The Aeronaut's Windlass (31 page)

Of course, he wasn’t an officer of Fleet anymore, was he?

Grimm shook his head, tried to shake off the bone-deep exhaustion he still felt, failed to do so, and went out of his cabin anyway.

“Captain on deck!” Stern barked as Grimm opened his door. Grimm stepped onto the deck to see every crewman in sight stop whatever they were doing, turn toward him, and snap him a perfect Fleet salute. He kept himself from smiling.

“Mister Stern,” Grimm said beneath his breath. “Why is it that the crew bothers with formal protocol only when a serving member of Fleet comes aboard?”

“Because we like to remind the uptight bastards that on this ship, you’re in command, Skipper. Regardless of what Fleet thinks of you.”

“Ah,” Grimm said. He lifted his voice slightly. “As you were.”

The crew snapped out of the salute with near parade-ground precision and returned to their duties. A dapper little figure in the uniform of a Fleet commodore swaggered across a boarding plank laid out between
Predator
’s deck and that of a Fleet launch, hovering alongside Grimm’s ship. The man hopped down onto the deck and shook his head in bright-eyed amusement. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

“Bayard,” Grimm said, stepping forward and offering the other man his hand.

“Mad,” Bayard said, trading grips with him. “Good God in Heaven, man, I knew
Predator
had been injured, but . . . Were you talking to strangers again?”

“To Captain Castillo of
Itasca
, briefly,” Grimm replied. “I took my leave before the conversation could go any farther than it did. What are you doing here, Alex?”

“We heard that you’d been injured again while playing hero during the attack, and Abigail insisted that I look in on you.”

Grimm gestured to his arm. “The rumor mill is performing to specifications, I’m afraid. I already had this when it started.”

“I remember,” Bayard said. “So. You repelled an assault by Auroran Marines . . . with one hand.”

“My crew did the majority of that.”

Bayard made a little
ah
sound. “Naturally. While you stood about offering critique, I suppose.”

“It’s as if you know me.”

Bayard’s teeth shone in a sudden smile. “And you had no further injuries—from a critically pilloried crewman, perhaps?”

“A few scrapes and bruises. I’m well.”

“That will ease Abigail’s mind greatly,” Bayard said. “Now, about that brandy.”

“What brandy?”

“The excellent brandy you’re about to pour me in your cabin, naturally,” Bayard said in a cheerful tone—but his eyes were quite serious.

“I see,” Grimm said, nodding. “I suppose if it gets rid of you more rapidly, it’s a worthy investment. This way, Commodore.”

Bayard grinned. “And to think that they call merchant captains uncivilized.”

Once inside the cabin, Grimm shut the door behind them and turned to his old friend. “All right. What’s this really about?”

Bayard made a half circle out of the fingers of his right hand and frowned down at them in puzzlement. “That’s odd. There’s no drink there.”

Grimm snorted. Then he went to the cabinet and came back with a couple of small glasses of brandy. He offered one to Bayard. Bayard took it, lifted it, and said, as he ever did when they drank together, “Absent friends.”

“Absent friends,” Grimm echoed, and the two of them drank.

“It’s official,” Bayard said after. “The Spire Council has declared a state of war with Spire Aurora.”

Grimm frowned. “Inevitable, I suppose.”

“Inevitable and ugly,” Bayard said. “We’re already sending out word to call in our ships in First and Second Fleets alike. The Admiralty, in its wisdom, has decided to remain in a defensive posture until we have concentrated our entire Fleet presence.”

Grimm felt his eyebrows rising. Aerial warfare was the very soul of sudden and overwhelming violence. A commander who surrendered the initiative to the enemy was a commander who might well be obliterated by a surprise offensive at the time and place of the enemy’s choosing before he could ever give the order to engage. “What?”

Bayard flopped down onto Grimm’s narrow sofa. “Exactly. This raid has rattled old Watson rather badly, I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because the enemy set this attack up to manipulate him and they succeeded. They jerked him around like a puppet on strings. If some poor fool hadn’t been randomly wandering by the Lancaster Vattery . . .”

Bayard lifted his glass to Grimm.

Grimm rolled his eyes.

“. . . Watson’s response might have cost Albion its most precious resource.” Bayard sloshed down a bit more brandy. “So he is proceeding with utmost caution in order to avoid falling into another such trap.”

“Unless, of course,” Grimm said, “they’re trying to manipulate him into sticking one of his feet to the floor and piling up all our ships in one place.”

“Exactly.” Bayard sighed. “Every element of First Fleet is currently sailing in a giant circle around the Spire to watch for trouble, like some kind of bloody carousel. Several of us tried to talk sense into him, but you know old Watson.”

“He’s a rather brilliant defensive tactician,” Grimm said.

“I agree,” Bayard said. “The problem is that he’s an inept defensive
strategist
. We should be dispatching ships to hammer the Aurorans hard in
their
home skies, force
them
to think defensively. The damned fool’s
encouraging
them to take the initiative.”

Grimm frowned down at his drink and said, “What does this have to do with me?”

Bayard scowled. “Don’t give me that. You’re Fleet, Mad. Same as me.”

“The Fleet rolls say otherwise.”

“There’s a
war
upon us,” his friend replied. “This is no time for petty grievances. We need every skilled captain we can get. I want you to come back.”

“I have been dishonorably discharged. I
can’t
come back.”

“You’re an experienced combat commander,” Bayard countered. “And you’ve won more than a little respect for your actions at the Lancaster Vattery. The prime minister of Albion himself watched you defend his home, his people, and his livelihood through his study window. If you come back to Fleet and offer your services, I think the winds are right to make it happen—and there happens to be a captain’s slot I need to fill in my squadron.”

Grimm looked up sharply.

“
Valiant
,” Bayard said simply. “I need a flag captain.”

Something lurched inside Grimm’s chest, something that he’d forgotten over the past decade—the voice of a much younger, much less experienced Francis Madison Grimm, determined to win command of a Fleet ship of his own. He wasn’t sure whether it felt like fireworks exploding in his chest or the vertigo of a drunken tumble down a flight of stairs. “You’re insane. I never commanded a Fleet ship.”

“Yes,” Bayard said, his voice hardening. “You did.”

“Not officially,” Grimm spat. “Not on paper. And no officer, no matter how popular or favored, is given a bloody heavy cruiser as his first command.”

“Rules are made to be broken,” Bayard replied. “What they did to you wasn’t right. I don’t see how reversing that injustice could be wrong.”

“I’m working for the Spirearch now,” Grimm said.

“I know. But this is your chance, Mad. To make it all right. Come back to Fleet command with me. Offer to rejoin.”

Grimm narrowed his eyes. “You want me to go to them. You want me to go to them with my hat in my hands and ask them to let me back in, pretty please, your lordships.”

“
War
, Mad,” Bayard said, leaning forward. “This is bigger than me. It’s bigger than Hamilton Rook and his family. It’s even bigger than your wounded pride. We
need
you.”

“Then I look forward to being notified, in writing, of the clearing of my name and the restoration of my rank and standing in Fleet,” Grimm said.

Bayard’s face became furious. “Dammit, Mad. You have a responsibility. A duty.”

“You’re right about that much, at least. But my duty to Fleet ended years ago. I have other responsibilities now.”

Bayard simply stared, anger radiating from his every pore. Grimm met his gaze without hostility and without yielding.

After a moment, Bayard seemed to deflate. He made a disgusted sound and finished off the brandy in a gulp. “Damn your pride.”

Grimm finished his own glass and let the liquor burn down his throat, half-afraid that the turmoil in his chest might set it alight. “Alex . . . what you’re asking me to do—I won’t do it. I can’t do it. I can’t.”

Silence fell.

“Abigail said as much,” Bayard said finally. “But I had to try.”

“Thank you,” Grimm said. “Truly.”

Bayard moved one shoulder in a shrug, set his glass aside, and rose. “I also wanted to give you some advance warning—your XO is about to be put back on active duty. They’re calling in everyone they’ve habbled and every reservist they can from the merchant fleet.”

“I suppose that’s hardly surprising,” Grimm said, rising with him.

“How is he?” Bayard asked.

“He’ll do,” Grimm said in a firm tone. “When?”

“A week at the longest,” Bayard said.

“I’ll make adjustments,” Grimm said, and the pair of them walked back out on deck together. “Please give Abigail my regards.”

“You’ll need to have a meal with us soon,” Bayard said. Then he grimaced. “Wartime permitting.”

“I should enjoy that.”

“This . . . arrangement you have with the Spirearch,” Bayard said. “Will it last?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

“Then I reserve the right to speak to you on the subject again.”

“My answer shall not change.”

“No. I don’t suppose it shall.” Bayard glanced up, and then tilted his head a bit to one side. “Captain,” he said. “What is that at the very top of your forward mast?”

Grimm looked up, following Bayard’s gaze to where a small, solid form was outlined against the sunlit mist. “Apparently,” he said, “it is a cat.”

Chapter 24

Spire Albion, Habble Landing

R
owl found the view from atop the foremost of the two ship-trees to be less exciting than he had assumed it would be. Oh, he could see over the ship itself well enough, though based upon his understanding of the vessel’s name, as if it needed one, he felt that its master should have been thanking cats for the obvious inspiration, at the very least. Perhaps there was an arrangement to be reached here. Certainly, if they named something after cats, even the dimmest of humans must understand that there was recompense to be discussed.

The vessel itself had proved to be interesting. He had seen Littlemouse safely ensconced in a small room with a cup of hot drink, which tasted terrible but which she insisted upon having frequently in any case. After that, he had gone exploring. There were many hallways and rooms upon
Predator
, as well as a number of things that needed chasing and catching. Probably not eating, though, unless he was truly hungry. Rowl felt sure that Bridget’s fragile feelings would be crushed if he denied her the pleasure of sharing her meat with him.

There was certainly a place for a cat on a construct such as this, provided he didn’t mind the company.

Once he had inspected the vessel, he had promptly climbed the ship-tree, but the only things of interest to be seen from there were the humans moving about the ship, and honestly, it would be a long and dull day indeed before they proved more than momentarily interesting. A smaller ship, possibly also bearing a name inspired by his people, came alongside
Predator.
A human of significantly less clumsiness than most came aboard, a small male, and despite its diminutive stature, it moved with a warrior’s confidence and wore a very large and fine hat.

Such hats often signified humans who considered themselves important, which was adorable for the first few moments and trying ever after.

The visitor had, however, entered the ship as if waiting to be permitted on another’s territory, which was the proper way to do things. Rowl had begun to approve of the human Grimm, who had thus far acted with less than utter incompetence in every aspect of his life. If Grimm was able to command such respect even from humans with very large hats, he might make suitable help, and even humans were wise enough to realize that good help was the most elusive of quarries.