by John Marco
“And Karva?” he asked Gark. “How goes your mission there? What word of Liss in those waters?”
Gark shifted uncomfortably. “Spotty sightings, mostly. The Lissens haven’t been sailing that far north lately. I think they’re concentrating around Crote.”
“Just so,” said Nicabar. “Thank you for making my point, Gark. The Lissens are concentrating around Crote, that’s what all intelligence has indicated. Even now I am weeks from Nar City, and it is the same as when I left—Lissens around Crote, massing for an invasion that will never come. And isn’t that just perfect?”
When no one answered, L’Rago spoke. “It’s a golden opportunity. We must seize it.”
The captains around the table began averting their eyes. A low murmur bubbled up. Kelara of the cruiser Unstoppable, who had only recently been promoted, shook his head slightly at the statement, but he did not look away from Nicabar.
“Kelara?” probed Nicabar. “Speak freely.”
“Is that it, Admiral?” asked the captain. He was a stout man, just older than L’Rago but with none of his ruthlessness or guile. Nicabar had expected him to be direct. “Is that why you’ve summoned us here?”
“L’Rago has read my mind, I’m afraid,” admitted Nicabar. “Why else would I have called this summit? We have an opportunity to make a difference. I think we should take it.”
“Exactly what opportunity would that be, Admiral?” challenged Kelara.
“Liss, Captain,” said Nicabar plainly. “That’s the only reason we’re here.”
He rose from his seat and pointed out the Hundred Isles on the map, determined to make his point. He traced his fingers along the map, showing them Liss and Casarhoon, and indicating the concentration of Lissen schooners around Crote. This was their weakness, Nicabar explained, a gaffe that had left their homeland more vulnerable than it had been in years. Casarhoon had been relatively quiet, Nicabar reminded them. He told them how the Fearless had not encountered a single Lissen vessel when she’d arrived in these waters. To Nicabar, that meant only one thing.
“The Hundred Isles are weak,” he said. “Unprotected, except for their land troops, and we all know how few of them they have. Their harbors are still probably in disrepair, and their gun emplacements have most likely been stripped to outfit their schooners.”
“How can you know?” asked one of the officers. This time it was Amado, commander of the Angel of Death. When he spoke he emitted a peculiar whistle through his teeth, and the sound of it made his protest all the more annoying. Amado was a fine tactitian but too conservative. It had lost him more than one battle against Liss. “We don’t have any reliable intelligence about Liss anymore, not since the Roshann have been so busy on the mainland. And Biagio hasn’t been forthcoming.”
The invocation of his old friend’s name made Nicabar bristle. He’d been thinking a lot about Biagio lately.
“We don’t need the Roshann to tell us what is so obvious,” Nicabar said. “We’ve all seen the patterns. Crote is where the Lissens have concentrated their forces. They’ve been expecting an invasion, thinking we’re going to retake Biagio’s island for him. Well, we’re not going to do that. I’m not going to let this chance slip away.”
“All right,” challenged Gark. “You want to invade Liss.” He looked around the table wryly. “Do you see enough captains here to make your plan work, sir? There are a dozen ships at anchor outside.”
“And only four of them are dreadnoughts,” added Amado.
“One of those is the Fearless,” Nicabar reminded them.
Gark smiled. “Forgive me, Admiral, but I’m curious to know how we’re supposed to do this. Please tell us your strategy.”
Before Nicabar could answer, L’Rago jumped into the fray like a loyal dog. “Haven’t you been listening, Gark? Liss is weak. If we pick the right spot, we can hammer ourselves a foothold.”
“And then what?” Gark retorted. “We don’t have the manpower to sustain a landing, or the ships for a blockade.”
L’Rago shook his head disgustedly. “You’re a coward, Gark.”
“You dare say that?” Gark’s pasty face reddened. “I’m the only one looking out for us. I want assurances, but you’re too eager to start killing again.”
“Friends …” Nicabar put up both hands. “Please stop. Remember who you are. You are the cream; you have risen to the top. And now you are all here, on the brink of glory. How can I make you see that?”
“Very simply,” said Captain Feliks. His vessel was the Colossus, one of the three other dreadnoughts that had come to join the Fearless. The Colossus had been the largest ship in the fleet before the Fearless was constructed, and that made her one of the oldest. Nicabar was glad Feliks had made the rendezvous, but he wondered about the warship’s viability. She had been a ship of the line for a long time, maybe too long, and there had been talk of her retirement before the recent flare-ups with Liss. Still, Feliks was a thoughtful man and wouldn’t jump to conclusions.
“Tell me, my friend,” urged Nicabar. “I value your council. What can I do to prove myself to you?”
The old captain glowed at his admiral’s deference. “Just tell us how to succeed,” he said. “We all know you. You’re a great man. None of us question your abilities. Tell us your plan, and we will follow it.”
The familiar nervousness squirmed in Nicabar again. The truth was he didn’t have a plan, not anymore. He had expected far more ships to arrive for the rendezvous, enough for a blockade perhaps, or to take and hold one of the Lissen islands. Since only a dozen ships had shown, neither option was feasible now. Nor had Nicabar found his secret waterway—the one goal that eluded him for a decade. He decided to be honest with his captains.
“I don’t have a plan, Feliks,” he said carefully. “Not anymore. I called this meeting because I don’t want this chance to slip away. Eventually, Queen Jelena will realize we’re not going to attack Crote. She’ll fortify Liss again, and we won’t be able to stop her.” Absently he drummed his fingers on the table. “Liss is our greatest challenge. We might never get a chance like this again.”
“I agree,” said L’Rago. His smile sharpened. “Liss has embarrassed us long enough. It’s time we took the battle to them, instead of just defending ourselves. I for one will gladly sail for the Hundred Isles, alone if I have to.”
Captain Amado rolled his eyes. “You go ahead and do that, L’Rago, and the Lissens will take the Infamous apart.”
“I’m not afraid,” said L’Rago. “Unlike you.”
“Let me correct you, boy,” snapped Amado. “It isn’t fear you’re seeing, it’s common sense. Not all of us have your gift for idiocy.”
“And not all of us have the same desire for revenge,” said Gark. “Forgive me, Admiral, but I must say this. This plan of yours is …” He searched for the right word.
“What?” demanded Nicabar.
Gark settled on a safe description. “Unsound.”
“Nonexistent, even,” said Amado.
“Let me explain,” Nicabar interrupted, sure that he was losing them. “I admit, there are fewer ships than I would have liked. But we still have an opportunity here.”
“Admiral, please,” Gark implored. “May I speak freely?”
“Go ahead.”
The captain of the Black City leaned forward. “In all honesty, this is your obsession, not ours. L’Rago agrees with you because he is young and stupid, but the rest of us can’t possibly go along with this. You’re proposing to attack Liss with only a handful of ships—”
“We can get more,” rumbled Nicabar. “I can order it.”
“Yes, you can. But how many more? If you recall all the ships you need for an invasion, you’ll leave the Empire vulnerable. You’ll attack Liss only to lose part of Dahaar, or maybe even the harbors of the capital. And all because you have a vendetta.”
“It’s not just my vendetta,” said Nicabar. “It’s yours as well. Or at least it should be.” He glanced around at the fr
ightened faces. “Can any of you tell me that you don’t owe Liss a thousand deaths? Or are you all like Gark here, willing to swallow the shame of the last twelve years? Twelve years! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Of course it does,” said Feliks. “But maybe not as much as it does to you.” Feliks’ tone was nonjudgmental, even warm. He had a long-standing friendship with Nicabar and was always willing to use it in arguments. “Sir, some of us have been talking. We’re concerned.”
“About what?”
“About you, and your obsession with Liss. It’s not healthy for you to be so fixated on them. We’re at war with them, true. But that doesn’t mean we have to take every risk. That’s vengeance, Admiral, not tactics.”
Nicabar could barely believe it. The gall was astonishing, even from an old mate like Feliks. The admiral looked around the table and saw a dozen sheepish faces silently agreeing with the captain. Only L’Rago looked disgusted. Nicabar leaned back in his chair.
“I can order it,” he said simply. “If I say invade, then invade you shall.”
Feliks nodded. “That is true. But I don’t think you would ever be so unwise, my friend. This idea of yours is folly. You don’t even have a plan …”
“But Liss is weak …”
“I know,” said Feliks. “But this is not the time. Later, perhaps, when we’ve secured the waters around the Empire, then you can bring in more ships. We can blockade Liss again, and you can talk to Biagio about providing troops.”
“I cannot!” Nicabar roared. He brought a fist down on the table, shaking all the goblets. “Biagio is too weak to help us. He has no influence with the army anymore. And what you’re talking about would take too much time. Liss will be ready for us by then.” Nicabar stopped himself. His head was pounding and his eyes hurt, and he knew it was the aftereffects of his drug treatments, which had been more painful than usual lately. His blue eyes blazing, he turned to Feliks. “We ignore this chance at our peril, Captain. We must strike now, before Jelena knows what we have planned.”
Feliks was rueful. “I’m sorry, Admiral, but I cannot agree with you.”
“Please, Admiral,” urged Gark. “Think on what Feliks has told you. Might he not be right? Might your obsession be clouding your thinking? A little, perhaps?”
Nicabar leaned back. In mere moments, his captains had scuttled him. And the worst part was that they were right. He knew that desire wasn’t enough to win Liss. He needed ships, many more than the few now in Casarhoon. And he needed devoted men to captain them. Just now he had neither, and it deflated him. Once again, Liss had bested him. And they hadn’t even fired a shot.
“I cannot accept this,” he told them. “I want options. You’ve all come this far, and I won’t let it be for nothing. More ships may yet arrive. We will wait. In the meantime, you will all come up with ideas.” Nicabar rose, pushing back his chair. “I am disappointed in you,” he told them. He didn’t even bother excluding L’Rago. “Cowards, every one of you.”
With their eyes on his back, Nicabar stormed out of the council chamber, leaving a wake of shocked silence behind him. His heart was racing as he stepped out into the sunlight, and he cast his face heavenward, letting the sun work on him. A pounding headache thumped in his skull and the pressure in his eyeballs was unbearable, and it was all because of his galloping rage. Lately, it had been sickening him, making him ill. If he didn’t learn to control it …
“Admiral?” called a distant voice. “Admiral Nicabar?”
Nicabar opened his eyes. Lieutenant Varin was approaching, jogging up to him anxiously. There were two other officers from the Fearless with him, both sharing his waylaid expression. Because Varin rarely got excited, Nicabar’s interest was piqued.
“What is it, Lieutenant?”
Varin came to a skidding halt in front of him. “The Dread Sovereign, Admiral,” said Varin breathlessly. “She’s here!”
“What?” Nicabar turned and peered toward the ocean. Out on the water, near the other gathered warships, came a ship he hadn’t noticed before, sailing toward the rest of them and flying the black flag of Nar from her mainmast. The smallest dreadnought in the Black Fleet was unmistakable in her graceful canter and snarling dragon figurehead. Even from such a distance Nicabar knew her.
“I don’t believe it,” he whispered. “My God, Kasrin. I was just thinking about you …”
Gorgotor Fortress, that impressive mass of mortar and palm logs, rose above Kasrin as he stepped out of his launch. It had been many months since he had been to Casarhoon, and the sight of the fortress tossed a shadow on his courage. In his hands he held his captain’s brief, a leather case used by officers to carry important papers like maps and rutters. The hand that held the case trembled a little; Kasrin fought to still it. He hadn’t eaten but his stomach churned threateningly, and when Laney called from the rowboat to wish him luck, Kasrin hardly heard it. The wet sand of the beach sucked at his boots, and for a moment he was frozen, mesmerized by the fortress and unable to move. Not far ahead, a dozen Casarhian soldiers waited for him by a stout spiked gate, wearing curved swords. No one had come out to greet him, and Kasrin didn’t know how to take that signal. Surely Nicabar knew he was here. The Fearless was at anchor out on the sea. So was the Black City. And Angel of Death. And Iron Duke. His peers would be waiting for him.
“Blair?” called Laney from the launch. “You all right?”
Kasrin nodded but did not turn around. “Fine,” he said absently. A crowd was gathering on the fortress walls to gape at him. Most of these were soldiers from Casarhoon, but peppering the scene were familiar Naren faces. One of them was Gark. The dreadnought captain stared down at him, astonished. Kasrin didn’t wave at his old comrade. Nor did Gark wave at him.
“I can come with you,” Laney reminded him. “Why not let me?”
Kasrin shook his head. “No. Nicabar knows I’m here. And he won’t want to talk to anyone but me.”
“Then I’ll wait here,” Laney said stubbornly.
Kasrin turned and smiled grimly. The men that had rowed him ashore offered him encouraging nods. “Go back to the Sovereign,” he ordered. “I might be a while. Nicabar will probably want me to spend the night. We have a lot to catch up on, I’m afraid.”
His friend agreed reluctantly, and Kasrin faced the fortress again. Steeling himself, he went toward the waiting soldiers, his cape blowing in the breeze. The soldiers around the gate waited for him, refusing even to step out and greet him. Apparently, news of his treason was widespread, reaching even Casarhoon. Kasrin adopted a stony expression, ignoring the gibes and mumbles from the walls above.
“I am Captain Kasrin of the Black Fleet vessel Dread Sovereign,” he said. “I’m here to see Admiral Nicabar.”
One of the soldiers smirked. “The admiral is waiting for you, Captain.”
“Take me to him,” snapped Kasrin. “Now.”
The soldiers complied. They led Kasrin away from the gate and up a stone staircase along the wall in the opposite direction from the gathered Naren officers. Kasrin relaxed. He had guessed that Nicabar wouldn’t want the others to be part of their meeting. So far, he had been correct. If everything else went smoothly …
Stop, he chided himself. Don’t get cocky.
The soldiers led Kasrin through the halls of the fortress, across a wall with a view to the ocean, and through a courtyard filled with armaments and horse tack. There were smaller buildings strewn throughout the yard, stables and lodgings and the usual accoutrements of a fortress, and occasionally someone would pause to stare. Kasrin ignored the looks. He let the soldiers take him through the fortress until at last they were on the opposite side from where they started, on the fortress’s northern facade. Here the sound of the sea died to a distant murmur, and the view was of palm trees and narrow, unpaved roadways. A tower stood watch over the northern cape, erect and foreboding. There were no guns peeking from it, only windows of stained glass and ornamental gargoyles perching on eves. Though he had n
ever spent any time in this particular tower, Kasrin recognized it.
The church.
Most castles of scale had one, and the folk of Casarhoon were a religious breed. They had heard and obeyed the word of Nar’s dead Bishop Herrith, and now they were zealots, just as he had been. It was a good place for a meeting, though, quiet and away from prying eyes, so Kasrin went willingly. Still clutching his leather case, he removed his triangular hat when he entered the tower. The soldiers who had escorted him waited in the threshold. Kasrin let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Ahead of him was a long aisle with rows of pews on both sides. An altar beckoned in the distance, lit by waving candlelight. A single figure sat in the front-most pew.
“There,” said a soldier tersely. Then he abruptly stepped out of the tower and closed the great doors. Sunlight poured through the stained glass windows animating their meticulous scenes. The candles wavered hypnotically, but there was no one else in the chamber, not a single priest or acolyte to lead the parishioner in prayer—because it wasn’t a parishioner. Kasrin knew exactly who it was who could cast such a chiseled, unmistakable outline.
“I knew you’d come back,” rang the voice. “I knew it.”
Kasrin stood very still. Fear coiled around him, making it hard to speak.
“Your timing is excellent, Kasrin,” said Nicabar. His words filled the chamber like the voice of God. “I’m wondering why you planned it this way.”
“I knew you’d be here,” replied Kasrin. “So I came.”
The figure stood up, blocking out the candlelight. He turned and stared down the aisle, lighting the way with his fiery blue eyes. Nicabar was as huge as ever, his hair cropped short around his head as though a sculptor had carved him out of granite. The sight of him was withering. He wore a uniform of naval blue with black and gold sporting his many ribbons. When he saw Kasrin, he did not smile.
“Can you imagine my surprise when I saw the Dread Sovereign approaching? It was pure vindication, Kasrin.”
