A light, warm rain was coming down, and off in the distance between the low mud buildings they could catch a glimpse of the sea, for the amphibious Stolsh were never far from water. In the opposite direction, the Moss-coated pilings of the Pier could be seen. From here on the ground the bulk of the Pier was invisible, but its pilings looked like an orchard of white telegraph poles, each with attendant ladders and stairways, all ending abruptly like Aladdin's magic rope as they entered two-s.p.a.ce. Periodically people and cargo appeared and disappeared, as they came in and out of two-s.p.a.ce.

A motley crowd of Stolsh moved around them, leavened by Guldur, Goblan, and other creatures from throughout the frontier region. One cute Stolsh girl squatted in the muddy street directly in front of them, wearing only a short kilt. She was giggling and jiggling, making a great show of prodding at a small frog as her four b.r.e.a.s.t.s did interesting things and other intriguing things winked from beneath her single garment. All the guards were intently watching her.

Kobbsven was far, far from the sharpest knife in the drawer. (Indeed, by that cla.s.sification standard he was more in the fork or even the spoon family.) But he had the virtue of single-minded dedication to an a.s.signed task, combined with a deep veneration and even deeper fear of Lieutenant Broadax. It slowly dawned on him that his men were neglecting their duties, and suspicious hooded characters seemed to be sidling in from several directions. Furrowing his brows in the painful process that pa.s.sed for deep thought (making his one eyebrow beetle up like a c.o.c.kroach conference), he s.n.a.t.c.hed up a jug of the cheap local wine that they'd been drinking. Then he strode over, scooped up the frog, and swallowed it in one gulp with a swig from the bottle.

The Stolsh girl's eyes went wide and she began to jabber to all who would listen, while Kobbsven ignored her. A few of the cloaked figures who were shuffling in toward them began to advance on him. He drew his two-handed sword from over his shoulder in one smooth motion, looked nonchalantly at them, and they thought better of it. He went back to scowling at all pa.s.sersby. His sword was still out, but he wasn't "flourishing" it. Men who truly know what to do with weapons never bother with flourishing them. In the end it was more intimidating that way.

"Corporal," said Petreckski, distracted from his bartering, "this girl says you ate her frog. Did you swallow her frog?"

"Aye, sir. Her and that d.a.m.n'd frog was distractin' da troops. One uf them had to go." Furrowing his brow in concentration he looked down at the monk, "Ya reckon I made a bad call, sir? Ya suppose I shoulda et her instead?"

The purser blinked distractedly. " . . . No, Corporal. No, she seems to have lost interest, and all's well that ends well." Then he left them to begin purchasing food.

They had brought their strongbox across from Kestrel, and there was a small supply of gold from the captured Guldur strongbox as well, so some funds were available. The grateful Stolsh admiral had already freely contributed water, ships provisions and miscellaneous cordage, spars and lumber. Their purser's primary goal was to purchase greenstuffs for the ship, as well as livestock for the wardroom and for their captain. With him were "Ducks" and "Butcher." These were individuals who, like "Chips" and "Guns," took their names from their position. Ducks was responsible for their poultry, and Butcher had authority over the four-legged food stock, which consisted mostly of pigs and a few goats kept for milk.

After a short and intense period of bartering, a menagerie of huge white geese on leashes; coops full of gray pigeons and small brown hens; low, hairy brown swine; and tall, slender black nanny goats were all herded to the Pier alongside carts full of greenstuffs. The pigs and goats were hooded and swayed up into Flatland one by one, where they loudly communicated their distress at the process and their strange new surroundings. The livestock was penned up in the lower forecastle until quarters below could be prepared for them.

Once the food was purchased, the harried purser set out to find a cargo that would be of value in Ambergris, which was their next stop. Ambergris would probably be under siege. (As would this world, but the general population didn't know that yet.) And Ambergris was a world low in phosphates. Thus a load of saltpeter was the purser's goal, and he was pleased with the deal he cut. He used the last of their gold to lock in the deal, quickly moved to the alley where the last of their trade goods were being sold, took that money and the security detail to get the saltpeter, and completed one of the most exhausting and satisfying trading days in his life. There was something special about starting from the ground up, and having inside knowledge about the pending invasion gave him an advantage that he savored.

"Well, Captain," he asked as they were pulling away from the Pier, "are you satisfied with our stop?"

"Aye," said Melville. The two of them were standing with their hands on the quarterdeck railing, looking at the far horizon. "We even picked up a few stray hands to fill in some of the holes in our crew. How did it go on your end?"

"Well enough, sir, well enough," his purser replied. "It's a miserable backwater port. No one will ever make their fortune here. Even their plagues are half-hearted. The best they could muster was a Plague of Frog, but the redoubtable Corporal Kobbsven was able to dispatch it for us. All things considered, I am satisfied."

And so they left Pearl, the sails sheeted home one by one, placing the strain slowly upon the masts and rigging, until Fang again gained her splendid speed of almost thirteen knots. Properly supplied and equipped, they sailed toward Ambergris and the likelihood of combat against the forces that were probably besieging or invading that world.

Melville had done as much as he could to prepare his ship. His men had faith in him, based on his victory on Broadax's World and his cunning scheme that gained them their current ship. In their eyes he was responsible for not just s.n.a.t.c.hing victory from the jaws of defeat, but actually yanking a Fang from the slavering jaws of defeat. He knew that his men expected more miracles from him, and he felt unworthy of their trust. He tried to explain his philosophy one day while most of his officers were his guests at dinner.

"It's called maneuver warfare. It was first developed by the Germans in the early and mid-twentieth centuries, then picked up by the United States military late in that century. There were many pioneers in the field, but one of the greatest was Robert Leonhard. In his book, The Art of Maneuver, he put it this way, 'Maneuver warfare is, to put it simply, a kick in the groin, a poke in the eye, a stab in the back . . . Maneuver warfare puts a premium on being sneaky rather than courageous, and it is not at all glorious, because it typically flees from an enemy's strength. It takes its name from its most common practical application: outmaneuvering the enemy.'"

"Aye, Captain," said Hans, admiringly, " 'Ats wot ye did ta the curs all right! Poke 'em in the eye an' kick 'em in the b.a.l.l.s! Is 'at wot ya plan ta do at Ambergris, too?"

"I'm not sure, Hans," Melville replied scowling thoughtfully. "I hope to use surprise and our superior accuracy. We'll take down all the new sails and cruise in looking like one of their ships. We bluff our way through if we can. Westerness policy is to remain absolutely neutral. We can only attack them if we are attacked, so we will have to wait for them to fire first. When they do, we'll run up the Westerness colors, set all sail, and let them know that Westerness is here. And a world of hurt is coming with us."

With the exception of Fielder, who was his usual cynical self, most of the officers at the table nodded, looking at him with cautious admiration. "Aye, sir," said Mr. Barlet. The gunner was thinking happily about what his guns would do to the enemy. "If they try to mess with us we'll show them what those 24-pounders can really do!"

Melville looked with pleasure upon his officers. He possessed something that few other officers in the Westerness Navy could claim. Military victory. In their heart of hearts the navy sometimes feared that they might just be Hokas, playing games with their traditions drawn from the old British Royal Navy. The long centuries of Westerness history included many ground actions on frontier worlds, and a few brushes with pirates, but no real frigate actions like the one they'd just survived.

Now, after centuries of preparation, their first true naval engagement had ended in victory against overwhelming odds, and Melville had won the loyalty of these veterans by demonstrating his competence in combat. They were willing to spend their lives for a cause, but they desperately did not want their lives to be wasted. A leader who had proven his worth in battle was the most precious of all a.s.sets. A man to be truly cherished by his men. Melville had accomplished that now, but it was far harder than anyone who hadn't been there could ever understand. First, the opportunities to gain such credibility were so very rare. Second, once it was gained, it was a fragile substance, since one "dammit" could delete a lifetime of "attaboys" in the bank balance of battle.

Starting in the late twentieth century, combat simulators began to make it possible to develop "pre-battle veterans" and leaders who could demonstrate their ability to their men, at least in the simulators. When the military used these they were combat simulators, which honed battle skills. When that same technology was put in the hands of children, the games they played became "ma.s.s murder simulators," and like Ender in Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game, the games the kids played became horrifyingly real, resulting in unprecedented ma.s.s murders as the children turned their sad games and conditioned reflexes into dark tragic reality. Melville and most of his crew had trained long and hard on such simulators on Old Earth.

Still, combat simulators were never the same as real combat, and every leader yearned for the battle experience that would give them the only true credibility in their profession, while simultaneously dreading that combat would prove to the world that they were a fraud. When a warrior leader was successful in combat, there was a new fear. Now they feared that next time they would fail. For every military leader knew that, no matter how good he was, in the end so very much depended on luck. And next time, luck might not be there. Melville felt that fear, and now the danger was that he wouldn't want to risk his fragile reputation, but instead would avoid battle and rest on his laurels.

Thus military leaders could, in the end, be the most insecure of all human beings. In truth, every leader knows in his heart that he's no better than his men. Melville knew that somewhere out among his crew there was someone smarter, faster, stronger than him. So by what right was he in charge? Who was he to send these men to their death? There were ways to handle this. Like Alexander or Gustavus Adolphus you could put yourself in danger and perform acts of great valor to prove yourself "worthy." In peacetime that opportunity to prove yourself isn't really there, and there is a need to convince the leader that he is something special. Thus the salutes, parades, fancy uniforms, inspections, and elaborate displays of respect.

The strange thing is that in some ways this was a two-way street. All that pomp and circ.u.mstance could convince the leader and his men that he was special. The captain on a ship is an extreme example, dining and living in splendid isolation. Very little exists across the centuries of "the ultimate social Darwinism" of the battlefield without good reason, and the "need" for this kind of ceremony and ritual is a two-way street. Egalitarian democratic armies limit this a little, and veteran units in combat can relax it a little, but it was still there and probably always would be.

Military leaders in wartime, successful military leaders in the true test of combat, could transcend this need for phony rea.s.surance and replace it with the greatest balm of all to the soul of the military leader. Victory, honor, and glory. Melville had a little of that now and, G.o.d help him, he wanted more. This was another risk for combat leaders. He had tasted honor and glory and it was good.

The fewer men, the greater share of honour . . .

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor Care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires;

But if it is a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

Honor, and glory. The next battle would decide, and the next battle was soon. To the best of his ability he'd forged his ship and crew into a fearsome weapon. He could run, yet the enemy was closing in from almost every direction and his duty was in Ambergris. Once again the odds might be overwhelming, but what the h.e.l.l . . .

A thousand shapes of death surround us,

and no man can escape them, or be safe.

Let us attacka"

whether to give some fellow glory

or to win it from him.

Chapter the 10th.

Sea Battle: Lords of Helm and Sail

On our high p.o.o.p-deck he stood,

And round him ranged the men

Who have made their birthright good

Of manhood once and againa"

Lords of helm and sail,

Tried in tempest and gale,

Bronzed in battle and wreck.

Together they fought the deck.

"The River Fight"

Henry Howard Brownell

They were sailing into Ambergris. The two-dimensional sea they sailed upon shifted from the midnight blue of interstellar s.p.a.ce, pa.s.sing through imperceptible gradations to a pure royal blue and then a light cerulean as they entered the solar system. A swirl of aqua, white, and green marked the plane of the planet itself. In the distance the off-white topsails of many ships could be seen.