“On my orders.” He nodded at the door, now grinding itself free of the sea. “There’s a Corvantine ship on the other side of this. I doubt their reaction to our presence will be friendly, however I’m determined not to fire the first shot. Should they do so, I’ll need you to ensure they miss.”
“Diverting a shell in flight.” Clay’s eyebrows rose in consideration, face free of any particular alarm. “Miss Lethridge did it. Might tweak her nose a little if I could match the feat.”
“Can you do it or not?” Hilemore demanded, patience wearing thin.
“Maybe.” Clay gave a mock salute and turned towards the hatchway. “Guess we’ll find out in short order.” Hilemore watched him descend the ladder to the deck and make his way forward. He took up position beside Skaggerhill, the Longrifles’ harvester, and extracted a vial from his duster as the door reached its apogee fifty feet above.
“Ahead dead slow,” Hilemore ordered, gaze fixed on the revealed harbour ahead. He could see a line of Blue-hunters moored along the quay but no sign of a Corvantine warship as yet. The Viable slipped through the opening at a crawl, Hilemore forcing himself to appear as calm as possible though the tension was clear in the bead of sweat he saw trickle down the helmsman’s cheek.
“Steady lad,” Hilemore told him. “If their whole fleet couldn’t sink us in the Strait I’ll be damned if just one of their tubs will sink us now.”
“Enemy vessel twenty degrees to starboard, sir!” Talmant snapped. “One of the new ones by the look of it.”
Hilemore soon saw he was right. The Corvantine ship sat high in the water, sleek lines bare of paddles and a single stack angled back towards the stern. Her length and the number of guns singled her out as a frigate, smaller than the Viable and not so heavily armed, but probably almost as fast thanks to her screw propeller, even faster if she proved to be a blood-burner. She had clearly been in the wars, her paint-work blackened and hull dented in several places. It also appeared the rear section of her upper works had been wrecked, though the bridge remained intact. It took Hilemore a moment to pick out the Eutherian letters embossed aft of the forward anchor chain: INS Superior.
“I count only six crew on deck, sir,” Talmant reported. “Her guns are unmanned and she’s not making steam.”
Hilemore’s gaze was drawn to the frigate’s mast as a flag was hauled up, unfurling in the wind to reveal a white circle in a black background. Truce-flag. Too much to expect them to surrender, I suppose.
“Mr. Talmant, run up the truce pennant,” he said. “And tell Mr. Steelfine to stand down from battle stations.”
? ? ?
A small pilot tug guided the Viable to her anchorage, a length of quay at the extreme western end of the harbour, as far from the Corvantine frigate as they could get. Despite the exchange of truce signals it seemed the port authorities didn’t want to chance a clash of warships within the confines of the harbour. A platoon of twenty soldiers were waiting to greet them on the wharf, all clad in the grey uniform of the Eastern Conglomerate Levies, the name given to that company’s version of the Protectorate. They were an irregular force, a hard core of contracted professional officers augmented by sailors and shipwrights called to the Levies in times of crisis. From the state of their uniforms and the lack of cohesion in their line Hilemore concluded it had been some time since they had faced a proper inspection. Nevertheless, there was a hard-eyed wariness to their gaze and he noted that, whilst their uniforms could have benefited from a thorough laundering, their rifles were clean and held by experienced hands.
“Major Ozpike.” The platoon commander greeted Hilemore with a precise salute as he stepped onto the quayside. “Commander Lossermark Defence and Security Levies.” The major was a South Mandinorian of sturdy build, his clean and pressed uniform contrasting markedly with the appearance of his men.
Hilemore came to attention and returned the salute. “Captain Corrick Hilemore, Ironship Protectorate Vessel Viable Opportunity.” He glanced around at the surrounding buildings, seeing no sign of damage. “Glad to find you in such good order, Major.”
Ozpike blinked and cast a cautious glance at his men, regarding the exchange with a uniformly keen interest.
“So that ain’t the case elsewhere?” one of them asked, a diminutive fellow of Dalcian heritage as were many Eastern Conglomerate sailors.
Hilemore scanned their faces, seeing a great deal of fear and uncertainty. “You truly have no notion of recent events?” he asked Ozpike.
“Only what the Corvies told us,” the Dalcian replied before the major could answer. “Said a great mass of Blues rose from the sea around Carvenport and tore their fleet to pieces. That true, Skipper?”
“Matters for discussion with the Comptroller,” Ozpike barked with a military authority that seemed to carry little weight.
“I got family in Carvenport,” the Dalcian went on. “The mail packet is three weeks late and not a single Blue-hunter’s returned to port in all that time. We got a right to know, Major.”
“And you will,” Ozpike said, forcing what Hilemore judged to be an unaccustomed note of conciliation into his voice. “But the Comptroller needs to speak to this officer first.”
A growl rose from the rest of the platoon and their already loose formation turned into a cluster of angry men, all demanding answers.
“Stand fast!” Hilemore shouted, his voice apparently compelling some vestige of discipline for they all froze as one. Their obedience may also have been informed by the sudden appearance of Steelfine at the Viable’s rail along with the full complement of the ship’s riflemen. Hilemore allowed a few seconds to pass before speaking again, seeing the soldiers’ anger vie with their trepidation.
“Carvenport was overrun by a combined force of drakes and Spoiled over a month ago,” he told them, pausing to allow the shock of his words to sink in. “However, most of the population was successfully evacuated to Feros. Make a list of any loved ones and pass it to my first officer. Our Blood-blessed will trance with his contact in Feros to ascertain if they are amongst the evacuees.”
“Hadlock?” one of the other bondsmen asked, face ashen and eyes pleading. “My wife . . .” He trailed off, seeing Hilemore’s expression.
“I’m sorry,” Hilemore told him. “Hadlock is gone. There were no survivors.”
He turned to Major Ozpike as his men sagged into disconsolate disorder, the widower weeping openly as his comrades made lacklustre efforts to comfort him. “I believe you intended to take me to your Comptroller?”
? ? ?
“This was supposed to be my retirement posting,” Ozpike muttered as he led Hilemore up the steps to the Eastern Conglomerate Headquarters, a spindly three-storey structure that must have dated back to the earliest days of the port’s existence. “Fifteen years in the Ironship Protectorate and the pension wasn’t enough to keep the wife in her accustomed style. You a married man, Captain?”