Hell's Foundations Quiver (110 page)

And we'll all be glad to get back to Gorath Bay … the sooner the better
, Ahlkofahrdoh thought.

*   *   *

Baron Sarmouth took the cigar from his mouth, blew a smoke ring for the stiff breeze to shred, and nodded.

“I think it's about time, Rhobair,” he said.

“Aye, aye, My Lord!” Rhobair Lathyk touched his chest sharply in salute and turned away. “Pass the word—
quietly
,” he said. “Hands to sheets and tacks.”

The captain's fierce anticipation echoed in the half whispered acknowledgments which came back to him, and Sarmouth replaced his cigar, folded his hands behind him, and positioned himself by the aftermost quarterdeck carronade, where he'd be as out of the way as possible.

He looked across
Destiny
's starboard bulwark to where the fishing boat
Snapdragon
held station on his flagship. The small schooner-rigged vessel wasn't much to look at. At thirty-two feet, she was little more than three times the length of her namesake, and her previous owners had spent no more on her upkeep than they'd absolutely had to. Yet that unprepossessing craft was Lieutenant Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk's first independent command.

Sarmouth smiled at the thought. And again, as he considered the fishing boat's name. No living Safeholdian had any idea why the snapdragon—the warm-blooded, oviparous mammalian Safeholdian analogue to Old Earth's leatherback sea turtle—had received that particular name, but Sarmouth knew now, thanks to Owl's records.

Pei Shan-wei's sense of humor had occasionally gotten the better of her, and she'd bestowed the name partly because of the snapdragon's rather dragon-like head but mostly as a private joke because of its improbable looking, multi-hued leathery carapace. However whimsical the name, however, form followed function, and aside from its extra set of fins, the snapdragon's body form was quite similar to the leatherback's, although it was much larger. Fully mature body lengths of nine feet were common, and occasional examples closer to eleven feet had been recorded. Despite the humor in the name Shan-wei had given it, it was a formidable predator, even more dangerous than most species of krakens, and so perhaps the fishing boat's name had been aptly chosen after all.

His smile faded as he considered the real reason Hektor had been placed in command of her. They'd needed a scouting vessel which wouldn't arouse apprehension in any Dohlaran who happened to spot it, and
Snapdragon
—acquired from her previous Erechian owners two days ago in what might aptly be described as a hostile takeover—fitted that bill perfectly. She'd been able to get close to the convoy Sarmouth and Hektor had known was coming without sounding any alarms, which had provided the baron with a plausible, clearly non-demonic means of “discovering” the opportunity sailing towards his squadron. And Hektor's access to the SNARCs had allowed him to con his vessel into exactly the right position to “happen across” the prisoner convoy at exactly the right moment.

This time they hadn't even needed a
seijin!

Of course, they aren't exactly flying a huge banner that says “We're a prisoner convoy!
” he reflected.

Still, he'd allowed himself to leap to at least one intuitive conclusion. Hektor's report had made it clear that at least three galleons of the Royal Dohlaran Navy were escorting a pair of lightly armed transport galleons
somewhere
. (Actually, he'd known there were four, but HMS
Saint Kylmahn
had been too far astern for him to obtain a sighting on her.) Given the timing, it had seemed permissible for Sarmouth to conclude that the transports might—
might
—be carrying prisoners captured at the Kaudzhu Narrows to Zion. He'd made it quietly clear to Lathyk and to Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht even before setting out from Talisman Island that he'd hoped to encounter something like this, but he'd also cautioned both of them that the odds of a successful interception were no better than moderate. Now that
Snapdragon
had reported them, he'd seen to it that every man aboard every ship under his command knew that he hoped their targets were transporting those prisoners.

It would never have done to tell them he
knew
they were … or that he'd also known exactly where those transports had been at any given moment over the last seven and a half days.

His face hardened, with no trace of a smile, as he thought about what else the SNARCs had shown him.

Father Ahndyr Brauhylo, the Schuelerite under-priest assigned to
Truculent
to oversee the prisoners packed into her hold, was determined to see them delivered to their destination and consigned to the Punishment, but he was disinclined to be any more brutal about it than he had to. He even allowed them out on deck for exercise—only five at a time and chained together, but still on deck—on a daily basis. Father Tymythy Maikyn, aboard
Prodigal Lass
, was a very different sort, however. A personal favorite of Ahbsahlahn Kharmych, the Dohlaran intendant, he had a sadistic streak he was prepared to allow free rein. For the most part, he'd restricted himself to petty cruelties, close and perpetual confinement, occasional beatings, and psychological torment, but only because Kharmych had personally cautioned him to avoid fatalities on passage. The previous batch of heretics had lost too many to attrition en route from Gorath to Zion, and Zhaspahr Clyntahn wanted as many candidates for the Punishment as he could get. No doubt he was looking forward to a grand auto-da-fé, with hundreds of heretics to burn for their sins, as a way of convincing the Church's capital city the Jihad was well in hand, regardless of what those lying broadsheets tacked up on the walls of Zion might claim about disastrous reverses in the field.

Sarmouth suspected that if not for the restrictions Kharmych had imposed, Maikyn would have killed at least a third of them on the twenty-seven-hundred-mile voyage to the Bay of Erech.

And if he thinks there's a chance of their being rescued, he'll do whatever the hell he can to make sure we rescue as
few
of them as possible
, the baron thought grimly.

Destiny
changed heading, altering course to the southwest. Eighteen more galleons of the Imperial Charisian Navy followed in her wake, cleared for action with every gun loaded and run out and showing not a single gleam of light, aside from their shaded stern lanterns … and the tiny glow of the single cigar which was one of rank's privileges. Sir Dunkyn Yairley drew on that cigar, settled back on his heels, and waited.

*   *   *

“Captain on deck!”

Lieutenant Trumyn Vyrnyn, third lieutenant in HMS
Saint Ahndru
, turned and came quickly to attention as Captain Kurnau appeared on deck. Kurnau was a calm, methodical man, the sort who didn't feel constrained to spend his time looking over his subordinates' shoulders. It wasn't unheard of for him to take a turn on deck before retiring for the night, but it wasn't exactly a habit of his, either.

“Captain,” Vyrnyn greeted him, touching his chest in salute.

“Trumyn.”

Kurnau nodded in recognition of the courtesy, then tilted his head back, gazing up at the dimly visible masts and spars. It was difficult to make out his expression in the uncertain light cast by the binnacle's lit compass card and leaking up through his cabin's skylight to illuminate his face from below, but he seemed … thoughtful, Vyrnyn thought. The lieutenant started to ask him if he had any instructions, but the captain hadn't invited conversation. If he did have any orders, he'd pass them when he was ready. In the meantime, Vyrnyn returned his own attention to his watch standers.

The captain walked to the weather side of the poop deck. He wasn't a very tall man, and he had to rise on the balls of his feet to look over the bulwark. He gazed out into the night for the better part of a minute, then squared his shoulders and walked back across to the wheel. He looked down at the glowing compass card, glanced around the deck one more time, and nodded to Vyrnyn.

“Keep them on their toes, Trumyn,” he said.

“Of course, Sir.” Vyrnyn tried hard to keep any surprise out of his response, but Kurnau snorted and smiled briefly.

“I don't know anything you don't know, Master Vyrnyn,” he said, resting one hand on the younger man's shoulder for a moment. “I'm just … feeling an itch I can't scratch. It's probably nothing, but keep them on their toes.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Kurnau gave him another nod, squeezed his shoulder, and went back below.

*   *   *

“Cap'n!”

Rhobair Lathyk turned quickly at the soft-voiced call. Bosun's Mate Ahntahn Selkyr grinned hugely and pointed southeast.

“Lookout's spied lights a quarter-point off the larboard bow, Sir,” Selkyr said. “Masthead lights, looks like. Least two ships, but prob'ly more, he says. Makes the range 'bout eight thousand yards, but it's only a guess.”

“Good man!” Lathyk nodded sharply.

Admiral Sarmouth had ordered that all commands and messages aboard the squadron's ships were to be passed as quietly as possible. Now the flag captain crossed swiftly to the admiral's side, the sand scattered on the deck for traction when
Destiny
had cleared for action crunching quietly under his shoes.

“Don't know how you knew, Sir, but you've hit this nail right on the head,” he said admiringly. “Must be something that comes with that admiral's kraken on your cuff.”

“Are you suggesting this was something I couldn't have done when I was a mere captain, Rhobair?”

“No, My Lord! Not in a million years. Although,” Lathyk smiled at him, “I don't
recall
your ever doing anything quite like this back in those days.”

“That's only because you weren't watching closely enough,” Sarmouth said. Then he twitched his head to the southeast. “Now that you've been suitably dazzled by my superb seamanship and unfailing instinct, however, I think it's time we saw about those gentlemen.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

*   *   *

Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht turned to face Lywelyn Pymbyrtyn as HMS
Vindicator
's captain materialized on her quarterdeck at his side.

“
Destiny
's shown the signal lanterns, Sir Bruhstair,” Pymbyrtyn said. “Two yellow above one blue.” The captain shook his head. “Damned if the Admiral hasn't done it after all!”

“A remarkable man, Admiral Sarmouth,” Ahbaht agreed. “We'll alter to starboard and get the topgallants on her, if you please. And be good enough to repeat
Destiny
's signal to the rest of the detachment.”

“At once, Sir!”

Pymbyrtyn saluted and turned back to his crew. Orders flowed in a low-voiced stream, the shaded signal lanterns rose to her mizzen yard, visible only from behind her, and canvas flapped overhead as the courses and topsails were trimmed.
Vindicator
leaned more heavily as her topgallants blossomed unseen in the darkness and she took the wind over her starboard quarter and gathered speed.

A
truly
remarkable man
, Ahbaht reflected.
I never really thought he could do it. Maybe I didn't want to think he could because it would have hurt so badly when it turned out I'd been wrong to think he could
.

He strode to
Vindicator
's taffrail, gazing aft as Tydwail Zhaksyn's
Broadsword
, Captain Dahnyld Mahkeen's
Cherry Bay
, and Captain Sebahstean Hylmyn's
Dynzayl Tryvythyn
followed on
Vindicator
's heels, and thought about what else that remarkable man had done. Ahbaht had been astounded by Sarmouth's reaction to the Kaudzhu Narrows fiasco. He'd expected to be relieved pending a court of inquiry, at the very least; instead, Sarmouth had endorsed his decisions and retained him as his second-in-command. His present division consisted of only four galleons, but every one of those galleons was rated at at least sixty guns, making them four of the six most powerful units of the entire squadron.

There was no way in the world he deserved that command, not after what he'd let happen to his last squadron, but Sarmouth had given it to him anyway, and he was unspeakably grateful to have it. And to be entrusted with his current mission.

The shaded lights from
Destiny
's stern—two yellow over a single blue—meant the flagship had sighted the enemy bearing almost due southeast. And those lights also meant it was Ahbaht's job to sweep south, then come in across the Dohlarans' base course, hopefully well astern of the convoy. Anyone who tried to run from Sarmouth's attack would break to the south, back into the Trosan Channel, and it was virtually certain that any transports actually carrying Charisian prisoners would be ordered to do just that, trying to escape back to Gorath Bay under cover of darkness while the escorting galleons covered them.

It would
'
ve been simpler if we'd been able to catch them in daylight
, he thought.
Except for the minor problem that they'd've seen us coming at least two or three hours before we could get to grips with them. No telling what the Inquisition's butchers would do to our people with that much time.

He didn't know how long he'd have to make his drive to the south. Baron Sarmouth would give him as much time as possible—the other thing the combination of lights told him was that the rest of the squadron was
reducing
sail to slow the rate of closure—but it wasn't likely to be as much time as he really needed. The night was clear, and he'd been told the human eye could see the light of a single candle at up to ten miles under the right conditions. Even so, lights could be hard to pick up at any sort of distance, and—