by Dave Duncan
“Commend Captain Garbes for his initiative and clear thinking. All three galleys to proceed at once in hot pursuit, mission to intercept Albatross and engage the raider if found, Your Honor.”
“And if not?”
“Go in and cut ’em out, ma’am.”
“Captain Garbes, I agree with the commodore that your actions were commendable, and I appoint you acting deputy commodore, effective yesterday. You agree with Commodore Chagulak’s proposals?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“So ordered. Proceed, Commodore.”
Chagulak began barking orders through a speaking trumpet, and all three crews obediently cheered at the prospect of action.
Veer rose on his knees for a private word with Irona. “My sweetest turtledove, my rose without a thorn, are you seriously planning to take war galleys into a foreign port to seize two ships?”
“If necessary.”
“Did the Seventy authorize you to start a war?”
“Not in so many words,” she admitted, “but that’s what they’re hoping for. And now the goddess has sent us a perfect excuse.”
Early in the morning of the second day, Irona’s tiny flotilla rowed along the eastern coast of Kell. They passed a lush and fertile land, green with unfamiliar crops and trees, sprinkled with grand white villas. Kell was a jewel, and Irona 700 began to rethink her strategy for dealing with Elbrus.
Even if the town of Kell was the only port on the island of Kell, it was a good one, with a superb natural harbor protected by a long, curved spit. Although scores of vessels were anchored there, or tied up at the single pier, or dragged up on the beaches, it could have taken Irona’s entire fleet as well without crowding. Most of the current residents were fishing boats, but some were obviously more, especially one obvious war galley. It posed no threat in itself because it was currently lying out of the water, being careened, but its crew must be around somewhere.
The town stood on the landward side of the harbor within walls of pale stone. Above the battlement showed tiled roofs of many colors, a few narrow towers, and a high building that must be either a temple or the governor’s palace.
Invincible and Insurmountable rowed boldly in, while Indomitable waited in the harbor entrance. The intruders were recognized at once for what they were. Trumpets sounded, drums beat, and torrents of people fled from the harbor to the safety of the town walls. Sunlight flashed on bronze as armed men arrived on the ramparts.
“There’s Albatross!” Jalua Fayal cried. The prize had been beached for unloading and was tipped over by the low tide. “And that’s the pirate!” He pointed to the vessel he had described, a rakish, two-masted craft at anchor. Insurmountable was already heading for that one. Bosun Turfan steered Invincible toward Albatross.
One ship, a small galley, must have been ready to leave, with its crew aboard, because it tried to escape. Oars dipped and swung in perfect unison as it made a dash for the open sea. Indomitable turned to face it, then surged forward to ram. The crash was loud enough to echo off the city wall. Captain Onikobe did not try to board. He had his men back water, leaving the other craft to founder and its crew to swim. When no others tried to make a break, he headed into the harbor and went in search of pirates.
Irona and the naval officers had talked for hours about every possible eventuality, and she did not meddle in tactics during action. Chagulak gently beached his galley just one fishing boat away from Albatross.
Veer had been standing by the rail as if turned to stone, no doubt loading his prodigious memory with exotic alien images. He staggered as the galley grounded, then turned to Irona with revulsion written all over his homely face. “There’s bloodstains all over the deck!” He meant Albatross’s deck, of course.
“You’ll see more of that before the day is out, dear.” Having him along had made the voyage a treat, but she wished that he could have been spared this violence. Veer had an artist’s fragile soul.
Armed marines waded ashore and ran to the prize ship. As soon as they had confirmed that there was no one aboard, Bosun Turfan, now Sergeant Turfan, ran off along the beach toward the town. He was unarmed, wearing only rower’s leather breeches and carrying a flag.
“Where’s he going?” Veer asked.
“Flag of truce. He’s our herald, gone to demand that Albatross survivors and the pirates be turned over to us.”
“You expect them to agree to that?”
“Depends on the state of the governor’s liver,” Irona said flippantly. But a governor who caved before a mere three galleys would find himself looking down from a high spike very soon after word reached the satrap in Nabro.
Sounds of battle rolled in over the water as Insurmountable’s crew overpowered the watch on the raider. Three men dived overboard and were used for target practice by Benesh archers; another four were killed on deck and thrown in the water.
Eager to enjoy some exercise on a stable surface, Irona pulled herself upright and began pacing, thumping with her staff. She was wearing her jade-handled dagger again. It was a little shorter than before, because it had been reground to replace the point that had broken off when she tried to stab the Beru, but that didn’t show in the scabbard. Veer stood with his arms folded and glowered every time she passed him.
“The worst part of war is always the waiting,” she said.
“Waiting for what?”
“Waiting for our herald to return with an answer.”
Chagulak clambered over the bow and came marching along to the afterdeck. “It’ll be three hours or more before we can float her, ma’am. I told the lads to prepare her for burning.”
“But hold off until we hear from the city. They may give her up freely.”
He nodded doubtfully.
“Then what?” Veer asked.
“If enough of the crew have survived to man her,” Irona said, “they can sail her to Aoba with a few of our men as deckhands. Otherwise, we’ll have to tow her.”
“And we head to Aoba?”
Possibly. Irona was starting to have better ideas. The rest of her fleet would be now be in Aoba and wondering where its admiral had gone. It would take two days for her to summon it and two more for it to arrive.
“Commodore, crenellating a town is illegal in our Empire, but a couple of exceptions are allowed, and I have seen their walls. I have also seen remnants of ancient castles’ walls, too. None is less than five times a man’s height. I don’t think much of Kell’s defenses. Do you?”
Pugnacity glinted in the commodore’s eye. “Three man-heights, maybe? No, ma’am, I agree. Just for show! They look old and weathered, too. If enough mortar has fallen out, a good lad might be able to climb up, given time.”
“You must have a man who could throw a grapnel that high?”
“I could throw the man himself that high,” Chagulak said with a straight face. “But the defenders would cut the ropes before we could climb up, ma’am.”
Irona nodded a maybe, thinking of nighttime. First man up a rope could pull up a rope ladder. The next four or five could defend the bridgehead while the rest followed to take the city.
Turfan was still standing outside the city gate, looking up. A few guards on the balcony were staring down, and no doubt the two sides were bandying insults. The governor might be considering his options, or he might have already decided. The town must have a population of several thousand, of which a quarter would be potential fighting men. He might be lining up hundreds of them for a counterattack.
Out in the lagoon, smoke was rising from the original raider. Garbes had recovered his men and was heading for another likely victim.
Indomitable had already set one ship aflame and was inspecting another. It would be easy enough to identify pirates after boarding them. They would certainly carry grappling hooks, probably shackles and extra weapons. They might have slave pens for prisoners, al
though slaving itself was not illegal. Onikobe’s orders were to burn all the raiders he could.
A crowd’s roar drew everyone’s attention back to the city gate. For a few minutes the noise continued without explanation. Then more heads appeared on the battlements. One rose higher than the others and quickly vanished.
Veer swore luridly. “They’re returning the prisoners the quick way.”
Twice more the invisible crowd cheered, and each time another victim followed the first, hurled down to injury or death.
“Recommend fast withdrawal, ma’am,” said Chagulak, scarlet with rage.
“Granted.”
He told the bugler to sound the retreat.
Now four pirate vessels were burning in the lagoon, and curls of smoke were rising from the beached Albatross as the boarding party waded out to their galley. The last man to board was Bosun Turfan. He was a seasoned fighter, who had earned promotion in fierce fighting at Achelone, but his face was still green with horror when he came aft to report to the commodore.
“Three prisoners,” he said. “They blinded them, castrated them, then threw them off the battlements.”
“You made sure they were dead?”
“Aye, sir.”
A herald went unarmed, but even a herald carried a knife at his belt, like any other man. Turfan’s right hand was bloody.
“This is all?” screamed Jalua Fayal, the last Albatross survivor. “They do that and you just sail away and let them be?”
“That’s all for now, citizen,” Irona said. “But only for now, believe me.”
“Kell was caught with its smock up,” Irona explained to Veer as the island slid below the horizon. “Its governor must be either young and inexperienced, old and debauched, or a highborn gink. He—obviously he, because the Three Kingdoms never let women out of the bedroom—clearly failed to consult men who could have advised him. Or else he has none to consult. He will probably now be working his people day and night reinforcing the defenses of the harbor against more Benesh attacks.”
“So?”
“So we shall not attack the harbor again.”
Five nights later, shortly before dawn, grapnels flew over the walls on the landward side of the city. A thousand men followed. Kill any who resisted, Irona had ordered. Looting was permitted—that was certain to include slaving and rape, which she did not try to forbid—but not burning. She directed, “Save the town itself. We need it.”
Three galleys blocked the harbor mouth, although two of them were grossly undermanned and just for show. Another fifteen galleys—Irona’s entire force plus some from the Aoba station—lay on a beach a mile or so along the shore from the town and would have been vulnerable had the governor thought to have the coast patrolled, which he hadn’t. Irona nervously limped back and forth on Invincible’s deck, waiting for news. Within an hour of the assault, word arrived that resistance in the town had collapsed, and Kell was hers.
That evening Irona held court in the town’s palace, seated on a grandiose gilt throne. Kell was a remote provincial backwater of empire, and yet the hall was as grand as any in Benign, a showpiece of brilliant tiles, mosaics, and gilt—overblown and almost grotesque to her taste.
The former governor was brought before her. He still wore finely embroidered silks decorated with lace, but they were soiled and crumpled after a few hours in jail, and his complicated coiffure had collapsed. Although he was too young and shrill to bluster convincingly, he did try, folding his arms and spreading his feet. The guards kicked the back of his knees to drop him into a more suitable position and then stepped on his outspread robes, forcing him to stay there.
Irona addressed him through an interpreter. “We have a proverb in Benign,” she said. “Do not hit a lion with a fly whisk. By mutilating and murdering helpless captives, you were fighting me with a fly whisk. You violated all civilized standards to no gain.”
“You don’t look much like a lion to me.”
“I give you another proverb, then. The lion does the roaring; the lioness makes the kill.” Her guards smirked.
“Don’t you threaten me, whore! I am a fourth cousin of the king of kings.”
“You really should not have mentioned that.” Irona could tolerate ruthlessness if it served a purpose and was backed up by courage, but pointless sadism was unacceptable. “Sergeant, take this toad away, blind him, spay him, and see he is delivered to the satrap in Nabro with my compliments.”
That night Irona sent a brief report home to Benign, justifying her action. Kell was a rich island for its size and had been very poorly defended. As soon as she had made it secure, she planned to assault one of its neighbors, either Ilimuda or Agrigan. Whatever lands she conquered could either serve as valuable additions to the Empire or be ransomed back to the satrap. Ships were being loaded with booty, and the most promising slaves were already on their way to Aoba. She could use more galleys and men. Praise the goddess.
There was dancing in the streets when the news reached Benign. Not for decades had the Empire had a good infusion of loot. The price of slaves dropped at once; dealers in all sorts of commodities booked passage for Kell. The Seventy ordered holidays and thanksgiving. It sent out Empire-wide appeals for men and ships to head for Kell. A statue of Irona was erected by public subscription.
Irona herself moved with dispatch. A quick reconnaissance of the island found no signs of resistance, and she assured the rest of the population that there would be no further violence as long as they behaved. She waived taxes for a year.
Satrap Karkar would be a much deadlier opponent than the deposed governor. He would start reinforcing the other islands as soon as the news reached him, and his resources were vastly greater than hers. Time was not on her side. She used her advantage in sea power to blockade Agrigan. For two weeks, her galleys rammed and sank innumerable smaller craft trying to ferry men across the strait from the mainland. She more or less ignored the crossing to Ilimuda. The satrap swallowed the lure and concentrated on Agrigan.
Irona attacked Ilimuda. This time the fight was bloodier. She must keep control of the strait to block transport of Elbrusian forces, but men working oars afloat could not be wielding weapons ashore at the same time. She would have been thrown back into the sea had not fresh troops started flowing in from the southern portions of the Empire: Lenoch, Hertali, and others. They held the battle to a stalemate until men from Benign and the north could arrive, just before winter closed the ocean. With her army approaching twenty thousand strong, Irona prevailed, and added a second conquest to the Empire.
Again the news was greeted with hysterical joy in Benign. General Chagulak was voted a Hero of the Empire, which entitled him to a statue in the temple.
His report on the death toll did not arrive until spring, and the Seven never released it.
When winter arrived in the north, Irona was cut off from Benign. The south’s equivalent rainy season hampered the satrap also, for his forces must travel overland. Irona’s fleet still ruled the sea and seized a dozen or so minor islets. Those were of little value in themselves, but their loss would hamper the Elbrusians’ counterattack.
“Agrigan!” General Chagulak would proclaim. “Everything depends on Agrigan. If we can take that in the spring, then we can keep those grass-eating slinkies at bay forever.”
“There are a lot more of them than there are of us,” Irona would reply.
“Bah! They’re slugs—slow and slimy and they can’t swim.”
Irona worried more about ants than slugs. Poke a twig in an ants’ nest and they would come at you by the million.
Sazen Hostin had organized an intelligence unit, although he warned that it depended on locals and must not be trusted too far. He said that the king of kings, although far away in Acigol-Nevsehir, would certainly know by now of the Benesh invasion. He would regard even the loss of two tiny islands as an intolerable insult t
o his imperial glory. Sazen thought Irona had made a serious mistake, but he was too loyal to say so.
Irona 700 tried to play the role of an imperial potentate but always had too much work to do. Without Source Water, which was never found outside the Empire, her skin dried up and her hair began turning gray, like a peasant’s. She missed friends, the zest of the Seventy, the cultural glitter of Benign.
Veer Machin worried her. She had never intended to keep him away from his art for so long. He pined. He went for walks by himself until he narrowly escaped death, sustaining a cut along his ribs and a bad bruise on the fist that smashed the would-be assassin’s nose. Irona had written to Edziza, telling him to collect and dispatch everything Veer would need to set up a new studio, on the advice of a couple of Veer’s former apprentices. She did not expect to see the results before spring or early summer, but she had underestimated her majordomo’s superhuman efficiency. The Seven could not get a letter to her, but Edziza’s eight chests of cargo arrived. Instantly rejuvenated, Veer went into a frenzy of waxing saturnine, menacing Elbrusian faces. His appetite returned, all of his appetites.
In the worst of the rainy season, when deluges drowned the moon and fog dimmed the sun, Sazen Hostin reported that the satrap had begun moving troops across to Agrigan. Sazen refused to reveal his sources, as always, but Irona had never known him be wrong. She called a council meeting.
At first Chagulak refused to believe it. They would sink, be wrecked, get lost, be blown out to sea. It was impossible to sail in dense fog or pitch darkness.
Irona knew better. Now, more than ever, the navy needed the direction-finding black stones she had collected on Kadowan, but they were all safely at the bottom of the sea, thrown overboard on her way south. “What do we do about it?”
“I still believe that Agrigan is the key to this war,” Chagulak said. “If Benign takes that, the king of kings will be forced to negotiate.”