Another example of things staying the same, he thought, nodding to the Marine sentry and then rapping sharply. For a moment he thought his knock hadn’t been heard, but then a voice answered.
“Enter!”
Aplyn-Ahrmahk took off his hat, tucked it even more carefully than usual under his left arm, and ran straightening fingers through his tousled hair before he stepped through the door. Not that he was worried about the admiral’s reaction to his appearance. Oh no, not his
…
Sylvyst Raigly, Sir Dunkyn’s valet and steward, had become awesomely aware of his employer’s exalted status the instant the brand-new admiral’s streamer had been broken from Destiny ’s mizzen. Raigly was only about thirty years old, well read, and always well dressed and carefully groomed, but when he decided to feel waspish, he was capable of the most icily polite, formal, biting, exquisitely nasty set downs Aplyn-Ahrmahk had ever encountered. The ensign had never heard him utter a single overtly inappropriate or discourteous word… which didn’t prevent Raigly from vivisecting anyone unfortunate enough to rouse his ire. He was also a crack pistol shot and an excellent swordsman, and one of his shipboard duties had been to instruct the midshipmen in sword work. He’d done a great deal to improve Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s combat skills, and the two of them were friends… which wouldn’t save Aplyn-Ahrmahk’s neck if he came into the admiral’s presence with his tunic unbuttoned or a hat on his head below decks.
There was no sharp-eyed and ominous valet waiting for him this time, however; merely an admiral. Well, an admiral and his secretary, who was far less terrifying than any valet!
“Yes, Hektor?” Yairley asked, looking up from the chart he’d been contemplating while he dictated a letter to Trumyn Lywshai, his newly appointed flag secretary.
“Captain Lathyk’s compliments, Sir. Admiral Shain has hoisted the signal.”
“I see.”
Yairley glanced back at the chart once more, then straightened. He stepped to the skylight, looked up at the wind indicator, and nodded in satisfaction.
“I suppose we should go on deck, then,” he said mildly, and looked at Lywshai. “We’ll finish that correspondence later, Trumyn.”
“Of course, Sir Dunkyn.”
Lywshai was ten years older than Raigly, although he and the valet got along well. But whereas Raigly was as Charisian-born and bred as a man came (and looked it), Lywshai’s hair was so dark a black it was almost blue and his eyes had a much more pronounced epicanthic fold. His father had been born in the Harchong Empire and sold to a Harchongian merchant captain by the local baron as a “cabin boy” when he was only seven. Shaintai Lywshai seldom spoke about those years, although they’d left deep and painful scars, and not just of the body. But the captain who’d bought him had decided to dabble in piracy as a sideline and picked the wrong galleon as a prize. Which was how Shaintai had ended up in Tellesberg at the age of thirteen, adopted by the captain of the galleon his previous (deceased) owner had attempted to capture. And which also explained the ferocious loyalty of Shaintai’s son Trumyn and the entire extensive Lywshai family to Charis and the Charisian crown.
“Do you want me to wait until you come back below?” Lywshai asked now. “Or should I start making the fair copies of your other letters for your signature?”
“Go ahead and finish up the ones I’ve already dictated,” Yairley decided. “I don’t believe we’ll be able to get very much done on the rest of it until this little affair is over, though.”
“Of course, Sir Dunkyn,” Lywshai said again, with a small half bow, and Yairley smiled at him. He hadn’t had very long to get to know the secretary, but he’d already decided High Admiral Rock Point’s glowing recommendation had been right on the mark. He watched Lywshai’s skillful fingers adroitly sorting through the correspondence, then raised his voice.
“Sylvyst!”
“Coming, Sir Dunkyn!” a tenor voice replied, and Raigly stepped out of the admiral’s sleeping cabin carrying Yairley’s uniform tunic over one arm and the admiral’s sword belt over the other.
Yairley grimaced at sight of the sword belt, but he didn’t argue. He only slid his arms into the offered tunic, buttoned it, and then buckled the belt around his waist. Unlike many other officers, he carried no pistols, but Raigly made up for that. Technically, the valet was a civilian, not that his lack of official martial standing seemed to cause him any undue concern. Although he wore civilian clothing, he was armed with sword and dirk and no less than four double-barreled pistols, two in holsters and the second pair shoved through his belt.
“We haven’t cleared for action yet, you know, Sylvyst,” Yairley observed.
“No, Sir Dunkyn, we haven’t,” Raigly agreed.
“Then don’t you think that might be a little… excessive?” the admiral asked, waving at the valet’s arsenal.
“No, Sir Dunkyn. Not really,” Raigly replied politely, and Yairley gave up. Between the valet and Stywyrt Mahlyk he’d have the equivalent of an entire squad of Marines keeping an eye on him. And now, no doubt, Aplyn-Ahrmahk, relieved of ship-handling duties, would add himself to the bodyguard corps, as well. In some ways, it was a relief; at other times he found himself wondering a bit plaintively why neither his valet nor his coxswain nor (now) his flag lieutenant had figured out he was an adult capable of looking after himself.
Best not to follow that thought up, he reminded himself again. You probably wouldn’t like where it ended.
“Well, if you’re satisfied that you’re sufficiently well armed, let’s go see what the rest of the fleet is doing,” he said dryly.
“Of course, Sir Dunkyn,” Raigly replied gravely, and Yairley heard something which sounded suspiciously like a chuckle from his flag lieutenant.
“Oh, shit.”
Sir Urwyn Hahltar, Baron of Jahras and Admiral General of the Imperial Desnairian Navy, spoke quietly but with great feeling as he looked at the semaphore message in his hand.
“They’re coming?” Daivyn Bairaht, the Duke of Kholman, didn’t sound any happier than his brother-in-law.
“Of course they’re coming!” Jahras growled. “It was only a matter of time.” He tossed the balled-up message slip into the trash can beside his desk with a disgusted expression. “The only surprise is that they’ve waited this long!”
He stamped his way to the window and looked out across the Iythrian waterfront. The good news was that there’d been time to complete almost all of the Desnairian Navy’s building program. That meant he had ninety-one fully armed galleons at his disposal. The bad news came in two installments. First, all of his ships were smaller than a typical Charisian galleon, with lighter armaments, less reliable guns which were prone to burst at inconvenient moments, and crews which were far less well trained. Second, according to the message from the Sylmahn’s Island semaphore station, something on the order of a hundred Charisian galleons, an unknown number of them armed with the new exploding “shells” which had gutted Kornylys Harpahr’s fleet, were headed directly for his window at this very moment.
Some of Emperor Mahrys’ senior advisers-the ones safely far away from the Gulf of Jahras and with the least responsibility for building and training the emperor’s navy-had urged Jahras to adopt a mobile, aggressive strategy. The idiots in question obviously failed to grasp the difference between ships at sea and the cavalry for which the Desnairian Empire was famed. They’d seen no reason why he shouldn’t have kept the enemy entirely out of the Gulf by using Howard Reach’s constricted waters to tie up any Charisian assault with spoiling attacks launched by smaller, handier squadrons that could dash in, hammer the enemy, and then fall back on his main force. After all, how different could it be from using cavalry attacks to tie up and pin down a more numerous foe trying to fight his way through a mountain pass?