“Just like a bunch of battle wagons moored at Pearl,” Garrett quipped, referring to the Homes. “Those guys never know what they’re missing when the wind kicks up.”
“Maybe so,” Dowden agreed, “but small and fast beats slow and fat when bombs and torpedoes are falling out of the sky.”
Garrett grinned sheepishly back at him. “Yeah, but we don’t have to worry about bombs and torpedoes anymore. The next time we get caught in the middle of a Strakka, tell me again that small and fast beats fat and slow.” He gestured at the huge ships in the bay as they drew closer. “Especially since they don’t even look like they noticed it.”
Appearances were deceiving. The full fury of the storm had passed right over the bay. Humfra-Dar had dragged one of its feet and nearly gone aground. Superficial damage had also been sustained by the pagoda structures on all the ships, but the Homes of the People were designed to withstand far worse. Onshore it was a different story. The waterfront ghetto had been knocked flat. Since the buildings there had provided most of the shelter for the AEF, there had been numerous injuries and even a couple of deaths. The rest of the troops had spent an extremely miserable couple of days, exposed to the full violence of the storm. Nevertheless, there were cries of happy greeting as the ship passed through the anchored fleet and neared the pier.
There had evidently been some concern that Walker might not fare well against a Strakka of such severity. The concern was better founded than most Lemurians would have believed. They knew she was small, but iron still enjoyed an almost mystical status among them. Surely, with her entire hull made of the mighty metal, Walker must be invincible? Some knew better, like Keje and Chack. Adar too. But for the most part, only the Lemurian crew aboard her fully grasped how close the old destroyer had come to disappearing forever. It was a testament to how ferocious the Strakka had been that disquiet over Walker’s fate existed at all.
Keje returned to the bridge munching a second sandwich and bearing a cup of “coffee” for the captain. Matt roused almost magically at the smell of the brew and sat, sipping, while Larry Dowden conned the ship alongside the dock. The outward calm he displayed during the maneuver was admirable. On deck, he could hear Gray bellowing at the special sea and anchor detail as they prepared to throw lines to those waiting on shore.
“All stop,” said Dowden, with a nervous glance at the captain. “Finished with engines.”
Matt spared him a nod. The approach had been fine—slow and careful. The ship’s momentum would bleed off sooner than was ideal, leaving a larger gap between her and the dock than would normally be considered perfect, but there was plenty of line. Better to let the line handlers and the capstan heave her in than try to fend off if she came in too fast. That was a losing proposition.
“Lookout reports aircraft at one two zero degrees, Skipper. Range six miles.”
Matt nodded, pleased again by the improved quality of the reports from the crow’s nest. All of their lookouts were ’Cats now. With their amazing eyesight, they were naturals for the duty. At first, however, their reports had been . . . unusual, to say the least. With time, that changed. Matt glanced at his watch and then out at the darkening bay. Lieutenant Mallory had come very close to disobeying his order not to fly at night.
“He ought to be okay, Captain,” said Garrett, sensing Matt’s concern. “I bet the bay’s pretty clear now. The rough seas probably tore up any of the lizard ships that were still sticking up.”
“Yeah,” supplied Gray as he entered the pilothouse. He’d discarded his crutch and was getting around almost as well as before. “But now all that junk’s out there floatin’ around. That cocky flyboy’s liable to torpedo himself with a mast or something.” He turned to Captain Reddy. “All lines are doubled up and secured, Skipper.”
“Very well.” Matt upended his coffee cup and grinned wryly. “Mr. Dowden, you have the watch. I’m going ashore to see what we missed.”
The makeshift hospital tent had been re-erected behind the entrenchments facing the north wall of the city. It had been used to shelter some of the injured after a desultory daylong drizzle replaced the worst of the storm. Now, the stars shone bright overhead and it was the scene of a relieved reunion of the officers of the AEF. Currently, as was his custom, Matt was receiving individual reports from all the commanders before he addressed the group. Around him, the other officers did the same, less formally. This way they could enjoy a somewhat laid-back visit—which was the preferred Lemurian custom—and everyone would be pretty much up to speed by the time the real meeting commenced.
“So, I’m to believe you made the flight only on Mr. Letts’s orders?” Matt asked Lieutenant Mallory, who was next in line. “And you went into the air kicking and screaming with a written protest?”
Mallory shifted uncomfortably. “Not exactly, sir. Mr. Letts did order me to fly, but it’s not his fault we got in late. We altered the flight plan a little to increase our search coverage, true, but I’d respectfully point out that we wouldn’t have seen Mahan otherwise.” He shrugged. “We ran into a headwind on the last westward leg.”
Matt nodded. “I’m glad you found Mahan. Knowing she’s safe takes a load off my mind. I just wish you wouldn’t cut it so close. You’re the only pilot we have.”
“Yes, sir. Flying the only airplane. But when we couldn’t raise you on the radio we got worried. The last we knew, everybody was at sea in the path of that god-awful storm. I guess we needed to know we weren’t suddenly all alone.”
Matt studied him in the torchlight. “What would you have done if you found one of us, Walker or Mahan, in a sinking condition?”
“I . . . don’t understand, sir.”
“Yes, you do. Say it was Walker. No power and low in the water. Just wallowing in the swell.” Matt grimaced. “And nothing but the whaleboat, which is, incidentally, all we have left. This afternoon you might’ve been able to set down, but not this morning. What would you have done?”
The young aviator looked stricken. “I . . . I don’t know. Maybe . . .”
Matt interrupted him. “No ‘maybe,’ Lieutenant. There’s absolutely nothing you could’ve done.” He put his hand on Mallory’s shoulder. “Nothing. Not if you’re a responsible officer. This isn’t the world we knew, where you could whistle up some ship to come get us. We’re on our own. That’s why you and Letts should’ve waited another day before coming to look for us.” He smiled and squeezed the shoulder. “By which time—tomorrow—the radio ought to be fixed. I’m glad you’re here, don’t get me wrong, and I’m glad you saw Mahan, but we can’t spare you or that airplane.” His smile became a grin. “It’s going to have to last the whole damn war.” He dropped his hand to his side and nodded toward the chart laid out on a table nearby. Together, they looked down at it. “Now, since you’re in a rescuing mood, I want you to take off in the morning—weather permitting—and find Revenge. We’re going to start on the propeller first thing, but we ought to have the radio repaired by morning. With Riggs gone to Baalkpan, Clancy is chief radio operator and he says with Palmer’s help he can get it done. Clancy’s already fixed the resonance chamber—used a coffee cup for an insulator!—and he says now that the ship’s not pitching her guts out he can re-string the aerial.” Matt looked up at Mallory. “By the way, if the radio’s not working, you don’t fly.” He returned his gaze to the chart. “If you find Revenge and she needs assistance, with any luck, we’ll be able to come and get them.” Matt pointed at the chart. “Concentrate here first,” he said grimly, indicating a large island surrounded by dozens of smaller ones about halfway between Sumatra and Borneo. “I have a feeling that’s where she’ll be.”
Captain Reddy glanced at the group gathered around them. Many were engaged in animated discussions, while some were relaxing on cushions that had been placed under the awning for their convenience. “It looks like I’m going to be here for a while,” he said. “Go get some sleep. You’ll need it.”
“So,” Matt said at last, when the briefing
s were complete and the “meeting” had been officially under way for some time, “correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems the situation remains unchanged. The battle line is fit for sea, in spite of some slight damage. The B’mbaadan infantry and Rolak’s volunteers have been thoroughly integrated into the AEF and are ready to embark. I have every reason to believe my ship will have the use of both engines after tomorrow. Fuel and provisions, as well as some minor repairs, might take a couple more days, but essentially, we’re prepared to resume the offensive. Correct?”
“Correct,” confirmed Adar. “Essentially.”
“Except for Rasik,” Rolak growled.
Matt nodded. “Except for Rasik.”
“My host will follow you, Cap-i-taan Reddy,” Queen Maraan told him, “whatever you decide. We’ve sworn to do so and that . . . skuggik who lurks behind his walls poses no threat to B’mbaado now. However, Lord Rolak and I have fought together. He is my sword brother—if a slightly elder one.” She smiled, baring her perfect teeth. “But Rasik”—she spat the name—“has yet to release the families of Rolak’s warriors from the city. He sends excuse after excuse, but it is clear they are his hostages!”
“I fear that is the case,” Rolak agreed, still using Chack to interpret. “He believes we won’t sack the city with our families inside.”
“But we have no intention of sacking the city!” blurted Courtney Bradford. “My God! We have more important fish to fry!”
Rolak looked at him in the low light. “I don’t think King Rasik believes that. He has a very narrow view of the world, and it all revolves around him and what he wants. To him, the greatest treasure in the world is the throne of Aryaal. He cannot imagine that anyone else would not want it too.”
“But what about the Grik?” asked Ramic-Sa-Ar, High Chief of Aracca Home. “Doesn’t he fear their return?”
Rolak shook his head. “My . . . spies say he does not. He believes that menace is ended, that they couldn’t possibly raise another army like the one we destroyed before his walls.”
“But when we showed him the chart—the map showing the extent of the enemy frontiers—he seemed to grasp the peril,” Adar interjected sharply. He had acted as emissary in all their dealings with the Aryaalan king.
“Fabrications,” Rolak growled. “He believes we make it up—which adds to his paranoia. He believes we intend to carry the war to the Grik, but he does not think they are a real threat. He fears us. Therefore, he keeps the families of my warriors as security against attack. Perhaps he even hopes to lure some of us back into his service. I do not know.”
“What about you, Lord Rolak?” Bradford asked in a quiet tone. “Does he hope you will return?” Rolak’s gaze rested on the Australian.
“No. He most certainly does not hope that.”
“What will you do?” Matt asked after a lengthy silence.
“I will follow you to battle the Grik, lord, as I have sworn to do. But . . . my warriors must remain here. Perhaps to bolster B’mbaado’s defense. I cannot ask them to abandon their families to Rasik’s mercy. I am sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Matt replied. “I understand completely, as I’m sure the others here do.” He glanced down for a moment and then looked back at the Lemurian. “I wish I could offer you the AEF and we’d just storm the city and retrieve your folk, but as Mr. Bradford put it, we’ve bigger fish to fry.” He looked around at the uncomfortable blinking of the gathered officers. “Besides, it might be difficult for many here to fight others of their kind, particularly measured against the greater threat we all face.”
“It would be different if we were attacked,” explained Keje in a quiet voice. “But we have not been. My warrior soul cries out to assist you, Lord Rolak, but my teaching and my sense of what we risk bids me refrain.”
“I do understand,” Rolak said. “You sea folk are different. You do not fight without great cause. That is why I believed you so readily when you told me of the greater threat. You’re certainly the better choice to lead in that fight now.”
“We’ll miss your warriors, and you most of all, Lord Rolak,” Matt said at last.
“You won’t miss me, lord, for I at least will be at your side. I have made an oath.”
Matt shook his head. “I release you from it. Stay here and lead your people.”
“It’s not your place to release me from my pledge, my lord. You cannot do it.” Rolak spoke with quiet patience, but there was an edge to his voice. Chack relayed the refusal.
“Then I order it!” Matt retorted with an edge of his own. “As my friend or as my slave, you’ll remain here and lead your people.” There was a collective intake of breath and then a murmur of approval rippled quickly among those present. Rolak regarded him with wide, staring eyes, then bowed his head in assent.
“As you command, my lord. But now I am even deeper in your debt.”
“Well. That’s settled,” Matt muttered hopefully, suppressing a huge yawn. “What else do we have to cover? I haven’t had much sleep lately and it’s past my bedtime.”
Mank-Lar, soon to be Lord Mank-Lar and captain of the palace guard if all went well, squinted hard into the moonless darkness as he drew closer to the iron ship. There was a muffled clunk and a curse behind him. “Quietly, fools!” he hissed at the royal retainers plying the sweeps. It had taken hours to row the large, heavy boat from the river to where the invader was moored and they were almost ready to strike. Mank-Lar didn’t know what the Amer-i-caans would do to them if they were discovered, but he knew how the king would react if they failed.
“Of course, Task Leader,” came the whispered reply.
Mank-Lar peered back at the ship, still squinting to conceal his highly reflective eyes. A few muted lights would not reveal his ragged cape and dark-furred visage. If anything, they would make it harder for any guards to detect his approach. At the moment he didn’t see anyone moving at all and he concentrated on the lights. They didn’t flicker like a proper torch and he wondered how they did that. Sorcery, he assumed. It was clear they were not believers. He’d heard how they buried their dead in the ground before Aryaal’s very gate.
“Carefully, now,” he whispered as they came within a tail of the iron ship’s side. He leaned far out over the water and felt along the cool plates until he found what he was looking for. It was a loop of metal protruding from the ship. He knew from looking at it in daylight that there were many others that led all the way to the deck. Quickly, he tied a rope to the loop. The two retainers carefully laid aside the tarp that covered the large object in the bottom of the boat and quietly climbed into the smaller boat they had towed behind them. Mank-Lar knelt and ran his hand along the surface of the object in the dark. Such a wonderful machine, he thought. And such a shame to use it so. He didn’t know what the sea folk called it, but “fire spitter” seemed appropriate. He had watched from the safety of the walls while this one and others like it had wreaked such havoc on the Grik. It had been as though the Sun God himself spat upon them and swept them aside with his hand. A glorious, glorious machine!
This one had belonged to the sea folk who fought near the river and were overrun. Some Grik had seized the weapon as booty and tried to drag it to the ferry even while the battle raged. When the rout began, the fire-spitter rolled down the embankment, destroying its carriage, and splashed into the river. Mank-Lar had seen where it disappeared. When he told Prince Alcas—now king, of course—the prince commanded him and a small group to venture forth in that dreadful darkness across the sea of carrion and retrieve it at all costs. At the time, right after the battle, not all the carrion were dead and he feared that if he was killed, the Sun wouldn’t see him fall and his soul would be doomed to linger there forever, upon that plain of bones. He persevered, however. The reward of Heaven is the Sun God’s to grant. The rewards of earth would be granted by the prince.
Wounded Grik weren’t his only concern. Patrols of sea folk and B’mbaadans crisscrossed the field all night, searchi
ng for their own dead and wounded. They carried torches, however, and were easily avoided. When they found the fire-spitter, still conveniently protruding from the river, they tied on to it easily enough, but quickly discovered it was too heavy to drag back to the city. He had decided to push it back, all the way underwater, with the rope still attached. Then they spent the rest of the night groping in the dark, retrieving as much of the carriage as they could find. These parts they cast into the river some distance from where the main part was hidden. Then they hurried to the city before day and the voracious skuggiks arrived.
They didn’t return empty-handed, however. They had found one of the chests full of food for the fire-spitter. When night fell again, after the flocks of skuggiks slunk away or lay in bloated torpor, they went forth once more upon the oozing, reeking field. Treading carefully through the already half-eaten host with a much larger force, they retrieved the prize for their new king.
Only a few of that party were ultimately involved in the plan that the king devised. King Alcas himself had seen, during a moment’s lull in his own battle against the traitors, what happened when a fire-spitter was fed too much and was offered fire anyway. Surely the force released by such an act would send the invader’s iron ship to the bottom of the bay.
With their spines torn from their backs, the cowardly sea folk would never dare campaign against the distant Grik. They certainly wouldn’t attack Aryaal in revenge; their weak sensibilities toward killing other People wouldn’t let them. No, they would slink away, never to return, and the king could turn his attention to the traitor Rolak and, ultimately, the Orphan Queen across the bay. Everything would be back to normal, and Mank-Lar would be a lord and captain of much renown. The only thing he regretted was that, once again, the Sun couldn’t see his deeds.
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