As though in anger, the falling ship fired what guns it could still bring to bear. It was like being hit by a wave: the force of it threw Nico on to his back, and he coughed for air, winded, and swallowed dust. Splinters jabbed his legs; the kerido's arms dug into his neck; in a daze he saw Dalas sprawled on his back, with other sailors scattered around him. Half the wheel had been torn away, and Stones was nowhere to be seen. Through it all, Trench reeled about as though drunk.
Ash was still on his feet, by the remains of the rail, slightly hunched as though braced against a strong wind. He was looking at something, and Nico followed his gaze. A large object had just shot out from a cloud of smoke on the foredeck of the pursuing bird-of-war, trailing something as it raced in a shallow arc towards them.
A grappling iron crashed past Nico, and landed on the main deck of the Falcon. A chain was attached to it, whose heavy links crashed through the stern rail, its other end firmly fixed to the Mannian ship's prow.
'Quickly, over the side with it!' It was the thick voice of the captain, righting himself.
A few men leapt to the grapple, but they were already too late. The chain lost its slack and Nico stared in horror as the grapple dragged itself along the deck, caught on the lip of the quarterdeck, tore deep into the planking.
The Falcon lurched, losing speed. They were caught like a fish on a hook.
'All is lost!' cried Nico, frightened out of his wits. He didn't care that he sounded like some overripe actor exclaiming his woe to the crowd. This was madness.
Ash gazed down at his apprentice, as the pursuing ship closed the distance. Sailors began attacking the planking around the grapple with axes, trying to loosen its grip. For a spell, Ash said nothing, just stood there watching Nico, and gathering stillness about himself. Then he laughed, the sound of it rolling away with the wind, sharp mockery, yet with an underlying lightness.
'You youngsters,' he proclaimed, 'you despair so easily.'
Nico clutched the kerido's body close to him, both of them trembling.
'Captain,' snapped Ash, gaining Trench's attention. 'Turn us about.'
'Turn about? Are you mad?'
Yes, decided Nico, he's flying with the fishes. Whatever he says, sweet Ers, don't listen.
'Turn us about,' Ash repeated.
Trench took position at the wheel, spinning what remained of it to turn the ship about.
The Falcon heaved around, losing a good portion of her port rails as the chain scudded along her gunwales. Their pursuer turned with them, though not as sharply. The chain slackened.
'Heave, you fellows!' shouted the captain to his men. Dalas had by now regained his feet. He strained to lift the grapple, then he and six other men rushed over to the side with it and pitched it into thin air.
Trench spun the wheel again, regaining their original course. They had lost height during the engagement, and at this lower level the wind was with them. The sculls snapped full with it and the Falcon surged forwards.
'Tend to the wounded,' Trench yelled. 'And get the stitchers up into the envelope. We're venting gas from the cells.'
The crew knew then that they were safely through. They didn't cheer like the heroes do in the sagas. Instead, as the imperial ships dropped behind, it was a stunned silence that fell across the decks.
'I hope you do not consider that another debt to be repaid,' Trench muttered over his shoulder to Ash.
The old Rshun said nothing.
Nico stared about him. Even now he could hear the cries of wounded men who would likely not make it to the end of the day.
I'm much too young for this, he thought, with a sudden sobering clarity.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Congress 'We need those ships, Phrades,' announced First Minister Chonas, leaning forward in his chair as though to add some much needed emphasis to his words. He held up a fist to the dozen ministers assembled before him for this cabinet of war, and squeezed it until the knuckles turned white. 'Our people must eat.'
Phrades, Minister of Ship Building, glanced sidelong to his son, where the pair sat together at the great oval table of the assembly chamber, amid their fellow ministers. Most of the faces there were dusted white to mark them as members of the Michine class born and bred, although there were a few notable exceptions. Phrades could not speak aloud these days, due to a cancer of the throat they said. Instead he whispered drily to his son, the young man's face in stark contrast to the pallid complexion of his father, being tanned and without make-up, as many of the Michine youth favoured these days. The young man listened carefully with a tilt of his head, then cleared his throat and stood.
'We understand, First Minister, and you must believe us when we say we bend our wills to this task like no other. All resources that can be diverted from other projects have been appropriated so as to speed up the completion of the ships. We have even contributed a portion of our own family fortune to this task, in organizing the importation of raw materials. It pains me – us – to confess that we can do no more than we are doing now. It will take us one month more to finish the remaining merchanters under construction at the Al-Khos dockyards. In the meantime we must rely on the private longtraders to continue picking up the slack. The people, I fear, must tighten their belts further.'
A stomach gurgled loudly in the room just then, causing a few heads to turn in that direction.
First Minister Chonas was not the kind of man to acknowledge such a distraction, nor was he inclined to take no for an immediate answer.
'And what did the Pincho have to say to our requests?' he asked, referring to the main assembly on Minos, the seat of Mercian democracy.
'They, too, build as fast as they can, but they are still hard pressed to refit the fleets after the spring storms. The new vessels will not be with us until the beginning of autumn.'
'At least,' offered Minister Memes, sitting with his equally tanned face resting on his clasped hands, 'our food reserves should be restored to satisfactory levels in time for winter.' The voice of the wealthy gala exporter sounded restrained in the huge dimensions of the chamber, the speaker doubtless conscious of what he represented to these other men around him, his great wealth and political position having been gained despite being born of the lower classes – another reflection of the changing times.
'That is easy enough to say,' countered First Minister Chonas, 'since few of us here in this room look as though we have been going hungry.' Yet Chonas himself looked lean enough, as though he at times did indeed go hungry. The First Minister held up a palm to silence any protest at this accusation, before continuing in a voice flat with resignation. 'No, they are right to put the fleets first. It is better that our people tighten their belts a little further,' – he ranged around the room glaring from beneath enormous, bushy eyebrows – 'than we should lose our naval supremacy, and thus lose all.'
'General Creed, you have a request for us?'
At this, Bahn's hungry stomach grumbled loudly once again. He pulled his gaze away from the banquet of food waiting close to the main door of the chamber, and sat up in his chair next to the general. They sat at one end of the table, facing those opposite, and behind them the great sun-fattened windows of the south gallery. No reply came from his superior, nor did Bahn sense any shift in the man's posture.
Glancing sideways at the old warrior, he saw that General Creed, Lord Protector of Khos, was now staring out through the same windows at the pale blue sea of the Bay of Squalls. From here they could not see the cliffs on which the building of the Congress stood, let alone the slum-town of the Shoals, which sprawled along the foot of the cliffs, half submerged in seawater during storm tides. Instead the vista revealed was a pleasant one: the air was especially clear today, everything crisp in detail so hat landmarks appeared closer than they really were. A squadron of triple-masted men-of-war roamed the waters, bearing the Khosian flag. They ranged beyond reach of the heavy Mannian guns positioned on the far shore, seen from here as a coastline of russet hills made pale by the sunlight and dotted with grey fortifications. From here the forts could be seen to cluster most thickly around the dark smudge of the Pathian town of Nomarl where, within the harbour walls, the hulks of a Mannian fleet were reported to still lie abandoned in the water, charred and sea-rotted after being burned at anchor by a Khosian raid three years earlier – the last offensive action the Khosians had mounted with any success.