He clasped forearms with his visitor, his thinning silver hair gleaming in the lamplight. Sailing ships were not the fleetest things upon the face of the world, and the wind—capricious more often than not, as any professional mariner could explain at length, usually taking at least several of the Archangels’ names in vain in the process—had decided to drop while Darys’ squadron worked its way towards the anchorage. As a result, he hadn’t gotten ashore until well after supper had been served, and the tropical night outside Sharpfield’s office was blacker than the inside of Kau-yung’s boot.
“Admiral Rock Point thought you might be, Sir,” Darys replied. “He tried to send enough friends along with me to make you that way, anyway.”
“I’m especially glad to see Lightning, Floodtide, and Seamount,” Sharpfield said frankly, “and Zhenyfyr Ahrmahk and Iceberg are nothing to sneer at, either. I didn’t really expect to see them, but they certainly can’t hurt! To be honest, I’m a little surprised Thirsk hasn’t already sent Dreadnought—and the rest of his Western Squadron—to call on us.” His expression darkened and he shook his head. “Not like him to let grass grow under his feet, and he has to’ve understood that the High Admiral would be sending replacement ironclads.”
“I’ve brought along the Baron’s personal dispatches to you, of course, My Lord.” Darys extended the thick, heavy canvas envelope with its ornate wax seals. “Before we sailed, though, he and I discussed Dreadnought and getting her back into service with Master Howsmyn and Sir Dustyn. Based on Sir Bruhstair’s report and what the prisoners Sir Dunkyn rescued were able to tell us, it seemed likely to them that Dreadnought had been battered badly enough to need at least some repairs. More to the point, the High Admiral and Master Howsmyn both estimated it would take months, at least, to provide ammunition for her guns, unless they wanted to completely rearm her with their own artillery. Then, too, Thirsk is no idiot. He’d have his shipwrights crawling all over her for five-days just to figure out how she was put together. In the long term, he probably thinks that’s more important than getting her back into service as quickly as possible. And—” he smiled unpleasantly “—given what he thinks he knows, he’d be right. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t know what’s coming along behind us, though, so it would be perfectly logical for him to think that learning to duplicate her—assuming they could produce the armor for it—would give the Dohlarans something like a fighting chance.”
“Hard to blame him if he does,” Sharpfield agreed, waving his guest towards a chair and laying the envelope on the blotter of his desk. “Especially after the fight Kahrltyn put up!” He shook his head, his expression one of mingled pride and bitter grief. “One thing that did occur to me after I’d thought about it a while was that Kahrltyn must’ve put the fear of God into the entire Dohlaran Navy. They took his ship in the end, but he pounded half their fleet into scrap single-handed before they did, by Chihiro!”
“Like Baron Green Valley says, ‘putting the fear’ into the other side’s always worthwhile.” Darys nodded, then sighed. “I could wish the price hadn’t been that steep, though.”
“We all do.” Sharpfield settled into his own chair while Lieutenant Tympyltyn poured brandy for him and his guest. “And I’ll certainly read all of these as soon as I can,” he continued, laying one palm briefly on the envelope Darys had handed him. “In the meantime, though, I’d appreciate it if you could bring me up to speed on the High Admiral’s thinking in general.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
Darys accepted a glass from Tympyltyn and sat back. He wasn’t surprised Sharpfield would want his take on the High Admiral’s thinking. Until the relief for Claw Island had been organized, he’d been Sir Domynyk Staynair’s flag captain, a post he’d held for well over two years, and no one in the entire ICN could have a better read on Rock Point’s analysis of the Empire’s current strategic imperatives. In fact, that was one reason he’d been both promoted and chosen to command the relief squadron in the first place.
“First,” he continued, “Sir Domynyk specifically told me to assure you he fully approves of your response to what happened to Captain Ahbaht’s squadron. In fact, there’s a letter of commendation—and a promotion to commodore—for the Captain in that envelope somewhere. As the Emperor himself put it by semaphore, ‘It’s not given to mortal men to simply command a victory. Wind and weather have a part to play, and all man or God can ask of anyone is that he give the very best he has, which is exactly what Sir Bruhstair and all his men did.’”
“I have to admit I’m relieved to hear that.” Sharpfield sipped brandy, then set the glass down. “I couldn’t fault a single decision he made, and I’d far rather worry about our people’s aggressiveness than that they might avoid a fight! And Langhorne knows the last thing we need is to hammer a good officer who damned well wouldn’t deserve it. If nothing else, the effect on the next flag officer who has to make a hard call probably wouldn’t be very good.”
“That’s almost exactly what Sir Domynyk said, My Lord.” Darys nodded. “And, obviously, everyone in Old Charis was elated when we got word Sir Dunkyn had rescued our people. Archbishop Maikel proclaimed masses of thanksgiving throughout the Empire.
“Now, I’m sure the High Admiral’s dispatches to you will cover exactly what he had in mind when he sent us out, but he asked me to give you a brief overview of his thinking before you get to them.
“It’s his thought that deploying as much of our strength forward as possible would have to have an … efficacious effect on Admiral Thirsk’s thinking. Towards that end, it occurred to him that—”
.VII.
Rydymak Keep,
Cheshyr Bay,
Earldom of Cheshyr,
and
King Tayrens Chancellery,
City of Cherayth,
Kingdom of Chisholm,
Empire of Charis.
Rydymak Keep was spectacularly beautiful, in an old-fashioned, drafty-icehouse, freeze-one’s-arse-off sort of way.
Karyl Rydmakyr, the Dowager Countess of Cheshyr, still remembered the way the keep had struck her to the heart the first time she saw its steep-pitched, red-tiled tower roofs and sheer, storybook walls from the deck of the ship bearing her home to Cheshyr with her newlywed husband. She hadn’t known Styvyn well—indeed, when she came down to it, she hadn’t known him at all—before the wedding, but he’d been handsome, athletic, considerate of his young and very nervous bride, and unswervingly loyal to the House of Tayt. As a daughter of a cadet branch of that house, she’d understood how important that was. She’d also known how unusual it was among the Chisholmian aristocracy of her youth, for she’d been raised to be sensitive to the treacherous currents which swirled among the kingdom’s nobility. And because of that, she’d realized very clearly that Styvyn was a far greater matrimonial prize than the lord of an impoverished holding like Cheshyr might normally have been … especially then.
King Irwain had been a good man, and she’d respected him as her king, but he’d lacked the steel spine to stand up to the kingdom’s great nobles. His son, though … Prince Sailys had been a different sort. Young she might have been, but there’d never been anything wrong with Karyl Tayt’s brain, and despite the distance of their relationship—fifth cousins normally weren’t extraordinarily close—she’d strongly suspected her crown prince had plans he wasn’t discussing with his future adversaries.