Hell's Foundations Quiver (47 page)

That was bad enough, but in some ways Zhwaigair's reinvention of the spar torpedo might well prove even worse. Conceptually, it was simple: put two hundred pounds of gunpowder into a watertight copper container; mount the container on the end of a spar; rig a detonator using the percussion caps now available to the defenders of Mother Church; and then put the entire contraption into a small, fast boat. The “torpedo galleys” Zhwaigair had come up with were conventional, oar-powered vessels for the most part, with the fifteen- or twenty-foot spars mounted so that they could be extended over their bows. They were essentially an ambush weapon, useless against a ship underway, but they could be deadly under the right conditions, especially against a ship at anchor. And since they attacked below the waterline,
Dreadnought
's armor would be entirely ineffective against them.

“I have to admit, I'm worried,” Sharleyan continued. “I can't forget what happened to Admiral Manthyr. I trust Earl Sharpfield's judgment entirely, but I'd feel a lot happier if he had the same kind of reconnaissance ability our land commanders do!”

“Duke Eastshare's done pretty well without SNARCs,” Hektor pointed out.

“Yes, but ‘
Seijin
Ahbraim' gave Merlin a way to feed Ruhsyl intelligence at critical points in his campaign,” Sharleyan responded. “That's a lot harder to do for a fleet commander.” She snorted suddenly. “Not that I should have to tell
you
that!”

“No, you shouldn't,” Nimue agreed. “On the other hand, it's a really valid point. There's not a good way for Merlin or me to drop in on Sharpfield whenever we need to deliver some hint he needs to hear. And he's already behind the information curve. Just for starters, Zhwaigair hadn't proposed his spar torpedo yet when he sailed from Chisholm.”

“And Cherayth's over nine thousand miles from Claw Island. There's no ‘legitimate' way to explain how spies could've gotten word of the torpedoes to Cherayth and it could've been sent forward to him across that much distance, either.” Sharleyan sighed. “Not in time to be any use to him, anyway. It's that damned communications loop again.”

“Merlin or I
could
arrange to go deliver that information to him, at least,” Nimue suggested. “Admiral Manthyr got reliable intelligence from Harchongese fishermen when he was operating in the Gulf. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think that would be a very good idea, assuming Merlin has the time or we can come up with a reason for Captain Chwaeriau to be somewhere else for a few days.”

“I think you're right about that,” Hektor said soberly. “But that's pretty much a one-time fix. As you say, there's no practical way to set up someone like
Seijin
Ahbraim or
Seijin
Ganieda as some sort of semipermanent fixture.”

“If we can't, we can't,” Sharleyan said gently. “And at least Nimue's right that we can warn him about the torpedoes.”

“I know, and God knows it's important to do that, but we need more.” Hektor's eyes turned grim, looking out of the face of a naval officer hardened by experience. When he looked like that, it was easy to forget he was only seventeen, Nimue thought. “I've been in situations like this with the Admiral.”

Despite herself, Nimue's lips twitched. “The Admiral” referred to only one person when Hektor used the title with no name attached: Sir Dunkyn Yairley, Baron Sarmouth. Sarmouth was more than a respected or even revered flag officer to Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk; he was the mentor and second father who'd taken a newly ennobled midshipman under his wing and finished teaching him to be a man, as well as a king's officer.

“I can't remember how many times Sir Dunkyn's said it's not the things you don't know that kill you,” Hektor continued. “It's the things you
do
know but you're wrong about. Generally speaking, I agree completely, but something like those spar torpedoes or how efficient the screw-galleys've turned out to be … those kinds of things can kill a lot of people if an admiral doesn't know about them. And that doesn't even consider the way the weather turned against Admiral Manthyr, or the fact that all Earl Sharpfield or Captain Haigyl really know about the enemy is what their own lookouts can actually
see
at any given moment.”

“Isn't that true for any admiral on either side, though?” Irys asked. “And I may be prejudiced, but I think Admiral Sarmouth's done pretty well despite his lack of aerial reconnaissance. For that matter, all of your Charisian admirals have done pretty darn well!”

“Of course, but as Prince Nahrmahn says, if you aren't cheating you aren't trying hard enough, especially where men's lives are concerned,” Hektor replied, and Irys nodded. Then her eyes widened suddenly.

“What?” Hektor asked, looking down at her. “I recognize that expression. What devious thing have you just thought of?”

“Actually, I was thinking about that advice of Nahrmahn's you just quoted,” she said slowly. “I think it's time we started cheating a little more energetically.”

“How?”

“Well … I know Admiral Rock Point's stuck in Old Charis because that's where high admirals have to be, not to mention how deeply involved he is in everything Master Howsmyn, Sir Dustyn, and Baron Seamount are up to. I'll be astonished if he doesn't come up with some excuse to hand those responsibilities to someone else as soon as the first
King Haarahlds
commission. But for now he can hardly go dashing off to Claw Island, and since Admiral Lock Island was killed, he's the only flag officer the inner circle has. At the moment, anyway.”

“‘At the moment'?” Sharleyan repeated, gazing at her stepdaughter-in-law intently.

“At the moment,” Irys said again, firmly, and looked back at Hektor. “I know it's always a risk to bring someone else into the inner circle, especially from a standing start. Sometimes it still scares me when I think of the chance Archbishop Maikel and Merlin took when they told
us
the truth. I understand exactly why the circle's always been so cautious, always taken the time to consider—when there was time, at least—whether or not someone would be able to accept the truth. But it occurs to me that all of us—especially you, Hektor—know one admiral very, very well. And that admiral happens to be right here in Corisande at the moment, where Sharleyan—and Nimue—would be available to help convince him you haven't gone stark staring mad.”

 

.IV.

Ice Lake, Province of Glacierheart, Republic of Siddarmark

“It's good to see you again, Your Eminence,” Ruhsyl Thairis said as Zhasyn Cahnyr stepped ashore from the iceboat. “Even if it does seem a bit chilly to be dragging you out in the cold.” The Duke of Eastshare regarded the archbishop sternly. “
We
could have come across the lake to
you
, you know.”

“Of course you could have, my son,” the silver-haired archbishop who still preferred to think of himself as “lean” rather than “frail” agreed. “But if you'd done that, I would have been denied an exhilarating outing.” His eyes twinkled. “Not even Sahmantha could object to a simple boat ride!”

Eastshare arched his eyebrows skeptically. He'd met Sahmantha Gorjah last winter on his way through Glacierheart to halt Cahnyr Kaitswyrth's advance.

“Well, she didn't object too long. That's what I
meant
to say,” Cahnyr corrected himself, and the duke snorted.

“Now
that
sounds more like Madam Gorjah,” he observed.

“I see you know my keepers,” Cahnyr said. “One of these days, they'll even let me have a sharp knife to cut my food with. Perhaps.”

He shook his head and turned to the other officers gathered at dockside to await him. It was an impressive collection, he reflected. In addition to Eastshare, there was Sir Breyt Bahskym, the Earl of High Mount, as well as Ahlyn Symkyn, and the three generals were accompanied by their chiefs of staff, personal aides, and—in Eastshare's case—his chief of artillery, Colonel Hynryk Celahk.

No, it was
Brigadier
Celahk, the archbishop thought, noting the crossed silver swords which had replaced the single silver sword of a colonel's collar insignia. For that matter, Eastshare's rank insignia had changed, as well. The single golden sword which denoted a general officer in the Royal Chisholmian Army had been replaced by crossed golden swords, marking the duke as the first
high
general in Chisholmian—or Charisian—history. Right off the top of his head, it was difficult for Cahnyr to think of anyone who'd deserved promotion more than either of them. Although, to be fair, Eastshare always had been the Imperial Charisian Army's senior uniformed officer. His new rank was more of a housekeeping detail than anything else, in that respect.

“Well,” Cahnyr said, “now that I'm here, I'm sure the keepers currently in attendance—” he twitched his head at Zhorj Gorjah and Laimuyl Azkhat, standing innocently at his heels “—would prefer for all of us to get out of this wind. Somehow it seems less ‘exhilarating' standing here at dockside than it did sailing across the lake.”

“Imagine that,” Eastshare murmured, then bowed slightly and waved at the waiting sleighs. “After you, Your Eminence.”

*   *   *

It wasn't a very long ride, although Cahnyr was grateful for the warm blankets and windproof, beautifully tanned snow lizard pelt his hosts had insisted upon tucking around him. It was the first time he'd ridden behind one of the Raven's Land caribou rather than a snow lizard, however, and he found the thick-shouldered, antlered beasts impressive. They passed quite a few other caribou—and snow lizards—along the way, and his eyes glittered with a light which was harder and far, far colder than they'd ever been in more peaceful times as he saw the artillery pieces many of those draft animals were towing. After the previous year's vicious fighting, he'd developed an appreciation for the weapons of war which once would have horrified him. Which
still
horrified him, actually, he reflected. It was just that there were other things which horrified him still more.

“That's impressive, My Lord,” he remarked, twitching his head at a massive, bizarrely shaped cannon.

Like its smaller brethren, its wheels had been chocked onto long, broad runners to help it glide across the snow, but those wheels were much bigger than most and set farther back on its carriage. They made it look … off balance, he thought, and that was scarcely the only—or the most—odd thing about it. It was hard to make out details under the canvas tarp which shrouded it, but a large box-like framework beneath its barrel housed two side-by-side cylinders, almost like two additional, stubby guns. The actual barrel clearly moved along the top of the frame, and it had been run fully to the rear, so far back its muzzle projected no more than a few feet beyond the carriage axle. The breech seemed oddly angular under the protective canvas, as well, he thought. For that matter, the gun trail was different from any he'd ever seen before. It seemed to be made entirely out of steel, it was much longer than normal, and it had been split lengthwise into two legs joined by a massive hinge at the rear of the carriage and locked back into a single unit for towing purposes.

“It
is
impressive, Your Eminence,” Eastshare agreed. “That's one of the new breech-loading angle-guns.”

“Ah?” Cahnyr looked at it again. “I'd heard your Delthak Works were improving your existing artillery. Improving it still further, I suppose I should say.” He smiled briefly. “May I ask why the barrel seems so far … back?”

“That's to equalize the weight between the axles and the limber while it's being moved.” Eastshare nodded at the two-wheeled cart—its wheels also on runners at the moment—hitched to the end of the gun trail. “When it's fired, though, the barrel recoils to the same position without moving the carriage. That's why the trail's split that way, so it can be spread and dug in properly to stabilize the gun.”

“I see.” The archbishop turned back to his general. “It seems quite substantial,” he observed. “Much larger than the thirty-pounders Brigadier Taisyn was equipped with. It actually looks a bit larger than the angle-guns you deployed last year, for that matter.”

“Because it is, Your Eminence,” Eastshare agreed. “It's a breechloader—basically the same weapon the Navy's mounting in the heavy ironclads, just on a field mounting. It's the same caliber as our original angle-guns, and its barrel's about two feet longer, although the field version is still quite a bit shorter than the Navy's version, to keep weight down. It has more elevation than the Navy's pieces—or than our muzzle-loading angles, for that matter—but its maximum range is shorter than for the Navy because of the shorter barrel. Brigadier Celahk tells me it can still reach out to about twelve thousand yards, though, half again as far as our older angles could shoot, and it has a much higher rate of fire. We only have four of them, at the moment, and I'm glad to see them. Frankly, I didn't expect to have any at all before early summer.”

“I can see why you'd be pleased,” Cahnyr acknowledged, and shook his head, once more bemused—and possibly more than a little frightened—by the furious pace at which the Empire of Charis persisted in changing the face of war.

So much killing
, he thought sadly.
So much blood and death and destruction. But terrible as it is, how much more terrible would it be if someone like Zhaspahr Clyntahn had been left free to wreak whatever vengeance he chose upon anyone who dared to defy him?

“In a lot of ways, I'd prefer old-fashioned cannon and matchlocks, too, Your Eminence.” Eastshare's comment surprised the archbishop and drew his eyes back to the high general's face, and the duke shrugged. “There's nothing demonic about any of the new weapons. Father Paityr and Archbishop Maikel have both assured me of that, and Master Howsmyn's mechanics've described the principles to me often enough. For that matter, any general who doesn't embrace anything that saves the lives of his own men has no business commanding them in the first place. And I don't want to sound callous, but dead is dead, however a man's killed. But sometimes…” It was his turn to shake his head. “Sometimes the
number
of the dead is enough to keep me awake and on my knees all night.”