Hell's Foundations Quiver (65 page)

She was the first Safeholdian ship to be formally designated a “battleship,” and when she went into commission, not a warship in the world—not even
every
other warship in the world, combined—could stand up to her.

“You and your people are doing us proud, Eysamu,” he said to the stocky, solidly built man standing beside him.

Eysamu Tahnguchi had been one of Howsmyn's assistant foundry foremen before he'd moved over to the design of the Delthak Works canal barges. He'd had a major hand in converting four of those barges into the original
Delthak
-class ironclads, and he'd supervised the construction of the first of the
City
-class coastal ironclads before moving over to the
King Haarahlds
. Along the way, he and Sir Dustyn Olyvyr had invented entirely new construction techniques … and modified those techniques on the fly as still newer and better capabilities—like the rivet guns—became available.

“Thank you, Sir,” Tahnguchi said now, his own eyes watching the hordes of workmen swarming over
King Haarahld VII
and her two sister ships. “We're still a long way short of done, though.”

“Yes, you are,” Howsmyn agreed in a severe tone. “I believe you're only three five-days ahead of schedule at the moment. What sort of slackers do you have working for you?”

Tahnguchi chuckled, but he also shook his head.

“With the
Cities
diverted to Desnair, Earl Sharpfield
needs
these ships, Sir. We aim to get them to him, too.”

“I never doubted it,” Howsmyn said simply.

The industrialist donned his hard hat and the two of them began walking towards one of the half-dozen gangways connecting
King Haarahld VII
to the building wharf. Workmen stood aside to let them pass, and Howsmyn smiled at each of them in passing, stopping every few yards to chat with them, tell them how much he and the entire Empire depended upon—and appreciated—their nonstop work. They deserved his praise as much as Tahnguchi did, and he knew it.

They reached the ship's deck at last, solid teak planking over an inch and a half of “Howsmynized” steel armor, and he looked around. At the moment, the ship resembled an unfinished manufactory more than a warship, and it looked nothing like any galleon or galley ever built. Bits and pieces of equipment lay strewn about the deck, the armored barbette which would eventually mount the forward ten-inch guns loomed like a rusty steel fortress, and the massive casing for the ship's forward funnel floated overhead, drifting downward in the snorting grasp of a steam-powered crane. Hand ropes formed a warning barrier around a gaping hole where neither deck armor nor the planking to cover it had yet been put in place, and Tahnguchi guided his guest towards the opening.

“The ladder's a bit steep, Sir,” he cautioned. “I'd hoped to have this closed in by now, but two of her boilers failed final inspection.” He grimaced. “Unless we're damned lucky, that's going to use up every minute of those five-days you were talking about. In the meantime, though, it's the shortest route to the machinery spaces. Your letter said you wanted to see the boiler rooms first, so I thought we'd start there. After that, we can work our way back to the engine rooms, and from there I thought we'd take a look at the after magazines and the hydraulics for the gun training gear. Then—”

*   *   *

“I see you survived the trip,” Brahd Stylmyn said dryly as Howsmyn climbed down the boarding steps.

“No fault of your fiendish contraption,” Howsmyn replied.

“You're the one who chose the route for the trial line, Sir,” Stylmyn pointed out. “
I
wanted to run it to the mines, if I remember correctly.”

“And you know damned well why we didn't,” Howsmyn replied, and Stylmyn raised his hands in surrender. Although, Howsmyn reflected, for a man who'd lost an argument he seemed remarkably cheerful about it.

Paityr Wylsynn had indeed signed the attestation for Stylmyn's “steam automotive,” and despite all the other endless demands for steel, Stylmyn had pressed hard for constructing an actual working rail line. After all, he'd said, it was the only way to really prove the concept … and let him see his new toy in operation.

His proposal to build a freight line to supplement the barges hauling coal and iron ore down the Delthak River had been a nonstarter, however. The sheer length of the line—not to mention the amount of grading, excavation, and bridge-building which would have been required—made it impossible at the moment, even with Sahndrah Lywys' Lywysite. The line between the Delthak Works and the city of Larek, however, was both much shorter and offered terrain which was mostly flat and unmarred by any rivers or valleys. It had provided a far more suitable route for Safehold's first railroad, and its sixty-five-mile length had officially opened to traffic only three days ago. There were still a few minor bugs to be worked out, in Howsmyn's considered opinion—there was one two-mile section he was damned well going to have ripped out, regraded, and re-ballasted—and the passenger cars could use more human-friendly suspensions. But it certainly worked, and hordes of spectators had come out to see it in operation. They'd cheerfully paid to ride it, as well, and he had to admit he could readily become addicted himself to making a sixty-five-mile trip in barely an hour.

Now the only problem would be fending off Stylmyn's desire to build still more railroads. And the fact that Sharleyan Ahrmahk was going to lend him her vociferous support as soon as she got home and officially found out about this one's existence wasn't going to make his life any simpler, Howsmyn reflected.

But there's only so much steel
available
, damn it,
he thought.
For that matter, Sharley knows it, too. The
real
reason she's going to be supporting him so vocally is that she figures putting the imperial imprimatur on the whole notion of railroads will bring potential investors out of the woodwork to pay for them. She's probably right about
that
, too
.

He snorted at the thought as he and Stylmyn walked across the first Safeholdian railroad station's boardwalk towards their waiting bicycles.

“What?” his henchman inquired.

“Just thinking about something a friend of mine said,” Howsmyn replied.

They pulled their bicycles out of the rack, climbed into the saddles, and began pedaling their way towards the main works. Morning was easing into afternoon, and Howsmyn found himself pedaling a bit harder in hope of reaching their destination before shift change inundated them in a sea of humanity.

Besides
, he thought with a mental chuckle,
it'll do Brahd good to keep up with me. He doesn't get enough exercise, anyway
.

Actually, Stylmyn kept pace without any sign of undue strain or even breathing heavily. Which, Howsmyn discovered a bit grumpily, was more than he could say for himself.

“I hope this won't take too long,” he said, looking across at Stylmyn. “God knows I don't want to cut Taigys short, but Zhain and I haven't had dinner at the same time in the same place in almost a five-day. If I'm late again, she's going to have my ears. Besides, I've got a surprise for her.”

“If she collects any ears, it won't be
my
fault,” Stylmyn replied. “
I'm
not the one who suggested an entirely new weapon to him.
I'm
not the one who inspired him to design a completely different cartridge to make it work.
I'm
not the one who's going to insist on taking the damned thing out to the range and blazing away until I've used up every one of the cartridges he's already made.
I'm
not—”

“Shut up and pedal, or you won't be the one who has a
job
anymore, either!”

Stylmyn laughed, remarkably un-cowed by the threat, and Howsmyn shook his head. Not that Brahd didn't have an excellent point. Several of them, in fact.

Taigys Mahldyn had persevered with his cardboard cartridges and effectively reinvented the shotgun. The current version was something someone from Old Earth might have called a 10-gauge, with a .75 caliber barrel, and he'd started with a simple break-barrel design. Howsmyn had spent several enjoyable hours perforating targets on the range behind Mahldyn's rifle shop with it, but Taigys—inevitably—had been convinced he could improve it, and he had. In fact, he'd produced his own version of a pump-action shotgun, and he was already tinkering with a design to apply the same sort of slide action to a modified M96 rifle.

Howsmyn doubted that the Imperial Charisian Army would be adopting slide-action rifles anytime soon. The current M96 already provided it with an enormous firepower advantage, and the additional complexity would offer more opportunities for soldiers to break things. That was never a good idea, and the new action would drive up cost substantially. Besides, before Duke Eastshare signed off on any new weapon, he was going to seek Baron Green Valley's opinion, and Green Valley was fully aware of the semi-auto and full-automatic actions Sahndrah Lywys' smokeless propellants would make practical.

But in the meantime
, he told himself with a grin,
you're going to enjoy the hell out of blazing away with the thing. Don't pretend you're not! And don't think you can get away with telling Zhain it was all Taigys' fault, either. She knows you even better than Brahd does, and she'll have a right to be pissed if you drag in late and covered with burnt gunpowder!

True, all true, he thought. Of course, she might cut him a
tiny
amount of slack when she found out about the other news he was bringing back from Larek.

It had never bothered Zhain Howsmyn that she, the daughter of the Earl of Sharphill, one of the Kingdom of Charis' most senior nobles, had married a mere commoner who was eight years older than she. It had probably helped that the “mere commoner” in question had been one of the wealthiest men in the Kingdom and had since become the wealthiest man in the world, period. But that hadn't really mattered to her, either. Still, their anniversary was coming up next month, and she was only human. Cayleb and Sharleyan Ahrmahk had decided what to give the Howsmyns as an anniversary gift, and the word he'd been awaiting had finally officially reached Tellesberg from Siddar City and been forwarded to Larek.

Duke and Duchess Delthak.

He rolled the title over his mental tongue, and smiled as he pictured her reaction after he dragged in late and just offhandedly dropped the news on her when she began to read him the riot act. When she got done goggling at him, then finished laughing, then finished whacking him about the head and shoulders, she would undoubtedly drag him off to bed where he would receive an early anniversary gift of his own.

Yes
, he reflected,
it looks like being a very good night all around
.

 

.V.

HMS
Thunderer
, 30, Gulf of Dohlar

Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht turned from the wide stern windows of HMS
Thunderer
as his steward showed the compactly built, sandy-haired fisherman into his day cabin.

“Master Cudd, Sir Bruhstair,” the steward said, with what might have been the slightest possible edge of disapproval. Mahrak Chandlyr had been with Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht for almost twenty years, but he hadn't quite reconciled himself to the sorts of disreputable people with whom the captain of an imperial warship was forced to hobnob.

“Thank you, Mahrak,” Ahbaht replied gravely, and the steward bowed slightly—to him—and withdrew.
Thunderer
's captain smiled after him, shaking his head, then turned to his visitor. “I trust Mahrak wasn't too rude,
Seijin
Dagyr.”

He reached out to clasp forearms with Cudd, and the
seijin
smiled back at him.

“I'd say he was less rude than … wary, perhaps. As was Lieutenant Zhaksyn when my boat came alongside, although I think my accent probably helped with him.”

Ahbaht snorted. Ahlber Zhaksyn was
Thunderer
's second lieutenant. He was also just twenty-nine years old and a native of Chisholm, so he probably had found Cudd's Harris Island accent reassuring.

“Well, fortunately, Earl Sharpfield mentioned your meeting with him when he sent me out here. It would appear it was a good thing he did.”

Ahbaht released Cudd's arm and waved the roughly dressed
seijin
into one of the wingback armchairs sitting on the square of carpet under the skylight. He poured whiskey into two glasses, handed one to his visitor, and then settled into the second armchair and leaned back.

“I trust you won't take this wrongly,
Seijin
Dagyr,” he continued, “but it's rather a relief to encounter a
seijin
of merely mortal dimensions.”

“Not all of us are as tall as Merlin or Ahbraim,” Cudd agreed with what was undeniably a grin this time, not a smile. He was no more than an inch or two taller than Ahbaht.

“No, I don't suppose you are.” Ahbaht sipped whiskey for a moment, regarding the
seijin
levelly. Then he shrugged. “It would seem, however, that all of you are … equally gifted at turning up unanticipatedly. Would it be violating any secret
seijin
lore to ask how you came to happen across us?”

It was, Cudd acknowledged, a reasonable question. At the moment,
Thunderer
was about midway between Hilda Island and Parrot Point, over nine hundred miles east of Talisman Island. Ahbaht was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing, now that Talisman been secured and the coastal batteries were in place, by deliberately showing the ironclad so far east of the Harchong Narrows. Whether or not he would succeed in drawing any substantial portion of Sir Dahrand Rohsail's squadron away from Saram Bay and Jack's Land was an open question, at best. Frankly, Cudd thought there was relatively little chance of someone as canny as Rohsail obliging Earl Sharpfield that way, but it was certainly worth trying.