Isles of the Forsaken (3 page)

“Well, this is it, then,” Buckrush said, turning to Harg. “We probably won’t meet again; I’m retiring after this. Good luck to you, Ismol.” He actually held out a hand for Harg to shake as if they were old friends. Then he went out by the door they had come in, leaving Harg alone in the antechamber.

The secretary returned from the inner office without the papers. In a monotone he said, “Admiral Talley will see you now.”

Harg didn’t move at first. He couldn’t help the reflexive thought that he must have done something truly heinous this time. But try as he might, he could not think of a single reason why the legendary head of the Inning Navy should want to see him. The secretary had to say, “You may go in, Captain,” before Harg could shake off his paralysis.

The office he entered was simply furnished—a functional, orderly place devoid of ostentation. Despite the snow falling outside, no fire burned in the fireplace. Harg came to a halt just inside the door and saluted as precisely as he ever had. A fleeting gratitude that he had bothered to shave passed through his head, and disappeared.

If he had ever pictured Admiral Corbin Talley, Harg had imagined something imposing, along Commodore Buckrush’s lines; but the reality was completely different. The man who stood behind the desk scanning Harg’s papers was slightly built, with close-cropped, greying blond hair and wire-rimmed spectacles. Had he not been dressed in a splendid, gold-trimmed uniform, he would have looked like a botanist or watchmaker. But any impression of myopic intellectuality disappeared the instant he looked up to study Harg. He had startling blue eyes as probing as lancets. Harg felt that every cell of his body was being inspected separately. He kept his face impassive.

“Captain Ismol,” said Admiral Talley, “I am glad to finally meet you.”

He made it sound like he had actually heard Harg’s name before this very instant. “Likewise, sir,” said Harg.

“Did Commodore Buckrush go over these with you?” Talley asked, referring to the papers.

“No, sir.”

Talley picked up a small wooden box from the desk and came around to Harg’s side. He handed the papers to Harg, clearly assuming that Harg could do more than puzzle out a few simple words. Embarrassed, Harg studied the top paper as if he could make sense of it. It didn’t look like the other discharge papers he had seen; it was embossed with fancy gold lettering. The next thing Talley did, explained it. He opened the box and held it out to Harg. In it lay the epaulette and cockade of a squadron commander. Harg stared at them, unable to move.

“Go ahead, take it,” Talley said. “You earned it.”

Harg took the box, but still couldn’t touch the insignia in it. It was not that he had been promoted to Commodore; that would have been explainable. It was the colour of the epaulette. Instead of the silver of the Native Navy, this one was the gold of the Inning Navy.

“This . . . this is a mistake,” he said.

“No it’s not,” Talley said calmly. “We’re abolishing the Native Navy as a separate institution. The segregation is divisive and inefficient. From now on the Native Navy will simply be a branch of the regular navy, on the same standing as the other branches.”

Such a sweeping reform would send seismic shocks through the whole organization. It was no wonder Buckrush was retiring; probably a good many other Inning officers would as well, out of protest. Harg looked up at the man who had ordered the overthrow of such ancient and accepted institutions, and spoke as if it were merely a bit of housekeeping. Harg found it impossible to imagine having such power.

“A great victory gives one some opportunities that might not otherwise arise,” Talley said with a slight smile. “I felt the Native Navy deserved some recompense for its part in that victory.”

Harg looked down again at the epaulette, and this time dared to touch it.

“Of course,” said Talley, “if you decide to take your discharge now, this rank will be merely ceremonial, with the thanks of your grateful nation. However, if you decide to stay . . . Would you like hear more?”

All of Harg’s plans were whirling around his head, scattered by this revelation. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Have a seat, Commodore,” the Admiral said urbanely. “Would you like some coffee?” Without waiting for an answer, he knocked on the door of his secretary’s office, apparently a well-known signal. The door opened and the long-faced secretary appeared with a samovar which he placed on a low table flanked by wing chairs. Talley sat in one and poured two cups. “I daresay I am going to need this,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I have several obligations tonight.”

The coffee was a smooth, pungent ambrosia unlike any Harg had tasted before. He was disarmed by the whole setting, and the unexpected civility of the man before him. Most Innings affected a rough simplicity when dealing with islanders, but the Admiral made no such concessions. Harg wondered why people were so terrified of Corbin Talley.

He had figured out that the rank he had been offered was the same as that which Buckrush was vacating, but he still didn’t know if he were being offered Buckrush’s job, and couldn’t think how to ask. So he said, “How will it be organized?”

“That’s necessarily a little fluid now,” Talley said. “It will be designed as best suits the accomplishment of its new mission. You see, the Court has honoured the navy with a new assignment.”

“Already?” Harg said, surprised. They had barely gotten home from the last war.

Admiral Talley seemed to get some hidden amusement from Harg’s reaction. Drily, he said, “I’m glad to see I am not the only one . . .shall we say, impressed by the Court’s alacrity. But yes, they have handed us our next orders, and the Native Navy, or whatever it is to be called, will have to play a crucial role. You see, we have been instructed to turn our attention to the Forsaken Islands.”

Even over his wince at the condescending Inning name for his homeland, Harg felt a dull throb of alarm at this news. “What does Inning want with the isles?” he said.

“It seems the Forsakens are rich in resources that our merchants are eager to develop.”

“What resources?” Harg had never noticed any but peat and sand.

“Timber. Lead. Iron. Hemp. Cheap labour.”

Timber for building ships, Harg thought. Lead for bullets, iron for cannons. Hemp for ropes. It sounded like Inning’s imperial ambitions had not been stilled by the victory over Rothur.

“And of course, the fisheries are phenomenal,” Talley added.

“Of course.”

“As you know, Inning has claimed the Forsakens for years, but we have never tried to administer them. We have left control entirely in the hands of the native civilian governors, but even they have never been able to extend the law to the outer archipelagos. While our attention was diverted in Rothur, the unadministered territories have become a nest of pirates and brigands who are preying on the coastal shipping almost as far south as Fluminos. The present administration in Tornabay seems unable to cope with the situation, and has come under criticism for corruption and autocracy. Altogether, some sort of police action is warranted. The regular navy is the wrong tool for the job; the Native Navy has a far better chance of success.”

The explanation, so reasonable-sounding, left Harg with terrible misgivings. “We’d be fighting against our own people,” he said.

“No, you’d be fighting
for
your own people. To free them of tyranny, corruption, and lawlessness. To create a new nation that cuts across all the old divisions of race and religion. To unite your people behind the ideas of rational self-government and justice for all.”

For a moment Harg imagined himself returning home with a liberating army to topple Governor Tiarch and her despised Torna cabal from power, to restore the ancient greatness of his land. It was an intoxicating thought for a young man who had been no more than a sullen troublemaker when he left. But he couldn’t quite believe it. “What do you want me for?” he said.

Talley answered, “I want you to do Buckrush’s job, only do it right. With some understanding of the people under you, and some initiative. You’ve proven you can handle islanders, command them when others can’t. The Native Navy has tremendous potential; by the time we have to go to war again, it could be the most valuable weapon in our arsenal.”

So the Innings saw it as a sort of training exercise. Merely a prelude to the real geopolitical mission, whatever that would be. Harg thought of all the things that were wrong with the Native Navy, and of having the power to set them right. But there was one huge obstacle.

“I’m Adaina,” he said. “The officer corps is almost all Torna. They wouldn’t accept me.”

“They would if I told them to,” Talley said, coolly setting down his coffee cup.

How could he explain this to an Inning? “No, you see, there are racial divides in the isles, old prejudices that run deep. . . .”

“Do tell. I never would have known,” Talley said with ice-smooth sarcasm.

Harg realized he had just patronized the head of the Inning Navy. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Not many Innings pay much attention to us.”

“Please assume that I have been paying attention,” Talley said in a voice that could have cut glass.

Looking into those cold blue eyes, Harg felt a revelation strike him with physical force. It was not Buckrush who had engineered the transformation of the Native Navy, as everyone had assumed. It was this man—this ruthless, razor-like mind. Buckrush had been merely a puppet, a cloak for the machinations of his commander. Talley had needed a weapon more versatile and nasty than the gentleman’s club of a navy he had inherited, so he had created one.

“It’s me that hasn’t been paying attention,” Harg said, as much to himself as to Talley. But how could he have known? He had been a tool as well, manipulated without knowing it. He remembered how cool Buckrush had always seemed about his promotion to captain. Now he guessed why: Buckrush had had no choice about it. Talley had been micromanaging the Native Navy all the time.

Clearly, all Harg’s assumptions had to change. With this man, absolutely everything was intentional. He had to assume no gaps in knowledge, no mistakes.

“You
want
an Adaina in charge,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Talley smiled at the change in tone, but he was still assessing Harg, testing. “I fancy you can see my reasoning.”

“If it were me,” Harg said slowly, “I’d want an Adaina because the great majority of the population is Adaina, especially in the Outer Chains—the parts beyond Inning control. If a Torna navy showed up in those islands to impose the law, they would explode into rebellion. But having Adaina officers might just give the navy some credibility. It couldn’t be just one officer. You would have to promote a whole cadre of Adainas.”

“That would be your first priority,” Talley said. “But tell me, how much of a threat could the Adaina truly be?”

“Look at your pirates. Are they a threat? They wouldn’t fight you like a navy would, head-on. They would strike invisibly, pick off targets of opportunity, and then melt back into the population. If they had local support, you could be fighting them for decades. I don’t think you want that.”

“No indeed. So what do you recommend?”

“First of all, avoid sending in the Northern Squadron, Tiarch’s navy. You can’t imagine how they’re hated in the outlands. The Southern Squadron has no history there; it wouldn’t be seen as a provocation. Then, long-term, you have to think like the Adaina. There are ancient traditions of leadership in the outlands, things people would respond to and respect, if you got it right.”

“Yes. What traditions?”

There was a tap on the door, and it opened a crack so that the secretary’s nose was visible. “Excuse me sir,” he said, “the Chief Justice has sent a carriage to fetch you to the reception.”

“Let them wait!” Talley shot the words like bullets at the secretary’s head, and the door quickly closed. As if nothing had happened, the Admiral said, “Please go on.”

But Harg had realized that he was giving an Inning a blueprint for conquering his homeland. Once again he had been manipulated, lured to the edge of betrayal. He said, “I think perhaps the Chief Justice might be more important than me right now, sir.”

There was a short silence. Harg was thinking that if he took this man’s bait he would still be an Inning tool. Still obeying them, doing their dirty work. He would become what the Innings had made him forever.

“Well, thank you for your insights,” Admiral Talley said lightly. “It is seldom enough that an islander will speak to an Inning as an equal.”

Harg stared, disarmed again. But that wasn’t what had been happening. He had been talking to Talley as if they were both Inning.

“You don’t need to give me your answer today,” Talley said pleasantly. “Think of the offer, sleep on it. I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“No,” Harg said, standing. “I can give you my answer now, sir. I appreciate your offer, but I’ll take the discharge.”

For the first time since Harg had walked in the door, Talley looked like something had not gone precisely as he had expected. A slight, ominous line appeared between his brows. “You understand, if you refuse, the offer must go to someone else.”

“I understand that. I don’t want it. Sir.”

Talley saw that he was in earnest, and his pleasant mood vanished. “Very well,” he said. He took the gilded commission off the top of the pile of papers, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it with furious force into the fireplace. He handed Harg the discharge and pay slip, then went back to his desk and began writing as if he were alone in the room. Harg stood for a second, then assumed he had been dismissed, and went to the door.

“Ismol,” Talley said as Harg’s hand touched the knob. “You forgot your epaulette.”

He had left the wooden box sitting on the coffee table. “I thought—”

“It’s yours, you earned it,” Talley said.

Harg went back and took the box.

“Perhaps we’ll see each other in the Forsakens,” Talley said neutrally, signing a document and placing it deliberately on a pile.

“You’re going there?” Harg said, astonished. “I thought—”