At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.V.

Protector’s Palace,

Siddar City,

Republic of Siddarmark;

and

Claw Island,

Sea of Harchong.

“Congratulations, Cayleb!” Greyghor Stohnar, Lord Protector of the Republic of Siddarmark, extended his hand with a huge smile as Cayleb Ahrmahk entered the conference room with Aivah Pahrsahn at his side and Merlin Athrawes at his heels. “I’ve just been reading the copy of Baron Sarmouth’s dispatches you forwarded to us. We don’t use decadent things like patents of nobility here in the Republic, of course, but if we did, I’d say that man deserves promotion to some title way beyond a mere baron!”

“Yes, he has done rather well by us, hasn’t he?” Cayleb responded, clasping the Lord Protector’s forearm firmly. “On the other hand, I’m not too sure he’d actually like being known as ‘Earl Shipworm,’ you know!”

Stohnar laughed in acknowledgment, but then Cayleb grimaced.

“He got hurt worse than we could wish, but you’re still right. I hate losing even one man we don’t have to, but in cold-blooded terms, the elimination of Raisahndo’s squadron was worth every drop of blood it cost. And neither he nor Earl Sharpfield like to let the grass grow under their feet.”

“I have to admit I spent a rather pleasant evening last night—with a good bottle of Chisholmian whiskey, as a matter of fact—contemplating what his activities have to be doing to Silken Hills’ logistics,” Daryus Parkair, the Republic of Siddarmark’s seneschal, said with a wicked smile as he bent to press a kiss of greeting on the back of Aivah’s hand. “Especially after the way they’re weakening themselves along the Sardahn Front, thanks to Aivah’s devious little notion.”

He bestowed another kiss on the back of her hand and beamed at her, and she smiled in gracious acknowledgment of the compliment. Someone from a cave hidden in the Mountains of Light made a rude sound in her earplug, but she ignored it. Someone had to be the public face of the strategy, and they couldn’t exactly credit a prince who’d been dead for several years.

“It’s been obvious from all our reports that they’d on shipping in an awful lot of the support he’ll need covering the Snakes and protecting Tymkyn Gap,” Parkair continued in a tone of profound satisfaction. “This means Teagmahn—and Walkyr, now that he’s reached Glydahr—will have to share their part of the overland supply route with him. So he’s going to be short of the material support he’d anticipated, and Walkyr won’t be able to build up as rapidly or as strongly as he’d hoped, either. We’ve always been a land power, and I don’t think I ever fully appreciated how valuable seaborne logistics could be. Which is probably because no one’s ever fought a war on this scale before. But you Charisians have shown me a thing or three, and I think the lesson Baron Sarmouth’s just taught the Temple Boys is a lot more painful than my lessons’ve been.”

“Fair’s fair,” Cayleb said. “We Old Charisians never had an army to speak of, but even Sharleyan’s Chisholmians had a lot to learn about mainland logistics—especially canals—from you people.”

“That’s probably true,” Parkair conceded. “With both sides trashing canals as they retreat, though, that seaborne side of things is even more important. And when the ice melts in the Passage and your slash hounds get loose again in those waters, those Temple bastards—all those Temple bastards—will find themselves between the proverbial rock and a hard place.”

“Yes, they are,” Cayleb acknowledged with an answering smile. But then, as Merlin pulled out one of the heavy chairs at the conference table and seated Aivah in it, that smile faded a bit around the edges.

“They are, but that simplifies the strategic equation for them, as well as for us. The only way we can come at them is from the front, and they know it.” He grimaced. “The decision to move Silken Hills south helps from our perspective, but those damned fortifications of his are still going to be there. Walkyr may not be as well-equipped to defend them as the Mighty Host would have been, but his men will be a lot more effective—and kill a lot more of our men—fighting from them than any of us is going to like.

“I have to admit, I’d almost prefer to let Walkyr get himself thoroughly settled while we very quietly pulled troops back to the Passage coast on Baron Green Valley’s right. If we did that and combined them, the Army of the Hildermoss, and some of the new drafts from Chisholm, we could put together a tidy little amphibious force to drop on the Temple Lands coast the same way we got around behind the Corisandians in Manchyr. They couldn’t pull enough men to stop us back from the Host without uncovering the Holy Langhorne, and now that they’re basically sending every man the Army of God has forward to cover Rainbow Waters’ right flank they wouldn’t have a reserve that could stand up to us any more than General Gahrvai did in Corisande.”

“That would be sweet, wouldn’t it?” Parkair murmured, a speculative light gleaming in his eyes, but Cayleb shook his head.

“First of all, we can’t count on their sending everything forward to Walkyr. As you just pointed out, what’s happening in the Gulf of Dohlar’s going to force them into some fairly fundamental logistic reconsiderations, and they may decide it’s more important to move artillery and ammunition than manpower. More importantly, though, the Mountains of Light are just a bit more of a barrier than the Dark Hills were, and unless we could simultaneously cut the Holy Langhorne behind then—which would mean we’d still have to punch through their front somewhere—we couldn’t starve the Host out the way we could General Gharvi’s army. If we couldn’t finish them off in the field before winter—or at least link up with Green Valley through the Mountains of Light so our people didn’t starve over the winter—we’d have to pull them back out, and that would be a copper-plated bitch.”

“I agree it would be a decisive stroke, if we could pull it off,” Stohnar said soberly, sinking into his own chair. “But you’re right. Too much could go wrong. Sometimes it’s better to stick with the frontal approach, even if you know it’s going to be costly, if you’re confident it will still work. And barring the sort of miracle those bastards in Zion sure as hell don’t deserve, this will work, Cayleb.”

“I think it will, too,” Cayleb acknowledged, taking his chair at the other end of the table, with Merlin at his shoulder.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not going to be bloody as hell, though,” the emperor continued more bleakly. “It would help a lot if Rainbow Waters was as incompetent as Kaitswyrth.”

“Although I realize Duke Harless would tend to disprove what I’m about to say,” Parkair said dryly, “no one has any right to expect two opponents as toweringly incompetent as Kaitswyrth in a single generation, far less the same war.”

“I’m afraid that’s true,” Samyl Gohdard, the Republic’s keeper of the seal, agreed sourly.

“Then let’s be grateful for the ones we’ve been given,” Aivah suggested.

“And the fact that we have been given more than one of them would seem to further underscore whose side God is truly on,” Archbishop Dahnyld Fardhym put in. “Of course, I’m probably a little biased on that subject.”

A mutter of laughter ran around the table, and Stohnar grinned.

“I think we all find ourselves in agreement on that point, Dahnyld,” he told the archbishop.

“Absolutely,” Cayleb said firmly. “And, sort of on that head, there’s another bit of news I’d like to deliver before we get into discussing our most recent status reports from Duke Eastshare, Baron Green Valley, and General Stohnar.”

“More evidence God’s on our side?” Stohnar leaned back and crossed his legs. “That sort of thing is always welcome, Cayleb!”

“Well, this is actually more Aivah and Merlin’s news than mine.” The emperor waved one hand in an airy gesture. “More of that devious, underhanded, sweaty spy stuff Daryus has just been talking about, you understand.”

“Only too well, Your Majesty,” Henrai Maidyn, the Republic’s chancellor of the exchequer and spymaster, said feelingly.

He remained astonished and perplexed—in a pleasant but nonetheless worrisome fashion—by the incredible efficacy of Charis’ seijin-backed spy networks. For the present, he was delighted by that efficacy, but even the closest of allies would need to keep an eye on their friends once the war against the Group of Four ended and the more usual game of thrones resumed. If the seijins continued to support Charisian intelligence efforts when that longed for day arrived.…

“Madam Pahrsahn?” Stohnar invited.

“Our agents report that the Dohlaran Council—or at least its two most important members, Fern and Salthar—are being … less than totally subservient to the Group of Four’s demands,” Aivah said. “There’s nothing overt we can point to, and they certainly aren’t defying the Temple. But Clyntahn, at least, would clearly like to see Rychtyr removed from the Army of the Seridahn in favor of a more aggressive commander, and Fern and Salthar have declined to do anything of the sort. Not only that, they appear to be sitting on Thorast in that regard, despite the fact that Earl Hanth is well into Thorast’s duchy.”

“I suppose I’m happy to hear Fern and the others may finally be growing big enough balls—you should pardon the expression, please, Aivah—to stop licking Clyntahn’s hand like obedient little puppies,” Stohnar said. “On the other hand, I’d love for them to put someone ‘more aggressive’ in command of Rychtyr’s army! Earl Hanth would eat him for breakfast!”

“True,” Aivah agree with a smile.”But that’s only one straw in the wind. A significant one, perhaps, but not as significant as some of our other reports. There are indications—and I stress that at this point they’re only indications—that Earl Thirsk and General Ahlverez may be thinking in terms of … a Dohlaran exit strategy completely independent of anything Fern may have in mind.”

Stohnar came upright in his chair and Parkair’s eyes widened abruptly.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” the Lord Protector said after a moment. Aivah nodded, and Stohnar frowned. “I realize you said you had only indications, but how strong are they?”

“We can confirm that they’ve held several meetings now,” she said. “Given the enmity between them prior to the Shiloh Campaign, that would be informative enough in its own right, I think. Anything that could bring the two of them together—my destiny, especially with Ahlverez still under such a cloud in the Church’s eyes and what just happened to Thirsk’s family, would have to be pretty important. In this case, however, the individual who’s brokered those meetings may be even more significant.”

“Really?” Maidyn leaned forward with an intent expression. “And who would that individual be?”

“Staiphan Maik,” she said simply, and Parkair muttered an incredulous oath.

“Thirsk’s intendant is … facilitating secret meetings between him and Ahlverez?” Stohnar said in the tone of a man who wanted to be very sure he’d understood correctly.

“That’s exactly what he’s doing.” Aivah nodded. “It appears that what happened to Thirsk’s family was something of a tipping point for Maik, as well.” Her tone was somber. “The man may be a Schuelerite, but evidently his order hasn’t managed to amputate his conscience the way it’s done for so many of Clyntahn’s other hand-picked representatives.”

“And on top of what happened to Thirsk’s family,” Merlin put in, “Maik has what certainly looks like a genuine sense of pastoral responsibility. Not just for the Dohlaran Navy, either. I think he’s worried about what will happen to the entire Kingdom if this goes down to the bitter end.”

“And he damned well should be,” Parkair said in a considerably harsher tone. The Charisian side of the table looked at him, and the seneschal shrugged, his earlier amusement vanished. “Let’s not forget where a goodly chunk—the most effective chunk!—of the Army of Shiloh came from. Or, for that matter, what Rychtair did in South March and Ahlverez did at Alyksberg. That was a pretty sharp dagger they planted in our back. As your lady wife said in that splendid speech that’s appeared in all the newspapers, Your Majesty, there’s a price for actions like that.”

“I can’t deny that,” Cayleb said, after a moment. “But I also think we’d all have to admit that whatever their other faults, the Dohlaran Army—and its Navy, for that matter, despite what happened to Gwyllym and the others—have fought a hell of a lot ‘cleaner’ war than the Army of God or Desnair.”

He ended on a slightly rising note and quirked an eyebrow at the seneschal.

“There’s a difference between ‘cleaner’ and clean,” Parkair growled. But then his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. “Still, you have a point. And as you said a few minutes ago, I don’t want to lose a single man we don’t have to lose. If there’s an acceptable … arrangement that takes Dohlar out of the war, then I suppose we probably have to be reasonable about accepting it.”

“It’s not a decision we’ll need to make tomorrow, whatever happens,” Aivah pointed out pragmatically. “But it is something to consider. And I think it’s especially important to consider the broader impact a Dohlaran exit would have.”

“Broader impact?” Gahdarhd’s tone suggested he already saw where she was headed, and she nodded to him.

“Precisely. After Baron Sarmouth’s victory at Shipworm Shoal—and especially after Gwylym Manthyr reinforces Earl Sharpfield and Baron Sarmouth’s squadron shifts farther east—Dohlar will be as effectively neutralized as Desnair. From a practical viewpoint, Earl Hanth could stop at Shandyr and adopt a defensive stance and Dohlar—and South Harchong, for that matter—couldn’t do a single thing to affect what happens in Tarikah or Cliff Peak this summer. That may not be all that apparent to anyone else if Dohlar’s still formally in the jihad, but what happens if Dohlar withdraws from the jihad? I think we’re all in agreement that our minimum requirement would be a formal withdrawal, one which is officially acknowledged and not just another unilateral ‘we’re not going to fight anymore’ informal arrangement like Desnair’s.”

She looked around the table, saw agreement on every other face, and shrugged.

“That sort of formal withdrawal—a surrender, really, whatever it’s called—by a Mainland realm would have an enormous impact on morale in the Border States, North Harchong, and even the Temple Lands. We all know Clyntahn will rant, rave, and thunder anathemas, and I don’t doubt he’ll make ‘examples’ of any Dohlaran he can possibly accuse of ‘complicity’ in the ‘betrayal of Mother Church.’” Her beautiful face twisted in an expression of distaste. “I’m sure the certainty he’d do exactly that would be a hard pill for Thirsk and Ahlverez to swallow, too. But no matter how he tries to spin it, he won’t be able to hide the fact that the Church’s most effective ally—a Mainland ally, not just another of those barbarian Out Island realms, and the one whose navy the Group of Four’s own propaganda’s held up as their counterweight for the ICN—has abandoned them. And if, as I’m sure would happen, Thirsk, Ahlverez and, possibly even Maik, denounce Clyntahn and the Group of Four as the corrupters of Mother Church they actually are.…”

Her voice trailed off, and Stohnar nodded firmly.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m with Daryus where the price for Dohlar’s earlier actions is concerned, but we’re hardly alone in that. And if they’re willing to formally and officially denounce Clyntahn and his friends, that would be a pretty hefty installment on the debt, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I know that’s not an easy thing to accept,” Cayleb said quietly. “Truth to tell, it won’t be an easy choice for me and Sharleyan, either. And it’s not one we’ll have to make until and unless Thirsk and Ahlverez decide they have to act, come up with a plan, and actually make it work. Trust me,” his tone turned grim, “if they try and fail, the price Clyntahn will exact from the entire Kingdom’s likely to be a lot higher than either of us would ever have asked for.”

“Absolutely, Your Majesty,” Fardhym said. The archbishop’s expression was troubled—not by doubt, but by his concern for the lives of any of God’s children. “I trust no one will be offended if I spend a few Wednesdays praying for them, as well as for their success.”

“I’m sure Maikel will be doing exactly the same thing in Tellesberg, Your Grace,” Cayleb assured him. “For that matter, I don’t have the same sort of … access you two have, but I may find myself spending a little time on my own knees over them.”

Silence fell again, lingering for several seconds until Stohnar straightened in his chair again and inhaled.

“That was certainly some of the best potential news I’ve heard in a long time,” he said briskly. “However, we have a few more immediate concerns right here in the Republic, and I think we’d better get back to those status reports from the northern front if we want to finish in time for dinner. Cayleb, the first point I’d like to consider is the Army of Tarikah’s supply position. I know Baron Green Valley’s said he’s satisfied, but—”

* * *

Quite a few of the spectators crowding the batteries and steadily expanding quays seemed to have trouble believing their eyes, Earl Sharpfield thought dryly. That was fair enough. He was having a little trouble in that regard.

HMS Gwylym Manthyr had waited until full light to make her way across Shell Sound and then through North Channel into Hardship Bay. She’d taken North Channel because it was wider and quite a bit deeper than Snake Channel, and Halcom Bahrns obviously had no intention of putting his magnificent new command onto a sandbar. For all her size, Gwylym Manthyr’s normal draft was actually only three feet deeper than a Rottweiler-class ironclad’s, but it seemed impossible, looking at her, that that could be true, and he didn’t blame Bahrns one bit for his caution.

Saluting guns boomed from the battery, and Manthyr replied with a timed ripple of smoke from her larboard four-inch breechloaders. The cheers rising along with the salute were deafening, and it was a bit difficult for Sharpfield to remember his dignity and not join them. Not that anyone would have held it against him, under the circumstances.

The enormous, gray-hulled monster moved across the harbor’s tiny waves with preposterous, majestic grace, gliding through the water, turning back a thin mustache of white and leaving a brief, glassy smoothness in her wake. Not a man watching her could doubt that he looked upon the final doom of the Royal Dohlaran Navy. Sharpfield was no different in that respect, but in some ways he was actually happier to see the columns of smoke following her out of North Channel.

There were four of them, each rising from a ship barely twenty feet shorter than Gwylym Manthyr herself. They weren’t warships. In fact, those tall, boxy, slab-sided hulls weren’t armed at all. Their only defense was the fact that no hostile warship in the world could possibly catch one of them, but in their own way, they were even more dangerous to Charis’ foes than Manthyr.

“Victory ships.” That was what Emperor Cayleb had christened them when the Duke of Delthak—only he’d still been simple Master Ehdwyrd Howsmyn at the time—first proposed them, and that’s precisely what they were: the first steam-powered, ocean-going cargo vessels in the world. These four, like the eight sister ships still completing behind them, had steel frames and wooden planking. The next flight were already well into construction, however, and they’d be steel-hulled, as well as framed. They’d also be at least a little faster, but Sharpfield wasn’t about to complain about what he had. Each of those four ships could carry just over ten thousand tons of cargo, five times as much as the largest galleon in the world, for ten thousand miles at a constant speed of almost thirteen knots, regardless of wind conditions, on a single bunkerload of coal.

He didn’t have a complete list of their present cargo, since—like Manthyr—they’d far outrun any dispatches. He did know, in general terms at least, what was supposed to be aboard them, however, and he smiled thinly at the thought.

Manthyr slowed still further as Bahrns reversed power. She was barely ghosting through the water now, and a fountain of white erupted as her anchor plunged into the harbor.

And now, Sharpfield told himself, starting down the stone stairs to the launch bobbing at their feet, it’s time for me to go inspect my new toy. And it’s not even God’s Day!

He chuckled at the thought, but then the chuckle stopped and he frowned thoughtfully.

Well, maybe that’s not really true, he reflected. It won’t formally be God’s Day until July, but the Writ teaches that every day belongs to Him, and just this minute, He’s in the process of showing those bastards in Zion whose side He’s really on, isn’t He? Because when Manthyr turns up in Gorath Bay, the message will be pretty damned clear.