Ethilda moved to stand next to the oil painting depicting the Varestian region. She held a thin ivory baton and wore a dress which had been adorned with various military accoutrements, including shoulder epaulets and a yellow sash of the kind worn by marshals of the late Mandinorian Imperium. Lizanne somehow knew Ethilda was already imagining the portrait of her in this dress that would one day adorn the halls of this building.
“Subarisk,” Ethilda said, tapping the tip of the baton to the relevant section of the painting. “Fallen to our enemy and since abandoned, thanks to an unsanctioned action by our supposed ally.” She fixed Lizanne with a glare before moving the baton westward. “Denied ships, the enemy is now marching towards the peninsular.”
“Where they will no doubt visit all manner of vile havoc on every Varestian they get they claws on,” Arshav added. Unlike his mother he didn’t glare, though Lizanne recognised the set of his features, having seen the face of many a man set on murder.
Subarisk, Lizanne decided, recalling Morva’s words. That will be their pretext.
“With ships they would have invaded the Red Tides within days,” she pointed out, keeping her tone mild. “Now we have weeks to prepare.”
“For a land campaign,” Ethilda said. “Varestians are not accustomed to fighting on land. At sea we would have had a much better chance of victory, especially with the new weapons.”
A small murmur of agreement came from the other captains, though by no means all. “Many ships aren’t yet armed,” Alzar Lokaras said, voice flat, though his animosity to his cousins shone in his eyes clearly enough. “And there are only a few hundred of the new carbines. I also note my cousin Arshav has barely managed to gather more than ten thousand fighters.”
“I can’t be held accountable for the cowardice of others,” Arshav said, a snarl creeping into his voice.
“It isn’t cowardice, cousin,” Alzar replied. “It’s you. No true Varestian wants the stain on their honour that comes from serving under your flag.”
“Careful, cousin,” Arshav returned, his hand straying towards the hilt of his sabre. “Challenges may be forbidden in time of war, but don’t imagine that will protect you.”
Alzar met Arshav’s gaze squarely, a sneer forming on his lips. “From what?”
“Enough!” Ethilda barked as Arshav’s fist closed on the sabre hilt. “This avails us nothing.” She focused her gaze on Lizanne. “We have a disloyal ally to deal with.”
Lizanne had prepared an initial response to this trap, a short but effective speech highlighting Arshav’s and Ethilda’s many and obvious faults in both character and judgement. It was designed to stoke the pre-existing resentments of the other captains, perhaps even to the point where they might be tempted to stage a coup. But the Okanas’s clumsy intrigues were proving sufficiently tiresome for her to proceed directly to the alternative option.
“I take it Mr. Lockbar is outside awaiting some form of signal,” she said, arching a quizzical eyebrow at Ethilda. “Soon he’ll come bursting in to arrest me for breach of contract whereupon I’ll be marched off to some dungeon, perhaps making a doomed and fatal escape attempt along the way.”
Ethilda stared at her with an expression that mingled poorly hidden surprise with unconcealed animosity, her eyes flicking towards Arshav as they exchanged an uncertain glance. Lizanne gave a disgusted sigh and strode towards the large telescope opposite the huge oil-painted map. She swivelled the tube on the tripod to point it towards the large window, setting the correct angle before checking the focus through the eyepiece.
“Please,” she said, stepping back and gesturing at the telescope. “I should like you to see my father’s latest invention,” she added as mother and son exchanged another glance. They continued to stand in rigid and enraged immobility so Alzar stepped forward.
“What is that?” he asked, brows creasing as he squinted through the eyepiece.
“She’s called the Typhoon,” Lizanne replied. “A Mark II aerostat, currently hovering at a height of six thousand feet, well outside the range of any current artillery piece. Please note the object below the gondola.”
“I see it,” Alzar said after some more squinting.
“We call that the Tinkerer Mark I rocket. It’s identical to the one that destroyed the harbour door at Subarisk. You will also note it is aimed directly at this building. Should I fail to fly away from the Seven Walls within the hour it will be fired, and please harbour no illusions that it will miss its target.”
She turned to Ethilda and Arshav, speaking in clear, precise tones to ensure there would be no mistaking her intent. “Our contract is hereby voided on grounds of corporate duplicity and negotiations undertaken in bad faith. Should you make any attempt to reassert the provisions of said contract the Typhoon will return and destroy this building. It will then destroy every ship your family owns. The Mount Works Manufacturing Company is of this moment a separate entity and free to negotiate its own contracts. Your business, however, is not welcome and your authority over the Varestian region is no longer recognised.”
She stepped away from the telescope and bowed to the other attendees. “Captains, should you wish to engage in serious discussions regarding the defence of the Red Tides you can find me at Blaska Sound. All munitions will be supplied free of charge to any who choose to ally with us.” She bowed again and moved to the door. “Good day.”
CHAPTER 30
Hilemore
“I’m sorry, Corrick. But you can expect no help.”
Hilemore reread the last line of the communique several times, it being the only sentence to convey any sense of intimacy. The rest of the missive contained a brief and depressing summary of recent events in Mandinor and assurances that she had advised the Voters Rights Alliance in this city to render assistance to him “subject to a reciprocal arrangement compatible with your honour.” This was followed shortly after by an observation he felt had been intended as much for his hosts’ eyes as his: “I’m sure all parties will benefit from your advice and calm counsel.”
“So you see,” Coll said after Hilemore had finished. “You want our help, you help us win this city back.”
“That,” Hilemore replied, “is not her intent.”
“Reads that way to me,” the stocky youth replied to a murmur of agreement from the other committee members. “We got supplies, you want ’em. So take your boat across the harbour and pound that bitch Kulvetch’s headquarters to rubble . . .”
“That’s not going to happen,” Hilemore interrupted, glancing over the communique once more before consigning it to his pocket. Lacking intimacy or not, it was the only correspondence he had received from Lewella in many months and he found himself unwilling to part with it. “You forget that I know Free Woman Tythencroft far better than any of you. Her intention, misguided though I believe it to be, is for me to negotiate a ceasefire between the Voters Rights Alliance and corporate forces, and subsequently to assume leadership of this city.”
Hilemore rose from his stool, scanning each of the young, angry faces before him and feeling far older than his twenty-eight years. Twenty-nine, he reminded himself, recalling his uncelebrated birthday on the ice. “Clearly,” he said, “had she met Colonel Kulvetch or any of you lot, she would have known this to be a hopeless prospect, as is any further negotiation with me.”