The fact that Safeholdian foundries had been using waterwheels for centuries helped, but it was only in the last few decades that men like Edwyrd Howsmyn and his "mechanics" had begun applying power to the process more generally. Initially, the waterwheels' only true function had been to power blowers to raise the temperature in Safeholdian blast furnaces and fineries. The processes for turning blast furnace iron into wrought iron and steel had been no further advanced than perhaps 1700 Europe.

Howsmyn had been one of the pioneers-all of whom had been located right here in Charis-who had championed replacing charcoal with coke made from the kingdom's generous quantities of coal. He'd also taken the lead in developing what had been called the "puddling process" back on Old Earth, with the result that his foundries' output of wrought iron-very high quality wrought iron, in fact-was several times that of any other foundries on Safehold. But even though that was true, wrought iron was still more expensive, primarily because of the greater amount of labor, processes, and time involved in its manufacture, than cast iron.

There was plenty of room for refinement in his current relatively crude techniques, but what he'd done so far hadn't truly required Church approval, since it was based entirely on novel applications of techniques which had already been approved. On the other hand, all of them were basically empirical. They'd been worked out by men with lifetimes of practical experience forging iron and steel, but with no theoretical understanding of why the improvements they'd come up with worked. Any systematic effort to tweak Howsmyn's current capacity was going to require the development of that theoretical understanding, and that was going to be a problem in the face of the Proscriptions of Jwo-jeng.

The crux of Seamount's current problem, however, was that the only alternatives for artillery pieces were bronze, cast iron, and wrought iron. Bronze was an excellent material for smoothbore muzzleloaders, but, as Seamount had just complained, it was both expensive and too soft to stand up to the strains of rifling for very long. Cast iron was relatively cheap, and the foundry techniques for working with it were well established, but even using sandcasting to reduce porosity, cast-iron guns were much more brittle than bronze and likely to crack or burst under the stresses of the bore pressures Seamount was anticipating. Which really left only wrought iron. If Ehdwyrd Howsmyn said his foundries could produce the needed guns out of wrought iron, Merlin had no doubt they could, but Seamount was right that they weren't going to be cheap.

"All right," he said finally, "I've got a couple of thoughts.

"First, as far as the existing guns and the bore pressures are concerned. If I'm understanding you correctly, you're saying that if we're willing to accept a lower shell velocity, we could probably keep pressures within the acceptable limits for the existing gun tubes, even with the heavier shell weights. Is that pretty much correct?"

Seamount nodded, and Merlin shrugged.

"In that case, why don't you ask Master Howsmyn if it would be possible to produce a relatively thin-walled, rifled tube, like an inner sleeve of wrought iron, that we could slide down inside the bore of an existing smoothbore? What I'm thinking is that if we did that, and fixed it firmly at the muzzle, probably by cutting threads into the outside of the muzzle and literally screwing its forward end into place, then fired a fairly powerful charge out of the gun, wouldn't it expand the inner sleeve and more or less weld it into place as a permanent liner that would protect the bronze against bore erosion?"

"I. . . don't know," Seamount said slowly. "It sounds like it ought to make sense. At any rate, it's certainly something to ask Howsmyn about."

Chalk rattled as he jotted additional notes. He stood back to read over them and frowned thoughtfully.

"The strength of the existing gun tubes would still limit shot weight and velocity," he said. "You're right about that. But we've got enough margin to handle heavier projectiles than the guns are firing now, I think. And the increase in accuracy, not to mention the use of an explosive filler, would make the idea more than worthwhile if we can figure out how to do it."

"That's what I thought, too," Merlin agreed. "On the other hand, I had another thought when you were talking about why wrought iron was better than cast iron."

"Ah?" Seamount turned back from the slate wall, eyebrows rising.

"Yes. You said cast iron is too brittle to stand up to the bore pressures you're expecting."

Seamount nodded, just a touch impatiently, and Merlin shrugged.

"Well, what occurred to me was that while you're right, that wrought iron is less brittle, that might not be the only way to get the strength you're looking for."

Seamount looked perplexed, and Merlin waved one hand, like a man trying to pluck the exact word he wanted out of the air.

"What I'm saying is that you're thinking in terms of a solid mass of metal strong enough to stand up to the discharge of these new rifled artillery pieces of yours."

"Of course I am. You're not suggesting we make them out of wood, are you?"

"Not quite." Merlin grinned at the asperity which had seeped into Seamount's tone. "The point that had occurred to me was that perhaps Master Howsmyn should be looking into another approach. What if instead of trying to cast the cannon as a single, massive piece of metal, then reaming out and rifling the bore, he used a relatively thin wrought-iron tube, like the 'sleeve' we were talking about a few moments ago. But instead of sticking it down inside an existing bronze gun tube and expanding it, what would happen if he wrapped it very tightly in wire, instead?"

Seamount opened his mouth, as if to automatically dismiss the idea, then froze. His eyes widened in sudden speculation.

"What you're saying is that we could wrap the reinforcement around a fairly light tube," he said slowly. "I don't see any reason that couldn't work, as long as we wrapped it tightly and thickly enough."

"I'd think a wire-wrapped approach would be a lot less brittle than cast iron or even wrought iron," Merlin agreed. "Surely the individual wires would have a tendency to flex and stretch without cracking or bursting the way solid metal might under the same pressures."

"Not only that," Seamount said with gathering enthusiasm, "but you wouldn't have to wonder if there were flaws, the way you do with iron. You'd be able to examine every inch of wire individually before it went into the gun!"

"Yes, you would." Merlin's approving surprise wasn't at all feigned. Once again, Seamount's agile brain was leaping ahead as soon as the possibilities were pointed out to him.

"I don't know if it's practical, at least with Master Howsmyn's existing equipment," the Charisian said, almost bouncing up and down on his toes as his mind careened through the vista of possibilities and the accompanying manufacturing problems which would have to be overcome. "For one thing, we'd be talking about a lot of wire, and I have no idea what his wire-drawing capacity might be. And I'm fairly certain that it would have to be wrapped really tightly, tighter than we can manage with muscle power, which is going to require his mechanics to figure out how to do it using water power. If they can't do it with what they have now, though, I'm sure they can figure out how to build whatever they need to build in order to build whatever they need in order to do it!"

He wheeled back to the wall of slate, chalk clattering as he wrote furiously. Then he spun back around to Merlin just as quickly, pointing at him with the piece of chalk.

"I don't believe for a minute that you 'just happened' to think of this, Seijin Merlin." It could have been accusing, but it wasn't. "On the other hand, I'm not going to ask any more questions today. I've got the oddest feeling that if I were to do that, we'd find ourselves getting into explanations you'd really rather not make."

Merlin managed to keep his expression under control. It wasn't the first time one of Seamount's comments had headed in the same direction, but this one was more explicit than most, and he decided not to mention a third problem the little commodore was about to encounter with rifled guns. The fuse system he'd worked out for his smoothbore shells would work just fine, relying on flash for the original ignition. But sticking that sort of fuse design onto the nose of a rifled round was likely to prove more problematical. Since a rifled shell was always going to land nose-first, a nose-mounted fuse would tend to be crushed on impact, or else driven back into the shell. In the first case, the shell probably wouldn't detonate at all; in the second case, it would detonate effectively instantaneously, before it had time to penetrate sufficiently into the target.

I'll just let you come across that little difficulty for yourself, My Lord, he thought dryly. I'm sure it will occur to you soon enough. It probably won't do all that much good, but I can at least pretend I don't have all of the answers. Besides, I want to see how you approach the problem. One thing I'm sure of-it'll be interesting.

"Don't worry, Merlin," Seamount continued, his eyes gleaming almost as if he'd just read Merlin's mind. "I promise to be good. But I'll be interested to see Howsmyn's reaction to 'my' suggestions about how to approach this. You realize you're about to set off another round of 'infernal innovation,' don't you?"

"The thought hadn't even crossed my mind," Merlin said with immense-and completely false-sincerity.

"Oh, of course it hadn't!" Seamount chuckled, shook his head, and turned back to his chalked notes. "I'm glad Father Paityr is back on board with Archbishop Maikel, because this is going to be at least as upsetting to certain people I could think of as the first batch of artillery improvements were."

Oh, I hope so, Sir Ahlfryd, Merlin thought, watching the commodore ponder his notes. I do hope so!

.II.

Galleon Raptor,

Southern Ocean

Larys Shaikyr, master after God of the galleon Raptor, looked away from his conversation with Hahl Urbahn, his first officer, as fresh cannon fire rumbled and crashed like Langhorne's own thunder. The schooner Slash Lizard was dashing down from windward once again, hammering away at the flagship of the convoy's escort, and Shaikyr shook his head in exasperation. The crippled galley had fallen well astern of the rest of the convoy, crawling on a handful of crippled oars while white water jetted from her pumps in clear proof of damage below the waterline.

"Signal Slash Lizard to break off action!" Shaikyr told his signal party sharply.

"Aye, Sir," the senior signalman acknowledged, and Shaikyr looked back at Urbahn.

"We can always finish him off later, assuming he doesn't just go ahead and sink on his own," he growled.

"Yes, Sir." Urbahn nodded, then grinned crookedly. "I think some of our skippers are beginning to forget how to think like privateers!"

"Then they'd best remember." Shaikyr shook his head. "I'm just as determined to carry out the King's-I mean, the Emperor's-instructions as the next man. But there's reason in all things, Hahl. And even if I wasn't worried about the money at all, wasting time attacking galleys that're already crippled is the best way I can think of to let the real prizes slip away!"

Urbahn nodded, and the two of them returned their contemplation to the galleons fleeing before them . . . and the three Delferahkan war galleys which were still more or less intact and trying desperately to cover the merchant ships' escape.

They're gutsy, those captains, Shaikyr acknowledged to himself as he glowered at the remaining galleys. They've already seen what happened to the rest of the escort, and they're still trying to hold us off.

Under the current relatively light wind conditions, those galleys could have shown most of the attacking Charisian privateers a clean pair of heels if they'd chosen to run for it. Some of the faster schooners, like Slash Lizard or Fist of Charis, probably would have been able to catch them anyway, but the bigger, slower galleons like Raptor could never have hoped to overtake them.

Fortunately, the Delferahkan galleons, which were what the privateers truly wanted, were substantially slower and less weatherly than Raptor or Shaikyr's other three galleons. With their old-fashioned sail plans and towering freeboards, they might as well have been sea anchors as far as the galleys were concerned. All the gallantry in the world couldn't have changed what was going to happen to that convoy, and the galleys' commanders had to know that, yet still they stayed stubbornly between the privateers and their prey.

War Hammer, the leading galleon of Shaikyr's "squadron," was close enough already to begin engaging the rearmost galley with her forward chasers. Another twenty or thirty minutes, and she'd be able to bring the galleons under fire, as well. And the schooners Windcrest and Sea Kiss had already overtaken the merchant ships, keeping well up to windward of the galley escorts and out of the reach of their broadside guns. Windcrest, in fact, was already slanting downward on a course to intercept the leading Delferahkan galleon, and there was nothing at all the galleys could do about it.

The panorama, Shaikyr reflected, would make a magnificent painting. Although he'd never had any formal training, he had a self-taught, private passion for canvas and oils, and a back corner of his mind was busy recording all the details for the future. The green of the ocean water, shading to a steadily deeper and darker cobalt as it stretched away towards the horizon. The high, white clouds drifting like infinitely tall, infinitely vast galleons across an even deeper sea of blue. Sunlight striking downward, flashing off the green and blue mirror of water, touching the dirty-white spurts of powder smoke, glinting on helmets, pikeheads, swords, and boarding axes. The complex patterns of weathered canvas, shrouds, and wind shadows, and the long spider-legs of the galleys stirring the sea to froth as the oarsmen pulled furiously. The sheer visual impact of moments like this touched something deep inside Larys Shaikyr.

But however spectacular the panorama might be, there were practical things to consider, as well, and he smiled with cold satisfaction as War Hammer's round shot began slamming into the lightly built galley. Even without his spyglass, he could see the galley's starboard oars flailing in sudden confusion as the Charisian fire began to rip across the ship's oardeck. The closer sound of the galleon's artillery swallowed up the distant thunder of Windcrest's guns, but the sudden billow of gunsmoke surging above the schooner told him she'd brought her target into at least extreme range, as well.

Or maybe not, he told himself. We don't want to break any more eggs than we have to, so she may just want to pointedly suggest that it's time to heave to before she does bring the bastards into range.

Frankly, that was just fine with Larys Shaikyr. He was as infuriated as anyone else over the Ferayd Massacre, but he was also a pragmatic businessman . . . and a fifteen-percent shareholder in Raptor. Vengeance for coldblooded murder was a fine thing, and he wouldn't pretend, even to himself, that it wasn't exactly what he wanted. But vengeance was already on its way to Ferayd, in the form of Admiral Rock Island and his fleet. It would arrive soon enough, and in the meantime, there were bills to pay, as well.

War Hammer's target was beginning to fall astern of her consorts as her oars floundered in greater and greater confusion. That was one of the problems with galleys, he reflected with grim satisfaction. Losing a sail or, even worse, a mast could have serious consequences for any galleon, but a galley under oars depended upon the synchronized, carefully controlled effort of literally hundreds of oarsmen. Aboard a ship like War Hammer's current prey, there might be four or five men on each oar, whereas one of the Charisian Navy's larger galleys would have had as many as ten men to each sweep, half of them facing aft and pushing while the other half faced forward and pulled. Keeping that many men working smoothly, as an integrated team, even under perfect conditions, could be a daunting task.

With five-inch round shot pitching in among the rowers, mangling them, sending knife-edged clouds of splinters swirling through them, splashing even unwounded men with the blood of someone who'd been pulling the same oar beside them only a heartbeat before, keeping the sweeps moving in any sort of organized fashion was simply out of the question.

More cannon thundered as Sea Kiss came down on the merchant ships in Windcrest's wake, and he bared his teeth as one of the galleons-which hadn't even been brought under threat of fire yet, as far as he could see-suddenly let her sheets fly, spilling the wind from her sails in token of surrender.

"I believe we're almost in range to give War Hammer a hand, Hahl," he observed.

"I believe you're right, Sir." Urbahn returned his thin smile and touched his left shoulder in salute. "I'll just go have a talk with the Gunner and bring that to his attention, shall I, Sir?"

"I think that would be an excellent idea," Shaikyr agreed, and watched the first officer heading forward to where Raptor's gunner was fussing over the chase weapons on the galleon's foredeck.

Then he returned his attention to the convoy which was his prize. There were only six galleons in it, which meant he had enough privateers to chase each of them down and still have two left over to finish off the galleys. Normally, Shaikyr, like any prudent privateer, would have preferred to leave the galleys astern once they were too crippled to interfere with his operations. After all, galleys weren't worth very much these days. They didn't carry valuable cargoes, and no sane Charisian admiral would even contemplate adding a captured galley to his fleet. That meant the possibility of prize money would have been virtually nonexistent, and even Delferahkan artillery was likely to inflict at least some damage and-especially-casualties.

In this instance, however, he had every intention of finishing those galleys off-yes, and taking intense satisfaction in the doing. He would have been inclined to under any circumstances, after what had happened in Ferayd. The fact that Emperor Cayleb had pledged the resources of the Crown to support operations against Delferahk, and the fact that the Crown would be paying privateers "head money" for the crews of captured or destroyed warships, exactly the way it did to regular Navy crews, meant that inclination would actually show a profit. Of course, the privateers in question also had to accept the Crown's rules for awarding prize money. Under those rules, the ships which brought prizes in were entitled to only a fourth part of their actual value, with the remainder going to the Crown, but that wasn't entirely bad. More than one privateer had returned from a cruise with no prizes at all. Sometimes fortune simply deserted a hunter, after all, and game was beginning to become increasingly scarce for everyone. But as long as they were cruising in Delferahkan waters, the Crown would cover their operating expenses and at least a minimal lump sum payment to their ships' companies. Under those circumstances, the amount they did receive from the prize court's awards would be pure profit.

Which meant Shaikyr could do his patriotic duty punishing Delferahk rather than chasing after the normally richer prizes of Dohlaran or Tarotisian merchant shipping and still show Raptor's financial backers a profit. Not as great a one as they might have realized from the same number of Dohlaran prizes, but at least a reliable one.

Raptor's chasers began to bellow. The powder smoke rolled steadily downwind on the light breeze, and round shot began to seed the water around her target with white feathers.

Not much longer, friend, Shaikyr thought nastily. And you'd better be grateful we are sailing under Crown orders. I am, anyway. Because if I weren't, if it were up to me, there wouldn't be any prisoners. But the Emperor's a better man than I am, thank God. Which means I won't be facing God's justice someday with the blood of a massacre on my hands.

He took one more painter's look at sky, sun, water, and ships, then put that thought away and turned to his second officer.

"Stand to at the port battery," he said coldly. "We'll have some work for them in a few minutes, I believe."

"Captain?"

Shaikyr looked up as Dunkyn Hyndyrs, Raptor's purser, appeared in the chart room doorway. The captain had been studying the local charts, considering where to take his hunting pack next, and he blinked against the bright sunlight framing the purser as he stood in the open door.

"Yes?"

"Captain, I think maybe you'd better come on deck."

"What?" Shaikyr straightened. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, Sir," Hyndyrs said in a very careful tone. "I'm just afraid things are about to get a little noisy, and I thought you'd prefer to be there when they do."

"Noisy?" Shaikyr's eyes were beginning to adjust to the brightness haloing Hyndyrs', and he frowned as the purser's expression registered. He looked, the captain thought just a bit uncharitably, like someone who'd swallowed a spider and wasn't entirely certain it was going to stay swallowed.

"What's going on, Dunkyn?"

"A boat from Windcrest just came alongside," Hyndyrs replied. "It brought a note from Captain Zherahk. Along with the bill of lading for one of the prizes."

"And?" Shaikyr growled a bit impatiently.

"And there's a reason those galleys were so stubborn, Sir," Hyndyrs told him. "The entire convoy was under charter to the Delferahkan crown. Four of the galleons were loaded mainly with naval stores for the Temple's shipbuilding project. Another one is carrying several hundred tons of copper and tin ingots, apparently for casting into artillery, also for their new fleet. I'm sure the Emperor and the Navy will be suitably glad to see all of those cargoes. But the sixth wasn't under charter to Delferahk, at all. Not really. It was under charter to the 'Knights of the Temple Lands.' "

Shaikyr's impatience disappeared abruptly, and he settled back on his heels.

"Number six wasn't carrying naval stores or copper and tin, Sir." Hyndyrs shook his head. "She's loaded with gold and silver bullion. I don't begin to know how much of it yet, but whatever I might estimate right now would almost certainly be low, I think. She was carrying over six months' worth of the Temple's payments to the shipyards building new galleys for the Church at Ferayd. And, on top of that, the Council of Vicars has apparently authorized the payment of subsidies to the ports which are losing the most money because they've been closed to our shipping. And, according to the galleon's skipper-who is not a happy man right this minute, Captain- there's also a goodly chunk of money which was destined to pay pensions to the survivors of the brave Delferahkans who were murdered by those nasty Charisians."

"Langhorne!" Shaikyr murmured. A prize like the one Hyndyrs was describing came along possibly once in a privateer's lifetime, and he felt the sudden tingle of wealth running along his nerves. But then his expression altered abruptly.

"Langhorne!" he repeated in a very different tone, and Hyndyrs chuckled harshly.

"Yes, Sir. That's one of the reasons I expect it to get noisy when I tell the men."

" 'Noisy' may not begin to describe it," Shaikyr said sourly as his own earlier thoughts came back to him. Raptor and the other ships operating with her were under Crown warrant. Which meant the Crown was going to pocket three-fourths of the treasure ship's value while the privateers who'd actually captured her got only a quarter to split among them.

You know, Larys, he told himself, it's amazing how much better that arrangement sounded to you an hour or so ago, isn't it?

"Well," he said finally, laying his dividers on the opened chart, "I suppose I'd better come." He detected a certain lack of enthusiasm in his own voice, and smiled crookedly at Hyndyrs. "The men aren't exactly likely to be singing loud hosannas when we remind them about the prize court, are they?"

"I'd say that was probably a fairly safe prediction, yes, Sir," Hyndyrs agreed.

"I don't really blame them," Shaikyr admitted. "On the other hand, from the way you've described things, even a quarter share of the total, distributed over every man and ship's boy, is still going to be at least four or five years' earnings for most of them."

"I realize that, Sir," Hyndyrs said, and smiled encouragingly. "You just go right on telling them that. I'm sure that by the time those ship's boys are, oh, fifty or sixty years old, they'll come to accept things without complaining."

.III.