“Sir Bruhstair,” Tohmys said, still meeting his eyes levelly, “it will be my honor—and my men’s.”
Ahbaht might have colored ever so slightly, but he nodded and stepped up onto the raised coaming of the midships hatch. The elevation raised his head above shoulder level on Captain Tohmys, but not by much, and the flag captain stepped back. Ahbaht wondered whether he was tactfully … deemphasizing the altitude differential.
“Ship’s company, tennnnn-huttt!” the officer of the deck barked.
The Imperial Charisian Navy placed rather less emphasis on immaculate military drill and formality than most armies did. It was a … practical sort of service, the Navy—one which prided itself on getting the job done and on thumbing its collective nose at the aristocratic Mainlander realms’ punctilio. But it was also completely capable of executing that drill whenever the mood took it, and Floodtide’s company snapped to attention with a precision not even the Temple Guard could have bettered.
“Stand easy,” Ahbaht said, raising his voice to be heard through the wind humming in the shrouds and the seabirds circling the anchorage, and feet moved, again with that same precision, coming down on the deck in a single, crisp movement as they folded their arms behind themselves. It wasn’t the position of “stand easy”; it was the far more respectful position of “parade rest,” and Ahbaht felt a suspicious prickle at the corners of his eyes. He wondered if Tohmys had drilled them especially for this moment, yet somehow he doubted it.
“I thank you and Captain Tohmys for your welcome,” he told them, clasping his own hands behind them and letting his eyes sweep slowly across those hundreds of attentive faces, “and I won’t keep you long. All of us have a great deal to do, and I know all of you know just as well as I do why we’re here.”
He took one hand from behind himself to wave it in a circle that indicated the crowded waters of Rahzhyr Bay. Half of Admiral Sarmouth’s squadron was at sea; the other half was right here at anchor, and Admiral Darys’ arrival had filled the hundred and sixty square miles of Rahzhyr Bay to capacity. The truth was, he reflected, that the ICN was going to need a larger, more commodious forward base. Or even, if things went well, several of them. Personally, he was in favor of Stella Cove on Jack’s Land, at least as an interim measure. Of course, they’d have to take it away from the Royal Dohlaran Navy first, but that only made it more attractive to Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht … and Floodtide and her consorts might just give Baron Sarmouth the wherewithal to do that taking.
Unless, of course, he has something even more … adventurous in mind.
“All of you know what happened in the Kaudzhu Narrows last July,” he continued, his voice harder and harsher, and a quietly ugly sound hovered above the listening seaman and officers. “Well, that’s what we’re out here to do something about, and I’m deeply honored that Earl Sharpfield and Baron Sarmouth have seen fit to give me this division. There was never any question in my mind which of its units I wanted as my flagship, either … and that was before I saw the handsome way you brought her into Rahzhyr Bay. Seamanship alone doesn’t make an effective warship, but good seamen do.”
He let that sink in for a moment, then continued.
“We have a great deal to do, and I’m going to demand a great deal of you. I’m going to drive this division, and I won’t settle for less than the very best you can give me. And don’t forget—we’re the Imperial Charisian Navy. I know what you can give me, so don’t expect to fob me off with anything less than the finest navy God ever put on the surface of Safehold’s seas. That’s what you are,” the words came slowly, measured, “and that’s what you’re going to be for me, because the Charisian Navy has a debt to collect and the Dohlaran Navy’s account is about to come due. When that time comes—when that bill’s presented and that account is rendered; not just for Dohlar but for everyone in the Group of Four’s service—this division—and HMS Floodtide—will be in the van, and there’s not a man or an officer in Dohlaran service who will ever forget that day.”
He paused once more, letting his eyes sweep those silent faces once more, seeing the grim determination, the fire in the eyes, and he nodded slowly.
“That’s what I’m going to demand of you,” he told them, his voice like hammered iron. “And when you give it to me, we’ll teach the Dohlaran Navy not to fuck around with the ICN … and show that fat, fornicating pig in Zion what God really has in mind for him!”
The roar that went up from Floodtide’s deck should have stunned every bird and wyvern in Rahzhyr Bay unconscious.
.IV.
Protector’s Arms Hotel
and
Aivah Pahrsahn’s Townhouse,
Siddar City,
Republic of Siddarmark.
“You’re late!”
The very attractive young woman smiled and pointed accusingly at the clock outside the restaurant’s entrance as the dark-haired colonel came through the street door into the hotel lobby vestibule.
“Nineteen-thirty, that’s what you said!” she continued. “I’ve been waiting here an entire twelve minutes, I’ll have you know.”
She elevated her nose with a distinctly audible sniff, and the colonel grinned at her.
“Considering the weather, you’re lucky it wasn’t at least a couple of hours,” he told her, stamping snow off his boots. He took off his heavy greatcoat, handed it to one of the bellmen, and crossed the lobby to wrap his arms around her. She snuggled against his chest and he pressed a kiss to the part in her hair.
“Miss me?” he asked in a much softer voice, and she snorted.
“If I had, the last thing I’d do would be to admit it! Can’t have you taking me for granted, you know.”
“Never!”
He laughed and tucked one arm around her and they started for the restaurant. The maître d’ was waiting for them with a broad smile.
“Should I assume our regular table’s available. Gyairmoh?” the colonel asked.
“Of course, Colonel Fhetukhav. It is Friday,” the maître d’ pointed out.
“Are we really that predictable?”
“Only to some of us, Sir.”
“Well, please make sure this gets into the hotel strongroom till I leave,” Fhetukhav said much more seriously, handing across his briefcase.
“Of course, Sir. I’ll take it myself. And in the meantime,” the maître d’ accepted the briefcase and snapped his fingers, and a waiter materialized out of thin air at his elbow, smiling just as broadly in greeting as he had, “Ahndrai will see you to your table and take your drink orders.”
“Your efficiency never ceases to amaze me, Gyairmoh.”
“The Protector’s Arms has a reputation to maintain, Sir,” the maître d’ said, and bowed gracefully as the waiter escorted them to their table.
* * *
Airah Sahbahtyno sat at his own table, watching through the diamond-paned glass wall which separated the restaurant from the lobby, as Gyairmoh Hahdgkyn crossed to the elevated, pulpit-like front desk. The good-looking young woman behind it looked up at his approach and shook her head with a smile as she saw the briefcase.
“I take it the Colonel’s arrived?”
“It’s Friday,” Hahdgkyn said with an answering twinkle.
“You know they’re discussing marriage?” the desk clerk asked.
“I think that would be wonderful.” Hahdgkyn’s expression was more sober than it had been. “They’re good people, Sairaih. And it would certainly be a happier ending than a lot of things have been in the last few years.”