At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.VI.

Royal Palace,

City of Gorath,

Kingdom of Dohlar.

“Well, this is a frigging disaster!” Aibram Zaivyair snarled, waving the dispatch, then hurled it down on the council table so hard the staple ripped out and the pages scattered. “Do you want to explain how this one happened, My Lord?”

Lywys Gardynyr sat in his own chair, across the table from the man who was his superior … nominally, at least. Aibram Zaivyair was the Duke of Thorast, effectively the Kingdom of Dohlar’s Navy Minister, and the senior officer of the Royal Dohlaran Navy. Of course, he hadn’t been to sea in almost thirty years, and even when he had, he’d been a “navy” officer in a navy which still thought assigning army officers to command ships and fleets made sense.

And he hasn’t learned one Shan-wei-damned thing about the difference between armies and navies since, the Earl of Thirsk thought coldly. No reason he should, really. He’s got the birth and the political allies to pretend he knows his arse from his elbow where ships are concerned. And the son-of-a-bitch’s been in Clyntahn’s hip pocket from the minute this whole rolling disaster started.

“Well?” Thorast snapped. He’d been even more belligerently antagonistic since Thirsk had returned to limited duty. Probably, the earl thought, because the “death” of his family—and its circumstances—suggested to him that the patronage which had supported and protected Thirsk was about to disappear. Assuming it hadn’t already completely vanished, that was.

“I asked you a question, Earl Thirsk!” he barked now, and Thirsk cocked his head slightly, as if considering some minor source of annoyance. There was no point pretending anything he did could placate the duke, after all.

“I realize that, My Lord.” Thorast’s face turned darker, his expression thunderous, at Thirsk’s cool reply. “I assumed it was a rhetorical question, since the reports we’ve received from the Harchongians make it abundantly clear how it happened. The heretics sailed into Rhaigair Bay aboard the same ironclads that blew Geyra apart and did exactly the same thing to us. Exactly the way Admiral Raisahndo and I had been warning they were almost certain to do, sooner or later, if we left the Western Squadron exposed in such proximity to Claw Island. Given that they sailed straight through the fire of a couple of hundred heavy guns—a lot of them the new Fultyn Rifles—and completely demolished Rhaigair’s waterfront, the dockyard, and every defensive battery without losing a single ship, I would’ve thought you’d understand what happened.”

“Listen, you goddamned—!”

“That’s enough, Aibram!”

The three words weren’t all that loud, but they cracked like a whip, and Thorast reared back in his chair, staring at the man who’d spoken. Samyl Cahkrayn, the Duke of Fern and Dohlar’s first councilor, glared right back.

“Our situation’s too grave for me to indulge you,” Fern said. “Everyone in Dohlar knows how much you hate Earl Thirsk. But this isn’t about him, and it isn’t about you. It’s about what just happened to our Navy and what’s going to happen next to the entire damned Kingdom! If you can’t get that through your head and contribute something constructive to this discussion, I suggest you go find something else to do while the rest of us get on with it.”

Thorast’s eyes went wide. Then they narrowed, blazing with fury, and he leaned aggressively forward once more. His index finger stabbed the tabletop, and he opened his mouth, but another voice intervened before he could speak.

“His Grace may not have phrased himself as … diplomatically as he might have, Duke Thorast,” it said. “He does have a point, however. At this moment, trying to fix fault for something that happened three thousand miles from here isn’t going to help decide what to do about it.”

The navy minister shut his mouth, and his face turned into stone.

“I … beg your pardon, Your Eminence,” he said after a long, tense moment. “In my opinion, understanding the towering degree of incompetence—if not outright treason—which allowed this to happen is essential if we’re going to prevent it from happening again. That’s the only reason I’ve … pressed the point as warmly as I have.”

“No doubt.”

An unbiased observer might have been forgiven for concluding from Bishop Executor Wylsynn Lainyr dry tone that he was less than convinced by Thorast’s last sentence. The duke’s eyes flickered, but he forbore any direct response, and Lainyr reached out to rest one hand on his own copy of the report. His ruby ring of office gleamed in the lamplight, and he turned his gaze to Thirsk.

“I’m sure we all understand why Duke Thorast, as the councilor responsible to His Majesty for the Navy, should be concerned about … procedural matters, My Lord. And no doubt a formal board of inquiry needs to be assembled, in the fullness of time, to consider all of the decisions and policies which led to the current situation. At the moment, however, I’m rather more concerned with what we do about it. May I ask for your thoughts on that?”

Thirsk gazed back at the tallish, black-haired Langhornite who was Mother Church’s effective day-to-day administrator for the entire Kingdom of Dohlar. Archbishop Trumahn Rowzvel might actually occupy the see of Gorath Cathedral, but Lainyr was his executive officer and, like all bishops executor, he knew far more about the actual operations of his archbishopric than its archbishop did.

He was also a consummate professional, highly skilled in the management of the Church bureaucracy. Unfortunately, he was very much a part of the Church establishment, as well. He was far more concerned with keeping her up and running—with maintaining the Church’s continuity and authority, and his own personal power as part of that—than with addressing her possible faults. And he’d been sent to Gorath as Bishop Executor Ahrain Mahrlow’s successor, upon Mahrlow’s death, because he could be relied upon as a loyal and obedient cog in Mother Church’s machinery for fighting the Jihad.

Thirsk wasn’t surprised Thorast was nonplussed by Lainyr’s intervention in his favor. He and the bishop executor had been at loggerheads, to put it mildly, ever since Lainyr’s arrival in Gorath. The prelate made little secret of his … impatience with Thirsk’s unwillingness to hew to Mother Church’s version of events when she twisted the truth—or even manufactured new truths out of whole cloth—to serve Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s purposes. Yet despite that, he’d never seemed to actively hate Thirsk the way Father Ahbsahlahn Kharmych, Archbishop Trumahn’s intendant, clearly did. Kharmych—a Schuelerite, like all intendants—made no secret of his distrust for Thirsk’s zeal in Mother Church’s service and he’d been furious at the very suggestion that prisoners captured by Thirsk’s navy might not be transported to Zion to suffer the full rigor of the Punishment. Only Staiphan Maik’s reports, with their stress on how badly the RDN needed his expertise and leadership, had delayed the Grand Inquisitor’s decision to move against him and his family as long as it had, and Thirsk knew Kharmych’s reports to his superiors in the Inquisition had only fed Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s distrust and venomous hatred for him.

Which made Kharmych’s absence from this meeting even more interesting. Thirsk had wondered about that, when he arrived and realized the intendant wasn’t attending, but he hadn’t been prepared for Lainyr to take his part against Thorast, one of the Jihad’s strongest Dohlaran supporters.

He must be even more scared than I thought, the earl thought dryly. It sounds as if he wants actual advice, not just more sycophancy. That’s novel.

“Your Eminence, what we do—what we can do—really depends on our ability to understand what happened. We can’t devise an effective defense against a threat we don’t understand. That’s something which has been demonstrated with unfortunate frequency over the course of the Jihad.”

Thorast’s expression could have curdled fresh milk, but Lainyr nodded.

“And do you think you do understand what’s happened, my son?”

Of course I do, you idiot, Thirsk told him silently from behind a gravely thoughtful expression. Exactly what I just said happened.

The reports were still far from complete and conclusive, and he felt bitterly certain he was going to learn that far too many of the officers he’d groomed to command the navy he’d built were among the dead. At the moment, they had no casualty lists from the Western Squadron itself, only from the garrisons of Rhaigair and its protective batteries. But they did know not a single one of Caitahno Raisahndo’s galleons had escaped the debacle he supposed would be known officially as the Battle of Shipworm Shoal. Three of Raisahndo’s brigs had contrived to somehow elude their Charisian counterparts, and one of them—hotly pursued by a pair of Charisian schooners—had managed to reach Fairstock Bay and take cover under the city of Fairstock’s batteries. The dispatch from HMS Sea Dragon’s traumatized captain was less than complete—or fully coherent, for that matter. Of course the man was only a lieutenant, scarcely one of Raisahndo’s senior officers, and he’d been through a lot. For that matter, he’d performed a minor miracle in simply escaping the Charisians himself! It was understandable that his report might be less than perfect. It was, however, the closest thing to an account of the battle they were likely to get for quite some time, and they were damned lucky to have that much information.

And the fact that we got it demonstrates that at least their damned schooners can’t just wade into our defenses and pound them into garbage, he thought bitterly.

That clearly wasn’t the case for the armored steamers which had attacked Rhaigair. According to Lord of Horse Golden Grass, the channel batteries had stood their ground unflinchingly and given the Charisian ironclads the hardest fight they’d had yet. Golden Grass was a Harchongian, of course, and the reports of Harchongese authorities who’d gotten caught with their pants down were normally suspect, in Thirsk’s experience. It was amazing how persistently they and their forces had fought with desperate gallantry, despite any temporary tactical withdrawals … even if the “temporary withdrawals” in question had looked suspiciously like mad, panicked flight.

But in this case, General Cahstnyr, the commander of the Dohlaran naval base’s garrison and the Dohlaran-manned batteries defending the anchorage itself, fully supported Golden Grass’ assessment. It was possible Cahstnyr was trying to cover his own arse, but he had a reputation as an officer in the Fahstyr Rychtyr mold. Perhaps even more to the point, Captain Kharmahdy, who Thirsk knew personally as a solid, reliable, and trustworthy man, concurred.

If all three of them were correct, the lead Charisian ironclad had resembled nothing so much as a foundry scrapyard when it arrived off the Rhaigair breakwater with its consorts. The heavy guns protecting the main ship channel had battered it almost beyond recognition. Its smokestack had been completely demolished, as had every other unarmored portion of its superstructure, and there’d been signs, according to Kharmahdy, that the after portion of its armored carapace had suffered significant fire damage.

Of course, Kharmahdy had also pointed out with scrupulous honesty that the apparent fire damage might be just that—apparent. Soot from the ironclad’s truncated smokestack could have accounted for much or all of the blackening, and while Kharmahdy had personally seen evidence that the ship’s pumps were working steadily, it was obvious it had never been in any danger of sinking. For that matter, despite its battered and broken outer appearance, it had participated in the bombardment of Rhaigair’s outer batteries right along with its consorts.

“Your Eminence,” the earl said, “it’s going to take us a long time to fully understand what happened. Some points strike me as fairly evident, however.”

He sat straighter, raising his right hand with its fingers folded. His left hand remained resting in his lap. He’d recovered more of his left arm’s range of motion than he’d expected, but the residual pain in his shoulder discouraged its use.

“First,” he said, raising his index finger to count off his points, “the Harchongese batteries tried hard but couldn’t prevent the steam-powered ironclads from penetrating Rhaigair Bay effectively at will. From all reports—and I believe those reports are accurate, Your Eminence—” he paused ever so slightly, holding Lainyr’s eyes until the bishop executive nodded in recognition of the “this time” Thirsk had carefully not said out loud “—the Harchongians stood to their guns with enormous steadiness and courage. According to General Cahstnyr, the heretics had to close to within less than three hundred yards of Battery St. Thermyn to suppress its fire. We don’t have anything like a complete casualty list—for our people, far less the Harchongians—but apparently Lord of Foot Bauzhyng fought until his last gun was dismounted. In fact, according to Major Kylpaitryc, our liaison officer in the battery, the Lord of Foot was personally laying and firing his final gun when a heretic shell exploded directly inside the gun’s bay and killed him along with three-quarters of his gun crew.

“Second,” he raised his second finger, “and the reason I made a point of how determinedly the Harchongians stood to their guns, those guns don’t appear to have even come close to actually stopping the heretics. That’s significant because Battery St. Thermyn, in particular, had been given high priority for the new artillery and had been completely reequipped with Fultyn Rifles with bores as great as ten inches, and the ironclads’ close approach allowed them to attempt Lieutenant Zhwaigair’s proposed ‘wracking’ attack on their armor. From the scanty information available to us, they inflicted far more damage than the Desnairians did at Geyra. Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough. Clearly, even well-served guns firing ten-inch solid shot at three hundred yards range—or less—were unable to penetrate the heretics’ armor.”

“Forgive me, my son,” Lainyr said, “but didn’t Baron Golden Grass’ message suggest the heretics’ armor had been penetrated?”

“It did, Your Eminence,” Thirsk acknowledged. “At least the lead ironclad’s hull must have been holed below the water line—or possibly the ‘wracking’ attack succeeded in producing at least some leaks—because it appeared to be pumping a constant, low-volume stream from its bilges. Perhaps what I should have said is that even ten-inch solid shot at three hundred yards was unable to inflict crippling damage.” He shrugged ever so slightly. “The distinction is probably real, but it really doesn’t affect my analysis. And that analysis is that the heretics could penetrate equivalent defenses any time they care to.”

He paused to let that sink in, then raised a third finger.

“Third, in the face of that level of threat, I fully endorse Admiral Raisahndo’s decision to take the Western Squadron to sea and attempt to fight his way through to Gorath. I realize some may feel the Admiral should have stayed at Rhaigair and used his galleons to defend his anchorage. That, however, would have been a serious mistake.”

Thorast shifted in his chair, his shoulders tight and his eyes hot, but Thirsk kept his own eyes focused on Lainyr’s face, refusing to look in the duke’s direction.

“Shellfire capable of silencing heavy guns protected by modern earthen berms would have made short work of any unarmored wooden vessel in the world. By the same token, armor capable of surviving the fire of heavy Fultyn Rifles at such short range would have been impenetrable by any gun we currently have afloat.” He twitched another tiny shrug. “I don’t like saying that, Your Eminence, but my likes or dislikes don’t affect whether or not it’s true. If Admiral Raisahndo had turned his ships into floating batteries in Rhaigair’s defense, they would simply have been destroyed at anchor.”

“And how, exactly, did taking them to sea produce a different outcome?” Shain Hauwyl, the Duke of Salthar, was ten years older than Thirsk and while he was less likely to be driven by prejudices and jealousy than Thorast, he was undeniably more comfortable with Thorast than with Thirsk. That was probably inevitable, since he and Thorast were kinsmen … and since Salthar was also a firm supporter of the Jihad.

“I didn’t say it did, Your Grace,” Thirsk replied. “What I said was that it was the proper decision, not that it produced the result we all obviously wish it had. He didn’t succeed in breaking out of the trap, but it was the only option which offered even the possibility of getting our galleons—and their crews—home for further service in the Jihad. And I might also point out that according to Sea Dragon’s dispatch, Admiral Raisahndo and his people managed to inflict heavy damage on at least some of the heretic galleons which engaged them. In fact, had it not been for the ironclad galleons in the heretics’ order of battle, they might well have succeeded in reaching Gorath after all. Whatever else anyone may think,” the earl’s voice hardened slightly but was clearly discernibly, “the Western Squadron fought—and died—hard, My Lords. No one broke, no one ran, and I could not be prouder of our officers and men.”

This time, he did turn his head and meet Thorast’s fiery gaze levelly, steadily … and very, very coldly.

“That’s all well and good,” Salthar said, and waved one hand in a half-apologetic gesture when Thirsk glared at him. “I’m not trying to downplay or denigrate the courage and determination they showed, My Lord. If it sounded that way, I apologize.”

To his credit, Thirsk thought, he sounded as if he meant it. Which Thorast never would have.

“What I meant to get at,” Salthar continued, glancing at Lainyr, “is that however hard they may have fought, they lost. And my understanding is that with the destruction of Admiral Raisahndo’s ships, we no longer have a Navy.”

“That’s not entirely correct, Your Grace,” Thirsk disagreed respectfully. Salthar looked at him incredulously, and the baron smiled a lopsided smile. “We still have approximately forty galleons and at least thirty screw-galleys in commission. We’re short on trained manpower for them, but we’ve got the ships, and we should commission the first of the new, heavier screw-galleys within the next four or five five-days. Unfortunately, if any of them—including the new screw-galleys, I’m afraid—run into one of these steam-powered ironclads of the heretics, they’ll have no chance of survival. I know no one seated at this table wants to hear that, and believe me when I say that I absolutely hate having to say it, but it’s the unvarnished truth.”

“So you just want to give up and crawl under the table and hide?” Thorast more than half sneered.

“No, I don’t.” Thirsk’s quiet, almost courteous tone was a distinct contrast to Thorast’s fleeting contempt. “What I said is that our galleons and screw-galleys can’t fight the heretics’ ironclads—especially their steam-powered ironclads—and live.”

“Forgive me, my son,” Lainyr said, “but doesn’t that imply that we can’t fight them anywhere?”

“Your Eminence, I’m not going to pretend we’re not looking at a disastrous situation.” Thirsk shook his head, his expression unyielding. “In fact, you may not have realized just how disastrous it truly is.

“The good news is that these steamers appear to be relatively short-legged. In fact, I’m morally certain that that short range is the real reason the heretics have been prowling around Trove Island. I strongly suspect they want to base at least some of their steamers there, and if they do, they’ll be within fifteen hundred sea miles of Gorath. That’s probably still too long a reach for them, judging by what we’ve seen so far. It would, however, put them in a position to interdict the Mahthyw Passage, the Trosan Channel, and the Hilda Channel. In effect, to interdict all traffic from Dohlar proper to any point in the Gulf. Which, obviously, would include the Gulf of Tanshar, with all the implications for General Rychtyr’s logistics and our ability to support the southern lobe of the Mighty Host.”

“Are you saying the heretics can shut down all of our support for the Jihad?” Lainyr looked and sounded badly shaken, and Thirsk didn’t blame him.

“Probably not completely, Your Eminence,” the earl said almost compassionately. “First, the Mahthyw Passage is the next best thing to two hundred miles wide. For that matter, the Trosan Channel’s over three hundred miles wide, and the heretics clearly don’t have an unlimited supply of these things. However fast and powerfully armed they may be, each of them can still cover only a single circle of seawater no more than fifteen or twenty miles across. Their masts aren’t tall enough for them to see much if any farther than that. In fact, I’d be surprised if they could see twenty miles even in perfect visibility. That limits their ability to spot targets. In addition, the smoke from their furnaces is likely to be visible to a sailing vessel long before a sailing vessel’s top-hamper is visible to them. A ship doesn’t have to be faster than they are to escape them if she can alter course and simply avoid them without ever being spotted.” The earl shook his head. “No, Your Eminence. The real threat they’d present at Trove Island would be that they’d make it effectively impossible for us to retake the island or deprive their conventional light cruisers of their forward base.”

“And what’s to keep them from … leapfrogging from Trove to someplace closer to Gorath?” Lainyr asked. “Dragon or Lizard islands, for example?”

“Not a great deal at this time, Your Eminence,” Thirsk replied unflinchingly, with a surprised sense of respect for the question. It would appear Lainyr did have an imagination … when he chose to turn it on. “I’m sorry, but I’d be derelict in my duty if I suggested anything else. The Navy’s prepared to do everything we can to defend the islands, but the truth is that we’ll be desperately hard-pressed just to defend the Kingdom’s major ports.”

“Then you think you can defend them?”

“We certainly intend to try, Your Eminence.” Thirsk showed his teeth.

“Truly? How?”

“We’re in the process of mounting as many of the ‘superheavy’ Fultyn Rifles as we can in our port-defense batteries. The most powerful of them will fire a twelve-inch solid shot, although I’ve been promised a fifteen-inch weapon. Even if St. Kylmahn’s can actually deliver a fifteen-inch rifle, though, they aren’t going to be able to provide them any time soon, especially if the heretics succeed in cutting the shipping routes across the Gulf of Tanshar. We already have quite a few of the twelve-inch weapons, however. Most of them are Dohlaran-built—I’m afraid the proposed fifteen-incher’s beyond our present capabilities, which is why we were relying on St. Kylmahn’s to deliver them to us—and the foundries assigned to the Navy are producing more of them on a crash basis. We’ve given priority to mounting them in the Gorath Bay fortifications, and as more become available, we’ll deploy as many as possible to the other major ports. My own preference would be to cover a few ports, the most important ones, as heavily as possible rather than spreading them about in tenth-mark-packets. To be effective, their fire will have to be concentrated, not dispersed, because even though they hit with one hell of a lot of authority, if you’ll pardon the phrase, they’re individually slow-firing.”

Lainyr nodded his understanding, and Thirsk shrugged.

“In addition to the artillery, Lieutenant Zhwaigair’s been adapting the new rockets into harbor defense weapons. We won’t have a real way to measure their effectiveness until we get a chance to fire them at the heretics, but they’re designed to attack at a very steep angle—as steep as any angle-gun could provide—and they’ll carry heavy ‘warheads,’ to use Brother Lynkyn’s terminology. Their trajectory means they’ll be targeted on the ironclads’ decks, which have to be more weakly protected than their side armor, and they’ll hit like very heavy shells. Almost like shot, really; the Lieutenant’s designed an entirely new ‘warhead.’ It’s so heavy it reduces range considerably, but it’s based on the ‘armor piercng’ shells we found in Dreadnought’s shot lockers.”

“All right. I can see that.”

“Again, I can’t promise the Lieutenant’s rockets will constitute an effective defense,” Thirsk said with the air of a man being painstakingly honest. “I can only say that they have the chance to be one … and that if they are, we can manufacture more of them far more rapidly than we can cast new cannon. And if we can get the new sea-bombs produced and placed to protect the approaches, then cover the sea-bombs in turn with direct fire from the St. Kylmahns and the rockets, we’ll have a far more effective defense than Rhaigair had. In fact, if the heretics realize what the sea-bombs are and that we have them, they’ll probably feel constrained to operate much more cautiously. As I say, the evidence suggests they don’t have a great many of those armored steamers of theirs. They aren’t going to lightly risk losing one—or more—of them. And I can definitely say that even if the defenses I’ve described are less effective than I believe they’ll be, they’ll constitute the best defense humanly possible.”

Lainyr’s eyes flickered ever so slightly at the adverb “humanly,” and Thirsk kicked himself mentally for having used it. He wasn’t about to make it worse by trying to unsay it, however.

“In the meantime,” he continued, “even if they do base their steamers on Trove, they seem to still be short of light cruisers of their own. Given the amount of damage Sea Dragon’s report indicates they took from Admiral Raisahndo, they’re probably going to be short on full-sized galleons for at least the next couple of months and possibly longer. And that means we should still be able to get the majority of our freight traffic through to its destination for the immediate future.”

Lainyr’s expression eased just a bit, and he nodded.

“That sounds more hopeful, my son!”

“I’m glad, Your Eminence,” Thirsk replied.

Of course, it’s also what they call “whistling in the dark,” he reflected. But that probably wouldn’t be the best thing to tell you at the moment.

“As I said, Your Eminence, there’s no point trying to pretend we aren’t in serious trouble at the moment, and I can’t promise to work miracles. The Navy’s crewed by mere mortals, when all’s said and done. But this I can promise you—the Royal Dohlaran Navy is prepared to die where it stands in defense of its Kingdom and the Jihad. If the heretics succeed in attacking our home ports, it will be over the sunken ships—and the floating bodies—of my Navy.”