The Queen's Pardon (Alexis Carew Book 6)

by J. A. Sutherland

  Between the three, they commanded all of New London’s fleets and ships, here in the home system, the Core worlds, all out to the edges of the Fringe, and even beyond, in the case of those Royal Navy ships tasked with exploration.

  Tens of thousands of ships, ranging from the most massive liners which never left the Core to the slightest pinnace seeing to the Queen’s tariffs and protecting trade between newly settled worlds, and tens of millions of men and women manning those ships, seeing to the ports, and a billion other details that kept what could be considered the mightiest navy to spinward of Old Earth running in fine fettle.

  And they were here to speak about a single one of them … again.

  A bloody lieutenant, if one could believe it, and that a mere slip of a girl, barely …

  Cunningham stepped to his place at the meeting table and checked the records there.

  Twenty. He shook his head in bewilderment. There were admirals five times that age who’d occupied the attention of those in this room for no more time than to approve the promotions list they graced with a hundred others, and this Carew’s name had sullied their deliberations twice before already.

  The squeaky wheel might get the grease – and this girl had got more than her share of that – but there was also some saying about hammers and which nails stuck up, wasn’t there?

  Cunningham waited until the others were at their places, then gestured for them to sit, taking his own place at the table’s head.

  “Is a special meeting really necessary on this, Cunningham?” the Third Space Lord asked.

  Cunningham held up one hand. “A moment, Narfolk, and I’ll explain.” He tapped his tabletop. “Burchett, come in, please.”

  A moment later the door behind him opened and his First Secretary came in.

  “Give them the number, Burchett,” Cunningham ordered.

  The newcomer cleared his throat and consulted his tablet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “ladies, as Secretary to the Admiralty, I have totaled the notes from this incident and prepared a funding bill for Lord Cunningham to take to Parliament, this being an amount in excess of, shall we say, discretion.”

  “The number, Burchett,” Cunningham said.

  “Keeping in mind, my lords, that a full accounting must await arrival of any late-come notes in hand from those farmers on …” He glanced at his tablet. “Erzrum … Erseroom …” He shrugged. “In any case, the natives there are submitting their notes through Hanover, which must —”

  “The total, Burchett?”

  “Well, and keeping in mind, sirs, the vital work of Lord Falkirk’s pursers and chandlers in discounting these notes so much as they are able, and —”

  “Two million three-hundred thousand six hundred forty-two pounds,” Cunningham said.

  Burchett gave him a purse-lipped, scolding glance, then said, “Two million six-hundred thousand two hundred thirty-eight pounds, sir. A fresh packet just arrived this morning.”

  “Sweet Dark,” Damerel muttered. “That’s more than Chipley’s entire fleet!”

  “No, not so much as that, but as much as the ships he lost there!”

  “And how many pirates?” Rotherham asked.

  “Captured and paid for, sir, or pardoned?” Burchett asked.

  Rotherham winced. “Never mind. I’d rather not know either one, I think.”

  “I told you so,” Falkirk, Dameral quckly nodding agreement.

  “We did,” Dameral said. “Should have hung her after she mutinied.”

  Lady Larcbost curled her lip at the two. “Only because of your pet.”

  Dameral puffed air through pursed lips and scowled at her. She might be senior on the lists, but they were all – or nearly – equals here.

  “Captain Neals is –”

  “A bloody, abusive toad,” Larcbost said, “who should never have –"

  A beeping drew all eyes to Cunningham’s tablet, then followed his to the room’s windows where a procession of aircars could be seen approaching the building.

  “Oh, hell,” Cunningham muttered. “We’re in it now, lads.”

  Queen Annalise, sovereign of New London, did not, as a matter of course, make unexpected visits.

  She felt it was unfair to both the visited and her security detail to do so.

  In this case, however, as the subject of the meeting she’d learned of touched, however tangentially, on her own prerogatives, she felt it justified.

  A glance out her aircar’s window to see the chaos of buildings that had become of Admiralty grounds since her grandfather had granted the lands for it was enough to firm her resolve as well. Though no current occupants of the tower’s highest levels were personally responsible for the mess, they would act fine as proxies.

  Her security detail — or some of it — landed first, on the private pad jutting out from the tower’s top floor. They were still a bit more on edge than usual since the war, so Annalise indulged them. The New London Protective Service took its job seriously at all times, though, since there’d been more than one monarch assassinated in the nation’s history — and accidents.

  As her own aircar landed on the pad, the security force already there fanned out to flank her path to the building’s door, as though she were a small child who might rush to the railing and fling herself through the static field and fall.

  Not mentioning this or objecting to it was another indulgence, as so many of her detail had been with the family for decades and well-remembered the time forty years before when an avalanche on their favorite ski slope had taken Annalise’s parents and older brother without warning — not that there was anything they could have done about an avalanche, or that the only thing to save Annalise from the same fate was the start of a head-cold which kept her indoors at the lodge.

  Even with that she’d spent hours in that darkened, buried lodge before rescue.

  She’d emerged from that to find that at fifteen years old, she’d gone from the latter in the old adage about monarchial children, “an heir and a spare,” to Queen of the Realm — and her security detail had gone from quiet, and sometimes amused, exasperation at her own antics and adolescent attempts to evade them to outright panic.

  She’d allowed them their worries and contingency planning ever since, not least because their reports to Parliament in those early months, about how she herself had changed and was no longer playing at escaping them, had gone a long way toward her efforts to avoid a Regency. Advisers she readily accepted, but a Regent, no matter her own age, would have chafed and she’d forced herself to grow up, seemingly overnight, so as to present the very best face to her Parliament.

  Her own aircar landed and she stepped out, murmuring thanks to the security officer who offered her a hand — so that she might not slip or stumble and further embarrass his Service by breaking her neck on the eminently flat surface of Admiralty’s landing pad.

  The door to the tower was already held open and she made her way there, nodding to the Admiralty officials who flanked it and gestured her toward the First Lord’s meeting room.

  Annalise entered, gave polite and appropriate nods to the “Your Majesty’s” cast her way by its now standing occupants, and stepped to the sideboard where refreshments for their meeting had been laid out. She waved away the assistance of the porters who waited on those at the conference table and began filling a small plate with pastry.

  Admiralty always did supply itself with the best food — she thought it had something to do with making up for the deprivations shipboard, now they were all planetside for the remainder of their careers.

  “Good morning, my lords,” she called out, not turning.

  The chorus of “Good morning, Your Majesty,” was almost, though not quite, in tune.

  “So what amusements do your captains have for me today, my lords?” Annalise asked. She’d always found her Navy’s insistence on the masculine form of address a bit ridiculous, especially with Lady Swindmore and Lady Larcbost right there at the table. There’d even been a f
ew women in Cunningham’s position, though she mused that “First Lady of Admiralty” as a title might bring to mind those rather gauche Americans who colonized out the other side of Old Earth — as would “First Space Lady” for that matter. And “Second,” “Third,” or, forfend, “Fifth Space Lady” might be something the Americans would even take offense at, thinking it a slight. They were a prickly lot, refusing to even call their new worlds “colonies” for some reason, and thinking everything the universe did was somehow revolving around them.

  “Amusements, Your Majesty?” Cunningham asked.

  “Yes,” Annalise said, drawing it out a bit as she turned to face them, her face set in just the proper way — her smile like a beautifully tooled sheath around a deadly blade. “Any mutinies of my Navy’s ships? Failed invasions of foreign worlds? A captain threatening to shoot the representative of a colonial government, perhaps?” And wasn’t her staff still having to deal with objections from that official on the Fringe world of Al Jadiq? She took a dainty bite of one of the pastries. “Pardoned a few thousand thieves, murders, and rapists?” She took a breath. “Spent a billion pounds?”

  “It’s only two million three-hundred thou —” the Secretary to the Admiralty broke off at Annalise’s glare and returned his eyes to his tablet, muttering, “So far, Your Majesty.”

  “Made me the largest slave-holder in the known universe?” the Queen added, not wanting to leave anything off the list she’d so carefully rehearsed.

  “It’s a slow week, Your Majesty,” Lady Larcbost said into the ensuing silence. “And the principal officer for your amusements is still laid up in ordinary, back at her home, until her wing’s healed — I’m certain she’ll have something to amuse you with once she’s well and has a ship around her again.”

  Annalise turned her gaze to the woman, who grinned back at her with raised eyebrows. Notwithstanding they were old friends, had played together as children and still met for wine and shopping no less than once a month, despite the demands on their time, this was business and the Queen wished her admirals to understand her position.

  It wasn’t so much the things this girl -- this Carew -- did, it was the way she did them, and that she was still only a lieutenant. She took far too much on herself — more than most captains or even most admirals would dare. And, worst of all, perhaps, at this level, the girl’s mad schemes worked — something Annalise herself had to admire. And, worse than that — worse than worst of all, to some eyes — what the girl did was right.

  Annalise might often like to pull a pistol on some Fringe world leader herself, come to that, and Admiralty’s inability to find and recall Chipley and his fleet, along with the thousands — her eyes burned and she took a tighter grip on her emotions — tens of thousands of her subjects manning those ships, had been like a dagger in her own heart. That so many had suffered so at the hands of pirates on some barbaric world of the Barbary …

  And this girl had got them all home, no matter the cost.

  Annalise was used to sometimes being angered by the actions of others, frequently to admiring them, but envy was not a thing she was normally familiar with.

  She realized that Larcbost was still grinning and the other admirals and lords were looking hopeful. That wouldn’t do at all.

  “I’m told there’s a song,” the Queen said flatly.

  Faces, even Larcbost’s, fell.

  “A song the spacers of my Navy sing, featuring, of all things, their Queen and this lieutenant.”

  There appeared to be something of immense interest to her Lords of Admiralty on the surface of their conference table, as all eyes were focused there.

  “The spacers,” Larcbost said, “mean such things with the utmost —”

  “And an oddly named pub,” Annalise added.

  Larcbost joined her fellows in studying the table.

  The Queen surveyed her Lords of Admiralty and found their display of contrition satisfactory.

  She took another, larger, bite of her pastry — it was quite good — and let them stew just a bit longer.

  “What do you plan for her?” she asked finally.

  Cunningham cleared his throat. “We were just about to begin discussing that when you arrived, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh, wonderful.” Annalise took a much larger bite of pastry and waved the remnants at Their Lords of Admiralty as she chewed, encouraging them to continue and pay her no mind at all.

  “Yes,” Cunningham said, “of course.” He took a deep breath and looked around the table. “Thoughts?”

  “Stick her … somewhere … she can … ah … do … no further harm?” Lord Narfolk suggested, watching Annalise carefully. “Junior lieutenant on a first-rate, perhaps?”

  “I thought we were going to talk about how to keep her in-atmosphere, if not drum her out all entire, as Falkirk suggested?” Rotherham objected. The First Space Lord paid only the scantest attention to politics and was annoyingly open to speaking his mind without regard for consequences. “Perhaps even find some way to let her resign her bloody commission and go home for good and out of our hair. Can’t imagine how we’re even talking about a single lieutenant … again.”

  Lady Larcbost, Admiral of the White, glanced at Annalise, but the Queen made a conscious effort to keep her expression bland. Larcbost sighed, then said, “Rotherham, if the men see this officer ill-treated, there’ll be shot-canisters rolling on the decks from Penduli to New London itself.”

  She looked to Damerel and Kinaellen, finding nods of agreement from her fellows of the Red and Blue squadrons. Damerel might have it in for the girl over his pet, Neals, but he was no fool when it came to the feelings of the common spacer.

  “Surely not!” Rotherham said. His outrage was clear in his voice as well as on his face. The rumble of shot canisters rolled on the ship’s deck in the dark anonymity of the late watches was a way for them to express their displeasure with something.

  Kinaellen, Admiral of the Fleet, steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. “The common spacer’s a simple man, really. Has to be, and we select for it when we can. Needs to follow orders and be content with conditions most would find intolerable. But with that comes what you might call an over-developed sense of fairness — he’ll be content with little, so long as all his fellows have the same little, if you understand — and an utter sense of loyalty. We select for that, or beat it into them if we have to, as well. Loyalty … to their mates, their ship, the fleet, and —” He gave a nod to Annalise. “— the Queen.” He cleared his throat. “In that order, I’m afraid, Your Majesty.”

  Annalise waved it away, her father had taken a heavy cavalry commission in his younger days and often told stories of his time there. She understood that when the fight was hardest, it was those you served with that you fought for, not Queen and country.

  “What’s your point?” Rotherham asked.

  “You’ve been too much time away from a ship,” Larcbost said. “Her speech to the court after that business with Hermione? Refusing clemency if her crew didn’t receive it as well?”

  “That record was sealed!” Rotherham objected.

  Larcbost made a rude noise. “It’s the Fleet, Rotherham — there might as well have been a live broadcast.”

  “Then Giron,” Damerel continued. “Brawls between spacers and the army are still down since that — at least those not entirely for entertainment — and any spacer who can make the claim he was anywhere near the place doesn’t pay for a drink if there’s a regimental in the pub.”

  Rotherham opened his mouth to object again, then seemed to wilt in his seat.

  “Now this,” Damerel said. “She literally led a full third of Chipley’s fleet out of bloody bondage. Like some sort of Pied Piper.”

  “I believe you mean Moses,” Larcbost said.

  “Do I?” Damerel frowned.

  “And don’t forget the common citizens,” Cunningham said. “The pulpits are full of stories of redemption for those pirates, nevermind they’ll
likely all return to it. Pubs full of stories of the coin. Morale higher even than after Giron for this is viewed as sticking it to the Hannies and pirates both, somehow.”

  Larcbost nodded. “Regardless, those spacers will get new berths, and you know the tale’s so good they’ll drink on it for the next year or more.” She eyed Annalise warily, then added. “There’s a bloody song, after all.” She chuckled. “We’ll be lucky if there aren’t pictures of the girl with bloody candles and incense aboard half our ships.”

  “Like as not find the same aboard captured pirates now,” Damerel added his own chuckle. “Saint Carew, Patroness of Pardoned Pirates and Scourge of the Unrepentant.”

  Annalise sniffed, face impassive, and their lordships sobered with a great deal of throat clearing.

  “I’m partial to Narfolk’s suggestion,” Larcbost said after a moment of silence.

  Cunningham nodded, with a glance at Annalise. “Yes, a stint as junior lieutenant on a large ship, some boring patrol. She’s had far too much time in command and needs seasoning in a proper post.”

  “It would teach her a bit of respect for authority and procedures,” Narfolk said.

  Falkirk cleared his throat. “There is the matter of who’ll have her.”

  Several faces fell and Annalise raised an eyebrow.

  “What do you mean?” Kinaellen asked.

  “Well,” Damerel put in for the now silent Falkirk, “one does have to admit she’s a certain reputation amongst the officers, as well as the men.”

  “First Captain Neals, now Captain Ellender –” Falkirk said, finding his voice again.

  “Him,” Larcbost said.

  “Yes, him,” Falkirk said. “A fine –”

  “Yes, yes,” Larcbost said, “I’m sure.”

  “Regardless, Damerel said, “there does seem to be … a disturbing pattern.”

  “That’s your concern, Falkirk,” Cunninghame said, then nodded again. “Does that suit, Your Majesty?”

  Annalise raised her eyebrows. “Suit? Oh, I am sorry, Lord Cunningham — I’m certainly not here to interfere in your decisions, only to observe and inform myself.”