Do-faq had 166, to which could be added the 19 ships Tork had left behind to guard Zanshaa against a sneak attack. Engaging these with the Fourth Fleet as it now stood would be akin to suicide, unless Wei Jian’s 55 could be added.

  Michi, Martinez concluded, was going to have to send a mortifying message to Wei Jian, and he had to hope that Michi was sufficiently skilled at humiliating herself to be able to bring Jian’s squadrons into the war.

  He hoped they were all sufficiently humbled enough to get past the mortification and be ready to fight.

  Martinez took a series of slow, deliberate breaths as he contemplated whether to respond to Michi’s message at all. Bombardment of Los Angeles was currently accelerating at two gravities toward the wormhole that would take them toward Harzapid, with the crew lying in their acceleration couches and wearing vac suits. The suits weren’t strictly necessary, but Martinez wanted the pulpies to reacquaint themselves with ship discipline and battle conditions after their days of liberty at Zarafan.

  Martinez decided that Michi was worthy of his commiseration. “You have my sympathy, Lady Fleetcom,” he sent. “I wish you every success in dealing with Squadron Leader Jian. I have no advice to give, as I’ve never met her, but I hope she proves pliable.”

  Jian, he knew, had been in charge of ship construction in Seizho during the previous war and had never been in combat. Which meant, he thought, that she was ignorant of the bare facts of combat—and worse, that she didn’t even know what she didn’t know.

  That, he thought, did not bode well.

  Sula woke screaming from a dream of death and blood. She gasped in air. Stars spun furious circles in her eyes. Her heart hammered like an engine with a broken flywheel, and the thick warm scent of gore clogged her senses.

  Sula’s sleeping cabin slowly ceased its rotation. She waited until her breath and heartbeat returned to normal, got out of bed, and put on a dressing gown, then went to her kitchen, where she found Shawna Spence filling a tea kettle.

  “Sorry I woke you,” Sula said.

  Spence shrugged. “Would you like tea to keep you awake or tea to put you back to sleep?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be doing any more sleeping tonight.”

  “Right.” She opened a cabinet and drew out a container of tea. “Would you like anything to eat?”

  “I don’t think so.” Sula shook her head, and a shaft of pain drove through her skull. She blinked rapidly as her vision seemed to flicker on and off, and put a hand to her temple as the pain eased. “I’m going to go sit down,” she said.

  She went to her wedge-shaped dining room and sat at the blunt end of the wedge-shaped table. Perhaps, she thought, drinking half a bottle of fortified dessert wine before going to bed hadn’t been the wisest course of action, especially as it hadn’t stopped the nightmare from creeping into her brain.

  The war had triggered a host of toxic memories, and by now her staff was probably used to her shrieks tearing them from sleep at odd hours. Her liaison with Martinez had produced a respite—the nightmares never came when she was lying in Martinez’s arms. But now, during the first proper night’s sleep she’d had since dropping Lamey at Martinez’s feet like a bloody sacrifice, the nightmares had come back to shred her nerves with adamantine claws.

  After a few minutes, Spence came into the room carrying a porcelain teapot with a pomegranate-and-tulip pattern, made for Sula on Earth, in Cappadocia. The fragrance of the tea whispered into the air.

  “Join me if you want,” Sula said. “I can’t promise to be good company, though.”

  “I’ll join if I may, thank you.” Spence agitated the teapot gently, to help the tea steep, then placed it on the table. She returned to the kitchen for a pair of cups and a squeeze bottle of cane syrup. They sat in silence until the tea had finished steeping, and then Spence poured for them both. Sula reached for the cane syrup and dropped a long, sweet gold serpent into her tea.

  The black tea was lychee and had a smooth vanilla taste, still detectable under the sweet syrup. Sula put her cup down and sighed.

  “Lots of changes,” Spence offered.

  “Yes.”

  “So we’re schoolmasters now? Training up hundreds of recruits from nothing?”

  Sula studied the pomegranate on her teacup. “Their ships were built at Laredo, and they will meet us between here and there. And once we have crews aboard, we charge off to wherever we’re needed, to rescue whoever needs saving.”

  Spence offered no comment other than a skeptical look. She sipped her tea, then returned it to the saucer with a decisive click. She frowned, then spoke.

  “Gavin says you think it’s your fault.”

  “My fault?”

  “Whatever happened in the last two days.” Spence leaned forward over her teacup. “Two nights ago, I brought a pair of meals to your quarters so that you and Fleetcom Martinez could dine together, as you’d been doing nearly every night since we arrived in Zarafan. Then, the very next morning, you’re no longer the tactical officer, and instead you’re headmistress to some kind of ramshackle academy that’s supposed to train hundreds of recruits and fight a war at the same time, and you’re . . .” She hesitated.

  “I’m . . . ?”

  “Enjoying libations with dinner,” Spence said diplomatically.

  Sula sipped her tea and nodded. “That’s a fair summary,” she said.

  “And how is it your fault?” Spence asked. “He’s your superior officer—and he’s not only married, he’s married to a woman so high-powered that he can never afford to leave her. Now his position is basically unchanged, he’s still married to a Chen, he’s still in command of the Fourth Fleet, and he’s still the victor of both battles of Shulduc—and you’ve lost your post and have been exiled to—” She waved a hand. “To this. You’re the victim here.”

  Sula sipped her tea and wondered how to respond. Spence was a servant, and it wasn’t customary for a Peer and officer to confide in a servant. But Spence and Macnamara had been with her for nearly ten years, they had fought side by side to take the High City, and for a very long time they’d been as close as family.

  Besides, servants knew practically everything anyway, and in this case, they knew just enough to draw the wrong conclusions.

  “What you likely don’t know,” Sula said, “is that Gareth and I were involved years ago, during the Naxid War. I panicked and ran, and before I could recover, Roland had bought Terza for Gareth. So Terza is sort of my fault.”

  Spence opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it. Sula went on.

  “The other thing you should know is that these last few months, I was in charge. I decided to initiate the affair. I decided its limits and its parameters. When there were lines to be drawn, I drew them.” She rubbed the pad of scar tissue on her right thumb. “But I fucked up, I wrecked everything, and it turned out I wasn’t in charge because nobody was in charge. Chaos was in charge. The whirlwind was in charge, and I stepped right in front of it.”

  Spence blinked. “I don’t know how the, the whirlwind could be your fault.”

  “It wasn’t my fault, but it was my fault I didn’t see it coming.”

  “I don’t see how you could have—”

  “I prefer to keep what’s left of my privacy to myself,” Sula said sharply. If this conversation continued much further, she might find herself explaining why she’d fired two bullets into Lamey’s chest.

  The barrier of rank and class had just fallen between them, almost with an audible clang. “Yes, my lady,” Spence said promptly.

  “Thank you for the tea,” Sula said. “I think I’ll shower now.”

  She carried her teacup with her to her bathroom and set the shower at a near-scalding temperature. She let the water pound her shoulders and back and tried to relax the taut muscles that she felt enclosing and confining her like the wrappings of a mummy.

  It didn’t work.

  She toweled herself off, put on her uniform, carried her tea into her office, and began the day’s business.

  “And I’ll want acceleration couches complying with the Naxid anatomy,” Sula said. “One for every Naxid on board.”

  “Yes, my lady. How many is that?”

  Sula hesitated as she looked at Lord Nishkad. “More than five hundred,” he said in his papery voice.

  “Better make it a thousand,” said Sula.

  “Yes, Lady Fleetcom. I’ll have to find out where they’re stored.”

  “While you’re there, take whatever else you think we might need,” Sula said. “We won’t be back at Zarafan for a long time.”

  Sula was coordinating her plundering teams from her office on the Splendid. Lord Nishkad sat across from her desk curled onto an oval sofa suitable for the centauroid Naxid body. The air still smelled faintly of the groceries that had been stacked here, and the walls of her office were beige and battered.

  She and Nishkad were companionably sharing a tisane that filled the air with a sharp herbal scent. The Naxid’s black-on-scarlet eyes turned to Sula. “I regret to say, my lady, that I don’t know how many volunteers are coming,” he said. “Time was too short—I could not organize it properly. I just had to put out the word and hope that we got sufficient volunteers, and I believe we have.”

  “War never gives us enough time,” Sula said, and then smiled. “At least if you’re doing it right.” She’d known officers who had viewed wartime service with the same degree of urgency as a stroll to their smoking club. Most of them, she thought, were dead now.

  “I should like to request transport from Zarafan on one of your vessels,” Nishkad said. “I know we have been discreet about our arrangements, but word is certain to leak out, and I would prefer to live my allotted span rather than have the Zanshaa government curtail my existence.”

  Nishkad had come to Zarafan as a guest on the yacht of Roland Martinez, but Roland had fled without contacting him, which Sula had to think careless.

  “Let me take care of that right away,” Sula said. She contacted Ricci, one of her signals techs, and told him to secure the owner’s suite on Pride of Parkhurst for Lord Nishkad, and if there was any difficulty to refer the matter to Sula.

  “Very good, my lady,” said Ricci in his pleasing baritone.

  “And make sure the furniture is suitable for Naxids,” Sula said.

  “Of course, Lady Fleetcom.”

  “That was very good of you, Lady Sula,” said Nishkad. Some of his worn black beaded scales flashed red in one of the patterns that Naxids used to communicate among themselves. The signal was probably unintentional, since Sula couldn’t read it, but she presumed it reinforced what Nishkad had just said.

  “The Restoration owes you a great deal,” Sula said. “I only hope that someday your part can be revealed to the public.”

  She could only imagine the rage that would be unleashed on the Restoration if word came that Naxids were being used to buttress the Fourth Fleet. They weren’t crewing warships, but they formed repair gangs, served in the supply ships of the Fleet Train, and were building new ships in the Harzapid yards. Still, as far as the illegitimate Zanshaa government was concerned, all such work was rebellion, and all the Naxids worked under pseudonyms so that they might escape retaliation.

  Ricci pinged Sula’s signals display, and she answered. “Trouble with the Parkhurst?” she asked.

  “No, my lady, that’s taken care of. Captain Mazankosi has arrived, and wishes to see you.”

  “Send her in.”

  Senior Captain Lady Sizo Mazankosi entered in full dress uniform complete with the curved ceremonial knife intended for cutting the throats of disobedient juniors. She was in her early thirties, with brown skin, crisp bright blond hair cut very short, and blue eyes so pale that the irises seemed to fade into the whites, leaving Sula looking into pallid orbs marked only by black pupils.

  Mazankosi braced, and Sula viewed her for a few seconds before telling her to stand at ease. “Captain Mazankosi, may I present Senior Squadron Commander Lord Nishkad. Or have you met?”

  Mazankosi was surprised to discover a Naxid in Sula’s office, but she recovered quickly. “I haven’t had that honor, Lady Fleetcom.” She turned to Nishkad. “I trust your lordship is well?”

  “Tolerably,” he said. “Thank you for asking.” With a degree of care appropriate for the elderly, he uncoiled his body from the sofa and stood on his four legs. “With your permission, my lady,” he said, “I need to move my self, my belongings, and my staff to the Parkhurst.”

  “Of course,” Sula said. “Let me know if you have any difficulties.”

  Nishkad bobbed his flat head. “Thank you, Lady Sula.”

  Nishkad made his way out, and Sula turned back to Captain Mazankosi. “Have a seat, Captain,” she said. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

  “Coffee, thank you.” Mazankosi seated herself. She was tall, with the muscular development of someone who had spent much of the last year under heavy acceleration.

  Sula called for Macnamara to bring coffee for her guest, then turned back to Mazankosi. Those pale eyes, she thought, were a little disturbing.

  “You were on the planet’s surface, Lady Sizo?” she said.

  “Yes. I was hunting.” She smiled. “A friend invited me to go down the elevator and shoot a penthrad. I’d never had the opportunity, so I packed up my hunting togs and went.”

  Sula had a personal and unsportsmanlike relationship with spilled blood and wasn’t interested in shooting anything for fun. Still, out of politeness she feigned an interest. “Were you successful?”

  “I was. I shot a female with twelve spines.” Mazankosi smiled in remembrance. “It will make a fine trophy, but I had to leave it behind when I received your message. I’ll have it shipped to me after the war.”

  Sula decided to get to her point. “I was surprised to find you so far away from your command.”

  “Well.” Mazankosi considered her answer. “Until yesterday Splendid was in the Fourth Division, and the division wasn’t going to depart the ring until repairs on Consequence were completed. I knew I had several days at least, and I hadn’t anticipated that a new division would be created and that Splendid would be assigned to it.”

  “The Fourth Division launched earlier today,” Sula said. “Repairs will be completed in transit. If Splendid hadn’t been transferred to the Ninth, you would have been stranded.”

  Mazankosi straightened in her chair and cleared her throat. “Lady Fleetcom,” she said. “I will take care not to be stranded in future.”

  “I trust you won’t,” Sula said, her point made. “Splendid and Mentor will depart the ring within a few hours. The rest of the division will leave as soon as they complete resupply.”

  “Are we moving on Zanshaa at last?” Mazankosi asked.

  Oh damn, Sula thought. This was going to be a long explanation.

  Lieutenant-Captain Lord Paivo Kangas, like his twin, Ranssu, was a tall blond with broad shoulders and large, big-knuckled hands. Ranssu had been promoted to acting squadron commander following the Battle of Shulduc, and Paivo had commanded a frigate until his last-second appointment as Martinez’s tactical officer.

  “I’m very honored by this appointment, Lord Fleetcom,” Paivo said. “Though I can’t imagine it will be easy stepping into Lady Sula’s job.”

  Martinez tried not to wince. “I look forward to our collaboration,” he said. “Would you like a glass of wine? Sherry? Something stronger?”

  “The last time I enjoyed your hospitality,” Paivo said, “I developed a taste for your Laredo whisky.”

  “Of course.” Martinez considered it his happy duty to promote the product of his family-owned distillery throughout the empire.

  Martinez sent for a bottle and glasses, then regarded the young officer sitting before him. Like the Martinez clan, the Kangas family were provincial Peers who, though very wealthy, had never mounted the lofty heights inhabited by the High City Peers. The twins’ father, Eino Kangas, had commanded the Home Fleet in the last war, and had died in the hour of his victory at Antopone.

  “So, Lord Paivo,” Martinez said. “Have you worked out how to defeat Do-faq yet?”

  Paivo gave him an unsettled look. “I have thought of nothing else.”

  “I’m happy to tell you that Fleetcom Chen has made contact with Wei Jian and her ships from the Second Fleet,” Martinez said. “I’m going to hope that she’ll persuade Jian to join us.”

  Paivo heaved a sigh. “That will make my job easier.”

  “We’ll also have six new cruisers built in Laredo,” Martinez said, “assuming they arrive in time.” And have crews that can do something with them.

  Mpanza arrived with a tray holding a whisky bottle, two glasses, and a small silver pitcher of water. He set out the glasses and reached for the bottle to pour, but Martinez took the bottle himself, poured amber liquid into the glasses, and then added a splash of water to his own. The scent of smoke and peat rose in the room.

  “Thank you, Mpanza,” Martinez said.

  “Mangahas is sending out a cheese platter, my lord,” Mpanza said.

  Martinez looked at Paivo and raised his eyebrows. “Let’s hope we’re hungry.”

  “Cheese and whisky?” Paivo said. “Why not?” He splashed a bit of water into his glass, then picked up the glass and swirled it while he tilted his head to inspect the decor of Martinez’s office. Before Michi Chen’s coup at Harzapid, the flag officer aboard Los Angeles had been a Torminel named Lokan, a martial arts enthusiast. He had decorated his suite with murals of furred Torminels in combat, striking, wrestling each other into knots, and sinking their fangs into one another. Trophies won by Lokan and the elite wrestlers in his command were secured to shelves behind Martinez’s chair.

  Martinez had once served under a captain who was obsessed by football and had painted his frigate with white stripes against a green background, like a football pitch. But at least that captain hadn’t filled his quarters with murals of footballers in action.