The fleet of Atilta was of an entirely different character than that of Hibernia. Its ships were gathered from wherever they could be had and manned by whatever seasoned sailors Gylain could find. Some were small cutters, barely fit for combat though fast and agile. Others were galleons, meant for pirating but used for privateering. Still others were massive frigates or triremes. Their captains came from an equally assorted mix: some were pirates working with a license, others mercenaries, others Atiltians fighting for their fatherland.
The Floatings was now empty but for the warships, for the larger vessels had withdrawn into the river system at the sight of the force – afraid of being plundered – while the smaller vessels had been taken ashore. A few merchants worked to supply the fleet at a great profit, though they risked black-market sanctions by the largely rebel trading force. While they were supplied, the two fleets floated there a bobbing military city: upwards of thirty thousand men in a few square miles. Gylain sat beside Lyndon – the King of Hibernia – at a table put out on the deck of The Barber , covered by a canopy of sail cloth.
“We rule by strength, and our only justification is our strength,” Gylain said. “We do not claim to rule by the people, nor by the blood of destiny: our only mandate is our strength, our might, our power to enforce our wills upon the people. The only consent of the governed is the strength of the governor. Thus, we now go to prove our right to the throne, Lyndon. Let us not prove our weakness instead.”
“For order and hierarchy among men, and equality of man with God,” the King of Hibernia returned. “I am with you in this, Gylain. But tell me, where is Cybele?”
“She is a prisoner of the Fardy brothers, on her way to the rebel headquarters even now.”
“This is dark news, if not quite dark forebodings; for we still have her armies. The strength of the commander is important, but we have other commanders. What we lose most is legitimacy among the ignorant people.”
“In Saxony, perhaps, but not in Atilta. But so be it, for the people are ignorant, as you say.”
Lyndon turned to face the deck behind him, where Montague and de Casanova were approaching. “I see you have found your way to Gylain’s side, de Casanova,” and he motioned for them to be seated.
“I have, though by bitter turns of which I am not proud.”
“I have heard as much,” Lyndon sighed. “Yet we will feast on revenge, and in our repast you will undo the dishonor done your name. Do not think that I feel you weak, for if you had won you would be a god. What of my daughter?” He said this last part carelessly, but with a disguised meaning, a masked sincerity.
“She denied my love.”
“What is lost in love is won in war, and what the heart forfeits power regains. Be at ease.”
“Am I not? The ardor of my love grows chill. At each remembrance I am more sane to the world of reality. Her enchantment is passing.”
“Then it is well, for I feared I would lose my adopted son to my earthly daughter, even as I lost my earthly son to my adopted riches. In the end, however, you will not go astray as he has.”
“Your son is of no concern,” Gylain said, “For Lionel is lost in exile.”
“Were it true!” Jonathan Montague exclaimed, rising from his seat to expend his passion in pacing before the table. “But I saw him in the streets of Eden last night, though I could not catch him in the darkness. I meant to tell you, but I forgot after my vision of Nicholas.”
“Lionel, in Atilta?” cried Lyndon. “Then he is among the rebels.” He lowered his face, frowning, but then laughed silently. “Weakness is punished, even in the son of a king. Yet how would I have it? For his weakness would be my only inheritance and he would rule what I conquered with his foolish notions. It is well that he had abandoned me, as I did not have the strength to abandon him.”
“You need not fear for that,” de Casanova said, not realizing the potency of his prophecy. “For your kingdom will be ruled by a mighty hand, whose strength will not be forgotten. Do not fear for that!”
“There is much to conquer,” Lyndon replied, “And each man must begin anew.”
“Such is the way of men,” added Gylain, “To act is to satisfy pride, but pride is not grown by the acts of another.” He paused, then, looking into the distance, “Look, Lyndon, why is your fleet in such chaos?”
As Gylain spoke, the well-ordered columns of Hibernia’s fleet were degrading into a mess of disorganized ships. One vessel, in particular, was sailing in a strange, offbeat manner; and the others seemed to chase, though any real maneuvers were impossible in the crowded waters. The renegade ship suddenly broke free from the surrounding vessels, and once clear sped toward The Barber and the mouth of the harbor.
“I ordered no such actions, but we will see soon enough; for they approach us. Perhaps they have urgent news.”
“Those are the actions of a desperate man,” de Casanova said as he looked on, “And my heart chills to warn me that something ill is coming.”
“You have become a Romantic in your love, de Casanova,” Gylain laughed. “And now you view your emotions as the end of truth and reality. We will see, as your sovereign says.”
The ship was gaining speed as it came, dodging the other ships easily with its momentum. As it came up to The Barber , a voice rang out from the rigging:
“For king and country! We have them both, as good as gospel!” The man was in his mid-twenties, with long brown hair that flapped in the breeze and a splot of beard beneath his lower lip. But what made him unusual were his eyes: one blue, the other hazel.
“A thousand deaths!” cried Lyndon, the King of Hibernia, “A thousand deaths to me and mine. It is Lionel, my son, who yells such blasphemy!”
“Did you expect another, father?” for Lyndon and his ship were now close enough to overhear them. “Yet now it is not your tyranny I defile, but that of another,” and he held up his arm. There – shining in the sun – was the crown of Atilta, left securely in Gylain’s own flagship while he himself was out among his equals.
“The crown!” Gylain cried, “Admiral, follow that ship!” He dashed forward to the command deck and watched the fleeing ship – an Hibernian cruiser commandeered by Lionel – pass them like a dream. “Fools!” and he grabbed the Admiral’s bullhorn, held it to his mouth, and lava erupted from his lips, “Make sail! Make sail!”
“They give chase,” Lionel called down to his comrades, who were manning the sails and pushing the ship beyond its greatest speed. Any less would bring them death. He dropped the crown into the hands of another man who stood on the deck, then followed it himself. “The plan is working,” when he had regained his footing on the deck, “They follow in anger, de Garmia.”
“So I see,” laughed the latter. He was a dark-haired man with a Spanish crook in his nose; yet it was a dignified Spanish crook, and one which drew heavily on his Roman lips and chin. “So I see, but are we soon enough to make it work? Either way, if the wind fails, so will we.”
“But it will only grow stronger, friend, for we have need of it.”
“I feel the same, today, with the warmth of the wind and the sting of the sea to give me courage. I do not regret having followed my brother to defiance of the tyrant. If I find him, we will be reunited in this cause as we once were in its antagonist!”