Varinshold thrummed with activity as they rode through the streets flanked by Benten and Iltis, people pausing to bow or call out a loyal greeting before hurrying to their tasks. For all its bustle the fabric of the city was scarcely healed, a few newly completed buildings rising from the devastation, and these only plain, functional barracks devoid of aesthetic value.
The activity was even more intense at the docks. Varinshold was a port city but had traditionally built few ships, most of the Realm’s vessels being the product of the South Tower and Warnsclave yards where thousands now laboured at a frantic pitch to give her the fleet she demanded, though never fast enough. Winter was upon them and no more than a dozen new ships were ready, and these only warships of traditional design. An exasperated Lord Davern had advised that building a vessel on the dimensions she required would demand the construction of a completely new yard. “Then build it, my lord,” she told him simply.
The Queen’s Forge, as it had come to be called, occupied much of the wharf previously taken up by the city’s warehouses, a sprawling collection of smithies and workshops where skilled artisans laboured day and night in ten-hour shifts. They were former apprentices mostly, young enough to run from the slavers who had claimed their masters, many having to be extracted from the ranks of the Realm Guard, often at great protest. As per her strict orders they gave no pause to bow as she entered the Forge, though there were many quick glances of awe or admiration to greet her.
She proceeded through the cacophony of pounding metal and ceaseless saws to the cavernous space where Alornis waited with Lord Davern, and rising behind them the hull of a vessel fully thirty feet high. Lyrna’s gaze tracked over the scaffolding that covered her sides and the wrights working caulking and pitch into the upper seams. “I was given to believe she stood ready to launch, my lord,” she said to Davern.
“Finishing touches only, Highness,” he assured her with a weary bow, turning and extending a hand to the new-born ship. “I give you the
“And,” Alornis added in a prim voice, “constructed in only twenty days by less than a hundred men.”
“So,” Lyrna said to Davern. “It worked.”
“Indeed, Highness.” He inclined his head at Alornis. “My initial skepticism seems to have been unfounded.”
Lyrna moved closer to the ship, pausing to take Alornis’s hand, squeezing it tight. “Thank you, my lady. I hereby name you the Queen’s Artificer. Now the ship is done I would ask you turn your mind to the prosecution of the war. We will face great numbers in Volaria, I should be grateful for any devices you can conceive that might even the odds somewhat.”
She felt Alornis’s hand twitch in her grip. “I . . . know little of weapons, Highness.”
“You knew little of ships yet that seemed to be of scant matter. I await your designs with interest.” She released her hand and turned to Davern. “When does she launch?”
“The evening-tide, Highness. The masts should be fitted within two days.”
“Have copies of the plans sent to the yards in Warnsclave and South Tower. No other design is to be followed from this day on.”
“Yes, Highness.”
Her eyes picked out the lettering on the hull.
• • •
The Dead Company was obliged to encamp beyond the city walls. Count Marven had given them a watchtower on the northern headland to guard, a decent remove from many veteran Realm Guard and former slaves keen to settle old scores. She found Al Hestian training his men with customary gentility.
“Get up you worthless shit-eater!” he growled at a prostrate youth, clutching his belly where the Lord Marshal had delivered a blow with the butt of his halberd. “Guts enough to steal but not enough to fight, eh? Let yourself be beaten down by a crippled old man.” He delivered a vicious kick at the boy’s legs as he continued to cower. “Up! Or it’s a flogging!”
Al Hestian straightened as Lyrna guided Arrow closer, ignoring his bow and looking down at the cringing youth. He stared up at her with bright appeal, tears swelling in his eyes.
