—
“What was that?” Hilemore enquired of Ensign Tollver, a lanky youth with the most refined accent on the ship. He straightened from his lunge, offering Hilemore a weak smile as he gave another swish of his sword.
“The Sylian Flourish, sir,” he said. “My fencing master at school assured me it can blind and disable in a single lunge.”
“Your fencing master?”
“Yes, sir. Master Farstaff. He had studied the art of the sword all over the world . . .”
Tollver trailed off as Hilemore returned his own sword to its scabbard, unbuckled it and dropped it on the deck. He took up position a few feet in front of the ensign, standing with arms open. “Show me again,” he said.
Tollver glanced uncertainly at the four other ensigns gathered for the morning practice. “Sir?”
“I am your opponent,” Hilemore told him. “Blind and disable me with the Sylian Flourish.”
The youth hesitated further then made a slow repeat of the move, the blade failing to come close to Hilemore’s face. “Again!” Hilemore commanded. “Your best effort, if you please. Unless you’d like ten strokes of the scabbard before supper.” It was custom to punish ensigns by beating them across the buttocks with a scabbard as they bent over the mess-room table. The humiliation, as Hilemore knew to his cost, was far worse than the pain.
Tollver flushed and made another lunge, faster this time, the blade sweeping down before flicking at Hilemore’s eyes. He ducked under it, caught hold of the ensign’s wrist, dug his thumb in hard to force the sword from his grasp then twisted his arm behind his back.
“I am not teaching you to fence,” Hilemore told Tollver, wrapping his other arm around the youth’s neck and steadily increasing the pressure. He turned about so they faced the other ensigns, now backed away in alarm. “I am teaching you to fight,” Hilemore told them as Tollver gave a harsh, choking rasp. “In the midst of battle you will have no time for flourishes or pirouettes or the perfect parry. Use your sword for what it is, a sharp implement designed to kill. Thrust and hack at the enemy’s face and arms until he falls then find someone else to thrust and hack at. If your sword breaks, use the stump as a dagger. If you lose that, pick up a rifle or anything else to hand and use it as a club.”
He released Tollver, letting him collapse to the deck, gasping as he massaged his throat. “Within days,” Hilemore continued, stepping past the choking ensign, “we are likely to be in combat with the Corvantine fleet. You may consider yourselves seasoned by our recent engagement, but that was a mere scuffle compared to what we face next. The crew will be looking to you for an example of courage and leadership. Fail them and you fail this ship and the service.”
He looked down at Tollver, meeting the boy’s gaze until he got to his feet, standing stiffly at attention. “Draw revolvers and stand at the rail,” Hilemore ordered. “We’ll see if your marksmanship is any better than your sword-play.”
After ten minutes of their blazing away at the various jetsam he cast over the side he concluded their enthusiasm might compensate for a lack of expertise, though Talmant proved to possess a keen eye.
“Good,” Hilemore said as the ensign blasted another bottle to pieces from a distance of twenty yards. “Teach you fire-arms at the Explorer’s School did they?”
“Yes, sir. Pistol and rifle both.”
“We’ll see what you can do with a Silworth tomorrow. Having another marksman to call on is always useful.” He turned towards the mid-deck as something caught his eye. Master-at-Arms Steelfine emerged from below clad in his full uniform and moving with stiff-backed deliberation as he saw Hilemore and saluted. “Mr. Talmant, you have the class. Another twenty-four rounds apiece, if you please.”
“Aye, sir.”
“I find it scarcely credible the doctor has released you,” Hilemore greeted Steelfine, returning his salute.
“Didn’t give him much choice, sir,” the Islander replied. His face still bore numerous bruises along with a stitched cut on his slab-like forehead, but Hilemore was gratified to find that his voice had lost none of its vibrancy. “Permission to return to duty, sir.”
Hilemore stopped himself asking after Steelfine’s condition; he doubted the man had much room in his soul for such notions as uncertainty or the willing acknowledgment of weakness. “Granted,” he said instead. “I believe the armoury would benefit from a close inspection. With battle looming I’d like to be sure all small arms are in working order.”
“I’ll see to it.” Steelfine hesitated a moment, staring straight ahead without meeting Hilemore’s gaze. “Honour requires I give you notice, sir.”
“Notice, Master-at-Arms?”
“Yes, sir. The pirate ship, that Blood-blessed bitch . . . I owe you a life.”
“Merely doing my duty, Mr. Steelfine.”
“Such debts are not taken lightly amongst my people. From now until the debt is paid you will find me at your side.”
Hilemore saw no empty melodrama here. If anything Steelfine’s expression was one of marked reluctance, his bearing that of a man forced into an unwanted obligation. He knew little of the Barrier Isles tribes but they were renowned as a people with scant understanding of such civilised notions as dishonesty or an empty promise. Also, he doubted he had much choice in accepting the Islander’s commitment.
“Within a day or two,” he said, “you may well get the chance.”
—
They sighted the first Protectorate ship a day later, a sleek if aged Marlin class frigate named the Contractual Obligation. Captain Trumane was obliged to reduce speed to one-half to allow the other vessel to cruise alongside as Ensign Talmant related the message conveyed via her signal lamp. “Greetings from the Obligation’s skipper, sir,” he said. “In accordance with standing battle orders he notifies you of his seniority and commission date, which reads as follows . . .”
“Yes, yes,” Trumane snapped. “Presumably he has some orders for us.”
“We are to take up station five hundred yards off their port side and continue to the rendezvous in formation. Should we encounter the enemy we are to fire flares and await orders.”
Hilemore saw the captain’s face flush red with poorly concealed anger, hearing him mutter, “Time-serving tub-thumper,” before curtly telling Talmant to send an acknowledgment. They steamed westwards for another day, three more Ironship vessels joining their small flotilla before nightfall. Two were frigates like the Contractual Obligation and one a large supply ship lumbering along at a top speed of thirteen knots, obliging the other vessels to trim their speed in order to maintain formation.
“He should cast that laggard loose,” the captain said, training his glass on the supply ship. It was one of several criticisms he had voiced about their new commander in the preceding hours. “Fat lot of good she’ll be when the shells start flying.”
“Ships ahead, sir,” Talmant reported. “Crow’s nest counts twenty plus.” He hesitated, ear glued to the speaking-tube as his face betrayed a deep relief. “All flying Ironship colours.”
Hilemore hadn’t seen such a large gathering of warships since the Emergency, and even then the fleet hadn’t featured so many heavy units. Four cruisers were in attendance, along with several Sea Wolf class light cruisers and Marlin class frigates. Sitting in the centre of the fleet was the dark bulk of the Consolidation, her pennants proclaiming Vice-Commodore Norworth as overall Fleet Commander.
“Signal from the Consolidation, sir,” Talmant said, reading the distant flicker of the cruiser’s signal lamp. “All captains to report for council of war by the tenth hour tomorrow.”
Hilemore heard the captain voice another mutter, “More delay,” before adding a quotation he recognised as penned by an ancient scholar from the Old Imperial days, though the name escaped him, “‘What a trial it is to submit to the whim of fools.’”
—
&nb
sp; Vice-Commodore Norworth was a barrel-chested man of South Mandinorian descent, his impressive array of battle honours forming a multi-coloured square on the broad canvas of his tunic. The other captains of the fleet stood around the table of the Consolidation’s cavernous ward-room to listen to his plan of battle. As was custom each was attended by a junior officer of his choosing and Trumane had surprised Hilemore by selecting him for the honour. “If you’re going to command one day I suppose you should witness a poor example as well as a fine one,” the captain offered by way of gruff explanation.
“Emergency trance communication from yesterday,” the commodore said, speaking in an accent only slightly more refined than Mr. Lemhill’s, “confirms the Corvantine main battle fleet assembling off Corvus. The Sea Board has ordered the Protectorate High Seas Fleet to proceed to Feros with all dispatch. However, it will be at least two weeks before a major battleship arrives in Arradsian waters, meaning the prosecution of this war resides solely in our hands for the time being and it doesn’t require a strategic genius to identify our enemy’s primary objective.” He turned to the huge map covering the ward-room wall, slapping a hand to the Strait. “Here, gentlemen, is where we find the enemy, and here is where we sink him.”
A general murmur of assent swept around the room, some captains clearly enlivened by the prospect of action as peacetime offered so few chances for prizes and advancement. “We proceed south at twenty-one hundred hours,” the commodore went on. “Standard battle formation, frigates in front, light cruisers guarding the flanks, main units in the centre. If the enemy is in possession of the Strait we will retake it. If they are not we will hold it against all attacks until relieved. Any questions?”
The silence lasted only two seconds before Captain Trumane stepped forward. “If I may offer an observation, sir?”
The commodore’s narrowed gaze and flaring nostrils told Hilemore much of what he thought of any observation Trumane might offer. However, it would be poor form to ignore him in front of so many witnesses. “Of course,” Norworth grated.
“There are ten blood-burners in this fleet,” Trumane began, “the Viable Opportunity being by far the fastest. If our objective is to secure the Strait then I suggest they be formed into a separate striking squadron and sent ahead of the main body.”
“A bold stratagem indeed.” Norworth raised his thick brows, apparently impressed. “Remind me, Captain. How many actual commands have you held in your career?”
Hilemore saw Trumane stiffen a little. “Two, sir. Though I would point out my battle honours . . .”
“Look about you, Mr. Trumane.” The commodore gestured at the assembled captains. “Battle honours abound in this room, as do observance of duty and sensible tactics. Sending our entire complement of blood-burners off on a mad charge into the Strait will avail us little.”
Trumane flushed but ploughed on. “I am sure we are all by now familiar with the new propulsion devices fitted to the enemy’s vessels. It is entirely possible they have already seized the Strait or are at least close to doing so.”
“One device,” Norworth pointed out, “fitted to one ship.”
“As far as we know, sir. Thanks to certain decisions made by those senior to myself, the Corvantine Imperial Navy has had five years to improve their fleet whilst, with the notable exception of my ship, we have done little more than stagnate.”
The annoyance on the commodore’s face transformed into a simmering anger and he stared at Trumane for several moments of taught silence. “You there,” he said finally, Hilemore concealing a start as Norworth’s gaze switched to him. “Hilemore, isn’t it? I pinned a medal on you after that Dalcian mess last year.”
“Yes, sir,” Hilemore said, snapping to attention.
“I served alongside your grandfather,” the commodore went on, returning his gaze to Trumane. “Fighting Jak Racksmith, the finest battle commander in the Protectorate’s history. What do you imagine he would make of your captain’s daring scheme?”
Hilemore was tempted to offer only a short and non-committal reply, but as ever the tug of duty compelled him to speak his mind. “My grandfather rarely spoke about his battles, sir,” he said. “But once I asked him about his tactics at the Battle of Rigger’s Bay, considered his greatest victory by many. He just said, ‘Bugger tactics, lad. Thinking is a luxury when the guns start up.’” He met the commodore’s gaze squarely. “In short, sir, I believe he would counsel doing exactly what my captain has suggested.”
—
The captain waited until they were in the launch being rowed back to the Viable before giving full vent to his anger. “Consigned to the rear by that half-brained dullard!” he fumed, tossing the envelope containing their orders into Hilemore’s lap.
“The rear, sir?” Hilemore enquired, unfolding the orders and the diagram containing the formation the fleet was to adopt. The Viable’s original position as one of the lead vessels had been conspicuously crossed out and a new one scrawled just behind the lumbering supply vessel they had escorted to the rendezvous. He kept silent, knowing the blame for this particularly humiliating outcome lay as much with him as it did with Trumane. The captain, however, saw only one target for his ire.
“Opposed me at every turn,” he fumed. “Opposed my promotion. Opposed my recommendations to the Board. Opposed the refit of this ship. It’s hidebound relics like him that will bring us to ruin.”
“Sir,” Hilemore said, casting a meaningful glance at the crewmen manning the oars.
The captain mastered himself with an effort, face retaining a quiver as he tugged his tunic straight. “In any case, your . . . honesty was courageous, and appreciated, Lieutenant. It won’t be forgotten.”
—
Four more ships steamed to join the fleet before the allotted hour, swelling their force to thirty vessels of varying types, though none was as slow as their closest neighbour. The supply ship was named the Mutual Advantage and was clearly of civilian origins, broader across the beam than any of the other ships and her half-dozen guns perched on her deck like incongruous afterthoughts. Her crew seemed a cheerful lot, however, waving at the Viable as she steamed in their wake, possibly in mockery though Hilemore suspected it owed more to an enhanced sense of security at having a modern ship close at hand.
The tension grew thick the farther south they steamed, the crew taking on a grim aspect under the looming prospect of battle. Hilemore kept up a steady routine of drills throughout the day and much of the night, as much to occupy their minds as to enhance their efficiency. Despite his efforts and their evident tiredness as the watches switched over and they trooped belowdecks to their bunks, he doubted any would sleep. He filled up the remaining hours before the Strait came into view by inspecting the armoury with Steelfine, finding every weapon in immaculate condition. The Islander had regained some vitality in the preceding days, possibly enlivened by the imminence of combat.
“Six years, sir,” he replied in answer to Hilemore’s question as to how long it had been since his last engagement. “Not counting the pirates of course.” He lifted another rifle from the rack and slid open the bolt for inspection of the mechanism, giving a sorrowful shake of his head. “In the Isles such an interval would cause a man to call himself a coward and his wives and husbands to find one more worthy.”
Wives and husbands? Hilemore left the question unasked. It appeared Islander customs were even more bizarre than he imagined. “Have you ever been back?” he asked instead, taking the rifle and inspecting the chamber before peering down the barrel. “To your home island?”
Steelfine’s gaze clouded and he accepted the rifle from Hilemore in silence, returning it to the rack and hefting another. For several moments it seemed he wouldn’t give any answer but it appeared his continuing sense of obligation to Hilemore compelled some form of response, albeit softly spoken. “A dead man has no home.”
In the early hours Hilemore
roused Tottleborn from his cabin, finding it neater than before, the man’s extensive collection of tawdry reading matter now stacked in an orderly pile and no sign of a bottle anywhere.
“Four?” Tottleborn asked around a yawn, eyeing the flasks in Hilemore’s hands.
“Half our remaining supply,” he said. “Captain’s orders. Action is imminent, after all. I shall require you . . .”
“To stay in the engine room for the duration of the coming unpleasantness.” Tottleborn reached for his shirt. “Rest assured, Mr. Hilemore, I’ve no intention of showing my head above decks until the last echo of gun-fire has faded.”
With the Blood-blessed safely ensconced in the engine room, Hilemore proceeded to the bridge, finding the captain already in attendance. “Morning, Lieutenant,” he said, his previous fury apparently cured by the advent of a new day.
“Good morning, sir.” Hilemore saluted. “Mr. Tottleborn is at his station and Chief Bozware reports all mechanicals in working order.”
“Excellent.” Trumane gestured at the spectacle of the fleet beyond the window, all steaming south with paddles churning and smoke rising from their stacks, streaming away swiftly thanks to the stiff northerly breeze. “At least we’ll have a decent view of the unfolding debacle, eh?”
“Quite so, sir,” Hilemore replied, divining that the captain’s improved mood could well have arisen from the prospect of witnessing Commodore Norworth’s plan come a cropper. So it was with scant surprise that he watched Trumane’s visage darken some four hours later when Talmant related a signal from the Consolidation. “Advance units report Strait clear of enemy vessels. All ships to proceed to allocated stations. Enemy action remains imminent.”
“Blind luck,” the captain sniffed, then sighed as he addressed the helmsman. “Steer south-south-east. Ensign Talmant, relay the message to Mr. Lemhill if you will. Lieutenant, relevant entry to the log.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hilemore had just finished scribbling the course change into the log when another signal came from the crow’s nest. “Enemy vessels in sight, sir.” Talmant’s voice was calm though his face betrayed a sudden loss of colour Hilemore found worrisome.