Life is properly a matter of balance, so Cully used to teach—in word, if not always in action. Balance is, I've thought, always much easier to find when things are quiet.
—Gray
Halloran tried to look on the bright side of things: he didn't miss Surrey, at least not at the moment. He did miss the Governor's palace in Pironesia and his chair by the fire, and even his desk piled high with papers, a pile that was surely growing by the minute—with Clarendon alternating between being too hesitant on routine matters and too aggressive on others, and would end up being more of a mess than if the man just left things alone.
But he missed sleep, mostly, and—strange though it was anywhere in Pironesia—he missed warmth.
The cabin was cold, and dank; he pulled his feet up into his nightshirt, buried himself more deeply in his comforter, and tried to go back to sleep.
He was irritated with himself for missing Pironesia, of all places. It was absurd.
Or maybe not totally absurd, at least not under the circumstances. The lieutenant—he preferred to be called captain, as most masters did, and Halloran avoided the issue by addressing him by name and rank—in command of the Conveyance had given his cabin over to Halloran with only the minimum of the good grace that protocol demanded, but exchanging the comfortable splendor of the governor's palace for a room that Halloran would have thought miserly for a kennel was hardly an improvement, and the constant rocking in the surf would have made sleep damnably near impossible anyway, without the constant ringing of bells and the stomping of feet on the deck over his head. He had the suspicion that MacKenzie didn't tolerate such comings and goings when he was trying to sleep, and was taking revenge for the governor's unwelcome presence in a petty way, but it was the sort of thing that one simply had to endure, as it would seem even more petty to take notice of it.
What were those damnable knights up to? Halloran knew his own limitations, which hardly included him being any sort of man of action, but he also knew his responsibilities, and the combination of the news and demands for information brought by the sailors from the Wellesley and the absence of the Order Knights appearing in person to brief him had drawn him out of the port, with barely a half-dozen secretaries and attendants.
Murder? Piracy? Swords?
It was enough to make a man turn to strong drink.
Not that it took much to turn the Navy to strong drink. Dinner at Lieutenant MacKenzie's table was far more drinking bout than dinner, and the sometimes-reliable Miconou reported that it was similar in the petty officers' quarters next to the captain's overly generously labeled stateroom—where Halloran's staff was billeted, more for Halloran's convenience than any other reason—although the usual fare there was more cheap New England rum from the ship's stores and much less properly casked French wine from the captain's private ones.
He was just drifting off to sleep again when there was a knock on the door.
"Yes?"
"Captain's compliments, and he prays you join him on the quarterdeck at your convenience," sounded through the door. Halloran couldn't tell which one of the middies it was, although he had made it a point to learn all of their names. Only one of the middies was a young nobleman—the Conveyance was hardly the sort of prestigious assignment that a noble would try to procure for his son—but today's midshipman might be tomorrow's admiral, after all.
"Thank you; I'll be there directly. Miconou? Miconou?" Where was he?
He sighed. As he should have expected, his valet was not waiting directly outside his door; Miconou would have announced the middie if he had been where he was supposed to be.
Well, it wasn't the first time that Halloran had dressed himself in recent years, and at least Miconou had laid out clean clothes on the lieutenant's desk before retiring, as well as leaving a fresh thundermug.
It was only a few minutes later that Halloran was climbing up the steps to the quarterdeck, ignoring the seamen scrambling out of his way.
"Good morning, Governor," MacKenzie said.
Halloran had had a look at his file, and it was in accord with what Halloran had subsequently observed: the thick-waisted MacKenzie was a Scotsman who had seemingly spent years to remove the last burrs of his Scots accent from his voice, ending up sounding like a poor imitation of an upper-class West Ender, under the clipped speech of the Navy that predominated. He was constantly grooming his short, unkempt Scottish beard; a Scottish heritage was of no particular benefit in the Navy, and it was vaguely surprising that MacKenzie had actually risen to a command, even a minor one, as he was from an Edinburgh merchant family—a second son, of course—with some minor wealth but no perceptible influence or noble connection.
Absent some unlikely heroic misadventure, MacKenzie's only hope for further advancement would have to come from influence and interest, and one would have thought that the man would have gone out of his way to ingratiate himself with Halloran, who had such influence and could generate at least some of the interest, but he was apparently too stupid to see the obvious advantage.
Miconou hurried up the stairs to join Halloran, his hair uncombed, tucking his shirt into his trousers. Halloran gave him a quick glare, but didn't say anything; a gentleman didn't upbraid a servant in front of others, after all. He would have words with Miconou later, in private. Short words, mostly of one syllable each.
"Good morning, Lieutenant MacKenzie," Halloran said. "Some news of note?"
The lieutenant nodded. "A cutter flying the Crown beached on the windward side of the island just after dawn," he said. "There appear to have been two Order Knights aboard. They're apparently asking some questions in the north-side village, and are busy hiring on a crew."
"They haven't had the courtesy to call upon me—upon you?"
"No. Curious that they'd pull in on the windward side of the island—it's much more rocky, and heavily shoaled." MacKenzie took a thoughtful pull on his rough-carved pipe. "I'd want a local sailing master if I was to try it under sail willingly, even with something as shallow-drafted as a cutter, particularly in any wind at all." He smiled around the well-bitten stem. "I'd suspect that they're trying to avoid the Conveyance, were I the suspicious sort."
If they were trying to avoid the Conveyance, which Halloran doubted, they could do that much more easily and securely by bypassing the Abdullahs' islands entirely.
Still . . .
"I have a longboat ready to be lowered; I can send for them, if you'd like," MacKenzie said.
Sending for a pair of Order Knights as though they were servants had an evil appeal to Halloran, but it was impolitic, and he rejected it out of hand. "No, I'll go to them." He turned to Miconou. "I should wear something a touch less informal, I expect."
"Yes, sir; I'll lay out your brown morning-coat directly. Messieurs Bowman and Langahan to attend you? And myself?"
"Yes; I think so." Halloran nodded.
"Yes, sir." Miconou scurried off.
MacKenzie nodded. "I thought you might say that, Governor. I've asked Mr. Henderson to have two natives waiting on the shore as guides. Henderson, two of the middies, and four of the marines will accompany you, if that's acceptable."
"You're not suggesting I might need military protection. Here? With the Conveyance lying offshore, and a half dozen frigates in these waters?"
"Begging the governor's pardon, but we've had three very suspicious murders in these islands—"
"I know. That's why we're here." And why Halloran had recalled more than a dozen beached Navy officers, all of them with intelligence portfolios, or at least Crown Intelligence cyphers. He resented having to pay them out of his gubernatorial purse, but that couldn't be helped. Murder of a local was, of course, presumptively a local affair, and piracy more than presumptively a naval one, but Halloran had no intention of having this fall through the cracks simply because there had been no reports of pirates in Pironesian water, particularly with these Order knights nosing about. He had no conviction that he would discover anything of interest, but he wanted to be able to report that he had looked into it personally. This wasn't the usual thing of one drunken peasant knifing another, and, equally important, it wouldn't sound to the Administration as though it was.
"Yes, Governor—and until that's disposed of, I think it best that your personal safety be seen to."
"Mr. MacKenzie—"
"I'm afraid that I really must insist, Governor."
It was a delicate point of law. The master of a ship was, in law, the master of all aboard the ship; the deference shown to Halloran was from political necessity and tradition, not a legal requirement.
Then again, once Halloran set a booted toe on dry land—particularly dry land that was part of His Majesty's Possession of Pironesia—he was no longer under MacKenzie's authority at all.
But governing was not, Halloran had long ago decided, merely an application of law and regulation; and while one's authority would rust from disuse, Halloran hadn't let his own lapse and found no need to use it now, despite the definite temptation.
Still, even though Pironesia was hardly the Kush, where a sensible man wouldn't venture out into the countryside without a company of cavalry in attendance, you never really knew what locals would do, and it was unwise to trust them any more than necessary.
Besides, in his experience local headmen were always more cooperative when they had to keep glancing over Halloran's shoulder at a few marines. Marines did have their uses, after all.
"Very well, Mr. MacKenzie, although I doubt we'll have any difficulty finding these knights, and while I'll confess I'm perhaps a touch less fond of the Order of the Crown, Shield, and Dragon than I ought to be, I can't imagine that I'd be in any danger from two knights."
MacKenzie started to say something, then stopped himself.
"No, I know you weren't suggesting that, Mr. MacKenzie." Halloran smiled. Delicacy in political judgment was not restricted to members of the civilian administration, either, of course.
MacKenzie turned to the middie waiting patiently at the foot of the ladder. "Mr. Midshipman Turnbull—my compliments to Mr. Henderson, and please inform him that the Governor will be ready to go ashore—" he raised an eyebrow in a question; Halloran nodded—"as soon as the launch can be readied."
"Aye, aye, sir."
Niko had resolved to obey Cully's instructions to look knightly, and to keep his mouth shut as much as possible.
The second was easier; at least, he knew how to do that. He wasn't sure what it meant to look knightly—other than seeming to alternate between being self-confident and self-questioning, to judge by Cully, Gray, and Bear.
It seemed to at least have something to do with sitting up straight, and Niko knew how to do that, too.
Drinking coffee was another matter. He knew he was supposed to be honored to be offered a heavy mug of the thick, disgusting stuff, and doubly so that Samir insisted on serving him, as he had Cully, with his own hands, but he'd much rather have been honored with a simple mug of fresh water to wash the taste from his mouth.
Niko sipped slowly at the warm brew, hoping that he could manage to drink enough for courtesy's sake without actually emptying the mug and being offered more before Cully had finished his business with Samir Abdullah. It tasted awful, and it was all he could do not to make a face with every sip.
"What we require," Cully said, "is information, four or five good sailors familiar with small craft who don't mind being paid in Crown copper, and provisions. That's for tomorrow; for today, all we need is some cleared space, and privacy."
"My home is yours, of course," Samir said, his expansive wave indicating that he meant the whole island, and not just his admittedly impressive house.
"It would be better if there's nobody else around—safer, as well. Sir Niko says that that small island just to the north and west is yours, but unoccupied?"
"Yes," Samir Abdullah said. "Of course; consider it yours, please."
"Thank you." Cully sat back in his chair, idly adjusting his robes around him. He seemed comfortable as he sat back in the huge chair, sipping at his coffee as though he did it every day.
The Abdullahs were far wealthier than most in the islands, and the home of the patriarch of the clan, built of stone, was no ordinary house—not only had it been floored and walled in some dark wood, and polished to a high gloss, but the the shutters had been opened to reveal actual glass windows, so pure and clear that they had barely a bubble. Niko didn't like to think how much those had cost. He had heard that they made such glass in far-off countries, although he didn't know where.
The room was floored in contrasting panels of highly polished dark wood that Niko thought might even be real Injan teak, and all of the furniture stood on woven carpets whose provenance Niko couldn't begin to guess at.
It wasn't just the wood and the glass. The stones that made up the outer walls of the house hadn't been merely mudded to keep the wind out, but mortared, and the sharply slanted roof was covered in slate rather than thatch, as though the Abdullahs were bragging that neither wind nor rain would ever enter without permission.
The room reeked of wealth in other ways. A sideboard held a silver tray covered with plates of food, and the walls were covered with shelves holding riches, prominently among them crucifixes, as though to reassure visitors that the Abdullah clan had not gone back to its Musselman ways. It was a strange notion—an entire room dedicated to the receiving of visitors!—but Niko had heard Milos Abdullah bragging, more than once, that as much business was done in the visiting-room of his grandfather's home as was done in many counting houses in major port cities, and judging from the look if it, perhaps that wasn't just Milos's boastfulness.
They were alone, at least in theory, although Niko was certain that there were still ears listening carefully beyond the beaded curtains, and not just because Samir Abdullah had only raised his voice ever so slightly when he had called for the refill of the elegantly inscribed silver samovar of coffee that sat on the sideboard next to the matching tray. Cully seemed to have an insatiable appetite for the horrible stuff.
But it was strangely quiet—the only sound that came through the open windows was the whispering of the breeze, and the distant, familiar crash of waves on stone.
Samir Abdullah reached out a withered hand and poured more coffee for Cully, then set the samovar back down and folded his hands in his lap.
The last time Niko had seen him, Samir had been down at the pier in an ordinary kirtle, his skin darkened from the sun just as much as anybody else's as he stood supervising the transfer of fish from the smokehouses to the waiting ship, watching everything and saying little, leaving the bellowing of orders to his sons.
Now, he sat back in his chair, brushing down the front of his fine, white-linen robes. His white hair and beard had been freshly combed, and were vaguely damp, as though at some signal he had bathed and changed while Cully and Niko were being conducted across the island to where his house overlooked the sea, as, of course, was entirely possible.
Samir Abdullah nodded. "What I have is yours, of course, Sir Cully," he said, carefully looking at Cully, and not at Niko. "Defkonos is what the island is called, as Niko has told you, I'm certain—"
"Sir Niko," Cully said.
"My apologies, Sir Cully—and Sir Niko." Old Samir didn't seem terribly apologetic, but he ducked his head nonetheless, for just a moment. "Sir Niko it is. As to Defkonos, nobody has lived there for a generation, not since we bought the Marienios; you'll have all the privacy you need for your rituals, whatever they might be. As to crew, I can certainly find sufficient numbers of my grandsons who would be pleased to sail your craft where and as you please, although none of them have much of any head for trade." He frowned. "My sons are not much better, alas—if it weren't for the enduring bounty of the sea, I'm sure we would starve, for their failure to be able to get a fair price for anything. I'd think that they think we weren't in business at all, if I wasn't here to constantly remind them otherwise."
Cully smiled. "I certainly don't mind negotiating their wages with you," he said. "I noticed a fine barkentine anchored off your pier. Would that be available for hire?"
"At your command, of course." Samir smiled. "The Marienios is rigged for fishing, of course, and it might be difficult—" a brief flash of yellow teeth indicated that he meant expensive "—to reconfigure it to suit your needs. Perhaps I could be more helpful if I knew what your needs are?"
"I'm not entirely sure at the moment what my needs are, except that they're likely to involve travel," Cully said. "Certain to, in fact. As to where, that's something that Niko and I are going to go to—Defkonos, you said?—Defkonos to try to discover."
"Ah." Samir barely raised an eyebrow, as though asking for an explanation. His smile froze itself in place when none was forthcoming. "You will stay for the noon meal, of course—my daughters rarely have guests from outside of the islands, and we do pride ourselves on our hospitality, although rarely do we have an opportunity to display it, and I can't ever recall having the opportunity to display it for such honored guests."
"I'm greatful for the offer, of course," Cully said, setting down his coffee mug and starting to rise. "But I think it's best we be on our way."
"Supper then? My ancestors would rise from their graves and throttle me if they thought I was discourteous to a pair of knights."
"I'm greatful for the invitation, but at the moment I can only say perhaps. Perhaps we'll know more by dark. Sir Niko? Let's be on our way."
Niko set his mug down and rose, cursing himself for his clumsiness when he almost dropped the sword on the floor.
He snatched at it, and the sword rattled in the ill-fitting sheath; he clapped his hand over the hilt, the metal cold against his palm, and—
Pain.
Fear.
Darkness, and fire, and a huge sweat-slickened face leaning over her, its thick mouth moving, making complex sounds just like the One Who Smelled Like Food did. She couldn't move, but it wasn't like when One Who Smelled Like Food had held her wrapped tightly to her chest; that was warm and comforting—this was frightening.
And her hands hurt. She had already wet and soiled herself on the cold stone but that wasn't out of fear, and she felt more wetness slither down her leg and this one didn't care about that, not like the One Who Smelled Like Food did. It didn't care.
Where was the One Who Smelled Like Food? Why had she abandoned her?
Cries mixed with her screams.
The face made more sounds, but not the cooing sounds that the One Who Smelled Like Food did—these were harsh and distant, somehow. It held something shiny and glistening in its huge misshapen hand, and—
Niko. A voice called to him from far away. Niko. Nikonikonikonikodammitnikowouldyouwakeupniko would you—
" . . . would you please wake up, Niko."
A face loomed over him, but it wasn't that huge, sweaty, greasy face; it was Cully, and Niko became aware that Cully's hand was shaking him with careful gentleness.
"Easy, boy," he said. Niko couldn't see to the side as Cully turned and spoke to somebody outside of Niko's line of vision. "Help me lift him him, and gently, gently."
Strong hands slipped beneath him and lifted him first to a sitting position, and then easily to his feet.
"No—don't set him on his feet. Back into the chair—and watch the sword."
The world went gray again as they placed him back in the chair, and when he could see or think again, somebody had tucked a blanket all around him, and tied a short length of rope around it. He struggled to get his hands free, and was only vaguely relieved that it was easy—
"Easy, boy." Cully was kneeling in front of him. "We've not tied you down." Deft fingers removed the loose knot, and Cully placed the palm of his hand against Niko's chest to steady him, and keep him from falling forward. "Don't try to move for a few moments—Samir? Do you have any of that arak handy?"
"Yes, of course, it's right here," Samir Abdullah said. Niko tried to turn his own head so that he could see the old man, but quickly found that it was too much effort.
He wasn't in pain anymore. The agony of the cut down his chest was gone—
Wait.
A cut down his chest? He could remember the bright, strangely curved knife, he could still almost feel the red agony as it sliced down his preposterously smooth chest toward his bulging belly—
But his chest wasn't smooth, and his stomach was fisherman-flat, not bulging.
Or was it?
Panicky, clumsy hands scrabbled at the front of his tunic, yanking it up. He let his head loll forward and was only mildly surprised to see that it was his own nail-bitten fingers that were doing it.
And it was still his chest, with the thin mat of hair, and the flat belly below it. He found himself strangely seized of the urge to make sure that his manstick was still where it ought to be, and wasn't sure why.
"Easy, boy," Cully said, pulling his tunic down and easily pushing Niko's nerveless hands to one side. "Sit back. Relax. You're not hurt, at least not on the outside." He rubbed a finger against a spot above Niko's eyebrow. "You banged your head when you fell—just a mark, though; no swelling. How do you feel?"
It was too much effort to answer, and besides, when he tried to talk, the only thing that came out of his mouth was drool that ran down his face and into his scant beard.
He didn't know what he felt, other than tired. It was as though he was a visitor in his own inhospitable body, looking out through his own eyes as though they were impossibly clear glass. The scars along his left index finger from the times he had slipped while sharpening knives and hooks were the same pattern of ragged white lines that they had always been, but it was as though he was looking at them for the first time.
Distant fingers forced something between his mouth, and he drank the stinging cold liquid to avoid choking, then did choke and cough most of it out in a distant spasm that burned his throat and nostrils.
His tunnel of vision slowly expanded, revealing Samir Abdullah and an ugly, thickset woman he didn't recognize at all, even though he had known Yassramiryam Abdullah, Samir's wife, all his life, as she was as famous in the islands for the excellence of her smoked cuttlefish sausages as she was for the sharp tongue that kept her vast brood of grandchildren and great-grandchilden under tight control—
Wait.
He knew Yassramiryam, and not just her name. There was a huge mole to the right of her flattened nose—Samir, so legend had it, had had some trouble with her in their early years of marriage—that was almost a twin to a similar one on the left hand that was hidden in her formal robes.
Her lips parted in a gap-toothed smile that was strangely ingratiating, and when she reached out with the clay bottle to refill the thumb-sized bronze arak-cup that Cully held out, he could see the mole. He didn't understand why she deliberately touched her fingers to her lips, and then again to Cully's hand before recorking the bottle, but by the time that Cully brought the cup back to bring it to Niko's lips, enough strength and feeling had returned to Niko's that he was able to cup his hands around it himself.
"Bad, eh?" Cully more said than asked, then nodded in self-agreement.
A fourteen-year-old boy would have agreed vigorously if he'd been honest, but whining wasn't part of a fisherman's life, as Father and Grandfather used to say, and behaving properly around others had been more important to them than honesty. "I've been hurt worse," he said.
Cully grinned. "That's a knightly thing to say." He gave Niko an affectionate punch on his shoulder, then started to say something, but stopped himself. "If you can stand, we should be on our way." There was an undercurrent of urgency in his voice, something Niko understood.
"No doubt you'll wish to pay your respects to the Governor," Samir Abdullah said, nodding. "I'll have my grandson conduct you to—"
"The governor will have the opportunity to pay his respects to us when it's convenient—for us," Cully said, his face grim. He stared at old Samir for a long moment until the old man looked away.
"Of course, Excellency, of course. Your pardon for misspeaking; I simply wanted to ease your course. No offense was intended—"
"None taken," Cully said, the snap in his voice not particularly convincing. "Not personally, that is," he said, his voice softening, "but it's a matter of the Order and its prerogatives. I am a sworn Knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon, and I'm subject to His Majesty, and under the orders of the Abbot General and the Council—I'm not subject to any local authorities. I'm sure that Governor Halloran wouldn't disagree, and I wouldn't want you to think otherwise."
"No, no, of course not."
He gave a smile that Niko thought was entirely calculated. "I'll see the governor, but—as you've just seen—the matter of this particular sword is much more pressing, and Sir Niko and I had better attend to it directly."
"As you wish, of course, Excellency." Samir nodded. "My grandsons await you at the landing; they'll guide you over to Defkonos, and return here to await your signal, if that's acceptable. And then, perhaps, we can discuss what your needs are?"
And, of course, discuss what Cully would pay for them. Samir had recovered quickly from Cully's reproach, despite how much it seemed to have scared him.
"Of course. Let us be on our way, Sir Niko."
Getting to his feet was only a little more difficult than hauling a fully laden skiff ashore would have been, and for a moment Niko thought that his trembling knees would betray him, but they didn't, not quite.
Gripping the scabbard until his knuckles were white, Niko stuck the sword through his belt and preceded the old knight out into the harsh sunshine.
The Governor and his party met them on the steep trail that twisted up from the cluster of houses below toward where Samir Abdullah's modest home stood alone on the highest point of the island.
Cully cursed, but he kept his cursing to himself, and directed it at himself more than Halloran.
He probably should have simply sailed on past the islands when he had seen the sails and the pennants, but he had decided—probably foolishly—that the worst thing he could do would be seen to be running too soon, particularly since he didn't know where he ought to be running to.
The boy was a decent hand with sails and rigging—better than Cully, certainly—but their chance of escaping a crack Navy crew was nil. A Navy cutter could fly more than enough sail to capsize it in any kind of wind at all—cutters were built for speed, and with speed there were risks—and setting and adjusting the sails for maximum speed under constantly changing winds and sea was something for the constant attention of expert sailing hands, not a fisherboy and a shepherd, or even a couple of knights, real or faux. An Order Knight's training made him a master of a few crafts and a journeyman at others; novices were pressed into service on training voyages more to keep them busy and broaden their education than with any expectation that it would turn them into even ordinary seamen.
Cully's plan, such as it was, did call for the authorities to be alerted and set on his trail—but by Gray, and Gray would choose his words carefully, once the initial anger had faded, or probably before. Gray would be furious, of course, but he would see the danger, if not the solution, in much the same way that Cully had, and he would go along with Cully's solution when presented with no other choice, and Bear and the Nameless would act as a moderating influence on Gray's hot temper, and that of the Khan.
There was time to calm down. Gray would have sailed for Malta first, before chasing after Cully, and that added at least another few days in which to work.
The important thing, Cully had decided, at least in the short run, was to find out what the sword knew.
If it knew anything. He hoped it did. Jenn could have guided Cully to the village where she had died; Bear and the Nameless would have had no trouble in finding the spot where the Nameless's bo tree had stood; Cully had been in the very square where Emil Sandoval had been hanged. But the Goatboy didn't have the slightest idea where he had died of the black fever, and it was hardly the only live sword that couldn't remember.
Maybe this one could.
If, the word of the Wise to the contrary, it wouldn't simply burn the boy's soul the moment he took it in hand. The only time to trust the Wise was when you had no choice, and if—
If, if, if—you could put a thousand ifs in one hand, and a piece of reality in the other, and the ifs would always weigh less.
He had given serious thought to trying to find some unoccupied island between Pallenteria and the coast, but he didn't know those waters—he cursed himself for having enjoyed the hermitlike nature of tending his flock up in the hills, often spending weeks on end without hearing the grating sound of a human voice—and he hadn't thought it wise to spend the few hours that he could count on Bear and Gray remaining unconscious pouring over the Wellesley's captain's charts and references. It would have been just as bad to put in somewhere unknown to Niko or to him, somewhere that might well have a suspicious local factor in residence.
It was best to make a virtue of necessity once more, as it so often was: he quickened his step, putting his hand behind his back for a moment to make a patting motion to Niko to slow down. "Governor!" He forced a smile—not too much of one—and broke into an easy lope and ran down the path to meet them.
Halloran was accompanied by a surprisingly small party: a young but well-turned-out officer with sublieutenant's braid on his sleeve, a couple of middies, four marines, a couple of clerks, and a swarthy, local-looking man who Cully remembered from the mansion as being one of the governor's servants—Miconou, that was the name.
"Sir Cully," Halloran said, nodding. "I was informed of your arrival here."
"As I was of yours," he said. "We planned on visiting you as soon as we'd completed more pressing matters."
Cully had no objection to lying, except when the lie could easily be discovered, so he decided to stay with the truth, at least as much as possible.
"Hmmm . . . I've always thought that there's always ample time for manners," Halloran said, not quite with a sniff.
"I agree, and manners quite properly call for introductions," Cully said, turning to the sublieutenant. He bowed slightly, but properly, his left arm folded across his middle, his right hand steadying the sword stuck through his sash.
"Sir Cully of Cully's Woode," he said, surprised at how good the phrase felt on his lips, "Knight of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon." His eyes on the sublieutenant's, he more felt than saw Halloran stirring to one side, and he pulled the folded piece of parchment out of his pouch. "My papers, sir."
The sublieutenant didn't unfold the parchment or even glance down at it; he drew himself up straight, his shoulders back.
"Sublieutenant Thomas Henderson," he said. "At your service, Sir Cully." He gave a slight bow.
Henderson was a compact man in his forties, clean-shaven despite his pocked face—most Navy officers who had survived the pox covered their scars with a beard, at least when at sea—and something of the lilt of the highlands in his voice, despite the lowlander name.
"May I present the midshipmen, Sir Cully?" he asked.
"Of course."
By the time Henderson had finished introducing the middies, Niko had caught up with them, and Halloran was only not fidgeting, Cully decided, because it was unseemly for such an important man to fidget. He eyed the folded parchment still in Henderson's hand, and at a gesture of permission from Cully, Henderson handed it over to the Governor, who opened it with unseemly haste.
Cully let him be. It would be unwise to seem to be in as much of a rush as he in fact was, and, besides, the taller of the two midshipmen seemed familiar. There was something about the sharp nose and dark, sunken eyes.
"Have we met before, Mr. Turnbull?" No, they couldn't have. The boy was perhaps fifteen or sixteen; Cully hadn't been back in England for ten years.
"No, sir." The boy shook his head. "I know I'd remember—I've never even seen a Knight of the Order before."
The other midshipman, Waldegrave, smiled indulgently, if perhaps patronizingly—Waldegrave, as the son of the Earl of Burnamthorpe, had no doubt been presented at Court, with His Own in attendance, watching the crowd with flat looks that hid a constant professional suspicion—but his expression sobered at a microscopic headshake and mouth twitch from the sublieutenant.
"Perhaps you're thinking of my uncle Simon?" Turnbull asked. "I'm told I favor him."
Cully shook his head. "Simon Turnbull? I don't recall the name."
"He's my mum's brother, sir. Simon Sebastian," Turnbull said tentatively, hesitantly, as though expecting somebody to correct him, "he was at Alton—"
"Yes. Started in twenty-three." Cully nodded. "Left in his third year. Yes, I do remember him. A good lad, as I recall; if you take after him, you'll do your family proud," he said, with just a slight emphasis on your for Waldegrave's benefit, and was rewarded by a smile from Henderson as the boy's face brightened.
Barely one in four dozen of the boys who started out in first form ended up as Order Knights. Some were found wanting, and asked to leave. In some cases, they were moved to other seminaries with a less demanding physical regimen; others, with different failings, went to the military academies, or to Eton.
Many left of their own request, as had, no doubt, been their families' plan from the start. A year or two at Alton wasn't a blot on a young man's record, and in fact conferred a certain cachet, embodied in the ring given all those who completed first form, to be surrendered only upon taking the Oath; there were many such rings on hands throughout both the Navy and Army, and in Parliament.
Cully had suspected that was part of the reason that Baron Shanley had sent sent young David to Alton, and wouldn't have been at all surprised to learn that the Baron hadn't expected the boy to stubborn his way through.
Not that Cully had ever had any doubt about Bear, any more than he had about Sister Mary or Gray, although they both had been special cases.
There were some knights, like old Sir Alfred, who claimed that they could glance at the class of firsters and tell who would or wouldn't make it to the swearing-in, although Cully never had that knack. A few, certainly—he had seen something in the little ragamuffin named Grayling, and in Mary and Alexander and Bear and perhaps a dozen others, but he had been wrong about as many as he had been right on. He remembered Simon Sebastian, an intense little boy who threw himself into his studies with the same furious concentration that he put into his workouts on the parade ground. If Cully had had to bet, then, he would have put down quite a lot of coin that Sebastian would have ended up kneeling before His Majesty, to arise a Knight of the Order, but he would have lost. Just was well; gambling was a sin, after all.
"Yes, sir, He's spoken of you—often, sir. He's in the New England fleet," the boy said, with some obvious pride. "First officer on the Reprise, out of New Portsmouth. I'm sure he'd send his regards, if he'd known . . ."
"Of course, of course." Cully smiled. "When you write to him, send him mine, if you would—and tell him that I still remember his dreadful essay on the Age of Crisis."
The biblical injunction was against bearing false witness against others; Cully had never thought it applied to a gentle lie. Cully didn't actually remember the essay, but he did remember that Sebastian had been in his first-form history class, and the subject of the Age was irresistible to the sort of young boys who still hadn't had all the romance of the Order beaten and worked out of them, and young Simon Sebastian had definitely been one of those.
"I'll do that, sir." The boy smiled.
Halloran wasn't quite bursting at the seams. "Your companion, Sir Cully is . . . ?"
"Ah. My pardon. Governor Lord Sir Albert Halloran, Knight of the Guard, may I present Sir Niko Cristofolous, Knight of the Order of the Crown, Shield, and Dragon? Sir Niko—Governor Halloran, Sublieutenant Henderson, Midshipmen Turnbull and Waldegrave."
Niko bowed, correctly, but no more. The boy was teachable.
"Cristofolous?" Halloran raised an eyebrow. "That's a Pironesian name."
In a knight's robes, his hair properly combed back if not expertly cut, and the cheeks above his scraggly beard given a good shaving, Niko didn't look like a barefoot Pironesian fisherboy anymore, and his dark complexion wasn't unusual, but Cully would have thought that the Governor could have recognized a Pironesian at first sight.
"Indeed, it is, and quite properly so," Cully said, "as Sir Niko is Pironesian. If you wish to discuss the details of how and why he was made a knight, Lord Albert, I'll be more than willing to oblige, although I think that this is hardly the best place; it's a delicate matter that should, I would think, call for some privacy."
He wasn't sure whether he was finding it irritating or comforting that formal manners were coming back to him; he had long since gotten used to speaking plainly, when he spoke at all, and the Pironesian merchants he dealt with spoke only a little more than the sheep.
"But not at the moment, unless you insist—Sir Niko and I have to be off across the channel to Defkonos for some private Order matters. Might I call upon you this evening? Or had you intended on weighing anchor before then?"
"This evening will serve well enough, Sir Cully."
Cully nodded. "Samir Abdullah has invited Sir Niko and myself to join him for dinner—I'm certain that he'll press you with an invitation when you call on him." A safe bet, that. A much less clever man than Abdullah would hardly fail to miss an opportunity to play host to even a much less important dignitary than the governor. "Perhaps, then, we can take a few private moments for me to brief you?"
Halloran clearly wanted to talk now, but there was no obvious way to protest, so he simply nodded. "That will serve quite well."
"Come, Sir Niko," Cully said.