Chapter 10

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Lady Ysobel stood at the stern rail, feet braced against the pitching deck, as Sendat’s harbor slowly faded behind them. With one hand she shielded her eyes from the wind-driven rain, straining to see if they had been followed. But so far, it seemed, they were alone.

For months she had longed for this day—schemed, cajoled, even lowering herself to beg the council for permission to return to sea. Finally, her wish had been granted, but it was a bitter triumph.

She turned as she heard the sailing master’s shouts and saw the hands scrambling to obey. They worked swiftly, despite the rain that lashed both ship and sailors. She knew from long experience that wet ropes made each task more difficult, and even the most surefooted of sailors could slip on a rain-slicked deck. It was a foul night to have set sail, which hopefully meant any potential pursuers had been caught off guard.

She watched as Captain Elpheme conferred with the sailing master. A part of her wanted to overhear their conversation, but Ysobel forced herself to remain where she was. Elpheme was captain of the Leaping Dolphin, while Ysobel was merely an honored guest, and it would not do publicly to undermine Elpheme’s command.

The Dolphin was the second largest of her ships, having originally been built as a raider for the federation navy. After two decades of service, she had been replaced by a faster, more agile ship and sold off to a merchant house. Her new owner had removed the heavy ram and replaced the lateen sail with a third mast. Belowdecks, the former marines’ quarters had been converted into storage holds. When Ysobel had purchased the ship a half dozen years ago, she’d noted the signs of a martial past—the reinforced bow meant for ramming, and the double-thick deck intended to support the weight of weapons. Her construction made the Dolphin heavier than other ships of her size and thus slower, but this meant the merchant was willing to part with her on favorable terms.

She had served Ysobel well as a hauler of bulk cargoes, but now the Dolphin was being called upon to remember her days of glory. The Dolphin was being sent to war, and Ysobel with her.

At least she had a ship of her own under her feet rather than the weed-draped hulk that Lord Quesnel had offered. After explaining that the demands on the navy meant he had no better ship to serve her, he could hardly refuse when she offered up a ship of her own. She would have preferred the Gull, naturally, and the steadiness of Captain Zorion at her back rather than the aged Dolphin with its relatively inexperienced captain. Still with this ship, at least, she had no fear that she would drown before her mission had begun.

Though whether she would survive the war to come was another question. For war it was, though anyone with sense could see that it was an ill-advised folly.

True, Ikaria was in disarray if the news was to be believed. Admiral Hector was dead, some said murdered by the new emperor, his fleet kept in harbor, not trusted to set sail. Buoyed by fresh rumors from Ikaria that indicated the empire was on the verge of civil war, the royal council urged King Bayard to destroy the Ikarian navy, which had long harassed honest federation ships. With their navy crippled, and Ikaria consumed by internal conflict, the federation could once more claim its place as the preeminent power on the sea. Trading colonies that had been seized by the Ikarians would be retaken, and shipping routes reopened.

If the federation moved swiftly, they could seize the ports before the end of autumn and use the long winter to fortify them. Even if the civil war was over in months rather than years, Ikaria’s lost ports would prove too costly a prize for them to reclaim. It would take time to rebuild their navy, and all the while the federation would grow stronger.

Or so the councilors had argued, and King Bayard had agreed.

What others saw as bold action, Ysobel saw as reckless folly. There were too many assumptions, and their intelligence on Ikaria had failed them before. An empire weakened by civil war would indeed be reluctant to go to war with the federation. But if Emperor Lucius was able to unite his people and bring the full force of Ikarian military power to bear, then the struggle between the two countries could well prove long and bloody, and there was no certainty that the federation would emerge triumphant.

It was a fool’s gamble. A chance no sane trader would take, where the risks far outweighed the rewards. And it worried her that the council had been so quick to follow Lord Quesnel’s lead. As minister of war, he had the most to gain should his efforts be successful, but surely the others should not be blind to the risks.

Perhaps the councilors saw the risks as well as she did. Perhaps they endorsed Lord Quesnel’s scheme not because they thought it would succeed, but rather because they thought it would fail. They sought to destroy Quesnel, not reckoning the cost to the federation.

She shook her head to clear it of such grim imaginings. Surely the council members would not imperil the federation merely to settle scores among themselves. There was no profit to gain from burning down a house that all must share.

With one last glance at the empty seas behind them, she made her way below.

Captain Elpheme had offered her own cabin, but Ysobel had refused. She was the owner, yes, but she was not sailing as captain, and instead made do with the adjacent sailing master’s cabin, as she had on her prior voyages. It was a show of respect for Elpheme’s authority as captain, meant for the crew as much as for Elpheme herself.

Between the two cabins was a small office that was shared by both, and it was there that Captain Elpheme found her, as Ysobel pored over the charts showing the entrance to Gallifrey harbor. The charts provided by the War Ministry were good, but her own—copied from the charts maintained by generations of the house of Flordelis—were better.

“Wind’s backed off two points and the storm is easing. It will blow itself out before morning,” Elpheme reported.

“Good. And the marines, are they settled?”

“Bedded down for the night, those who aren’t heaving their guts up.”

The two women shared a grin. Like most sailors, they despised the marines, who took up valuable space and refused to earn their keep aboard ship. For ordinary journeys, the Dolphin’s crew was capable of protecting itself, but for their current mission four dozen marines had been crammed into the Dolphin’s hastily converted cargo holds.

“Keep an eye on them and watch those that appear too comfortable. Their lieutenant knows more than he is saying, and I’ll wager at least some of his marines were sailors not all that long ago,” she said.

Quesnel would have his spies among the marines, but she hoped their orders stopped short of mutiny. Still, it was best not to take any chances. The marines outnumbered her sailors, and that was assuming that all of her sailors were loyal.

Elpheme leaned over the table, looking at the charts. Her eyebrows raised. “Gallifrey harbor in Thuridon? Do I need to set a new course?” A more senior captain might have questioned why Ysobel had directed her to spend the last two hours sailing south if their intended destination was north and west, but Elpheme’s voice was even, giving no hint of her feelings.

“If you would be so kind,” Ysobel said.

“And once we arrive at Gallifrey harbor?” Elpheme’s voice trailed off delicately.

“We are to take the harbor and hold it until reinforcements arrive.”

“You jest.” Elpheme’s face flushed, anger overriding her usual deference.

“I wish I did.”

Ysobel had been ordered not to inform anyone of the details of her orders until after she had sailed. She was not certain if the ministry was trying to preserve the advantage of surprise by protecting the secrecy of her mission or merely ensuring that no one would interfere.

“One ship? It’s not possible.”

It was meant to be impossible. Ysobel was a trader, not a warrior, but she had been to Gallifrey harbor many times before. A half dozen warships with a full complement of marines might have been able to seize the port, but it was folly to ask a smaller force to make the attempt.

It was more than folly. It was murder. Or so Lord Quesnel intended. This was how he repaid Ysobel for challenging him. If she disobeyed his orders, she would be branded a traitor, forced to flee into exile. But following his orders would result in her death as well as destruction of her ship and her crew. And that was a price she was not prepared to pay.

“We will have the element of surprise, at least,” Ysobel said.

Elpheme gave her a long look. “I assume you have a plan?”

“I will,” Ysobel said. “My personal luggage was stored in the aft hold as I instructed, correct?”

“Yes,” Elpheme said. “I did as you asked, and made certain to complain loudly about master traders who had grown soft with city living and could not travel without the comforts of home.”

Elpheme had been very careful not to inquire as to what exactly was in those crates, which had been marked as personal food stores and chests of clothes sufficient to outfit half a dozen noblewomen.

“You’ll need to put together a working party tomorrow. There are six ballistae in there, along with ammunition stored in the wardrobe chests. I want them installed on the deck and the crew practiced in loading and firing. Our crew only, mind. The marines are not to touch them.”

Elpheme straightened and saluted, as if Ysobel were indeed a war captain. “If it comes to a fight, the Dolphin will give a good account of herself.”

“I know we will,” Ysobel replied, careful to keep her doubts to herself. The armaments would give them an edge in a ship-to-ship battle, particularly if the enemy was expecting an unarmed merchant ship. But ballistae would be of little use against a fortified harbor. She had the next weeks of sailing to come up with a plan that would keep her ship and her crew intact, and still carry out the war minister’s orders.

 

Landers, the sailing master, had spent the last forty years at sea. He boasted of having sailed aboard every type of ship in the Ikarian fleet, from the smallest skiffs that plied the island trade to a stint in the great crewed warships of the navy. When Ysobel had promoted Elpheme to captain of the Dolphin, she had sent along Landers as second-in-command, so that his experience could offset Elpheme’s lack. Landers had helped train up a generation of captains and was skilled at making orders sound like mere suggestions. He listened carefully as Ysobel described how she wanted the ballistae spaced evenly along the sides of the ship. By the time the conversation was finished, she’d agreed to placing two flanking the prow, with four amidships.

He wasted no time in setting the sailors to work. Ysobel could not resist following him up on deck, bringing with her the cup of citrus tea that had taken the place of breakfast. She leaned casually against the deckhouse, where she could watch as the first crates were brought on deck and opened. There were a few knowing looks and low-voiced comments, but with so many eyes upon them, the sailors knew better than to voice their questions aloud. Rumors would be saved for belowdecks and the privacy of their quarters.

After all, with a cargo of marines instead of trade goods, it was already plain that this was no ordinary voyage. The armaments were merely reinforcing what everyone knew—and was forbidden to discuss.

They had barely finished unpacking the first crate when Lieutenant Burrell appeared by her side.

“Lady Ysobel, a word if you please.”

Ysobel took a sip of her tea, watching him out of the corner of her eye. There had been no marines on deck when the first crate was unboxed, so one of the sailors must have brought him word.

Too late, it occurred to her that she should have been watching the hatch that led below to see who had borne tales. It was a precaution she would have taken on any other ship, but the habit of trusting her own crew was one that died hard.

She continued to sip her tea, testing the limits of Burrell’s patience, but he refused to be drawn. He bore up steadily under her regard, even as her gaze surveyed him from head to toe.

A frown marred features that would otherwise be handsome. Pity, for the rest of him was well put together. His nearness reminded her that it had been far too long since a man shared her bed. Under other circumstances she would have been tempted, but she knew better than to lie with one who might betray her.

Tired of baiting him, she drained her mug, then placed it in the deckhouse rack for retrieval later. Burrell turned toward the hatch, but instead Ysobel led the way to the prow, stepping carefully around the work crews.

The seas were still rough after yesterday’s storms, but Ysobel’s sea legs had never deserted her, and she made her way without resorting to the handrails. Burrell proved equally adept, reinforcing her belief that he was more sailor than soldier.

As she reached the prow, she looped her right arm around the deck rail, bracing her feet as she turned her back to the spray that swept over the deck each time the prow sliced through the waves.

Burrell stood beside her, holding the rail with both hands. “This isn’t the place for this,” he said, his voice raised to carry above the sound of the spray.

“I like it.” She felt more comfortable above deck than below, where who knows what reception awaited her. A half dozen of his marines already in her cabin waiting to take her in chains? It was not beyond the realm of possibility.

“What was so urgent that it could not wait?” she prompted.

“Those weapons were not in your orders,” he said.

“Neither was there anything forbidding them,” she countered. She watched his face, trying to get a sense of his character. Old for the rank he claimed, it was possible that he was as much a victim of Quesnel’s schemes as she was—another enemy to be disposed of. But it was equally likely that he was Quesnel’s man, ready to carry out his own secret orders to ensure her failure.

How he reacted to the ballistae was a test—unless, of course, he was clever enough to see this for what it was.

“You’ve stolen armaments that the ministry needs for its own ships—”

“There was no theft,” Ysobel said, drawing herself to her full height.

“Then where did they come from?”

“Unlike the navy, merchants rely upon themselves. My warehouses hold more than you would imagine, and can supply whatever my ships need,” she said. Though technically the ballistae had belonged to the house of Flordelis until she had traded her remaining favors for their loan. Her orders from Quesnel allowed her to equip her own ship at her own expense, though he might have phrased those orders differently if he suspected she had access to weaponry.

“These ballistae will not help you take Gallifrey harbor,” he said. It was not quite an accusation.

“They do no harm,” she replied. “They give my crew something to occupy their attention on the voyage.”

“But you still intend to carry out your orders?”

“Of course. And you?”

He merely nodded, tight-lipped.

“That’s not enough,” she said. “On my ship, you and your marines are under my command. So I ask your solemn word, will you support me as I take Gallifrey harbor?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “As long as this ship keeps course for Gallifrey, I will not interfere.”

So he thought her likely to make a run for it, perhaps to turn pirate aided by her new toys. A reasonable assumption, given what he must have been told about her. Still, it seemed that he was prepared to play his role, at least for the present, and that was all that she needed.

It was telling that he had not asked how she planned to take Gallifrey harbor, nor how his marines would be used in the assault.

“I think we understand each other,” she said. “I suggest you return to your marines and make sure that they are settling in. Given the activity on deck, I ask that you send no more than six at a time on deck to take the air.”

And if she saw more than six, she would know that mutiny was afoot.

He simply nodded once more, then turned and left without any acknowledgment. She knew she had not won that encounter, but merely bought herself time to craft her scheme.

 

As the dawn rose, the Dolphin dropped anchor outside the entrance to Gallifrey harbor—close enough to be seen, but far enough away to make it clear that they did not intend to enter. The yellow plague flag fluttered from the mainmast, while a dozen of her sailors lay on the deck under canvas screens, their skin dyed green with boiled weed.

The sails were furled sloppily, canvas drooping and lines seemingly tangled. It was as she had ordered, yet such disorder disturbed her soul. Ysobel clenched her hands into fists, her nails digging into her palms as she fought the urge to admonish her sailors for the careless work.

There was one final touch. Ysobel watched as two sailors lowered their grisly burden onto a canvas sheet. Orva had been a plain woman in life, and the week her body had spent pickling in brine had done nothing to improve her appearance. The sharp tang of the brine did not cover the stench of rot, and the sailors were white-faced as they backed away from the corpse.

Orva’s death had been a stupid waste, a moment’s carelessness that led to a lethal fall to the deck below. But even in her death she could be made to serve.

“And what will you do if they do not come?” Lieutenant Burrell asked. Ysobel had grown accustomed to his constant presence in the days since she had first revealed her plans. He questioned her at every turn, but nonetheless followed her lead.

She still knew no more of his loyalties than she had at the start of the voyage, but now was the time that both of them would be put to the test.

“Only a fool would let a plague ship anchor outside their harbor. They’ll send a party to warn us off. Or if they don’t, I’ll send a rowboat in to parley.”

The narrow entrance to Gallifrey harbor was guarded by two small forts on each side, with deadly catapults that could rain stones or lead shot upon enemy ships. A massive iron cable closed the harbor entrance at night, or in case of attack. As per their treaty with Thuridon, Ikarian marines controlled the forts, and they could call for reinforcements from the Ikarian merchant ships that filled the harbor.

A single federation ship could do little damage. Even a full-scale attack by the navy might not succeed.

Which was why Ysobel had chosen stealth and deception instead. She had kept her doubts to herself, knowing that the crew needed to believe in her if they were to play their parts. Still, she could not resist a sigh of relief as her eyes caught sight of a small gig leaving the harbor, heading toward them.

As she waited for the gig to draw near, she took a final stroll around the deck, occasionally bending down as if to reassure the stricken sailors, but in truth reminding each of their part.

Burrell, wearing the tunic of a sailor, joined her amidships as the gig approached within hailing distance. While Ysobel posed as captain, Elpheme stood in the deckhouse, within calling distance of the hatch where the rest of the sailors crouched belowdecks, awaiting her orders. If their deception was discovered, Elpheme would rouse the crew for a speedy escape.

The gig stopped a cable’s length away, close enough that they could hear each other and see each other’s faces.

As the rowers shipped their oars, the man sitting in the front of the gig stood up. “I am Antonius, the harbormaster. Your ship is denied entrance to our harbor, and we order you to set sail within the next day.”

Ysobel gave an exaggerated shrug. “If I have enough crew alive tomorrow, I will gladly set sail.”

The gig was close enough so that she could see the sailors blanch, but the harbormaster was made of sterner stuff.

Ysobel mopped her brow with a linen handkerchief. At this signal, Elias, the youngest of the crew, rose from his pallet and staggered to the rail, where he vomited barley soaked in red wine. To an onlooker it would appear as if he had vomited blood.

The ability to vomit at will was not something she had previously considered an important qualification in one of her sailors, but rather served as proof that even the most unlikely of talents could be turned to serve the ship.

“I need fresh water and to pass along a warning,” Ysobel said, raising her voice to be heard over the sounds of Elias’s choking heaves.

“A warning?”

“Last night I anchored offshore, not wanting to try my luck with the reefs. This morning I discovered one of my longboats missing along with several of my crew.” Ysobel gestured to the empty davit. “I fear they may have snuck into the harbor, and brought their contagion with them…”

“The harbor is chained and watched—” the harbormaster said.

“Of course you know best,” she said. But both knew that the chain was meant to keep out ships, not small boats that drew only a shallow draft. And according to her intelligence, the marines had grown lazy, relying upon the chain rather than making regular patrols by rowboat as was the custom in other ports.

“I will see that water is sent, but be warned that your ship will be watched. Your crew must remain on board, and you must depart in two days,” Antonius said. He sat down heavily and gestured to his crew.

Ysobel placed her right hand behind her back, and at this signal the sailing master called out “We’ve lost another one.”

The harbormaster flinched.

“By the gods,” Ysobel swore. “She’s the second this morning.”

“The third,” Burrell corrected her. “It’s getting worse.”

She watched as Landers tied lead ballast weights to each of Orva’s legs, then bound the canvas sheet around her body with rope. At his signal a sailor lifted the body by the shoulders, while Landers picked up her feet. They carried the body to the rail and heaved it unceremoniously over the side. As planned, the loosely knotted ropes gave way in the air, revealing Orva’s bloated corpse. With a small splash, her body sank beneath the waves.

Shocked exclamations arose from the crew of the gig, who bent their backs to their oars as if they were being pursued by monsters. Only those who had grown hardened to death would have treated a corpse so shamefully, and Ysobel knew that this would do more than anything else to convince Antonius that she had been telling the truth. There could be no doubt that the Dolphin was cursed by vile contagion.

So far all had gone according to plan. Ysobel made a circuit of the deck, ostensibly checking on her dying sailors, but in reality reminding them that the ship would be watched from shore, so they had to keep up the pretense of illness.

 

Barely an hour had lapsed since the harbormaster’s visit, when the first trading ship left the harbor for the open sea, carefully skirting a wide berth around the Dolphin. Such a departure could have been routine, but she was swiftly followed by a second, then a third. By noon, more than a dozen ships had left the harbor, their captains abandoning cargo and profits rather than risk being caught in a port overrun by plague. As the day wore on, the tangle of masts in the inner harbor thinned, as one ship, then another, chose prudence over danger.

Ysobel’s spirits rose with each departure, though she was careful to keep her face grim while on deck. The canvas screens, which covered both ballistae and supposedly dying sailors alike, could only conceal so much.

There was no sign of the promised provisions from shore. If there truly had been contagion aboard the Dolphin, fresh water might have meant the difference between life and death. Such callous disregard was against all customs of the sea, where even the most deadly of rivals were required to set aside their differences in the face of a common enemy. Then, again, Antonius was Ikarian, with all their in-bred arrogance and disdain for the ways of others.

She wondered if Antonius had forgotten to send the water lighter, or if he had been unable to find any willing to approach the plague ship, when so many ships already in harbor were no doubt clamoring for fresh water and willing to pay generously for service so they could set sail.

Or maybe the delay was more ominous in nature. Perhaps they were preparing to send not water, but rather soldiers with flaming arrows, ready to set fire to the Dolphin and execute her dying crew before they could spread their illness. Though such a course held its own peril. They had anchored near the western edge of the harbor mouth, close enough that they could be seen through spyglasses from the watchtower. Which meant that they were also close enough that a strong swimmer could make it to the breakwater. Presumably those who were already infected and dying would drown before reaching shore, but would the harbormaster want to take that chance?

Such fretting accomplished nothing, so after a quiet word with Captain Elpheme, Ysobel stretched out on the deck for a nap, taking her turn playing the role of a stricken sailor. A short rest would aid her for later, and had the advantage of scandalizing Lieutenant Burrell, who viewed her idleness with deep disdain.

As she closed her eyes, she wondered why he had left the planning of this mission to her since it was clear that he did not trust her. Either he was grossly incompetent, or he was trying to ensure that the responsibility for failure would be hers alone.

She dozed lightly, until the late-afternoon sun slipped below the canvas awning. Rising to her feet, she made her way below to her borrowed cabin, where Elias, the vomiting sailor, was waiting. She congratulated him on his earlier performance as she inserted wax plugs into her nose, then stripped off her clothes. A sponge soaked in a mixture of tea and boiled weed painted her skin a sickly yellow-green. Then she put on a blouse and leggings that had been soaked in some foul concoction thought up by the cook. Even through the nose plugs she could smell their stench, and wondered how Elias stood there without gagging.

Once dressed, she entered the chart room, where Lieutenant Burrell and Captain Elpheme were waiting. Burrell, who proclaimed himself a skilled swimmer, wore similar attire to her own. Elpheme’s face was green, but from honest nausea at the stench, not paint. She would remain with the ship.

“The volunteers are ready,” Elpheme said. “They’re assembled by the stern, waiting for you.”

Ysobel looked at Burrell. “If your marines fail us—”

“My marines will be in position, as I commanded,” he said. “They know their duty.”

“Good,” she said. “I would hate to be executed alone.”

If the harbormaster had boarded the Dolphin, he would have seen that the empty space on the davit was meant to hold not one but rather two rowboats. Yesterday, two dozen of Burrell’s marines had been crammed into the boats, and set ashore down the coast, with instructions to hike along the rocky coastline until they were in sight of the fort that guarded the eastern edge of the harbor.

The western edge was joined to land by a narrow breakwater, which meant that it could only be approached from the water. While Burrell’s marines secured the eastern fort, Ysobel and her sailors would take the western fort. Timing was everything, and there was no room for hesitation or second-guessing. Either the plan worked, or it didn’t.

If they failed, it was likely that Burrell would execute her before the Ikarians had a chance to capture her. He had only agreed to her plan after insisting that he be allowed to accompany her—and he assigned only half of his marines to the raiding party, ensuring that enough remained behind that she could not act against him.

“The Dolphin is ready, and I will be waiting for your signal,” Captain Elpheme said. “May fortune be with you.”

 

After so much anxiety, the actual battle itself was over nearly before it had begun. Confronted by diseased-ravaged, cutlass-wielding madmen, many of the garrison threw down their weapons and fled. Those who chose to stand and fight were quickly disarmed.

There were a few anxious moments before signal lamps from the eastern fort indicated that Burrell’s marines had seized it as well.

Ysobel ordered the Ikarian flag struck down, as the agreed-upon signal, and a short time later boats arrived from the Dolphin bearing the rest of Burrell’s marines. Under his direction they took control of the watchtower and its catapults.

Ysobel had taken charge of interrogating the senior of the surviving soldiers, who proved remarkably cooperative as long as she did not approach him too closely. The long swim had done little to lessen her stench, and the soldiers seemed convinced that this assault was the last act of a crew desperate to escape their dying ship. She did not bother to inform them otherwise.

His tally of ships left in harbor matched her own observations—a mere ten seagoing vessels, with a like number of smaller river craft. What she hadn’t known was that there were two federation flagged vessels in harbor, along with four Ikarian-owned ships.

It spoke poorly of her fellow traders’ instincts that they had not chosen to flee, but since they had remained behind, she would have a use for them.

Elpheme had proven her worth by sending along fresh clothes for Ysobel and the rest of the swimmers. A hasty wash took care of the lingering stench, though her skin would stay green until the dye wore off. Leaving a marine sergeant in charge, she joined Lieutenant Burrell in a skiff that rowed them across to inspect the eastern fort. At the entrance to the fort, drying bloodstains told the tale of fierce fighting. Two of the marines had been killed, and three others wounded, but the fort was secure.

The skiff ferried the wounded marines to the Dolphin, and brought back sailors to help secure the fort. Ysobel had stripped the crew of the Dolphin as much as she dared—leaving barely enough hands aboard to make sail if trouble came.

When dawn came, both forts flew the flag of the Federated Islands of Seddon, as did the nearby Dolphin, which had moved to guard the harbor entrance from approach by sea. She had lowered her yellow plague flag, as well as the canvas screens that concealed her ballistae.

At Ysobel’s orders, the harbor chain remained drawn, ensuring that no ship could enter or leave the harbor without permission.

It was midmorning when two men approached the fort, bearing the palm leaves that indicated their wish to parley. They were brought into the fort, through the central courtyard, where her marines were massed to give the impression of overwhelming numbers.

Ysobel met them on the far side of the courtyard, Lieutenant Burrell at her side. The resplendence of his dress uniform nearly made up for his sickly complexion.

The harbormaster Antonius glared at her, while his companion, an older gentleman with the pale complexion of the native Thuridons, merely looked around the courtyard with interest. “I am Calvino, mayor of Gallifrey,” he said. “I come to you under the truce of parley.”

“I welcome you in peace,” she said. By custom, no harm would come to the emissaries while under truce, though such truces had been known to be broken. It spoke much of their trust in her honor that they would send the mayor on such an errand, or perhaps it showed how poorly he was regarded.

Calvino nudged Antonius.

“I come in truce,” Antonius muttered. She had spoken, but it was Burrell to whom he addressed his words and gaze. It appeared that Antonius shared the disdain of his countrymen toward women in positions of authority. It would gall him to have to treat with her.

“I am Lady Ysobel, in command of the Federation forces, and this is Lieutenant Burrell.”

“Your presence is an act of war. Surrender these forts at once, and we will spare your lives,” Antonius blustered. “And if you cannot see reason, surely your lieutenant will.”

Burrell kept his silence, playing the role of a dutiful subordinate.

“We should not judge. Perhaps their illness has impaired their thinking—” Calvino began.

“There was no illness,” Ysobel declared.

Calvino merely nodded, as she confirmed what must have been evident. It was to him that she addressed her next words.

“These forts are the lawful property of the Federated Islands of Seddon, by treaty between our people and your government. We do not blame you for allowing Ikaria to seize them, but neither may you accuse us of doing anything other than reclaiming our property.”

It was a subtle distinction. True, the treaty between their two peoples had never been dissolved, but Ikaria had held the port for nearly twenty years and made their own agreements with Thuridon.

“You are one woman with but a single ship. You cannot hope to hold on to this harbor,” Antonius said.

“Why not? I have sailors in plenty to hold the forts, and my marines are far too skillful to fall for a child’s ruse.”

“And he who controls the forts, controls the harbor. Or have you forgotten that the catapults may be aimed at the docks as easily as at the sea?” Burrell added.

Antonius cursed under his breath.

“That sounds like a threat,” Calvino said. He remained calm, even as his companion grew visibly enraged. From his control, she concluded that he was mayor in truth, not a mere figurehead.

Now it was time to sweeten the deal. “The federation is prepared to honor the old treaty and all of its terms,” she said. “As you may recall, the years of our partnership were a profitable time for both our peoples.”

“You can’t make a deal with these people! Just look at how they deceived us,” Antonius said.

“They deceived you,” Calvino replied.

Ysobel bit back a grin.

“May I invite you to dine with me this evening, so we may discuss the details of the new treaty?” Calvino said.

“I would be honored,” she replied.

Antonius grumbled and blustered, but the mayor paid him little heed as the two were escorted out of the fort.

“We’ve won,” she told Burrell. “Antonius hasn’t the men to retake the forts, and he’ll get no support from Thuridon. I’ll dine with the mayor tonight and let him win a few concessions in return for his immediate expulsion of Antonius and his lackeys.”

Burrell blinked, and his frame momentarily sagged as the exertions of the past two days caught up with him.

“You’ll need to recruit sailors from the ships in harbor to replace those we’ve borrowed from the Dolphin. How long until your reinforcements arrive?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

He shook his head, then unaccountably he grinned. “I don’t know. We’d planned for everything—except the possibility of victory.”

It was a confirmation of what she had long suspected. “Then it is time you made new plans,” she said. “Lord Quesnel will not be rid of me this easily.”

Burrell’s face grew sober. “Don’t underestimate his anger.”

“And he should learn not to underestimate me,” Ysobel replied.