Isles of the Forsaken

by Ives Gilman, Carolyn

  She saw his passion, and her expression changed. She was taking him seriously now; but if anything, her concern had only deepened. “What kind of conditions will you have to live in?”

  “I don’t care,” he said. “I can survive.” In fact, he longed for the challenge of hardship. He wanted to test himself, and learn his limits. “It has to be a sacrifice. I can’t do this in comfort and have it mean anything.”

  “Oh, Nat.” She took his hand and squeezed it.

  “You think I’m not ready for this.”

  “No, I think you’re noble and brave. But—”

  “Nobody can be noble and brave just by talking. You’ve got to do something.”

  To his surprise, her reply was bitter. “You Talley men are all so damned stubborn.”

  “Excuse me,” he said defensively, “it’s not just the men.”

  “Yes, but you can be stubborn in spectacular, self-destructive ways Mother and I can’t.”

  They were interrupted by a loud explosion from the harbour, the first volley of fireworks. The echo bounced off the tall buildings, redoubling the sound. They both knelt on the bed and peered out the window to see if they could catch sight of the rockets.

  Watching the next shell arc into the sky and detonate, consuming itself in an ecstasy of fire, it felt to Nathaway like a moment of pending transformation. He didn’t aspire to fireworks to mark his deeds. He wanted something more intangible: to explore himself, and find out who he was apart from his family. He didn’t want to conquer other nations like his brother; he wanted to conquer his own self.

  The thought of wilderness filled him with a peace and space he had never known in crowded, artificial Fluminos. There would be elemental powers of sea and sky to test him, the true judge and jury of mankind. He would surrender himself to them—to scour him clean of civilization’s taint and refine his being into essences. Only then would he be pure enough to give away his life to serve others. The thought of a life devoted to sacrifice filled him with an exaltation whose white-hot light burned all ambition to cinders.

  *

  The snow was just beginning to fall when Harg Ismol, soon to be former captain of the Native Navy, peered out the window of Holly’s Hole, a waterfront tavern favoured by islanders. Behind him, the smoky room was packed with loudly celebrating men, newly paid off and released from the service. In one corner, several of them were holding a competition to see who could drink a pitcher of beer in one breath; but their shouts were almost drowned out by the roaring of another group watching two men pantomime what looked like an act of sexual congress with a cannon.

  Harg was the only one in the room still in uniform, since his appointment to pick up his pay and papers was still an hour away. He had come to the window ostensibly to check the weather, but really to check his watch. It was a mark of his strange position that he couldn’t make a simple gesture like taking out his watch without subterfuge. Among the men down here, the fact that he could afford a watch would make it seem like he was putting on airs; the fact that he needed one would not excuse him, only set him apart. Time belonged to the Inning world; men who simply took orders didn’t need to worry about it.

  Pocketing the incriminating instrument, he glanced up the wooden stairs at his left. He knew the chamber above was a sea of grey and blue uniforms like his own, since that was where the officers were celebrating. But it wasn’t just rank that separated the men below and the men above; it was race as well, the omnipresent factor among islanders. Above, they were all Torna; here, the crowd, like himself, was Adaina. He had already been upstairs for a while, and knew they had no problem with him—the rank and reputation he had earned outweighed old prejudices. But he had drifted downstairs to find more relaxing company, only to discover that his fellow Adainas rather bored him. Only two things had kept him downstairs: the sweet knowledge that it looked, for the first time in his life, like he was snubbing the Tornas; and the delirious pride of his fellow Adainas that he would do so.

  There was time for a last carouse before he had to leave for his parting interview. But where should he go—back to his table with the boatswains, pilots, and gunners, or upstairs to mend fences with the officers? The men with whom he had joined the navy, or the men with whom he left it? He felt like he was walking along a wharf with one foot on the dock and the other on the deck of a shifting, unmoored boat. One of these days he was going to tip into the drink.

  And so he took the third alternative: he slipped out the door into the snow without a goodbye to either group. Let them try and interpret that.

  It was cold outside, so he buttoned his broadcloth uniform coat and put on his hat. The street was full of revellers, vendors, aimless men, and shameless women—most of them immigrants from the various dependencies of the far-flung Inning empire. Presumably some Innings lived in Fluminos—probably somewhere in the tall brick buildings on the hill above the harbour—but so far Harg had seen little evidence of them. Everything here seemed to be run by conquered peoples.

  The route to the Navy Office took him past the hospital, and his steps slowed as he came abreast of the gate, knowing he had time to go in, wanting above all to avoid it. But the thought of walking by, in all the enjoyment of his success, would leave him feeling soiled, so he turned in.

  The people on duty in the hospital recognized him by now, and didn’t need to ask where he was going. Outside the door to the second-floor ward where Jory was, Harg met an orderly he had paid to give his friend some extra comforts. “How is he?” Harg asked.

  The man shrugged. “Bad day, Captain. He was raving earlier, and we had to restrain him. Sorry.”

  Harg grasped the man’s shoulder to show there was no ill feeling; he knew how violent Jory got in his fits. He slipped a coin into the man’s pocket. “Thanks, Captain,” the orderly said, nodding in deference.

  The ward was a long room lined with a double row of wooden beds. Looking down it, Harg had the bitter thought that the revellers setting off the fireworks tonight would turn silent in shock and shame if they knew what it had really taken to win the war. His boots sounded loud on the plank floor as he walked down the line of beds. Jory was sitting up, his shaved head drooping, his wrists and ankles tied to the bed frame with strong strips of cloth. When Harg came to a halt at the foot of the bed Jory looked up, and for a moment his face was a mask of paranoia and hostility. Quickly, Harg removed his hat to make himself more recognizable.

  “Oh, Harg,” Jory said, his words slightly slurred. “You didn’t look like yourself, dressed that way.”

  Jory didn’t look like himself, either. There was a caved-in place on his skull where the shell fragment had penetrated the brain. No one had thought he would live, but here he was. The wound was almost healed on the outside now, but the havoc on the inside would never go away.

  Harg sat on the side of the bed and said, “How are you doing?”

  “I don’t like these,” Jory said, pulling the restraints tight.

  “Well, you shouldn’t attack people then,” Harg said matter-of-factly.

  “I know.” Jory shook his head in angry frustration. “It’s like I’ve turned into you, isn’t it?”

  Jory was never violent when Harg was around; the hospital staff had commented on the difference in his behaviour. But Harg had seen enough evidence to know that what he saw was the remnant of the old Jory, not the new one.

  They had grown up together, best friends, though Jory’s mother had disapproved of Harg’s influence on her son. But it was Jory who had come up with the crazy scheme to run away and join the navy seven long years ago, and Harg who had followed unthinkingly. They had had to steal away at night and hide in the hold of the recruiter’s boat to escape the sure pursuit of Jory’s family. No doubt the whole village had blamed Harg, since Jory was such a good boy.

  And he had been—good-natured, pliable, like clay in the hands o
f the navy trainers, while Harg had struck sparks, like flint, against everyone he touched. Jory had accepted rules and strove to please; Harg had rebelled and suffered the harsh consequences. It had looked like they were headed in opposite directions—Jory to honourable service, Harg to the brig or even the gibbet—until the day when it had occurred to Harg that he could outwit this system, and beat the Torna officers at their own game. After that, it had all changed.

  Outside on the street, someone set off a string of firecrackers. Jory tensed, eyes wide and panicky, thinking they were under attack.

  “Don’t worry, you’re safe,” Harg said. Then, to distract him, “Think you’ll be ready to leave soon?”

  “Leave? For where?”

  “Home. Remember, I’m taking you back to Yora.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Well, I mean it. I’m on my way to get my discharge right now. Then, whenever you’re well enough, I’ll book passage for us both, back to the islands.”

  Jory had little reaction. “I thought you would stay in the navy. You’re so good at it.”

  This was an understatement; Harg was brilliant. Three years ago, he had taken command of the frigate Wolverine when its captain and lieutenant had both died of the fever, and he had not brought it back till he had obliterated a Rothur cruiser. After that, unrestrained by age-old precepts about how to conduct war at sea, he and a core of other islanders had used pirate tactics, seamanship, subterfuge, and insanely vicious attacks to more than equalize the size difference between the Native Navy’s sloops and the Rothur warships. It was an open secret that the Native Navy, not the lumbering and hidebound Inning Navy, had turned the course of the war.

  And now he was giving it all up, the only thing he had ever been successful at. He gave a slight, cynical laugh. “I’m tired of all this civilization.” He gave the word a flick of contempt. “It’s all false, like theatre—an Adaina playing a Torna playing an Inning. It’s best to get back to the South Chain, where things are genuine.”

  “What will you do there?”

  This was an excellent question; Jory sometimes surprised Harg with simple insights. “I don’t know,” he laughed. Mine peat? Fish? What did aimless war heroes do?

  He checked his watch again; he was late now. Well, what could they do, discharge him? But out of long habit he rose and said, “I’ve got to get going. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Take care, Harg,” Jory said, his face wan.

  Harg always felt guilty leaving, and slunk out faster than he had come in. But when he came to the gate he felt a burden lifted; he had met his obligation for the day.

  The Navy Office building was bustling when he arrived, though it was nearly evening and all the clerks were working by lamplight. To the young Torna adjutant who looked up from his desk when Harg entered Commodore Buckrush’s antechamber, he said, “Don’t you ever get to leave?”

  “As long as the Admiral’s in the building, so is everyone else,” the adjutant said dourly. It should have seemed odd for Admiral Talley, the hero of the hour, to be still at work with all the celebrations pending in his honour, but the man had the reputation of a fearsome taskmaster. He had burned through any number of subordinates by failing to understand that real humans required more than three hours of sleep at night. Harg had never seen him; officers of the Native Navy had little to do with the Inning hierarchy not assigned to them.

  Commodore Buckrush was in charge of the Native Navy. He was a grizzled veteran on the verge of retirement who had been given the undesirable appointment to oversee what was supposed to be a second-class squadron for guarding the coasts and escorting merchant vessels. And yet, under him the Native Navy had metamorphosed into a lethal striking force that had done the ungentlemanly work of actually beating the enemy. It was to this Inning that Harg owed his promotion; and yet, he had never been able to bring himself to like the man. There was something too old-school and patronizing about him. Harg had never been able to square the rule-breaking creativity of his orders with his bluff, conventional demeanour.

  When the adjutant showed Harg into the inner office, the Commodore was trying to button the bright scarlet and blue coat of his dress uniform over his ample paunch, doubtless in preparation for some party. “Ah, Ismol,” he said. “At last.”

  Harg saluted with a shade less than the usual precision. “Sir.”

  Buckrush went to his desk, where Harg’s papers were lying, but he seemed reluctant to hand them over. “Well, you’ve come a long way, haven’t you, Ismol? Frankly, I think it’s a miracle you survived the first two years.”

  He didn’t know the half of it. It was several miracles piled on top of each other. But it seemed ungracious to bring it up now.

  The Commodore went on, “I daresay there aren’t too many captains in the navy who have been flogged for insubordination. Three times.”

  Thanks for mentioning it, Harg wanted to say, but instead stayed silent.

  “I’ve got your papers here,” Buckrush said, fingering them. “But I’d prefer not to have to give them to you. Sure you won’t re-enlist? You could have a fine career in the navy. We need men like you.”

  “No thanks, Commodore,” Harg said. “I’ve made other plans.”

  Buckrush picked up the papers, but still didn’t hand them over. “In that case, there’s someone else who wants to talk to you. Come with me.”

  He walked past Harg and out the office door. Mystified, Harg followed him down the hall and up a staircase to the second floor of the building, where Harg had never set foot. They passed under a brass chandelier and across a carpet to a set of painted wooden doors at the front of the building. This was the realm of the Inning Navy, the separate elite branch where natives like himself served only as seamen.

  Buckrush knocked, then opened the door and entered, leaving Harg to follow after. Inside was another antechamber with a grim-looking Inning in civilian clothes, sitting at a secretary’s desk. It took Harg a moment to realize the man really was the secretary. Buckrush handed him Harg’s papers, and he scanned them. Harg watched longingly, wondering if he would ever get a chance to touch his own discharge. But the secretary rose and took the papers into the inner office.

  “Well, this is it, then,” Buckrush said, turning to Harg. “We probably won’t meet again; I’m retiring after this. Good luck to you, Ismol.” He actually held out a hand for Harg to shake as if they were old friends. Then he went out by the door they had come in, leaving Harg alone in the antechamber.

  The secretary returned from the inner office without the papers. In a monotone he said, “Admiral Talley will see you now.”

  Harg didn’t move at first. He couldn’t help the reflexive thought that he must have done something truly heinous this time. But try as he might, he could not think of a single reason why the legendary head of the Inning Navy should want to see him. The secretary had to say, “You may go in, Captain,” before Harg could shake off his paralysis.

  The office he entered was simply furnished—a functional, orderly place devoid of ostentation. Despite the snow falling outside, no fire burned in the fireplace. Harg came to a halt just inside the door and saluted as precisely as he ever had. A fleeting gratitude that he had bothered to shave passed through his head, and disappeared.

  If he had ever pictured Admiral Corbin Talley, Harg had imagined something imposing, along Commodore Buckrush’s lines; but the reality was completely different. The man who stood behind the desk scanning Harg’s papers was slightly built, with close-cropped, greying blond hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. Had he not been dressed in a splendid, gold-trimmed uniform, he would have looked like a botanist or watchmaker. But any impression of myopic intellectuality disappeared the instant he looked up to study Harg. He had startling blue eyes as probing as lancets. Harg felt that every cell of his body was being inspected separately. He kept his face impass
ive.

  “Captain Ismol,” said Admiral Talley, “I am glad to finally meet you.”

  He made it sound like he had actually heard Harg’s name before this very instant. “Likewise, sir,” said Harg.

  “Did Commodore Buckrush go over these with you?” Talley asked, referring to the papers.

  “No, sir.”

  Talley picked up a small wooden box from the desk and came around to Harg’s side. He handed the papers to Harg, clearly assuming that Harg could do more than puzzle out a few simple words. Embarrassed, Harg studied the top paper as if he could make sense of it. It didn’t look like the other discharge papers he had seen; it was embossed with fancy gold lettering. The next thing Talley did, explained it. He opened the box and held it out to Harg. In it lay the epaulette and cockade of a squadron commander. Harg stared at them, unable to move.

  “Go ahead, take it,” Talley said. “You earned it.”

  Harg took the box, but still couldn’t touch the insignia in it. It was not that he had been promoted to Commodore; that would have been explainable. It was the colour of the epaulette. Instead of the silver of the Native Navy, this one was the gold of the Inning Navy.

  “This . . . this is a mistake,” he said.

  “No it’s not,” Talley said calmly. “We’re abolishing the Native Navy as a separate institution. The segregation is divisive and inefficient. From now on the Native Navy will simply be a branch of the regular navy, on the same standing as the other branches.”

  Such a sweeping reform would send seismic shocks through the whole organization. It was no wonder Buckrush was retiring; probably a good many other Inning officers would as well, out of protest. Harg looked up at the man who had ordered the overthrow of such ancient and accepted institutions, and spoke as if it were merely a bit of housekeeping. Harg found it impossible to imagine having such power.

  “A great victory gives one some opportunities that might not otherwise arise,” Talley said with a slight smile. “I felt the Native Navy deserved some recompense for its part in that victory.”