“Shit!” Kylpaitryc said bitterly.
Whatever might have happened to the lead ironclad’s weight of fire had just become unfortunately irrelevant. The second ironclad in line, steaming relentlessly forward and almost invisible beyond the rolling banks of smoke, had just opened fire on Battery St. Charlz.
“Another of the bastards coming up astern of the second one!” Lord of Foot Bauzhyng’s signalman announced. He had to shout to be heard, and he never raised his head from the tripod-mounted spyglass focused on the signal mast above Battery St. Rahnyld, on the eastern end of Sharyn Island, whose garrison’s view of the oncoming heretics was unobscured by the torrents of smoke.
As an enemy report, it was more than a little … informal, specially from a Harchongese noncom to a lord of foot. But Kwaichee Bauzhyng only nodded. And then—
“Thank you, Seargeant!” he shouted back.
Under other circumstances, Kylpaitryc might have blinked in surprise. Under these, he only felt his mouth try to twitch in harsh, ironic amusement. But any amusement vanished as fresh strings of shells exploded, scourging St. Charlz’s already gouged and torn flanks. More than a quarter of the battery’s guns had been put out of action, although most of them could have been restored to service quickly if only the heretical sons-of-bitches stopped shooting at them.
But the ironclads coming on behind the lead heretic promised that that wasn’t going to happen. Not unless the defenders’ last ditch ploy worked, anyway.
* * *
“Buoy dead ahead!” the lookout on the larboard angle-glass shouted suddenly, and Alyk Cahnyrs grabbed the handles of the forward angle-glass, training it onto the indicated bearing.
“Multiple buoys!” the lookout amplified, and Cahnyrs’ shoulders tightened.
“At least a dozen of the things, Sir,” he grated, turning from the angle-glass to Zhaztro. “Probably more I can’t see through the smoke. They’re damned well marking something right in the middle of the frigging channel, though.”
“Maybe the seijins were wrong about the Dohlaran sea-bombs after all.” Commander Pharsaygyn’s expression was taut, his tone grim.
“If they were, we’ll sail right into the middle of the goddamn things unless we change course in the next four minutes, Admiral,” Cahnyrs said flatly.
* * *
Wonder if the bastards will even see the buoys? Kylpaitryc wondered.
There was no way of telling, or even of knowing if the heretics would be looking for buoys in the first place. For that matter, they didn’t know the heretics had discovered sea-bombs’ existence in the first place, but it struck him as unlikely they hadn’t. If there was one thing they’d demonstrated, over and over again, it was that their spies were fiendishly capable and every damned where. So, yes, they almost certainly knew at least something about the new weapon.
That was why he’d suggested laying the buoys to Bauzhyng. Somewhat to his surprise, the lord of foot had grabbed the idea and run with it. He’d planted a veritable forest of the things, and unless Kylpaitryc was much mistaken, the ironclad would be entering that forest sometime in the next few minutes.
The question, of course, was what they’d do when they did—assuming they realized they’d done it. It could be very … interesting, because those buoys had been placed with malice aforethought. The logical course to evade them would be to turn away from Battery St. Charlz, not towards it, and that course would just happen to lead the ironclad onto a spur of the shoal upon which St. Charlz had been built. At the same time the false sea-mine buoys had been laid, the navigation buoys marking that spur had been removed, in hopes of repeating what had happened to the heretics on Shingle Shoal the preceding year. If the ploy succeeded and the defenders had just a little luck, the ironclad would hit hard enough to rip out its bottom. Even if it avoided that, a ship aground—no matter how well armored it might be—would inevitably be pounded apart by all of the guns St. Charlz and St. Agtha could bring to bear upon it.
And if it doesn’t turn—if it just keeps going and those other ironclads follow it through—we’re fucked.
* * *
Hainz Zhaztro looked at his flag captain, his jaw tight, his face like iron.
True or false? he thought harshly. Real sea-bombs, or just a bluff? And which way does Alyk veer if he avoids them? There’s a goddamned shoal out there somewhere, and in all this smoke and other shit, how the hell do we avoid it if we start taking evasive action in the middle of a frigging duel with a couple of hundred heavy rifles?!
The thoughts flickered through his brain like chainlightning, hammering the weight of command down on his shoulders as nothing had since Darcos Sound. He saw Cahnyrs’ expression, knew the captain wanted to swing wide of the danger zone. The admiral didn’t blame him at all, and how he fought his ship was his decision, wasn’t it?
Yes, it was. But whatever he decided would have huge implications for the rest of the squadron. And even if it was Cahnyrs’ decision, that made it someone else’s responsibility.
Hainz Zhaztro drew a deep breath and looked his flag captain squarely in the eye.
“Damn the sea-bombs, Alyk,” he said flatly. “Hold your course and go ahead.”
.IV.
HMS Fleet Wing, 18,
HMS Hurricane, 30,
Bennett Channel,
and
HMS Destiny, 54,
Off Shipworm Shoal,
Saram Gulf.
“Must be nice to be able to read minds, Sir,” Zosh Hahlbyrstaht remarked as he stood beside Hektor Aplyn-Ahrmahk gazing northwest into the wind at the low-lying cloud of weather-stained canvas plowing steadily down Basset Channel. “Is that something just any admiral can do, or do you have to be a baron?” He shook his head. “Either way, I do admire a man who can predict what the other fellow’s going to do so far in advance! How is he at picking baseball teams?”
“Well,” Hektor said dryly, gazing through the double-glass braced on Stywyrt Mahlyk’s shoulder; he had trouble supporting even a double-glass, much less a regular spyglass, for very long with only one hand, “I don’t know whether or not he can read just anybody’s mind, and he’s never picked a winning team that I know of. But I will say that as a midshipman in Destiny I had ample evidence he could read the mind of anyone under his command!” He straightened, lowering the double-glass with a nod of thanks to Mahlyk. “Never saw a single seaman sneak something past him—and they tried, believe me; it was almost like a game they played with him! Didn’t matter what I had on my conscience, either. He always knew about it. Usually before I did!”
“Works that way for cox’ins, too, if you don’t mind m’ saying so, Sir,” Mahlyk observed, and gave his youthful commander a rather sharp glance. “Seems to be the sort of gift a Pasqualate’d call ‘contagious,’ now I think on it.”
“Well, since no one ever accused me of mind-reading, I’m sure I don’t have the least idea what you’re talking about,” Hektor returned, but his expression was absent as he resettled the double-glass strap around his neck without ever taking his eyes from the loom of those oncoming sails, etched against the late-afternoon sunlight. Neither of his companions understood just how well he could actually see them, of course.