By Schism Rent Asunder Read online

  Of course, we're not exporting very much canvas just now, are we? he reminded himself sardonically. The Royal Charisian Navy was buying every scrap of sailcloth he could produce, and as more and more of the powered looms came into operation, the superiority of the canvas he was able to offer became more and more pronounced. With its tighter weave, the new, machined can­vas made for much more efficient and longer lasting sails. Coupled with the anti-fouling copper sheathing, most of which was still coming from Hows­myn, it made the Navy's ships' speed advantage even more pronounced.

  The demand far outstripped his ability to supply it, even now. And the Navy had first call on the new canvas, which meant most of the kingdom's merchant shipping still had to "make do" with the older, looser weave. On the other hand, his capacity was increasing almost as rapidly as Howsmyn's, so it wouldn't be long before he was able to branch out into supplying the civilian market, as well. He looked forward to that.

  "How are you coming with the production problems on the iron guns?" he asked Howsmyn.

  "Actually, we haven't had anywhere near as many of those as I'd been afraid we might." Howsmyn shrugged. "Not on the cast-iron ones, that is. I'm not saying it's as easy with the iron as with the bronze, but our bell-founding techniques have converted remarkably well. I'm starting to experi­ment with wrought iron, too, but that's incredibly expensive at the moment. It uses an enormous amount more coke, and the furnace time for the repeated firings drives up the cost even more. And then we have to hammer the slag out of the blooms, and even with the new, heavier drop hammers, that takes an incredible amount of time, which drives costs up still higher. If I can find a way to do all that more efficiently . . ."

  His voice broke off as he frowned thoughtfully into a vista only he could see. Then he shook himself.

  "I think we may be able to bring the wrought iron costs down, eventually. At least to something not more than twice the cost of bronze, let's say, though that may be a little overly optimistic. In the meantime, though, the cast iron's going to be a lot cheaper than bronze, and I think we just about have the prob­lems in producing guns out of it licked."

  "I'll take your word for that," Mychail said. "Iron-making isn't my area, after all."

  "I know." Howsmyn turned to look back out the window, frowning thoughtfully. "You know, one of the things Merlin's in the process of doing is changing the way all of us think about things like this," he said slowly.

  "Meaning what?" Mychail's tone was one of agreement, but he still looked sideways at the younger man and arched an eyebrow.

  "I was talking about it with Rahzhyr Mahklyn over at the Royal College," Howsmyn replied. "I've always been on the lookout for ways I could be a lit­tle more productive, a little more efficient. But it's all been . . . I don't know. Not even trial and error, but just a case of seeing obvious possibilities within the existing, allowed techniques, I suppose. Now I'm finding myself actively thinking about why one thing works better than another. What is it about a given technique that makes it superior to another? For example, I know that puddling cast iron produces wrought iron by gathering the impurities into the slag, but why does heating the iron in a hollow hearth while you stir it have that effect? And how do you take the next step into producing steel in larger, more useful ingots?"

  "And do you have answers for your questions?" Mychail asked softly.

  "Not yet—certainly not for all of them, at least! But sometimes I find the implications of just thinking such questions a little bit frightening. There's so much we do today just because it's permitted under the Proscriptions. Which is almost just another way of saying 'because that's the way we've always done it.' Like using bronze, instead of iron, for artillery. Sure, bronze has advan­tages of its own, but there's never been any reason we couldn't have used iron if we'd really wanted to. We just didn't."

  "You said you've discussed this with Rahzhyr. Have you happened to mention your thoughts to someone else? Like Archbishop Maikel?"

  "Not directly, no." Howsmyn turned back from the window to face his old friend and mentor. "I don't really think it's necessary, do you? The Arch­bishop is a very perceptive man, Rhaiyan."

  "That's true." Mychail nodded. "On the other hand, the things you're talking about, the questions you're asking yourself. . . . You do realize how someone like Clyntahn would react to what you've just said?"

  "Of course. And I'm not going to go around saying it to just anyone, ei­ther. There's a reason it's taken me this long to mention my thoughts even to you, you know! But despite everything the Archbishop's said, he's clearly aware that before it's over, this schism between us and the Temple is going to end up being about far more than simply the corruption of the Council of Vicars. You do realize that, don't you?"

  "Ehdwyrd, I realized that the first day we sat down with Seijin Merlin and he started sharing his thoughts with us."

  "And does it bother you?" Howsmyn asked softly.

  "Sometimes," Mychail admitted. He glanced back out the window at the smoke, heat, and furious activity, then looked back at Howsmyn.

  "Sometimes," he repeated. "I'm twice your age, after all. That means I'm a lot closer to giving account to God and the Archangels than you are. But God didn't give us minds just so we could refuse to use them. Mahklyn and the College are right about that, and Archbishop Maikel is right that we have to make choices. We have to recognize what it is God expects of us. That's the reason He gave us free will—the Inquisition itself says that. And if I've made the wrong choices, it's only been after trying as hard as I possibly could to make the right ones. I'm just going to have to hope God understands that."

  "This whole war is going to go places Clyntahn and his cronies never even imagined," Howsmyn said. "In fact, it's going to go places I can't even imagine, and at least I'm trying to."

  "Of course it is. In fact, I think there are probably only two people— possibly three—in the entire Kingdom who do truly understand where we're all bound," Mychail said.

  "Oh?" Howsmyn smiled crookedly. "Let me guess—the Archbishop, the King, and the mysterious Seijin Merlin?"

  "Of course." Mychail returned his smile.

  "It has occurred to you, I suppose, that when the day finally comes that Clyntahn discovers everything Merlin's taught us, he's going to denounce the seijin as a demon?"

  "Of course he is. On the other hand, I have a far livelier respect for the judgment—and, even more, for the integrity—of Archbishop Maikel, and he's actually met Merlin. For that matter, when was the last time you knew King Haarahld to be mistaken in his judgment of someone's character?" Mychail shook his head. "I'll trust the judgments of those two men-—and of King Cayleb, for that matter—over the judgment of that pig in Zion, Ehdwyrd. If I'm wrong, at least I'll find myself in better company in Hell than I would in Heaven!"

  Howsmyn's eyes widened ever so slightly at Mychail's blunt-toned forth-rightness. Then he snorted.

  "Do me a favor, Rhaiyan, and don't say anything like that to anyone else, all right?"

  "I'm older than you are, Ehdwyrd; I'm not senile yet."

  "What a relief!"

  "I'm sure." Mychail chuckled dryly, then used his chin to point back out the window. "But to return to my earlier question, the iron guns are going to work out, you think?"

  "Oh, I never really had any doubt about that. They're going to be heavier than bronze for a given weight of shot, of course, but they're also going to be a lot cheaper. Not to mention the fact that they're not going to be competing for the limited supply of copper."

  "So things are going pretty well, overall?"

  "Aside from the fact that we really need to be producing the guns at least twice as fast, you mean?" Howsmyn responded with a snort.

  "Aside from that, of course," Mychail acknowledged, smiling crookedly.

  "I wouldn't say they're going 'well,' " Howsmyn said more soberly. "Not given what we're up against. But I'd have to say they're going better than I ever anticipated they might. The biggest problem from the p
erspective of the new artillery, actually, is the competition for the rifles. Not only do they both use up enormous quantities of iron and steel, but they require a lot of the same skilled labor. We're training new people as quickly as we can, but it's still a problem."

  "And so is keeping someone from hiring them away from you as soon as they're trained, right?"

  "I see you've had some of the same sort of krakens circling around your operations." Howsmyn chuckled.

  "Well, of course. After all, it's so much cheaper to let someone else train them, then hire them away!"

  "I don't think that proposition's worked out quite as well as some of the competition hoped it might." There was an undeniable note of satisfaction, almost smugness, in Howsmyn's voice, and Mychail laughed out loud.

  "It never ceases to amaze me just how stupid some of our oh-so-esteemed colleagues are," the textile magnate said. "Or, at least, how stupid they think mechanics are! Do they think someone capable of becoming a skilled artisan gets that way without having a brain that works? Our people know they're better off working for us than for almost anyone else. Not to mention the fact that every working man and woman in Charis knows we've always treated our people as well as we could. It's not exactly something we woke up yesterday and decided to try for a change . . . unlike certain other employers. That idiot Erayksyn actually tried to hire two of my foremen away from the Weaving Street manufactory last five-day."

  Howsmyn snorted with harsh contempt. Wyllym Erayksyn might as well have been a Harchong nobleman, for all the concern he'd ever evinced for his labor force. In fact, Howsmyn was more than half prepared to bet most Harchongese worried more over their serfs than Erayksyn and his sort did about their theoretically free workers.

  "I'll bet that was a resounding success," he observed.

  "Not so that anyone would notice." Mychail smiled thinly. Then the smile turned into a slight frown. "I wish there weren't so many others who shared Erayksyn's attitude, though. Especially with the way all the new possi­bilities for making money are going to play into their basic greediness. Oh," he waved one hand when Howsmyn opened his mouth, "I know he's proba­bly the worst of the lot. But you can't deny there are a lot of others who feel basically the same way. The people who work for them are just one more expense, not fellow humans, and they're going to do their damnedest to drive that cost down along with all the others."

  "They may think that way now," Howsmyn replied, "but I don't think that attitude's going to get them what they expect it to. I may have trouble get­ting my hands on all the skilled workers I need—and so may you—but that's because there simply aren't enough of them. We've never had trouble con­vincing people to work for us, and Erayksyn isn't the only one who's found out that hiring them away from us is a lot harder than they expected it to be. Think about that sanctimonious bastard Kairee! And the handful they have managed to hire away weren't exactly our best people, either. Given the pres­sure all these new innovations are going to put on the supply of trained work­ers, the cost of labor's not going to do anything but climb, however much they may want to drive it back down again. Given the greater output per worker, the relative cost is going to decline, of course, but people like Erayksyn and Kairee are going to find that the labor force they've abused for so long is going to be going to be working for people like you and me, not them."

  "I hope you're right, and not just because of our bottom lines," Mychail said.

  "You're the one who taught me to take the long view—yes, and the one who taught me to never forget that just because a man may be poorer than I am, he's no less a man, with no less a right to his dignity." Howsmyn's ex­pression was unusually sober as he met Mychail's eyes. "That's a lesson I hope I never forget, Mychail. Because if I do, I don't think I'll like the man I've turned into as well as I like the one I am right now."

  Mychail started to speak, then gave his head a little shake and squeezed Howsmyn's shoulder, instead. The textile manufacturer had lost both of his sons almost twenty years before when the galleon upon which they had been embarked disappeared at sea with all hands. In many ways, Howsmyn had stepped into the aching void their deaths had left in Rhaiyan Mychail's life. He'd become virtually a surrogate father to Mychail's younger grandchildren, his wife had become an adoptive aunt, and three of those grandsons were cur­rently Howsmyn employees, learning the ironmaster's trade. Right off the top of his head, Mychail couldn't think of a single person who would have been a better mentor for them.

  "Well, this is all very edifying, of course," he said then, with a deliberate lightness. "But my official reason for coming to visit you is that we need to discuss exactly how we want to handle the management breakdown for that new shipyard in Tellesberg."

  "You've already managed to put together the partnership?" Howsmyn's eyebrows rose in surprise, and Mychail nodded.

  "Ironhill's announcement that the Crown would underwrite forty per­cent of the initial investment did the trick," he said.

  "And in return for that forty percent, exactly what does Cayleb get?" De­spite his own undoubted patriotism, Howsmyn sounded more than a bit skeptical.

  "Obviously, the Navy gets first call on the building slips," Mychail replied calmly. "And I'm sure we'll find ourselves under pressure to give Ironhill 'family discount' prices. On the other hand, the agreement specifically calls for us to buy back the Crown's interest. So in three or four years—five, at the outside, I'd estimate—we'll have complete ownership, free and clear."

  "Well, that's better than I'd been afraid of." Howsmyn rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then nodded. "It sounds fair enough to me. Mind you, I'll want to look at the proposed agreements in writing!"

  "I expected no less." Mychail smiled. "Which is why I just happened to have brought a draft of the agreement with me."

  " 'Just happened,' is it?"

  "You know I've always been in favor of killing as many wyverns as possi­ble with a single rock," Mychail replied. "And, speaking of single rocks, one of the unofficial reasons for my visit is to remind you that it's Styvyn's birthday next five-day and that Alyx and Myldryd expect you for dinner."

  "What? Next five-day?" Howsmyn blinked. "Surely not! Didn't he just have a birthday?"

  "The fact that you can ask that question is an indication you're no longer as young as you think you are," Mychail said. "Yes, next five-day. In fact, he'll be eleven."

  "Well, why didn't you tell me that first? That's vastly more important than any picayune worries about manufacturing artillery! Just how many godsons do you think I have? And it's not exactly as if you have an unlimited supply of great-grandchildren, either, now is it?"

  "No." Mychail shook his head with a small smile. "So, should I tell Myldryd you'll be there?"

  .IV.

  Galleon Southwind,

  Margaret Bay;

  Gray Ship Tavern,

  Hanth Town, Earldom of Hanth

  I still say we should make for Eraystor," Tahdayo Mahntayl grumbled as the galleon Southwind left Hanth Town's smoke-smutted skies astern.

  It required a great deal of self-discipline for Sir Styv Walkyr to manage not to roll his eyes heavenward or utter any heartfelt prayers for strength. The fact that he'd at least gotten Mahntayl to finally agree it was time to go somewhere rather than kicking his heels in Hanth Town while he waited for Cayleb to get around to removing his head helped.

  Some, at least.

  "First," he said patiently, "the Captain isn't too keen on trying to run the blockade into any of the Emeraldian ports. Second, it's not going to be so very much longer before Cayleb and Lock Island get around to invading Emerald, too. Do you really want to be there when he does that?"

  "I'm not so sure his precious invasion of Emerald is going to go all that smoothly," Mahntayl replied almost petulantly. "Nahrmahn's army is a lot more loyal than those traitorous bastards I had."

  "I don't really care how loyal his troops are, not in the long run," Walkyr told him. "He doesn't have enough of them, Cayleb's troops are
even more loyal to him, and I strongly suspect that the Charisian Marines are going to have a few surprises of their own for Nahrmahn. Somehow it just strikes me as unlikely that Haarahld's navy got all the new toys."

  Mahntayl snorted angrily, but at least he didn't disagree, and Walkyr shrugged.

  "It's like I've been saying all along, Tahdayo. There are very few people whose heads Cayleb wants more than he wants yours. Wherever you go, it needs to be someplace he's not likely to come calling anytime soon. That doesn't exactly describe Emerald, and I don't think it's going to describe Corisande very much longer, either. So that only leaves someplace on the mainland. And if we have to go to the mainland anyway, Zion is the only log­ical destination."

  "I know, I know! You've certainly explained your reasoning to me often enough."

  Mahntayl's jaw clenched as he glanced back once again at the city he'd once thought would be his for the rest of his life. Which was the real root of the problem, Walkyr reflected. Not only was Mahntayl furious over having his prize snatched from his hands, but he'd been so confident of the future that he'd made no provision for what might happen if Charis actually won against the alliance the Group of Four had hammered together.

  And I have no intention of telling him about the provision I most certainly did make, he told himself once more.

  "Well, it's hard for me to think of anyone the Chancellor and the Grand Inquisitor are going to be happier to see than you," he said instead. "The proof that not all of Cayleb's nobles support his blasphemy is going to be wel­come, and I'm sure they'll be willing to support your efforts to liberate Hanth as soon as possible."

  Mahntayl snorted again, but his expression also lightened. Despite his truculent mood, he wasn't immune to the reflection that the Temple's purse was more than deep enough to support him in the style to which he had be­come accustomed. Assuming, of course, that he could become a sufficiently valuable figurehead for them.

  "Well," he said at last, turning his back upon the shrinking vista of his onetime capital with a certain finality, "I certainly can't argue with any of that. And the truth is," he continued with the air of a man making a clean breast of it, "that I should have listened to you a lot sooner than I did."