.XIII.

HMS Chihiro, 50, Gorath Bay, City of Gorath, Kingdom of Dohlar

“What do you think of the new weapons, Stywyrt?”

The Earl of Thirsk tipped back in his chair. The cabin skylight was open, and voices floated down from the quarterdeck as Haarahld Bradlai, Chihiro’s third lieutenant, put the topmen through sail drill. It was a familiar, homey sound for any seaman, Thirsk reflected, and the quarter windows were open as well. Combined with the wind scoop rigged to the skylight, they created a gentle breeze, and fresh air stirred throughout his cabin. It plucked at the corners of the notes paper-weighted down on his blotter, and he inhaled deeply, smelling the familiar scents of harbor water, tar, and timbers. Among those gently flapping notes were the diagrams of the newly approved artillery shells and fuses the Navy and Army of God were putting into production in the far-off Temple Lands. They’d be going into production quite soon in Dohlar, as well, and his index finger tapped one of the drawings as he looked across at his flag captain.

“I’m glad we’ll have them, too, My Lord … I suppose,” Captain Stywyrt Baiket replied after a moment. Then he made a face. “Mind you, I’d just as soon nobody had them, judging from the reports out of Iythria. Since we can’t take them away from the damned Charisians, though, I’m a lot happier now that we can at least respond in kind.”

Baiket, Thirsk had noticed, had fallen into his own bad habits. He seldom referred to Charisians as “heretics” any longer—probably because, like his admiral, Chihiro’s commanding officer felt personally dirtied by what had happened to Gwylym Manthyr and the other Charisians who’d surrendered to the Royal Dohlaran Navy, trusting in its honor. Of course, his flag captain’s rot could go deeper than that, as well. God knew it did among all too many of the navy’s personnel, he thought sardonically. Reformism was dangerous to one’s health in any of the mainland realms, yet it was making a sort of creeping progress anyway, and Dohlar was no exception. Personally, Thirsk thought that was largely a response to the Inquisition’s brutality. The Writ might specify the Punishment of Schueler for heresy, but it was hard for good men and women to watch it happen, whatever God might demand of them.

And it’s harder still when deep inside so many of them are beginning to wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, the Charisians’ve been right about Clyntahn all along, he thought. Especially when the Church of Charis specifically renounces the Punishment and permits Temple Loyalists to maintain their own churches, even in the middle of Tellesberg itself. Not to mention when they listen to the difference between what Clyntahn and someone like Maikel Staynair has to say.

He didn’t know if Baiket was one of the Dohlarans beginning to read the printed broadsides which, despite the Inquisition’s best efforts, continued to appear mysteriously on walls in most of Dohlar’s major cities—the ones which regularly quoted sermons by the heretical archbishop—and he’d made it a point not to find out. He wouldn’t have been too terribly surprised if the answer had been yes, however.

“I think I agree with you,” he said now, running his finger across the diagram’s neat lines and frowning. “It was bad enough when Charis introduced the new model artillery. Langhorne!” He shook his head, recalling the terror of thundering broadsides off the coast of Armageddon Reef. “I thought it couldn’t get any worse. But now.…”

He allowed his voice to trail off and shook his head. The reports they’d received about Iythria had obviously been heavily edited, which struck him as a particularly foolish thing to be doing at a time like this. He understood all the arguments about preventing moral and spiritual corruption, but surely it was more important than ever that Mother Church’s commanders knew the truth about the weapons they faced! If they didn’t, how were they supposed to fight her enemies effectively? And how was any officer, be he ever so loyal, supposed to believe the information he was allowed to see was truthful and accurate when so much else obviously was not? And how was that same officer supposed to know what vital bit of information might have been left out in the editing process by clerics who simply weren’t equipped by training or experience to recognize its importance? But they’d edited his own reports after the Battle of Armageddon Reef and Crag Hook, and they’d done the same thing after the Battle of the Gulf of Tarot, so it hadn’t really surprised him when they did it again in Iythria’s case.

He didn’t for a minute believe the allegations of cowardice and treason leveled against Baron Jahras and Duke Kholman, however. They wouldn’t have suffered the casualties they’d suffered if they’d just rolled over and supinely surrendered the way the official report insisted they had. And after they’d surrendered, “deserting” to Charis—and getting their families out of the Inquisition’s reach—had been their only real option. Still, he expected most of the actual information about the Charisians’ weapons was relatively accurate. That would certainly explain the casualties Jahras had suffered before his ships began surrendering, at any rate, and that part of the report made grim reading for the commander of the last battle-worthy fleet Mother Church possessed.

On the other hand, there’s battle-worthy, and then there’s battle-worthy, he thought with mordant humor. Generally speaking, the term does normally connote an ability to meet the enemy in something like reasonably equal numbers with at least some chance of beating him, after all.

“I think the one thing we can count on, My Lord, is that things are going to go right on getting worse.” Baiket’s tone was bleak. “That’s what’s happened for the last four or five years, and I don’t see any sign of its slowing down anytime soon. And with this business in the Republic now, we’re going to be even more hard-pressed to keep the Navy ready to fight. Or even intact, for that matter!”

“Duke Fern assures me our funding and manpower priorities won’t be changed,” Thirsk replied. Their gazes met, and Thirsk was hard-put not to snort as he recognized the matching skepticism in the flag captain’s eyes. “Nonetheless,” he continued in an admirably steady tone, almost as if he actually believed a word of what he’d just said, “it would be ridiculous to assume there aren’t going to be consequences where any improvements to the fleet are concerned.”

And Thorast sure as Shan-wei isn’t going to try to stop it from happening, either, he added in the privacy of his own thoughts.

Aibram Zaivyair, the Duke of Thorast, might officially be in charge of King Rahnyld’s navy, but like the vast majority of that navy’s senior officers—up until the Battle of Armageddon Reef, at least—he was actually an army officer. As such, he’d never really been sympathetic to the navy’s claims whenever they seemed to conflict with those of the army. And given the fact that Thirsk had been right when Thorast’s brother-in-law, Duke Malikai, had completely ignored Thirsk’s advice and sailed the entire navy into disaster, the more Thirsk argued for a sane naval policy, the less likely Thorast was to listen. Only the Duke of Fern’s unremitting pressure had forced Thorast to tolerate Thirsk’s reforms at all, and not even the kingdom’s first councilor could prevent him from dragging his feet every step of the way. Or from seizing any remotely plausible excuse for favoring any of Thirsk’s rivals, whether in or out of the navy.

At the moment, Langhorne knew Thorast was in a position to find any number of excuses to do just that. Nor did it help that Shain Hauwyl, the Duke of Salthar, who commanded the Royal Army in Rahnyld VII’s name, had picked Sir Rainos Ahlverez to command the army massing even now to invade the Republic. Ahlverez was the deceased Duke Malikai’s first cousin, and while he was demonstrably smarter than his cousin had been, that wasn’t really saying much. Malikai could have made anyone look smarter by simply opening his mouth in the same room with him. And, smarter or not, Rainos wasn’t about to let anything as trivial as rationality get in the way of his hatred for his cousin’s “betrayer.” He could be expected to fight tooth and nail for every man, every musket, and every artillery piece he could get, not simply because he legitimately needed them, or despite the fact that it would take those same resources away from the navy, but because it would take them away from the navy … and its commander.

“I suppose that’s inevitable, My Lord,” Baiket agreed. “Have you heard anything more about when the Army’s going to be ready to march?”

“Not officially, no. I imagine a lot of it depends on the weather, and judging from reports of how badly the Republic’s food supplies’ve been hit, logistics are going to be a nightmare. I’m no general, but when the civilians along your route are already starving, it seems unlikely you’ll be able to forage for much in the way of supplies, which means hauling everything your troops are going to eat along with you as you go, and there are only so many canals and rivers.” Thirsk shrugged, his expression grim. “I know we’re being told to plan to expect a major supply lift through the Gulf of Tanshar to Dairnyth, and the Army’s already gathering galleons and coasters to carry it out. That’s going to have its own implications for us, I’m sure. After all, if I were the Charisians and I found out about it, I’d probably try to make our lives difficult as soon as I could.”

“Wonderful.” Baiket shook his head. “Is there any chance we’re going to have enough of these … ‘shells’”—he used the new term carefully—“before that happens? Just in case the Charisians, who obviously do have them, should decide to be as difficult as you’d be in their place, My Lord, you understand.”

“I think that’s … unlikely,” Thirsk replied.

In fact, the army had been promised priority on the new ammunition as soon as it became available. In theory, at least, the first shipments of shells would be arriving from the Temple Lands within the next month, and the foundries which had been producing naval artillery were already turning out the first new fieldpieces to make use of them. He couldn’t deny that, in many ways, that was a sensible provision on someone’s part, since the army was obviously going to need the new weapons in the next few months, whereas the navy was halfway around the world from the Charisians. Unfortunately, the Imperial Charisian Navy had already proven it was perfectly capable of—and willing to—operate halfway around the world. And, as it had proven in the Gulf of Jahras, its most recent improvements to its already fiendishly effective artillery meant it would be able to hit with devastating power if it should decide to extend the same treatment to Gorath Bay. Admittedly, the Gulf of Dohlar provided a far greater degree of defensive depth to Gorath than the Gulf of Jahras had provided for the city of Iythria, but Thirsk was grimly certain an adversary like Cayleb Ahrmahk would send his navy wherever he thought it needed to be sent, regardless of the difficulties involved.

Despite which, given King Rahnyld’s unambiguous orders to support the Temple Loyalists in Siddarmark against the lord protector—and Rainos Ahlverez’ and the Duke of Thorast’s attitudes towards one Lywys Gardynyr—it wasn’t just unlikely the navy would be seeing the new ammunition even after the army’s needs had been met. The only good news was his confidence that he could rely on Bishop Staiphan Maik to support his efforts to get the output of shells from at least one of the navy’s own foundries diverted to his fleet. It wouldn’t be much, even if they succeeded, but at least it would offer some chance to get a trickle of the new projectiles into his men’s hands so they could begin training with them. And to give his navy the opportunity to inflict at least some losses on the Imperial Charisian Navy if it should come calling during his efforts to supply the army through the Gulf of Transhar.

I’m sure even Thorast would approve of my managing that much, he thought grimly. Or maybe not. That bastard would probably be perfectly happy to see the Army starve—and pillage the people it’s supposed to be protecting just to survive—if he got to put my head on a stick for “failing to support” Ahlverez’ needs properly!

“I believe in miracles, My Lord,” Baiket said, “but I hope His Majesty’s ministers are remembering the archangels help those who help themselves.”

The flag captain’s voice had taken on a dangerously pointed tone, and Thirsk gave him a cautioning glance. After a moment, Baiket inhaled deeply and sat back in his chair.

“Well, at least once we do get shells of our own, we’ll be able to respond to the Charisians in kind.” He grimaced. “It sounds like it’s going to be a damned bloodbath no matter what we do, My Lord, so I suppose the best we can hope for is to make it just as bad a bloodbath for the other side.”

“In some ways, that’s how it’s always been,” Thirsk replied. “Not that I don’t take your point, Stywyrt,” he added, remembering a conversation of his own with Bishop Staiphan. “I don’t really like to think about it this way,” he went on, “but if we could count on exchanging losses on an equal basis with the Charisians, or even on a two-to-one basis in their favor, we’d win in the end simply because we’ve got more bodies to throw at them. Unfortunately, that’s a formula that works better for armies on land than it does for navies at sea, because we’ve got to build the damned ships as well.”

“I hope you won’t mind me saying this, My Lord, but that’s not the way you’ve been teaching us to win battles.”

“No, but unless we can figure out some way to successfully protect a ship against these new explosive shells, sea battles are going to turn into mutual suicide pacts. Oh, I’m not going to give up on the theory that with proper tactics you can still mass fire and eliminate enemy units faster than they can eliminate yours, but it’s going to be like fighting a duel at twenty paces with carronades loaded with grapeshot.”

“There’s a mental image I could’ve done without, My Lord,” Baiket said dryly.

“I’m not enamored of it myself, Stywyrt. And I may be being overly pessimistic, but I don’t really think so. Not judging by the reports from Iythria. I think it’s going to be a matter of the fellow who fires first winning, since right at this moment I don’t really see any way to effectively protect a galleon against shellfire.”

“That idea of draping chains to protect the sides of the hull sounded to me as if it had some promise, My Lord.”

“It probably does, but there’s only so much anchor chain to go around. I’ve had Ahlvyn and Ahbail out canvassing every ship and every warehouse on the waterfront, and it seems a lot of old anchor chains’ve been melted down to make guns out ofthese days.” The earl grimaced a smile at his flag captain. “And looking at these diagrams,” he tapped the sketch on his desk again, “I’m less confident than I was about their stopping a shell with walls this thick at short ranges, anyway. It looks like it’s going to be heavier and hit with more force than I’d expected when I came up with the notion. I still think it’ll help, possibly a great deal, but we’re still looking for a better option, too.”

“I see, My Lord. Well—”

The sentry outside Thirsk’s quarters thumped the butt of his musket on the deck.

“Commander Khapahr to see the Admiral!” he announced, and Paiair Sahbrahan, Thirsk’s valet, emerged from his cubbyhole to scurry over and open the door.

“Forgive me for interrupting, My Lord,” Commander Ahlvyn Khapahr said, following Sahbrahan into the day cabin and coming to attention with his hat clasped under his arm. He was about thirty, dark-haired and complexioned, with a luxurious mustache. He was also a very smart young officer, in Thirsk’s opinion, which was how he’d come to hold the position which would have been called chief of staff back on Old Earth … or in the Imperial Charisian Navy. He was accompanied by another officer, one Thirsk had never seen before, in a lieutenant’s uniform.

“I knew you were going to be speaking with the Captain about the new weapons,” Khapahr continued, “and I thought I should bring Lieutenant Zhwaigair here to your attention while you’re doing it.”

“Indeed?” Thirsk sat back in his chair, resting his elbows on the chair arms, and regarded Zhwaigair thoughtfully.

Lieutenant Zhwaigair was even younger than Khapahr—indeed, he was probably younger than Sir Ahbail Bahrdailahn, Thirsk’s flag lieutenant—with fair hair and eyes that hovered between hazel and brown. He was a well-muscled fellow, and quite tall; he had to stand with hunched shoulders and a bent neck to clear the deckhead without cracking his skull. Thirsk was a much shorter man, and he felt a pang of sympathy as he imagined how many self-inflicted headaches Zhwaigair must have enjoyed aboard ship.

“And why did you think you should bring the Lieutenant to my attention, Ahlvyn?” he asked mildly.

“Because he has an idea. It sounds pretty ridiculous at first, and I’ll admit I wasn’t particularly interested when he brought it to my attention this morning, In fact, I was distinctly not interested, but he’s a persistent sort, and since you had me inventorying those elusive, vanishing anchor chains, I decided I was, ah, willing to lay aside my vital labors long enough to hear him out.” The commander smiled at his superior, but then his expression sobered. “As it turns out, I’m glad I did. As I say, it sounded ridiculous when he started, but what he had to say actually began to make sense when I listened to it. A lot of sense, in fact, I think.”

Zhwaigair looked distinctly nervous. Unless Thirsk was mistaken, though, most of that nervousness came from finding himself face-to-face with an admiral, not from any doubt over whatever bizarre idea he might have in mind. Those oddly colored eyes were too level and steady for a man who felt uncertainty.

“All right.” The earl waved one hand in an inviting gesture. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me about this idea of yours, Lieutenant Zhwaigair?”

“I’ve actually taken the liberty of asking the Lieutenant to bring along some sketches of his proposal, My Lord,” Khapahr put in, beckoning at the heavy envelope under Zhwaigair’s right elbow.

“And I’ll be delighted to look at them … probably,” Thirsk said pleasantly. “First, however, let’s hear the Lieutenant explain it to me. After all,” he smiled, “if it turns out to be a good idea, I’m likely to find myself explaining it to quite a few people who aren’t going to be interested in looking at sketches and diagrams. Perhaps I can pick up a few pointers from the Lieutenant that will help me impress them if that happens.”

Zhwaigair flinched ever so slightly before the earl’s smile, but his eyes met Thirsk’s steadily, and the admiral noted that steadiness with approval.

“Very well, My Lord,” Zhwaigair’s voice was deeply resonant, despite his youth. “What I’ve actually been thinking about are the rumors about what happened at Iythria and what we might do, if it turned out they were accurate, to improve our own chances against the heretics. I haven’t had access to any of the official reports, but from what I’ve heard it seems evident the heretics’ve found a way to make their round shot explode. I’m assuming that means they’ve found a way to put a charge of powder inside a hollowed-out shot and somehow convince it to explode after it hits its target, which strikes me as a bit more of a challenge than some people might think.” He grimaced quickly. “My family’s been foundry workers since my great-grandfather’s day, My Lord,” he explained, “and I spent five years apprenticed to my Uncle Thomys before I joined the Navy. In fact, that’s why Admiral Tyrnyr assigned me to help develop the new gun carriages and mountings. So I suspect I have a better notion than most people would of some of the difficulties the heretics must’ve faced in making hollow, exploding shot work, especially when it came to making them explode reliably and consistently. At any rate, though, those are the stories I’ve heard, and I’ve heard some … additional rumors”—he seemed to be picking his words carefully, Thirsk noticed—“that it may be possible for us to … acquire the same sort of ammunition.”

The last six words came out in a slight but clearly discernible questioning tone, and Thirsk regarded him thoughtfully. No one had expressly told him the information about the new ammunition was to be kept secret, and it was unlikely any Charisian spies were going to be able to run all the way to Tellesberg from Gorath Bay to tell Cayleb Ahrmahk about it before its existence was demonstrated in combat. Of the other hand, no one had told him he could start waving around the reports, either.

“I think, Lieutenant,” he said after a moment, “that you should probably assume that if one set of rumors was accurate, there’s probably also at least some accuracy to the other. Could I ask exactly how this relates to whatever this idea of yours is?”

“Well, My Lord, it occurred to me that if the rumors were true, each hit was going to become much more dangerous. Put another way, it’s going to take a lot less hits to beat a ship into surrender—or even destroy it outright—which means it’s going to be more important to shoot accurately and actually hit an opponent—consistently, I mean—than it is to simply line up a lot of guns and blaze away in hopes at least some of your shots will find the enemy.”

“I’d say that’s not unreasonable … with”—Thirsk’s tone was desert-dry—“the minor caveat that my experience has been that the more rounds you fire, the greater your chance that you will score a hit.”

“Agreed, My Lord. Certainly.” Zhwaigair nodded, acknowledging the point yet clearly unfazed by the earl’s irony. “But there are other factors than simply the number of guns. For example, how well trained your gunners are, how inherently accurate their weapons are, how big their target is, how steady your gun platform is, and perhaps most importantly of all, especially if both sides are using exploding shot, how readily you can maneuver your ship to give your gunners the best chance of hitting while giving the other fellow’s gunners the worst possible chance of hitting you in return. Or, that would seem to be the case to me, at any rate.”

“I can’t argue with any of that, either,” Thirsk agreed, steepling his fingers beneath his chin while he wondered where the lieutenant might be taking all this.

“Well, when I’d gotten that far, My Lord, it occurred to me there might be ways to make those other factors work for us. For example, I suspect that with a longer barrel, bored to tighter tolerances, we could considerably increase accuracy at extended ranges. With more time for the shot to accelerate before it leaves the muzzle, we’d probably get a flatter, more accurate trajectory even at closer ranges, but more importantly, the longer the range at which you can begin reliably hitting your opponent, the better, especially if he can’t match the range with his own weapons. In fact, I’ve had another thought, based on the new rifled muskets. If it’s truly possible to fire exploding shot out of a cannon, then it seems to me it would be worthwhile to consider whether or not it would be possible to rifle the cannon the same way we’re rifling muskets now. That wouldn’t simply increase accuracy, either; like lengthening the gun tube, it would probably extend the piece’s maximum range well beyond what a smoothbore can achieve, since a rifled projectile would have to have less windage, which ought to mean more of the force of the gunpowder could be trapped behind it before it leaves the gun.”

Thirsk’s eyes widened, and he darted a quick look at Baiket, whose expression looked as surprised by the suggestion’s audacity as the earl felt. And especially, Thirsk realized an instant later, by the realization that what Zhwaigair had just suggested had to be possible. Perhaps not simple, and not easy, but clearly if a musket ball could be rifled, then so could an exploding artillery shell. It was simply a matter of scale, after all. And if an exploding shell could be rifled—

“It also occurred to me,” Zhwaigair went on, apparently oblivious to Thirsk’s surprise, “that since one gun, firing exploding shot, will undoubtedly be able to do the work of many guns firing solid shot, it might be worthwhile to think about ways in which we could bring our guns to bear while presenting the enemy with the smallest possible target, even if that meant a reduction in the total number of guns we could bring to bear. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that what matters is the ratio of hits, not the ratio of guns, and that a bigger exploding shot is probably going to do much more damage than a smaller exploding shot, since the bigger shot can carry a bigger charge of power with it. So anything that made our ships harder to hit would be worthwhile as long as we still managed to hit them reliably and consistently, with the biggest guns possible. And when I thought about that for a bit longer, it fitted rather neatly with another thought I’d had a year or so ago.”

“And what thought would that have been, Lieutenant?” Thirsk asked intently, watching Zhwaigair through narrowed eyes, half frightened of where this remarkable young man might be about to go next.

“An alternative to the galleon, at least in coastal waters, My Lord.” Zhwaigair smiled for the first time, wryly. “At the time, it seemed best to keep any such notions to myself, since you appeared to be having difficulties enough convincing the Navy we needed galleons for blue water without someone coming along and proposing a new style of galley, instead. But it did seem to me the galley still retained several advantages over the galleon, especially in coastal waters or river defense. It was far more maneuverable, for one thing, and much less dependent on wind conditions. Obviously, with the new broadside artillery arrangements the traditional galley wasn’t practical any longer, but it seemed to me it might be useful to find a way to hang onto its advantages, if we could find a way that let us offset or eliminate it’s disadvantages. So I came up with an idea I think would let us do that.”

“You came up with what?” Baiket asked, startled into interrupting. He looked quickly at Thirsk, but the earl only waved his hand and kept his gaze on Zhwaigair.

“I really do need to show you one of my sketches to make this make sense, My Lord,” the lieutenant said apologetically.

“Then bring it out, Lieutenant. You’re beginning to interest me.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Zhwaigair opened his envelope and drew out a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it on Thirsk’s desk, and the earl’s eyes turned even more intent as he gazed at it.

“The galley’s two biggest disadvantages are endurance, since it’s dependent on the backs and arms of its rowers, and, obviously, the need to use its entire broadside length for banks of oars, instead of guns. I couldn’t see any way to get around the advantages sail and wind power offer in terms of endurance, no matter what we might change about the way we apply muscle power to movement, but it did seem to me there was a way to move the galley without oars.”

Baiket scowled skeptically, but Thirsk only cocked his head and looked down at Zhwaigair’s drawing. It was neatly done, with labels and arrows pointing to different parts of it, and the lieutenant traced it with his finger.

“As I said earlier, My Lord, my Uncle Thomys is an ironmaster in Bess,” he said, “and this is something he came up with some years ago to improve the draft on his forging hearths. It’s called a ‘crankshaft’ because, as you can see, that’s basically what it is, and it’s been used to power small machines for as long as anyone can remember. A lot of the bigger, dragon-drawn fire engines use something like this, too, although a lever pump’s more common on horse-drawn engines, since it can be smaller and lighter. But the crankshaft lets the larger engines build much greater water pressure, since you can put a lot more men on it at once. The practice for larger foundry machines has normally been to use horses, or possibly mules or even donkeys, on a sakia gear if the power’s going to be required for a lengthy period and there’s no convenient water source available for a waterwheel.

“What Uncle Thomys did was come up with a crankshaft a lot longer than the ones we usually use—long enough he could put more workmen on it and generate a lot more power. A dozen or so of his men stand side by side in two lines with the crankshaft between them. Then, when he needs to increase the draft, they turn it, using these offset grips here and here. Actually, to be completely accurate, they’re the ‘cranks,’ and the shaft is this long bit, here, that actually rotates. You can think of it as a really big version of a carpenter’s brace and bit, if you like.”

The lieutenant tapped the drawing, looking up to meet Thirsk’s eyes.

“It’s actually a remarkably efficient way to transfer energy, when you come down to it, My Lord. And while I was thinking about ways to make galleys better, I realized that if it were possible to connect a crankshaft like this to the same sort of … impeller or fan blade he uses in his hearth, there’s no reason those blades couldn’t be submerged, where they could push water instead of air. When you come down to it, that’s all oars really do—push water, I mean—and anyone who’s ever used a hand fan knows how much more efficiently a rotary fan pushes air. I imagine the same thing would be true of water, and if you had enough men on the crank, and if your impeller was big enough, it could actually move the galley without oars. Better yet, to work effectively, the crankshaft would have to be in the middle of the ship, just above the keel, which would put it below any gundecks. In fact, it would be below the waterline, which would protect it from enemy shot. You’d have to change out the men on the crank at frequent intervals because of fatigue, of course, which is the main reason animal power’s always been preferred if it has to be provided for extended periods. But my calculations suggest you’d need fewer men on the crank, assuming my assumptions about the relative efficiency of impellers and oars are accurate, than you’d need on the oars of a regular galley. In fact, it’s even possible—I haven’t tried to work out the numbers on this, you understand, My Lord, since I don’t have any way to demonstrate how accurate my assumptions about impeller efficiency actually are—that it might be possible to install two crankshafts and two impellers in a single vessel. If that turned out to be possible, you might be able to increase your galley’s speed quite a bit, at least in relatively short bursts. Endurance would still be a factor, but I can’t think of any reason why you couldn’t put masts and sails on it for cruising between engagements. We did that for years and years with traditional galleys, and they only went to oars for maneuvering purposes or to enter battle. And with crankshafts and impellers, we wouldn’t need to stack oardecks on top of each other, so we could probably build a less lofty, more weatherly galley with the same propulsive power.”

“Langhorne,” Thirsk said softly, looking at the drawing, trying to think of some reason why it wouldn’t work.

“I’ve built a model, My Lord,” Zhwaigair continued. “It’s only a fifteen-footer, and I can only get four men on the crank at once, but it does work. On that scale, at any rate.”

“I’ll want to see it, Lieutenant,” Thirsk told him, and Zhwaigair nodded.

“Of course, My Lord. I’ll be honored to show it to you.”

“And you said something about reducing target size, as well, I believe?” the earl continued, looking at him very intently indeed now.

“Yes, My Lord. It seemed to me that if the … crank galley, for want of a better term, was practical at all, it might be possible to build ships half the size, or even a third the size, of our present galleons—something a lot closer in size to our prewar galleys, or even a bit smaller—that could still be effective warships. They wouldn’t be remotely as useful as galleons off soundings, but in coastal waters they could be very useful indeed. They’d be fast, small, much more maneuverable, and shallower draft. And, especially now, with exploding shot, smaller size might actually be an advantage in combat. If we mounted three or four guns in the bow, to fire straight ahead, and protected them with the thickest possible wooden bulwarks—possibly faced with some kind of iron plate or something like that to break up incoming shot, or at least keep them from penetrating—a handful of the heaviest possible guns would be capable of sinking the biggest galleon the heretics have with only a handful of hits. The idea would be to outmaneuver the heretics’ galleons, staying out of their broadside firing arcs as much as possible, and present only the protected bow and the crank galley’s own artillery to them.” He shrugged, looking up from the drawing to meet Thirsk’s eyes. “We wouldn’t have as much total firepower on any given crank galley as they’d have on one of their galleons, My Lord, but a squadron of crank galleys—or even an entire fleet of them—could be quite a different story. And with no oars to get in the way, they could probably mount a moderately heavy broadside of carronades for close action if somebody managed to get around them and maneuver out of their own firing arcs.”

“Assuming it’s possible, I think you might very well have a point, Lieutenant,” Thirsk said slowly. He stood looking down at the crankshaft drawing for several seconds, then inhaled deeply and nodded.

“Ahlvyn,” he looked at the commander, “I’ll want to see the Lieutenant’s boat as soon as possible. Arrange that—for this afternoon, if we can manage it. And please ask Ahbail and Mahrtyn to make themselves available afterward. If the Lieutenant’s demonstration is as successful as he seems to think it will be, I imagine I’ll have quite a few letters to write. Oh, and send a messenger immediately to Bishop Staiphan. Ask him to repair aboard Chihiro at his earliest convenience. I’d like him to see the Lieutenant’s boat at the same time I do.”

“Of course, My Lord.” Khapahr smiled, stroking his mustache with a pleased—one might almost have said complacent—expression, and Thirsk shook his head at him.

“All right, Ahlvyn, I’ll go ahead and say it. You were right to bring the lieutenant to see me directly … even if you did use it mainly as an excuse to abandon the anchor chain hunt. Now go and do something else virtuous. And, Lieutenant,” he turned back to Zhwaigair, “do me the favor of keeping yourself available aboard Chihiro for the rest of the day, if you please.”

“My Lord, I’m expected back aboard Wave Lord. I have the afternoon watch.”

“Commander Khapahr will see to that, Lieutenant.”

“In that case, My Lord, I’m at your service.”

Zhwaigair bowed slightly, and Thirsk nodded back. Then he watched Khapahr and the lieutenant withdraw from his day cabin, taking Zhwaigair’s envelope with them.

“Shan-wei, My Lord,” Baiket said quietly as the door closed behind them. “I thought he was out of his mind, but if he really can make all this work, or even just half of it.…”

“I know, Stywyrt.” Thirsk nodded again, then crossed to brace his hands on the quarter window, leaning his weight on its sill as he looked out across the anchorage. “I know. Of course,” he smiled mirthlessly, “if young Zhwaigair really is onto something, it’s going to cost Shan-wei’s own pile of marks to do anything with it. I’m sure you can imagine how well that’s going to please certain of our superiors, especially with the situation in the Republic. And none of this is going to be available in the next five-day, whatever we do. But the possibilities … the possibilities, Stywyrt.” He shook his head, his eyes bright with wonder. “For the first time—”

He broke off and straightened with a shrug, and Baiket frowned as he looked at his admiral’s back, wondering what Thirsk had just stopped himself from saying.

Thirsk couldn’t see the flag captain’s expression, but it wouldn’t have surprised him. Not that he had any intention of completing his thought where Baiket or anyone else was likely to overhear it.

But it’s true, he thought. For the first time—the very first time since this rolling disaster began—we may actually have the opportunity to introduce something the Charisians won’t see coming!

He was vaguely amazed by the fierceness of his satisfaction at the thought. It didn’t magically change any of his other concerns or worries, didn’t suddenly fill him with confidence Clyntahn and the Group of Four were truly on God and the archangels’ side, after all. Nor did it make him feel any cleaner about what had happened to Gwylym Manthyr’s men. But Lywys Gardynyr was a fighting man, one who’d had his fill and more than his fill of leading his seamen into battle against someone whose weapons and ships were always superior to anything he could give them.

That could be about to change, he told himself. But before I start sending letters to anyone like Thorast or Fern, I’d better have a word or two—or possibly three—with Bishop Staiphan. We need someone like Zhwaigair—in fact, we need as many of him as we can get!—but that doesn’t mean some fool of an Inquisitor won’t decide he’s dabbling in the forbidden, especially if they realize just how many new ideas he has. I’m not going to offer him up to the Inquisition until I’m sure someone with enough seniority—and enough deeper into the Inquisition’s favor than I am—is in a position to protect him.

He looked out over the harbor, and his expression tightened at the thought. How had the world become this insane? What kind of madness required an admiral to worry about protecting a man who wanted only to serve Mother Church—to find better ways to defend Mother Church—from Mother Church’s own inquisitors? What could the archangels be thinking to let it happen?

Lywys Gardynyr had no answer for any of those questions, but he did know Dynnys Zhwaigair was far too valuable to lose … no matter what he had to do to protect him from that murderous idiot in Zion.