Logic might have persuaded Bridget ban—she was the sort for whom a well-constructed narrative is worth a thousand detailed facts, and on occasion she was known to discard a fact or two to save the narrative; but Grimpen was a man unimpressed with theories. From any finite collection of facts, he was fond of saying, one may construct an infinite number of theories, and the probability approached zero that any one of them was true. As for Gwillgi, fact and theory alike meant nothing; the deed was all.
“Why don’t you go in yourself?” Gwillgi asked Fir Li. But the dark Hound waved his arm broadly, encompassing Hot Gates and her squadron beyond the hull, patrolling the exit ramps of Sapphire Point.
“I would. But I’m committed to this duty. And I’ve been across before. Some there might remember.”
“We all have duties,” Gwillgi replied, “save Grimpen, here. He seems at liberty.”
“We don’t even know,” rumbled the big man, “that your disappearing ships are more than a statistical anomaly.” Having arrived first, he had already reviewed the data.
“I showed you the analyses,” Fir Li protested. With his left hand, he crooked a finger and a junior Pup approached with a flagon of channel wine from Greatthorp. Fir Li held his cup out. Both Gwillgi and Bridget ban eyed the boy speculatively. Gwillgi ran a nail—it was very nearly a claw—along the lad’s forearm as he passed. Fir Li, seeing this, chuckled. “You won’t fluster him. I’ve taught him the falconer’s art.”
Topaz eyes caught the light. “You launch falcons aboard Hot Gates?”
Grimpen rumbled like an earthquake, signifying laughter. “He didn’t say that.” But turning to his host, he said, “You yourself admitted the conclusions were subject to an alpha risk of…”
“O! dear, large Grimpen,” said Bridget ban, who drank nothing but water. “Were the world an equation, we’d ha’e solved it ere now.”
“Nonetheless,” Fir Li insisted after an appreciative sip, “we’ve reason to suspect that ships crossing into the Confederacy disappear too often. Now we’ve intelligence that the Confederacy harbors the same suspicions about ships crossing into the League.”
“What of the second courier?” asked Grimpen. “I assume there was one.”
Fir Li shook his head. “Hanseatic Point saw nothing unusual. I haven’t heard from the farther crossings. If there was a second courier, he likely made the crossing as a crewman on a freighter, jumped ship once over here, slipped surveillance, and hijacked a small ship to use. I’ve sent out a request that any recent hijackings of personal yachts be reported to my office.”
“If your fish was sent in order to be caught and spill disinformation,” said Gwillgi, “why bother sending a second?”
“And why would they spread such disinformation?” Bridget ban asked. “I mean, that particular disinformation? Suppose we were to believe it. How does the Confederacy benefit?”
Gwillgi scratched his chin with his forefinger. “The ICC and the Chettinads and the rest grow spooked about crossing the Rift. Stop sending ships across. Fewer nosy strangers, hey?”
“Our trade ships may dock only at Gaphavn,” Grimpen pointed out, “and their movements are tightly controlled.”
Gwillgi struck the arm of his chair. “Then the Confederates are doing something at Gaphavn. Don’t want us to know!”
“Then they’ve only to abrogate the Treaty,” said Bridget ban. “They’d nae let our ships in aforetimes, and need no ruse to be keeping them out once more.”
“Blather,” said Grimpen. “It’s pointless to speculate on Confederate motives for doing something before we’re quite sure they’re doing it. Either Olafsson’s mission was genuine, or it was disinformation. Start from there and ask what facts you’d need to—”
Fir Li turned to his door, where stood Graceful Bintsaif, who was senior Pup now that Greystroke was on the scent. “Yes.”
Bintsaif bowed. “Your pardons, Cuin,” she said, and turning to Fir Li, “Cu, the commodore has asked for you. His pickets report the Cynthian fleet returning.”
Fir Li cocked his head. “And this interests me, how? Must I listen again as the Molnar mocks the Ardry and the rule of law?”
“Cu, the commodore said to tell you that they number only half as many ships.”
Fir Li drained his glass and placed it on the salver proffered by the junior Pup. “Now, that is interesting,” he told the other Hounds. “A pirate fleet going and coming is no great thing in these wretched times; but a fleet going and half a fleet coming—that has a story.”
Fire Control greeted Fir Li when he entered the command deck deep within Hot Gates by saying, “Now, can I take them? They’ve only ten corvettes, and each badly damaged.”
“Not yet, Fire Control. Let’s hear the story first.” He nodded to Commodore Wildbear, who had replaced Echeverria in the rotation. “Bring the alfvens to standby.”
“Cu?”
“Which word was unclear? Do it. Comm, compress this and squirt. Cuin, if you would, stand within the field of view. Thank you. Record. ‘Cynthian ships, this is ULS Hot Gates, Cu na Fir Li commanding. State your business.’ End.”
Several minutes went by as the message packet penciled out to the Silk Road exit. Overhead, Traffic Control displayed the positions of the ships as they crossed the high system to the Palisades Parkway. Red lights indicated the observed positions; green lights, the projected real positions, corrected for vector and Newtonian light-lag. Fir Li told Fire Control to show dead lines. “One for kinetic weapons; one for energy beams. Localize to ship-centered coordinates, by ship.”
Just in case. Fire Control grinned. Commodore Wildbear scowled. Technically, the commodore had operational control of the squadron, but Hot Gates was Fir Li’s personal property and he sometimes forgot the protocols, or pretended to.
When the reply came from the Cynthians, the Molnar put on a brave front. “Hey, doggy, you got yourself a reg’lar pack there. Just on my way home, now, me. Don’t want no trouble. You keep watching for Confederates, okay? And better watch that Silk Road exit, too—might be followed, me.”
“So, your victim proved too tough a nut!” Fir Li tried to show that he was trying not to smirk.
Lag-and-reply and: “New Eireann? Naw, they was pussies. Like the sages say: ‘The strong take what they can, and the weak suffer what they must.’ Was ambushed at Peacock Junction, Deceiver take ’em! Ever see a ship hit caltrops at high-v, you? Shredded my vanguard coming off the ramp. Took the damned Twister, after all the trouble we went through to fetch it.”
This time Fir Li did not try to hide the smirk. “The strong take what they can,” he answered philosophically. Gwillgi, behind him, began to laugh, but Fir Li waved him silent and awaited the Cynthian’s reply.
“Don’t be such a smart mouth. Fight anybody, me; and if I lose, I lose.” He actually struck his chest. “Gods decide. But sneakin’ ambush, that’s no fight. Hey, doggy, they come through the Road after us, they make recycle outta your punky squadron.”
And they would have the Twister. Fir Li pondered that for a moment before he formulated his next squirt. “Did they know about the weapon when they took it?”