“Absolutely, Your Majesty,” Fardhym said. The archbishop’s expression was troubled—not by doubt, but by his concern for the lives of any of God’s children. “I trust no one will be offended if I spend a few Wednesdays praying for them, as well as for their success.”
“I’m sure Maikel will be doing exactly the same thing in Tellesberg, Your Grace,” Cayleb assured him. “For that matter, I don’t have the same sort of … access you two have, but I may find myself spending a little time on my own knees over them.”
Silence fell again, lingering for several seconds until Stohnar straightened in his chair again and inhaled.
“That was certainly some of the best potential news I’ve heard in a long time,” he said briskly. “However, we have a few more immediate concerns right here in the Republic, and I think we’d better get back to those status reports from the northern front if we want to finish in time for dinner. Cayleb, the first point I’d like to consider is the Army of Tarikah’s supply position. I know Baron Green Valley’s said he’s satisfied, but—”
* * *
Quite a few of the spectators crowding the batteries and steadily expanding quays seemed to have trouble believing their eyes, Earl Sharpfield thought dryly. That was fair enough. He was having a little trouble in that regard.
HMS Gwylym Manthyr had waited until full light to make her way across Shell Sound and then through North Channel into Hardship Bay. She’d taken North Channel because it was wider and quite a bit deeper than Snake Channel, and Halcom Bahrns obviously had no intention of putting his magnificent new command onto a sandbar. For all her size, Gwylym Manthyr’s normal draft was actually only three feet deeper than a Rottweiler-class ironclad’s, but it seemed impossible, looking at her, that that could be true, and he didn’t blame Bahrns one bit for his caution.
Saluting guns boomed from the battery, and Manthyr replied with a timed ripple of smoke from her larboard four-inch breechloaders. The cheers rising along with the salute were deafening, and it was a bit difficult for Sharpfield to remember his dignity and not join them. Not that anyone would have held it against him, under the circumstances.
The enormous, gray-hulled monster moved across the harbor’s tiny waves with preposterous, majestic grace, gliding through the water, turning back a thin mustache of white and leaving a brief, glassy smoothness in her wake. Not a man watching her could doubt that he looked upon the final doom of the Royal Dohlaran Navy. Sharpfield was no different in that respect, but in some ways he was actually happier to see the columns of smoke following her out of North Channel.
There were four of them, each rising from a ship barely twenty feet shorter than Gwylym Manthyr herself. They weren’t warships. In fact, those tall, boxy, slab-sided hulls weren’t armed at all. Their only defense was the fact that no hostile warship in the world could possibly catch one of them, but in their own way, they were even more dangerous to Charis’ foes than Manthyr.
“Victory ships.” That was what Emperor Cayleb had christened them when the Duke of Delthak—only he’d still been simple Master Ehdwyrd Howsmyn at the time—first proposed them, and that’s precisely what they were: the first steam-powered, ocean-going cargo vessels in the world. These four, like the eight sister ships still completing behind them, had steel frames and wooden planking. The next flight were already well into construction, however, and they’d be steel-hulled, as well as framed. They’d also be at least a little faster, but Sharpfield wasn’t about to complain about what he had. Each of those four ships could carry just over ten thousand tons of cargo, five times as much as the largest galleon in the world, for ten thousand miles at a constant speed of almost thirteen knots, regardless of wind conditions, on a single bunkerload of coal.
He didn’t have a complete list of their present cargo, since—like Manthyr—they’d far outrun any dispatches. He did know, in general terms at least, what was supposed to be aboard them, however, and he smiled thinly at the thought.
Manthyr slowed still further as Bahrns reversed power. She was barely ghosting through the water now, and a fountain of white erupted as her anchor plunged into the harbor.
And now, Sharpfield told himself, starting down the stone stairs to the launch bobbing at their feet, it’s time for me to go inspect my new toy. And it’s not even God’s Day!
He chuckled at the thought, but then the chuckle stopped and he frowned thoughtfully.
Well, maybe that’s not really true, he reflected. It won’t formally be God’s Day until July, but the Writ teaches that every day belongs to Him, and just this minute, He’s in the process of showing those bastards in Zion whose side He’s really on, isn’t He? Because when Manthyr turns up in Gorath Bay, the message will be pretty damned clear.
.VI.
Camp Mahrtyn Taisyn,
Traytown,
Tarikah Province,
Republic of Siddarmark.
“I really don’t like what we’re hearing about those damned rockets. Kynt,” Ruhsyl Thairis said quietly. The Duke of Eastshare and Baron Green Valley rode through the chill afternoon along Dahltyn Sumyrs Way, the slushy central road across the sprawling complex of Camp Mahrtyn Taisyn, towards Green Valley’s headquarters block. “If they’re as good as the seijins’ reports suggest they are, we’re going to get hurt a lot worse this year than last.”
“Yes, we are,” Green Valley replied unhappily, his breath steaming faintly in the cold. “But, let’s be honest, Ruhsyl. We already knew that was going to happen. This’ll only push the price a little higher than it would have been anyway. And at least we know about them, so we can take them into consideration.”
“And at least Duke Delthak’s given us our own rockets,” Eastshare acknowledged with a sharp nod.
“That he has. And this latest cold snap’ll give us at least another few five-days to get them to the front.”
“Well, that’s a case of finding a bright side to look upon if I ever heard one!” Eastshare laughed sourly.
“‘We can’t change the weather, only curse it’,” Green Valley responded, quoting a Chisholmian proverb. “And if the damned winter wants to drop four or five feet of late snow on us, I might as well find something good about it!”
“Can’t argue with that.”
They reached their destination and their escort drew up around them. There was quite a lot of that escort, actually. The Imperial Charisian Army wasn’t in the habit of taking chances with its general officers, and the last effort to assassinate Eastshare had occurred barely three months ago. The last attempt on Green Valley’s life, on the other hand, was well over a year old. The Inquisition could still find zealots willing to carry out suicidal missions, but it had become evident Green Valley’s security was simply too good. No one had gotten within a hundred yards of him in so long even Wyllym Rayno had decided his assets could be better expended someplace they had a chance of succeeding.
The two generals dismounted, once the escort commander had given his gracious approval, and handed their reins to waiting orderlies and started up the short flight of steps to the covered snow porch that fronted the HQ block. As they did, Captain Bryahn Slokym, Green Valley’s aide, opened the door and stepped out onto the porch, came to attention, and saluted.