Skvoreshniki’s officer’s mess was built into her bow, making it a triangle and extremely narrow at its far end. In that sharp corner, good for nothing else, were mounted eleven silver plates, running from the ceiling to the deck. They were gifts, each commemorating some deed or anniversary in the ship’s service. The highest, least tarnished of them announced “40 years at sea” in the middle stood one, given by Ladies’ Association of the Village of Wex, in recognition of “the elimination of vile smugglers in the waters off Wex.” More silver, including an entire dinner service, was locked in a heavy, glass-fronted cabinet on the opposite bulkhead. These, too, were gifts, inscribed to the ship’s company as a whole, her officers, or certain captains.

“You’ve a popular ship,” Farley observed, taking it in.

“She has done much. There is more, in some vault at the admiralty. For a stretch Skvoreshniki was the only battleship the Assembly had, when she docked in some coast town, well, it was an affair for the entire province,” Captain Theodore Vaux replied. He was very young for the rank, to Bethany’s eye his uniform was fashionably cut, bordering on being out of regulation.

“To think, we were considering what museum to send all of these keepsakes to, this war might have condemned many but it pardoned us,” Vaux went on.

“Yes, I thought I read you were bound for the breakers,” Badrine noted.

“We’re still to report to them immediately upon cessation of hostilities, alas.”

“Ending her career as a fighting flagship, rather than some floating barracks or training hulk, that’s a fine thing,” Badrine went on.

“Sit please,” Vaux offered, as stewards drew out chairs at the long mess table. Fletch’s three officers did and Vaux, after a stately pause, followed, “she’s no longer the flagship, I’m afraid. That honor has gone to Howl. If one likes semantics, I suppose she remains the flagship of the South Sea Squadron, but in the special detachment she is only a subordinate.”

“How long have you been searching for us?” Farley wondered.

“We have been steaming toward the position reported in your late scribe’s communique for a fortnight. Of course Howl and her detachment have come farther and longer. We were coaling at Kjell when they arrived, Vice Admiral Locke had the communique, we had not seen it as it was sent directly to the Admiralty. He appended us to his force at once, took the entire fleet at Kjell, in fact, save for one monitor to guard it. Only a week ago, when we neared the likely search area, was the communique even read to me and my officers. It was written to light a fire at the Admiralty, clearly, and was successful enough in that, though I believe the massacre at Holman Quay is what prompted them to send such a force.”

“We put into Holman Quay not two months ago, do you meant to say it has been attacked since, sir?” Farley questioned.

“Attacked? Razed to the ground,” Vaux sighed.

Stewards brought tea and were then dismissed, Vaux ordering the doors locked.

“I have heard what you told Mr. Whittle, do not trouble yourselves in repeating it, start with the Bexarian innovation or whatever it is, the enemy that inspired that polemical communique.”

Badrine produced a chest of charts and papers, methodically assembling them on the mess table.

“Have you ever seen an airship demonstrated, sir?” he began.

Owing to her age, Skvoreshniki was awash in wood where a modern ship, even little Fletch, used steel or iron. Much of her superstructure, with the exception of an armored bridge, was teak, as was her deck. All of it had been tarred countless times, at first to fill in the gaps between boards, later all over to stop rot, such that it was now a lusterless black. As they walked across it, toward the forecastle, Bethany imagined that on a hot day it would threaten to trap sailors like flypaper. It was a good thing Skvoreshniki kept to the polar reaches of the South Sea. The only clean things on her deck were her guns, though their turrets had been allowed to show rust.

“When did you last have a refit?” Badrine inquired, touching the gunnel and coming away with chips of paint in his palm.

“Ten years ago, before I was with her,” Vaux answered, “she was sent down here just after and has not seen home waters, let alone a graving dock since.”

“Do you know what was installed then, sir?” Badrine went on.

“New rangefinders, new barrels for our main guns, and all of our casemate guns were replaced to accommodate the smokeless powder. Lesser changes too, of course. There are some men here who have been with her twenty years, they could give you every detail.”

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary,” Badrine nodded.

Vaux stopped between Skvoreshniki’s anchor chains, in the shadow of her forward turret. A line of ships was faintly visible beyond him.

He produced a spyglass from his greatcoat, offering it to Bethany, “I thought you would like to see the fleet assembled on your behalf.”

“There are seven ships in all, counting us. The battleship Howl is the standout, of course, less than a year old and a flagship. You have met Sophie, I think, at Kjell, she is just there. The cruiser Valse is the rearmost, in front of her are the frigates, sisters, Sharp and Quick. Finally, there is the collier Despatch.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Bethany’s glass settled on Howl, the rest of the warships looked broadly similar but Howl was striking. Twice as large as any of the vessels in her line and larger even than Skvoreshniki, she was painted dark gray, in contrast to the south sea and tropic white the others wore. She was a creature of the home waters, meant to defend the approaches the capitol and the great rivers. She had no little guns in casemates and few deck guns, mounting instead four vast double turrets, two fore, two aft. Her paint and austere shape, all heavy, straight lines bulged with armor was almost offensive to Bethany, something the orcs would build if they were clever enough.

The line was stopped, waiting for Fletch and Skvoreshniki, word of the former’s discovery having reached the detachment by scribe. Though the fog had cleared, an artificial cloud of steam and smoke wrapped the six ships.

“Will this do?” Vaux asked them all, mockingly.

“Assuming we strike when it’s at low altitude, certainly,” Badrine replied.

“Of course and you will have the opportunity to inform the Vice Admiral’s plan of attack.”

It was dusk when Skvoreshniki’s launch returned them to Fletch. They were now among the other ships, the churn of screws and calls of sailors moving through air heavy with soot and snowfall. Mr. Locke had taken the decision, tentatively, to steam for Hegalia and intercept the airship there, though a formal plan was not complete. Bethany stepped into her cabin, finding the stove dead and Clotilde alive but motionless on the bunk. She lit a lamp and saw that the steward had brought Clotilde supper. She was happy to find it was at least partly eaten. The stove was fired next, though it and the entire cabin was soaked with cold and would take half the night to do any good.

Bethany sipped cold tea, left behind on the supper tray. She wanted to sleep, was exhausted from her early watch and Vaux’s breakneck tour of his ship, but did not dare disturb Clotilde and could not stomach the floor, at least until the cabin warmed.

Threlfall had done a great deal for them, that was clear now. That changed little for her, though, she could not see past the razor. Whatever he had done in death, they could have done in life. He certainly could of have sent the message and lived to face the consequences. As for the rest, the blood, the moldavite, and whatever he had to done to her, to Fletch. It had proved necessary but that was no vindication. Granger was no tyrant, he could have been convinced, if not by Threlfall alone, then by the two of them. They might have recruited Badrine too, yes, their conviction alone would have swayed him. She would not call him a coward, she was sure that every thing he had done was necessary by his reasoning. She only wished she had been told, presented with his plan, even in some last letter, but preferably while he was alive. He must have mistrusted her, or, better, was simply too panicked by his predictions. It had to be the latter, Bethany did not think she ever come to grips with the alternative. She would loathe him for the former and did loathe him for leaving her alone. Clotilde had returned to her, but only as a shell, half-mad with sorrow. Her suicide would be far more just than his, yet Bethany did not expect it, despite the pistol that rested on the bunk within the girl’s reach. Bethany was sure she would have done it already, sometime during the day, if she was going to. She had been given the means and privacy.

Clotilde stirred, rolling in the bunk to look at Bethany.

“Were you asleep?” Bethany asked.

Clotilde sat up, “I think so,” and glanced at the last light through the window, “is it late or early?”

“Late.”

“Oh, so the other ship did not keep you so long.”

“Long enough, their captain is very proud of that hulk.”

“It is very old isn’t it?”

“The oldest in the fleet he said.”

Clotilde reached into the narrow space between the bunk and the bulkhead, with a rustle she drew out several sheets of paper. She got up from the bunk and held them out to Bethany, who saw they were her own sketches of the girl.

“Did you make these after the sinking?”

“I did,” Bethany answered, flushing, “have you been going through my things?

“Opening the only drawer in this cabin is hardly ‘going through’ - but, yes, I was curious. You must know you’re very strange and intriguing, all of Tess whispered about you after you came onboard. So, yes, I asked myself ‘what does a witch keep around?’ I know it was wrong, but nevermind that. I’m afraid what I’m going to ask next will make that slight seem small.”

“Don’t worry.”

“Truly, it’s an absurd thing.”

“What isn’t in these waters.”

Clotilde pressed the sketches into Bethany’s hands, “would you destroy these? They trouble me, they’re lovely but it is like looking at my own death mask.”

Bethany rolled the papers up and stuck them into the stove, “they were only studies, anyway, ask me to burn a canvas and we may have a problem.”

Clotilde sat again on the bunk, “thank you.”

“You seem better, I saw you ate, that’s good.”

“I did, but you should capture a proper cook with your next prize if you can.”

“It was much better when we first left port, we still had fresh meat then. There’s talk that the steward is going to kill one of his chickens and cook it up, that will be the best we’ve eaten in months. Though I wonder what Howl has in her stores, surely a Vice Admiral rates the best.”

“Howl? What a frightful name. Is that one of ships that’s joined us.”

“Yes, and it’s a frightful ship. Grand though. Have you seen the fleet at all? We’re with them now.”

“No, I haven’t left this room. You know I’ve no clothes but this nightgown you lent me.”

Bethany took her boat cloak of its peg and handed it to her, “come, lets go out before we lose the rest of the light.”

The fleet towered over Fletch, only Despatch, was comparable in length though the collier was far bulkier. Skvoreshniki’s sidewheels thumped through the sea, a strange rhythm against the drone of screws. The old battleship was still the rear guard, she was the slowest among them by far. Clotilde pointed to her, “is that Howl?”

“No, she is Skvoreshniki, the ship we saw earlier, look for those silly paddles of hers, she’s unmistakable. Howl is there, the only one with dark paint.”

Howl was in the center of the group, her signal lamp beating out some message to Valse.

Clotilde shuddered, the snow was falling harder and stuck to her face, “we are going south again, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To kill the airship.”

“No,” Clotilde frowned, “that is why they are going, we could go back to Holman Quay. How could anyone say this ship has not done enough?”

“Holman Quay was destroyed, by the airship as far as we know.”

“The mainland, then?”

“Do you think we would make it, cruising alone with that beast out there?”

“With this fleet to preoccupy it, certainly.”

“We are under orders. First from the Admiralty at the outset of our cruise, we are not to return to home waters until ordered, and now from Locke, the Admiral on Howl, he said to follow him so we must.”

Clotilde leaned on Bethany, shivering, “doesn’t your father own this ship, can’t you do whatever you wish?”

“Fletch is not a privateer, she has a Navy crew, she’s seconded to the Admiralty, their property until the war ends.”

“So are we, then.”

“You are a guest, you could leave but there’s nowhere for you to go. Save that pity for the sailors, they’d be flogged for saying what you are and shot for trying it.”

“No, I will stay with you until your obligation is done. I wanted to go home but my home belongs to some family from the provinces now. It just struck me, I keep thinking of it as if it is waiting to welcome me but I will never step foot in it again.”

“Nonsense, I made inquiries in your interest, you know, and I found Stator’s prize settlement has not yet been paid out, when it is you shall receive every ritter. You can buy it back.”

“I will not,” Clotilde intoned, “it’s too big for only me. Heavens I already saw my mother in every room, I would see father too now.”

A single swaying light appeared, moving away from Howl’s side and toward Fletch.

“Dispatch boat coming up,” a watchstander announced.

It did so, stopping very near Bethany and Clotilde. Sailors bustled them aside to pin it in place with a boat hook.

“Good evening,” a freezing midshipman began, rising in the boat. He held out a sealed envelope, “for your captain, sirs.”

Bethany moved through the clutch of sailors at the gunnel and took it herself. The midshipman removed his cap with a jerk, “madam.”

“Is that all?” Bethany asked, hoping for his sake it was.

“Yes, thank you,” the boy gabbled.

The dispatch boat was released and bounded away.

“Read that inside, can you?” Clotilde begged.

They returned to Bethany’s cabin and she unsealed the letter. It was on very thick paper marked at the top with three crests: the Admiralty, Howl, and Vice Admiral Locke himself.

“To Madam Esterhouse, Captain S/Y Fletch, and her officers Misters Farley and Badrine. Vice Admiral Locke and the officers of Howl respectfully require your attendance at a dinner, tomorrow evening, to honor the noteworthy survival and strong endeavors of S/Y Fletch and to discuss Vice Admiral Locke’s proposed move against the foul Bexarian airship.”