Emeric awoke in a sweat. It was sudden, without cause. His eyes simply snapped open, staring at the darkness of his tent above him. He sat up. Looked left. Looked right. There was nothing to cause arm. Just the walls of his tent, his belongings arranged neatly on the ground. Outside, insects were buzzing, frogs croaking, the incessant hum of the Tulian wilderness unchanged.

  He put a hand to his chest. His heart was pounding wildly. He ran his hand through his hair, along his bare chest. He was soaked in sweat. It was not the perspiration of bor. It held the rancid scent of anxiety, as if he'd just been torn from a night-terror. But he remembered nothing of the sort.

  Emeric did not consider himself a superstitious man. But he didn't consider himself a fool, either. He swung his feet off his cot, preparing to get dressed despite the te hour.

  There was no warning. Just the eruption of mud from the center of his tent, followed immediately by the wailing screech of a banshee. Emeric threw himself away from the explosion by reflex, tangling himself in the tent's canvas as it colpsed around him.

  More sounds joined the first, equally hideous, but not nearly as high-pitched. Dull thumps began to rain in the soil around him. He scrambled forward, cwing at the canvas which now seemed to choke him, seeking his armor. There was no light, and he could not even navigate by touch. He tore at cloth as whistling howls raged in the sky above him, joined by human screams of pain and shock in ever greater numbers.

  His blind scramble eventually nded upon the chest which contained his equipment. He was still buried, his limbs tangled as bullets continued to strike the dirt in every direction. These sounded different to the shots he'd heard in earlier battles, their pitch shifted and warbling. Bizarrely, for reasons he did not understand, he heard their arrival before he heard the crack of the firearms which propelled them.

  Gasping for air, naked and sweating, curled in the fetal position behind the armor chest, he struggled blindly to undo the lock. A bullet struck the wood, causing him to jump, ruining the sequence that was required to loosen the enchantments. He swore profusely, beginning the sequence anew, only to feel a bullet strike the tent inches from his head, causing him to curl up once more.

  He pressed his back to the lockbox and his knees to his chest, not sure if the wood would protect him from the murderous hail, yet doing so because there was no other option. The intensity of the barrage was so great that standing was a certain death sentence, and the density of fire had him convinced the shooters must have been only dozens of yards away, yearning to strike him down the moment he presented himself as a target. It had been decades since Emeric had gone into battle without his armor, and even in those earliest years, he had never faced something which could have struck him down with such contemptible ease. An arrow could be survived, if one were fortunate to find a healer's aid in time, but not these bullets. He had seen them striking the common troops, seen the ragged fistfuls of flesh the lead had ripped from their bodies, and in that moment, his only thought was for ensuring he did not meet such a horrific fate himself.

  All at once, however, the leaden rain began to scken. Emeric was still blind, and the crack of the firearms continued unabated, but he could tell the shots were nding elsewhere. He forced himself up into a kneeling crouch, exposing himself slightly more, and finally, finally ripped open the lockbox.

  Emeric heard bugles in the night as he dragged his chestpte out, cursing wildly as he tried to dress himself. The canvas kept catching beneath his armor, preventing it from slipping onto his body, and with yet another string of profanity he dragged his belt knife from the chest, slicing the canvas of his tent to ribbons, so that he could finally be in the open air.

  The camp was in chaos. The stars were obscured by patches of drifting clouds, leaving all the world in bckness save that which the camp's torches illuminated. There, in the puddles of orange firelight, Emeric saw troops and nobility alike moving in a wild panic. Many had taken shelter behind the supply wagons, peasant and noble alike huddled atop one another, all in varying states of undress. Many couldn't tell where the shots were coming from, and so were sheltered on the wrong side of shelters, unknowingly exposing themselves to the projectiles which were striking them down with personal prejudice. He thought he caught sight of the distinctive white cloud of firearms drifting away from a distant treeline, but it was too dark to be sure.

  Emeric pulled his chestpte on, twisting awkwardly about himself to try and tie the leather straps. "Squire!" He called. "Rolda! My armor!"

  He expected nothing of the cry, of course, the boy far too smart to have done anything but find immediate shelter. Emeric's chest was still bare, and the cool of the steel against his skin was unnatural. He should have had several yers of padding beneath, but there was no time for it. The shots may return at any moment, and without his armor, his body was no more resilient than any other's.

  Deft fingers suddenly took the leather from his hands, startling Emeric. He turned around, shocked to see Rolda kneeling behind him, quickly buckling the straps into pce.

  "Here, Sir," the boy said, cinching the strap tight. "Will we be fully armoring you, or just the necessities?"

  "Thank the gods for you," Emeric breathed, the praise falling unbidden from his lips. "The essentials, boy, helmet, chestpte, and fauld. I need to lead the troops, get things in order."

  "Not sure you do, Sir," the boy replied.

  "What?"

  "Look," he said, pointing towards the north.

  To Emeric's utter disbelief, deep amongst the chaotic camp was an isnd of stability. Somehow, impossibly, there were lines of neatly-pressed soldiers, spears on their shoulders, helmets atop their heads. They were marching towards the treeline already, shoving the rest of the panicked army out of their way.

  "How..." Emeric began, trailing off. He knew how.

  Rolda answered him anyway. "Commander Graf, Sir. Rallied the troops as soon as the first shot sounded. Heard him shouting from all the way over here, I did. Worried his old lungs would give out with the way he was hollering, frankly."

  "Do not speak such of your betters, Rolda," Emeric chastised reflexively. He shook himself, tearing his eyes away from the sight. How many troops had the man marshaled in a handful of minutes? Two thousand? Three? No wonder the fire upon the center of the camp had sckened; the Champion's troops were being forced to engage a proper enemy far sooner than they no doubt wished.

  Emeric stood as Rolda continued applying his armor, shouting orders for his Knights to rally. Even as he did so, however, he began to wonder if it would achieve anything of relevance. Commander Graf's forces were marching at the double towards the treeline, now with mage shields protecting the front of their formation. The line of troops began to widen, fnks jogging ahead of the center, seeking to encircle the enemy position amongst the trees. Emeric understood the tactic at once. The enemy would no doubt flee, this clearly intended to be a raid of nuisance rather than consequence, and Commander Graf wished to ensure they must retreat into the deadly jungle, rather than running alongside it.

  Commander Graf's charge was not without casualty, the firearms striking down multitudes, but the casualties were more than acceptable. Without the great bronze weapons firing away, the losses were piecemeal, distributed amongst the troops, no threat to unit cohesion.

  "I've changed my mind, Rolda," Emeric said. "Equip me properly. I must look presentable."

  "Yessir," the boy said, moving to take his greaves from the lockbox. Emeric could practically feel the child's curiosity radiating off him. As a reward for his bravery in answering Emeric's call, he began to expin.

  "The battle is already won. Commander Graf has the situation under control. I will still bear my armor, but only so that I may congratute him with decorum, as well as be prepared for any pursuit the King may order from the cavalry."

  "Understood, Sir," Rolda said. "Should we take the chestpte back off then, get your gambeson on?"

  "Yes, I think so."

  As the Knights slowly began to gather on Emeric's position, he watched the battle conclude. The clouds shifted further, letting starlight fall down on the enemy position. Even from so far away, he could recognize the Champion. She was at the center of the powder cloud, the source of a very different vapor filling the air. One red and turbulent, boiling like a thunderhead. The smoke leaked from the gaps of her armor, shooting out in jets as she fired and loaded her weapon. She was ying prone, occasionally firing some monstrous thing that dwarfed the firearms of her troops. The firearm's answer to an Irregur longbow, he suspected. Wherever it struck there erupted a volcano of dirt and shrapnel, and Emeric could only assume that this was what had struck his tent. He wondered if his tent had been targeted in particur, or if she had simply been indiscriminately aiming for the nobility's section of the camp.

  Eventually, just as Commander Graf no doubt pnned, the Tulian Army was forced to melt back into the trees, lest they make contact with a far-greater force of spears. The mercenary called a halt to the advance with a sharp series of bugler's calls, the troops obediently pulling up short. He did not think they would have done that a few weeks ago. The peasants were not brave by nature, but in turn, they were difficult to hold back when they sensed proverbial blood in the water. Archers were sent ahead of the spears in loose formation, arrows resting against their strings, watching the trees for any hint of the enemy's return.

  To Emeric's relief, there was no sign of the battle's continuation. He briefly considered keeping his assembled Knights in camp, to organize the recovery efforts, but discarded the thought. A great many individuals throughout the nobility's section of the camp were ying on the ground, moaning in delirious pain, but the healers were already sweeping through the space, searching for those of rank to aid. His Knights would better serve the King by seeking out Commander Graf for orders.

  The short jog to Commander Graf's position– well behind the troops he commanded, as the King had ordered– coincided with the King's own arrival. King Sporatos had also donned his armor, looking resplendent as always, his visor raised in a wide grin.

  "Graf!" The King cheerfully greeted. "I must commend you! Your response was excellent, perfectly –"

  Graf seized the King by the neck. The mercenary was still dressed in his bedclothes, the elderly man's papery skin rippling with cabled muscle as his fingers closed around the King's windpipe. The King's hands went to Graf's, trying to peel off his fingers, spittle flecking his lips as he audibly choked. Graf ignored his attempts, dragging him closer, until his nose nearly touched Graf's.

  "Did you send them?"

  The King continued to choke, battering at the mercenary with his fists. Each blow could have shattered stone, but they achieved nothing.

  Emeric was frozen. He should have drawn his sword, should have charged to protect his liege. But he couldn't get his muscles to obey. He could only watch helplessly. Betedly, he gestured for the Knights to encircle the scene, in hopes that he could at least hide the sight from the peasants.

  Graf's fingers loosened ever so slightly, allowing the King to suck in a ragged breath.

  "R-release me this instant!" The King gasped.

  "Did you send them?" Graf repeated.

  "Who? Who, damn you!"

  "Assassins," Graf hissed, his entire figure vibrating with fury. "The Champion sallied out in the night. Marched her troops to exhaustion. Attacked without effect. She did so for a reason, and it was not strategy." Graf's fingers clenched tighter, until the King's eyes began to bulge. "Did you send them?"

  The King's lips made shapes, but no sound came out. None of the Knights, Emeric included, could find it within themselves to attack the man holding their liege. There was no honor in suicide.

  "Release him, dear Graf," a buzzing voice said. Emeric tore his eyes away from the sight of mercenary and King interlocked. The mage-advisor, wooden mask expressionless, stepped into the circle of paralyzed Knights. "It was I that ordered the assassination."

  Graf's hand opened mechanically, dropping the King. The Sovereign of All Sporatos fell to his belly, lost in a violent coughing fit. The mercenary ignored the King, feet sliding along the grass as he squared his hips with the mage, eyes wide. His hand, oh-so-slowly, began moving towards the sword at his waist. Without any conscious thought, Emeric found himself shuffling backward.

  "You admit this?"

  "I do," the mage-advisor said, shrugging casually. The witch's affliction that they suffered still had their limbs trembling violently, as if they were in the midst of a terrible fever. "I felt your supposition that an assassination attempt would only bolster the enemy's resolve was inaccurate. Your fondness for the Champion's sve overrode your common sense."

  "It did." Graf stated the words pinly, devoid of all emotion. His eyes were empty as he stared at the mage. "The survival of Lady Evie was a condition for my participation in this war."

  "It was?" The mage hummed curiously, making a show of inspecting their shaky fingernails. "I was not made aware. A shame that such a miscommunication occurred."

  Graf's fingers wrapped around his sword's hilt.

  The mage quickly raised a hand. "There will not be any need for that," they said. "The sve survived, as did her partners. Grievously wounded, but alive."

  Graf's sword shook in its sheath. The rattle of metal seemed to Emeric to be the loudest thing he had ever heard. He could no longer breathe. The King wiped spittle from his lips as he looked up at Graf's hand. He saw the way Graf's knuckles had begun to whiten, tendons jumping from his skin, and promptly began to crawl away on hands and knees, still coughing violently. One of the Knights soon helped him to his feet, taking him under a shoulder.

  "Do you know what is saving your life right now?" Graf whispered.

  The mage-advisor tilted his head. "No. I do not."

  "Neither do I."

  As if it took all his strength to do so, Graf's hand released the hilt of his sword. Air rushed into Emeric's chest with such suddenness that he very nearly joined the King's coughing fit, while the tension that had locked his limbs in pce released so rapidly he stumbled dizzily forward, bracing himself on his knees.

  Silently, not sparing a single gnce backward, Graf walked away. The mage-advisor sighed tiredly, striding over to pce a glowing hand on the King. King Sporatos's coughing fit began to fade as the healing took effect, wiping away the deep bruises which encircled his neck.

  The mage, Emeric noted, had stopped trembling.

  --------------------------------------

  Ignite

  --------------------------------------

  Ignite's boots thumped dully on the Waverake's decking, little wooden sighs and soft creaks joining the chorus of groaning beams. The evening wind was gasping its st, the great sheets of cloth that stretched through the forest of timber that was the Waverake's rigging barely fluttering, propelling the world's greatest warship at the sedate pace of an elderly man's stroll. The barest of waves pped at her hull, little spshes that reminded him more of a ke's pcid water than any proper sea. Perhaps the only sign that she was not sailing across some continental pond were the dolphins occasionally circling her hull, spouts of water pyfully thrown upward as bored sailors tossed them whatever meager fish their lines had caught.

  Despite the rexing nature of the scene, Ignite still patrolled the deck, wearing a groove in the wood. It was soon to be the fourth night since the magecraft had first found them, and every night since, the surviving vessel had returned. It never snuck so close as it had the first time, the lookouts now spotting it a league or more out, but it hadn't been deterred. Three nights in a row had it nipped at the heels of their formation, diving in the moment a single ship strayed from its fellows, ducking away the moment the Waverake hove to bring her guns to bear. The ships of the Tulian Navy, originally conceived to be their massive fgship's escorts, now huddled beneath her guns each night, shivering like beaten dogs. So tense had each night been that the crews of the vessels had nearly become nocturnal, sleeping away the heat of the day belowdecks, staring wide-eyed into the bck all through the te hours.

  The problem which vexed Ignite, however, was more fundamental than a night of stress. He was a Marine, no true expert in fleet tactics, but he had spent too long upon the sea to not pick up some inklings of strategy here and there. What little knowledge he had of these things then bore to him a burning question:

  How was the magecraft tracking them?

  It disappeared each night after its assaults lit afire a vessel or two, and subsequently would never be seen, not even during the clearest of days. Despite its absence under the sunlight, its nightly appearance was invariable. The crew's rumor mill had already begun to churn out talk of possession, ghost-ships, and foul curses, all the hallmarks of a superstitious sailor. Nora had done her best to put down the cims, being quite the expert in curses herself, having practically wrapped herself in them, but the whispers persisted.

  Ignite himself was skeptical, as any good officer should be. He had known crews afflicted with curses, aged veterans of the Siren Culls. Those poor sailors had seen nothing so subtle as a particurly stubborn pursuit by an enemy vessel; they had been beset by poxes and boils, their skin afire with rash, mountainous lumps dripping putrid pus from every pore. Even now, so many years ter, their bodies were scarred and deformed from the ordeal. If the fleet had been cursed, it would have known it as an absolute certainty, not some idle chatter. Simirly, Ignite was confident that they were not facing off against a ghost ship. If such a thing even existed beyond ancient tales, he sincerely doubted they operated in pairs, much less a pair in which one so-called "ghost" was foolhardy enough to get physically run under by their prey. Demonic influence he supposed he could not technically rule out, but he doubted it severely. Fearsome though the Waverake was, she was not such a threat to Sporatos that the enemy would consider tendering their souls for aid. Not unless they were particurly foolish, which was always a possibility, he supposed.

  As the sun continued its zy descent towards the horizon, just beginning to bulge as its tip met the waves, a bell rung out across the Waverake. Perhaps Ignite had thought too highly of his calm, for the sound made him leap and turn about, hand on his sword. It took a moment for his pounding heart to accept that it was simply the bell which marked the change of shifts, followed as it was by a warbling whistle. He forcibly rexed himself, turning to resume his pacing. Seeing as the ship had necessarily been built of green wood, he wouldn't be surprised if he wore a track in it before the week was out.

  Shortly after the shuffle of shift changes began, a second, lighter bell rang, this one from up on the mainmast. It was a pure, clear note, carrying well over the waves, for it was meant to notify the close-in members of the fleet that the fgship would be changing her fgs. Ignite turned an eye to the signals running up the mast, not reading the recently-assembled Tulian fg code as easily as he could the Carrion standard. Carrion ships had fgs that corresponded to common nautical terms and common orders, the combination of which could create a surprisingly complex array of orders. With the additional hundreds of feet of rope avaible on the Waverake to dangle signal fgs from , Captain Nora had introduced an alphabetic code as well, so she could spell out anything which had no associated fg.

  The message read, in bits and pieces as each fg was hoisted:

  [All] [Captains] [come aboard] [fgship] o-f-f-i-c-e-r-s [take charge]

  As Ignite interpreted it, that was an order for the entirety of the fleet's captains to be rowed over on their ship's unches, leaving officers of their choice in charge of the vessels in their stead. There was no specific fg for the word 'officer,' he supposed, because there were already so many fgs for specific ranks. Unusual that Nora would go to such great lengths to specify that any officer could take command, rather than the traditional 1st Lieutenant, but then again, near everything the Admiral did was unusual.

  Including this, Ignite reflected, scanning the fgs of acknowledgement that were being hoisted across the fleet. Many were deyed in their reply, no doubt trying to determine why the Admiral would order such a thing when an attack was anticipated so shortly. Already the ships had formed two thin lines abreast, one before the other, preparing to provide mutual support against the inevitable magecraft assault. Eventually, after nearly two minutes of deliberating from the most recalcitrant of captains, all ships had acknowledged the order, lowering boats over the side with their captains aboard.

  Ignite took a deep breath, preparing for an evening of stress of a very different variety. "Marines! Assemble welcoming party! Dress uniforms!"

  His Marines joined the scramble of sailors, the hastiest among them all in the way they rushed belowdeck. Ignite had spent nearly all his waking hours familiarizing himself with the peculiar specifics of managing such an overrge Marine contingent and their strange weapons, but unsurprisingly, considering the x nature of Admiral Nora's command style, he hadn't spent a single minute at all studying ceremony. He regretted this now, as welcoming aboard several dozen captains would absolutely require a certain level of decorum, something even Captain Nora would expect as a matter of course. Now he was at an utter loss. He didn't even know if the Marines had a designated welcoming party, or for that matter, dress uniforms of any manner. He gave the order anyway, because he at least wagered it would prompt the poor Marines to run to their original sergeants in a state of confusion, and the sergeants would then more gracefully and knowledgeably broach the subject with Ignite.

  However, Ignite was shocked to see a dozen Marines return a few minutes ter, cd in sharp bck cloth, the yellow-painted threads of rank embzoned across their breast or shoulders. They had fine buttons of cquered wood pinning their coats closed, the shoulders of the uniform pressed crisply into near right-angles, tailored to fit even the orcs among their number, including a tight white undershirt that was smoothed ft against their chests. They walked stiffly, uncomfortably, trying their utmost not to crease the stifling cloth that was already beginning to stain with perspiration, but it was inarguably a formal uniform. Though he'd given the order to have them brought out, the fact that Admiral Nora had somehow found the time to bother with such a thing was perhaps more shocking than any other aspect of her mad leadership Ignite had yet seen.

  "Sir!" Sergeant Madz saluted sharply as he came to a halt. "Welcome party is ready for duty, sir!"

  Ignite saluted back, allowing a small smile to crease his lips. "Promptly done, Sergeant, for which you are commended. Assemble the men on the quarterdeck, and have boarding ropes lowered on the port side." Ignite paused, looking at the sabers dangling off the waist of each Marine. They were cheap, tinny things, their golden handles nothing more than painted iron. "And Sergeant Madz, if time allows, have the Marines repce their sabers with muskets. I will task someone to bring them to the troops. Hold the weapons at parade rest, if you would."

  Sergeant Madz saluted again, taking the Marines to their tasks. As he'd promised, Ignite quickly found a handful of unoccupied sailors, who while not technically under his authority had nothing better to do, and ordered them to collect bundles of muskets to bring over to the assembled Marines. Soon the insulting faux-sabers were returned to the armory below, where Ignite dearly hoped they would never see the light of day again. In their pce the Marines held finely polished muskets, the barrels resting against their shoulders, butts of the weapon sitting firmly in their palms. With the gleaming spike of iron protruding from beneath their barrel to catch the st of the setting sun's light, it was quite the sight.

  Ignite joined his Marines as they filed into neat rows on either side of the dder, standing with backs as straight as the mast, staring sightlessly ahead as each captain was brought aboard. The Admiral said nothing of the Marine's dispy as she stood and greeted each captain when they came aboard, something Ignite took as the highest of praise. If she had been displeased with the Marine's presentation, she would have corrected the error, whereas if she had been surprised that Ignite had the wherewithal to assemble the welcoming party, she would have made a note to praise him and his troops. Silence therefore implied that the welcoming party was not just fwless, it was a fwlessness she had expected as a matter of course. Ignite had learned long ago that when his excellence was no longer worthy of note, it meant his superiors trusted him explicitly.

  It took nearly a half hour for all the captains to be piped aboard, each one greeted with the same enamoring enthusiasm from the Admiral before being directed to the stateroom. When all was said and done, his Marines had soaked their uniforms through, then began to sweat less profusely, the sun's absence providing a welcome relief even without the breeze that normally would have cooled them. As the st Captain had been ushered into the stateroom, Ignite had given the order for the Marines to stand down, a proud smile beaming on his face. He told them of his pride frankly, congratuting them on their decorum. He told them that to stand strong in battle was the most important aspect of a Marine's duty, but among the least common. If a Marine was fortunate enough to sail through a peaceful career, the peak of their achievements would be found in moments like these, when they made an impression upon countless individuals of great import.

  Unfortunately, almost as if fate itself was frowning on Ignite's briefly rekindled pride, a young midshipman ran up to Ignite, hat in his hands.

  "Your presence is requested in the stateroom, sir," the boy said, speaking as if cowed by Ignite's mere presence. "Quite immediately, as I understood it."

  Ignite shared a look of remorse with his Marines, who had no envy for his sudden summoning to a formal officer's function.

  "Well, then, get on with your regur duties," he said, "and put away your uniforms. If the gods are kind, I will be out shortly."

  "Good luck, sir," Sergeant Madz said, saluting. Ignite returned the salute, then began his walk over to the stateroom.

  He slipped inside as silently as he could, finding himself at the back of a small crowd. Several dozen captains milled about a stateroom which suddenly seemed not nearly as rge as it once had, the fine chairs and long tables having been pushed to the room's corners to clear space. Only a small round table sat in the center of the room, on which the Admiral leaned, speaking in simple terms to the assembled captains.

  "So nay, there won't be an attack tonight," the Admiral was saying. "The wind is too low for even a magecraft to gain proper speed, and she won't risk being stranded in our sights. She's got a fine captain, that magecraft, and they'll have realized as well as I that any time spent under our guns past the first volley'll be the end for them. Gunner Balon'd make sure of it."

  "Aye, ma'am," the man replied from somewhere within the crowd. That was Ignite's first hint that other non-captains were in on the meeting, a small relief.

  "As for what we'll do next, I'm putting it to discussion," Nora continued. Ignite circled around the room's edge, trying to position himself so he could see the woman clearly. "I suspect they've got some Azarketi under their thumb, trailing the fleet, reportin' our position. Assuming that's the case, we won't ever catch the enemy off their guard. Were we closer to home waters, we might find coastal Azarketi willing to fight for Tulian, but I doubt it. Haven't a clue how they persuaded this group to follow us, as a matter of fact."

  Ignite hadn't considered the possibility of Sporaton forces tailing them underwater, but now that the idea had been presented, he quickly became convinced of it. The nomadic Azarketi were near impossible to finagle any sting agreement out of, much less true loyalty, seeing as most spent their lives drifting thousands of miles with the seasons, so he hadn't imagined the Sporatons would have risked relied upon them. He struggled to think of what the oceanfolk would have accepted in payment for such a constraining duty. When food swam by them at all hours of the day and there existed no factions which could threaten them, they had very little desire for material goods. He had known magecraft captains which used enchanted hunting spears as bribes for services cleaning the ship's hull, but even that was a tepid arrangement, likely to end up half-completed, interest in the payment lost when a particurly fat fish swam by.

  "With stealth and surprise tossed to the wind, we won't ever force the Sporatons into an engagement," Nora continued. "They can nibble us down bit by bit for as long as they please, seeing as the war on the ground has stalled."

  "Stalled?" Ignite found himself asking, forgetting his infinitesimally minuscule rank among those present. Several more heads bobbed curiously in the crowd, thankfully, saving him from embarrassment.

  Admiral Nora only shrugged. "Haven't the care for any details, beyond that the fighting's on hold. Army got to the city, holin' up for the Sporatons to come bustin' down the door, then nothing. Fighting's stopped. Seeing as that's going on, I think their Navy's content to circle like sharks, waiting for us to bleed out."

  "So the question is," one of the captains said, by far the eldest of those present, "how we force the Sporatons into a fight."

  "And not just a fight," Nora said, "but a fight we can win. We've more liberty to maneuver than before, seeing as they won't assault the capital without a friendly army at the gates, but that's little hope when they know each time we tack and jibe."

  "Why send only one?" A voice in the crowd asked. "If they know where we are, they could sail around us, get the wind up their arse, and run through the fleet like a knife. Hardly anything we could do about it."

  "You're right," Nora said, "but far as I can tell, they won't do it for a simple reason: they're afraid."

  Several scoffs sounded throughout the room. A force of sixteen magecraft, escorted by dozens of mundane ships, afraid of the paltry Tulian fleet? One ship had been savaging them for days now. Should the full Sporaton fleet be brought to bear, they would burn like the driest of kindling.

  "You're all still thinking of this war too properly," Nora said, scanning the eyes of the crowd. "You're too invested, care too much about winning it. Least if you're tryna get in the heads of Admiral Scheer." She tapped the small table before her, prompting Ignite to sidle around the room's perimeter yet again, until he could see the miniature ship models arranged in neat rows. "You fight for your survival, captains. For the fate of a nation. Sporatos? They fight for nothing more than a King's orders. Some of them may be loyal sorts, fightin' for the King 'cause that's what they're there to do. But I doubt the bulk of them have a passion for licking bootheel that equals your lot's desire to keep your neck perched on your shoulders."

  Admiral Nora pushed a selection of the models forward, those representing magecraft. "These ships? They're Sporatos' little nest egg. Took 'em years to build, gods know how much coin to maintain. They need 'em to fend off pirates, to protect their trade, and most important of all, to get the Carrions at least ughing at 'em behind their backs, rather than right in their faces. We took one from them already. That's a year or more 'till they have it back, if the King ever opens his purse to fund it." She pushed one model off the table, where it cttered to the floor. "We take out another, and that puts 'em back another year, or likely more, since the King won't be eager to sprinkle coin on a failure of an Admiral." She pushed a second model off the table. "We send a third down below, and things get complicated. They can't patrol their whole coast in force with just fourteen magecraft. Slots'll start opening up for pirates." She pushed a third model off the table, this time with a zy flick of her finger, grinning lopsidedly. "Another? Their fourth magecraft lost to a bunch of peasant upstarts? Well, ds, it'll mean a lot to the King, but at that point I stop caring so much about what he's thinking. See, that'd put us all in the history books. A peasant rabble knockin' off that many magecraft? That'd be a new one. Never happened before, matter o'fact, or if it did, no record survives."

  "That's why they're afraid," Nora said, standing, chest swelling. "Even if they wipe us off the seas, with four magecraft down, every Sporaton officer might as well hang up their hats. King never bothered with the coast much anyway, always lookin' to bite out more nd, and after that? Four magecraft sent to the briny depths by peasant hands? He damn well might–"

  The Admiral's speech, which had seemed to be building to some grand crescendo, cut off with an abruptness that was terribly awkward. She cocked her head, listening to something. Then she ignored them all as she shoved a fist into one of her coat pockets. She pulled out her communication crystal, something Ignite had seen her use on only a handful of occasions, and dropped it onto the table with the same manner of a woman spying out a winning hand of cards.

  "Could ye repeat that?" She asked.

  "Yes, Admiral," the voice on the other end said. "The Governess has lifted all restrictions on Sporaton raids."

  The air in the stateroom, already stuffy from so many pressed bodies, fell dead.

  "All restrictions? Were those her exact words?" Nora asked, words dripping venomous honey.

  "Er, no ma'am, but–"

  "I'd like to hear her exact orders, if you would, ss. Word-for-word."

  There was a shuffle of paper, then a sigh.

  "Quoting the Governess speaking to Provisional Finance Minister Vesta at the recent emergency strategy meeting..." Another prolonged sigh. "'I don't give a shit, I'm letting Nora go hog-fucking-wild, and I don't care how many goddamn throats she cuts while she's at it. I want them dead, I want them all fucking dead, and I hope it hurts the whole goddamn time they're dying.'" The papers rustled again, presumably set aside. "Provisional Finance Minister Vesta then requested that I rey that information to you, Admiral, in more diplomatic terms."

  "Thank you," Nora said, swiping the crystal back into her pocket. She turned a toothy grin to the assembled captains, cheeks twitching as if her muscles were straining to take the smile farther than her skin could stretch. "Well, then. Who here knows the Sporaton coast?"

  The crowd of captains fled from their close press at the center of the room, moving instead to the many maps which decorated the stateroom's walls in the spaces between bookshelves. Tacks were torn out with haste, the central table dragged with an awful screech so that they would have somewhere rge enough to y out the charts. Fierce arguments began thereafter, quickly growing so loud that there was no doubt the entire fgship was privy to the debate. In all this chaos, Ignite sidled up to the Admiral, who was watching the dispy form afar with no small amusement.

  "May I ask when you received that order for the first time, Admiral?" Ignite quietly requested.

  She tried to hide her grin, knowing she'd been found out, and leaned over to whisper in his ear. "This morning, o'course. Why do ye ask?"

  Ignite sighed, stepping away without comment. Admiral Nora was a terrifying enough entity on her own. He dearly wished she had not become so enamored with the Champion's dramatics.

  --------------------------------------

  Evie

  --------------------------------------

  Evie woke before her eyes opened. They felt thick and leaden on her face, as if weights had been tied to her eyeshes. Her thoughts were muggy and distorted, moving fretfully from point to point, and it took her some time to work up the strength to crack open her eyelids.

  She was in a wooden room of little decoration. There were no windows and very little to see by, the only light flickering out from a nearly-spent candle on a bedside table. She looked down, and found her first thought was wrong. There was quite a lot of decoration. It was all in the bed she y on, a mattress which was stuffed to overflowing with feathers, comforters simirly composed, the thick bnkets folded above her knees so she would not be overheated. The rest of her body was covered by airy silk sheets which were tucked up to her neck.

  She tried to sit up, rustling beneath the sheets, and this prompted the room's other occupant to stir, drawing Evie's attention for the first time. She flicked her attention to the woman, taking in her details in an instant.

  Evie's initial impression was that she had been captured by Sporatos. The woman which sat in a simple wicker chair was of a matronly build, her plump figure puffing out the proper daisy-yellow dress which covered her from neck to ankle. It had all the makings of the dresses Evie's nursemaids had worn, and the comparison had her hand flexing, readying to summon her rapier.

  "Lay back down," the woman snapped, hardly gncing up from the book she had been reading.

  Evie's hand froze. That woman was not Sporaton. No Sporaton-trained nursemaid would speak to a former member of nobility that way, sve or not.

  "No," Evie said instead, abandoning the summoning of her rapier to instead shove herself upward. Pain fred across her body, which she ignored.

  "I said, y down," the woman repeated. She made no gesture, but a steamy glow rose from her hands.

  Evie's muscles seized, then slumped. The strength ebbed from her slowly, involuntarily, so that she was lowering herself back into the bed.

  "Dian," Evie rasped. Her throat was incredibly dry.

  "You know me?" Dian's eyebrow raised. "We have not met before."

  "I am aware of everyone my Master earned the ire of," Evie said. "You were a healer with the early army, until a conflict with Master over the priorities of wound treatment post-battle had her reassign you to civil duty in the capital." Evie recalled her dossier on the woman easily. "Since then, you have headed and operated one of the city's rgest clinics by volume of wounded intake, yet one of its smallest by ratio of healer-to-patient. Your reputation amongst the popuce is middling, as you've continued your philosophy of treating patients by order of arrival, rather than severity of injury."

  Dian blinked at her. "You aren't one for respecting privacy, are you, dear?"

  Evie did not dignify that with a response. She began to stretch out her muscles, twisting her limbs beneath the sheets, testing the extent of her weakness. It was no surprise that she shortly found her abdominal muscles were near impotent, such that all her strength would be required to sit upward without the aid of her arms.

  "I see what you're doing, and it won't work," Dian said. She finally shut her book, scooting her wicker chair around to face Evie from the end of the bed. "I've been instructed to inform you that if you remain uncooperative in your recovery regimen, the Champion is willing to order you to behave."

  Evie briefly stilled. "She's bluffing," she decred.

  "That was not my impression, but perhaps you know her better than I."

  Evie frowned. She wasn't sure if Master would actually follow through on the threat. It would be the first time Sara had given her an order that Evie did not explicitly desire, which would break months of precedent. However, Evie had never been so injured before, nor the stakes so high. She couldn't be sure.

  "How did she convince you to personally tend to me?" Evie asked, putting off the decision of whether or not to force her way past Dian. "Of all the healers in the city, you are the least likely to agree to devote all your time to a single woman."

  "Simply enough," Dian replied, contempt entering her voice. "She threatened to give me more patients than I would ever be able to aid if I did not. And on this count, I was certain it was no bluff."

  Evie's frown deepened. That was a threat wholly uncharacteristic of Master.

  "I see. And as Master was not present waiting for me to awake, I assume she isn't in the city?"

  "I haven't the faintest clue," Dian replied. She nodded to the door, which was firmly closed. "I was locked in here shortly after you arrived, to ensure my compliance. We have subsequently been delivered our food through that fp at the bottom, like dogs."

  "Meals? How long as it been?"

  "Four days have I watched over you. This is the first time you have regained consciousness since the failed assassination attempt."

  "Hurlish," Evie suddenly gasped, the word failed that preceded assassination filling her with a rush of relief and trepidation. "She was uninjured? I know Master survived, of course she did, but Hurlish?"

  "Not a scratch, dear," Dian replied, fondness entering her voice for the first time. "I am sure she will be eager to see you, once she knows you are awake."

  "Have you notified her of such?"

  "No." Dian looked around the empty room. "I assume someone is on the way to do such, however. I'm not naive enough to think I've been allowed an iota of privacy since being entombed with you."

  "The assassins, then," Evie said, addressing the hidden listeners behind the walls. "If any survived, bring them to me immediately."

  "Two were captured alive," Dian said, "and I was instructed to inform you that the Champion has already conducted a thorough interrogation."

  "I would still interview them myself. There will be questions Master may not have asked."

  Dian's lips pursed. "They did not survive the interrogation."

  "Oh."

  Evie gently leaned back, allowing the pillows to support her head. Dully, nervously, she put a hand to her colr, focusing on the emotions which passed through it. She was still disoriented, weak, and it took more time than usual to reach through the bond. As she drew closer to Master's emotions, however, they began to writhe, bubbling up through the abyss which separated them. Evie's colr began to feel hot to the touch, and she felt her heart begin to beat in sympathy, a cool sweat breaking out across her skin.

  Rage.

  Evie gasped, snatching her hand away from her colr. Her fingers shook as if they had been burned. She cwed at the sheets, throwing them off her.

  "What are you doing?" Dian demanded.

  "I need to leave."

  "You most certainly do not."

  "I don't care what you have to say anymore," Evie snapped, rolling onto her side with a grunt. The pain of it brought tears to her eyes, but she kept moving. "I need to get back to her."

  "She has given explicit orders to the contrary."

  "I don't care."

  Dian's hands began to glow. "Lay back down this instant. Do you know what she would do to me if you injured yourself further?"

  "I care about that least of all." Evie reached the side of the bed, trying to swing her legs off. They refused to move, and so she resorted to grabbing her knees, tugging them around like lumps of wood.

  "Lay down," Dian's voice boomed. Evie felt acid soaking into her muscles, dragging at her limbs, but she resisted, swaying in pce, trying to move forward.

  "Halt."

  Evie's vision blurred, a great pressure colpsing in on her from every direction.

  "Sleep."

  Evie's upper lip curled in a fang-bearing snarl even as her eyelids began to flutter, drooping closed. Dian was standing now, holding out a hand above Evie. She summoned her rapier, which fshed into existence, only to slip from her fingers and ctter against the floor.

  "Rest."

  Evie, despite every fiber of her being fighting the notion, began to drift. In her st moments of consciousness, her eyes rolled upward, to stare deeply into the healer's.

  If I awake again, she must pray I'm in chains.