Chapter 1

 

If Second Lieutenant Dorus (Marine Corps, ARN) had been gifted with any imagination to speak of, he might have attempted to trace some lingering remnants of beauty in the face of his would-be lover. Since this was not the case, he was spared a good deal of wasted effort. Whoever had been employed to efface the beauty of the Royal Regent Gloriana – Marshal of the Realms, Lord High Admiral of the Fleets &c. – they had clearly been dedicated craftsmen, and determined that no critical eye should pick flaws in their work. If her absent nose, eye and broken teeth seemed to suggest the operations of crude hacks, the meticulous searing and laceration of every square millimetre of surrounding skin, leaving an animated mass of scar tissue in lieu of a face, presented the trademarks of an artist.

        To judge the age of Her Acting Royal Highness was quite beyond his powers of discernment. Her elaborate court trappings laid aside, and clad, or rather veneered, in a clinging garment of black silk, her silhouetted body seemed the very form of youth and vitality, which sat none too comfortably with the object that fortune had linked it with. The removal of her lofty black wig had uncovered not a strand of natural hair, but that probably meant nothing. At all events, it was a typical feature of the daemon hanger-ons that Dorus had seen lounging around the court for the past five years, not to mention the ones that he and his division had encountered at the beach-head last month, in circumstances which he was unlikely to forget. He had been granted many close scrutinies of daemon faces after that skirmish, generally in better condition than the one he now regarded, though the same could not have been said for their bearers. Wigs were common enough among both the men and the women, although steel caps were more in vogue among the wiser ones. The thought of Her Highness’s tortured face framed by lustrous artificial locks would probably have done nothing for the lieutenant’s morale, so it really was just as well he had no imagination to speak of.

        As for Her Highness, she had expected that this honour would, most likely, be received in a less than enthusiastic fashion, and her level, sardonic voice – far from the rasping, sepulchral tones which Dorus had half expected – betrayed no trace, lingering or otherwise, of anguish or dismay, which was somewhat reassuring. Rather more than her words, at any rate:

        “If it is of any help, Lieutenant, you may close your eyes.”

        A tempting offer, he thought, but would have preferred a direct order. Dorus was not an ambitious man, which was a wise outlook for all younger sons of the Albinor patrician class, expected as they were to observe a respectable obscurity for the egregious crime of having been conceived when the family fortune was already spoken for. However, he was aware of many ways in which his already unenviable career might get spectacularly worse. His contact with the court had not been extensive, and as aide to Admiral Lycon there had certainly been no occasion for him to develop a close acquaintance with the resident daemon loyalists (as they styled themselves), never mind with the regent herself. Now, alone in her presence, it seemed prudent to assume that she was a whimsical and probably deranged tyrant, fond of laying verbal traps in the path of any wretch who innocently chanced to offend her. Hence his persistent, and increasingly desperate silence.

        Gloriana drew a sigh, and withdrew to a couch upon which, before court appearances, she deposited her battle-dress (as she referred to it, for reasons quite unknown to several field officers who could not recall having seen her on the beaches). Her attendants had removed from the antechamber, along with the rest of her trappings, the appallingly lifelike waxen mask with which she complimented, for want of a better word, her court attire. She would not, however, suffer to be at any great distance from the plain visor-like artefact she wore as a rule. The sight of this unadorned steel plate, saving the eye and mouth holes (as small as practicality could possibly allow), was some comfort for Dorus, although it removed every last, vague hope that he might yet be spared a duty which now seemed fatally certain.

        Gloriana approached him, in what, from her limited experience, she possibly believed was a seductive manner, linked her hands behind his stock-still neck, and hung there, looking up into his dispassionate, though ever so slightly spasmodic face. Any positive effect which may have resulted from the gentle friction of her silk gloves against his skin was mitigated by the sickly, vaguely necrotic aroma which infested her vicinity, and caused Dorus to wonder whether he should dare to recommend that Her Highness summon a surgeon to check up on the condition of her wounds. On reflection, however, he thought it more likely that the stench was courtesy of some vile salve that she used in the hope that her injuries might keep as well as they could, or in the extremely wishful hope of them healing any further.

        Holding this picturesque attitude and waiting on inspiration to dictate their next moves did not prove fruitful, and Gloriana at length detached herself from her companion statue, and abandoning all efforts at regal posture, slumped listlessly upon the cluttered couch. At length she spoke, in tones of matching weariness:

        “Tell me, Lieutenant: what think you of Operation Neo Arcady? I know your capabilities, but would you have volunteered for such a mission, given the choice?”

        Such a question would, under normal circumstances, have condemned Dorus to fresh torments in the pits of anxiety. Under present circumstances, any change of subject was a benediction to be seized eagerly.

        “I think it has great merits, Your Highness,” he answered, enthusiastically diplomatic. She sat up a little, and as far as he could tell, regarded him with attention and expectation, so he erred on the side of caution and continued: “The admirals, I understand, are becoming inclined to carry the war south. They are... apprehensive that the Lucinian Union will take reprisals for our victory here, are they not? Queen Rowan was their ally, and there are those troops of theirs we captured.”

        “The Union ‘garrison’ of Fort Rowan surrendered without a shot fired,” she answered, with heartfelt derision, “and I fully expect they would have retreated if it their daemon ‘allies’ had not been right at their backs. Do you suppose they valued the alliance? For myself, I have no doubts that the Lucinian Union will sue for peace. If they were so ready to crawl into bed with that degenerate, Queen Rowan, I confess I should feel quite offended it they draw the line at us.”

        Wincing slightly at her choice of metaphor, Dorus answered:

        “But if they want peace, Your Highness, wouldn’t that be acceptable? I thought that the purpose of Neo Arcady was to avert a war with the Union, but if there isn’t going to be one–”

        “The situation would be unstable,” she interjected, rather irritably. “Make no mistake, lieutenant: the Lucinians may apply to become our allies, but we have seen the measure of their fidelity. Besides which, the poor wretches we fought here were of no real threat to man or beast.” Dorus was prepared to forgive this observation from someone who had doubtless never been confined in the dim, sweaty interior of an iron-clad ship during a sustained bombardment of heavy artillery, pumping away frenziedly at the mechanism of a chain-gun and wondering how many more enemy bombardiers would have to die before the infernal noise and motion would cease, leaving your surroundings with only half of their hellishness. It was advisable to think of your targets as bombardiers, snipers, or something equally function-specific. ‘Conscripts’ was not recommended: almost as bad as the ‘lads’ and ‘girls’ who they had mostly proven to be after the forces had disembarked at the beach-head. The seasoned legionaries and higher ranks had remained to defend Fort Rowan. Desertions from the coastal defence posts had been widespread, but at least two hundred raw recruits had remained to be cut down by gunfire, and the burning and splintered debris of exploding ammunition caches and powder magazines.

        On the plus side, only two iron-clads out of a fleet of fifty had been sunk, holed beneath the water-line, but their armoured canopies had done all that was expected of them, without compromising the vessels’ manoeuvrability to any grievous extent. As for the chain-gun, Dorus knew all too intimately that it was a considerably more effective weapon than anything the daemon renegades (as Her Highness referred to them) had been able to field against them. It had been a famous victory, and would no doubt enhance Her Highness’s continued value in the eyes of the Admiralty, although judging from her current pessimism, one would hardly think it had achieved even that.

        “The strength of our forces will shortly be common knowledge throughout the Union,” she continued. “This protectorate – as they called it – Rowana, was always a weak realm. A pathetic, pretentious shadow of past glories, conceded to the daemons as an act of mercy – scraps thrown to a dying beggar. That is the Lucinian character, lieutenant: always ready to pity their defeated, downtrodden foe, as long as they remain defeated and downtrodden. Will they tolerate us as a powerful neighbour? I think not. They have enough to put up with on that score: the Arriman Confederacy lies on their eastern borders, and war is only held off by mutual squeamishness. It would take but one courageous maniac, and then... I do not think the Union army will abandon that front. But I should not be surprised if their bickering states unite in common fear, and despatch their civilian militias, in which case we could be overwhelmed. And if we gain the advantage, they might get desperate enough to send the army, then you’ll find out what a real war looks like. Or to take another situation: suppose that we trust their commitment to peace, which I do not recommend, but let us suppose. There are still your precious admirals to consider, to whom the novelty of peace has worn thin. Indeed, they expect I shall be providing them with more and deadlier designs for their arsenal, and if I am suicidal enough to refuse it will take little enough imagination for their armourers to build upon the ideas I have already given them. Have you a plan of your own for averting these catastrophes, or are you content to follow mine, lieutenant?”

        “Since it is as you say, Your Highness, I can only assure you that I shall do everything in my ability to ensure the success of your strategy.”

        “I have no doubts of your ability, nor of your dedication, Dorus,” she declared, with a passionate note that brought his anxieties rushing back in force. “You shall return, the harbinger of the new golden age, and your achievement will not be unrewarded. In point of fact, I had thought... when my reign is consolidated... I shall be in need of trusted companions... rather, one close... associate... if you understand.”

        He understood full well, and it is testimony to the enduring customs of Albinor high society that his horrified reaction to this proposal was entirely at the idea of the grotesque mésalliance it represented. Perhaps being the second son of a Viscount was not a particularly distinguished or enviable calling in the bloated, sprawling aristocracy of Albinor, but that alone was hardly a reason for any respectable young patrician to be pursuing nuptials with some glorified pirate whore, with neither birth nor honour, who had bribed and cheated her way into a position of grudgingly-tolerated power. Nor was that a position that even she expected to retain for any length of time barring the success of a plan that Dorus considered far-fetched to say the least. He could not suppress these thoughts by any means, and managed to feel somewhat ashamed of them, although had it not been for Her Highness’s disadvantages beyond the social level, he could have persisted in his scornful reflections with perfect peace of mind.

        Under the circumstances, silence seemed to be the diplomatic response. Few people had ever appreciated silence as much as Dorus was rapidly learning to. Gloriana’s response, though sarcastic and obviously unamused, could have been so much worse, given the provocation:

        “I see that you are overwhelmed indeed! Or that I have been gravely mistaken. Very well. Let that pass. We shall talk of the operation. Tell me: have you picked out your men?”

        “Yes, Your Highness. Four of the marines will be coming with me after we make our landing.”

        “Will four be sufficient to carry all the equipment? Nothing can be left behind, you understand? What if some of you are killed?”

        “If necessary, two or three could manage it. I doubt that will be our problem. Since you bring up the subject, however, Your Highness, I was wondering about these glass beads. Do you really think it will be quite safe to use them in barter?”

        “Your mission will certainly not be ‘quite safe,’ lieutenant. I should abandon that hope, if I were you. As for the beads, that cannot be helped. When you and your comrades ransacked this fortress I am very much afraid they did not dig up so much as an ounce of real jade, or if they did they kept it for themselves, which is as like as not. I’ve no mind to delay. We must make do. We know little enough of the Lake People, but jade is one of the most recognised currencies of their empire. It is only necessary that the imitations should pass scrutiny long enough for you to make your purchases, then to make yourselves scarce. I fail to see that such a straightforward aspect of my plan deserves so much of your anxiety. Does that answer all your objections? Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like the ship painted a different colour?”

        Considering the measure of help and sympathy that had answered his first objection, he decided to leave the rest unspoken. Operation Neo Arcady was a dangerous, and, to his mind, an ill-considered venture, but being considered unequal to the task might hold greater, and certainly more immediate dangers, which was a good reason not to lose Her Highness’s confidence along with her friendship.

        “On this occasion, then, I shall take your silence as a positive sign,” said Gloriana, with a tinge of resentment. “Well, you have your orders. We can hardly hope to conceal your absence indefinitely, but try not to make yourself too conspicuous in the meantime. You may go.”

        The long-awaited benediction was eagerly seized upon, and Gloriana noted that in his enthusiasm, the lieutenant quite forgot to the make the customary salute due even to a mere dictator, but no matter. She could hardly have him confined to barracks when he was booked for a secret expedition of her own devising in less than twenty-four hours. She watched him march, smartly but swiftly, out of the antechamber, heaved another sigh, and reached for her battle-dress – which was, in fact, a dress: a plain, dark grey, loose-fitting affair, adorned only with the embroidered arms of the Albinor Royal Navy (sea-god over crossed swords device, argent, on a round field, azure) and her honorary admiral stripes. It was accompanied by a headscarf of the same dun material, which neatly co-ordinated with the steel mask, and a leather bandolier, upon which was holstered her revolving pistol: one of her own inventions, and a source of no small pride. Not that this prototype design was perfect, in her estimation. All she had done, was to weld together six small, breech-loading barrels, bolt them onto a ratcheted spindle, and attach this contraption to the back end of a normal fire-lock pistol. It was all rather crude, but it worked well enough – just like the chain-guns, the iron-clads, and the repeating carbines that were already in general issue – and that was all that ever mattered.

        To think of herself, and to be thought of as a great designer were Gloriana’s chief pleasures, which made her sufferings over the years trivial in the balance. To be remembered and revered for her designs was her ruling, and indeed, now her only ambition. She could suffer any amount of Lieutenant Dorus’ scorn and revulsion, just so long as the ingrate survived long enough to play his part in her operation. That achieved, all ordinary joys would pale into insignificance, and in the universal praise of humanity, she would be quite content to renounce all pleasure and power. If he failed, she was dead, but Gloriana was nothing if not confident in her projects.