“That’s so … pragmatic of you,” Hahlbyrstaht complained.
“What Charisians do, Zosh.” Hektor shrugged, his eyes dark with mingled pride and regret. “Be pragmatic, I mean. It’s what we do best.”
* * *
The opposing squadrons drew together with the slow, dreadful inexorability of sailing men-of-war. Even on converging courses, their closing speed was barely ten miles an hour. That left plenty of time to turn any man’s bowels to water, Sir Dunkyn Yairley reflected.
Somewhat to his surprise, his own palms were dry and his pulse was almost normal, and he wondered why that was. Fatalism seemed an unlikely answer after all these years of pre-battle butterflies. Was it that this time he understood the reasons—the real reasons—he was out here risking the perfectly serviceable life which was the only one God had given him? Or was it simple duty? Or the realization that, one way or the other, this was almost certainly the last fleet action of the war against the Group of Four?
Maybe it’s even simpler than that, he mused, pacing slowly, steadily, up and down the weather side of Destiny’s quarterdeck. Maybe it’s just that this time I know where every single bastard on the other side is. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of the “fog of war” once the guns open up, but for now—for the first time in any major engagement I’ve ever fought—I know exactly what the stakes are, exactly who’s coming to the dance, and exactly where to find the other side when I want it. Won’t keep a stray cannonball from taking off my head, I suppose, but at least this time that head won’t be wondering what the hell is going on when the round shot arrives!
He chuckled at the thought and never noticed the way the midshipman of the watch relaxed ever so slightly at the evidence of his admiral’s amusement.
* * *
“They’re going to take the weather gauge, Sir,” Captain Trahvys observed unhappily.
“They’re more weatherly, they’re faster, and their damned chain of scouts must’ve been telling Sarmouth where we were ever since we entered Basset Channel.” Raisahndo shrugged. “Given all those advantages, it’d’ve taken a drooling idiot to lose the weather gauge.”
Trahvys arched an eyebrow at him, and the admiral barked a laugh.
“Oh, I fought hard enough for it, Lewk! Would’ve taken it in a heartbeat if he’d let us have it, too. But when was the last time you saw a Charisian flag officer do something that stupid?”
“Don’t believe I’ve ever seen a Charisian flag officer do something that stupid, Sir,” the flag captain replied after a moment, and Raisahndo nodded.
“I rest my case.”
He stood, gazing at the long, stately lines of ships. There must be five thousand guns aboard those ships, he thought, and Langhorne only knew how many officers and men were sailing so steadily—so deliberately—into the waiting furnace. Raisahndo certainly didn’t know the answer to that question … but he no longer needed a spyglass to pick out details, and Sarmouth’s formation made his intentions easy enough to understand.
The Charisian was coming at him in a single long column. Every ship in it looked big and powerful, but it was the two leaders who worried him most. The Charisian practice of painting every ship in the same stark colors—black hull, striped with white along the gunports—could make it difficult to identify individual ships, especially at any sort of distance. The Charisian leaders showed only a single row of gunports each, however, and that almost certainly made them ironclads like Dreadnought.
Not too surprising he put the two of them up front, Raisahndo thought grimly. Haigyl showed what just one of them could do, without any supports at all, and these fellows’ve brought along plenty of friends to watch their backs. I’d feel happier if I knew for sure there weren’t any more of the frigging things farther back in that column of his, though!
Clearly, Sarmouth intended for his vanguard to take the initial brunt and smash hell out of anything that got in its way, and if there was any reason he shouldn’t be confident of doing that, Caitahno Raisahndo didn’t know what it might be!
“You know,” he said slowly, eyes narrowing, “I think the time’s come to let them have the weather gauge.”
“I beg your pardon, Sir?”
“I said it’s time to let them have the weather gauge,” Raisahndo repeated, turning to face the flag captain squarely. “We can’t keep him from taking it anyway, but he’s pointed quite a bit higher than I thought he would. I don’t know if he misestimated our heading or simply wanted to make sure he’d have plenty of maneuvering distance between us when he finally turns to close the range, but he may have given us a little more wiggle room than he intended to.”
Trahvys looked at him for a moment, then back at the Charisian line, and then he began to nod.
* * *
“Midshipman of the watch, My Lord,” Sylvyst Raigly, Sir Dunkyn Yairley’s valet and steward, announced, stepping out onto Destiny’s stern gallery.
As always, whenever the possibility of combat presented itself, Raigly was liberally equipped with pistols, swords, dirks, probably a grenade or two, and God only knew what other lethal, pointy objects.
Thank God I got Stywyrt into Fleet Wing to watch Hektor’s back, the baron thought wryly. If he and Sylvyst were in the same place when a shell went off, God only knows how many dozens of people the flying knives, guns, and brass knuckles would take down with them!
“Thank you, Sylvyst,” he said out loud, straightening from where he’d stood, leaning on the railing as he watched HMS Empress sail steadily up Destiny’s wake. He turned away from the rail and made a beckoning motion with the fingers of his right hand, and the valet vanished back the way he’d come, then reappeared with a brown-haired, brown-eyed midshipman.
“Master Ahbaht,” Sarmouth said as the youngster came to attention and touched his chest in salute.
“My Lord,” the fourteen-year-old replied. “Captain Lathyk’s respects, and the enemy’s changing course. The Captain said to tell you you were right.”
The youngster seemed a little puzzled by the last sentence, but Sarmouth only shook his head.
“Don’t worry about it, Master Ahbaht,” he advised. “My compliments to Captain Lathyk and tell him I’ll join him on deck directly.”
“Aye, aye, My Lord. Your compliments to the Captain, and you’ll join him on deck directly.”
Sarmouth nodded in confirmation, and Ahbaht saluted again and withdrew.
The baron stood a moment longer, gazing out at the stupendous line of galleons following in Destiny’s wake, listening to the seagulls and sea wyverns as they swooped and darted around his ships. They’d disappear soon enough when the guns began to roar, he thought grimly. Then he shook himself and followed the midshipman, stepping from the stern gallery into what had been his cabin until the galleon cleared for action. Now the entire ship was one long, wide wooden cavern, every dividing bulkhead struck below for storage, its planked floor covered with sand for traction and dotted with tubs of water for swabs and firefighting. A cave with gunports gaping at regular intervals to let in wind and sunlight and let out the blunt, hungry muzzles of her artillery. He felt the wind plucking at his hair with invisible fingers and the sand crunched under the soles of his shoes as he strode past the waiting gunners, posed like martial statuary around their weapons—rammers, swabs, and worms in hand, cutlasses and pistols at their sides, bayoneted rifles racked ready if they should be needed—and the men of his flagship’s crew bobbed their heads respectfully as he went by.