by Robyn Bennis
With some of his mobility restored, Bernat followed Josette as she made a circuit around her ship. “Not as many at work on her as I’d have thought,” he said.
“I had to fight for this many,” she answered. “The colonel wanted all the yardsmen clearing brush, and the ships’ crews on top of them. It’s been a goddamn madhouse.”
“How did your rendezvous go? As well as the war, I hope.”
The embarrassed look, and the pause before answering, told him everything he needed to know. “None of your damn business,” she said, far too late.
“So you did sleep with him.” It was a statement, not a question. “I find your desperation equal parts tragic and hilarious. You took precautions, of course?”
She still didn’t look at him. “Of course, and I should have taken precautions against his goddamn insincere affectations, as well.” When Bernat did not comment on this, she turned to him, looked again to see that no one else was within earshot, and added, “I suppose he lets slip a declaration of true love to all of his conquests, and pretends it was an accident?”
He thought he had misheard her, and stammered through several seconds before he realized that he hadn’t. “Yes, of course,” he finally spat out. “He’s pulled that trick on half the whores in the city. ‘Roland’s Gambit,’ they call it.”
She turned toward him, and he could see in her face that she wasn’t buying it. “Good God,” she muttered. “You don’t suppose he means it?”
“Of course he doesn’t mean it. How could such an absurd thought even enter your mind? You’re usually far too sensible to even consider such nonsense.”
“No, he can’t possibly mean it.” She spoke as if he’d said the exact opposite of his actual words, which perhaps he had by too much insistence. “And my accent does not have any Vin in it! I don’t even have an accent!”
Bernat had never noticed any Vin in Josette’s slight Durum accent before, but he could hear it now that she’d mentioned it. “No, you certainly don’t have an accent, and certainly no trace of Vin,” he said, adding a lie to an impossibility. “Perhaps the best thing you can do now is to concentrate on getting the ship ready. There’s no better cure for an awkward romance than to literally fly from town.”
She mulled it over, then nodded. With a smile, she said, “You’re a good friend, Bernie.”
“Yes,” he said, now that she was finally talking sense. “I am that.”
* * *
IT WAS AN entire battalion of boys, hardly older than herself. A week ago, they’d been studying at one of the city’s prestigious universities. In a few weeks more, they’d be at the front, killing and being killed. More the second than the first, Ensign Kember thought, if they didn’t shape up quickly.
One of the battalion’s eight infantry companies was at musket practice, and Kember watched them as she ate her lunch of rice, miso, and river char atop a barrel next to the shed. These boys had been training for a week now, but only a handful of the company’s hundred soldiers could load and fire their muskets in under a minute. Even Lord Hinkal could beat that, while any half-decent musketeer was expected to fire three aimed shots per minute.
As she watched, one of their muskets hung fire, its priming powder fizzling in the pan. When the fizzling stopped, he held the musket up to inspect it, and it went off a second later, careening into his shoulder and recoiling sharply up to hit him in the face. He was bleeding from the nose and missing a tooth when he stepped off the firing line, leaving his weapon smoking on the grass.
It must have set off the nerves of the other boys, for their firing practice became even more sporadic and clumsy. Flints sparked into empty pans that they’d forgotten to prime. One of them loaded five full cartridges without firing in between. His sergeant stopped him when he raised the gun to shoot, before his suicide could ruin a perfectly good musket.
But with the sergeant occupied in screaming at that boy, another antsy lad managed to fire his musket with the ramrod still in the barrel. The rod flew like an arrow and embedded itself into the grass, twenty paces ahead of the firing line. And, in an apparent effort to multiply his stupidity, the boy ran after it and plucked it out of the green. Only a fool’s luck and his compatriots’ pathetic rate of fire saved him from being shot by one of them, for God knew their aim wouldn’t preserve him.
“Have any of them hit a target yet?” The voice came from her left, where a junior lieutenant had snuck up on her while she was distracted by the clown show on the firing range. The lieutenant was a short, stocky young man with an absurd little beard that came to a point at the bottom of his chin. He took a long, sucking pull from a cigarillo, as if trying to draw as much from it as possible between breaths.
He wasn’t in her chain of command, and they weren’t so different in rank, so Ensign Kember supposed she was allowed to answer informally. “A few,” she said. “By accident, probably.”
He let the smoke out of his lungs in a wheezing chuckle. “Well, so much of being a soldier is luck, anyway. The ones that luck picks for survival will harden up soon enough. It all works itself out in the end, whether they get a lot of training or a little.”
“If they could be trained longer, perhaps luck would pick more of them to survive and be hardened up,” she said, a little angrier than she’d intended. “And they’d be less likely to get others killed, besides.”
The bastard laughed at her, took another drag from his cigarillo, and said, “And what the hell would an auxiliary ensign—a little girl—know about that?”
She turned fully toward him, and saw his eyes widen when he noticed her scar. She wore no concealer today—she’d learned the hard way to forego makeup on days when the still-tender wound looked inflamed. The scar was a variegated canyon running up her neck and onto her cheek. His eyes froze on it.
“No smoking within twenty paces of the shed,” she said in a calm and even tone.
He looked ready to argue, but her unflinching stare must have cowed him, for he dropped the cigarillo and stamped it out with his foot. “Happy, Ensign?” he asked, putting emphasis on her lower rank.
“Yes, sir,” she answered, with as much respect as she judged necessary. Her lunch finished, she returned to the shed without another word.
Mistral, quite unlike the infantry outside, was at least coming along. The rubber gas bag had been replaced with goldbeater’s. Most of the new girders were in, the spliced rigging lines replaced with fresh rope, and the new canvas was going up even now. The steamjack was still a mess, but at least it wasn’t catching fire quite as often. And structurally, at least, the ship was good as new. Probably better, in fact, with the new modifications the captain was making to the tail.
Kember set to her work of inspecting and aligning the sights on the new cannon. She’d been at it for a while when the captain’s voice came from the shed floor. “Kember, is that you up there?”
She stuck her head above the rail of the hurricane deck. “Sir?”
The junior lieutenant from earlier stood now at the captain’s side, on the shed floor below. “This is Lieutenant Hanon, our new first officer.”
“We’ve already met,” Hanon said, fixing Kember with a wicked grin. “It’s going to be a pleasure working with you, Ensign.”
“Yes, sir,” Ensign Kember said, smiling politely and hoping her thoughts didn’t show on her face.
* * *
ENSIGN KEMBER HAD seemed rather cold, but perhaps that was to be expected, as Hanon’s arrival spelled the end of her stint as acting first officer.
Josette led him to the tail, where the yardsmen were still working on the latest round of modifications. She waited to see Lieutenant Hanon’s reaction—whether he appreciated the principles involved or blindly scoffed at the deviation from the ordinary. Perhaps, if he was sharp enough, he might even catch something she had missed.
Hanon was quiet for a while, until the silence of his captain seemed too much for him, and he said simply, “The engin
eers don’t mind you making these changes?”
“Of course they mind,” she answered. “They’re engineers. Once they’ve hit upon a clever theory, they believe in it implicitly. They believe in it until it’s been positively disproven, and sometimes until it’s been disproven by several different methods.”
He only nodded along, adding none of his own thoughts on the matter.
“Though I must give them some credit. Mistral’s a temperamental bitch, but even with two guns she’s as nimble as a single-gun chasseur.” Josette grinned with something like pride. “More nimble, if she likes you.”
Lieutenant Hanon continued to nod, but remained silent.
She pointed up at the tail cage. “As you can see, my joint modifications borrow quite a bit from the articulated hinges of the old N-3’s.”
He made an appreciative grunt.
“Have you flown in many rigids?” she asked. Perhaps his experience was all in semi-rigid scouts, whose architecture worked on slightly different principles. She only hoped they hadn’t assigned her a goddamn blimp jockey, though that would explain why she’d never heard his name before.
“I’ve only been up in blimps,” he said, smiling apologetically. “But I was captain of them all, so I’ll be happy to share the leadership role with you, if ever you feel overburdened with command.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said. “I don’t expect that it will be necessary.” She was only just keeping a lid on the flurry of curses she wanted to aim at him, when she spotted Bernat coming over. “Bernie,” she said, as he limped the last few feet and paused to catch his breath. “Let me introduce Lieutenant Egmont Hanon, our new first officer. If you stay for a while, you can meet Warrant Officer Megusi as well. He’s taking the chief mechanic post.”
Bernat nodded in response to a bow from Hanon.
“Lieutenant Hanon,” Josette went on, “this is Lord Bernat … Something Something … Hinkal. Lord Hinkal is serving as a supernumerary, filling the roles of rifleman and ship’s mascot.”
“And doing so with great pride,” Bernat said, still out of breath. “Captain, may I speak to you privately?”
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said to Hanon, and strolled off with Bernat. “If it’s another message from your goddamn brother, I’m not interested.”
“No, it’s…” He trailed off, peering at her. “Has he been sending you messages?”
“Three a day, on average, and showing up on the base at odd hours, but I’ve managed to avoid him so far.”
Bernat considered this as he strolled along. “If you’d like to write a note letting him know it’s over, I can deliver it. I promise I’ll only gloat a little.”
“I’m composing just such a note.” This was true, but she did not add that she was also working on an entirely contrary note, professing her love for Roland and asking his forgiveness for leaving so discourteously. She planned to send whichever seemed the most appropriate, depending on how her feelings settled out in the meantime.
“Let me know as soon as you’ve finished it,” Bernat said. Before she could say anything else about it, he went on, “You have an interview with the king this evening.”
She stopped in place and stared mutely at him, thinking she’d misheard.
“You have to get into your best dress uniform, and we have to go,” he said, speaking loud and slow. “I’ll coach you as to the proper etiquette on the way.”
When she’d recovered herself, she said, “I don’t have time for this. By the time we’re back and forth between the palace, it’ll cost us the rest of the day.”
“Then the day will have to make do without us,” Bernat said, “for one does not beg an audience with the king and not show up when it’s granted.”
“I didn’t beg an audience! I didn’t beg anything!”
“But an audience was begged on your behalf. By myself, by Roland, and apparently by my sister Nina, by way of the post.”
This was too much to believe. He had to be playing a joke on her, though she couldn’t possibly see the humor in it. “I’ve never even met your sister.”
“No, but I’ve given accounts of you in several letters, and she quite admires you.”
Josette snorted, more convinced than ever that she was being played upon. “You mean to say you’ve written flatteringly of me?”
“I didn’t say that.” He held up his hands, palms to the front. “I said that I’ve given account of you, and that she admires you greatly. How she arrived at one from the other is a mystery.”
“All right. I’ll play along.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, urging her toward the officers’ quarters, “play along. Only hurry!”
* * *
EVEN IN THE carriage to the palace, Bernat was still fussing over the state of her uniform and coaching her on the proper etiquette of court interviews.
“Here’s the protocol.” he said. “Do not approach closer than the center of the room. Bow when you first enter the room, and then again when you stop. Address him only as ‘Your Majesty,’ and do so every time you speak. Do not make sudden motions. Do not look him directly in the eye. Do not, at any time, turn your back to him.”
She frowned. “My father once gave me much the same list of instructions, in case I ever ran into a rabid dog.”
“You are not the first to notice the similarities,” he said, picking a speck of dust from one of her epaulettes. “Now hold still. You could use a bit of shadow about the eyes.”
In the jostling carriage, she raised her hands to keep Bernat’s makeup brush away from her face. “When we’ve stopped, Bernie.”
He didn’t resist. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m sorry, it’s just … I’m just very nervous for you.” He sighed. “I know how you can be, and if you’re how you can be in front of him, you’ll likely be a head on a spike the next time I see you.”
She eyed him. “They don’t really do that anymore, do they?”
“They haven’t in a while,” he said, waving his hands in agitation. “It doesn’t mean they won’t bring it back for the right person.”
Josette went on eying him. “And this isn’t some attempt at a reconciliation between Roland and me?”
Bernat was appalled. “Good God, no. Why in hell would I ever do something like that?”
“No, of course you wouldn’t,” she said, and looked out the window, beginning to look as nervous as she ought to be. “We’re really going to meet the king, aren’t we?”
“Well, of course we are!” he shouted.
“Pray control your voice,” she said, low and icy.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said. He put a hand to his chest, worried he might be having palpitations. “It’s only … this is a very big day for you.”
* * *
IT WAS TRUE.
She hadn’t quite believed it until she found herself standing in front of an ornately carved door trimmed in gold, waiting to go into the king’s audience chamber. Two of the attendants were taking brushes to her uniform, in a manner that she found both too familiar and utterly pointless, as Bernat had already attended to the job with the diligence of one of those little birds that cleans the mouths of crocodiles.
Speaking of which, the man himself had just returned from getting an update on the king’s schedule. “Stop, stop,” Bernat said, slapping the wrists of the attendants. “Just stop. You’re making her nervous. This is her first time seeing the king, for God’s sake. You mustn’t make her nervous!”
Josette only smirked and kept her eyes ahead.
“Duke Royama is in with him now,” Bernat said, at a whisper. “Remember to smile, don’t look him in the eye, and don’t bring up Durum until he does.”
“Why would he bring up Durum?” she asked.
Bernat stared at her a while, his face slowly contorting into a mask of dread and horror. “What do you think this is about? You’re here to ask him to keep Durum in mind at the end of the war, when the treaties are be
ing made.”
Now she really was nervous. “But how do I do that? What if he doesn’t bring it up?”
“He will,” Bernat said. “It’s all been worked out ahead of time by back channels.”
“Then why am I here at all?”
“Well, you have to give the thing the appearance of spontaneity! Good God, how can you be so stupid about politics?”
The attendants took up station on either side of the doors, and slowly pushed them open. Inside, Duke Royama was still speaking to the king, and from far closer than the center of the room. In fact, he was leaning with one hand on the throne, and the two of them were whispering to each other.
Josette took a step forward, but Bernat whipped his cane up to bar her path. “No, stop!” he hissed. “The last one isn’t done yet.”
She came to a halt, whereupon one of the attendants scowled at her and flicked his head toward the chamber. “Go on,” he whispered.
Bernat brought his cane around and gave her a push on the back. “Go on, go!” he said, as if he’d never said anything to the contrary. When she passed the threshold, he added, “Remember to bow!”
Hell, she really had forgotten. She wondered if she should back up, but in the end decided to bow from a few steps inside the chamber and hope the king wouldn’t notice. She moved—not too fast, of course—to the center of the room. Duke Royama, still chatting with the king, looked over and nodded to her. She wondered if she ought to bow to him as well, but decided in the end that it must work the same way as saluting superior officers, and she bowed only to the highest in rank. And, amid all her confusion, King Leon the 18th happened to glance toward her and she accidentally looked him in the eyes. Damn. Now she’d done it.
She stood and waited for them to finish, reminding herself to not look impatient. But then, she couldn’t remember what that was supposed to look like, and so she only ended up smiling like an idiot.
