"Walter Jon Williams - Consequences" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Walter John)

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