At the Sign of Triumph (Safehold)

.III.

HMS Floodtide, 30,

Rahzhyr Bay,

Talisman Island,

Gulf of Dohlar.

Bosun’s pipes twittered, the side party snapped to attention, and a commodore’s streamer broke from HMS Floodtide’s mizzen peak as Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht climbed through the entry port to the ironclad’s deck. The entire ship’s company was drawn up in divisions on the broad deck, or manned the yards overhead, in clean, tidy uniforms, and the captain waiting for him at the side party’s head saluted sharply. Ahbaht returned the courtesy with equal precision and, despite the solemnity of the occasion, felt his lips trying to smile. The towering, broad-shouldered captain was almost a full foot taller than his own 5'4"—indeed, he was every bit as tall as Merlin Athrawes himself—and Ahbaht hoped he didn’t look too much like a teenager reporting to his father after staying out too late.

“Welcome aboard Floodtide, Sir Bruhstair,” the captain said, taking his right hand from his chest and extending it to clasp forearms.

“Thank you, Captain Tohmys,” Ahbaht responded gravely. “She looks like a beautiful ship.”

“I’m proud of her, Sir,” Kynt Tohmys agreed.

“I’m sure you are—and with good reason. For the moment, though, allow me to present Lieutenant Commander Kylmahn.” He gestured to the auburn-haired, green-eyed officer who’d followed him through the entry port. “My chief of staff,” the commodore added as Kylmahn and Tohmys exchanged salutes and then arm clasps.

“And this,” he indicated a considerably younger officer, “is Lieutenant Bairaht Hahlcahm, my flag lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant,” Tohmys acknowledged as the slender, dapper young lieutenant—who was only an inch or two taller than his commodore—came to attention and saluted.

“Captain Tohmys,” the lieutenant acknowledged in a pronounced working-class accent.

That accent might have seemed … out of place to some people’s ears, given his immaculately groomed appearance. Not to Tohmys’, though. The captain might be a Chisholmian, but he recognized the sound of Tellesberg’s docks when he heard it, and there were at least a score of “working-class” Tellesberg families who qualified for the newfangled term “millionaire.” And unlike most Mainland realms, where the newly rich worked hard to extirpate any vestige of their origins from speech and mannerism, Charisians saw things rather differently. They were just as adamant about their children’s educations, about acquiring the better things in life for spouse and family and learning how not to embarrass themselves in business discussions, but they were just as adamant about not forgetting where they’d come from. It was one of the things Mainlanders who persisted in regarding all Out Islanders as ignorant bumpkins most despised about Old Charis … and one of the things Tohmys most liked.

“If you’ll accompany me, Sir,” he said, turning back to Ahbaht, “I’ll escort you to your quarters. Unless you’d care to address the ship’s company?”

Ahbaht looked at him, head slightly cocked, but Tohmys looked back steadily. The line between the authority of a flag officer and the captain of his flagship was drawn very clearly for a great many reasons. A commodore or an admiral could order his captain to do anything he wished with his flagship; he had no authority over how the captain did it. There could be only one commander aboard any ship, especially any warship, and it was essential that there never be any question in anyone’s mind who that one commander was.

Because of that, the ICN tradition was that flag officers addressed their flagship’s companies only at their flag captains’ invitation. It would take a hardy captain to refuse a commodore or admiral permission to address his crew, but there was a distinct difference between granting permission and extending an invitation.

“I would, indeed—with your permission, Captain,” Ahbaht said after a moment. “And I thank you for the indulgence.”

“Sir Bruhstair,” Tohmys said, still meeting his eyes levelly, “it will be my honor—and my men’s.”

Ahbaht might have colored ever so slightly, but he nodded and stepped up onto the raised coaming of the midships hatch. The elevation raised his head above shoulder level on Captain Tohmys, but not by much, and the flag captain stepped back. Ahbaht wondered whether he was tactfully … deemphasizing the altitude differential.

“Ship’s company, tennnnn-huttt!” the officer of the deck barked.

The Imperial Charisian Navy placed rather less emphasis on immaculate military drill and formality than most armies did. It was a … practical sort of service, the Navy—one which prided itself on getting the job done and on thumbing its collective nose at the aristocratic Mainlander realms’ punctilio. But it was also completely capable of executing that drill whenever the mood took it, and Floodtide’s company snapped to attention with a precision not even the Temple Guard could have bettered.

“Stand easy,” Ahbaht said, raising his voice to be heard through the wind humming in the shrouds and the seabirds circling the anchorage, and feet moved, again with that same precision, coming down on the deck in a single, crisp movement as they folded their arms behind themselves. It wasn’t the position of “stand easy”; it was the far more respectful position of “parade rest,” and Ahbaht felt a suspicious prickle at the corners of his eyes. He wondered if Tohmys had drilled them especially for this moment, yet somehow he doubted it.

“I thank you and Captain Tohmys for your welcome,” he told them, clasping his own hands behind them and letting his eyes sweep slowly across those hundreds of attentive faces, “and I won’t keep you long. All of us have a great deal to do, and I know all of you know just as well as I do why we’re here.”

He took one hand from behind himself to wave it in a circle that indicated the crowded waters of Rahzhyr Bay. Half of Admiral Sarmouth’s squadron was at sea; the other half was right here at anchor, and Admiral Darys’ arrival had filled the hundred and sixty square miles of Rahzhyr Bay to capacity. The truth was, he reflected, that the ICN was going to need a larger, more commodious forward base. Or even, if things went well, several of them. Personally, he was in favor of Stella Cove on Jack’s Land, at least as an interim measure. Of course, they’d have to take it away from the Royal Dohlaran Navy first, but that only made it more attractive to Sir Bruhstair Ahbaht … and Floodtide and her consorts might just give Baron Sarmouth the wherewithal to do that taking.

Unless, of course, he has something even more … adventurous in mind.

“All of you know what happened in the Kaudzhu Narrows last July,” he continued, his voice harder and harsher, and a quietly ugly sound hovered above the listening seaman and officers. “Well, that’s what we’re out here to do something about, and I’m deeply honored that Earl Sharpfield and Baron Sarmouth have seen fit to give me this division. There was never any question in my mind which of its units I wanted as my flagship, either … and that was before I saw the handsome way you brought her into Rahzhyr Bay. Seamanship alone doesn’t make an effective warship, but good seamen do.”

He let that sink in for a moment, then continued.

“We have a great deal to do, and I’m going to demand a great deal of you. I’m going to drive this division, and I won’t settle for less than the very best you can give me. And don’t forget—we’re the Imperial Charisian Navy. I know what you can give me, so don’t expect to fob me off with anything less than the finest navy God ever put on the surface of Safehold’s seas. That’s what you are,” the words came slowly, measured, “and that’s what you’re going to be for me, because the Charisian Navy has a debt to collect and the Dohlaran Navy’s account is about to come due. When that time comes—when that bill’s presented and that account is rendered; not just for Dohlar but for everyone in the Group of Four’s service—this division—and HMS Floodtide—will be in the van, and there’s not a man or an officer in Dohlaran service who will ever forget that day.”

He paused once more, letting his eyes sweep those silent faces once more, seeing the grim determination, the fire in the eyes, and he nodded slowly.

“That’s what I’m going to demand of you,” he told them, his voice like hammered iron. “And when you give it to me, we’ll teach the Dohlaran Navy not to fuck around with the ICN … and show that fat, fornicating pig in Zion what God really has in mind for him!”

The roar that went up from Floodtide’s deck should have stunned every bird and wyvern in Rahzhyr Bay unconscious.