At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.VI.

HMS Lightning, 30,

Claw Island,

Sea of Harchong.

Wyverns and seagulls rose black against the sunset in winged, raucous protest as the saluting guns thudded from the defensive batteries. The spurts of smoke were the gray white of conventional gunpowder, not the dark brown of the ICN’s current propellant, and they merged into a ragged line that rolled southeast on the fitful breeze out of the northwest, There were fewer guns in those batteries than there had been, since two-thirds of the smoothbores which had defended Hardship Bay under Dohlaran ownership had been replaced by less than half as many rifled Charisian guns with twice the effective range and far greater destructive power. There were still a lot of them, though, and the crews of every single one of them—aside from the saluting guns—stood atop the earthen ramparts, cheering as the weather-stained line of galleons made their way into the bay through North Channel, close-hauled on the starboard tack.

A return salute rippled down HMS Lightning’s side as she led that line, flying the streamer of Admiral Tymythy Darys. They were three months out of Tellesberg, those galleons, and more than one man aboard them had wondered if Claw Island would still be in Charisian hands when they arrived.

Silly of us, Darys thought, standing on Lightning’s quarterdeck and studying the bay through a raised angle-glass. Baron Rock Point was right. The bastards may’ve taken Dreadnought from Kahrltyn, but there’s no way in Shan-wei’s darkest hell they could have her back in commission yet. Not with any ammunition for her guns, anyway!

The admiral’s mouth tightened as he thought about Kahrltyn Haigyl, HMS Dreadnought’s captain. He would miss that giant of a man, but the Imperial Charisian Navy would never forget Dreadnought’s last fight. It did seem that perhaps Dreadnought wasn’t the most fortunate name in the world for Charisian warships, he acknowledged, but neither this Dreadnought nor her predecessor had gone without one hell of a fight … or failed to achieve the goal for which she’d fought.

Could have a lot worse tradition for the next one to live up to, he reflected. A lot worse. And her skipper’ll have some damned big boots to fill, too. Even if he was a lousy navigator!

His tight mouth relaxed into a smile at that thought, and he straightened from the angle-glass.

“Well, we appear to still be here,” he said dryly to his flag captain.

“Never doubted we would be for a moment, Sir,” Captain Sympsyn, who happened to share Darys’ first name, said stoutly.

“Oh?” Darys cocked an eyebrow. “I seem to recall a moment or two there, about the time those headwinds in the Sea of Harchong were so … uncooperative. Wasn’t there someone in Lightning’s company who was fretting that we might not get there in time? Let me see … I can’t quite seem to recall the name, but I think it was a captain somebody.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken, Sir. Couldn’t’ve been anybody aboard my ship!”

“Of course I am.” Darys chuckled, then clapped Sympsyn on the shoulder. “Probably just somebody who was pissed off by the weather and had to vent. But for now, I’d best get below and change.” He indicated his comfortable, well-worn seagoing uniform, with its brand-new, golden collar kraken and single gold cuff band. “Wouldn’t want to turn up in front of the Earl poorly dressed, would I?”

“Frankly, Sir, I think you could turn up naked and he’d still be glad to see you. And all the rest of us, of course.”

The flag captain waved one hand to take in the twenty-five warships and sixteen supply galleons following Lightning.

“You may have a point,” Darys agreed. “Not that I intend to find out the hard way!”

* * *

“Somehow I doubt this will surprise you, Tymythy,” Sir Lewk Cohlmyn, the Earl of Sharpfield, said dryly as his flag lieutenant showed Admiral Darys into his office in the ICN’s steadily expanding Hardship Bay base, “but I’m extraordinarily happy to see you.”

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—”