River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  “I am so glaad to see you,” she breathed. “It’s been too long! Tell me.” She paused shyly. “How do the rest of our friends fare? Cap-i-taan Reddy, Lady Saan-dra, and the ahd-mi-raal?”

  “Well,” Chack assured her, “and doing all they can to join us here.”

  “Thaat is good,” Tassanna said, suddenly gesturing at numerous other officers and NCOs assembling to divert the embarking troops to their assigned sections. “Let us move aside and”—she glanced up at Silva and grinned—“talk smaall until the rest of your officers arrive.”

  The next couple of hours were very busy as the ships of TF Gri-kakka took their turns at the floating dock, and Chack was impressed by how orderly it went. Then he remembered that despite her youth, Commodore Tassanna had been in the war from the start, her ship only their second carrier, and she’d commanded it admirably through many actions. By the time the bulk of Chack’s Brigade was aboard, Itaa had circled back around and the 2nd Battalion of Simy Gutfeld’s 3rd Marines had gathered on the hangar deck, itching to take their places on the former Jap-Grik cruisers.

  “Gonna be even more cramped on the ol’ Nosey,” Silva said. “She’s liable to tump over.” Enough Marines would join each ship to augment its gun’s crews, but most would board the flagship of the task force.

  “Like it won’t be crowded here?” Risa snapped back, as the command group finally vacated the noisy hangar deck and made their way through bustling passageways. She and Abel Cook would remain on Arracca with the bulk of the troops, and she resented that immensely, still arguing that if any must stay, it should be Chack, their overall commander. Chack would’ve probably agreed—if he could’ve sent the Imperial Major Alistair Jindal or Major I’joorka, but both had been badly wounded on Zanzibar. As it was, Captain Cook, while a fine young officer, was very inexperienced, and Risa . . . He hoped she’d regained her balance, but her attitude remained volatile and argued against it.

  “If all goes according to plaan, you will join us soon enough,” he said, as they mounted several wooden companionways into the base of the island on the starboard side of the flight deck. There they entered the vast waard-room, or ahd-mi-raal’s quarters. Spacious as it was, it consisted of less than a quarter of what had once been Arracca’s Great Hall. Fine tapestries still decorated the walls, and the growth of the still-young Galla tree had been carefully diverted so it could grow up and through the space. The same effort had been accomplished aboard Salissa by the simpler expedient of establishing a cutting of the great tree nearly killed when Big Sal was almost destroyed at the Battle of Baalkpan Bay. Finding their places around a large oval table, they greeted more of Tassanna’s staff as they arrived.

  “You all know Co-maander Maark Leedom, I believe?” Tassanna asked, when a tall, rangy man with light brown hair joined them at the table.

  “Sure,” Silva said, surprised. “He was COFO at Grik City. How they hangin,’ Markie Boy?”

  Leedom rolled his eyes to the overhead and took a deep breath.

  Tassanna coughed to kill a smile. “Yes, he was the co-maander of flight operations there, until our COFO was shot down by those most irritating Grik rockets,” Tassanna informed them. “Co-maander Leedom has more experience with them thaan most and haas devised straa-ta-gems to avoid them. With the virtual abaandon-ment of Grik City for our push here, most of the planes stationed there will soon join us—where they are baadly needed, I assure you. Some will remain at Grik City under Leedom’s former exec, Lieu-ten-aant Araa-Faan.”

  “What about Jumbo and his bombers?” Silva asked.

  “Lieutenant Fisher and Pat-Squad Twenty-Two will stay in the Comoros for now,” Leedom replied. “Colonel Mallory’s there, or on his way, with our last two P-Forties in theater. He may shake things up, but we can’t move the PB-Five-Ds any closer until we get things sorted out here. Ideally, if Santy Cat and you”—he added pointedly—“hold the Grik in the river, we’ll build ramps at the river mouth where those two little Grik towns used to be, and move the whole squadron down.”

  “Thaat would be . . . swell,” Chack said, thinking about how fast they could dump bombs on Sofesshk if the bombers were so close.

  Tassanna’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed. If we can hold the Grik.”

  “That doesn’t sound so hot,” Pam chimed in. “We haven’t heard squat. Is Santa Catalina still holding?” She didn’t ask, “Is anyone on her still alive?”

  “Barely,” Tassanna conceded. “Her people haave performed heroically and caused great destruction. Beyond our wildest dreams, she haas destroyed several Grik baattle-ships and nearly blocked the river with their sunken caar-casses.”

  “Nearly?” Chack probed.

  “Grik cruisers, like yours, caan still navigate a paassage, and she’s fought some of them as they come through one or two at a time. So far, thaat’s sufficed. The problem is”—she nodded at Leedom—“the Grik are maassing a large number of cruisers and gaalleys, presumably to overwhelm her at laast. Saadly, considering the daam-age she’s sustained and her dwindling aammunition, that seems likely. If they do, your cruisers and our depleted air power might stop maany, but most of the gaalleys must get past. Surely enough to overwhelm the meager forces remaining at Grik City. Even all of Second Corps, if it haasn’t already departed by then.”

  “Has it?” Risa asked.

  Tassanna looked uncomfortable. “I caan’t say, since I haaven’t been told.”

  “Why not?” Chack demanded.

  “For the same reason, much as I’d like to hearten him by your arrival, I caan’t tell Russ Chaa-pelle in Saanta Caat-a-lina thaat you’re here, soon to steam to his aid!” Tassanna snapped, blinking frustration. “Our communications with her have been unreliable at best. Her raa-dio is wrecked and her consorts baadly damaged. Felts still haas a raa-dio, but it’s intermittent. Just as importaant, as I’m sure you understaand after the . . . traagedy north of Mahe, we haave more than one potential enemy nearby, and our communications may not be secure.”

  “But . . .” Pam seemed at a loss. “The League is outa here, we tossed ’em out of the whole Indian Ocean! With Kurokawa gone, who else would rat us out?”

  “Kurokawa may be dead,” Leedom agreed, “but some of his planes escaped—a few with radios, most likely. And we don’t have a clue where they went, or if they’re still in cahoots with the lizards.” He looked at Tassanna. “Worse, we may not’ve kicked all the League ships out after all.”

  “What do you mean?” Abel Cook asked, speaking for the first time.

  “Remember that Kraut sub we were warned to look out for?” There were nods. “Well, some of mine and Jumbo’s pilots have reported sightings of something on the surface that dove before they could get close enough for a look.” He shook his head. “Mountain fish don’t do that; they don’t care. They just wallow there and let you look ’em over. Gri-kakka, at least any we’ve ever seen, aren’t as big as this thing’s supposed to be. We have to assume that Kraut boat’s still snooping around, so”—he shrugged—“comm stays tight.”

  Pam shivered as the conversation around the table exploded in speculation, mostly about how a League sub could possibly sustain itself out here. She had other thoughts. Grik cruisers didn’t have anything like sonar to scare mountain fish away, and she’d been worried about them the whole trip down. They hadn’t even seen one, to her relief, but without sonar, they couldn’t have known if any ship-killing fish—or submarines—were stalking them. “Ignorance is bliss,” she whispered to herself.

  “What’s that, doll?” Silva asked quietly.

  “Nothin’, jerk.”

  Silva stared at her a moment with his good eye, then returned his attention to the discussion. It wasn’t going anywhere, with so little information, so he changed the subject. “You get any trouble from Grik zeps here?”

  “No more bombing attempts, if that’s what you mean,” Leedom replied. “They try to spy
on us from time to time, but we shoot them down. There haven’t been any for several days. They still have a lot of the damn things, though, dispersed pretty wide after Jumbo took out a couple of their airfields, but they seem content to torment the blocking force with nightly raids. So, the good thing is, particularly if we keep comm discipline, your arrival should come as a very unpleasant surprise for the Grik.”

  “And thaat’s your purpose here,” Tassanna said, getting down to it at last.

  “Yes,” Chack agreed. “How soon can we go to the aid of our friends?”

  Tassanna looked at him, blinking fond sadness. “The Second Baat-tallion of the Third Maa-reens haas been transferring to your ships all this time, even while Itaa has been fueling and provisioning. The other vessels of your taask force are doing the same from our tenders, or along the other side of this ship. We haave pilots who’ve taken smaall boats upriver, and they should already be aboard your ships, so . . .” She held out her hands. “You may depaart as soon as your needs haave been met. Within a few hours, I should think. And may the Maker of All Things waatch over you.”

  “Thank you, Commo-dore,” Chack said with feeling, tail swishing behind his stool in anticipation.

  CHAPTER 12

  ////// Leopardo

  Lago de Vida

  Nuevo Granada

  It had rained again for three solid days while Victor Gravois, Capitano Ciano, and the crews of Leopardo and the old oiler waited with growing impatience for Don Hernan to appear. The pilot had left almost as soon as they’d anchored, and there’d been no other official visits or even notice of their presence. It was as if they’d been forgotten entirely by the Dom leadership, and the only news they received came from rumors brought by an unending stream of small boats carrying strange fruits, vegetables, and some very bizarre livestock out to the ships. No one could complain about the fresh provisions, regardless of how weird, and in some ways the crews of Leopardo and her oiler were eating better than they had since they came to this world almost six years before. They ate so well, in fact, that there’d been little griping about being deprived of liberty ashore. That probably had more to do with the consequences of going there, however. But Gravois could—and did—complain about the way they’d been ignored via wireless to Contrammiraglio Oriani on Ramb V. Even if the Union frigate Donaghey had managed to make it to the region with a radio, it couldn’t possibly triangulate their position, and the League codes were secure. Despite Oriani’s admonishments to be patient, Gravois had decided they’d steam downriver the very next day, come what may, if something didn’t happen. He was an admittedly arrogant man—well deserved in his opinion—and wasn’t used to being kept waiting by primitive, ignorant barbarians, who hadn’t earned the arrogance they displayed.

  When the next morning dawned bright and clear except for a thin morning fog hovering low over the lake, however, the officers on the bridge were alerted by the lookouts to unusual activity ashore. Gravois set his morning tea aside and raised binoculars to look at the dock near the great stone wall. An extraordinarily ornate bireme had apparently arrived in the night and some sort of ceremony was underway, while people, brightly clad in reds and yellows, went aboard. After what looked like yet another ceremony on deck, the bireme got underway and began to approach, its scores of wet oars and red flags with twisted golden crosses flashing in the morning sun.

  “It seems we’ve been noticed at last,” Gravois commented dryly. “Please make all necessary preparations to receive dignitaries.”

  “Assemble a side party and rig out the accommodation ladder!” Ciano commanded. The bridge messenger raced aft to pass the word to the boatswain’s mate of the watch. Pipes shrilled and running feet reverberated through the ship.

  Gravois, Ciano, and most of Leopardo’s officers were waiting with the well-appointed side party on the ship’s quarterdeck—the well deck behind the bridge—when a relatively large entourage came aboard. Most were armed guards, to Ciano’s horror, wearing yellow coats with red facings and carrying brightly polished muskets. None saluted the flag, and all arranged themselves facing Leopardo’s side party, implying they were protecting their charge. The Italian sailors were just as surprised and affronted, grumbling and shifting with their own weapons in hand. Ciano started to protest the outrage, but Gravois touched his sleeve and shook his head. A small swarm of dignitaries, mostly priests, by their dress, but apparently a few civilians—possibly including the alcalde of the city?—stepped aboard and formed a tight knot. Finally, Don Hernan de Devina Dicha himself ascended the accommodation ladder, and his appearance was in stark contrast to what they’d expected.

  His dress was bizarre: all dark bloodred from his neck to his shoes, with gold braid arranged like lightning flashes along the hems and seams of his cloak. A strangely shaped hat, like a broad clamshell, was a pure, glaring white, with gold trim similar to the rest of his dress. Around his neck was a heavy gold chain supporting a huge, gnarled cross sprouting what looked like hundreds of tiny spikes. A large mustache and goatee, once coal black but now iron gray with silver highlights, stood out on his upper lip and chin. Most striking of all, however, was the utter benevolence of the smile he wore on his smooth, kindly face. “Comodos,” he told his guards, almost admonishingly, and they instantly lowered their muskets and stood in a rigid but less threatening manner.

  “Ah!” he said, the smile expanding as he advanced directly toward Gravois and Ciano. “You must be Capitaine Gravois!” He paused and afforded Ciano the slightest glance, “and Capitano Ciano! The pilot who accompanied you described you and acquainted me with your names. Welcome to the Holy City of Nuevo Granada! I am so pleased you are here, and apologize profusely that I was unable to greet you sooner! At least you have been well fed, I trust, and the provisions I caused to be sent have met with your approval?”

  “Extremely well fed and much appreciated, Your Holiness,” Gravois said with a bow. “May I return the favor and offer you refreshment?”

  Don Hernan beamed but shook his head. “No, but I thank you. I am allowed only bloodred wine on the seventh day of our thirteen-day week. That, and the mild discomfort of hunger, are to remind me of the grace our savior received.”

  Ciano cleared his throat. “Yes, well. We have wine. I have been saving a fine Salice Salentino, if Your Holiness would care to sample it.”

  Don Hernan made a moue. “A foreign wine, crushed by heretic feet . . . Is it very red?”

  “Quite red,” Ciano assured.

  “Then I accept. The color is the most important thing, after all.” He looked at Gravois. “I have come in friendship to meet you all, but what I must first say is for your ears alone. I cannot allow you ashore, however. Do you have a place aboard your beautiful but apparently quite crowded ship where we might speak in private? I assure you the subject is of the utmost importance, and as much to your benefit as mine.”

  Gravois was startled, but quickly nodded. “Of course, Your Holiness.” He looked at Ciano. “Ensure there is no one within two compartments of the wardroom, and place guards to keep it so.” He gave Ciano a small regretful smile. “And don’t forget the wine.”

  Ciano frowned but nodded. “Perhaps I might give these other gentlemen”—he gestured at the priests and civilians—“a brief tour of my ship?”

  “I had so hoped you would,” Don Hernan said graciously, then made a quiet comment to one of his escorts, who quickly strode to the side and called down to the bireme. Instantly, two young girls who might’ve been twins, both entirely naked, raced up the accommodation ladder and stood behind Don Hernan. Ciano’s eyes bulged, and he knew his crew would have a similar reaction. “Attenti!” he barked.

  “And what, may I ask, are they for?” Gravois practically sputtered, equally taken aback.

  “We must be served our wine, Capitaine,” Don Hernan soothed matter-of-factly.

  “But . . . they will hear what we say. I thought you desire
d privacy?”

  “My dear Capitaine Gravois,” Don Hernan said, tremendous patience in his voice. “They may hear, but can reveal nothing. They cannot write, and their tongues were taken when they were infants, before they ever learned to make sounds approximating speech.” He produced a solicitous tone. “And just because we have very important matters to discuss within”—he waved apologetically about at the austere warship—“such . . . martial surroundings does not mean we should deprive ourselves of beautiful things to view.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Leopardo’s wardroom was rather dreary, Gravois had to confess, as he and Don Hernan sat across from each other at the long table there. The only adornments were a pair of mediocre nautical paintings and the flags of the League and the Kingdom of Italy, side by side, on the forward bulkhead. But the incongruity of the naked—and quite stunning—serving girls standing by the glasses and bottle on the pantry, utterly unself-conscious, made him ill at ease. He was used to controlling situations like this and believed it was his greatest skill, but Don Hernan had immediately created a situation that made him profoundly uncomfortable and put him on the defensive.

  Don Hernan leaned back in his chair and tossed the bizarre hat on the table with a relieved sigh. “There,” he said grandly, “such a disagreeable, uncomfortable object! I believe that here we may dispense with all pretense, may we not? I will first tell you much about our common enemy—more than you know already, I suspect, despite your admirable intelligence-gathering network. I have even more spies among them, spread across their entire alliance, able to deliver firsthand reports. Some do take time to reach me,” he conceded, “but others of closer origin are as fresh as days, or hours.”