A Swift and Savage Tide (A Captain Kit Brightling Novel Book 2)

She managed to avoid the innkeeper the next morning, and waited for Grant outside the inn for the walk to the Crown Command building. The weather had turned dreary, a cold and gray mist settling over the town. Kit had added her navy wool coat to her usual uniform, the collar raised against the chilly not-quite-rain.

“You look very formidable,” Grant said, when he strode from the inn, wearing a similar coat of black wool, “with your sabre and coat billowing behind you. Like a warrior of old.”

“If I must be a warrior, may I be a warrior in a tropical clime? No freezing Islish rain.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot assist with that,” he said. “You look healthier today.”

“A solid night’s sleep helped.” But for the hooting of drunken sailors on the road below, which made for an interesting lullaby.

He gestured toward the road, and they began walking side by side. She suspected they made an interesting pair to watch—both of them with their gleaming back boots, long coats, and purposeful strides.

“Your letters from yesterday were positive?” Grant asked.

“Very. In addition to the business, there was one from Jane and a box of pistachio nougats.”

“Which, I presume, are now gone.”

“In the sense that the box is empty, yes. But they continue to provide energy and fulfillment.”

Grant snorted.

“And your letters?” she asked.

“The price of wheat is very agreeable, and the new draperies in the front parlor at Grant Hall were ‘just the thing.’ ”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Their conversation continued easily, a rather astounding change from their first meeting, which had consisted of little more than sniping and barely veiled insults. It was remarkable, Kit thought, how time could help a body see past her prejudices to the man beneath. Even if he remained rather lordish.

They made their way into the Crown Command building, bustling in the busy morning hours as clerks moved to and fro and ministers and staff made their way to offices for the daily business.

They were met by a clerk, then shown to a room with an enormous table in the middle, presently filled by a map of what Kit presumed showed the Narrow Sea and Gallia.

A woman with light brown skin and dark hair pulled into a knot came toward them, arm extended. “Captain Brightling,” she said, and shook her former mentee’s hand.

“Commodore,” Kit said. “Congratulations on your promotion.” She gestured to Grant. “Rian Grant, Viscount Queenscliffe.”

“Good to see you again, your lordship.”

They shook as well. “ ‘Grant’ is fine, Commodore. Or ‘Colonel,’ if you prefer the military title.”

Perez smiled. “I like an aristocrat willing to forgo his family title for a military one.”

Other officers stood on the opposite side of the room, brows knit as they considered some strategy or other. Sunderland, Thornberry, and three others Kit didn’t know spoke together, and Chandler stood to the side, arms crossed and frowning as he watched them. Grant had once been an observing officer under Sunderland’s command. But now he worked for Chandler, and neither of them fit neatly within the group assembled here, or so Kit thought. As a member of the Queen’s Own, Kit was arguably just as separate.

“General Sunderland, Captain Thornberry, General Smith, General Watkins, and Minister of War Cargile,” Perez said, then introduced Kit and Grant.

“My lord,” Sunderland said to Grant, offering a hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

“General,” Grant said, shaking it. “It’s good to see you as well.”

Sunderland was on the shorter side, with pale, ruddy skin and a crop of wiry red hair cropped short. His uniform was so laden with medals and awards, Kit was half-surprised he didn’t collapse under the weight.

“Captain Brightling,” he said, offering a small bow. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“As does yours, General,” Kit said brightly, all smiles. They’d met before, of course, and he’d said the same thing to her. Sunderland was a brilliant strategist, if not much for collaboration.

The rest of the introductions were made, Thornberry the stiffest of the bunch. He had a recent and uncomfortable history with Grant and Kit, due to his being an insufferable prig about the search for Gerard’s warship—and about the capabilities of female officers. He made no such comment now, undoubtedly in part because of Perez’s promotion.

Cargile, a woman with broad shoulders, pale skin, and cropped hair, began the session.

“You’re here,” she said, “to assist us as we finalize the Isles’ plans for a response to Gerard’s escape from Montgraf and aggressions from Gallia and”—she paused, looking at Kit—“apparently from Frisia, given your recent experiences on the Continent and in the water. As a preliminary matter, we’ve just received word that the queen has formally approved the Isles’ participation in a coalition of allies to fight Gerard. Given the Continental blockade is already underway, this Third Coalition—gods save us from a fourth—will also coordinate respecting military activities.”

“A formal declaration of war?” Grant asked.

“Not yet.” She looked at Kit. “I suspect that will change given Frisia’s aggressions toward the Diana.

“Now,” she continued. “Let’s address the details. The first issue is location. Based on the information we’ve gathered from our connections in Auevilla, including Lord Grant, the informant we know as Fouché, and Captain Brightling’s recent report, we believe it is most likely Gerard will launch his ground campaign at Auevilla. There were a number of military vessels in Auevilla, in addition to the Fidelity. There were guards patrolling the docks and fear of Islish spies. Their concern suggests a desire for secrecy. And, of course, Doucette is too important an officer to put in a coastal town without reason. From a strategic standpoint, the town has port and river access, which will facilitate troop and supply movement. The Narrow Sea forms a buffer to the Isles, and it’s far enough from both Hispania and Aleman to create a buffer should the allies regroup. Which we damned well will.”

“Hear, hear!” Perez said.

“Is there any intelligence regarding Gerard’s present location?” Kit asked.

“There is not. Given he was not seen at Auevilla either by our spies or by the prisoners with whom Captain Brightling had contact, we believe it most likely Gerard came onshore some miles away.” She walked to the map, used a pointed cane to gesture. “Perhaps at Octeville to the west or Pointe Grise to the east. Those options would reduce the risk of his immediate recapture should the Fidelity be spotted in port, as it was.” Cargile looked at Kit, nodded. “We believe he plans to join the larger force on the road to Saint-Denis, perhaps near Bouvreuil.”

Kit surveyed the map, considered. “Has work on the harbor at Octeville continued since the treaty?” The port town was sheltered in the upper end of the tentacular peninsula that reached into the Narrow Sea northwest of Auevilla. The town was well sheltered and blessed with a natural harbor, albeit one not deep enough for the ships Gerard had hoped to anchor there.

“Our informants say no,” Chandler offered.

Cargile nodded. “Which suggests Octeville isn’t a primary location.”

“If they intend to launch from Auevilla,” Grant asked, “why did we see no equipment, no fortifications? Shouldn’t there have been more soldiers, supply transport, camp women? Some material indication that troops were amassing?”

“Hardly a need for fortifications if the local population supports him,” Sunderland said. “He won’t be fighting them through to Saint-Denis, and knows it will take time before we discover his whereabouts and he is forced to face us. Certainly, there are villages that remain loyal to the king and will not allow Gerard to move so easily, but he won’t take arms until he has to.”

“We’ve been up and down both the northern and southern coasts,” Perez said, “and there are no cities with so many markers as Auevilla. Even if the launch there is incomplete—if Gerard will join them farther inland—there’s evidence the town will be involved.”

“Is there any thought of a naval launch by Gerard?” Kit asked. “We already believe the Guild is building ships for him, and there were several large vessels berthed at Auevilla. Gerard was defeated on the Continent,” she pointed out. “Perhaps he intends to try his hand on the water this time.”

Cargile seemed to appreciate the question, but shook her head. “Even Gerard, egoist that he is, remembers Barbata.”

It was the site of the Isles’ greatest Continental naval victory, a rout by Lord Worsley, who had challenged a line of Hispanic ships of the line by, essentially, barreling through the middle of it with his own men-of-war. Barbata had been the end of any aspirations Gerard might have harbored to cross the Narrow Sea and make a claim on the Isles.

At least, during the last war . . .

“We will begin landing troops near Auevilla,” Cargile said. “Primarily here, and here.” She touched the cane to spots ten miles to the east and west of the town. “While we’ve small units on the ground in Hispania and Aleman, the bulk will need to sail from the Isles—from here, and from New London and Devonport.” The western edge of the Isles formed a peninsula that tipped into the Western Sea. Devonport was a port city on the southern coast of that peninsula, and another of the Crown Command’s major docks.

“How many troops?” Grant asked.

“Ten thousand to start,” Cargile said.

Ten thousand Islesians pouring into Gallia hardly seemed a “start” to Kit, but then again, she wasn’t a soldier. It did explain the volume of troops in Portsea. The city wasn’t preparing just to defend a war—but to launch one.

“The Transport Board has been reestablished by the naval service,” Cargile said, nodding at Perez, “and will coordinate with them regarding troop movement and victualing. Lord Duckworth has advertised inside New London and out for merchant ships. But it will take time to make those arrangements. In the meantime, the board has determined to use naval ships to begin the process. Supply ships will follow the same pattern. As with the soldiers, there will be a mix of public and private enterprise.”

Perez made no response to that and was probably debating whether she could extricate her ships from that duty. Sailors generally preferred adventure to cargo duty, no matter how valuable the cargo.

Cargile looked at Kit. “Your ship, Captain, will be among those that escort a portion of the troop ships to Auevilla.”

That was a slight improvement over actual cargo duty, if not by much. But Kit understood necessity and orders. “When?” she asked.

“We’ve not enough supplies, troops, nor tonnage on the water to make an efficient supply at this time,” Cargile said. “We’re hopeful we can begin movements in earnest within the next ten days.”

It would be a monumental undertaking, Kit understood, and the logistics would be remarkably complex. But it was still too long.

Grant apparently agreed. “Minister,” he said, and all eyes turned to him. “With all respect, that will take much too long. Gerard will have disappeared into the countryside by then. I understand it’s becoming more and more difficult to obtain intelligence. If our network has truly been depleted and we don’t find him soon, we’ll miss our opportunity to do so.”

“And what would you propose?”

“Smaller units, deployed immediately to find the armies, track them, and stop them.”

“Smaller units,” Sunderland said, “will not stand against battalions remassed by Gerard.”

Yes, Kit thought, that was rather the point. To prevent the “remassing.” But Sunderland plainly knew that, so Grant didn’t bother to challenge him again.

“Smaller units will have their place, of course,” Sunderland said, and slid his gaze to Chandler, “particularly in intelligence gathering. You were a very good observing officer, Grant. I expect Chandler can make use of your resources again.”

“And will do,” Chandler said.

Grant merely inclined his head.

“What about magic?” Kit prompted. “La Boucher? How do you plan to deal with them?”

“First,” Sunderland said, raising a hand, “let’s begin by referring to him by his name. We don’t want to frighten the public with tales of La Boucher.” He offered the last in an exaggerated Islish accent. “That will not help the public nor the war cause.”

Kit’s disagreement was core-deep and fundamental; the public needed to know the monster they faced and what he could do. But in this room, within this group, she was merely a sailor. So she nodded.

“As to magic,” Cargile said smoothly, “the Defense Ministry has no official position regarding the manipulation of magic as it relates to the Isles, given the international ban remains in place.”

“A ban that Gallia has already violated,” Kit said.

“Acknowledged. Both ministry and queen were horrified by your description of Doucette’s magic, just as we were concerned by the reports of Gerard’s activities at Forstadt.”

But, Kit thought with growing frustration, that apparently changed nothing. “There are ways to utilize the benefits of the current without manipulating it. We must give our Aligned sailors and soldiers the necessary education and authority to use it when they can. This is too serious a threat to ignore.”

“I was at Contra Costa,” Watkins said. He was a tall man with dark brown skin and short, dark curls. “I heard the sound, the concussion, and then the cries that followed. It took days to attend the wounded, to bury the dead. And in the meantime, those who’d survived cried out from the field, begging for help. I do not take Alain Doucette lightly, but I also do not lightly take the cost of magic, or the responsibility that using it requires.”

“Sir,” Kit said with a nod, understanding she’d been reprimanded. “I apologize for the suggestion either the ministry, the War Council, or its individual members did not take the threat seriously.” She met Watkins’s eyes. “I’ll apologize specifically to you, sir.”

Watkins nodded, seemed to approve of the quick apology. “Accepted.”

Kit shifted her gaze back to Cargile. “May I speak frankly?”

“Do you ever not?”

Given the smile in her eyes, Kit decided that wasn’t quite a reprimand, if also not quite a compliment. “I generally prefer frankness, Minister. It’s faster.”

Cargile nodded. “Go on then.”

“Despite his scars, and the pain he must have suffered at Contra Costa, Doucette shows a certain . . . fearlessness in his use of magic. And a rather remarkable skill. I’ve never seen anyone use magic like that, nor with that level of control, and had no idea it could be done. I was terrified,” she added, “down to my bones, and I don’t believe it’s possible to overestimate the importance of his potential involvement. He is one of Gerard’s most trusted men, and his promotion to marshal suggests not only that Gerard trusts Doucette, but that he trusts what Doucette can do—and intends to make magic a central force of his campaign.”

“You presently use, and may continue to use, your Alignment in accordance with the rule of Islish law and the orders given to you by the queen,” Cargile pointed out. “The same is true for every other person in the service who has an Alignment.”

“And if their captains do not approve of the use of magic?” Kit asked, working very hard not to stare at Thornberry.

Cargile clucked her tongue. “Surely, Captain, you do not suggest that the Crown Command simply abandon rank where Alignment is concerned, and allow the odd Aligned seaman to determine the fate of the ship?”

The question was plainly rhetorical, so Kit offered no response. She’d said what needed to be said but understood full well the limitations of her position and her recommendations. That, too, was rank.

“Sir,” she said, but it felt a bit like swallowing glass.

“In that case,” Cargile said, “I believe we’re done for now.” She glanced about, got agreeing nods from the other councilors. “Thank you for your time, Captain and Viscount, and you’ll receive your next orders forthwith. And gods bless the Isles.”

The others quietly repeated the invocation.

“Oh,” Cargile said, turning back to Kit. “In case you were not yet aware, Captain, there is to be a ball tonight.”

“A ball,” she said lamely.

“With the miserably warm punch and the dancing and shoes that pinch,” Cargile said.

With Gerard planning to annihilate the Isles? Kit thought with disgust, but only said, “I regret I won’t be able to attend.”

Sunderland’s smile was irritatingly pleasant. “Won’t be able to attend a ball? But you’re a woman. All women enjoy balls, do they not, Minister?”

Cargile’s look was hot enough to singe. “I believe it would be wrong, General, to assume that all women—or anyone else, for that matter—have unified opinions on anything, much less something as controversial as a ball. Nevertheless,” she said, and glanced at Kit, “in the event your regrets are made for ethical reasons, recall that we are not yet ready to proceed, as we await the resolution of important logistical matters. It is important for queen and country that a certain . . . unity be shown. And remember, Captain, that there will be plenty of sailors and soldiers in attendance who fear, perhaps rightfully, that this will be their last opportunity for a ball, to dance with a handsome man or pretty girl, to enjoy silly chitchat. Should we deny them their last hurrah?”

Kit opened her mouth to object, closed it again. Her tone was clear enough—and the order within it. “Of course I’ll be there, Minister.”

“Of course you will,” Cargile said, and left the room.

Most of the others followed her out, but Perez stayed behind, waited until she, Kit, Grant, and Chandler were the only ones who remained. Then closed the door.

She seemed to consider her words for a moment, then strode back to them. “I will not go so far as to say that I disagree with my colleagues, but I must admit to reservations.”

Her doubt made Kit feel better, validated her concerns.

“Sunderland still enjoys hearing himself speak,” Grant murmured.

“He is a very good strategist,” Perez said. “But his voice is music to his own ears.”

“Is he the one pushing to launch near Auevilla?” Chandler asked, moving a bit closer, as if to keep the words contained.

“He is not the only one, but he is certainly an advocate,” Perez said. “He believes the war will be fought between Auevilla and Saint-Denis. I don’t disagree that’s a possibility, but I think a year without a throne will have made Gerard reconsider his failures. And matching his battalions of troops against ours across a field did not a successful war make. Magic, though . . .” She walked to the map, crossed her arms, gazed down. “Magic could change a battlefield. And he’ll have considered that.”

“He’ll have ruminated on it,” Kit said. That had Perez’s gaze snapping up.

“Yes,” she said, eyes gleaming. “That’s it exactly. He’ll have ruminated. Contemplated. Considered pensively while staring at a portrait of himself. Because that’s the type of man he is.”

This was something Kit had always appreciated about Perez. While she was unafraid to give a hard, straight order, she always looked at the totality. At the context.

Perez looked at the map in silence for a moment, then looked at Kit again. “Has Doucette ever used magic while he was on a ship? Away from land, I mean.”

“Not to my knowledge. But I don’t know how far his reach, shall we say, extends. I can stand ashore and feel whether the current is present, in the most general sense, but he’s done things I didn’t know were possible. So I wouldn’t rule out the possibility.”

“You’re thinking Gerard will use him at sea?” Chandler asked.

“If your most important weapon was mobile,” Perez said, “wouldn’t you?”

Silence fell heavily as loss was contemplated.

“As Cargile pointed out, captains rule their ships and can allow Alignment to be used in whatever legal manner is available to them. I follow the same rule. Captain Brightling, while I recognize the Diana is not technically answerable to the Crown Command, I’d like her to be part of my flotilla—unofficially, of course. You’ll find I give great leeway to the safe use of the magical gifts given to the Aligned.”

“I so find,” Kit said with a grin, “and I’d be honored. I’m sure the queen will have no objection.”

“She doesn’t.” It was Perez’s turn to grin now. “I asked her first, of course. Unfortunately, while I agree that haste is absolutely necessary, and our group will be among the first to leave, we’ve still to wait for that. In the meantime, your assignment.”

Kit expected her to pull a packet from her coat, or otherwise produce a sealed dispatch from the queen. But she made no move.

“No paper,” Perez said with a smile. “Merely a question. What, Captain, can the Diana do for us?”

Kit’s smile was wide and wicked.