S. Stirling - Against the Tide of Years

Then the heads of the war bands began to come forward, to kneel before Raupasha and place their hands between hers; he was a little uneasy as they took his right hand and pressed it to their foreheads afterward. That took most of an hour, and Raupasha spoke again, raising his hand with hers once more.

"They seem really pleased," he said to her. She nodded, raising shining eyes to his. "What was that last part about?"

"They were more than pleased, Lord Kenn'et," she said solemnly, "when they heard that you would be my consort, to father a new line of kings for Mitanni, sons who would make us glorious as of old."

For a moment the world seemed to stop. Hollard closed his eyes. Oh, sweet Jesus, and in public, how 'm I going to get out of this, Kashtiliash will go ballistic, Kathryn will cut my testicles off, and Councilor Arnstein will flay me, and what the Chief and the commodore will say-

There were no adequate words. But he had to try.

"Oh, shit!"

August, Year 10 A.E.

"Ma'am, she sails like a cast-iron pig," Captain Trudeau said.

"The Farragut's my ship, she's the most formidable thing on the World Ocean and I love her dearly, but she's crank, she's wet, she's not fit to be let out on the Atlantic on a dark night."

Commodore Alston clasped her hands behind her back and rose slightly on her toes; she'd always done that when she needed to think. Right now the bright surface of the Southhampton Water was full of ships; her own Chamberlain, all six of the Republic's frigates, and brigs, schooners, things less nameable, score upon score of them, with swarms of small craft crisscrossing the waters between the anchored ships and the docks. All the naval power of the Republic and its Alliance gathered to make an end to the Tartessian pest, with thousands of warriors ashore ready to embark on the troop ships along with the First Nantucket Militia and the Second Marines.

Not far away, the Eagle lay at a single anchor, waiting to unfurl her wings and take the string westward for home, with a light cargo and returning passengers; even when most of an expeditionary force was going one way, some duty or necessity always called in the other.

It was a bright August day, the sort that pre-Event travel posters of England always showed and nature rarely did, with a breeze out of the north that ruffled the intensely blue water into a rippled skin ridged with white, pitching the ships at their anchors and bringing a smell of salt, silt, and woodsmoke from the great volunteer camp around Portsmouth Base. Southbound wings made the sky overhead clamorous, almost enough to mask the noise of the encampment.

She narrowed her eyes against the brightness and considered the Farragut. With her masts shipped and without the protective plating she looked more normal; and still menacing, with the two four-inch rifled guns on fo'c'sle and quarterdeck on their track mountings and the canvas-shrouded Gatlings clamped to her rails, and the high bridge across her paddle boxes.

"That's even without the ram plating fitted?" she asked.

"That helps, but not all that much," Trudeau said, his eyes bright blue in a swarthy face. "Nothing short of ripping out her engines and completely rebuilding the bow would help, as far as her deep-water performance is concerned. She ships water over the bow like a submarine if there's any sort of sea, even under steam-God only knows what she'd do in a real blow."

"And She's not talking," Alston said. "Hmmm. Reserve buoyancy's low, too-hard to recover from being pooped."

Trudeau came to the defense of his ship. "Apart from shipping water over the bow, she's a honey with her paddles going. Very maneuverable."

Alston nodded. Unfortunately, that didn't solve their problem. Even burning coal, which could be gotten here in Alba, her engines were and would remain fuel hogs-reliable, and they gave her a good twelve knots, but useless for oceanic voyages. There was little point in having a steam ram-gunboat that arrived at the scene of action with her fuel bunkers dry, particularly when, for all her three masts and ship-rig, she wasn't too handy under sail.

"Well, I'm afraid you'll have to nurse her along," Alston said. The design had to be a compromise; the characteristics of a ram and a blue-water sailor just aren't all that compatible. "You got her heah across the North Atlantic. I've every confidence you'll be able to get her down the Bay of Biscay and to Gibraltar with us, God, Moon Woman, and the weather willing."

The two American-born touched wood; Swindapa made the Fiernan triple-touch gesture of reverence.

"And the dockyard's ready to help with the installation of the bow plating, Captain Trudeau," Alston went on.

Trudeau saluted. "Yes, ma'am-although that makes her even worse."

Swindapa sighed as he departed, then said, "It's time, love."

They went below, through the twitter of pipes and the ritual calls of an officer leaving the ship, into the great stern cabin. Dhinwarn sat on the big bunk, her daughter's adopted children on either side, looking up as she told a story with an arm around either shoulder. They looked slightly incongruous in sailor suits next to her Fiernan string skirt, which was what they'd been wearing for the past couple of months at the Great Wisdom-or less. The girls bounced to their feet as their mothers came in.

"Mom…"

"Mom…"

Heather and Lucy looked at each other, and visibly decided to give it one more try.

"Do we have to go?"

"Yes, you do," Marian said, forcing a gentle smile. Come on, woman, you're a commodore. You're not allowed to bawl. It'd scare the troops. It'll only be for a few months.

"Come on, now, you don't want to miss the tide," she said.

"Yes we do! We want to go with you!"

"We could stay below if there's trouble!"

"We could carry powder up from the magazine!"

Swindapa crouched and hugged Heather as the child ran to her, stroking the red head and its braids. "We want you safe," she said.

Marian nodded, cupping a hand under Lucy's chin. "We're going into action," she said. "You wouldn't want us worrying about you, now, would you?"

"Can't we stay with Grandma, then?" Lucy said, her great brown eyes filling with tears. "We'd be closer to you."

Dhinwarn laughed. "That would be dancing-rightly with me," she said in Fiernan; she understood English a lot better than she spoke it.

"No, sweetlin', because you'll have to be at school again soon," Marian said. "You'll be staying with Uncle Jared and Aunt Martha until we get home. That won't be too long, surely; perhaps we can be back for Christmas."

"Promise?" Heather said.

Marian kissed her brow. "No, because I can't be sure. Now come on, honey, sugar. Make us proud."

They took the girls' hands; both bravely stifled tears as they led them back to the quarterdeck. Their sea chests were there-sources of immense pride, with their names neatly stenciled on the sides, Guard-fashion: HEATHER ALSTON-KURLELO and LUCY ALSTON-KURLELO, and guard house, nantucket town underneath. So was the other luggage, souvenirs, boxed presents from their Kurlelo relatives, their favorite stuffed animals.

Captain Nguyen of the Eagle was there as well, saluting and then repeating the gesture smartly down at the two nine-year-olds. "Ready to go aboard?" he said.

The Alston-Kurlelo daughters looked at each other and shed a little of their solemnness. Uh-oh, Marian thought. It just occurred to them that they get a voyage without their mothers to squash the things they really like to do as too dangerous-and they think they can pull their charmer act on Nguyen.

"You might want to keep them in irons below until you make the Brandt Point Light," she said. "They're as mischievous as apes, the both of them, and what one doesn't think of to get into trouble the other will."