NOVEMBER, YEAR OF GOD 895
. I.
HMS Destiny, 54, Schueler Strait, and Tellesberg Palace, City of Tellesberg, Kingdom of Old Charis
“Gentlemen, thank you for coming.”
Most of the faces around the polished wooden table in Sir Dunkyn Yairley’s day cabin were worn with weariness, grooved with lines of fatigue, and adorned with at least a day or two of stubble. Yairley, however, was clean-shaven and brisk, his eyes bright, without any sign of exhaustion, which was something of a miracle under the circumstances.
Somehow (and most of his captains didn’t know how, really, even now) his squadron had made its departure time, sailing on the evening tide almost exactly five five-days earlier. Since then, for reasons none of them knew, Yairley had driven them as if Shan-wei herself were in pursuit and gaining steadily. He’d informed them that he intended to be off Schueler Strait within twenty-eight days, which most of them had regarded as an outright impossibility. Instead, he’d done it in only twenty- six, which had required him to maintain an average speed of almost eight and a half knots. Topgallants, royals, staysails, studding sails-he’d set every scrap of canvas that would draw, and refused to reduce sail until he absolutely had to. He’d even ignored the Navy tradition of “reefing down,” reducing sail and taking a precautionary reef in his topsails every night, lest some squall, unseen in the darkness, overtake a ship under too much canvas and rip the masts out of her or even drive her bodily under.
He hadn’t told them why, he’d only told them how and then driven them like a slave master, and to their total astonishment, they’d actually done it. Now the squadron’s ships lay hove-to in the mouth of the strait, their crews sunning on deck despite the brisk, chill weather while they luxuriated in the brief, well-earned (and badly needed) respite and all his captains repaired aboard Destiny where, just perhaps, they might finally learn what all of this was about.
One captain was missing. Captain Daivyn Shailtyn’s Thunderbolt had lost her main topgallant and royal masts when she’d been hit by a sudden gust before she could reduce sail. Some of Yairley’s officers had expected him to take Shailtyn’s head off for letting that happen, but the admiral wasn’t a fool. He knew whose fault it was, and so he’d simply signaled Shailtyn to continue at his best speed to a rendezvous point fifty miles south of Sarm Bank in the approaches to Sarmouth Keep, although why anyone in his right mind would want to go there was something of a puzzle.
Hopefully, they were about to discover that puzzle’s answer.
“I’m sure all of you have wondered what could have possessed me to push our people this hard,” Sir Dunkyn said, as his steward and flag lieutenant silently and efficiently provided each captain with a snifter of brandy. “I can now tell you at least part of the reason, although there are other portions of our orders which must remain confidential for a while longer.”
The captains glanced at each other. Secret orders weren’t exactly unheard of, but they were more heard of than actually seen. And orders whose contents couldn’t be shared aboard vessels hundreds of miles from anywhere in particular were even rarer. Who was going to overhear any careless talk out here, after all?
Yairley watched those thoughts go through his officers’ minds, then cleared his throat gently, recalling their attention to him.
“The squadron is ordered to attack, seize, and destroy Sarmouth Keep,” he told them. “This isn’t simply a raid, Gentlemen; it’s an all-out attack which will leave nothing but rubble where the fortifications are now. In addition, it will include the seizure of any shipping we may encounter in Sarmouth itself and the destruction of the city’s docks, wharves, and warehouses.”
There was silence for a moment, and then Captain Lathyk took a sip of brandy and broke it.
“Excuse me, Sir Dunkyn, but may we know why we’re to destroy Sarmouth?”
His tone could not have been more respectful, yet his expression made it clear he couldn’t think of any conceivable reason for the operation. Sarmouth, in the Earldom of Charlz, was, admittedly, the second-largest seaport of the Kingdom of Delferahk, but that wasn’t saying much. The Sarm River, which emptied into the Southern Ocean at Sarmouth, was over three hundred miles long, flowing all the way from the Sarman Mountains in the Duchy of Yarth. It was navigable (by anything larger than a rowboat, at any rate) for only about a third of its length, however, and Sarmouth itself was little more than a sleepy fishing port with occasional delusions of grandeur when a particularly ambitious Earl of Charlz started trying (usually with a depressing lack of success) to attract trade away from Ferayd. At the moment, it was probably even more of a ghost town than Ferayd, thanks to the systematic Charisian destruction of the Delferahkan merchant marine and Clyntahn’s embargo. Nor was Sarm Keep any more impressive than the “city” it had been built to protect.
“I can’t answer that question completely at this time, Rhobair,” Yairley said after a moment. “I will tell you, however-and this is not to be discussed aboard your ships, even with your first officers-that the primary purpose of the attack is to serve as a distraction. While everyone’s attention is hopefully focused on our noisy efforts to properly wreck everything in sight, we’ll be sending a small party up the Sarm River in boats. The reason I say this isn’t to be discussed outside this cabin is that I want none of our men who might be going ashore during the raid itself to know anything about it. I trust their hearts completely; I’m a little less confident about their tongues.” He smiled briefly. “I want no careless comments ashore to alert any Delferakhan that we might be hanging about to recover those boats.”
The captains glanced at each other again. It was amazing how gaining additional information hadn’t left them any less in the dark.
“I realize you’re all puzzled by the purpose of our orders,” Yairley continued. “I promise I’ll inform you more fully as soon as my own instructions permit. In the meantime, however, it’s vital that we carry out our attack no later than twelve days from today.” One or two sets of eyes widened, and he smiled thinly. “Perhaps you can see now why haste has been so imperative.”
“I think you could safely say that, Sir Dunkyn, yes,” Lathyk said dryly, and two of the others chuckled. Even at the insane rate of speed Yairley had maintained, it would require another six or seven days just to reach Sarmouth, and there was no guarantee they’d be able to maintain that speed. In fact, the odds were against it.
“I thought I could,” Yairley said in an equally dry tone. “Still, I believe we can probably spend the time to properly enjoy the dinner Sylvyst promises me will be the high point of our entire voyage before we get back underway. I’ve taken the liberty of informing your first officers by signal that you’ll be remaining aboard to dine, and I’m confident they’ll take the opportunity to see to it that your people are properly fed, as well. Of course, we’ll be driving as hard as ever as soon as you’ve returned to your ships. I’m sure-Charisians being Charisians-that there’ll be quite a bit of grumbling among your ships’ companies when the people realize that. However, you may inform them that Their Majesties have graciously consented to pay head money for every member of the garrison taken into temporary custody and to pay prize money for destroyed vessels and warehoused goods, based upon a fair valuation.” It was his turn to chuckle. “I know it won’t be much, but I also know Charisian seamen. Telling them they’ll have a few extra marks rattling around in their pockets if they do well always seems to cheer them up, doesn’t it?”
“What is it, Merlin?”
Cayleb Ahrmahk’s question was broken in the middle by a prodigious yawn. He pushed himself up in bed, careful to avoid disturbing Sharleyan, and grimaced as he looked out the bedchamber window.