Chapter 2

 

Over the course of the following three months, between skirmishes with the lingering resistance elements in the mountains, the Albinor forces settled into Fort Rowan to the best of their abilities. In spite of being the only considerable town in the entirety of Rowana – a beautiful but minuscule realm, occupying the most rugged land in northern Lucinia – one could still be forgiven should one mistake it, in passing, for a disorganised sprawl of crudely-constructed huts, storehouses, and dust tracks, within the semi-demolished remains of what had been, not so long ago, a high dry-stone wall.

        The only building of any considerable size was the palace, in which the court had taken up residence. The officers and men alike, by the arrangement of Admiral Lycon, were quartered in the town, and the Admiralty was presently convening in a ‘conference hall’ which had, until recently, been accommodating a party of goats. Admiral Corin – commander of the Western Fleet and its occupation force (Lycon’s Eastern Fleet having remained to defend the shores of Albinor) – felt that it was not Lycon’s business to interest himself in the occupation at all, and particularly if his interference was going to result in many more such incommodious arrangements. Why, he protested, were they not to be allotted space in the palace, when they seemed to have earned it infinitely more than Her Highness’s retinue of, in his words, whores and ruffians? With rather pronounced patience, Lycon had pointed out that whilst the palace certainly did contain enough room for both the court and the Admiralty, the former would certainly be able to hear the latter debating whether it cared for that for not, so which arrangement would My Lord Corin, bearing in mind his opinion of the court and the regent, genuinely prefer? To this, Corin had acquiesced rather bitterly.

        Not that Lycon shared his opinions, or at least not those concerning the regent, although had it not constituted the most appalling breach of protocol and tradition, he would have gladly manhandled her back across the channel to Albinor. As far as he could ascertain, the point of the campaign had been achieved. The Rowana pirate fleet was destroyed, and Queen Rowan, if not dead, was at least a friendless outcast, judging by the less-than-enthusiastic way in which her Lucinian ‘allies’ had contributed to the defence. The daemon population were, admittedly, proving difficult to pacify, and had been cordoned into one half of the town, leaving the other for the Albinor. Since those that broke the cordon had a habit of running off to join the resistance, it was impossible to let any but a few dedicated collaborators work upon the farms, which was not helping the situation. In fact, owing to Her Highness’s insistence, Lycon’s somewhat doubtful compliance, and Corin’s total disinterest in the non-combative logistics of the campaign, the Albinor were now in the unlikely situation of sharing their supplies with the daemons, whose gratitude was not especially marked.

        Lycon, however, who hated to see his regent disappointed, kept a meticulously-updated list of all known collaborators, not to mention Her Highness’s supporters in the ARN: chiefly among the new recruits, as the patrician officers by and large shared Corin’s views, and the seasoned men were simply accustomed to aping their officers’ opinions. Her Highness was in the strange, and to Lycon’s mind the not very regal habit of staging public rallies, at which she indulged some peculiarly inadequate urge to explain her policies to the herd and urge them for support. It was no small relief to him that he was able to ensure that she was never disappointed in the enthusiasm of her carefully-vetted audience. She knew nothing of his list, which was fine by him, as it would not have contributed to her fragile happiness. More to the point, it might have made her look again into the matter of why she had not won the hearts of the conquered populace, which invited such grim possibilities as the slackening of curfews, greater liberties of movement, and suchlike ingenious methods for putting the marine corps in routine mortal danger.

        Cheers and the occasional celebratory gunshot heralded the successful progress of one such gathering, as Lycon rode through the otherwise largely silent streets, varied only by the odd patrol of apathetic and home-sick marines. Her Highness’s voice could, at times, be heard over the general roar, pronouncing the accustomed rhetoric which, Lycon was rather afraid, she actually seemed to believe in: things were going well, progress was being made, the decadent puppet regime of Queen Rowan had been swept aside, and apparently, they were within sight of restoring this sad relic of the daemon decline to a state of independence and prosperity. Without levelling more than a few mountains, Lycon was somewhat baffled as to how this could be achieved, but it all seemed to please his daemon collaborators (although, come to that, she could have decreed their life-long slavery and still been guaranteed a standing ovation). Under her guidance, Rowana would become a model of peace, pleasure, and unity (three of her favourite words, which Lycon had toyed with the idea of twisting into a little motto for the ARN arms, then thought better of it) that the world would envy, in time seek to emulate, and in doing so would look to them for guidance.

        Nor were the ‘heroes’ of Albinor to be forgotten in this general renovation. Though she presently craved their patience, it would not be for much longer. When they returned from the occupation, it should be to a land in which their achievements would be duly recognised, which was a little disturbing from Lycon’s point of view, as general procedure after an ARN campaign of any description was to discharge all the surplus peasants back into their peacetime drudgery, then get the press gangs to trawl them in again as soon as the next wave of hostilities broke out. Her Highness particularly disapproved of the latter practice, although various entreaties had finally won her reluctant assent: it was, after all, as much her war as it was Albinor’s, and almost entirely her strategy. To salve her conscience, however – or so Lycon deemed – she had followed this up with a mass of ‘reforms’: labour regulations, increased liberties of movement, the virtual abolition of the patricians’ ‘marriage rights’ concerning their newly-married vassals’ wives (which, Lycon had to admit, had done his fading love life no favours), and promises of more to follow. What she was presently spouting threatened the possibilities of mass education, completely unrestricted movement, opportunities of advancement, general prosperity, and so forth. Rivers flowing with milk, honey, and no doubt – as Lycon reflected – the blood of patricians, not that he ever expected any of it to come to pass. The cheers that accompanied these proclamations were, at any rate, genuine, but it was going to take more than a few starry-eyed peasant recruits to force Her Highness’s ambitions through the defensive ranks of the established order and its loyal, jaded veterans. He could sincerely pity her, without actually hoping that any of her quixotic fantasies should see the light of day during his lifetime.

        The marines on guard outside the temporary Admiralty saluted him as he rode up, touching their foreheads with the tips of their right hands, their palms held inwards on the assurance that with the tar, grime, grease, and calluses that naval life quickly breeds, it would be the least presentable part of the hand, and certainly unfit to be displayed to a superior officer. In spite of his own hands being immaculate – having been nowhere near a tarred rope in decades – he returned their salutes in the same fashion, dismounted, gave his horse over to their care, and strode into the conference hall to a sudden, instinctively-awed silence among the assembled lesser admirals. At sixty-six years and unassassinated, Lord Lycon was a noted survivor by patrician standards, and however carefully one looked or hoped, there was precious little evidence of weakness creeping upon his straight, tall, wiry figure, or into his penetrating eyes and leonine countenance. As he removed his plumed silver helmet, his long iron-grey hair fell about his shoulders in exactly the way that would earn an inferior officer several days in chokey, but since his only superior officer was, technically speaking, the regent, this was of little enough consequence. Doubtless, it antagonised his counterpart, Lord Corin, but it would take more than a regulation haircut to earn him any friendship in that department.

        Indeed, as he sat at the richly-carved conference table – a beautiful piece of furniture which they had brought with them, and which looked sadly misplaced in the squalid dry-stone hall – his fellow fleet admiral treated him to a bombardment of filthy looks. The innocent question he followed this up with was evidently yearning to explode into threats and invectives, but Lycon bore it patiently:

        “Still here, are we, My Lord?”

        “Apparently.”

        “One would have thought, by now, you would be eager to resume command of your own fleet. If I knew of any officers like yours under my command, I doubt I could sleep at nights without being able to keep close tabs on them.” Answering this took some restraint, as the seeming desertion of Lieutenant Dorus was, indeed, keenly embarrassing for Lycon, and the fact that he had done so in the company of marines under Corin’s command, much to the latter’s chagrin, was no real consolation.

        “If you refer to the mysterious absence of my aide­­­–­”

        “Mysterious, is it? You think the cowardly little runt had some extraordinary motive for abandoning the beach-head encampment, do you?”

        “I remind you, My Lord, that he distinguished himself at Rowan Head.”

        “I remind you, that I saw the state of him after that battle. The fool lost his nerve and got lucky. That’s all, and if you think that’s worth a commendation–”

        “Duly noted. Nevertheless, Lord Corin, I do not intend to be returning to Albinor until we have a stable situation here.”

        “Then I fear I must crave your pardon for having mistaken myself for the commander of this invasion force.”

        “Oh, by no means, My Lord. Consider me a mediator, albeit one you would be wise not to undervalue. I hate the thought of you and our esteemed regent falling out, were I to absent myself.” Corin snorted his derision, before answering:

        “Well, if this is how you feel, My Lord, perhaps you would be kind enough to request that Her Highness gets back to work – preferably, on a way of transporting the chain-guns for land-based assaults – instead of idling away her time encouraging the ranks to sedition. I’m sure she would like to make herself useful again.”

        This was worrying for several reasons, but, whatever Corin’s faults, Lycon had to concede that his counterpart was an excellent barometer of patrician attitudes. Although the vice admirals and rear admirals around the table all lacked the audacity to express Corin’s views, they were doubtless very widespread by now. Their tolerance for the regency had been at its highest in the weeks leading up to the campaign and for a very few days following it, but Gloriana’s popularity among the patricians had not held out, and all the old questions were circulating on the subjects of her low origins, her foreign status, her former criminal career, and her repugnant politics, only now there was precious little to advance on the other side. Corin’s apparently insatiable desire for artillery probably offered her best hope for survival, which was hardly an uplifting reflection. Upon entering the hall, Lycon had noted, with concealed dread, the large map of Lucinia which was spread upon the table, but had forbore to mention it. His morbid curiosity could hold out no longer, but he strove to sound casual:

        “Planning an excursion, My Lord?”

        “We are determining our strategy, Lord Lycon. It need not concern you.”

        “It surprises me, though. I was rather under the impression that we’d won.”

        “Doubtless because you are no strategist, My Lord, and that is why you would be better employed in defending our shores against Lucinian reprisals.”

        “With their navy, such as it is, stationed in the Gulf of Keled, and with half a continent to sail around before they reach our shores, I suspect even our intelligence will be able to give me ample warning, should your alarmist fears come to pass.”

        “We have attacked an ally of the Lucinians. Nor, My Lord, can you deny that those pirate vessels we destroyed were of Lucinian make. They armed and supported this place in its unprovoked attacks upon our shipping, and they are therefore our declared enemies! Thankfully, the hostages will buy us time enough to prepare for what must be, always assuming our illustrious regent knows her duty.”

        Technically, Lycon saw little point in denying any of this, although he was privately undecided as to whether or not a single company of infantry, apparently under orders to surrender at the first sniff of danger, constituted military support in the strictest sense. The captured soldiers were being held in one of the upper crypts of the palace, at the desire of Lord Corin and the consent of Her Highness, and whilst their cooperation on this issue was somewhat remarkable, it left Lycon in a very lonely situation. The preceding month, Lucinia had sent ambassadors to negotiate for the release of its troops: among them, the prefect of the northern city of Tardale, and some moderately high-ranking army officers. They had been turned away on the pass by Corin’s men, without so much as a ransom demand for their troubles. This had been done entirely without consultation; either with Lycon or, to the best of his knowledge, with Gloriana. A few cautionary words with Her Highness were in order, and if he should get the slightest intimation of another embassy, he feared that some discreet bribery would have to be duly considered. It went against the patrician grain, but the idea of a war with Lucinia – even a victorious one – revolted him.

        The Lucinian Union was no democracy: on the contrary, its ruling senate of aristocratic scholars considered the principle of democracy as a floodgate best left firmly sealed. On the other hand, the three states were literally swarming with powerful, wealthy commoners: prefects, sheriffs, and all manners of industrialist and merchant barons of exactly the type that Lycon was very happy for them to keep. With the glories of empire came the problems of cultural assimilation, and that tended to work both ways. The ancestors of the Albinor – refugees from the decaying and war-torn city-states of ancient Lucinia – had settled their island over a thousand years ago, which ever since then had boasted a reasonable approximation of the society that had been in its death-throes when they had set out. Since that time, the mainland had played host to any number of languages, migrations, plagues, wars, myths, theories, arguments, experiments, conclusions, refutations, explosions, religions, heresies, jihads, schisms, declines, falls, philosophies, revolutions, and so forth. It was enough to give any sensible patrician the cold sweats, and if Corin was willing to risk a piece of that action for whatever gain, Lycon was inclined to believe him as insane as he found him contemptible. He could hardly avoid a similar opinion of Gloriana’s faculties, although he found it impossible to think of her with anything approaching contempt. In her own warped and deranged way, she had doubtless reasoned everything out ‘for the best,’ and Lycon was not looking forward to the time when the truth would be broken upon her. For that matter, it was just possible that Corin’s over-enthusiastic paranoia stemmed from a genuine sense of patriotism, but Lycon seriously doubted it.

        The meeting had drifted on regardless of his reveries, but it did not sound as though he had missed anything he could possibly have wanted to hear. At the moment, Rear Admiral Mantus was speculating, with somewhat ghoulish enthusiasm, on the battlefield potential of a carriage-mounted version of the chain-gun, and Corin was warmly seconding his suggestion that they communicate their desire for such a design to her Provisional Royal Highness without delay. When the troubling conference was at an end, Lycon set out for the palace, though not to discuss chain-guns: doubtless, they had their uses, and he was quite keen that no-one should go about inventing new ones for them, though he despaired of any success on that score. Even if he assassinated Gloriana – which he would much rather not have done, in any case – someone would eventually work out how to mount the wretched things, and that, he feared, was just for starters. In spite of a long life in the ARN, new weapons entered into his general opinions on the subject of new things, and if he had considered Her Highness as a rational being, he would have been able to despise her without the slightest difficulty.

        Still, rational or not, she would have to be brought to a reasonable opinion on the question of the hostages, before things got seriously out of hand. Nor would it do any harm to bring up the matter of the ambassadors, since it was far from unlikely that the Lucinians would have another stab at diplomacy before they resorted to any such drastic measures as Corin and his friends were drooling at the thought of. Tempting as it was to bring up such matters as the disappearance of the brig Vanquish and its crew, the absence of Lieutenant Dorus and the four marines from his division, not to mention the ‘workshop’ he had stumbled upon in the lower crypts, there was little point in antagonising the poor lady. Not until he had some evidence to face her with, at any rate.