Fit for Life

[DonQuixote]

LoL.

 

[Kulindahr]

Well, I thought they were mostly resisting the idea of being in love...that's also a romance trope. In Regency novels, the heroine usually realizes in the last few pages that well, gosh, she's been in love with the hero all along! (I find this tremendously annoying, for some reason, so I don't read Regency romances.) But you've "paid your dues" on that - the characters have had a chance to work together and develop a friendship.

DonQuixote, I know what you mean. Much as I'm enjoying the story, I'm hungry for a little more queer content. Doesn't have to be Rigel*, for my money, but...

*His name makes me think of a hungry muppet slug. Can't imagine why.

His name makes me think of a certain--

Oh, wait; can't say that without giving something away.

But I'm glad I came and said that; I had the next chapter beginning to form in my mind when Bammer came and insisted he needed to inspect the premises and change the "flavor" at a few points, and when I chased him back in (yes, my hip lets me jog a few steps, so it's convincing) it was all gone. But something in your post brought it back, Crio -- tanks!

 

[DonQuixote]

*as Kuli whets our appetites*

 

[Críostóir]

My pleasure, Kuli!

 

[Kulindahr]

208
Sign ​

Rudolfo Montdragón stared at the bloody head before him a moment longer, pondering what it portended. He held no fears about their defenses, but without Don Antonio on his estates, the morale of the men might be a question. Without a Healer – but then, there was the Yankee, Prentiss.

“Don Julian, stay”, he requested softly. “Guards, take him to the Druid. I wish him to live”, he added firmly. “At least until Don Antonio returns”, he continued softly. Such trash had no place in the domain of his lord, or perhaps even in the land of the living, but that was not his to say. The former Quistador marveled once again that Heaven had sent him to a lord worthy of the service he had to give.

“You are certain?” he asked. His voice hid the tension that the duelist’s balance on the balls of his feet betrayed.

Julian, knighted by Ryan as Julian don Fidalgo, trembled as he nodded. “I know what I see, my friend. He is as am I: he saw the Steward and his aide on the stallion, and cursed them, for they were... I will not speak of such things.”

Montdragón chuckled softly. “Padre Lente de Dios says we must not condemn, lest we be condemned. So he saw them embracing, unclothed, I presume, and perhaps more than embracing, and you saw him seeing them. And you know it was to this he reacted, for you react the same.”

Don Julian shifted his feet uncomfortably. “I am slow of mind, not of heart, don Rudolfo. It is my flesh, as the Apostle says, which reacts; I give no condemnation. Taunt me not for what years of priests have trained upon me. So, yes – I knew, and knew also that no workman approved to be here would react so.” The master swordsman scratched his brow. “So I watched, and shortly observed what we were told is a sign of los Inquisidores. I sought to seize them both, but the other escaped.”

Antonio’s military commander nodded. The other would never escape; Julian had promptly ordered signals posted, telling all their people to allow no strangers to leave the domain de la Vega. Perhaps no human would intercept the agent, but there were two Scouts out to the north, who would know of the signals -- and no tool of the Inquisition was trained well enough to avoid one of the great Cats. He suppressed a feral grin; for his part, whatever pain might be inflicted on such a man could possibly be unjust.

“Well, we must tell the Steward”, he concluded. “On this, I cannot act alone.”

Julian looked distinctly uncomfortable. Out of habit, for a sense of security he grasped the hilt of his sword.

Montdragón understood the motion. “You have students waiting, yes? Go, then; I shall bear your words to the Steward.”


Samson tossed his towel over a chair and pulled on loose shorts. He was reaching for his shirt when the door swung open. His impulse to deliver a reprimand died the moment he realized who the intruder was. “Don Rudolfo – joining me for breakfast?”

Montdragón’s scowl was fierce. “You show too much skin, Señor Steward.”

“Hey – no one announced you!”

“Dress. Bring your saber – you skip too much practice.”

But Montdragón’s eyes and the set of his chin told Samson this wasn’t about sword practice. “Sure”, the Steward replied as he pulled on shirt and vest. “The portico?”

“It will suit”, the other replied. He waited for Samson to retrieve his blade, and the two went out to the unfinished columned walkway, a feature of the original villa that Antonio had kept.

“Stand at alert”, Montdragón commanded. Samson, no swordsman even after months of trying, did his best, earning a grunt for his efforts. Hands that knew better than his body did nudged and pressed him into position. But the brain behind them wasn’t truly focused on the training – though there was definitely no slacking off.

“I had none to announce me, indeed”, he said softly, tapping Samson’s right shoulder closer to the proper form. “Nor did the one who set eyes on you and Señor Weylan in the hour past have any announce him, Steward.”

Antonio’s Steward concentrated on his stance.. “Someone... saw us?”

Montdragón sighed. “Friend Samson, I know the delight in one another you share with Aide Weylan. I do not understand that to which it leads you – though as Padre Lente admonishes, it is not my place to condemn!” He chuckled. “Nor, happily, is it my place to give approval. But when your passion leads you by the nose, you do not think! So, yes – you were seen, unclothed, embracing... and more .. upon a stallion.
“Now – draw and salute!”

“If you don’t condemn no one else will”, Samson responded as he complied.

Montdragón nodded in approval. “Your grip is better, and the blade steady.
“As you say, none who dwell here will condemn – yet this one will.” Samson’s sword wavered; Montdragón slapped it back into place, catching it with his palms. “Or, I should say, he would, for he is caught. Now, defend!”

They fenced for a minute, the teacher pausing three times to make Samson repeat a sequence. Then Montdragón drove through the Steward’s best effort and trapped his blade against a column. His stance was that of master lecturing apprentice; his words were not.

“Don Julian was about early, as is often so when he cannot sleep. He was not the one who saw you, but he saw the one who did. He saw also the reaction, the same as was his not so long ago, which by the grace of God and the words of Padre Lente he is taming. This gave him a puzzle, for as he said to me after, none who dwells here should show the distaste this one did. And so: Don Julian followed, and the watcher met another. A sign was exchanged, one shown to us all. At that, Don Julian struck. His captive is in the hands of Druid Prentiss now; he was not gentle, for he sought to prevent both from escaping. But the other got away.” He stepped back, master to novice once more. “Again.”

Sabers clashed, longer this time, until Captain overcame Steward once more. “Don Julian acted well; signals went up. Two Scouts roam between the spy and his home – they may not catch him, but the great cats, yes.”

With a tight grin, Samson waved Montdragón back and raised his sword again. “Once more – then we have to plan.”


Weylan chewed his lip, no effort made to hide his worry. “The Inquisition knows about us?! Oh, Lord! We aren’t ready – and they’ll come after this as fast as any heresy!”

Samson shook his head. “They’re not ready, either. They’re just hunting.”

“Truly”, Montdragón agreed. He sipped redberry juice, mulled against the chill morning. “They cannot know we are here – certainly they have questioned merchants, but save for ours, none come to the mesa. No, they are seeking.”

“Why now?” Weylan’s voice trembled a little.

Samson closed his eyes and cursed quietly. “Anne. He looked at the ceiling and shook his head. “She went up and healed their High Bishop, which was good in several ways. His Bishopness may believe her an angel sent from heaven, and the parish where she settled may think her a saint, but the Inquisition is not so gullible.”

“Friend Samson, she is an angel sent from Heaven, as also a saint”, Montdragón countered, waving an admonishing finger.

The Steward grinned. “Okay, I could make that theological argument, too. But she’s also a human being who didn’t pop into existence out of nothing, and the Inquisition aren’t likely to see God at work unless it benefits them. So they want to know where she came from. Then they’ll want to know if there are more like her.
“But they don’t know yet. Okay, Weylan, we have to be more discreet – however much it lights your fire to ‘do it naturally in Nature’, we can’t afford to be seen.” Then he grinned wickedly. “No, we can’t afford to be seen yet.”

Montdragón laughed as Weylan looked puzzled. “Yes, yes! When their agents do not return, they will sent more expert eyes – they will find us. Friend Samson, you are thinking this spring?”

Samson nodded. “Antonio may or may not be back before they are ready to strike, but that shouldn’t matter. Osvaldo sent a batch of lancers north to Ryan; we can get them here. I want a message to Osvaldo, too – send us some more champions, or at least trained volunteers, by spring.”

Weylan shifted into aide mode, grabbing slate and crude pencil. “A hundred?” he asked.

“Two hundred would be better, and at least half of them good archers”, Samson amended. “And a message to Artur and the clans – I’ll want a few thousand Celts, too. And of course Ryan, for riflemen, and some of Rigel’s Riders.”

Weylan got it all as fast as his boss talked, then shifted attention to Antonio’s Captain.

“I will see that another gross of Scout Oran’s little books make their way into the Realm, also”, Montdragón proposed. He grinned and Samson chuckled.

“Definitely – let’s get them really riled up. That Catecimso Maior del Doctor Martin Lutero has them tearing their hair anyway – if we can give them the idea that it and Anne came from the same place, they’ll foam at the mouth. And it does sound like the things Anne preaches – down to earth, practical, and full of the grace of God.”

Weylan frowned. “You’re trying to stir them up!”

Montdragón laughed. “In truth, yes! There are two ways to win a battle, my friend: be always ready, so that when your enemy strikes you overcome him; or decide when you are going to be ready, and get him to attack then! We must make them angry like hornets, so they come when we wish!”

“And make mistakes”, Samson added. “That’s why once we are ready, and when we’re sure they’ve got some agents here, we’re going to make sure they see us – and not just us, Wey! Anne gave them a threat, Oran gave them heresy – we’ll give them debauchery they can call ‘abomination’! So they come swarming” – all tone went from his voice – “and die.”

Montdragón raised his mug. “A noble plan. Even so....” Samson waited for his comrade’s thoughts to gel. “No – I thought, ‘They will bring Knights of Alcántara, and some among them are noble in heart.’ A pity, but we cannot distinguish between a man of noble heart and one not so. If all goes well, we can give quarter to honorable soldiers, but before then... they die.”

Samson frowned. “I forgot about the Knights. Rudolfo, if we get them truly, truly angry, how many men could they bring?”

“I can only guess, but... four thousand? Possibly five thousand.”

The Steward closed his eyes. “We can’t handle five thousand, can we?”

Montdragón shook his head. “Our lines are too long. Certainly, they can only attack in certain places, but if they come in force at one, and we commit our reserves, they would have the men to make another attack in force at another place. Yes, they are fanatics, but even fanatics can be commanded by officers who know their trade.”

“Weylan, another message”, Samson said. “To Devon’s works, and a copy to Wizard Ryan” – both Weylan and Montdragón grinned at that distinction. “By spring, I need a dozen mortars with no less than three dozen rounds each. If possible, send the mortars on wagons we can use to move them around in battle.”

“Cannon?” Weylan asked while still writing.

“Two or three”, Montdragón answered. “We will not be fighting at such a distance they will be of much use – but just in case.” He looked to Samson, who nodded. “Tell me, friend Samson, what is a ‘mortar’?”

A cold grin preceded the reply. “Think death from above”, he began.

 

[Kyanimal]

Awesome chapter, Kuli!

Took me a moment to wrap my slow brain around the shift in perspective, but I'm liking the way this is going!

Stir up the Inkies to follow their own fanaticism to their own demise!

And, as for Samson and Weylan? More power to them!

All the more reasons to ... No Matter What ...

Keep Smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Kulindahr]

Awesome chapter, Kuli!

Took me a moment to wrap my slow brain around the shift in perspective, but I'm liking the way this is going!

Stir up the Inkies to follow their own fanaticism to their own demise!

And, as for Samson and Weylan? More power to them!

All the more reasons to ... No Matter What ...

Keep Smilin'!!
Chaz

It's a simple combination of Sun Tzu's admonition to give the enemy a target he can't refuse and Clausewitz' observation that "War is fought by human beings".

 

[DonQuixote]

Kuli,
A great chapter - as we begin preparing the trap for Los Inquisidores.

The nasty bastards of the bastard Church Oligarch, not the true Church.

 

[Kulindahr]

My apologies to everyone for the long hiatus in posting. I have been wrestling with a new chapter for many, many moons, trying to make it come out right. Today with talking about the "First Thanksgiving" it hit me: the problem is that the chapter I've been struggling with doesn't belong in the story yet!

Took me long enough to see that... now I have to go ask the characters what does belong next, and get to work on that!

 

[Kyanimal]

Great to hear from You, and that the story is still bubbling!

I know what you mean about the characters. Sometimes they're pushing to get on the page when you simply don't feel like writing, or other things require your attention instead.

At other times you're ready to write but they aren't in a co-operative mood.

Eagerly looking forward to when all things line up again!

 

[DonQuixote]

Hi, Kuli. Hope things are going fairly well in the Pacific Nor'west. Weather sounds a bit challenging.

Looking forward to getting reacquainted with our boys and girls.

 

[Kulindahr]

Amazing how easy the next chapter was, once I was writing the right one!

Any time now.....

 

[Kulindahr]

209
Furnace​

Crystal caught a snowflake on her tongue, then spit out over the balcony. “Gack! They torture my ears, and my tongue!”

“You don’t have to catch the snow on your tongue”, Breeze observed, then frowned. “But I wish the smoke didn’t make the snow gross.” She looked at her mug after sipping some wine from it. How anyone come make clay foam and then make it into ceramic mugs she didn’t understand at all, but it certainly kept hot drinks hot longer! Taking a bigger gulp, she shook her head at her companion. “I guess I’m glad my ears aren’t as sensitive as yours – I can’t hear the roar from my rooms.”

Crystal blew snow off the stone rail and watched it fall the four floors to the ground. “Well, I can hear it from the cavern, and it ruins the crystal sound. I can’t play while they’re doing that! I wish they’d get it right, and finish playing!”



“Get it right this time”, Ryan muttered. Though it was his blast furnace, he didn’t get to stand in the front row for this attempt; Druids and engineers and smiths got that honor – after all, they were doing the work. He glanced up, not that he could see the chimney towering forty meters tall, resenting the fuel that had been spent to set the new extension in the cold weather, and to warm it to be ready for the heat blast it was about to get.

A hum drew his attention to the left. Eraigh stood there with three other Druids, two on each side of the ten-centimeter clay pipe. Each Druid’s staff leaned against the pipe, it’s tip touching that of the Druid opposite, held by one hand as the other joined with the hand of the Druid by his – or her; in the robes, the Earl of Cavern Hold couldn’t tell – side. The hum was their signal that they were ready for the task of filtering the incoming air stream so its content would be well over half oxygen as it entered the furnace. From the right an answering tone responded: Anaph and another three Druids, their task to draw heat from the mountain itself and feed it into the metal.

Adding their own deep bass tone, two smiths began shoveling the carefully selected coal into the furnace as a pair of engineers swung the piece of City metal forward on its overhead rail, sounding their chosen tenor part of the musical chord – and augmented seventh, Ryan recognized a moment before the piece of City metal began to vibrate in resonance. Without thinking, he joined in quietly with the dominant note, raising his hands in a subconscious gesture of prayer: six times they’d tried to melt this alloy, five of them failing to even get it hot enough to so much as bend. If any number was holy, seven was it in his gut feeling.

The furnace roared as preheated and extra-oxygenated air struck fuel and the two ignited. From across the Valley of Horses, Crystal and Breeze and the other scores of those watching from balconies saw a glow light up the chimney top, followed by sparks soaring into the freezing air as though racing to reach the sky and become stars before they winked out. Braving the heat, smiths threw in steel bars, carefully weighed before, then backed away. Engineers watched timers, and at the proper moment waved to the men waiting by the overhead rail, who pushed their load forward. The piece of City metal, humming the same note Ryan sang, fell from its hooks amid a stream of more coal. The head Wizard of the Snatched realized how he held his hands, and reached out mentally to whatever power might be paying attention, with a plea for success. Even more coal flew in to bury the metal, chunks from a pipe above the furnace opening augmenting the shoveling. Then two doors swung shut to end the flow of air from the room, leaving the fire within to be fed only by the superheated oxygen-rich supply from the Druids and their pipe.

“Fuel”, Master Korrûnos called softly. On the right side of the furnace an engineer pulled a lever, releasing a steady stream of coal pellets to feed the fire. The words of the Master Smith from Misfit Village couldn’t be heard over the roar, but the engineer had been watching for the command. The Master turned to look at Ryan, and their gazes met: both knew that all they could do now was wait.



“One part each”, Kor replied in response to Rigel’s question. The Yankee watched with a wry grin as the Grand Earl ran his hand over the surface of the new cannon.

“Which means we have to use steel we already have to get any benefit from this!” Ryan fumed. “We can’t even use all the metal Devon brought without melting down things we’ve already made!” Patryk nodded agreement.

Rigel sighed, looking at the faces of the engineering team. “Okay – now who can explain that to me in common English?”

“It’s easy enough”, Patryk responded. “Coal can only burn so hot, even with the extra oxygen. We hit somewhere over two thousand degrees centigrade with the special furnace. Anaph and his helpers gave us an extra four hundred degrees, roughly – that’s reaching toward the boiling point for iron, but not really close. So we threw in steel equal to the mass of the carefully trimmed piece of City metal and got it molten, then dropped in the City metal. With the furnace closed, they melted together.
“Any less of our steel, and it wasn’t working – we don’t know why, because we don’t know what the City metal is made from. We could try more of our steel in the mix, but almost all we have has been made into things. So one part each is our best bet. It may not be the strongest result, but it’s the only way we can do anything at all with the City metal right now.”

Rigel thought for a moment. “Devon, what can we melt down?”

The head engineer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I know what you’re thinking, Rye, and you’re right – the only thing that will give us enough is rails. The ones we’ve made that haven’t been used yet aren’t enough, so we’ll have to tear up some track if we want to use all the City metal.”

Rigel turned to look in the direction of that City. “No – we can’t get more until we’ve got a better way to get it, anyway. Ryan, you’ll want a supply to play with, too. So ...” – he paused in thought – “what’s a good number of cannon we can make without using up all of the stored rails and leaving a good batch of City metal to play with?”

“Two dozen”, Devon and Ryan said together, then laughed as both realized they’d reached the same number for two different reasons.

“And how long to make those?” Rigel asked.

Patryk sighed. “That depends on how fast we can build a new furnace. Rigel, the temperature we hit melts our best brick – we got one cannon last night. We can make another one, but then we’ll need a whole new furnace.”

Rigel’s jaw dropped. Feeling weak, he leaned against the new cannon. “You melted the brick?!”

Ryan nodded. “Yeah, best bud – hotter than a volcano.” He grinned playfully. “If we could just aim that heat at the Others, they’d flash to smoke on contact!” The two grinned at each other. “But meanwhile”, the Wizard continued more soberly, “if we use all the firebrick the villages can make, we can have those two dozen cannon by spring.” He wobbled his head back and forth for a second. “But we won’t – first we have to test this one and find its strength.”

“Which you do by blowing it up”, Rigel interrupted.

“Well, yes. But my guess is we can’t. So the cannon we’ll be making later today will have thinner walls. If we can’t blow that one up, we make one even thinner. Then once we find how thin we can go, we find out which thickness gives the best results for artillery.”

Rigel shook his head. “Samson thinks the Inquisitors will attack two weeks before harvest. So whatever you do, two weeks before that have a half dozen of your best at that point for him. Montdragón thinks they’ll have five thousand men. Yes, Devon, you’ve promised him two dozen mortars, but I want him to have something with major power just in case.”



Rita smeared her bun sausage with the kitchen’s newest mustard – Eraigh had Snatched horseradish, oregano, and other hot herbs from several different sources, and she’d asked for a spicier mustard. When she bit in, it tasted wonderful, but then her eyebrows rose and she sucked air. “Wow!” was all she had to say as Rigel laughed.

“Too much?” Chen inquired innocently. He put just a dab on his “meat in a blanket” and tried it. “Hey – good stuff!” the chief Scout declared moments later. “Just use in moderation.”

Rita fanned her mouth after swallowing. “My punishment for greed”, she said. “Wow. If we only had real butter!” She knew that ice water was the wrong thing to try to cool that sort of “heat”. Following Chen’s example, she prepared her next bite. Before taking it, she fixed her gaze on Rigel.

“You have to choose soon”, she admonished. “If the Inquisitors attack Antonio’s mesa this summer, and you want to be there, you can’t go to Lost Britain again.” That many other things depended on his choice didn’t have to be said again; that point had been made repeatedly by half the Vortex Snatched. “So – does Ryan’s success with the City metal make a difference?”

Rigel grimaced. She hadn’t mentioned the one thing he really wished he didn’t have to face: if he chose to participate in the defense of the de la Vega fortifications, he’d be snubbing not just the friends in Lost Britain who expected him again, but their Queen as well, who would be expecting to meet him so he could decide if he wanted to marry her. Thinking of that kicked in his stubborn streak; he knew Lady Meriel, and felt like telling their Queen there was someone else, and marry Meriel – not that he would, really, but he wanted to!

“If they can get new cannon by spring, and they’re as good as Ryan hopes, yes, it will make a difference”, he conceded. “He’s confident they can give us some designed for ships with a range of three kilometers. Those would mean the Fleet could keep the Others from building new fortress-homes anywhere close to the edge of the Sea or the new sea. I could just send them south, but that doesn’t feel right – I should present them personally.”

Rita raised an eyebrow. “And yes”, Rigel added, “I can meet their bloody Queen! I know you think I should marry her anyway, for reasons of state, and you’re right! But since there’s a British Lady I could willingly marry, it would be a lousy marriage – I’d always be thinking of Meriel.”

“You should present Osvaldo with the cannon for him, too – in person, I mean”, Chen noted. They’re too important a gift to just send them.”

“If I should even give him any”, Rigel countered. “Tanner wondered if bombarding one of their fortress-homes wouldn’t make them angry enough to send fifty thousand or more in response. For the Fleet, that would just mean more targets; for Osvaldo, that would mean getting overwhelmed.”

“Then you should let him make that choice – after you explain it to him personally”, Rita concluded.

Rigel looked from one to the other. “Tag teaming me? All right – I go south. But I’ll never be happy about not being there to help destroy the Inquisition.”

“Oh, we don’t want to destroy it”, Rita assured him airily. “We just want to disinfect it!’ she concluded with a wicked grin.

“Cauterize it”, said Chen. “It will be the truly ‘dedicated’ who come to the party, “and we’ll burn them right out”.

“Then Theodoro can reform them when he gets elected High Bishop”, Rita added. “Because you know he won’t be able to eliminate them.”

A slow smile came to Rigel’s face. “You know, I had an idea there. When it comes time for that election, what if all the Escobar bishops showed up?”

<picture of brick chimney shooting flames out at night>​

 

[Kyanimal]

Kuli! AWESOME, Man!

Right back into the thick of things while barely missing a beat!

Getting back in touch with the characters felt like coming Home.

Eagerly looking forward to More, Please!

Keep Smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[DonQuixote]

It's like old home week in the land of the taken!

All of the memories that short chapter bring back.

Great, Kuli.

 

[Kulindahr]

Well, this is bloody annoying: somewhere I made a list of Yankee engineers who went south with Rigel as a language team, because between them they covered like a dozen languages... and it's nowhere to be found!

 

[DonQuixote]

Sorry to hear that, Kuli.

 

[Kulindahr]

I can't find any place I named any of them in the "Great Trek South" chapters, so I made a new list.

So, shortly, a new chapter.....

 

[Kyanimal]

Yes! Onward!

I know how frustrating that can be, but the main thing is More story, Please!

Just another example of ... No Matter What ...

Keep Smilin'!!
Chaz

 

[Kulindahr]

210
Glimpse in the Fog​

Cold waves lapped against legs bare to the hips moving slowly through shallow seawater. Now and then a hand reached down to grab a shelled creature that had popped up as the steady current stripped sand from their habitat. The party of twelve had been out since just after dawn when the clouds had parted, allowing sunshine to strike the shore.

“That’s my limit”, announced Albert Longbridge. He turned and waded through the fog to the group on shore he could barely see.

“Great – last again”, Vittoria Whittaker responded. “Maybe–“

“Hush!” The sharp request came from Neville Yu, known by his middle name Anson. He waved Vittoria toward the shore as he headed that way slowly. A finger to his lips kept her silent as he tugged her to the rest. All looked at him questioningly.

“There’s a ship close to shore.” Anson spoke softly, knowing a quiet voice would carry less than a whisper through the fog. “Commodore Howe’s schedule doesn’t show any Fleet near here. Everyone listen.” Yankee engineers all, they understood his implication: whoever was out there wasn’t their friends, but the inhabitants of the somewhat smaller sea to the south, unknown neighbors the Lost British had no name for despite dozens of sea battles with them over the years.

The sound of water lapping against a wooden hull became plain to all of them. “Oars”, said Yahala Samuel Hamner, identifying a rhythmic sound that punctuated the slap-slap of waves on wood. Heads nodded; rowing made sense in the barely-moving fog. The fog itself explained why the ship was so close to shore: the sailors probably couldn’t even see it.

“Voices”, Anson observed, and began to strip. “I’m going for a look.”

“Freeze your arse off, pal.” Seth Kane mimed shivering.

“It’s the other side I’d worry about”, Vittoria commented with a grin, just as Anson’s pants came off and revealed what she meant.

“You two can warm them for me later”, Anson quipped. “Now hold quiet – I’ll be right back.”

“Right back” turned into a minute, then two, then three. Finally, after over five minutes, a blue-tinged Anson trotted back, shaking visibly. Vittoria pulled him down to sit between her knees and pulled him against her; Seth took Anson’s tee-shirt and began rubbing off cold water. Albert placed his cloak around Vittoria and Anson to keep warmth in. After a minute of drying his friend, Seth turned and sat against Anson’s front and tugged the cloak tight.

Another minute went by before Anson could open his mouth without teeth chattering. “They’re worried about their charts. No one has been this far north in three generations. They’re here to find out why their sea gained a strong current flowing north.” A violent spasm shook him. “And two were arguing about whether to turn back – one said the ‘northern foreigners’ were a danger, the other said they were too cowardly to be out in this weather.” He shuddered again. “And I need to get to the shelter and get warm bodies packed around me!”

Albert helped them up. Seth peeled off his shirt and lifted Anson into a piggy-back ride; Vittoria threw Anson’s shirt on his back and draped Albert’s cloak around them. The group moved silently, following their footprints, until the driftwood shed that served as a near-shore shelter loomed in the chilly fog. “So they spoke Common?” inquired Tyrone.

Anson’s laugh brought a shudder that toppled Seth, who saved them from a complete fall by dropping to his knees. “No, you dim! They – no, guess.”

“Chinese”, Albert guessed, picking a language the two both spoke.

“Nope.” Anson groaned. “Bloody cramp! A hint: Seth would understand them.”

“That means....” Tyrone drew out the “n” as he recalled who spoke what. “German? Oh – or Korean.”

“Which?” Anson teased, as Seth and Vittoria hefted him through the door since only one leg was serving him.

“Korean”, Vittoria picked before Tyrone could choose. It was a language she shared with Anson.

“You got it!” Anson planted a kiss on her cheek. “Now let’s have some bare skin before I get hypothermic!”

The six settled on the shelter’s large mattress, Vittoria leaning against the one wall with no gaps, Anson against her, Seth against him. Albert and Yahala leaning their backs against him from either side. “Naked huddle!” Yahala said as he snuggled in tight. “Except Tyrone – the cook keeps his clothes on.”

“But no sex without me”, the “cook” responded, tossing a blanket over Yahala’s shoulders.

“No sex till Anson’s warm”, Vittoria amended. “You ‘homos’, as Austin says it, are useless to me!”

Ten minutes later there was warm grain cereal, a blend of wheat and corn from the Lost British and two native strains that resembled rice. “Hot’s bad for hypothermia, so you all get the same temperature”, Tyrone announced as he handed it out. “Anson, when you think you’ve recovered, I get to test your system.” He opened his mouth wide and ran his tongue around his lips.

“And when you prove it works, I’ll give a second opinion”, Vittoria added, wiggling against Austin’s read end. “So who wants to stand over me so Anson can have a protein drink?”



Later, after Anson had proven he was thoroughly recovered, they brainstormed the implications of Koreans holding the southern sea. A lot depended on what period the Koreans were from, and how long they’d been there – two not-necessarily dependent numbers, they all knew from the work Ryan had done on arrival times in this world versus times of origin in their worlds of origin.

“They have gunpowder, and cannon – that makes it late”, Albert noted. “The way Lord MacNeil and the others talked, the southerners always had cannon, so they didn’t get those from the Lost British.”

“Cannon suggests turtle ships”, Tyrone contributed. “If they’re armored, they have a better source of iron than any of us do.” By “us” he meant all the Snatched cultures they knew about.

“Speculation”, Seth said from where his head rested in Anson’s lap. A giggle cut off what he started to say next as Anson tickled his ears.

“Requires investigation”, Yahala finished for him. He looked unhappy. “I told you we should have brought my canoe!”

“So you could paddle out and get hit by a cannonball?” Anson teased.

Tyrone shook his head. “Turtle ships weren’t that maneuverable – Yaha and his canoe could out-maneuver them all day. But” – he raised a finger – “they would have seen him, and known they’d been seen. Then if they had boats to come ashore....” He let them all follow his conclusion: none of them were really fighters, despite the demands of this new world.

“I can run to the station in two hours”, Yahala proposed, “and be back with the canoe in four. If Vincent will come with me, we can paddle the shore and he can tell how much iron the ship has without requiring getting close enough for them to see us. You guys stay and make sure it doesn’t go back south before I return.”

“Right – we’ll just tie it up here”, Anson quipped.

“You and Seth will be in each other’s crotches too much to tie anything up”, Vittoria asserted with a grin.

“Maybe we should tie them up”, Albert quipped.

“Drain me!” Anson fired back.

“Hmm – if Seth will let me.”

“I’ll drain Seth.”

Seth laughed. “Okay – three-way suction, coming up!”



“I got Staio, not Vincent”, Yahala announced as they swung the bark canoe down by the shelter. “Did they go south again?”

“Tyrone and Vittoria are on watch”, Albert called from inside. “Come grab some hot tea before you go – I’ll go ask them.” He was out the door, holding it for the two – no, three, he saw; an islander settler was with them – as they entered for tea.

He was back just after they’d settled in and begun sipping. “They haven’t heard anything. If it went south again, it was farther out.”

“We’ll go farther out and just wait, then”, Yahala decided. “Meanwhile, did you guys take care of the clams?” That had been, after all, their original purpose for being at the shore, sampling local creatures that the Lost British – “Islanders”, to the Yankee snatched, since they thought of themselves as British, subjects of the Crown – didn’t have.



“It’s iron, but thin”, was the Druid’s verdict late the next morning, delivered as he stepped still dripping into the shelter. “And there are three of the vessels, a bit beyond twenty meters long, with eight guns each – two on each side and end.” His eyes scanned the room. “All of you – be ready by the time I’m dry. Yahala’s obscuring our tracks just in case they check this shore, then he’s running ahead to brief Eldon. We’ll discuss the message to Fleet and to Lord Rigel while we walk back.”