Walter Jon Williams - Consequences

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Consequences

by Walter Jon Williams

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White sails cut precise arcs against a background of vivid color: green

sea, blue sky, black volcanic sand. Spindrift shone like diamonds as it

spattered over the weather rail. _Birdwing_ heeled in the strong gust; timber

and cordage groaned as they took the strain. Captain Derec SuPashto adjusted

his stance to the increased tilt of the deck. His mind was on other things.

_Birdwing_ and its convoy was about to be attacked by the Liavekan

navy.

"My compliments to the ship's wizard, Facer," he said. "Ask him if he

can veer this wind two or four points."

"Sir."

A veering wind would be useful, Derec thought, if Levett could conjure

one up. But whatever happened, let it stay strong.

"Starboard a point, Sandor."

"Starboard a point, aye aye."

"Break out our colors, SuKrone."

"Sir."

Derec's first reaction on seeing the three Liavekan warships was not

one of anxiety, but rather relief. _Birdwing_ would finally have a chance to

prove itself to Ka Zhir, and that chance was desperately needed

As the black-and-gold Zhir ensign streamed out overhead, Derec studied

the enemy with narrowed eyes: three bright ships on a shallow sea the color of

green baize. The lead galleass was a big one, thirty oars or more per side,

white foam curling from its massive ramming prow. It was painted purple with

scarlet trim; a rear admiral's blue pennant fluttered from its maintop and

gold leaf winked from the carved arabesques that decorated the stern. The

second galleass, three cables astern, was smaller and lighter, its rigging

more delicate: it would be at a disadvantage in this strong wind, this choppy

sea. It hadn't been painted; its sides were the bright color of varnished

wood. Astern of the second enemy was a small xebec -- its military value was

negligible unless it could get under an enemy's stern in a dead calm, in which

case it could pound away with its bow chaser until its opponent was nothing

but driftwood. Likely it served as a tender, or was used for chasing down

unarmed merchantmen. Derec's impulse was to discount it.

A brave sight, these three, on the green ocean. They seemed entirely in

their element.

Derec knew that appearances were deceiving.

He wondered what the Liavekan admiral was thinking as he stood on his

fine gingerbread poop. The Liavekan squadron had been lurking along the coast

between Ka Zhir and Gold Harbor for the obvious purpose of attacking a convoy;

and now a convoy had appeared, twelve caravels and two huge carracks, all

crammed to the gunnels with trade goods. The Liavekan squadron, waiting behind

a barren, palm-covered islet, had duly sprung their ambush and were now

driving toward their prey. But what in hell, they must wonder, was the escort?

A ship of _Birdwing_'s type had never been seen in these waters. The

stout masts and heavy standing rigging marked her as northern-built, a

Farlander ship able to stand up to winter gales in the high latitudes, but

even in the north she would cut an odd figure. She was too narrow, flat-sided,

and low for a carrack. The forward-tilting mainmast and bonaventure mizzen

would have marked her as a galleon, but if she was a galleon, where were the

high forecastles and sterncastles? And where were the billowing, baglike

square sails the Liavekans had come to associate with those heavy, sluggish

northern ships? _Birdwing_'s square sails were cut flat, curved gently like a

bird's wing, hence her name.

To the Liavekan admiral, Derec wondered, how did this all add up? A

galleon with its upper decks razed, perhaps, in an effort to make it lighter,

and furthermore cursed with an eccentric sailmaker. Some kind of bastard ship

at any rate, neither fish nor fowl, with a broadside to beware of, but a

military value easily enough discounted. Everyone knew that northern ships

couldn't sail to weather -- unlike the oar-driven galleys and galleasses of

the Levar's navy, galleons were doomed to sail only downwind. And the

Liavekan's tactics were clearly aimed at getting the escort to leeward of its

convoy, where it couldn't possibly sail upwind again to protect it.

You're in for a surprise, milord admiral, Derec thought. Because

_Birdwing_ is going to make those wormy hulks of yours obsolete, and all in

the next turn of the glass.

"Wizard's compliments, sir." Lieutenant Facer had returned, sunlight

winking from his polished brass earrings; he held his armored cap at the

salute. "He might venture a spell to veer the wind, but it would take twenty

minutes or more."

Within twenty minutes they'd be in gunshot. Weather spells were

delicate things, consuming enormous amounts of power to shift the huge kinetic

energies that made up a wind front, and often worked late or not at all.

"Compliments to the wizard, Facer. Tell him we'll make do with the wind

we've got."

"Sir." Facer dropped his hat back on his peeling, sunburned head.

For a sailor he had a remarkably delicate complexion, and these

southern latitudes made things worse: his skin was forever turning red and

flaking off. He was openly envious of Derec's adaptation to the climate: the

sun had just browned the captain's skin and bleached his graying hair almost

white.

Facer turned and took two steps toward the poop companionway, then

stopped. "Sir," he said. "I think our convoy has just seen the enemy."

"Right. Cut along, Facer."

"Sir."

The Zhir convoy, arrayed in a ragged line just downwind of _Birdwing_,

was now showing belated signs of alarm. Five minutes had passed before any of

them noticed an entire enemy squadron sweeping up from two miles away. Derec

had no illusions about the quality of the merchant captains: the convoy would

scatter like chaff before a hailstorm. None of them was capable of outrunning

a squadron of warships: their only chance was to scatter in all directions and

hope only a few would fall victim to the enemy. Still, Derec should probably

try to do something, at least to show the Zhir he'd tried to protect their

cities' shipping.

"Signal to the convoy, Randem," he said. "Close up, then tack

simultaneously."

The boy's look was disbelieving. "As you like, sir."

Derec gave him a wry grin. "For form's sake, Randem."

"Aye aye, sir. For form's sake."

Signal flags rose on the halyards, but none of the convoy bothered an

acknowledgment: the merchanters had no confidence in the ship's fighting

abilities and were looking out for themselves. Derec shrugged. This was

nothing more than he expected. At least they were clearing out and leaving an

empty sea between _Birdwing_ and the enemy.

_Birdwing_ gave a shuddering roll as it staggered down the face of a

wave; Derec swayed to compensate and almost lost his balance. His heavy

breastplate and helmet were adding unaccustomed weight to his upper body. The

helmet straps were pressing uncomfortably on his brass earrings, and the

helmet was warming in the sun, turning into an oven.

Carefully Derec calculated his course and the enemy's. The wind was

holding a point north of west: the convoy had been moving roughly north along

the general trend of land. The enemy squadron was racing under oars and sail

as close to the wind as their characteristics permitted: they were trying to

gain as much westing as possible so as not to be pinned between _Birdwing_ and

the coast. Their course was more or less northwest: _Birdwing_ was moving

nor'-nor'east on a converging tack. Unless something prevented it, the ships

would brush at the intersection of their paths; and then the enemy would be to

windward of the _Birdwing_, which was just where they wanted to be.

At which point, Derec thought confidently, they were going to suffer a

terrible surprise.

_Birdwing_'s crew were already at quarters; they'd been doing a gun

drill when the enemy appeared. There was nothing to do but wait.

"Wizard's compliments, sir." Facer was back, his leather-and-iron cap

doffed at the salute. "The enemy is attempting a spell."

"Thank you, Facer." Suddenly the brisk warm breeze blew chill on

Derec's neck. He turned to face the enemy, touched his amulet of Thurn Bel,

and summoned his power.

Awareness flooded his mind. He could feel the protective shields that

Levett, _Birdwing_'s wizard, had wound around the ship; from eastward he could

feel a strong attempt to penetrate those shields. Derec called his power to

him, but held it in reserve in case the onslaught was a feint. The attack

faded grudgingly before Levett's persistent defense, then disappeared.

Whatever it was, the probe had failed. Levett's protective spells remained

intact, on guard.

That was the strategy Derec and Levett had formed weeks ago. The

wizard's magic would remain defensive, and _Birdwing_'s bronze cannon would

bring the war to the enemy.

Derec let his hand fall from his amulet. He saw his officers standing

around him expectantly; he gave them a smile. "Done," he said. "We're safe for

the moment." He saw them breathe easier.

He looked at the enemy. Brightness winked from the enemy's decks:

marines in their polished armor. He could hear the thud of kettledrums and

crash of cymbals as the enemy quartermasters beat time for the rowers. A mile

to leeward, in deeper, bluer water now, the galleasses were laboring in the

steep sea, the smaller one having a particularly hard time of it.

Derec's awareness tingled: the enemy wizard was making another attempt.

Derec monitored the assault and Levett's efforts to parry it. Once again the

enemy was repulsed.

There was a flash from the flagship's fo'c'sle, then a gush of blue

smoke that the wind tore into streamers across her bows. The thud came a half

second later, followed by a shrieking iron ball that passed a half cable to

larboard. The range was long for gunshot from the pitching deck of a ship

beating to windward. Jeers rose from _Birdwing_'s crew.

Another thud, this time from the smaller galleass, followed by another

miss, this one coming close to clipping _Birdwing_'s stern. The enemy were

giving their gun crews something to do, Derec thought, rather than stand and

think about what might come, their own possible mutilation and death.

There was a bump and a mild bang from _Birdwing_'s maindeck, followed

by a hoarse bellow. Derec stepped forward to peer over the poop rail; he saw

one of the marines had stumbled and dropped his firelock, and the thing had

gone off. Marcoyn, the giant marine lieutenant, jerked the man to his feet and

smashed him in the face. The marine staggered down the gangway, arms

windmilling: Marcoyn followed, driving another punch into the marine's face.

Derec clenched his teeth. Hatred roiled in his belly.

"Marcoyn!" he bellowed. The lieutenant looked up at him, his pale eyes

savage under the brim of his boarding helmet. His victim clutched the hammock

nettings and moaned.

"No interference with the sojers!" Marcoyn roared. "We agreed that,

_Captain_!" He almost spat the word.

Derec bit back his anger. "I was going to suggest, Marcoyn, that you

blacken the man's eyes later. We may need him in this fight."

"I'll do more than blacken his eyes, by Thurn Bel!"

"Do as you think best, Marcoyn." Derec spoke as tactfully as possible;

but still he held Marcoyn's eyes until the marine turned away, muttering under

his breath, his fists clenched at the ends of his knotted arms

Marcoyn's strange pale eyes never seemed to focus on anything, just

glared out at the world with uncentered resentment. He was a brute, a drunk,

illiterate, and very likely mad, but he represented an element of _Birdwing_'s

crew that Derec couldn't do without. Marcoyn was the living penalty, Derec

thought, for the crimes he had committed for the ship he loved.

Derec remembered Marcoyn's massive arms twisting the garrote around

young Sempter's neck, the way the boy's eyes had started out of his head, feet

kicking helplessly against the mizzen pinrail, shoes flying across the deck.

Derec standing below, helpless to prevent it, his shoes tacky with Lieutenant

Varga's blood...

His mouth dry, Derec glanced at the mizzen shrouds, then banished the

memory from his mind. The enemy had fired their bow chasers once more.

The smaller galleass fired first this time, followed a half second

later by the flagship. Interesting, Derec thought. The smaller ship had the

better crew.

A strong gust heeled the galleon and drove it through the sea. The

waves' reflection danced brightly on the enemy's lateen sails. The enemy

squadron was half a mile away. If the ships continued on their present

courses, _Birdwing_ would soon be alongside the enemy flagship in a

yardarm-to-yardarm fight, a situation ideal for the northern galleon.

Another pair of bangs, followed by a buzzing and a smack: the smaller

galleass's ball had pitched right through _Birdwing_'s main topsail. Derec saw

blond and redheaded countrymen looking up in surprise, heard nervous laughter.

This was the first time most of them had been under fire. Derec realized he

should probably say something now, offer an inspiring comment to drive any

thoughts of fear out of his sailors' heads. He could think of nothing.

"Run out the starboard chaser!" he finally called. "We'll answer that!"

There were some scattered cheers, but Derec could see puzzled

expressions. The enemy were within range of the broadside guns: why not open

fire with the whole battery? Derec kept his counsel. He was saving the first

broadside for close range.

The bronze starboard demiculverin rumbled as it thrust its muzzle from

the port. Derec could see the gun captain bent low over the chaser's barrel,

timing the ship's motion, linstock in his hand. There was a gush of fire from

the priming, then a roar; the gun flung itself back like a monstrous bronze

beast. Derec turned to leeward and saw the nine-pound ball skip on the waves

like a dancer twenty yards ahead of the enemy's prow. A groan of

disappointment went up from _Birdwing_'s crew.

"Chaser crew, fire at will!" Derec called.

The chasers banged at each other for another three or four rounds

apiece. The Liavekans showed no sign of changing course: were they really

going to let Derec lay alongside and fight exactly the kind of battle he

wanted? Ignoring the artillery duel, Derec studied the enemy, the changing

relationship between the ships. Tried to get into his enemy's head, wondered

what the enemy admiral was thinking.

The sound of kettledrums and cymbals was very loud now, carrying

clearly upwind. The enemy sweeps moved in beautiful synchrony, the blue water

boiling at their touch. The distance between _Birdwing_ and the lead enemy

narrowed, and Derec was considering running out his starboard battery when

flame blossomed from the enemy's sides and the air was full of shrieking.

Derec's heart turned over at the sound of a slamming noise from below -- a

shot lodged home -- followed by another smack as a ball tore through the fore

topsail. The enemy had fired its full broadside, maybe ten guns in all.

His nerves wailing in surprise, Derec bit his lip and frowned at the

enemy. Something had changed, but he couldn't say what. Something in the

pattern of drumbeats and cymbals. Another level of his awareness sensed the

enemy's magician attempting a spell. With a start he realized what the enemy

intended.

"Hard a-starboard!" he roared, and ran to the break in the poop. Just

below him, sheltered by the poop overhang, Sandor the timoneer controlled the

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Walter Jon Williams - Consequences

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