld VII.

It could all wait.

CHARACTERS

Ahdymsyn, Bishop Executor Zherald-Archbishop Erayk Dynnys' chief administrator for the Archbishopric of Charis.

Ahlbair, Lieutenant Zherohm, Royal Charisian Navy-first lieutenant, HMS Typhoon.

Ahlverez, Admiral-General Faidel, Dohlaran Navy-Duke of Malikai; King Rahnyld IV of Dohlar's senior admiral.

Ahrmahk, Crown Prince Cayleb-Crown Prince of Charis, older son of King Haarahld VII.

Ahrmahk, King Haarahld VII-King of Charis.

Ahrmahk, Kahlvyn-Duke of Tirian, Constable of Hairatha, King Haarahld VII's first cousin.

Ahrmahk, Kahlvyn Cayleb-Kahlvyn Ahrmahk's younger son.

Ahrmahk, Rayjhis-Kahlvyn Ahrmahk's elder son and heir.

Ahrmahk, Prince Zhan-Crown Prince Cayleb's younger brother, youngest child of King Haarahld VII.

Ahrmahk, Princess Zhanayt-Crown Prince Cayleb's younger sister, second eldest child of King Haarahld VII.

Ahrmahk, Zhenyfyr-Duchess of Tirian, wife of Kahlvyn Ahrmahk.

Ahzgood, Phylyp-Earl of Coris, Prince Hektor's spymaster.

Alban, Lieutenant Commander Nimue, TFN-Admiral Pei Kau-zhi's tactical officer.

Allayn, Vicar-see also Allayn Mahgwyr.

Aplyn, Midshipman Hektor, Royal Charisian Navy-junior midshipman, HMS Royal Charis.

Athrawes, Lieutenant Merlin, Charisian Royal Guard-Nimue Alban's male persona.

Aymez, Midshipman Bardulf, Royal Charisian Navy-a midshipman, HMS Typhoon.

Bahrmyn, Archbishop Borys-Archbishopric of Corisande.

Bahltyn, Zheevys-Baron White Ford's valet.

Bahrns, King Rahnyld IV-King of Dohlar.

Borys, Archbishop-see Archbishop Borys Bahrmyn.

Bahrmyn, Tohmys-Baron White Castle, Prince Hektor's ambassador to Prince Nahrmahn.

Baytz, Princess Felayz-Prince Nahrmahn of Emerald's youngest child and second daughter.

Baytz, Princess Mahrya-Prince Nahrmahn of Emerald's oldest child.

Baytz, Prince Nahrmahn II-ruler of the Princedom of Emerald.

Baytz, Prince Nahrmahn Gareyt-second child of Prince Nahrmahn of Emerald.

Baytz, Princess Ohlyvya-wife of Prince Nahrmahn of Emerald.

Baytz, Prince Trahvys-Prince Nahrmahn of Emerald's third child and second son.

Bédard, Dr. Adorée, Ph.D.-Chief Psychiatrist, Operation Ark.

Bishop Executor Zherald-see Bishop Executor Zherald Ahdymsyn.

Bishop Executor Wyllys-see Bishop Executor Wyllys Gryrsyn.

Bishop Maikel-see Bishop Maikel Staynair.

Blaidyn, Lieutenant Rozhyr, Dohlaran Navy-second lieutenant, galley Royal Bédard.

Black Water, Duke-see Ernyst Lynkyn.

Bowsham, Captain Khanair, Royal Charisian Marines-CO, HMS Gale.

Bradlai, Lieutenant Robyrt, Corisandian Navy-true name of Captain Styvyn Whaite.

Broun, Father Mahtaio-Archbishop Erayk Dynnys' senior secretary and aide; Archbishop Erayk's confidant and protégé.

Brownyng, Captain Ellys-CO, Temple galleon Blessed Langhorne.

Breygart, Fraidareck-fourteenth Earl of Hanth; Hauwerd Breygart's great-grandfather.

Breygart, Sir Hauwerd-the rightful heir to the Earldom of Hanth.

Byrk, Major Brekyn, Royal Charisian Marines-CO, Marine detachment, HMS Royal Charis.

Cahnyr, Archbishop Zhasyn-Archbishop of Glacierheart.

Chalmyr, Lieutenant Mailvyn, Royal Charisian Navy-first lieutenant, HMS Tellesberg.

Chalmyrz, Father Karlos-Archbishop Borys Bahrmyn's aide and secretary.

Charlz, Captain Marik-CO Charisian merchant ship Wave Daughter.

Clareyk, Major Kynt, Royal Charisian Marines-a Marine expert in infantry tactics.

Clyntahn, Vicar Zhaspyr-Grand Inquisitor of the Church of God Awaiting; one of the so-called "Group of Four."

Cohlmyn, Admiral Sir Lewk, Chisholmian Navy-Earl Sharpfield; Queen Sharleyan's senior fleet Commander.

Coris, Earl-see Phylyp Ahzgood.

Cahkrayn, Samyl-Duke of Fern, King Rahnyld IV of Dohlar's first councillor.

Daikyn, Gahlvyn-Crown Prince Cayleb's personal valet.

Daykyn, Prince Hektor-Prince of Corisande, leader of the league of Corisande.

Dragoner, Corporal Zhak, Royal Charisian Marines-a member of Crown Prince Cayleb's bodyguard.

Duchairn, Vicar Rhobair-Minister of Treasury, Council of Vicars; one of the so-called Group of Four.

Dymytree, Fronz, Royal Charisian Marines-a member of Crown Prince Cayleb's bodyguard.

Dynnys, Adorai-Archbishop Erayk Dynnys' wife.

Dynnys, Archbishop Erayk-Archbishop of Charis.

Ekyrd, Captain Hayrys, Dohlaran Navy-CO, galley King Rahnyld.

Erayk, Archbishop-see Erayk Dynnys.

Fahrmahn, Private Luhys, Royal Charisian Marines-a member of Crown Prince Cayleb's bodyguard.

Faircaster, Sargeant Payter, Royal Charisian Marines-senior noncom, Crown Prince Cayleb's bodyguard.

Father Michael-parish priest of Lakeview.

Fern, Duke of-see Samyl Cahkrayn.

Falkhan, Lieutenant Ahrnahld, Royal Charisian Marines-commanding officer, Crown Prince Cayleb's personal bodyguard.

Fofão, Captain Mateus, TFN-CO TFNS Swiftsure.

Fuhllyr, Father Raimahnd-chaplain, HMS Dreadnought.

Furkhal, Rafayl-second baseman and leadoff hitter, Tellesberg Krakens.

Gahrdaner, Sergeant Charlz, Charisian Royal Guard-one of King Haarahld VII's bodyguards.

Gardynyr, Admiral Lywys, Dohlaran Navy-Earl of Thirsk; senior professional admiral of the Dohlaran Navy; second-in-command to Duke Malikai.

Grand Vicar Erek XVII-secular and temporal head of the Church of God Awaiting.

Gray Harbor, Earl-see Rayjhis Yowance.

Greenhill, Tymahn-King Haarahld VII's senior huntsman.

Green Mountain, Baron-see Mahrak Sandyrs.

Guyshain, Father Bahrnai-Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair's senior aide.

Gyrard, Lieutenant Andrai, Royal Charisian Navy-first officer, HMS Dreadnought.

Graisyn, Bishop Executor Wyllys-Archbishop Lyam Tyrn's chief administrator for the Archbishopric of Emerald.

Haarpar, Sergeant Gorj, Charisian Royal Guard-one of King Haarahld VII's bodyguards.

Hotchkys, Captain Sir Ohwyn, Royal Charisian Navy-CO HMS Tellesberg.

Hahlmahn, Pawal-King Haarahld VII's senior chamberlain.

Halmyn, Archbishop-see Halmyn Zahmsyn.

Haskyn, Midshipman Yahncee, Dohlaran Navy-a midshipman aboard Gorath Bay.

Hanth, Earl-see Tahdayo Mahntayl.

Harrison, Matthew Paul-Timothy and Sarah Harrison's great-grandson.

Harrison, Robert-Timothy and Sarah Harrison's grandson; Matthew Paul Harrison's father.

Harrison, Sarah-wife of Timothy Harrison hand and an Eve.

Harrison, Timothy-Mayor of Lakeview and an Adam.

Harys, Father Ahlbyrt-Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair's special representative to Dohlar.

Hauwyrd, Zhorzh-Earl Gray Harbor's personal guardsman.

Henderson, Lieutenant Gabriela ("Gabby"), TFN-tactical officer, TFNS Swiftsure.

Howsmyn, Ehdwyrd-a wealthy foundry owner and shipbuilder in Tellesberg.

Huntyr, Lieutenant Klemynt, Charisian Royal Guard-an officer of the Charisian Royal Guard in Tellesberg.

Hyndryk, Captain Sir Ahlfryd, Royal Charisian Navy-Baron Seamount, the Royal Charisian Navy's senior gunnery expert.

Hyrst, Admiral Zohzef, Chisholmian Navy-Earl Sharpfield's second-in-command.

Kaillee, Captain Zhilbert, Tarotisian Navy-CO, galley King Gorjah II.

Khattyr, Captain Payt, Emerald Navy-CO, galley Black Prince.

King Gorjah III-see Gorjah Yairayl.

King Haarahld VII-see Haarahld Ahrmahk.

King Rahnyld IV-see Rahnyld Bahrns.

Kohrby, Midshipman Lynail, Royal Charisian Navy-senior midshipman, HMS Dreadnought.

Lahang, Braidee-Prince Nahrmahn of Emerald's chief agent in Charis.

Langhorne, Eric-Chief Administrator, Operation Ark.

Layn, lieutenant Zhim, Royal Charisian Marines-Major Kynt Clareyk's aide.

Lock Island, High Admiral Bryahn-Earl of Lock Island, CO Royal Charisian Navy, a cousin of King Haarahld VII.

Lord Protector Greyghor-see Greyghor Stohnar.

Lyam, Archbishop-see Archbishop Lyam Tyrn.

Lynkyn, Admiral Ernyst, Corisandian Navy-Duke of Black Water, CO, Corisandian Navy.

Mahgentee, Midshipman Mahrak, Royal Charisian Navy-senior midshipman, HMS Typhoon.

Mahklyn, Dr. Rahzhyr-head of the Royal Charisian College.

Mahlry, Lieutenant Rholynd, Emerald Navy-a lieutenant aboard galley Black Prince.

Mahndyr, Earl-see Gharth Rahlstahn.

Mahntayl, Tahdayo-usurper Earl of Hanth.

Mahrak, Lieutenant Rahnald Royal Charisian Navy-first lieutenant, HMS Royal Charis.

Mahrtyn, Admiral Gahvyn, Tarotisian Navy-Baron White Ford; senior admiral of the Navy of Tarot.

Magwair, Vicar Allayn-Captain General, Council of Vicars; one of the so-called Group of Four.

Maikel, Captain Qwentyn, Dohlaran Navy-CO, galley Gorath Bay.

Maikelsyn, Lieutenant Leeahm, Tarotisian Navy-first lieutenant, King Gorjah II.

Mairydyth, Lieutenant Nevyl, Dohlaran Navy-first lieutenant, galley Royal Bédard.

Makferzahn, Zhames-one of Prince Hektor's agents in Charis.

Makgregair, Father Zhoshua-Vicar Zahmsyn Trynair's special representative to Tarot.

Malikai, Duke-see Faidel Ahlverez.

Manthyr, Captain Gwylym, Royal Charisian Navy-CO, HMS Dreadnought.

Marshyl, Midshipman Adym, Royal Charisian Navy-senior midshipman, HMS Royal Charis.

Master Domnek-King Haarahld VII's court arms master.

Mathysyn, Lieutenant Zhaikeb, Dohlaran Navy-first lieutenant, galley Gorath Bay.

Maylyr, Captain Dunkyn, Royal Charisian Navy-CO, HMS Halberd.

Maysahn, Zhaspahr-Prince Hektor's senior agent in Charis.

Maythis, Lieutenant Fraizher, Corisandian Navy-true name of Captain Wahltayr Seatown.

Mhulvayn, Oskahr-one of Prince Hektor's agents in Charis.

Mychail, Raiyan-a major textile producer and sailmaker in Tellesberg.

Myllyr, Archbishop Urvyn-Archbishop of Sodar.

Myrgyn, Sir Kehvyn, Corisandian Navy-CO, galley Corisande.

Nylz, Commodore Kohdy, Royal Charisian Navy-CO of one of High Admiral Lock Island's galley squadrons.

Nyou, King Gorjah III-King of Tarot.

Oarmaster, Sygmahn, Royal Charisian Marines-a member of Crown Prince Cayleb's bodyguard.

Ohlsyn, Trahvys-Earl of Pine Hollow, Prince Nahrmahn's of Emerald's first councillor and cousin.

Olyvyr, Ahnyet-Sir Dustyn Olyvyr's life.

Olyvyr, Sir Dustyn-a leading Tellesberg ship designer; chief constructor, Royal Charisian Navy.

Owl-Nimue Alban's AI, based on the manufacturer's acronym: Ordoñes-Westinghouse-Lytton RAPIER Tactical Computer, Mark 17a.

Pei, Admiral Kau-zhi, TFN-CO, Operation Breakaway; older brother of commodore Pei Kau-yung.

Pei, Commodore Kau-yung, TFN-CO, Operation Ark final escort.

Pei, Dr. Shan-wei, Ph.D.-Commodore Pei Kau-yung's wife; senior terraforming expert for Operation Ark.

Phonda, Madam Ahnzhelyk-proprietor of one of the City of Zion's most discrete brothels.

Pine Hollow, Earl-see Trahvys Ohlsyn.

Prince Cayleb-see Cayleb Ahrmahk.

Prince Hektor-see Hektor Daykyn.

Prince Nahrmahn-see Nahrmahn Baytz.

Proctor, Dr. Elias, Ph.D.-a member of Pei Shan-wei's staff and a noted cyberneticist.

Queen Sharleyan-see Sharleyan Tayt.

Qwentyn, Commodore Donyrt, Corisandian Navy-Baron Tanlyr Keep, one of Duke of Black Water's squadron commander's.

Rahlstahn, Admiral Gharth, Emerald Navy-Earl of Mahndyr, CO, Emerald Navy.

Rahlstyn, Commodore Erayk, Dohlaran Navy-one of Duke Malikai's squadron commanders.

Raice, Bynzhamyn-Baron Wave Thunder, King Haarahld VII's spymaster and a member of his Privy Council.

Rayno, Archbishop Wyllym-Archbishop of Chiang-wu; adjutant of the Order of Schueler.

Rhobair, Vicar-see also Rhobair Duchairn.

Ropewalk, Colonel Ahdam, Charisian Royal Guard-CO, Charisian Royal Guard.

Rowyn, Captain Horahs-CO, Sir Dustyn Olyvyr's yacht Ahnyet.

Rustmyn, Edymynd-Baron Stonekeep; King Gorjah III of Tarot's first councillor and spymaster.

Sahdlyr, Lieutenant Bynzhamyn, Royal Charisian Navy-second lieutenant, HMS Dreadnought.

Sandyrs, Mahrak-Baron Green Mountain; Queen Sharleyan of Chisholm's first minister.

Seafarmer, Sir Rhyzhard-Baron Wave Thunder's senior investigator.

Seamount, Baron-see Sir Ahlfryd Hyndryk.

Seatown, Captain Wahltayr-CO of merchant ship Fraynceen, acting as a courier for Prince Hektor's spies in Charis. See also Lieutenant Fraizher Maythis.

Shandyr, Hahl-Baron of Shandyr, Prince Nahrmahn of Emerald's spymaster.

Sharpfield, Earl-see Sir Lewk Cohlmyn.

Shumakyr, Father Symyn-Archbishop Erayk Dynnys' secretary for his 891 pastoral visit; an agent of the Grand Inquisitor.

Smolth, Zhan-star pitcher for the Tellesberg Krakens.

Somerset, Captain Martin Luther, TFN-CO, TFNS Excalibur.

Staynair, Bishop Maikel-Bishop of Tellesberg; King Haarahld VII's confessor and adviser.

Staynair, Commodore Sir Domynyk, Royal Charisian Navy-specialist in naval tactics; CO Experimental Squadron; Crown Prince Cayleb's second-in-command; younger brother of Bishop Maikel Staynair; later admiral.

Stohnar, Lord Protector Greyghor-elected ruler of the Siddarmark Republic.

Stonekeep, Baron-see Edymynd Rustmyn.

Stywyrt, Captain Dahryl, Royal Charisian Navy-CO HMS Typhoon.

Symmyns, Tohmas-Grand Duke of Zebediah, senior member and head of Council of Zebediah.

Tallmyn, Captain Gervays, Emerald Navy-second-in-command of the Royal Dockyard in Tranjyr.

Tanlyr Keep, Baron-see Donyrt Qwentyn.

Tayt, Queen Sharleyan-Queen of Chisholm.

Thiessen, Captain Joseph, TFN-Admiral Pei Kau-zhi's chief of staff.

Thirsk, Earl-see Lywys Gardynyr.

Tohmys, Frahnklyn-Crown Prince Cayleb's tutor.

Tillyer, Lieutenant Henrai, Royal Charisian Navy-High Admiral Lock Island's personal aide.

Tirian, Duke-see Kahlvyn Ahrmahk.

Trynair, Vicar Zahmsyn-Chancellor of the Council of Vicars of the Church of God Awaiting; one of the so-called Group of Four.

Tryvythyn, Captain Sir Dynzyl, Royal Charisian Navy-CO, HMS Royal Charis.

Tyrn, Archbishop Lyam-Archbishop of Emerald.

Urvyn, Archbishop-see Urvyn Myllyr.

Wave Thunder, Baron-see Bynzhamyn Raice.

Whaite, Captain Styvyn-CO, merchantship Sea Cloud, a courier for Prince Hektor's spies in Charis. See also Robyrt Bradlai.

White Castle, Baron-see Tohmys Bahrmyn.

White Ford, Baron-see Gahvyn Mahrtyn.

Wyllym, Archbishop-see Wyllym Rayno.

Wyllyms, Marhys-the Duke of Tirian's majordomo.

Wylsynn, Father Paityr-a priest of the Order of Schueler, the Church of God Awaiting's intendant for Charis.

Wynstyn, Lieutenant Kynyth, Corisandian Navy-first lieutenant galley Corisande.

Yowance, Ehrnaist-Rayjhis Yowance's deceased elder brother.

Yowance, Rayjhis-Earl of Gray Harbor, King Haarahld's first minister and head of the Privy Council.

Zebediah, Grand Duke-see Tohmas Symmyns.

Zahmsyn, Archbishop Halmyn-Archbishop of Gorath; senior prelate of the Kingdom of Dohlar.

Zahmsyn, Vicar-see Zahmsyn Trynair.

Zhansan, Frahnk-the Duke of Tirian's senior guardsman.

Zhaspyr, Vicar-see Zahmsyn Clyntahn.

Zhasyn, Archbishop-see Zhasyn Cahnyr.

Zheppsyn, Captain Nyklas, Emerald Navy-CO, galley Triton.

Zhessyp, Lachlyn-King Haarahld VII's valet.

Zhoelsyn, Lieutenant Phylyp, Tarotisian Navy-second lieutenant, King Gorjah II.

GLOSSARY

Anshinritsumei-literally "enlightenment," from the Japanese. Rendered in the Safehold Bible, however, as "the little fire," the lesser touch of God's spirit. The maximum enlightenment of which mortals are capable.

Borer-a form of Safeholdian shellfish which attaches itself to the hulls of ships or the timbers of wharves by boring into them. There are several types of borer, the most destructive of which actually eat their way steadily deeper into a wooden structure. Borers and rot are the two most serious threats (aside, of course, from fire) to wooden hulls.

Catamount-a smaller version of the Safeholdian slash lizard. The catamount is very fast and smarter than its larger cousin, which means that it tends to avoid humans. It is, however, a lethal and dangerous hunter in its own right.

Commentaries, The-the authorized interpretations and doctrinal expansions upon the Holy Writ. They represent the officially approved and sanctioned interpretation of the original scripture.

Choke tree-a low-growing species of tree native to Safehold. It comes in many varieties, and is found in most of the planet's climate zones. It is dense-growing, tough, and difficult to eradicate, but it requires quite a lot of sunlight to flourish, which means it is seldom found in mature old-growth forests.

Cotton silk-a plant native to Safehold which shares many of the properties of silk and cotton. It is very light weight and b, but the raw fiber comes from a plant pod which is even more filled with seeds than Old Earth cotton. Because of the amount of hand labor required to harvest and process the pods and to remove the seeds from it, cotton silk is very expensive.

Council of Vicars-the Church of God Awaiting's equivalent of the College of Cardinals.

Doomwhale-the most dangerous predator of Safehold, although, fortunately, it seldom bothers with anything as small as humans. Doomwhales have been known to run to as much as one hundred feet in length, and they are pure carnivores. Each doomwhale requires a huge range, and encounters with them are rare, for which human beings are just as glad, thank you. Doomwhales will eat anything . . . including the largest krakens. They have been known, on extremely rare occasions, to attack merchant ships and war galleys.

Dragon-the largest native Safeholdian land life forms. Dragons come in two varieities, the common dragon and the great dragon. The common dragon is about twice the size of a Terran elephant and is herbivorous. The great dragon is smaller, about half to two-thirds the size of the common dragon, but carnivorous, filling the highest feeding niche of Safehold's land-based ecology. They look very much alike, aside from their size and the fact that the common dragon has herbivore teeth and jaws, whereas the great dragon has elongated jaws with sharp, serrated teeth. They have six limbs and, unlike the slash lizard, are covered in thick, well-insulated hide rather than fur.

Five-day-a Safeholdian "week," consisting of only five days, Monday through Friday.

Fleming moss-(usually lower case). An absorbent moss native to Safehold which was genetically engineered by Shan-wei's terraforming crews to possess natural antibiotic properties. It is a staple of Safeholdian medical practice.

Grasshopper-a Safeholdian insect analogue which grows to a length of as much as nine inches and is carnivorous. Fortunately, they do not occur in the same numbers as terrestrial grasshoppers.

Group of Four-the four vicars who dominate and effectively control the Council of Vicars of the Church of God Awaiting.

Hairatha Dragons-the Hairatha professional baseball team. The traditional rivals of the Tellesberg Krakens for the Kingdom Championship.

Insights, The-the recorded pronouncements and observations of the Church of God Awaiting's Grand Vicars and canonized saints. They represent deeply significant spiritual and inspirational teachings, but, as the work of fallible mortals, do not have the same standing as the Holy Writ itself.

Intendant-the cleric assigned to a bishopric or archbishopric as the direct representative of the Office of Inquisition. The intendant is specifically charged with assuring that the Proscriptions of Jwo-jeng are not violated.

Kercheef-a traditional headdress worn in the Kingdom of Tarot which consists of a specially designed bandana tied across the hair.

Knights of the Temple Lands-the corporate title of the prelates who govern the Temple Lands. Technically, the Knights of the Temple Lands are secular rulers, who simply happen to also hold high Church office. Under the letter of the Church's law, what they may do as the Knights of the Temple Lands is completely separate from any official action of the Church. This legal fiction has been of considerable value to the Church on more than one occasion.

Kraken-generic term for an entire family of maritime predators. Krakens are rather like sharks crossed with octupi. They have powerful, fish-like bodies, b jaws with inward-inclined, fang-like teeth, and a cluster of tentacles just behind the head which can be used to hold prey while they devour it. The smallest, coastal krakens can be as short as three or four feet; deep-water krakens up to fifty feet in length have been reported, and there are legends of those still larger.

Kyousei hi-literally "great fire" or "magnificent fire." The term used to describe the brilliant nimbus of light the Operation Ark command crew generated around their air cars and skimmers to help "prove" their divinity to the original Safeholdians.

Langhorne's Watch-the thirty-one-minute period immediately before midnight in order to compensate for the extra length of Safehold's 26.5-hour day.

Master Traynyr-a character out of the Safeholdian entertainment tradition. Master Traynyr is a stock character in Safeholdian puppet theater, by turns a bumbling conspirator whose plans always miscarry and the puppeteer who controls all of the marionette "actors" in the play.

Narwhale-a species of Safeholdian sea life named for the Old Earth species of the same name. Safeholdian narwhales are about forty feet in length and equipped with twin horn-like tusks up to eight feet long.

Prong lizard-a roughly elk-sized lizard with a single horn which branches into four sharp points in the last third or so of its length. They are herbivores and not particularly ferocious.

Proscriptions of Jwo-jeng-the definition of allowable technology under the doctrine of the Church of God Awaiting. Essentially, the Proscriptions limit allowable technology to that which is powered by wind, water, or muscle. The Proscriptions are subject to interpretation, generally by the Order of Schueler, which generally errs on the side of conservatism.

Rakurai-literally "lightning bolt." The Holy Writ's term for the kinetic weapons used to destroy the Alexandria Enclave.

Sand maggot-a loathsome carnivore, looking much like a six-legged slug, which haunts beaches just above the surf line. Sand maggots do not normally take living prey, although they have no objection to devouring the occasional small creature which strays into their reach. Their natural coloration blends with their sandy habitat well, and they normally conceal themselves by digging their bodies into the sand until they are completely covered, or only a small portion of their backs show.

Sea cow-a walrus-like Safeholdian sea mammal which grows to a body length of approximately ten feet when fully mature.

Seijin-sage, holy man. Directly from the Japanese by way of Maruyama Chihiro, the Langhorne staffer who wrote the Church of God Awaiting's Bible.

Slash lizard-a six-limbed, saurian-looking, furry oviparous mammal. One of the three top predators of Safehold. Mouth contains twin rows or fangs capable of punching through chain mail; feet have four long toes each, tipped with claws up to five or six inches long.

SNARC-Self-Navigating Autonomous Reconnaissance and Communication platform.

Spider-crab-a native species of sea life, considerably larger than any terrestrial crab. The spider-crab is not a crustacean, but rather more of a segmented, tough-hided, many-legged seagoing slug. Despite that, its legs are considered a great delicacy and are actually very tasty.

Spider rat-a native species of vermin which fills roughly the ecological niche of a terrestrial rat. Like all Safehold mammals, it is six-limbed, but it looks like a cross between a hairy gila monster and an insect, with long, multi-jointed legs which actually arch higher than its spine. It is nasty tempered but basically cowardly, and fully adult male specimens of the larger varieties of spider rat run to about two feet in body length with another two feet of tail. The more common varieties average between 33 percent and 50 percent of that body/tail length.

Steel thistle-a native Safeholdian plant which looks very much like branching bamboo. The plant bears seed pods filled with small, spiny seeds embedded in fine, straight fibers. The seeds are extremely difficult to remove by hand, but the fiber can be woven into a fabric which is even ber than cotton silk. It can also be twisted into extremely b, stretch-resistant rope. Moreover, the plant grows almost as rapidly as actual bamboo, and the yield of raw fiber per acre is seventy percent higher than for terrestrial cotton.

Surgoi kasai-literally "dreadful (great) conflagration." The true spirit of God, the touch of his divine fire which only an angel or archangel can endure.

Tellesberg Krakens-the Tellesberg professional baseball club.

Testimonies, The-by far the most numerous of the Church of God Awaiting's writings, these consist of the firsthand observations of the first few generations of humans on Safehold. They do not have the same status as the Christian gospels, because they do not reveal the central teachings and inspiration of God. Instead, collectively, they form an important substantiation of the Writ's "historical accuracy" and conclusively attest to the fact that the events they collectively describe did, in fact, transpire.

Wire vine-a kudzu-like vine native to Safehold. Wire vine isn't as fast-growing as kudzu, but it's equally tenacious, and unlike kudzu, several of its varieties have long, sharp thorns. Unlike many native Safeholdians species of plants, it does quite well intermingled with terrestrial imports. It is often used as a sort of combination of hedgerows and barbed wire by Safehold farmers.

Wyvern-the Safeholdian ecological analogue of terrestrial birds. There are as many varieties of wyverns as there are of birds, including (but not limited to) the homing wyvern, hunting wyverns suitable for the equivalent of hawking for small prey, the crag wyvern (a small-wingspan ten feet-flying predator), various species of sea wyverns, and the king wyvern (a very large flying predator, with a wingspan of up to twenty-five feet). All wyverns have two pairs of wings, and one pair of powerful, clawed legs. The king wyvern has been known to take children as prey when desperate or when the opportunity presents, but they are quite intelligent. They know that man is a prey best left alone and generally avoid areas of human habitation.

Wyvernry-a nesting place and/or breeding hatchery for domesticated wyverns.

A Note on Safeholdian Timekeeping

The Safeholdian day is 26 hours and 31 minutes long. Safehold's year is 301.32 local days in length, which works out to .91 Earth standard years. It has one major moon, named Langhorne, which orbits Safehold in 27.6 local days, so the lunar month is approximately 28 days long.

The Safeholdian day is divided into twenty-six 60-minute hours, and one 31-minute period, known as "Langhorne's Watch," which is used to adjust the local day into something which can be evenly divided into standard minutes and hours.

The Safeholdian calendar year is divided into ten months: February, April, March, May, June, July, August, September, October, and November. Each month is divided into ten five-day weeks, each of which is referred to as a "five-day." The days of the week are: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. The extra day in each year is inserted into the middle of the month of July, but is not numbered. It is referred to as "God's Day" and is the high holy day of the Church of God Awaiting. What this means, among other things, is that the first day of every month will always be a Monday, and the last day of every month will always be a Friday. Every third year is a leap year, with the additional day-known as "Langhorne's Memorial"-being inserted, again, without numbering, into the middle of the month of February. It also means that each Safeholdian month is 795 standard hours long, as opposed to 720 hours for a 30-day Birth month.

The Safeholdian equinoxes occur on April 23 and September 22. The solstices fall on July 7 and February 8.