The harborfront bustled with activity.

Sailors, Marines, servants, laborers, hawkers, merchants, soldiers, and all other manner of men were pushing their way toward whatever ship they had been ordered to tend to, carrying everything the men-of-war would need as they went north to the Ravenlands.

Spars and yards that had been withheld by the Navy’s harbor masters, for fear that their captains may get the notion they could just have whatever they wanted—and because the good ones without checks and knots were damnably expensive—were being swayed aboard all four vessels. The singular third rate only took a few spars aboard, but the three frigates’ captains greedily took every spar they were allowed, and then a few. It was almost as euphoric as taking a Hur treasure galleon.

Food, water, and beer were swayed aboard all four ships as well, with special emphasis placed on the former and latter. A man could only go so far without something edible, and most sailors would mutiny at the notion of their beer being taken away. The water was of negotiable importance, compared to those two.

Undoubtedly a few enterprising sailors were managing to skim a few jugs off of each keg swayed aboard, but such things were tolerated. It was the way it had always been done.

Thaos was no sailor—he’d been a Marine—but he suspected that the trip to Prain Bay hardly warranted the supplies being loaded aboard. One would have thought they were setting off in search of the Colonies, for all the preparations being made.

But he didn’t have any say in that, and the arcane goings-on of the Department of the Navy were beyond the comprehension of most men anyway. Especially a former Marine.

A Guardsman standing outside the carriage turned to glance at the heir for a moment, as if making sure the Prince’s son hadn’t managed to escape, and Thaos had to grimace. It was, perhaps, regal and princely to sit in a carriage while watching the men scurry about, but it smacked of caution—of a lack of trust.

And he couldn’t bring himself to be angry at that.

He shifted a little, uneasy with his own thoughts. He’d been uneasy with almost everything laid on him, recently. His dreams, the fainting, the way his sister had pitied him . . . the way whispers followed him down the hallways of his own home, spoken not so quietly as they could have been. . . .

He shifted again, wishing he could stand and walk around. Just until the numbness went away.

* * *

Duncan saluted stiffly, as his new plume waggled in the breeze a little.

“Mr. Lonrhafn,” Captain Weathers said, somewhat surprised, before he returned the salute. The tharos on his hat caught the sunlight, just as Duncan supposed his did. The Captain bore the look of a man with far too many things worrying him, though the gleam in his eyes when he saw a new spar be swayed aboard the Zoirys made up for that.

The old frigate had taken a battering at the hands of the People, and sections of her deck were so new that the finish still gleamed, while her hull had been hurriedly patched. Once they were underway, escorting the Yaris, the ship’s carpenter would be a very busy man, patching all the leaks.

 “I’m surprised they sent you back; I expected to have to break in a new featherhead.” Weathers smiled to take any insult out of the moniker.

“The Brigadier ordered me to take command of the ship’s first platoon,” Duncan said, nodding. “Again.” He handed a small sheaf of papers to the Wild Raven captain. “My orders.”

Weathers glanced at them, before saying, “Our only platoon, you mean.”

“I suspected that was the case, sir,” Duncan replied. “I couldn’t find a major to report to, so I assumed we were undermanned.”

“We are,” Weathers confirmed, looking a bit grieved at that fact. “We have a near-full strength platoon, as I said, but that’s all. Not much comfort, that . . .” he trailed off for a moment, realizing who he was talking with. “No offense toward your institution, Lieutenant,” he added.

Duncan just nodded. “I’ll see to the platoon, then, Captain.” He saluted, and Weathers did the same. As soon as Duncan stepped away, a midshipman—who had been waiting none-to-patiently—reported, though the words were lost as the Marine made his way forward. The boy hadn’t been one of those who’d survived the People; he looked fresher than the paint. Then again, most of the crew looked fresh.

Before he could disappear below decks, to make his way to Marine Country, a voice called down from the fighting tops. “What the hell is a featherhead doing on my ship?” Yost shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Duncan craned his head, squinting. “Yost,” he said mildly, ignoring the question.

“Lonrhafn,” the reply came. “Good God, man, have you seen these spars?” he questioned happily, gesturing toward where a party was fitting one up, a bit higher up the mainmast than him. “True as a maid’s kaly, I’d say!”

Duncan nodded, before turning to walk away. Sailors grew excited over the strangest things.

Below decks was a tangle of confusion, as men were carrying sacks and kegs. The pantry was almost filled to bursting, but the ship’s new quartermaster was standing on top of the heap, muttering to himself about how to shove more in.

A few sailors gave the Marine a glance, as the tall man had to duck down to not hit his head. All but one were unfamiliar faces, but that one sailor who had survived the People widened his eyes a little at the Raven, and tugged at his forelock, surprising his comrades. Duncan started, then returned the gesture.

A sailor muscled past, carrying a sack of shot and powder, and Duncan swung in behind him, following him. It was easier to work against the human current, that way.

Marine Country was a rather nebulous term, at the best of times, but Duncan could almost sense the different atmosphere as he entered the small arms magazine behind the sailor. Bedding and hammocks had been strung up, and a dozen Marines sat around the room.

The eldest glanced up at the arrival of the sailor, and then started as he saw Duncan. He whispered harshly to the others, and they all got up quickly, arranging themselves into a rough line that wound around the edges of the small magazine.

Duncan scanned their faces, but recognized none of them. Certainly none from the Zoirys’ old Marine compliment; they were either dead at the hands of the pagans, or still enslaved. The thought made him purse his lips tightly, and the Marines before him shifted uneasily at the expression.

“Good morning, sir,” the oldest Marine said, his voice carefully respectful, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of the Raven’s expression . . . or the twin tharos. His sword’s hilt was adorned with a bit of crimson silk, faded by the sun until it looked almost pink, and he looked old enough to have been Duncan’s grandfather. “Are you to be our lieutenant, sir?”

“I am, Sergeant,” Duncan answered, glancing among the Marines, trying to relax his expression. They stared back with a uniformly level gaze, all of them short enough that they didn’t need to bend over quite so far as he did. He wasn’t sure who had gotten the better deal, in regards to height.

The sailor who had been carrying the shot and powder deposited the sack in a barrel, filled halfway with water, and snickered a little at the Marines while he escaped from their little den. They did look a little ridiculous in their green coats, standing among piles of personal effects and powder stores. To a sailor, anyway.

“Introduce the platoon, if you would, Sergeant,” he said, nodding toward the old Marine.

“Aye, sir.” He used a massive finger to point at the men. “This is Dray Dousan, Tilier Bilstynd, Stile Foronborn . . .” Around the magazine he went, pointing out each man as he named them.

“And you, Sergeant?” the Raven asked, once everyone but him had been called out.

“Corinsborn, sir. Wain Corinsborn. The men call me Sergeant Corn.”

“Corn?” Duncan raised an eyebrow.

The sergeant shrugged. “My pa was called so, too. Shortened from Corinsborn, I think.” He glanced around the room, as if being sure that none of them had snuck off to render some mischief upon the sailors, before asking, “And who might you be bein’, sir?”

“My name is Lonhrafn,” Duncan said. “A Wild Raven.”

“If you’d pardon me, sir, we rather figured that.”

* * *

Lya sat beside her father, as the carriage bounced its way along the cobbled streets. The steady clop-clop-clop of hooves—both from their escorting riders, as well as the team pulling them—drifted through the windows.

The full company of Royal Guardsmen was spread throughout the street, acting as a moving cordon for the carriage. It had been a long, long time since someone had tried to kill a Prince of Pothomar, but the Guard had still been unflinching in its requirements.

Sometimes, Lya wondered just who commanded who.

“I used to go riding with your mother,” Einos said quietly, looking out a window. “She hated it, Temoran noblewoman that she was.”

“Somehow,” Lya said dryly, “that doesn’t surprise me.” Her mother hadn’t truly been a Temoran, but she had been more than happy to act like one of her distant cousins. It was something she found less and less endearing, even though she hardly remembered the woman who bore her.

“But she always lied, when I asked her, and she’d even ask me when we would go next.” Her father smiled. “She didn’t even like carriages.”

Lya couldn’t remember ever even riding a horse. Well, she’d sat on one, with her brother holding the reins, but she couldn’t remember ever riding one on her own. It had always seemed a recipe for a broken skull.

Absently, she smoothed the dress over her legs.

“She must have been difficult to live with,” Lya said. It wasn’t something a girl would have said, really, but she was old enough to know that her mother had been a flawed person. Just as everyone else.

Her father seemed surprised at her words. “Yes,” he admitted. “But I wished you’d have known her; you talk too much like me.”

Not knowing quite what to say to that, she just frowned.

The street they had been following wound down to the harborfront, and four Navy ships were swarming with activity. Lya brushed the curtains aside to get a better look.

She watched as sailors rushed out from their ships, hastened by petty officers who dressed them into ranks. No one had told them just when the Royals would be coming. A few sailors cheered for the passing carriages, others waving, but were quickly shouted at by the scandalized chiefs.

A familiar frigate—one she had heard only too much of from the papers—rolled into view, and the ship’s company as well. The Zoirys looked battered by age and experience, but was stout and well-built, if not precisely spry. She started as she saw a single platoon of Marines salute them as they rolled by. She hadn’t expected Duncam to be allowed back to fleet duty without a gruelingly thorough interrogation from his superiors—perhaps the two tharos were more influential than any of them knew.

Her father had seen him too. “Cheeky Raven,” he said. “Trying to give back a tharos.” He snorted as another Raven—this one the ship’s captain—saluted them. “Him too. Must be something in their blood.”

Lya glanced to the other Wild Raven. She was surprised to see him too. “You had them assigned back to the Zoirys, didn’t you?” she said, not really making it a question.

He snorted again, though it was mingled with a sound of fatherly pride. “Yes. Yes, I did.” He didn’t elaborate for a moment, before saying, “The other two—the lieutenants—as well.”

“I think the Ravens may have appreciated that more than the tharos you gave them,” she said.

The Prince of Pothomar leaned back in his seat. “I’ve met men like them; Ravens, mostly. They’re warriors. I’d have no others protecting my children.”

The old frigate rolled out of sight, replaced by the view of a third rate, nearly as old as the Zoirys, but not nearly so harshly used. The Yaris’ crew were out on the harborfront, as well, and the Marine compliment—two platoons more than the Zoirys’—stood underneath their regimental colors. There were only two Marine regiments under the Department of the Navy, and the flag was held on behalf of all the Marines in the expedition.

“The parting of ways,” her father said quietly, as the carriage slowed to a stop beside another. She saw Thaos.

Despite the remnants of anger, she smiled at her brother. “We’ll be back,” she promised.