by Dubois, Lila
“With no fleet admiral, who appoints the new admirals?” James asked.
“The conclave? Perhaps Greta?” Sophia laid her cheek on his back. “That will be the real test. Will England and Castile accept their new admirals, will the power transition easily?” She sighed again. “If one of the current admirals becomes fleet admiral, that will mean three territories will have new leaders. And a territory with new leadership is weak.”
“They had better move fast.”
“I’m sure my father will.”
James couldn’t see her, but he reached back and laid a hand on her knee. “Is your father going to be the fleet admiral?” It was a question he hadn’t dared to ask.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He would be a logical choice. He is strong. Rome is strong.” She turned her head, and he felt the press of her lips on his back even through his shirt and jacket. “We are married. He cannot undo that.”
James raised his eyebrows. “Was he going to?”
“I was worried,” Sophia admitted.
James twisted to the side and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her half onto his lap. “You’re ours. Mine and Tristan’s. No one is going to take you away from us. Or us from you.”
Sophia stroked his eyebrow, his cheekbone. “We know so little about one another.”
“True,” James conceded. “But we can learn. We have time.”
The words were out, and he couldn’t call them back, but from the way Sophia’s lashes swept down, he knew that she was thinking the same thing he was—they might not have time. Tristan might not have time.
The door to the waiting room opened. A tired-looking black woman in green scrubs, her hair hidden under a surgical cap, stood in the doorway. “Are you Mr. Knight’s spouses?”
The fact that she’d said “spouses” meant she was either a member, or one of the hospital staff who knew that many of the hospital’s patients lived alternative polyamorous lifestyles.
Sophia rose from James’s lap, then grabbed for his hand as he too rose, his leg protesting. He held on to Sophia, wrapping one arm around her waist while still holding her hand.
The surgeon ran her hand over her face, then swept her cap off her head. Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight bun. “We did the best we could.”
Sophia gasped and turned her face into James’s chest. James blinked and felt a tear slide down his cheek.
Chapter Twenty
The rock walls of the sea cave glistened in the torchlight. Shaped like a cornucopia, with the narrow entrance hidden by the shadows of the cliff, the cave was virtually unknown and difficult to access. The choice of this location for their meeting was a gamble. At high tide, the mouth of the cave was underwater, meaning the only way in or out was with scuba gear, and even that was risky due to the power of the waves that crashed against the cliff.
The existence of this cave, and the larger network of caves that could be found farther down the cliffside, was a secret of the Masters’ Admiralty.
What had happened in London proved that secrecy alone was not enough to keep them safe. The difficulty of accessing the cave had been the deciding factor for using it as the location for the new conclave.
Giovanni, Petro, and Dolph Eburhardt—the German admiral—were the first to enter. They, plus two security officers from Rome, used a small military inflatable to navigate the rocky shoreline on the north side of Man. The narrow craft barely fit through the mouth of the cave. Once they were in, they waited in the boat for the tide to raise the water level until they were able to climb out onto a shelf at the rear of the cave, where it was widest.
They’d dressed like sports fishermen, and the thick wool trousers provided some protection from the cold, wet stone, but not much.
The security officers who’d accompanied them slid out of their sporting-oriented tourist disguises, revealing wetsuits. They pulled on hoods and masks, strapping tanks to their backs, and then slid into the water.
The three admirals sat in silence and waited.
Alma Ivarsson and Hande arrived together, popping up in the middle of the water, scuba masks in their mouths.
They swam over to the ledge. The security officers who’d accompanied them, these two from Ottoman, stayed in the water. Once Alma and Hande climbed out, the officers went to the mouth of the cave to take over guard duty, accepting the underwater-rated spear guns the Roman guards had been holding. The guards from Rome swam to another shelf, climbing out of the water and taking a moment to rest.
Alma pushed back the hood of her wetsuit. She was a trim, dark-haired woman in her fifties. She had prominent cheekbones, a straight nose and a wide mouth. Her features were strong, but not unpleasantly so, and she’d been a model in her youth. Before becoming the admiral of Kalmar, which was physically the largest territory and incorporated all of Scandinavia, she’d been a UN goodwill ambassador.
Giovanni hauled a bag out of the small boat. It was filled with large bath sheets packed in plastic bags and small chemical hand warmers. He passed one each to the new arrivals.
Five admirals. There should have been four more, but they were only waiting for two.
Cezary and Victoire Dubois, the French admiral, arrived last. They too swam in and were clad in wetsuits, but they’d been helped by yet more security officers who held a small underwater jet engine. Since they’d been the last to arrive, they’d had to fight the tide hardest. Without the underwater engine, they wouldn’t have been able to swim in against the push and pull of the tide.
Cezary and Victoire climbed onto the shelf, looking tired and a bit frazzled. Blankets, heat packs, and bottled water were passed out. This time there was no one to taste the water before they drank.
Giovanni looked at their sad little group—seven tired, angry, and, yes, he’d admit it, frightened people reduced to having to meet in a dark, wet cave.
“We have three decisions to make,” he reminded them. Each of the people there was a leader, but no one objected to Giovanni starting the conversation.
“None of us can become the fleet admiral.” Hande’s dark hair was slicked back from her face and she was huddled in her blanket. She should have looked small and vulnerable, especially given her age. Her direct stare and the challenging tilt of her chin paid homage to the notion that she was anything less than a force of nature.
She would be terrifying in twenty years, once she’d had a chance to learn and solidify her power base.
Giovanni gritted his teeth as all eyes turned to him. He hadn’t made a secret of the fact that he would accept the role of fleet admiral. His family had been members of the Masters’ Admiralty since the beginning. He was the logical choice, though Petro, who thought too much of himself, would probably assume he would be chosen.
Yet Hande was right. And though some, particularly his children, might accuse him of being arrogant and too ambitious, he was the admiral of Rome. He would do what was right for his territory, and for the Masters’ Admiralty.
Hande had spoken English, as they’d been doing in London, but since no one sitting there was a native English speaker, Giovanni switched to French when he replied, which was the other official language of the Masters’ Admiralty. He was more eloquent in French. “You know I would have accepted the position of fleet admiral.”
Petro snorted. “Would have demanded it.”
Giovanni shrugged. “Why deny it? My great-grandfather was the fleet admiral. But Hande is right. Already two of our territories must have new admirals. Those of us here now must remain with our own territories to maintain stability.”
“Then for the fleet admiral, we must choose someone who isn’t a territory admiral,” Hande said.
Petro shook his head. “Our laws state that only one who has been an admiral can become our leader.”
Hande raised her eyebrow. “Then what do you suggest we do? It is the time for solutions, not a time to cling to old rules.”
“You are young—” Petro started to say.
Hande slapped her hand down onto the rock. It made a wet snapping sound. “I am an admiral, and my age should not—”
“Peace.” Giovanni held up his hand. He was Italian. He knew how to deal with fiery women. “There is something you do not know, because you were not yet an admiral when it happened.” Giovanni looked around, and everyone but Hande nodded back at him.
“I had thought of it too.” Cezary looked wet and miserable, but his voice was calm.
“It is the best option.” Alma looked as if the words pained her.
“What?” Hande demanded.
Everyone looked at Alma, who sighed. “I have served as the admiral of Kalmar for fifteen years. I took over at a time when much of Scandinavia, and all of Europe, was in crisis.”
Hande watched Alma with the sort of focus associated with a predator.
“But I was not the admiral for the worst of the crisis. Sixteen years ago, there was a young trinity—a knight, a finance officer and a government official.
“The young finance officer had predicted the financial crash—long before anyone else realized what would happen. She insisted and fought everyone who would have rather ignored her. She protected our territory’s wealth, and much of our members’ personal wealth, from the worst of the economic turbulence. Her spouse, the government officer, had also listened to her, believed her. She was ready when things started to go bad, and in turn almost single-handedly prevented Norway’s government from collapsing.”
“You were lucky,” Hande said darkly.
Giovanni winced internally. His territory had not fared as well as Kalmar, and though his members were all safe and provided for, his entire region had been unstable for several years. It had taken every bit of power he had to stop the Italian and Greek governments from collapsing.
“We were,” Alma agreed. “And we all realized who had saved us. In the middle of all this, our admiral died. The finance officer, the one who predicted it all, was appointed admiral. Her name was the only name given to the fleet admiral. He accepted our suggestion and made her admiral. She turned it down.”
Hande frowned. “Being made admiral is an honor and—” Hande snorted out a laugh. “And I didn’t think we had the option to say no.”
“You don’t,” Giovanni assured her. “Either you accept the position or you’re removed from the Masters’ Admiralty.”
“Then what happened to her?”
Alma shook her head. “The fleet admiral told her that she had no choice, and she accepted, very reluctantly.” Alma’s mouth thinned into a long slash. “We made a mistake. She had… I do not know the word in French.”
It took a moment, but after a few rounds of translating back and forth between the over twenty languages they all knew, the word was translated as “agoraphobic.”
“Ah,” Hande said. “She could not go out, be with people?”
Alma nodded. “She preferred to be alone. Even within her trinity, she lived by herself, while her husband and wife presented themselves as a couple to the outside world.”
“Not a good trait for an admiral.”
“No,” Alma conceded. “I was the vice admiral at the time, and we were trying to decide what to do when she was assassinated.”
Hande hissed. “By the Domino?”
“No. By someone who was upset by the financial crisis. Her name was made public, the media applauded her for having spotted the problem, and berated the government for failing to heed her.”
“They shot her? Why?”
Alma shook her head. “Rage and fear do not respond to reason.”
Hande nodded slowly, then said, “Did she survive in secret?”
“No,” Giovanni said, wanting to speed up the story. “But during her brief tenure as admiral of Kalmar, her husband and wife helped her. Her husband, the knight, was appointed admiral of Kalmar after her death. He served for one year, until his wife, the politician, was also assassinated, and he was wounded.”
“After his second wife’s death,” Alma slanted an annoyed look at Giovanni as she took over the story, “he asked to be removed as admiral. Scandinavia and Kalmar were stable. And he’d lost both his wives. Admirals either die in office or step down when their age or health make them unfit.” Alma shook her head. “But for him, we made an exception. He carried a heavy burden in a time of crisis. That, plus the loss…” Alma bowed her head.
There was a moment of silence. Giovanni had to wonder if his fellow admirals were, as he was, regretting the need to ask that man to once more take up a leadership role in a time of crisis.
“He knows our laws. He has proven himself a capable leader,” Cezary pointed out.
He was trying to justify what they were about to do. Giovanni nodded to the other man.
“He’s had over fifteen years to grieve. Plenty of time,” Petro said dismissively, but he looked grave.
“Is he married?” Hande asked.
Alma shook her head. “No.”
“And how old is he?”
“Forty-one.”
Hande raised her brows again. “Then if we follow the rules he would have to marry too.”
Alma frowned. “He was married, the rule doesn’t apply to him.”
“The rule is that the fleet admiral must be married. Currently married.” There was regret in Cezary’s tone.
Alma’s jaw clenched, and the white light of the electric lanterns cast harsh shadows on her face. “We ask too much.”
“Not too much,” Giovanni told her. “To be a member is to give your life to our society.”
No one disagreed.
“What is his name?” Hande asked.
“Eric Ericsson,” Alma answered. “They called him the Viking.”
“A warrior…” Petro fussed with his shirt. It was the most casual garment Giovanni had ever seen the other man wear. “A good choice to lead us in a time of war.”
Giovanni frowned. “We cannot forget that we have to deal with the Americans too.”
Petro’s brow knitted. “That slight will have to wait until the new British admiral is selected. We are in a state of crisis, here and now, on our own continent.”
“I don’t consider the murder of so many of our children a slight,” Victoire interjected. “Punishment must be meted out, swift and sure. To wait would imply weakness. The Trinity Masters must pay for—”
“For the deaths of children slain during World War II?” Petro replied, clearly bored with this discussion. The Hungarian territory, which included Serbia, had suffered terrible atrocities during the war. As such, Petro looked upon the Trinity Masters’ sinking of a neutral ship, which just so happened to have secretly been a ship belonging to the Masters’ Admiralty and carrying children to safety in Canada, horrendous, but not particularly earth-shattering. “We are punishing the current members of the Trinity Masters for the crimes of their ancestors. If that’s the way we operate, perhaps we should still be seeking revenge upon Dolph’s territory. I think we can all agree the Germans—”
“Enough.” Dolph raised a threatening finger toward Petro. “I will not allow you to continue to throw history into my face. My territory has paid for their crimes. The Trinity Masters have not answered for theirs. It must happen.”
Giovanni nodded. “Agreed. Dealing with the Americans will be the first task the new British admiral will handle. We will stress that it needs to be undertaken immediately.”
“Initiation by fire?” Hande murmured.
Giovanni ignored her, turning things back to the primary matter at hand. “And I think we’re all agreed, Eric should be called to serve as fleet admiral. Alma,” Giovanni said. “You will serve as our messenger for this task?”
“I will.”
Giovanni looked to Victoire. As admiral of France and the closest neighbor to Castile, she was in the best position to judge likely candidates for that territory. “You have a list of candidates for the admiralty of Castile?”
“A short one. Their vice admiral did his best.”
; The discussion was brief, and they decided to appoint the vice admiral to the position of admiral. The skill sets were very different—vice admirals had to be ruthlessly organized and always had some military or security experience—so it was rare that a vice admiral was promoted to admiral. The last time it had been done was when Alma was made admiral of Kalmar. In this case, as it had been fifteen years ago with Kalmar, the consensus was that they felt Castile’s stability required the vice admiral to assume the role.
“He will be able to easily appoint his successor as vice admiral,” Victoire said.
“And you will serve as our messenger?” Giovanni asked.
“I will.”
“That brings us to England.” Giovanni kept his tone simple and measured.
“Lorelei did not have time to provide a list,” Dolph said.
“How could she?” Cezary raised both hands in a helpless gesture. “The admiral dead. Two knights shot. Her security officers scouring London.” He shook his head.
Giovanni raised his chin. “I think we all know who the next admiral of England should be.”
The other admirals looked at one another, some nodding, others looking concerned.
“We are sure he will survive?” Hande asked.
“Yes, and he would no longer be fit to be a knight anyway,” Giovanni said.
“What do you mean?” Hande asked.
When Giovanni told them what he’d learned from the English doctors, the other admirals grimaced.
“Who is his family?” Pedro asked. “What is his real name?”
“I do not know his name, but it would not matter. He was not a legacy,” Giovanni said.
“Not a legacy? And we would make him admiral?” Petro scoffed.
Giovanni ignored the fact that he’d thought something similar not long ago. “There is no rule that says an admiral must be a legacy. And he has proven himself. Plus, his trinity will help him.”