David Weber - How firm a foundation

“I’m sure Lord Henrai’s been keeping you apprised of most of my activities, My Lord,” she replied. “All of the ones he knew about, anyway.” She gave him a dimpled smile. “Obviously, he didn’t know about quite all of them.”

“We were aware you’d acquired a… modestly substantial number of rifled muskets, My Lady,” he responded. “Obviously we didn’t know everything we should have, of course. For example, none of us realized you’d somehow managed to train men to use them without anyone’s noticing.”

“Well, just buying guns and not learning how to use them properly would be pretty silly, don’t you think?” She smiled again. “I’m sure Master Qwentyn told you I’ve been heavily invested in agriculture for years now, as well. An interesting thing about a big, commercial farm, My Lord-it’s got a lot of empty space. Plenty of room for five or six retired Charisian Marines to train men one company or so at a time without drawing a great deal of attention. Especially if you’ve taken pains over the years to turn any ears that might overhear them into friends of yours by seeing to it that the local freeholders and their families are treated well.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Stohnar said. “And it would appear to be fortunate the Group of Four clearly underestimated you even more badly than we did.”

“They’ve had more experience underestimating me than you might expect, My Lord,” she agreed, and this time her smile was cold and ugly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve crossed swords, so to speak, with the Grand Inquisitor.”

“No?” He considered her for a moment, head cocked, then barked a laugh. “Somehow I find that easy to believe, My Lady! Might I assume that your opportune rescue of myself and my government indicates you intend to continue ‘crossing swords’ with him?”

“Oh, I think you could, My Lord.” She smiled that cold, ugly smile again. “I think you could.” .

Sarm River, Kingdom of Delferahk

“Easy,” Lieutenant Aplyn-Ahrmahk said quietly as the boat moved slowly towards the riverbank in the dim predawn gloom. The water gleamed faintly as the first blush of yellow and rose touched the eastern horizon, and a wyvern whistled querulously from somewhere ahead of them.

“Over the side and find the bottom, Braisyn!” he continued. “Can’t be too deep this close in.”

“Easy for you to say, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, Sir,” Braisyn, a tall young topman who’d been part of Mahlyk’s boat crew for over two years, replied feelingly.

“Oh, nonsense! Pretend it’s beer-I know that’ll make you feel better about it!”

Several members of the boat crew chuckled, and Braisyn grinned at the lieutenant.

“Does that mean you’re buying when we get back to the ship, Sir?” he asked, and Aplyn-Ahrmahk laughed.

“For you? ” The lieutenant shook his head. “I’d rather buy water for fish at whiskey prices. It’d cost me less!”

Braisyn’s grin got even bigger, and then he slipped over the side of the boat, hanging on to the gunwale while his feet felt for the bottom.

“Don’t like my beer quite this cold, Sir,” he informed Aplyn-Ahrmahk. “And it’s a mite- Ow! ” He yelped, hauling himself higher in the water and shaking his head. “Found the bottom, Sir. Little rocky for my taste!”

“Then next time, keep your shoes on, you stupid bugger!” Stywyrt Mahlyk suggested helpfully.

“Don’t like squelching around in soggy shoes, Cox’in,” Braisyn replied cheerfully.

“Just take us in, Mahlyk,” Aplyn-Ahrmahk said in a tone of exaggerated patience. “Lieutenant Gowain wants us hidden again before sunrise.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Mahlyk said. “Give way all. And you, Braisyn-keep your damned delicate tootsies out of the rocks so you don’t bruise ‘em!”

“Keep that in mind I will, Cox’in,” Braisyn assured him with another grin.

Aplyn-Ahrmahk shook his head, yet the banter between Mahlyk and the members of his boat’s crew was the best possible (and welcome) proof that the men’s morale was doing just fine.

They were just over a hundred and eighty miles up the Sarm River, two-thirds of the way across the sparsely populated Earldom of Charlz, and that was a long, twisty way from the salt water that was a Charisian sailor’s natural element. True, rivers were full of water, but they were also full of rocks, bugs, and shallows where boats had to be dragged across sandbars or portaged around rapids. Fortunately, they hadn’t encountered any waterfalls-yet, at least-but they’d done extraordinarily well to average three miles per hour during the fourteen or fifteen hours of darkness and twilight available to them each day. He was glad they weren’t doing this later in the spring, when the days would be longer, but there were downsides to rowing and sailing your way up an unknown river in the dark… especially for the boat Lieutenant Gowain had decided should scout ahead for the others. They seemed to spend a lot of time hopping in and out of it when it went aground, for example.

Still, everyone seemed cheerful enough so far, and unusually (in Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s experience) everything was actually going according to plan and more or less on schedule.

Which obviously means something’s bound to go wrong sometime soon , he reflected, glancing over his shoulder at the silhouettes of the other, larger boats behind them.

No one had noticed them when they first started upriver. The sun still hadn’t risen when they went rowing past the Sarmouth waterfront, and given the dozens of other boats from the squadron which had been headed towards the waterfront with fell intent, it probably wasn’t too surprising no one had paid them any attention.

As an added touch, Admiral Yairley had ordered the boats repainted in mismatched shades of dirty white, gray, and black, and then scuffed the new paint in ways no Navy boatswain would ever have tolerated. They’d passed several small towns and isolated farms as they headed upstream from Sarmouth, and every time they’d shouted their warning that the Charisian heretics were attacking up the river. Sarmouth was on fire! Sarmouth Keep had been reduced to rubble! Run! Run for your lives, the Charisians are coming!

Frankly, Aplyn-Ahrmahk had thought that particular touch would be too much when Sir Dunkyn came up with it. In fact, it had worked beautifully. It had allowed them to row straight through the daylight hours for the first day and a half and get over a hundred miles upriver without anyone wondering what six ship’s boats were doing that far north of the port.

After that, they’d restricted themselves to the night hours and progress had slowed, but even so His thoughts chopped off as something flashed blindingly in the shadows ahead of them. There was a solid, meaty thumping sound and Braisyn grunted explosively, then turned his head and looked up at Aplyn-Ahrmahk with an incredulous expression. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but all that came out was a gush of blood and then he disappeared into the river as his hands released the gunwale.

“Out of the boat!” Aplyn-Ahrmahk heard his own voice bark even before the topman lost his grip. “Cutlasses and tomahawks! No muskets! Move, damn you! ”

He was talking to an empty boat by the time he got to “move,” and he heard another bullet “thunk” into the wood as he snatched up his own sword baldric, then rolled over the side into the icy water. They’d gotten closer to the shore, and the water was less than armpit deep, but he crouched, keeping just his head above the surface as he hurriedly slung the baldric over his shoulder.

“Stywyrt, hang on to the painter-don’t you dare lose this boat!” he hissed at the coxswain. “The rest of you-with me!”