Fortney stood on the prow of the steamer, her arms crossed, glaring at the sea, as though being at the front of the ship would drive them to their destination more quickly. The land crawled by to her right with infuriating slowness as the wind and the spray slashed at her, whipping her hair around her face.

  They had been traveling for days. According to Boloq, all was going well, but given the state of his ship, Fortney didn't trust that he understood what "well" actually meant.

  She spent as much time up here as she could manage. Being closed in the tiny, dark quarters belowdecks left her restless and queasy. Up here, she could stalk around the weathered wood of the deck, and at least move her legs some.

  She'd started doing some of her training exercises again--gingerly at first, then with increasing boldness. She was still clumsy, misbalanced, slow. She still fell sometimes, but she was improving.

  Fortney recognized that she was starting again, learning her combat skills almost from scratch. But her body was strong, and Kadir's lessons still resounded in her mind, guiding her as she slowly reshaped herself as a warrior.

  She trained on deck, of course. The dark, cramped quarters were no place for her to be practicing kicks and strikes.

  At first, her training caused a stir. The sailors were alarmed by her strange activity, and the other passengers--merchants and traders, mostly--mentioned their concerns to Captain Boloq. After a few days, though, the sailors got used to her strange behavior and simply worked around her.

  Rami, she barely saw at all. He kept himself closed away in his quarters, muttering darkly to himself and writing letters.

  Fortney watched the sea and the coast as the great steam-engine groaned and rattled in the belly of the ship, turning the propellers that drove them forward. As she watched, the coastline began to fall away, growing more distant.

  She frowned as the coastline crept further away. She spun and stormed back to the wheelhouse.

  Fortney stomped up the stairs to the small, boxy structure that stood high up on the ship. Captain Boloq stood within the tight confines, bracketed by his compass and speaking tube, holding the wheel, humming loudly to himself.

  "Why are we turning from the shore?" she barked.

  "Ah, it is my favorite passenger!" he cried, his ever-present smile widening.. "Never have I had someone so curious about all the details of sailing! Come, join me!"

  "Why are we leaving the land?" she asked.

  "Ah, we are not leaving the land, the land is leaving us," he said, tapping his nose. "We are now entering Breakwater Bay. The beaches here are laced with rock and stone and the bones of ships that tried to hug the coast. We will sail directly across the bay. We should reach the Ardenian peninsula in three days. Another two days of beyond that will have you at your destination, princess."

  "I'm not a princess," she said reflexively. Her father had decided that no one should know she was royalty in Arden. She chafed at the deception, but she understood the need. The hashashim were too dangerous to give even the smallest hints of where she might be.

  "Of course... my lady," he said. His eyes twinkled. "My apologies, I only meant your beauty is like that of a princess."

  Fortney frowned at him.

  Captain Boloq's eyes turned to the horizon, and his grin shrank slightly. A thin line of darkness sat on top of the water. A chill wind suddenly skirled past the wheelhouse.

  "You will want to go belowdecks, my lady," he said. "There may be ill weather on the Bay."

  "I do not fear a storm. I will be fine topside."

  Captain Boloq turned his attention fully to her, his face serious.

  "This is no contest of wills, my lady. The lord of the sea is the wind, and the waves are his wife. Their power is beyond any strength of man. Stay on deck in a storm, and the lord of the sea will thrust you into his lady's grasp. Even my men will be below, as many as can be spared. The ones on deck will be lashed to the ship."

  Fortney's frown hardened.

  "Then I will lash myself as well."

  Captain Boloq sighed, his expression turning sour.

  "Very well, p--my lady. I will instruct the men to present you with a rope before they go below. You can lash yourself or hang yourself. It will be one and the same."

  Fortney crossed his arms.

  "I thank you," she said. Captain Boloq looked at her sideways as the Golden Falcon steamed toward the storm on the horizon.

  Cornet Alistair Ashworth stood in the square of of the city of Sahariyn. It was a medium city, and like so many of these cities in Laiqar, dusty and backward. There was a row of market stalls, and mud-brick homes clustered behind a mud-and-rock wall.

  Alistair had led men in four battles now. Each one had ended in a bloody rout. These Laiqarians had no power: no machinery, no steam, and no electricity. Their weapons were spears and swords. Their tactics were crude, at best: simply masses of men pushing around. Sufficient to battle other savages in the region, certainly, but nothing that would stand up against the spirit and technology of Arden.

  Alistair shook his head. He hated the bloodshed, but they would simply not give up. They didn't understand that Eastern Expeditionary Force simply could not be beaten.

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  A little cruelty now, to save a lot of cruelty later. But the Laiqarians would not learn the direct lessons of cruelty.

  If only these savages would acknowledge how utterly outmatched they were! If only their stiff-necked king would treat with Arden's diplomats! All this suffering could end!

  Yet their armies still stood and fought.

  Truly, these savages were ignorant to their own peril, proud beyond measure, to their own destruction. It was infuriating. Their salvation lay within their own grasp, but they were determined to bloody themselves against Arden.

  Alistair watched coldly as the hazannu, the governor of Sahariyn, was pushed into the square. Alistair's lips tightened. The hazannu was dressed like everyone else. His clothes were slightly finer, and there was a fringe at the hem, but other than that, he looked like every other Laiqarian on the street.

  Alistair sighed. They didn't even understand proper dress and respect for authority. No wonder they weren't able to think through the consequences of resisting Arden.

  The more Alistair, the more he wondered that they could think at all.

  The hazannu stood before Alistair and the assembled officers. His head was low, but his fierce eyes glared up at Alistair. Commander Talbot had started leaving the diplomatic cleanup to the young officer after the battles. It was an honor, but it was also galling to have to treat with these locals as equals.

  But that was the honorable thing to do.

  "I am Alistair Ashworth," he said. His targaman, his translator, was one of the locals. He stood at Alistair's elbow, jabbering to the hazannu. "Your army is crushed and your city taken. Arden will leave a small garrison here to defend her interests. Do you acknowledge this?"

  The translator spoke. Slowly, the hazannu replied.

  "He understands," the targaman said.

  "Good. At least someone does." Alistair fumed. This idiot had thrown away the lives of nearly his entire army, and had not changed the outcome in the slightest. "I wish you people would understand," he barked, his clear tenor carrying across the square, "Arden simply wishes to build a railroad through your land. All this fighting is needless. All this bloodshed is needless. You will bow before the might of Arden." He gestured at the ranks of Ardenian troops surrounding him. "It is inevitable!"

  The translator began speaking. Alistair took a breath to stop him. He'd really just been venting his spleen. But he let the man speak. Maybe it would get through to the hazannu. Maybe these men would stop throwing their lives away.

  The targaman finished speaking, and the hazannu glared hate at Alistair. His eyes held such a fury as Alistair had never seen in another man. His brow wrinkled in confusion. Was it truly so vile to these people to acknowledge fact?

  Slowly the hazannu lowered his head and sank to one knee before Alistair.

  Alistair started.

  "Wait, I didn't mean for him to--"

  The hazannu growled something.

  "The governor will do as you say," the targaman said.

  There rose a cheer from the men surrounding him. Alistair looked around in a panic for a moment, then at the man kneeling before him.

  Very well. Perhaps this was the only way to reach these backward people.

  A little cruelty now, to save a lot of cruelty later.

  Alistair raised one fist high in the air.

  "All glory to the king!" he cried. "All glory to Arden!"

  Sultan Azhar Nurani stood on the broad balcony, arms folded, glaring down the broadway that led to the palace. Kadir stood by his side.

  A troop of Namar?nian ?ābu marched toward the palace. They carried their long spears, and wore their military dress: bronze helmets and undyed knee-length tunics, held with broad yellow sashes. Where they differed from the regular army was that their faces were all covered with brown linen veils.

  They marched with military precision. Hundreds of soldiers filled the broadway, and more came in from behind.

  Before the gates of the palace stood a line of men, the royal guard of the palace. It was an impossibly thin line to stand against the oncoming soldiers.

  The soldiers came just within bowshot of the palace and stopped.

  The Sultan addressed them.

  "The ?ābu of Namar?n," he said, "defend our people from threats without the city." His voice was strong and clear, carrying to the far edges of the crowd. "Why, then, do our ?ābu turn their faces to the palace?"

  One young firebrand pushed through the ranks of soldiers. His pale brown hair was tangled in crazy spikes and clumps, and his eyes were wild.

  "Sultan Nurani!" he cried. "I am Tal Qarid, spokesman for the people of Namar?n! The people suffer under your reign! Families of Baradon go hungry! Foreign soldiers threaten our city! Criminals plunder our good people every night! They run free, supping from innocents!"

  The Sultan stared passively at the firebrand.

  "And you have brought my army with you in order to make your complaint?"

  The firebrand Tal Qarid sneered.

  "You see?" he cried, turning to the soldiers. "He mocks our suffering!" In unisons, the soldiers gave a low "hoh!" of agreement. Tal Qarid turned back to the Sultan. "Leave the palace, you and all your family and servants, and you will be unharmed!"

  The Sultan's face was very still.

  "Tell me, then, rebel, how would your Sultan rule? How would you address the enemies of Namar?n?"

  "Namar?n needs a strong leader!" Tal Qarid shrieked back, frothing spittle. "With a powerful Sultan, the enemies of Namar?n would melt away, and the criminals would cower in their holes, fearful to show their faces before honorable people! A new Sultan would fix Namar?n!"

  "Would fix the problems you rebels have created," the Sultan called back. "How would he then feed the people?"

  "A new Sultan would not take the first and best of the people's food! He would give generously of the treasury and granaries to all in need!"

  "The granaries are already open to those in need," the Sultan said. "What more would your new Sultan do?"

  "A new Sultan would lead in abundance for all people! No more would the people be afflicted with the selfishness of the palace!"

  "You do not know, then, how to lead. Yet you know so well the needs of the people?"

  "I speak for the people of Namar?nian!" the firebrand cried.

  "I speak for the people," the Sultan said. "You speak for fools and traitors. Tell me, who do you think this new Sultan should be?"

  The firebrand straightened, and his voice rang across the crowd.

  "Jahim Al-Zarif will lead Namar?n out of the mire your indolence and wickedness have put it in!"

  The soldiers gave another "hoh!" of agreement.

  The Sultan smiled, but not in a pleasant way.

  "I remember Jahim," he said, "but I do not see him here today. It appears he is still willing to burn other men for his own ambitions."

  Tal Qarid flinched.

  "Jahim does not answer to you! We will take you to task for your depravity! The people will suffer no more under your heel! It is time for a new Sultan! Time for a new age! Leave the palace or you will removed! Make way for the inevitability of Sultan Al-Zarif!"

  "Jahim is nearly as great a fool as you." The Sultan raised his voice to the soldiers, his voice clear and powerful. "Disperse now, and all will be forgiven. Go to your homes and your posts. Protect Namar?n, Baradon, and our people." His eyes lowered to Tal Qarid. "Stay, and you will face the wrath of the Sultan."

  There was a shuffling of feet and shifting of eyes throughout the crowd of soldiers. Speartips dipped and hestiant murmurs passed through the mass.

  The firebrand's brow furrowed in worry at the soldiers' reponse.

  "The Sultan mocks our strength!" he cried. "Look at our numbers! His soft, paltry palace guard cannot stand against us! And once we have taken the palace, all the wealth within will be ours to share!" He gesticulated wildly. "We will take the palace, then take our due!"

  Tal Qarid's words filtered through the crowd. Spines stiffened, speartips rose again, and the army firmed itself for battle. A few soldiers slipped away, but the vast majority stayed.

  The firebrand gestured forward. "Into the palace!" he cried. "It is time for a new Namar?n!"

  The soldiers began marching implacably forward.