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Chapter 11
Rhodos
 

The York Rebellion had a certain directness to it. Kill the king, take the throne, and be done with it. I can't say that I admire it—and if there's really a Hell, I'd like to think that the late duke is burning in a particularly fiery pit, with hosts of demons poking him up his backside—but at least it was straightforward.

It's not that I'm always a great practitioner of straightforwardness, of course; but I do prefer to see it in others.

—Cully

The admiral beckoned him outside.

That was fine with Cully.

Guy started to rise, but DuPuy waved him back to his seat, next to where Penelope lay in her bed.

"I would very much appreciate it if you'd watch over the girl," DuPuy said.

Guy started to open his mouth, but then wisely chose to close it. He simply nodded, and resumed his seat, touching one hand to the hilt of Albert, and another to the wrist of the girl, from where she lay on the narrow bed, under the fresh sheet. They would have to change it shortly, again. While most of her skin had scabbed over, it kept breaking in spots, particularly around the joints, and those needed not only to be kept clean, but not allowed to bind to the cloth.

For a man who clearly liked being on a ship more than anything else, it was strange that DuPuy had met them ashore, rather than having them brought out to the Lord Fauncher. If Cully was a more generous man, he would have attributed it to concern over moving Penelope more than was necessary.

That said, he did have Kechiroski aboard the Lord Fauncher.

The night was clear and calm, with only a sliver of moon above the three ships lying at anchor in the harbor. They rose and fell with what remained of the swells that made it through the breakwater.

Rodhos tended toward the quiet at night. Oh, there was some singing coming across the water in one of the dockside taverns, and the familiar tunes of the navy drinking songs making it clear that the admiral had allowed some liberty ashore, but that was about all of it, and about all one could expect. Managing the tricky channel into the harbor—or out of it—was something for daylight, and the masters of the other ships that had been in the harbor that morning had found the arrival of the three navy vessels good reason to leave prematurely. Either that, or it was the sort of coincidence that Cully didn't believe in, as a matter of experience.

"I don't like any of this, Sir Cully," the admiral said. He put his pipe between his mouth and took a puff. "Not that that much matters."

"No. What matters is what to do about it." Cully shrugged.

"Should you be going back to Izmir, perhaps?" the admiral asked. "Obviously, you can't take the girl, but . . ."

"I don't think so." Cully shook his head. "It was the Baba Yaga that was the problem there, and—"

"And that means that the source of the live swords can't be Izmir?"

The admiral was being an idiot. Probably on purpose, to draw Cully out. So be it.

"No," he said, "it means that if it is—and it may well be—we're still no closer to finding them there than we were before, and I don't see how Kechiroski, Guy, and I could manage to function there. Erdem the Tinker disappeared, along with the household goods he was supposed to repair."

"You're worried about being identified as spies." DuPuy nodded. "Fair enough."

"I don't care whether the problem is us being hanged as spies or stabbed as thieves—it's not only likely to hurt, but more to the point, either would render the three of us useless."

That said, Guy and Albert could fend off most of those sorts of attacks easily—but not quietly, and not without drawing attention.

Cully shook his head. "I've no objection to you sending me in as bait, to see what takes to my trail behind me, admiral—"

"A way you've used yourself before."

Cully nodded. "But then I had Gray and Bear on my trail, and some reason to think that the two of them could handle whatever it was. Right now, all we've got is pins on your map, and some reason to think that they point to something else." He deliberately allowed a trace of irritation to creep into his voice. "And I've got the most useless knight ever raised to the White Sword in my way, more than half the time."

"So what do you recommend?"

In the two weeks it had taken them to make their way across the coast and take ship to Rodhos, he'd been thinking of little else. Kechiroski had caught up with them there, as prearranged—and Cully could hardly fault the man for making it there more quickly. When Kechiroski's courage had returned or his good sense abandoned him—Cully wasn't sure which—he had gone back to the hilltop to find them gone, along with the hut. Even if the hellene had wanted to try to find them—and he said that he had, although Cully couldn't think of why he would—there was no obvious way he could have done that.

Well, he might as well get it out into the open. "We've tried the clever way. That hasn't worked. There's something to be said for a cruder approach." He cocked his head to one side. "You think it all points to Izmir?"

DuPuy nodded. "I think so. But I don't know so."

"And if you wait for knowledge . . ."

"Then it may be a long wait indeed." The admiral nodded. "Possibly too long a wait. So: we send the Hind and the Antelope out with dispatches, telling the admirals on Gibbie and Malta to put together every ship and man that they can, send the same word to the Dukes of, say, Napoli, Sicilia, and Ancona, and mount an invasion of the Izmiri coast, hoping to kick something up. Is that what you're advocating, Sir Cully?"

"I'm not sure I'm quite advocating anything," Cully said. "Not at the moment. But don't you think that would flush the game, if it's there?"

"And if it's not? Or even if it is? Look at what else it might do." The admiral took another puff at his pipe, and frowned when nothing came out. "Damn me if we're going to do that—and double damn me if we do that without need." He shook his head. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if that smooth bastard, al-Bakalani, has alerted his masters to just that possibility. We send tens of thousands of soldiers chasing around the waste of Izmir, and then we'll have hundreds of Dar ships set sail from Sfax, for Sicilia, and Italy—and before we know it, they've got a foothold on the Continent." He spat. "We need to war with the Dar, yes, and if it were up to me, we'd be raising the troops now—for that. But we're not."

"You've probably got that authority," Cully said. "Sealed orders, sent to every captain in His Majesty's Navy, ever administrator, every duke—Crown or otherwise—and half the land earls?"

DuPuy shrugged. "I wouldn't make assumptions about what's in those orders."

"I would," Cully said. "I'd hazard a guess that among your papers is a military commission, quite possibly one that hasn't been given in centuries. I'd not guess at the title, but it would be something like grand duke and commander in chief of all of his majesty's forces—whatever it is, it'll be intended to make any man, noble or common, military or civilian, hop about at your command. His Majesty's a smart man—he doesn't expect you to solve this with a few hundred spies, an aging knight, and an idiot." He forced a grin. "Or even with those, plus the girl and Kechiroski, and the other spies you've sent out. Not in any sort of final way."

"No," DuPuy said, "he doesn't. But he doesn't expect me to strike out like a child having a tantrum, either. My brief is to find the source of the live swords, and whatever else is involved with that—not to declare war on the Dar Al Islam."

Well, that wasn't surprising. Cully wasn't as impressed with DuPuy as His Majesty obviously was, but he really hadn't expected much different. DuPuy would use his authority as directed, not as he wished to, although his hunger for a war with the Dar Al Islam was almost palpable.

Which was probably one of the reasons His Majesty had picked DuPuy in the first place—at this point, the Dar was no more eager for an all-out war than the Crown was, and the threat of that could act as a spur for the Caliph's cooperation, via al-Bakalani, on the matter of the live swords, and whatever the hell else was going on.

And there was another possibility, too.

"You don't think the swords are at the heart of it?"

"I don't even think I know what the bloody hell it is, not anymore," DuPuy said. He shook his head. "There's those other reports—more darklings in France, and the number of merchantmen disappearing in the Atlantic seems to be growing, and the dead outside of Hostikka. Tell me how some hidden swordmaker in Izmir is behind that, if you please."

Cully shrugged. "As far as I can tell, there's only one way to find out, at least only one way to find out quickly." No, that wasn't true—they had gone a year beyond quickly.

DuPuy nodded. "Just as there's only one way to find out for certain if sticking a sword up your backside would hurt. Maybe it wouldn't, but I don't see you squatting on one to find out." He shook his head. "I don't have any objection to doing something precipitous, as long as I've got sufficient reason to believe that it's the right precipitous thing. A land invasion of Izmir isn't that, right now." He shook his head. "I'm having more spies dispatched there, and elsewhere."

"And for me?"

"And for you, and for me, we're homeward bound," DuPuy said. "Londinium, by way of Portsmouth, perhaps after a stop in Marseilles. At some point, we'll rendezvous with Sir Joshua, since—"

Cully's voice caught in his throat. "Gray?"

"Sir Joshua has been seconded to me—well, more to you. By order of the abbot general, of all people. I'm not sure where he is at the moment, but I expect him presently—he should have both the codes and the authority to read any of my dispatches as to where you are." He sucked for a moment on his unlit pipe. "And Marseilles? There's been some reports of goings-on north of there." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded dispatch. "And then there's this. From His Majesty."

Cully read through it quickly. Even filtered through His Majesty's careful use of the language, Becket's words came through. "First the Baba Yaga, and now the Amadan Dubh, eh?"

"And the new live swords, and darklings where they shouldn't be, and other stirrings, other places. Some of the Irish barons reported having heard cries of Imeacht gan teacht ort as they rode off for Parliament." The admiral took a pull on his pipe. "And it's not just where there's noise and trouble where there ought not be—there's also a lack of troubles where, perhaps, you might expect some. The saracens in New England aren't becoming much more troublesome, I think, although there's been a new . . . batch of Ghost Dancers out on the plains. And, yes, there's still troubles with the Kaliites in the Kush, despite what a swath Sir John cut through them not so long ago. But all that's been ongoing, not new—not like this—this, whatever it is, is something new, or the rebirth of something old. Be interesting to know if there's similar stirrings outside of Crown territory, wouldn't it?"

"Al-Bakalani has been—"

"Silent on the matter. On all of it. Curiously silent. I think that I—that we—need to speak with him, and see if we can pry some information out of him. And, meanwhile, see if I've got enough authority to prevail on Crown Intelligence that the sort of spy system that the Dar has is something we'd damn well better emulate."

"That's all well and good, but . . ." Cully shook his head. "That's a matter of years, at best."

DuPuy shrugged. "And if we have years, the sooner we start, the better. If we don't, then it does no harm."

"Unless we are—unless you are—diverting resources that could be better used."

"And if I had any bloody idea of how they could be better used, I'd use them for it."

"There is that. So, it's off to Londinium, and to see the king?"

"And that Arab bastard. For me. I don't know about you, not yet." DuPuy nodded. "For now, let's see to the girl."

They went back inside, and at their approach, she started to rise from her bed.

"Stand easy, girl," DuPuy said. "You're to rest, not tire yourself."

She had been a pretty girl, in a dark sort of way. The combination of her Injan mother and Cumberland father had given her a vaguely Mediterranean look, close enough to pass for Hellene or Turk or Arab. But that was before.

Her face was bad enough. There had been only splashes of the boiling water on her cheeks, and while each and every one of those splashes had left a burn that would become a scar, they had mostly healed. But from the neck down, she was a mass of burns, mostly scabbed over. Cully wasn't sure whether it was innate stubbornness, the preparations that, even in her agony, she had made from her kit, or something else, but he thought that she would live.

He cursed himself every time he saw her horrible wounds. She would not ever draw a breath without pain; brave men would turn their faces away from her rather than gaze on the wreck she had become; and instead of her daily agony, he could have simply put her out of her pain.

As he would have, had she asked. As he should have, out of mercy.

Guy rested one hand on Albert, and another on her hand. Once more, her whole body seemed to relax.

Guy nodded. An idiot he was, yes, but he was doing as well as anybody could for the girl. Holiness could be comforting, and if the comfort came from her belief that the touch of Sir Guy and Albert together rather than any innate ability of the combination of the two, that was fine with Cully.

"Brave girl," DuPuy said, nodding. "Credit to your father."

"And to your mother," Cully added, "and your College." He ignored DuPuy's glare.

"Well," the admiral said, "let's pretend that I've come to a decision. Let's say that I'll take the girl back to Londinium with me, in the Lord Fauncher—and that you can have your choice of Hind or Antelope, and your choice of destination." He tapped at the dispatch. "Would it be Marseilles?"

Cully shook his head. "Pantelleria. And I want to take the girl, and Sir Guy, and Kechiroski with me. If you can get dispatches out—"

"And if I can't, I'd want to know the reason why."

"—I'd appreciate it if you would pass the word on to Gray, if you can. If he can rendezvous with us in Malta, he can join us."

DuPuy's mouth barely twitched. "I thought as much. And after that?"

Cully shrugged. "We'll see where things lead. If we get some hint on Pantelleria as to where to go, I'm not disposed to waste time sending dispatches to Londinium, and waiting for your response."

"On that, I'm undecided." DuPuy took a long pull on his pipe. "How much good would it do for me to tell you to check in with me after Pantelleria?"

"That would depend on what we find there. If anything." Cully shook his head. "I'm not sure that the Wise will be of any use—but I can't think of anything more useful. Can you?" He eyed the admiral levelly. "If you're thinking to pull rank on me, I'd suggest that you consider, first, if you really want to."

DuPuy was silent a long time. "And then I'd have to consider the fact that you will do as you think best anyway, and decide if I want to be an impotent old man who gives orders he knows won't be obeyed, except by coincidence." He looked toward the door as though looking out toward the ships in the harbor.

Yes, he could order Cully aboard one of the ships, and yes, he had enough Marines with him to make that order stick—even if Guy wouldn't have supported the admiral with glee, and even greater glee if the admiral's orders were to clap Cully in irons and haul him, willy-nilly, back to England.

What would Cully do if that happened? He didn't know. He knew that he felt that it was wrong to leave the Med right now, that whatever his role in this thing was, it was here, but he had far too often been the sort of fool who had let his feelings overrule his good sense.

Would Cully do that again? The question was whether or not to. How to do it was a simple matter, really—just kick a chair toward Guy to distract him, then follow that up with a short punch to the admiral's midsection to drop DuPuy, and then he could be out and into the night, and away.

There would be something gratifying in all of that. Not just beating that idiot Guy—as pleasant an exercise as that would be, on one level—but shaking off the chains of another's commands, of returning to doing what he thought best.

Would he?

He hadn't quite decided when the admiral nodded. "Well, then, Sir Cully, the Hind's the fastest of the three—it's at your disposal." DuPuy's mouth split into a grin. "Or, of course, I'm lying, and I'll have you thrown in the hold the moment I get you aboard, even though I'll give you my word that that's not the case."

"You'd break your word, Admiral?" Guy seemed shocked. The idiot.

"Of course, you fool. I'd do it in a heartbeat—if I thought it necessary, or even advisable," the admiral said. "My word and my honor are expendable; hardly the most valuable thing I could expend." He turned back to Cully. "But I don't see the need, not here and now. You've got your crew; you've got your ship." He raised his voice. "Emmons."

If the young lieutenant had been lurking about the door when Cully and the admiral had been outside, Cully hadn't seen him, but it was only a matter of a moment until he was inside.

"Sir."

"Pass the word to Captain McGinty—he's at Sir Cully's disposal, until further notice. Sir Cully will, I'd expect, want to raise sail at first light. Longboat ashore, along with a crew—Miss Penelope will need assistance."

"Aye-aye, sir." Emmons was gone even more quickly than he had appeared.

The admiral turned back to Cully. "Guess I've saved Sir Guy and myself a beating, as well, eh?"

"I'm not sure," Cully said, truthfully. He hadn't decided, after all. "But quite possibly."

DuPuy just smiled.

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Framed

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Chapter 11
Rhodos
 

The York Rebellion had a certain directness to it. Kill the king, take the throne, and be done with it. I can't say that I admire it—and if there's really a Hell, I'd like to think that the late duke is burning in a particularly fiery pit, with hosts of demons poking him up his backside—but at least it was straightforward.

It's not that I'm always a great practitioner of straightforwardness, of course; but I do prefer to see it in others.

—Cully

The admiral beckoned him outside.

That was fine with Cully.

Guy started to rise, but DuPuy waved him back to his seat, next to where Penelope lay in her bed.

"I would very much appreciate it if you'd watch over the girl," DuPuy said.

Guy started to open his mouth, but then wisely chose to close it. He simply nodded, and resumed his seat, touching one hand to the hilt of Albert, and another to the wrist of the girl, from where she lay on the narrow bed, under the fresh sheet. They would have to change it shortly, again. While most of her skin had scabbed over, it kept breaking in spots, particularly around the joints, and those needed not only to be kept clean, but not allowed to bind to the cloth.

For a man who clearly liked being on a ship more than anything else, it was strange that DuPuy had met them ashore, rather than having them brought out to the Lord Fauncher. If Cully was a more generous man, he would have attributed it to concern over moving Penelope more than was necessary.

That said, he did have Kechiroski aboard the Lord Fauncher.

The night was clear and calm, with only a sliver of moon above the three ships lying at anchor in the harbor. They rose and fell with what remained of the swells that made it through the breakwater.

Rodhos tended toward the quiet at night. Oh, there was some singing coming across the water in one of the dockside taverns, and the familiar tunes of the navy drinking songs making it clear that the admiral had allowed some liberty ashore, but that was about all of it, and about all one could expect. Managing the tricky channel into the harbor—or out of it—was something for daylight, and the masters of the other ships that had been in the harbor that morning had found the arrival of the three navy vessels good reason to leave prematurely. Either that, or it was the sort of coincidence that Cully didn't believe in, as a matter of experience.

"I don't like any of this, Sir Cully," the admiral said. He put his pipe between his mouth and took a puff. "Not that that much matters."

"No. What matters is what to do about it." Cully shrugged.

"Should you be going back to Izmir, perhaps?" the admiral asked. "Obviously, you can't take the girl, but . . ."

"I don't think so." Cully shook his head. "It was the Baba Yaga that was the problem there, and—"

"And that means that the source of the live swords can't be Izmir?"

The admiral was being an idiot. Probably on purpose, to draw Cully out. So be it.

"No," he said, "it means that if it is—and it may well be—we're still no closer to finding them there than we were before, and I don't see how Kechiroski, Guy, and I could manage to function there. Erdem the Tinker disappeared, along with the household goods he was supposed to repair."

"You're worried about being identified as spies." DuPuy nodded. "Fair enough."

"I don't care whether the problem is us being hanged as spies or stabbed as thieves—it's not only likely to hurt, but more to the point, either would render the three of us useless."

That said, Guy and Albert could fend off most of those sorts of attacks easily—but not quietly, and not without drawing attention.

Cully shook his head. "I've no objection to you sending me in as bait, to see what takes to my trail behind me, admiral—"

"A way you've used yourself before."

Cully nodded. "But then I had Gray and Bear on my trail, and some reason to think that the two of them could handle whatever it was. Right now, all we've got is pins on your map, and some reason to think that they point to something else." He deliberately allowed a trace of irritation to creep into his voice. "And I've got the most useless knight ever raised to the White Sword in my way, more than half the time."

"So what do you recommend?"

In the two weeks it had taken them to make their way across the coast and take ship to Rodhos, he'd been thinking of little else. Kechiroski had caught up with them there, as prearranged—and Cully could hardly fault the man for making it there more quickly. When Kechiroski's courage had returned or his good sense abandoned him—Cully wasn't sure which—he had gone back to the hilltop to find them gone, along with the hut. Even if the hellene had wanted to try to find them—and he said that he had, although Cully couldn't think of why he would—there was no obvious way he could have done that.

Well, he might as well get it out into the open. "We've tried the clever way. That hasn't worked. There's something to be said for a cruder approach." He cocked his head to one side. "You think it all points to Izmir?"

DuPuy nodded. "I think so. But I don't know so."

"And if you wait for knowledge . . ."

"Then it may be a long wait indeed." The admiral nodded. "Possibly too long a wait. So: we send the Hind and the Antelope out with dispatches, telling the admirals on Gibbie and Malta to put together every ship and man that they can, send the same word to the Dukes of, say, Napoli, Sicilia, and Ancona, and mount an invasion of the Izmiri coast, hoping to kick something up. Is that what you're advocating, Sir Cully?"

"I'm not sure I'm quite advocating anything," Cully said. "Not at the moment. But don't you think that would flush the game, if it's there?"

"And if it's not? Or even if it is? Look at what else it might do." The admiral took another puff at his pipe, and frowned when nothing came out. "Damn me if we're going to do that—and double damn me if we do that without need." He shook his head. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if that smooth bastard, al-Bakalani, has alerted his masters to just that possibility. We send tens of thousands of soldiers chasing around the waste of Izmir, and then we'll have hundreds of Dar ships set sail from Sfax, for Sicilia, and Italy—and before we know it, they've got a foothold on the Continent." He spat. "We need to war with the Dar, yes, and if it were up to me, we'd be raising the troops now—for that. But we're not."

"You've probably got that authority," Cully said. "Sealed orders, sent to every captain in His Majesty's Navy, ever administrator, every duke—Crown or otherwise—and half the land earls?"

DuPuy shrugged. "I wouldn't make assumptions about what's in those orders."

"I would," Cully said. "I'd hazard a guess that among your papers is a military commission, quite possibly one that hasn't been given in centuries. I'd not guess at the title, but it would be something like grand duke and commander in chief of all of his majesty's forces—whatever it is, it'll be intended to make any man, noble or common, military or civilian, hop about at your command. His Majesty's a smart man—he doesn't expect you to solve this with a few hundred spies, an aging knight, and an idiot." He forced a grin. "Or even with those, plus the girl and Kechiroski, and the other spies you've sent out. Not in any sort of final way."

"No," DuPuy said, "he doesn't. But he doesn't expect me to strike out like a child having a tantrum, either. My brief is to find the source of the live swords, and whatever else is involved with that—not to declare war on the Dar Al Islam."

Well, that wasn't surprising. Cully wasn't as impressed with DuPuy as His Majesty obviously was, but he really hadn't expected much different. DuPuy would use his authority as directed, not as he wished to, although his hunger for a war with the Dar Al Islam was almost palpable.

Which was probably one of the reasons His Majesty had picked DuPuy in the first place—at this point, the Dar was no more eager for an all-out war than the Crown was, and the threat of that could act as a spur for the Caliph's cooperation, via al-Bakalani, on the matter of the live swords, and whatever the hell else was going on.

And there was another possibility, too.

"You don't think the swords are at the heart of it?"

"I don't even think I know what the bloody hell it is, not anymore," DuPuy said. He shook his head. "There's those other reports—more darklings in France, and the number of merchantmen disappearing in the Atlantic seems to be growing, and the dead outside of Hostikka. Tell me how some hidden swordmaker in Izmir is behind that, if you please."

Cully shrugged. "As far as I can tell, there's only one way to find out, at least only one way to find out quickly." No, that wasn't true—they had gone a year beyond quickly.

DuPuy nodded. "Just as there's only one way to find out for certain if sticking a sword up your backside would hurt. Maybe it wouldn't, but I don't see you squatting on one to find out." He shook his head. "I don't have any objection to doing something precipitous, as long as I've got sufficient reason to believe that it's the right precipitous thing. A land invasion of Izmir isn't that, right now." He shook his head. "I'm having more spies dispatched there, and elsewhere."

"And for me?"

"And for you, and for me, we're homeward bound," DuPuy said. "Londinium, by way of Portsmouth, perhaps after a stop in Marseilles. At some point, we'll rendezvous with Sir Joshua, since—"

Cully's voice caught in his throat. "Gray?"

"Sir Joshua has been seconded to me—well, more to you. By order of the abbot general, of all people. I'm not sure where he is at the moment, but I expect him presently—he should have both the codes and the authority to read any of my dispatches as to where you are." He sucked for a moment on his unlit pipe. "And Marseilles? There's been some reports of goings-on north of there." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded dispatch. "And then there's this. From His Majesty."

Cully read through it quickly. Even filtered through His Majesty's careful use of the language, Becket's words came through. "First the Baba Yaga, and now the Amadan Dubh, eh?"

"And the new live swords, and darklings where they shouldn't be, and other stirrings, other places. Some of the Irish barons reported having heard cries of Imeacht gan teacht ort as they rode off for Parliament." The admiral took a pull on his pipe. "And it's not just where there's noise and trouble where there ought not be—there's also a lack of troubles where, perhaps, you might expect some. The saracens in New England aren't becoming much more troublesome, I think, although there's been a new . . . batch of Ghost Dancers out on the plains. And, yes, there's still troubles with the Kaliites in the Kush, despite what a swath Sir John cut through them not so long ago. But all that's been ongoing, not new—not like this—this, whatever it is, is something new, or the rebirth of something old. Be interesting to know if there's similar stirrings outside of Crown territory, wouldn't it?"

"Al-Bakalani has been—"

"Silent on the matter. On all of it. Curiously silent. I think that I—that we—need to speak with him, and see if we can pry some information out of him. And, meanwhile, see if I've got enough authority to prevail on Crown Intelligence that the sort of spy system that the Dar has is something we'd damn well better emulate."

"That's all well and good, but . . ." Cully shook his head. "That's a matter of years, at best."

DuPuy shrugged. "And if we have years, the sooner we start, the better. If we don't, then it does no harm."

"Unless we are—unless you are—diverting resources that could be better used."

"And if I had any bloody idea of how they could be better used, I'd use them for it."

"There is that. So, it's off to Londinium, and to see the king?"

"And that Arab bastard. For me. I don't know about you, not yet." DuPuy nodded. "For now, let's see to the girl."

They went back inside, and at their approach, she started to rise from her bed.

"Stand easy, girl," DuPuy said. "You're to rest, not tire yourself."

She had been a pretty girl, in a dark sort of way. The combination of her Injan mother and Cumberland father had given her a vaguely Mediterranean look, close enough to pass for Hellene or Turk or Arab. But that was before.

Her face was bad enough. There had been only splashes of the boiling water on her cheeks, and while each and every one of those splashes had left a burn that would become a scar, they had mostly healed. But from the neck down, she was a mass of burns, mostly scabbed over. Cully wasn't sure whether it was innate stubbornness, the preparations that, even in her agony, she had made from her kit, or something else, but he thought that she would live.

He cursed himself every time he saw her horrible wounds. She would not ever draw a breath without pain; brave men would turn their faces away from her rather than gaze on the wreck she had become; and instead of her daily agony, he could have simply put her out of her pain.

As he would have, had she asked. As he should have, out of mercy.

Guy rested one hand on Albert, and another on her hand. Once more, her whole body seemed to relax.

Guy nodded. An idiot he was, yes, but he was doing as well as anybody could for the girl. Holiness could be comforting, and if the comfort came from her belief that the touch of Sir Guy and Albert together rather than any innate ability of the combination of the two, that was fine with Cully.

"Brave girl," DuPuy said, nodding. "Credit to your father."

"And to your mother," Cully added, "and your College." He ignored DuPuy's glare.

"Well," the admiral said, "let's pretend that I've come to a decision. Let's say that I'll take the girl back to Londinium with me, in the Lord Fauncher—and that you can have your choice of Hind or Antelope, and your choice of destination." He tapped at the dispatch. "Would it be Marseilles?"

Cully shook his head. "Pantelleria. And I want to take the girl, and Sir Guy, and Kechiroski with me. If you can get dispatches out—"

"And if I can't, I'd want to know the reason why."

"—I'd appreciate it if you would pass the word on to Gray, if you can. If he can rendezvous with us in Malta, he can join us."

DuPuy's mouth barely twitched. "I thought as much. And after that?"

Cully shrugged. "We'll see where things lead. If we get some hint on Pantelleria as to where to go, I'm not disposed to waste time sending dispatches to Londinium, and waiting for your response."

"On that, I'm undecided." DuPuy took a long pull on his pipe. "How much good would it do for me to tell you to check in with me after Pantelleria?"

"That would depend on what we find there. If anything." Cully shook his head. "I'm not sure that the Wise will be of any use—but I can't think of anything more useful. Can you?" He eyed the admiral levelly. "If you're thinking to pull rank on me, I'd suggest that you consider, first, if you really want to."

DuPuy was silent a long time. "And then I'd have to consider the fact that you will do as you think best anyway, and decide if I want to be an impotent old man who gives orders he knows won't be obeyed, except by coincidence." He looked toward the door as though looking out toward the ships in the harbor.

Yes, he could order Cully aboard one of the ships, and yes, he had enough Marines with him to make that order stick—even if Guy wouldn't have supported the admiral with glee, and even greater glee if the admiral's orders were to clap Cully in irons and haul him, willy-nilly, back to England.

What would Cully do if that happened? He didn't know. He knew that he felt that it was wrong to leave the Med right now, that whatever his role in this thing was, it was here, but he had far too often been the sort of fool who had let his feelings overrule his good sense.

Would Cully do that again? The question was whether or not to. How to do it was a simple matter, really—just kick a chair toward Guy to distract him, then follow that up with a short punch to the admiral's midsection to drop DuPuy, and then he could be out and into the night, and away.

There would be something gratifying in all of that. Not just beating that idiot Guy—as pleasant an exercise as that would be, on one level—but shaking off the chains of another's commands, of returning to doing what he thought best.

Would he?

He hadn't quite decided when the admiral nodded. "Well, then, Sir Cully, the Hind's the fastest of the three—it's at your disposal." DuPuy's mouth split into a grin. "Or, of course, I'm lying, and I'll have you thrown in the hold the moment I get you aboard, even though I'll give you my word that that's not the case."

"You'd break your word, Admiral?" Guy seemed shocked. The idiot.

"Of course, you fool. I'd do it in a heartbeat—if I thought it necessary, or even advisable," the admiral said. "My word and my honor are expendable; hardly the most valuable thing I could expend." He turned back to Cully. "But I don't see the need, not here and now. You've got your crew; you've got your ship." He raised his voice. "Emmons."

If the young lieutenant had been lurking about the door when Cully and the admiral had been outside, Cully hadn't seen him, but it was only a matter of a moment until he was inside.

"Sir."

"Pass the word to Captain McGinty—he's at Sir Cully's disposal, until further notice. Sir Cully will, I'd expect, want to raise sail at first light. Longboat ashore, along with a crew—Miss Penelope will need assistance."

"Aye-aye, sir." Emmons was gone even more quickly than he had appeared.

The admiral turned back to Cully. "Guess I've saved Sir Guy and myself a beating, as well, eh?"

"I'm not sure," Cully said, truthfully. He hadn't decided, after all. "But quite possibly."

DuPuy just smiled.

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