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  The skyship was approaching from starboard, but the Falcon was passing it on its north-westerly course. Nico shielded his eyes. Ahead of them, and further off to the east, another skyship was approaching on a course that would bring it across the Falcon's path.

  Like talons, he thought, closing their grip on us.

  'Boy!'

  He swung about. Through a parting in the scrum of men, he spotted Ash kneeling alone on the foredeck. The old Rshun beckoned him with a flick of his head.

  Nico walked the length of the ship by making careful use of the rail. The Falcon was levelling off, making it easier for him. He climbed the steps and approached the old man.

  Ash nodded. 'You're late.'

  'Late? For what?'

  'Your morning session. Had you forgotten?'

  'Ash, in case you hadn't noticed, we're in a bit of a fix here.'

  'I told you before. It is master, or Master Ash. Now sit.'

  'But we don't have time for this!'

  The old man sighed.

  'Nico, there is no better time for you to learn than when I am in the field and going about my work. This' – and he tossed a hand about, while a gust of wind tried to snatch it from him – 'is my work.'

  Nico had no response to that. With a frown he took up the same kneeling position as the old man, setting the meat cleaver to one side.

  'Now, remember, focus on your breathing. Follow it as it moves through you.'

  This is absurd, said Nico's mind. For a moment he tried to focus as instructed, but through the struts supporting the rail he could see the second enemy ship growing steadily nearer. It was no longer just a dot but a bead of white.

  'Relax,' the old man said.

  It was odd, but as Nico inhaled and his heart began to slow from its previous breakneck pace, the activity on the decks began to quieten too.

  A hush descended upon the creaking ship. All ears listened to the drive tubes pushing them forwards.

  There was nothing left for the men to do now but wait.

  Nico closed his eyes and found that it helped. Within moments a vague sense of detachment came over him, so that he could tolerate the increasing pain in his legs and back. He observed himself inhaling cool air, then exhaling. A moment of emptiness; then the pain worsened and brought with it a return of his thoughts. Through his eyelashes he peered at the bird-of-war. It was closer still.

  The ship's bell rang out the hour, sounding as though it was simply another routine day aboard ship. Save that there was none of the customary coarse laughter, and very little talk.

  Ash exhaled a long breath. 'We must make ready now,' he said, unfolding himself from the deck.

  Nico rose with him, wincing at the stiffness in his legs. He followed Ash to the rail.

  The birds-of-war were close enough for Nico to make out the curving hulls hanging from beneath their envelopes. The approaching ships were twice as big as the Falcon, each hull lined with a double row of gun ports. The first was directly behind now, trailing them. The other was still ahead, angling on its intercept course, so that a great red palm could soon be seen stamped against the side of its envelope.

  'Why aren't we turning away?' Nico exclaimed. He could see the imperial marines lining the rails of the approaching ship. 'We should turn west with the wind and make a run for it.'

  'The captain is an astute man. Most likely there is another bird-o'-war lying to the west of us. They act in threes, in general. These two are trying to drive us towards the third.'

  'So we're just going to let them run across us?'

  'We lose speed every time we turn. The ship behind might gain range. Better to offer this one a parting shot, then race past as it makes its own turn.'

  'It sounds like no plan at all.'

  'It is the best plan available. It is what I would do, given the circumstances. The captain has speed on his side, for the Falcon is a fast ship. He will try to cut a path straight through.'

  It was then that Trench finally broke the silence of the decks. 'Make ready,' he roared, as the leading bird-of-war flew across their course. Men squatted, seeking cover.

  The imperial guns opened up, shattering the day with roiling eruptions of smoke along the ship's side.

  'Down,' Ash growled, and the old man pulled him to the deck just as a nearby section of rail exploded into splinters. Something dark and spinning hurtled over their heads.

  Nico gasped, deafened by the noise of the guns. Everything inside of him had turned to water. He covered his head with his arms. Shouts carried through the din, no obvious sense to them. There was a crash overhead, then a screech of wood and a muffled thump. He found himself buried by a heavy weight.

  'Boy!'

  Hands yanked at his clothing. He looked up to see Ash dragging him out from underneath the fallen rigging. Nico kicked his feet until he was clear of it.

  The old man shouted something. 'My sword,' he was saying. 'Fetch my sword from the cabin. Quickly, now.'

  Ash hauled him to his feet, and propelled Nico headlong towards the stairs. Nico slithered down them on his back. As he slipped at the bottom, he saw it was blood that slicked the hard deck. Right next to his right hand lay a dead sailor, his head mashed flat. Nico reeled away, but kept staring at the hideous sight. Matted hair and bone fragments smeared red amid tatters of skin. Grey matter that must be… Sweet Ers, that must be brains. Nico's legs took over. He ran at a crouch along the deck, jumping over men who were lying prone for cover, dodging others who were rushing forwards to the fallen rigging. He glanced over his shoulder. The bird-of-war was turning to come along their port side.

  'You filthy bastards!' Trench hollered from the quarterdeck, his hands clamped to the rails as he glared at the ship sweeping around them.

  The Falcon bucked beneath Nico's feet. Smoke poured over the gunwales as she fired her own guns, pitifully few it seemed now, sending chains and debris hurling into the enemy envelope and rigging. He coughed, wiping his eyes clear. Gunfire crackled through the confusion. A sailor lurched in front of him, a look of wonder on his deathly white face as he pitched over the rail and into space. Another, a skinny youth, wept uncontrollably where he stood.

  The top of the stairs came into view. Something hot brushed past his head. More chips of wood flew from the rail. He made a dive for the steps, rolled on his shoulder, fell and tumbled all the way down into the common room below.

  He gasped at a sudden pain in his side. Fumes of blackpowder rolled through the cramped space, making him choke. This room was where he had earlier sat and eaten his breakfast in a quiet atmosphere of pipe smoke, but now men manhandled steaming guns and stepped without pause over their fallen comrades, ignoring their calls for aid. Nico was frozen where he lay: for a time he thought of nothing at all, entirely empty inside himself. It was easy when he did not try. He watched as though through a narrow tunnel, his own self far removed from what he was seeing. He glimpsed the bird-of-war sailing past the gun ports. It fired again, blackening the space between the ships. The room darkened. Trails of debris cut through the foul air – cannon shots, punching through the hull and filling the room with bright spinning shards of wood that clattered against beams and guns before finding purchase in men's flesh.

  It was no safer here than above decks. Nico rolled over, panting. On all fours he crawled towards his cabin, muttering nonsense.

  Berl passed him on the way. The boy was helping a wounded man to stagger clear. He glanced down at Nico, on all fours, but didn't stop.

  In the cabin Nico swung the door shut, took a moment with his back against it to regain his wits. He was shaking all over.

  Sweet Ers, he thought as he gripped his stomach. His bowels were about to empty themselves.

  He staggered to the privy hole at the back of the room and threw open its lid, revealing a chute stained with previous use and leading to a drop and the sea all that way below. He unbuckled his belt, dropped his pants, planted himself on the hole. Nico moaned with sudden relief.

  He h
adn't realized it would be like this. The rattle of gunfire against the hull made him want to crawl under the bunk and hide, as though he had become a young boy again. His father had told him once of how battle could turn a man's insides to liquid, or freeze him so badly he could not act at all. Somehow, at the time, Nico had assumed that his father was talking about the fainthearted, about men ill suited for war.

  Perhaps he was, Nico thought now, and did not like the taste of it, a tangible bitterness in his mouth. Perhaps he really was a coward, and I too am a coward, and we are both cowards, father and son.

  Nico spat, wiped his lips with the back of a trembling hand. Hastily, he cleaned himself with a graf leaf and fastened his pants.

  Ash's sword hung above the old man's bunk. Nico would have forgotten why he had come here if he had not spotted it there. He took it with him as he stepped out into the fury of the common room, and then pounded up the stairs.

  The second bird-of-war had passed them, and now was nosing across their tail. The first was still following. He joined Ash where he found him on the quarterdeck, keeping low as though the thin struts supporting the rail might protect him from incoming fire. 'Your sword,' he said, and Ash looked down at the offered blade for a moment, as though he had forgotten about it, too. He accepted the weapon.

  'It is not safe up here,' Ash told him.

  'It's not safe anywhere!'

  Bolts ripped past him. Nico ducked lower. The kerido was cowering next to the wheel; it saw Nico crouching much in the same way as itself and, scrabbling across to him, leapt into his arms. Its hot breath stank of rotting food.

  At the rear of the quarterdeck, Dalas directed the swivel-mounted cannon at the enemy ship crossing their stern. He aimed carefully as the vessel presented her broadside, tracking the gun to follow its envelope. Captain Trench stood by his side, taking a bearing along the gun's barrel. He slapped Dalas on the back.

  Nico covered his ears just as the big Corician fired. The kerido flinched in his arms.

  A tear sprouted near the nose of the envelope. Nothing happened for a moment, as the torn silk flapped just like all the other minor tears along its side. But then the prow of the envelope began to dip, and the ship went into a shallow dive.

  'Good shot,' observed Ash.

  As though in anger, the falling ship fired what guns it could still bring to bear. It was like being hit by a wave: the force of it threw Nico on to his back, and he coughed for air, winded, and swallowed dust. Splinters jabbed his legs; the kerido's arms dug into his neck; in a daze he saw Dalas sprawled on his back, with other sailors scattered around him. Half the wheel had been torn away, and Stones was nowhere to be seen. Through it all, Trench reeled about as though drunk.

  Ash was still on his feet, by the remains of the rail, slightly hunched as though braced against a strong wind. He was looking at something, and Nico followed his gaze. A large object had just shot out from a cloud of smoke on the foredeck of the pursuing bird-of-war, trailing something as it raced in a shallow arc towards them.

  A grappling iron crashed past Nico, and landed on the main deck of the Falcon. A chain was attached to it, whose heavy links crashed through the stern rail, its other end firmly fixed to the Mannian ship's prow.

  'Quickly, over the side with it!' It was the thick voice of the captain, righting himself.

  A few men leapt to the grapple, but they were already too late. The chain lost its slack and Nico stared in horror as the grapple dragged itself along the deck, caught on the lip of the quarterdeck, tore deep into the planking.

  The Falcon lurched, losing speed. They were caught like a fish on a hook.

  'All is lost!' cried Nico, frightened out of his wits. He didn't care that he sounded like some overripe actor exclaiming his woe to the crowd. This was madness.

  Ash gazed down at his apprentice, as the pursuing ship closed the distance. Sailors began attacking the planking around the grapple with axes, trying to loosen its grip. For a spell, Ash said nothing, just stood there watching Nico, and gathering stillness about himself. Then he laughed, the sound of it rolling away with the wind, sharp mockery, yet with an underlying lightness.

  'You youngsters,' he proclaimed, 'you despair so easily.'

  Nico clutched the kerido's body close to him, both of them trembling.

  'Captain,' snapped Ash, gaining Trench's attention. 'Turn us about.'

  'Turn about? Are you mad?'

  Yes, decided Nico, he's flying with the fishes. Whatever he says, sweet Ers, don't listen.

  'Turn us about,' Ash repeated.

  Trench took position at the wheel, spinning what remained of it to turn the ship about.

  The Falcon heaved around, losing a good portion of her port rails as the chain scudded along her gunwales. Their pursuer turned with them, though not as sharply. The chain slackened.

  'Heave, you fellows!' shouted the captain to his men. Dalas had by now regained his feet. He strained to lift the grapple, then he and six other men rushed over to the side with it and pitched it into thin air.

  Trench spun the wheel again, regaining their original course. They had lost height during the engagement, and at this lower level the wind was with them. The sculls snapped full with it and the Falcon surged forwards.

  'Tend to the wounded,' Trench yelled. 'And get the stitchers up into the envelope. We're venting gas from the cells.'

  The crew knew then that they were safely through. They didn't cheer like the heroes do in the sagas. Instead, as the imperial ships dropped behind, it was a stunned silence that fell across the decks.

  'I hope you do not consider that another debt to be repaid,' Trench muttered over his shoulder to Ash.

  The old Rshun said nothing.

  Nico stared about him. Even now he could hear the cries of wounded men who would likely not make it to the end of the day.

  I'm much too young for this, he thought, with a sudden sobering clarity.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Congress 'We need those ships, Phrades,' announced First Minister Chonas, leaning forward in his chair as though to add some much needed emphasis to his words. He held up a fist to the dozen ministers assembled before him for this cabinet of war, and squeezed it until the knuckles turned white. 'Our people must eat.'

  Phrades, Minister of Ship Building, glanced sidelong to his son, where the pair sat together at the great oval table of the assembly chamber, amid their fellow ministers. Most of the faces there were dusted white to mark them as members of the Michine class born and bred, although there were a few notable exceptions. Phrades could not speak aloud these days, due to a cancer of the throat they said. Instead he whispered drily to his son, the young man's face in stark contrast to the pallid complexion of his father, being tanned and without make-up, as many of the Michine youth favoured these days. The young man listened carefully with a tilt of his head, then cleared his throat and stood.

  'We understand, First Minister, and you must believe us when we say we bend our wills to this task like no other. All resources that can be diverted from other projects have been appropriated so as to speed up the completion of the ships. We have even contributed a portion of our own family fortune to this task, in organizing the importation of raw materials. It pains me – us – to confess that we can do no more than we are doing now. It will take us one month more to finish the remaining merchanters under construction at the Al-Khos dockyards. In the meantime we must rely on the private longtraders to continue picking up the slack. The people, I fear, must tighten their belts further.'

  A stomach gurgled loudly in the room just then, causing a few heads to turn in that direction.

  First Minister Chonas was not the kind of man to acknowledge such a distraction, nor was he inclined to take no for an immediate answer.

  'And what did the Pincho have to say to our requests?' he asked, referring to the main assembly on Minos, the seat of Mercian democracy.

  'They, too, build as fast as they can, but they are still hard pressed to refit the fl
eets after the spring storms. The new vessels will not be with us until the beginning of autumn.'

  'At least,' offered Minister Memes, sitting with his equally tanned face resting on his clasped hands, 'our food reserves should be restored to satisfactory levels in time for winter.' The voice of the wealthy gala exporter sounded restrained in the huge dimensions of the chamber, the speaker doubtless conscious of what he represented to these other men around him, his great wealth and political position having been gained despite being born of the lower classes – another reflection of the changing times.

  'That is easy enough to say,' countered First Minister Chonas, 'since few of us here in this room look as though we have been going hungry.' Yet Chonas himself looked lean enough, as though he at times did indeed go hungry. The First Minister held up a palm to silence any protest at this accusation, before continuing in a voice flat with resignation. 'No, they are right to put the fleets first. It is better that our people tighten their belts a little further,' – he ranged around the room glaring from beneath enormous, bushy eyebrows – 'than we should lose our naval supremacy, and thus lose all.'

  'General Creed, you have a request for us?'

  At this, Bahn's hungry stomach grumbled loudly once again. He pulled his gaze away from the banquet of food waiting close to the main door of the chamber, and sat up in his chair next to the general. They sat at one end of the table, facing those opposite, and behind them the great sun-fattened windows of the south gallery. No reply came from his superior, nor did Bahn sense any shift in the man's posture.

  Glancing sideways at the old warrior, he saw that General Creed, Lord Protector of Khos, was now staring out through the same windows at the pale blue sea of the Bay of Squalls. From here they could not see the cliffs on which the building of the Congress stood, let alone the slum-town of the Shoals, which sprawled along the foot of the cliffs, half submerged in seawater during storm tides. Instead the vista revealed was a pleasant one: the air was especially clear today, everything crisp in detail so hat landmarks appeared closer than they really were. A squadron of triple-masted men-of-war roamed the waters, bearing the Khosian flag. They ranged beyond reach of the heavy Mannian guns positioned on the far shore, seen from here as a coastline of russet hills made pale by the sunlight and dotted with grey fortifications. From here the forts could be seen to cluster most thickly around the dark smudge of the Pathian town of Nomarl where, within the harbour walls, the hulks of a Mannian fleet were reported to still lie abandoned in the water, charred and sea-rotted after being burned at anchor by a Khosian raid three years earlier – the last offensive action the Khosians had mounted with any success.