Harsh Awakening

Harsh holds his spyglass to his eye, scanning the derelict his lookout spotted. Second mate Karima has already logged the location.

So many things aren't right about this situation. The hull design is outlandish and ill-suited to these southern waters. The strange ship is adrift, and it shows no signs of life; no lights, loose lines, and her rudder swinging free. The lookout above reports bodies on the deck and signs of a fire, and a likely a fight.

It could be more victims of the very pirates that Harsh is hunting, but why not take the prize?

"Is it a trap, Commander? Should we wake the Captain?" asks Karima. She doesn't sound surprised, or worried. The crew has fought its way into and out of a number of those since she joined.

Harsh closes up the spyglass with a snap. As the officer of the watch, it's his call.

"Bring us alongside her. Hands to quarters, alert the captain. I want Marines posted fore and aft and tell Dally to man the cannons. Prepare a boarding party. I will lead."

As ever, is heor at projects leasta model of efficiency and confidence. But there's a prickle of unease, an intuition he can't articulate. There's odd and unexpected, and then there's... this. It's... what's the Deutsch word? Unheimlich.

Unheimlich, indeed. The lurid press and dockside ballads are full of stories of ghost ships and the unlucky crews that encounter them. The vessel isn't flagged, or else it's been struck. Brigantine rigged, but there's no canvas out.

Karima relays the orders and the sailors, marines, and gunners jump to with some spirit. Everyone seems pleased to be doing something, even if it's unnecessary.

"We'll be alongside by five bells of the fore-noon watch," she says.

"Excellent," says Captain Rai, arriving on the deck at that moment. "What the devil is a derelict doing here? Mister Harsh, you plan to investigate, I take it?"

"Albic perfidy," suggests Karima, but she doesn't seem sure. "If it was pirates, wouldn't they have a prize crew taking her back to Antananarivo?"

As the ship approaches, it's clear there's no one to resist the boarding, or to assist for that matter. There are, indeed, bodies on the deck.

"Yes sir." Harsh salutes the captain and nods briskly. "I agree with Karima -- pirates would have taken her as a prize already. On consideration, we should be cautious -- I'll take the party over in boats. Mahtala should stay back -- two cables or so -- until we're certain that it's safe."

It's occurred to him that the ship could be rigged to explode, or that there could be a contagion and bad air. No point in risking too many lives.

"Very Good, Mister Harsh. Lieutenant Karima, far enough to be safe, close enough to hear them give a shout. I'll be below."

When they've reached the appropriate distance, Harsh, Lt. Singh, and a boarding party of eight seamen and two Marines go over on boats. Harsh and Singh carry pistols and sabres; the Marines have rifles, and the seamen have an assortment of axes and swords. They cast up grappling hooks and climb aboard. Harsh goes first, clambering up the ropes and dropping quietly over the rail.

He surveys the deck for any immediate threats before gesturing to the others to follow.

First order of business is try to identify the bodies and determine whether they died of violence, disease, or starvation, and seek any clues as to where they might be from. Then examine the damage to the ship. When they're confident the deck is secure, Harsh will go below with half the party, the other half remaining above to keep an eye open for any new threats.

Whatever happened to this ship, designated IN Cotopaxi, it was violent and sudden. The rails show signs of boarding, the sheets and masts show signs of chain shot, as do the bodies. The ship smells of cordite, but moreso of oils and elbow grease.

There aren't enough bodies to sail her, not on the deck. The bodies aren't in uniforms, so it looks like a civilian ship that was attacked.

Nobody designates their vessels "IN".

"Cotopaxi," Harsh says to Singh. "Iberian?"

Singh shakes his head. "Doesn't sound right, sir. And their designation is NIR."

"See what you can find at the helm, Singh. I'll go below." To one of the +marines: "Sergeant Hira, with me please."

"Aye, " says Singh, and moves to find the chart locker, or whatever the equivalent of it is on the IN Cotopaxi. Hira follows Harsh.

What hasn't been destroyed was made with amazing craftwork. Restored, this would be a hell of a prize, and admirals will fight over who gets to keep her. Lt. Singh is at the helm, looking at the charts.

Harsh heads below. There's not enough storage to be a passable merchanter or even a pirate, so the Cotopaxi was probably some sort of escort ship.

The gunports are well-sealed and the guns are polished to inspection quality. They haven't been fired recently, or at least not since they were last polished.

At the back of the deck is what would be either the captain's or the owner's cabin. The door to it is swinging loosely.

Harsh draws his sword and approaches the door cautiously, gesturing to Hira to cover him.

The Sergeant has a small blade drawn as well, good for close quarters where a longer blade would get fouled.

The cabin is open, but it's been ransacked. There's a desk at the back, far too monumental to belong in a cabin on a proper Golcondan ship. The ship's log is on the desk, open. It's written in a script that makes Harsh's eyes swim. He's never seen the like in all his travels, and he's seen quite a bit of foreign writings. Another hand has torn out a page from the logbook and written on it in the strange script. Harsh cannot quite make it out, but feels as if he should be able to. That note may be the key to the mystery.

The wardrobes and trunks are full of clothes of a strange style not Golcondan and not of any foreign culture Harsh is familiar with. It's almost like they're costumes from some Tyrolean light opera. At least Sergeant Hira hasn't started singing.

Harsh looks around for some manner of document bag -- preferably oilskin or something else waterproof -- to put the log and torn-out page in. That done, he secures them and rifles through the rest of the room, looking for any sign of rank or identity. The clothes get a puzzled frown; eventually he picks out a shirt that seems representative of the lot and adds it to the bag as well.

The ship lurches.

Startled, Harsh staggers and grabs the edge of the desk to keep his balance. If there's a window, he hurries toward it to look out and what he sees will determine whether he charges back on deck with sword sheathed or drawn.

Harsh has no idea what's happened. There's a island to stern, where there was no island when he was on the surface. The water is far too shallow for where they were, and it looks choppy in all the wrong ways for this latitude and time of year.

Worse, it looks like the derelict is caught in a current. Which shouldn't be here, either.

Harsh runs to the stern and opens his spyglass to get a better look at the island. He yells for Singh to drop anchor if they can and to prepare the men to get back on the boats.

He thinks of the legends of sea monsters that sailors mistook for islands, where they would go ashore and then be lost when the monster took to the deep again. Such stories are, of course, nonsense. But then so are suddenly-appearing islands accompanied by rogue currents, and that's exactly what he's got to deal with right now. So much for an easy and exotic prize for the Pati.

Singh runs to the fore, swearing like a sailor. Two sailors run to help him, and the rest are at the side, ready to go over to the boats. They await orders. "We've lost sight of the...."

Harsh snaps his spyglass up and looks at the island. The damn thing is populated, or at least has been in the past. Significantly so. Harsh sees roads, bridges, and on the edge of the leeward shore, a lighthouse. It's not lit, but the sun is up.

Speaking of the sun, Harsh doesn't need a sextant to see that the angle of the sun is wrong for this latitude.

"Where's the Mahtala?" he hears Seaman Chandrama say. As if the circumstances weren't dire enough.

He tears his gaze away from the impossible island and strides over to the men. "What the hell do you mean, where's the--"

Oh. He feels a bubble of panic rise in his chest and threaten to burst, but -- no, don't lose your composure in front of the men. They're scared enough. Deep breath. "Steady now," he says. "I don't know what's happening any more than you all, but what I do know is that we gain nothing if we lose our heads." He looks from one face to another, reasonably confident that his own demeanour betrays nothing of his terrified urge to start running in panicky circles like a headless chicken. "We've escaped tough spots before and we'll do it again. Mr Singh, help me get our bearings. Chandrama, everyone else -- see what you can do to get this derelict under something like control. Weigh anchor, jury-rig a sail -- whatever it may take.

Chandrama takes the orders well, and begins bellowing at the sailors to get aloft. The crew are having trouble with it; the knots are unfamiliar, the lines are strange, and such. But there's only so many ways to make a brigantine a brigantine.

Harsh thinks the crew is too small to sail the prize back across more distance than a bay, especially if they ever want to sleep.

At this point he just wants to get them settled and ... find a way to get rescued. He hasn't thought that far ahead yet, and although he has quietly admitted to himself that there is a strong possibility that they are well and truly marooned in a way that should be impossible, he continues to operate as if there is a way, some way, that everything will turn out all right in the end.

As an experienced mariner, Harsh thinks the current will push them to leeward of the island, unless it changes. Currents don't normally ground ships, except on sandbars. But lighthouses are built to keep ships off rocks, and there is spray in that direction, so probably some danger made worse by the total lack of charts, local pilots, or knowledge.

Harsh sends one of the sailors aloft to keep an eye open for any signs of shoals or rocks.

"Singh, look at this." He hands over the spyglass and points to the island. "What do you make of it? Not Golcondan architecture, I'm certain. Albic?"

There's a retort like a single cannon shot, from the direction of the lighthouse.

Singh nods. "Possibly. Or related. They're the only ones I can think of who would use a fog cannon to alert a ship to rocks."

"Find something to raise as a white flag. Let them know we're peaceful." For now.

He finds a place with a good vantage point and keeps his eyes on the shore, looking for signs of what manner of people might live on this island.

Singh knocks the padlock off of a locker under the charts and finds what he's expecting; a flag locker. The ship has a collection of flags, mostly unknown. Right on top is a Jolly Roger, under it is a red banner with a sword-arm, and maybe a dozen more.

Singh swears. "False flags. They say that if they flew the red ones it meant they'd give no quarter."

There's no white flag in the lot.

Harsh scrambles down to the great cabin to see if he can find a sheet, a pillowcase, or a shirt, he'll grab that and tie it to a stick. If none of the above are available ... well, he has a white muslin kurta on under his uniform sherwani, and he'll use that if he must.

The lookout above has indeed spotted the rocks, and they are ahead.

The lighthouse has someone at the railing of the lamp. He's got a signal cannon and apparently hopes they'll avoid wrecking the Cotopaxi. Otherwise the coast is not very populated. The ship is drifting away from a port on the windward side of the island. There's smoke coming from that direction.

Waving the improvised flag of truce, Harsh tries to signal to the lighthouse that they're in distress. Ideally he'd lower what boats they have, lash them to the Cotopaxi, and try to tow it to safety by rowing. But the relatively small boarding party might not be up to it, particularly if the current is strong.

The sailors aloft get the mainsail unfurled, and angled to pull them away from the rocks, but it's a challenge, and given the breakers probably means a sandbar instead of the rocks, which has its own issues. Harsh notes that there are davits for a Captain's gig or other small boat, but no such boat is aboard.

Ultimately, Harsh would rather deal with the sandbar over rocks, if it means that they'll at least be in a better position to be rescued. If no other ways out of this mess appear to be on offer ... brace for impact, gentlemen.

"Going to beach her, Sir?," says Singh. "Do you want us to abandon ship, or should we take the boat after the ship's aground?"

"Hold fast until we're aground," Harsh says. "If those ashore are hostile, I don't want to provide them with an easy target."

The crewmen aloft come down so they're not thrown free in the crash. "Brace for impact!," cries Singh.

It's a light crash, as crashes go. It would be worse if there were a storm or if they'd been making headway.

The ship quickly comes to rest at a jaunty angle against a sandbar, close enough for the lighthouse crew to begin organizing a response.

The crew is precariously on the deck and the man aloft has come down so as not to be dashed overboard.

"Commander, they have a cannon!" The sailors prepare for a fight.

"Prepare to abandon ship, we'll take them on the beach if we have to!"

Harsh slides down to firmer ground and raises his spyglass again, muttering curses. He spots the crew lighthouseand the cannon. He lowers his spyglass to start barking orders when a delayed realization hits him and he takes another look through the spyglass.

That cannon has a rope coming out of its end. If it's artillery, it's one of the weirdest pieces of artillery he's ever seen. And it doesn't actually appear to be ... martial.

"Hold your fire," he calls out. "I don't think this is an attack. I think it's a rescue."

And thank the gods for that.

The rescue crew fires the cannon and it shoots over IN Cotopaxi. They start cranking some sort of reel device that pulls the hawser across ship until it bites into the gunwale on the port rail. Once they have a taut line between ship and shore, they attach some sort of basket to it, a man gets in, and the apparatus pulls itself under the line until it approaches the sandbar.

A man climbs out, well wrapped in sea proof clothing and with a beard that would make a hermit proud. He's cultivated a wild look.

He's loud enough to be heard over the storm. "Too rough to send the boats, but we can ferry you off in the rescue basket if need be. Best to get you to shore before the wreckers arrive after the sun sets. Who's the master of this ship?"

Harsh steps forward and offers the formal Golcondan salute -- palm to breastbone, then hand to forehead, a gesture of respect for the assistance.

"Commander Harsh Majumdar of the Royal Golcondan Navy, sir." He's quietly proud of his fluent Britannic. "Thank you for your aid. We found this ship as a derelict and we've been-- um-- separated from our own vessel. Please -- get the men across to safety. I'll come last."

"Of course, Commander. Any wounded?"

There are some scrapes and bruises; one man has sustained a mild cut to the scalp and one of the marines is nursing some kind of strain or sprain in his arm. Harsh sends them to the front of the line.

Harsh assists the loading of the rescue basket. The rescue man and two passengers per trip are ferried to the shore. Harsh isn't familiar with these waters but he can tell when a storm is rolling in.

Time and tide are not in his favor. If there is a moon this night, it's obscured by the clouds. The lamp is lit and the lighthouse blinks out a pattern that would tell Harsh that he was near Lakshadweep if that wasn't completely crazy.

Harsh is alone on the sandbar, waiting for the rescue basket to drop off Singh and the last marine and return for him.

It's at that point that the grapple slips and the ship becomes untethered.

The good news is that the ship may be about to refloat itself off the sandbar. The bad news is that the sandbar is going to be gone when that happens.

Harsh tries vainly to grab for the grapple as it falls away. He looks to windward and the rising waves and curses. Part of him can't let go of the idea of this wonderfully unique prize and the prospect of losing it altogether is absolutely infuriating.

On the other hand, none of that does him any good if he's dead, and he will be if the ship drifts off in strange waters with him alone on it.

He fetches the oilskin document bag with the papers that he retrieved from the great cabin and ensures that it's sealed as best he can, and then ties it tightly about his torso before clambering up on the rail. He looks back over his shoulder at the Cotopaxi with a sigh that's almost wistful, and that moment's hesitation means that instead of leaving the ship of his own accord, he's unceremoniously dumped off of it when a gust of wind and a wave rocks it hard.

Harsh loses his balance and pitches nearly headfirst into the water. He's buffeted ferociously by the waves, pushed down toward the bottom and thrown back up again, and surely any man would have drowned in minutes.

However ... he has never spoken of it with anyone, but Harsh is at ease with the water in ways other men are not. Not that he enjoys getting tossed around like a cork more than anyone, but he knows at the very least that drowning won't kill him. He'd have died long ago otherwise.

Nevertheless he struggles, and eventually catches something resembling a break and is able to tread water long enough to shout wetly for help.

Harsh sees a flare go up, and the men on the beach pointing. In the end, a boat puts out into the waves. It's not doing well in the rising storm, either, but it's something, at least.

Harsh is a more powerful swimmer than any one he's ever met, but he's also not invulmerable. He makes for the boat, and through some amount of mad effort and sheer luck, reaches it. The boat hasn't capsized, but the crew is exhausted. Singh pulls him aboard. "Hello, Commander!" He takes it as a given that Harsh is all right.

The sailors wrap a damp blanket around him and fire off another flare. The hawser attached to the boat goes taut as the men on the beach start reeling the rescue boat back. That's a good thing, because his crew is not really making headway.

"The Angrejon leant us the boat, Commander," says Chandrama.

"Eventually," adds Hamidul.

"Generous of them," Harsh says, still trying to catch his breath. He wants to ask more about their surprise hosts, but now is not really the time, is it.

The boat eventually beaches and the men carry it ashore. They help the rescue squad bring the boat ashore and safely above the high-tide and storm lines.

When they're finally all inside in front of a fire, the Albic rescue officer says "Now Commander, what the devil are you doing sailing in the waters off Tortuga at this time of year?"

That question raises even more in Harsh's mind, and he wonders where to start.

"To begin with, I can tell you with absolute sincerity that we had no intention of ending up here when we set the sails on our vessel this morning," he says. "The ship you found us on -- we discovered her a derelict and boarded her to investigate. Then she was caught in a current, which swept us toward -- here, Tortuga." The name sounds Iberian, though he can't be sure. It's completely unfamiliar, in any case.

He pauses to take a sip of the hot tea while he weighs what he's going to say next.

"If I told you that we all began this day on a ship in the South Indic Seas, would you believe me?"

The officer gives Harsh and his crew a sad look. "I would, Commander, and I've bad news for you. Tortuga gets its share of your kind from the Triangle now and again. Ships sail in from nowhere and sometimes they sail back to nowhere. Set off and never seen in a Tortugan port again." He shakes his head. "South Indic's a new one on me, though. Never heard of that sea."

Harsh is about to ask for clarification on exactly what the Triangle is, but ... how could he not have heard of the South Indic Sea?

"Perhaps ... perhaps you have another name for it," he ventures. Or you don't get out much, he thinks. "The southernmost reach of the Indic Ocean." A pause to see if there's any further recognition, then: "East of Africa, south of Greater India."

"The reason we have a light station and rescue squad stationed here, Commander, is that ships fall through the triangle from wherever they come from and end up wrecked on Split Rock. When the Pirates held Tortuga, the wreckers would take those ships, but His Magisty's Admiralty would rather build a light and try to save you people.

"When I say ships fall through the triangle. I mean literally. You can't sail from here around The Cape and cross the ocean to find your home port. Unless you find the place that causes your ship to disappear from here again, you're in this world for now. We've had sailors from a double-dozen empires through here, based out of all sorts of preposterous places, and we've seen ships come and go from nothing. Ghost ships in the ghostlight. And storms and fish that come from other places, too.

"We report 'em, and send the survivors off to the Kings Town on Jamaica. And the Admiralty doesn't read any reports abut the South Indic Ocean."

Harsh listens in silence and feels his stomach churn. This is absurdity, it is madness, and yet ... is there any other explanation? It sounds like one of those fantastical Gallic romances that Captain Rai told him about once. He rubs his forehead, feeling a tightness there that is either an incoming headache or tears or both.

The officer blows out a breath. "You chaps probably need a drink or two about now, yes?"

Even those whose faith demands they abstain probably want one, Harsh thinks. "Yes. Yes, I ... I think so."

He turns to his crew and addresses them in Bengali, relaying their rescuer's words to those whose Albic isn't up to working it out for themselves. He can see Singh has gone quite pale, and Chandrama makes a noise that sounds like a suppressed sob. Damn. Harsh recalls that the man had a young lady waiting for him at home, no doubt sewing her wedding sari at that very moment.

"I'll be direct," he says in conclusion, "I don't know what we're going to do. For now, though, I think we can all agree that we need rest, so that we may face tomorrow with clearer heads. Consider yourselves at ease until further notice, gentlemen."

And then he'll take that drink, thank you very much, even if he doesn't much care for most Albic firewaters.

Some time later, after the others have disposed themselves as they see fit, Harsh returns to have a few more words with the rescue officer to learn more about this world they've washed up in.

"You referred to a king earlier. Can I assume you mean the king of Albion? And I'd appreciate it if you could show me on a chart where we are."

"His Majesty James VI, your gracious host, rules a large swath of the Atlantic seaboard, but the Imperial throne is in the United Kingdom of Britain. There are plenty of places named Albion, Albany, New Albion and all, but it's not technically in his majesty's royal titles." The man pauses briefly. "And on that note, let's go to the charthouse. Maps will definitely help.

"Tomorrow, if this storm has passed, you can determine your latitude with your sextant and you'll at least know how far you've come north." The Officer leads the way to a smaller building with the naval jack painted on the door. "By the way, name is MacAlpin. If I'm sharing Whiskey with a man, I think we should know each other's names."

Harsh gives him the formal salute again. "Many thanks, Sri MacAlpin. Your very good health; for your aid I am forever in your debt."

He opens a locked room and leads the way inside, pulls out a table-sized map.

It would just be inaccurate if that was all there was to it. But it's a very precise inaccurate map. Golconda is called "India" and has a lot of additional territory. It's marked in the same Imperial Blue as a lot of places the Albic King has colonies.

There's so much to absorb from this map. The names are disorienting enough (France? What in gods' mercy kind of a name is that?), but it's the subcontinent that arrests his attention for the longest.

"This," he says, jabbing his finger at the western coast of the subcontinent. "This should be the Federation of Golconda. Here is Maharashtra, and here is Goa, and Gujarat. Your map is wrong." His voice trembles a little with rising anger. "And Albion owns none of these. Your map is wrong."

He is angry, very angry, but chiefly because anger is much easier to reckon with than fear.

MacAlpin sips his whiskey, unperturbed by Harsh's reaction. "My map is wrong in your world, and you're welcome to head to Goa if you'd like to see what it's like in this world. I've a cousin buried in a cemetery near the Raj Bhavan in Dona Paula, but it's a Portuguese colony, not an English one."

He waves at the map, perhaps too broadly, considering the half-full glass in his hand. "Sometimes, when you folks arrive from Outremer -- that's what we put on the paperwork, Outremer. When you folks arrive, I think 'why shouldn't there be worlds that are different by a decision, or a random bit of happenstance? What if Harold didn't take an arrow to the face at Hastings? What if Boney had refrained from fighting Russia?" This time the drink moves more carefully. "And then I generally have another drink, and leave the story-telling to the fabulists.

"I can tell you don't feel this way now, young man, but there's a whole new world for you to explore, and you have twice the worlds to visit that I do."

Harsh's anger slowly subsides in the face of MacAlpin's calm, and he sinks down into the nearest chair before taking a long sip of his whiskey. Better than what he usually expects from Albic firewater, he has to admit. "Ou-tre-mer," he murmurs under his breath, sounding out the unfamiliar word. Is this a world, then, where Golconda failed? Or never came to be? He knows from his history lessons that its founding was no sure thing at the time -- the post-Mughal anarchy was a time of horrors -- but to think that it never happened...

A new world to explore, though. That's something. He actually smiles at that. If his heart weren't hurting so much at the prospect of never seeing his home again, he'd be delighted. He wonders if the sun looks as fair rising over the bay from this world's version of Kolkata.

There's one other thing. He bends down and picks up the damp oilskin bag containing the documents he'd taken from the Cotopaxi. "Since you seem to see a lot of these things, Sri MacAlpin, can I ask your opinion on something?"

MacAlpin lifts his glass. "No guarantees it's a useful opinion, but you're welcome to it. I come from a long line of opinionated people." He waits to see what Harsh lays out.

Harsh carefully clears a space on the table and lays out the Cotopaxi documents: the logbook, and the page torn from the logbook with the writing on it.

"I'd like to know what you make of this. And if you can read the script. It feels ..."

He hesitates, then: "It feels like I ought to know it, but I can't imagine how, or where from. I'm sure I've never seen it in my life. I can't explain it."

"I don't know the words, but I know the letters. The language is called 'Thari', which I suppose means that the people of 'Thar' speak it. Had a ship with that on the side in just a few weeks ago. Arrogant cusses, but good sailors, at least. They didn't seem surprised to be in Tortuga, somehow. Hunting someone, I heard."

He pauses, and drinks his whiskey. "You won't find anyone around here who can read it, and plenty who'll tell you it's the devil's language."

"Thari -- that's one of the languages of the Eastern Sindh, to the northwest of Golconda," Harsh says, frowning. "Not one I know, though."

Another dead end. He sighs, rubs his forehead, and puts the documents away. Suddenly he feels all the exhaustion of the day hit him at once like a hammer, and he leans against the table, closing his eyes.

He wakes seconds later with a jolt as his arm buckles.

"Bal," he mutters under his breath, and then, "saving your presence," as an apology for the swearing, even though MacAlpin probably doesn't recognize it. He sighs and offers a simple salaam. "Sri MacAlpin, I'm rapidly becoming a very poor guest. But I suspect I'll be a better one after I've slept a bit."

MacAlpin nods. "Someone from the City should be here in the morning, and will make arrangements." He gives Harsh directions back to where his men are staying. MacAlpin stands in the door watching him as he departs, and afterwards finishes his drink in one gulp.

Even though he can feel himself falling asleep on his feet, Harsh leaves MacAlpin and goes straightaway to check on his crew. Most are asleep by now; Singh is awake and answers in dull monosyllables, and Chandrama ... well, he will have a hangover for the ages tomorrow, Harsh thinks, but doesn't begrudge the man the drowning of his sorrows one bit.

The next morning he's the first of his crew awake and spends an exacting amount of time dressing and cleaning himself up. He may be a castaway, but he's damned if he's going to put in a poor showing to these Albic officials.

After what Harsh quietly considers an exceptionally flavourless breakfast and another conversation with the men -- they may consider themselves on shore leave until further notice, he's decided -- Harsh prepares himself for whatever the day's meeting will bring.

The crew seem somewhat anxious. That's perhaps an underestimate. The crew are hiding their anxiety about being lost in a strange place by debating if they have gone mad collectively or individually, and if the others are all part of their individual delusions. Current consensus seems to be that Parth Arjun would be the most likely to be hallucinating all of this. A small minority expresses the opinion that none of them are real, and this is a dream the Captain is having, and the entire crew will be disciplined when he awakens for not performing well in his dreams.

Based on his training, Harsh thinks that at least some of the crew are near to panicking.

Harsh tries to set them at ease as best he can; he jokes that Captain Rai hasn't got this kind of imagination, devises humourous counter-arguments -- all an attempt to show that he is calm enough to crack wise, so surely things can't be that bad. Even if things are objectively terrible and Harsh is constantly fending off his own sense of rising panic.

Harsh's tactic works reasonably well, although the underlying reality is objectively terrible.

The Anglic official who arrives seems to have no inclination or desire to prevent it. He introduces himself as Sir Arthur Waddingham. He seems as dull as his name.

"You've been apprised of your situation, as I understand it. I'm sure it's quite a shock. Your home country is no long a place you can return to. His Brittanic Majesty has agreed, in his benificence, to allow you provisional status as Imperial Citizens from Outremere.

"Citizenship has duties as well as privileges. You will be expected to keep the King's Peace, to obey the laws, and to pay your taxes. Miss Julia Barnes, daughter of Captain Barnes of Peaseport will give you a sermon, followed by a small stipend from The Shipwrecked Fishermen and Mariners' Royal Benevolent Society. You should listen to her, as it is because of her society that you have a roof and food for the next few days."

Miss Barnes seems inclined to speak at length about matters related to the trials that the monotheistic god she endorses put men through, and their ability to persevere through faith, hymns, and listening to very long sermons. It seems unlikely, and the crew look to Harsh for any reaction.

Harsh acknowledges Sir Arthur with a modified salute that the Golcondans will recognise as the sort given to a social equal. Throughout the ordeal, his expression is schooled into politeness and there is nothing (he thinks) that the Albic will take offence at, but he chooses his words and gestures in such a way as to signal to his countrymen that while he accepts their help gratefully, he considers himself, and by extension his men, to be in no way inferior.

Miss Barnes tries his patience something fierce. Mahtala's surgeon, Kumar, was educated in Venetia and is a rare Golcondan Christian, but Kumar's faith -- from what Harsh has gathered of it -- is not nearly so dull or grim as what Miss Barnes lays out for them. He tries not to fidget, but after a while he starts fiddling with the ring of his mother's that he wears on his right hand, spinning it and twirling it like a coin. The gesture is a well-known sign of increasing impatience on his part.

Finally, when he feels he has an opening, he rises and offers Miss Barnes a small, polite bow. "We are grateful to you, Miss Barnes, for your Christian hospitality and grace. We are not men accustomed to idleness and I hope--" and this is addressed to Waddingham as well, and MacAlpin if he's present, "--that at least we may make ourselves as useful and hospitable to others who wash up on these shores as you and Sri MacAlpin have been to us. I offer the deepest thanks of my heart to you all."

Another bow, another calculated salute, a placid smile that conceals the fact that he is absolutely itching to run, to get away from these damn people and their damn sanctimony and their damn condescension.

Miss Barnes thinks that sounds splendid and allows as how some the Shipwrecked Mariners can teach them enough about British sailing to allow them to join a crew, if they so desire, or they can find work in any of the Royal Colonies...

Waddingham nods, as if he expects no less. "Excellent. If you need another day to recover, then I'm sure that there's room here, if no other ships come in. We can arrange transport to Peaseport for the day after and you can get on with figuring out how to adjust to things.

"Are there further questions?"

"None at this time. Again, my deepest thanks."

Formalities dealt with, Harsh goes again to confer with the men.

Singh and Chandrama would just as soon stay where they are on Tortuga, or somewhere near it, in the -- most likely vain, but you never know -- hope that a way home might present itself. The Marines, Hira and Barun, are with them, as is seamen Hamidul. Of the other seamen, Karthik, Rifat, and Forhad ask for another day to think about it. But Parth Arjun, Nadif, and Billal -- not coincidentally, the men whose Albic is the steadiest -- seem resigned to whatever this new world is going to bring to them.

"After all," Nadif observes ruefully, "if I'm going to be stranded somewhere, at least it's a place with food and a warm bed -- not a thrice-damned iceberg."

Harsh has to admit that Nadif has a point.

He has little he can offer the men, he thinks glumly, save his support for their decisions. In the event he falls through a pit back onto Mahtala's deck, he promises he will hold himself to account for any men who do not return.

He goes for a long walk after that conversation. It's mostly to clear his head, but he also wants a look around the island, as much as he can cover on his long legs. As he goes, he thinks about the Albic folk he's met so far, the maps he's seen, what it all suggests about this world, and the place of Golconda -- of India -- in it. He's not sure he likes it.

Tortuga is perhaps 25 miles across, and 4 miles wide, with mountains in the middle that caused it to be named for a turtle in the first place. The mountains are low, on the order of a thousand feet above sea level, and the island is planted in tobacco and other cash crops. It's a brisk walk up what Harsh would later learn is called Morne La Visite.

From the highest point on the island, Harsh can see lights to the west and north, and islands (or an island) to the south and east. This island had 4 lighthouses, which seems to be quite a few, until he considers that they apparently regularly need life stations to rescue distressed mariners.

Such as himself and the men.

He probably can't keep the crew together.

He certainly can't pay them.

If Harsh had a spyglass, he'd have a better chance to see the vessels in the sheltered port to the south. He thinks he sees a vessel appear and disappear in the West, near the lighthouse. But it might have been a trick of the light.

Harsh -- somewhat uncharacteristically -- didn't think to bring a spyglass on his perambulation. In fact he hasn't brought much of anything; this wasn't a planned hike so much as an urge to keep moving, and now here he is on this mountain, squinting into the distance as if he could will a Golcondan flag into existence.

Then a sudden cloudburst soaks him to the skin, which seems appropriately obnoxious, considering.

By the time he returns to the lighthouse -- wet, filthy, thirsty, ravenously hungry -- he's come to a decision. After he's dried himself off, he asks for a pen and paper, which a few hours later results in official paperwork for each of his men, documenting an honourable discharge from the Golcondan Navy, granted under extraordinary circumstances, with the guarantee of full reinstatement in the event that a return to Golconda should come to pass.

As he stamps the last document with his signet, he feels a prickling at the corners of his eyes and has to stop to blink the sensation away.

They're all free now.

And come morning, he's going to find a ship that can use an experienced Golcondan mariner and see what this bokachoda world has to offer.

Singh mentions that if anyone ever finds a way home, they need to destroy the discharge so that the Navy owes them back-pay. It's bittersweet, and the laughter is possibly a bit forced, It's clear that there are definitely groups with different plans.

Singh, Hamidul, and Chandrama as well as the Marines, Hira and Barun, are going to stay, possibly working on Tortuga in the hopes that Golconda will come for them if they cannot go to Golconda.

Karthik, Rifat, and Forhad want to try for Golconda. "Even if it's not our Golconda, it's not the Albic Empire. Maybe we'll run into other lost souls."

Parth Arjun, Nadif, and Billal are planning to sign onto Albic ships and see the world. They plan to start with Miss Barnes's mission and see if they can learn enough not to embarrass the Captain if word ever gets back.

As for Harsh's plans, following a second english breakfast of 'how did you make an Empire eating this?', the port of Cayona beckons, and masts can be seen from the lighthouse.

Harsh tries not to linger too long over the farewells, as hard as it is. Two years from now, they all agree, they will return to Tortuga, or find a way to send word, if they are all still in this world.

Afterward he gathers up his things, including the mystery papers, and makes his way to Cayona.

He's wearing his -- now slightly bedraggled -- uniform sherwani over his kurta and churidar trousers, and as such draws more than a few stares, as there really isn't anyone dressed like that on the streets of the port town. He sees mostly Europan and American faces, but there are Africans as well. Most people seem to speak Albic, but he catches fragments of Gallic and Iberian as well. There's a kind of patois that seems to be shared by the Africans that is difficult for him to follow, incorporating as it does all of those languages and what's most likely African tongues as well. But it's odd for him to not see any Golcondans -- at least not right away -- or to hear even a whisper of Bengali or Arabic.

The first ship's master he approaches sneers at him. "Damned if I'm taking any bloody lascars on my ship," he says, and then proceeds to ignore Harsh completely -- and he, for his own part, is so shocked by the use of a word that no one uses anymore in his world that all he can do is stare until someone roughly grabs his arm to push him back.

"Stop shoving me, angrejon dog," he grumbles, and for a moment is seized with the urge to throw a punch, but the unfriendliness of the onlookers is palpable. There is no way this ends well for him; even he can see that. Humiliated, he stalks off.

Some time later he hears a song that catches his ear; it reminds him of the docksides of Kolkata, and there are words in it that he definitely recognises.

Kay, kay kay kay!
Eki dumah!
Kay, kay kay kay!
Eki dumah!
Sailorman no like Bosun's Mate
Eki dumah!
Bosun's Mate no like Head Serang
Eki dumah!
Head Serang no like Number One
Eki dumah!
Number One no like kulli man
Eki dumah!
Kay, kay kay kay!
Eki dumah!

He follows the sound to a ship where a half-dozen African and Golcondan -- no, Indian, he reminds himself -- men are hard at work loading cargo, singing as they go.

The ship is named Chennai and is from the shipyards on the Malabar coast, and is trading spices to the British colonies, bypassing the middlemen for profit.

It's probably not nearly as profitable as making a dozen short trips to Aden, but they may be looking to get rich quickly. The crew is mostly Keralan, but the captain is Goan. He's pleased to talk to another 'Indian', even if neither of them has ever seen the Indus.

He wants to know how Harsh got to Tortuga, since he was enjoying the novelty of being the "first Indian ship" in port.

"Well, that's a story and then some," Harsh says, pulling a face. "Before I go too far on, tell me -- have you heard any of the Albic -- I mean, any of the English folk here talk about 'Outremer'?"

The captain shakes his head. "Well, not the Angrez, but the French. 'Outremer' is everything outside of Metropolitan France. All the places they accidentally gave the vote to in their revolution and have been trying to take it back before the dark-skinned undesirables do something dangerous with it? Those places are Outremer."

France equals Gaul, and... right, Dally used to sing a song about the king of Gaul before the rev-o-lu-ti-on, so there's a resonance there. Still, Harsh feels again as if he's half a step behind everything, and though he knows it's only to be expected, he still dislikes it.

"Haven't heard the Angrez using it, though. Even if they're temporarily not at war."

One of the Keralan sailors nods. "They aren't going to be meaning anything flattering by it." The rest of the longshoremen agree.

Harsh gestures in the direction of the part of the island where the lighthouse stands. "The crew at the lighthouse uses it to refer to everyone they scrape off the rocks out there. That was me, day before yesterday. The ship I was on had gotten blown badly off course and we were nearly lost there. I'm glad to be alive, but I've got no employment and so--" An expressive shrug and tilt of the head, a Kolkatan it's-in-the-hands-of-the-gods-and-Allah gesture. "Don't suppose your crew could use another pair of hands? The Angrez aren't being very welcoming."

He's left some of the details of his story out, of course. No point in laying every last detail on them at the jump.

Captain Balakrishnan looks him over. "Probably not the right rating for you, friend, but we have need of a cook."

Harsh tries not to let himself visibly deflate, but his shoulders do sag a little. Three days ago, he thinks indignantly, I was a decorated officer in the greatest navy in the Indic and Pacific oceans. And now...

He knows he can be just about trusted to make a pot of chai without causing a major disaster; the crew is small, and how hard can it really be? Besides, the alternative seems to be wheedling his way onto an Albic ship and spending months on end getting called lascar or worse and putting up with heavens know what other abuse. He puts on his most winning smile. "I won't lie, I am happiest aloft or at the helm. But if it's a cook you need, captain, a cook I can be." The captain nods. "Spoken like a sailor, my new friend. Why don't you turn-to with the crew now, as a laborer, and when we're ready to leave we'll see if we have a more fitting berth for you."

It's not much of an offer, and it sounds a bit like being offered an unpaid internship for exposure, but it's the best lead Harsh has so far.

It'll do. He finds a safe place for his belongings and gets to work.

Harsh finds the work physically undemanding, but it's good to be in the rhythm of a working ship and crew. He picks up on local terminology and customs, which are similar to cultures from Golconda he's familiar with, and geography, where it seems like every place has a new and baffling name.

While on a break, one of the sailors, a woman name Aline, sits next to him. Ships with mixed crews weren't unheard of in Golconda, but it was usually notable. "They say you came in through the Triangle. My father used to talk about it. His father came from Outremer."

Aline had caught his eye earlier, and maybe she'd noticed him staring. It wasn't anything untoward; it was only that he was reminded of Lt. Karima, and the rest of Mahtala's crew, and felt badly homesick for a moment before he pulled himself together again.

So when she comes to talk to him, he's prepared to start apologizing and explaining. But then apparently he doesn't need to.

"You heard aright," he says. "There was a dozen of us -- started our day investigating a derelict and ended it here. But your grandfather came from-- through--" He stumbles a little, still unsure how to talk about all this. "Where was he from, your grandfather? What kind of place?"

"Sorry to hear it. It's lucky you were shipwrecked here. The bigger islands aren't as friendly. I'm guessing you were in the Navy of your home. So was my grandfather. If we get back to India, I'll introduce you." She smiles. She's not self-conscious about it, for all that it might seem forward in a more traditional part of the country.

"He told me the most amazing stories of a great merchant city, like Constantinople of old, but vaster. A million souls at the heart of a trading empire, where they controlled the trade routes to a double dozen lands and grew rich on the port fees. It's what made me want to be a sailor, that and hating farming.

"He was from a place called Bellum, but the Navy needed sailors and hired them from their colonies. After 20 years he became a citizen, apparently. And shortly thereafter fell overboard during an uncanny storm and found himself here. Now he looks for people like you.

"You're not from Amber, are you?"

Harsh listens in fascination, and also feels oddly consoled by the knowledge that someone else understands what he's been through. When she starts talking about the merchant city, he hopes for just a moment that she might be speaking of one of the great cities of Golconda ... but that hope is dashed. Bellum -- not a name he recognizes.

Nor, for that matter, is--

"Amber? No. Never heard of it, unless that's a name for Golconda that I've never heard before." He smiles wryly. "I'm a commander in the Golcondan Navy. Was. Maybe still am; not a regulation I've read covers this eventuality." He waves his hand in the air to indicate, well, everything. "Golconda is a federation of states along the western coast of the subcontinent. Formed after we kicked out the Albic, Nederlander, and Gallic East India companies. The Indic Ocean is ours, and with the Albic Wars now past, we've turned south, to explore." He sighs, looking out to the water. "We were sailing to the Antarctic, seeking the furthest south."

She's fascinated. "Grandfather's stories don't have subcontinentals in them at all. He's dark skinned, but not like me or like an African man. Just-- different. When he really got going he'd talk of green people from undersea cities, but I think he was just making that up. He wanted me to find a ship flying a Unicorn flag, that was the symbol of the people who could travel between the realms."

People who travel between the realms. Harsh's heart leaps in his chest. If there are men who can control how they move from one world to another, then perhaps they can take him home. Him and his men.

A unicorn flag. He's about to ask more, but then Aline changes the subject.

Aline drinks some water from her tin cup. "We've had arctic and antarctic explorers. Lots of 'em died. It's not so exciting to haul spices and rum and trade goods around the ocean, but we don't freeze to death. What were you looking for out there? Personally?"

And her question pulls him up short in a way that this sort of query never has before. Other Golcondans either saw the point without having to ask, or if they did ask, they accepted his explanation -- for Golconda, of course -- without much question.

But it feels like the old answers won't work here, and it makes him uncomfortable. He frowns.

"Why does anyone want to explore the unknown? Because it's there," he says. He's not really aware of a certain condescending note in his tone. "I always wanted to see places that no man has ever seen before. Imagine -- a land where no one has ever set foot before, and who knows what we'll find there? Besides, if we don't get there first, the angrejon will. The quarrels over Australis are bad enough."

"It's an English colony now. Australia, that is. They use it as a dumping grounds for convicts and undesirables. The kind of people who the mother land doesn't care if they ever come back." She wrinkles her nose. "It's mostly empty desert, too. Like the Thar, but less hospitable."

"Golconda has a colony on the west—Borloo, it's called, after the natives' name for it," Harsh says. "I've been there a few times. It's beautiful, around the rivers and lakes, but once you get away from that ... you're right, it's a lot of nothing, as far as I've seen."

"When I was younger, I wanted to travel, but it's to see the people and the places they made. So I sort of agree with you, but for me, it's more to see people and their places that I have never seen before. And I might as well make a living at it, with the skills I've got."

The foreman puts down his tin cup. "Alright, one last shift before sunset, lads. Up and put you backs into the hauling."

Aline stands. "I'd love to find another world, but I'm selfish. I only care about finding things for me."

Harsh grins a little. "Don't get me wrong, I'm hardly selfless. I'm not keen on anonymity." He stands as well and shrugs a little, ruefully. "Though for now, I'll be accepting it -- I've little other choice."

He gets back to work with the others, and by the end of the day he's learnt a few new work songs and taught his new crewmates one or two himself. Come nightfall, in any case, he is exhausted, and although his sleeping arrangements are meagre compared to what he'd become accustomed to as a Golcondan officer, he sleeps as soundly as if it were a feather bed.

Harsh sleeps like a log, and the next day passes the same, and the next day after that, which is less loading the ship and more making sure all the cargo is properly secured. As someone who served on warships rather than merchant marine, some of the work over these days is new to Harsh. They don't operate with military precision, either, though the work gets done.

The next morning, though, something changes. As the crew waits for the outgoing tide, there's a ship coming in on the horizon. Aline comes to find Harsh to point it out. "Look at the flag!" she tells him.

That's a very big warship. Old-fashioned, by Golcondan standards, but huge. It takes a moment for Harsh to see the flag. But when he does, it's a unicorn.

Harsh is coiling up lines when Aline finds him, but when he sees the ship's flag, he drops what he's doing and stares.

"Is that... is that it? The flag your grandfather told you about?"

"It looks like it," Aline says. She's wide-eyed. It's not like it's every day that your grandfather's story comes to life. "Supposedly they used to come through regularly, but in the Bad Years they stopped." She doesn't explain the Bad Years, as if they're something so universal she expects Harsh to know what they are even though he came from another land.

They don't seem to have been universal to Golconda. "Bad Years? I'm guessing you mean something worse than an ordinary famine."

"They happened a lot of places. Strange creatures on land and sea. People went missing and didn't come back, or worse, they did, and they weren't people any more. Monsters in the shipping lanes that would drown big vessels. Then a storm, a bad one, that the British said was their god ending the universe. Some said the Kali Yuga was coming to an end at last." She shakes her head. "When the storm was over, it was like a new dawn."

There was a storm like that in Golconda, Harsh remembers. He was at sea in the times leading up to it, and whatever disturbances had been happening in the shipping lanes hadn't been in his part of the world. But the stories of people gone missing, infants born with extra body parts, dark places that devoured people? Those had seemed like stories and not worthy of attention.

The storm, on the other hand, had nearly sent a good part of the fleet to the bottom of the ocean. It hadn't been clear what brought it on, or what ended it. There had been a lot of men praying to gods thet didn't otherwise believe in during it, and some of them left the navy to fulfill those vows when it was over. The ones who had stayed in had been optimistic and refreshed, and ready for exploration.

One of Harsh's cousins, he recalls, had abruptly chosen to embrace the path of Sannyasa in the wake of the disturbances, walking away from the Majumdar family merchant trade and now practicing prayer and austerity on the roads between Kolkata and Hyderabad. Harsh relates what he recalls of the storm and the stories of its aftermath, but he's half-distracted throughout, unable to take his eyes from the ship and its unicorn flag.

"I must talk to them," he says. "If they can traverse worlds, perhaps they can get my men home."

And me, he thinks, but his first instinct is to see to his crew.

"They're sending a boat to the harbor," Aline, who is sharp-eyed, points out. Her long finger shows Harsh where it is, unerring, and indeed they are coming toward the harbor while the ship anchors at a comfortable depth. "You may get your chance."

Harsh very nearly takes off for the shore to meet the boat without another word, but he does have the sense to stop long enough to speak to the captain for ... well, it's more polite than simply an announcement of intent, but it's not quite a request for permission either.

The captain looks at the huge warship and releases Harsh with no hard feelings, with an offer of return if Harsh comes back before they sail. It's clear he thinks the bigger warship will have a berth more suited to Harsh's talents, if they're smart enough to snap him up. And also that there's no chance of keeping Harsh if there's an option to get back to Golconda. He sends Harsh off with good wishes.

Harsh likes the captain and would have been pleased enough to sail with him; his response is appropriately respectful, but there's no disguising his eagerness to meet the crew flying the unicorn flag.

"Want to come?" he asks Aline. "You'll have a story for your grandfather."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Aline says, but she adds to the Captain, "I'll be back," with the same unspoken expectation that Harsh won't be.

The officers who come off the shore boat from the Amber warship are dressed in what Harsh thinks of as very old-fashioned clothing: something that the grandfathers of the Albic, no, British officers here might have worn in the prime of their careers. There are three of them and they all have the look of weathered salty hands. Two of them are off to visit the harbormaster.

The third is clearly the junior, and he's looking round the crowd and the vessels for anything of interest. He clearly has instructions to wait and keep an eye on things at the dock. And not just the return boat, which has rowers for that.

Aline prods Harsh to go talk to the junior officer as the majority of the crowd slowly meanders toward the harbormaster's office in the senior officers' wake.

Harsh needs very little prodding. As soon as the way is clear, he strides toward the junior officer. After the last few days of labor, he's dressed like a working man, but his officer's bearing is more apparent now. He raises his hand to catch the officer's attention and as soon as he has it:

"A good day to you, sir! A word, if you have a moment?"

It occurs to him somewhat belatedly that these men have absolutely no reason to help him; if they're not in the habit of lending a hand to the refugees from the Triangle, why should they make an exception for him, much less his men? Well. Fair. But having odds stacked against him has never stopped Harsh before. Don't ask, don't get.

"Certainly. Lt. Acorn, Royal Amber Navy, at your service. And you are?" Lt. Acorn is speaking passable Albic, but he's got an accent of some sort that Harsh can't place but seems somehow familiar to Harsh.

Aline is giving him the Golcondan equivalent of a thumbs up by way of encouragement.

Harsh gives her a small salute and a quick grin.

To Lt. Acorn (Acorn?) he says, "Commander Harsh Majumdar of the Golcondan Navy. A pleasure to meet you, and it would be even more of a pleasure if the name of Golconda means something to you." He lowers his voice slightly. "I'm told that the ships that fly your standard sail on strange waters."

"Oh, you're looking for Shadow transit," the Lieutentant answers, as if that term is normal. He sounds pleased, though. "Golconda's not a place I know, but there are others on board who might. How recently did you arrive, Commander Majumdar?" He only sort of mangles the name, and he's clearly trying to duplicate Harsh's pronunciation. "One of the Princes is aboard and he's looking for information about a recent incident that involved a force from out-Shadow."

Shadow transit. Harsh likes the phrase.

"My men and I arrived here yesterday -- no, the day before." He gives a quick and efficient precis of his adventures thus far: the mystery derelict Cotopaxi with a designation no one knows, the sudden current that swept them away from their ship, the storm, their rescue. "I saw no other vessels," he concludes, "but I managed to save a logbook and papers from the derelict, and would gladly show them to your Prince."

Acorn smiles at Harsh. He looks genuinely pleased. "You, sir, are exactly the man His Highness will want to speak to. Do you have the logbook and papers with you, or do you need to fetch them, and any other witnesses you might know how to find?"

Harsh's face lights up. "I've the papers here," he says, indicating the rucksack over his shoulder. "The rest of my men -- several of them are still at the lighthouse, and there are others most likely about here at the docks."

"Of course. I'll need to stay here, but please find your people and return as soon as you can. We'll be holding the boat for you." Lt. Acorn's pleasure in finding the people he was apparently sent here to find is undeniable.

Aline looks delightedly at Harsh and Acorn while this conversation is going on.

"I'll gather them as quickly as I can," he says. "Thank you, Lieutenant." He gives a formal salute and goes back to Aline.

"I need to gather my men. As many as we can find," he says. "Can you help?"

He gives her the names of those who are likely to be about the docks, and makes haste to the lighthouse to gather the others.

Aline hastens off to fetch the people Harsh has named, meeting Harsh and his share of his colleagues back at the dock where the Amber lieutenant is waiting.

After a great deal of scrambling, most of the men have been accounted for. Only Nadif and Billal are missing -- Harsh is annoyed, even grieved to discover that they've already sailed with an American ship that left a scant few hours ago. He leaves a message for them with MacAlpin at the lighthouse, in the event they make their way back here as they'd originally planned.

The Lieutenant takes note of all the Golcondans. "I have instructions to return you directly to the Queen Vialle," he tells Harsh. He gestures them all into the captain's gig, or maybe the Prince's. "Will you be joining us as well?" Acorn asks Aline.

"Oh, no, sir, but my grandfather served with your Navy and ended here, so I've got a story to tell him. And Harsh needed my help." She grins at Harsh.

"Then let me send this along with my compliments to your grandfather, one Navy man to another." Acorn pulls a sheathed dagger from his boot. When Aline draws it, there's a unicorn design along the blade. "We lost a lot of men during the war, and time runs strange from realm to realm. If he wants to come home, such as home is, he can present that and we'll take him."

Before they go, Harsh gives Aline a warm handclasp. "Thank you. Perhaps we'll meet again someday."

"I hope so," Aline says. She's grinning even more widely now, like a child who’s been given a treat. "I want to hear the rest of your story."

The Amberites put their back into getting the gig out to the Queen Vialle. That is a very big ship. Even bigger as they get close to it. Also, to Harsh's eyes, somewhat old fashioned. (Harsh is from the mid-late 1800s, and this ship seems to him like maybe 1750s?)

Harsh can't help staring as they approach and come aboard. She's a beautiful ship, he thinks, and frankly more than a little intimidating. Still, the promise of answers and aid are powerful, and the Amberites seem like decent sorts.

They climb a ladder up onto the deck, where Harsh is escorted to what he guesses is the Prince's office, probably usually the Captain's when a royal isn't on board. The Prince looks like he might be Albic, or maybe American--blond, blue-eyed, prominent chin--but he speaks with an accent similar to Acorn's. He's dressed in what seems to Harsh to be, again, old-fashioned clothes, but they have exquisite detailing and fit and fabrics. He rises to great Harsh politely, and Harsh can tell he's got the gait of a man who's spent time on ships, and with a sword at his hip to boot.

Harsh sizes up the prince at a glance and offers him the most formal greeting—the full salute to a superior followed by the anjali mudra bow. "Your Royal Highness. My deepest thanks for taking my men and myself aboard your vessel."

He pauses briefly. Normally there'd be another traditional formula of praise and greeting for royalty, but that pause is just long enough that Martin can be forgiven for thinking Harsh has said enough.

Martin processes that and gives Harsh a precise neck-bow.

"I'm Martin of Amber and Rebma. I understand you slid through a shadow gate on the Cotopaxi and you have the logbook and some other materials from it. I think those are evidence of a skirmish I came here to look into. May I see them?"

He gestures to the desk where there's room to set paperwork out.

Ah. So the Amberites are just as direct as Albionese and Americans. Harsh suppresses a smirk and nods. "Of course, sir." He lays down his bag and takes out the papers, laying them out for Martin's perusal.

It's clear that he is very, very curious and hoping that Prince Martin will be forthcoming enough to tell him a bit more of the story behind the Cotopaxi.

Martin can read the language the logbook is written in, clearly. He runs his finger along some of the entries, and notes information from the front matter, looking what Harsh can only describe as satisfied. Martin looks up at Harsh and flashes a smile of very sharklike proportions. "Commander Majumdar," he says, "you've brought me something very useful. I am in your debt."

Before he can add anything further, the door opens and a whirlwind in the form of a child of about five or six years runs in. "Daddy, who came in from the shore?" she begins, and then looks at Harsh, gasping in happy surprise. "Who are you?" she asks. "I'm Lark!"

"Lark," Martin says, "This is Commander Majumdar, of the Golcondan Navy. He's not from Tortuga but landed here through a shadow-gate on a derelict. Commander, this is my daughter Lark." With a good look, Harsh can see the resemblance: her hair is a bit darker even with the effect of the sun, but she has the same long face as her father.

Something about Martin's tone clues the child in that this is a formal occasion. Harsh can see her posture straighten and she turns fully toward Harsh. "Welcome aboard the Queen Vialle, Commander Majumdar." She's got the name already, at least as her father pronounces it, which is--not perfect, but less of a butchering than they get in some of the Albic lands--and she clearly understands that even though she's in what must be play clothes suitable for climbing around on the deck and even helping with ship's chores, she is on duty as a royal.

Harsh smiles and offers the girl an anjali mudra greeting of her own, with a bow as deep as that given to her father. "A pleasure to meet you, Your Highness." To Martin, but also encompassing Lark as well in his address, he adds, "It is an honour to be of service in any capacity. It pleases me greatly to know that I have brought you something of worth, for I am in every other respect very poor of gifts right now."

Lark glances at her father and offers what Harsh recognizes as something like an Albic-style courtesy in response to the mudra. Martin gives a hairsbreadth single nod to her. "Lark, the Commander and I have grownup business to discuss. Perhaps you can talk to him later."

"Okay, Daddy." Lark smiles at Harsh. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Commander Majumdar." And, having been excused, she offers another courtesy and departs, closing the door firmly behind him.

Harsh bows in return, smiling as Lark goes. Clearly the Prince is doing well by her as a father.

"Thank you for your patience," Martin says to Harsh. Something seems to have clicked for him, for while his demeanor hasn't changed, his next words are, "Please do sit down. I have sent for refreshments and they should be here in a moment. And I hope you will consent to join us this evening for dinner; we have much to discuss."

"I would not wish to impose overmuch on your hospitality--" Harsh begins, and then remembers that Europans don't always get the ritual refusals that are automatic in Golcondan society, and while this is not a Europan ship, he has a hunch that similar rules apply. So he smoothly changes tack and continues with, "but I would be greatly honoured to dine with you, sir. Thank you."

He sits then, wincing a little; he's still a bit sore from the unaccustomed labour and trials of the last few days, and he is very grateful indeed for a chance to take a load off at last. He is also now acutely aware that he's quite scruffy; he's dressed more like a labourer than an officer, and his weatherstained uniform remains folded up in his rucksack, in desperate need of a steward's attentions. He hardly expects a bath, but he would not say no to a basin of clean water and a bar of soap before the evening meal.

"If I may ask-- I beg your pardon, but my curiosity has been consuming me, and now that I finally meet someone who might have the answers-- where was the Cotopaxi from? Did she sail from your world?"

"We're not quite sure where she came from yet, but she was in the service of a religious order called the Klybesians, which--" Martin frowns, in a way that suggests thought more than upset "--sometimes seems to think my family is saints or demigods and sometimes obstacles to be removed, or subjects of scientific study. None of which is good for us, or in the case of divinity, particularly true. One of my uncles and one of my cousins skirmished with the Cotopaxi in these waters, and she vanished. Unfortunately both my kinsmen had duties elsewhere and the followup fell to me."

Martin seems to have a sense of the information Harsh is really looking for, because he adds, "The Klybesians have some means of moving through Shadow, which generally seems to mean following existing paths like the one you seem to have fallen through from your homeland. There are many such natural paths and if you have rutters--guides--you can follow them. But after the recent war, which you may have experienced as a sort of black road or black sea lanes full of strange and terrible things--the natural paths rearranged themselves, so now there are new paths and slippages.

"One of the royal gifts that makes my family special is that we can forge our own paths," Martin finishes. He says this as though it's a normal and expected thing.

Harsh manages to keep his mouth shut through the explanation. He can see, at any rate, why Martin's family might arouse interest. People who can traverse across worlds—well, why wouldn't they be seen as something uncanny, holy, or something else? There are new words and concepts to process: Klybesian, Shadow.

There is, Harsh is beginning to realise, a very big picture here indeed, of which he's only ever experienced the tiniest fragment. It ought to scare him, he thinks, and no, it's not easy to get his head around it -- but he finds it more exhilarating than frightening. Introspection on that will have to wait, however.

"There was something like the black sea lanes, in my world, and in that of the woman who told me about your... your people. Her grandfather sailed in your navy," he says to Martin. "I didn't experience the worst of it first-hand, but I remember the storms, the tales of strange prodigies... we lost ships, and sailors who died in the disorder and others who saw that as a sign from Allah or Shiva that they needed to change their lives for the better."

"I'm sorry," Martin murmurs, low enough not to interrupt the flow of Harsh's words.

Harsh, for his part, acknowledges the sympathy with a pause and a nod of thanks.

And then, because his curiosity can no longer be contained: "How do you do it? This-- this 'shadow transit', as your man Acorn called it? Are there instruments, or-- or rituals? Can anyone learn how?"

Martin frowns thoughtfully. "There are ways to follow the existing paths that anyone can learn, especially with the rutters I mentioned to help them navigate. Just like whatever navigational charts and instruments--sextants, compasses, or if your homeland has the technology for it, computerized instrumentation--you're familiar with already. Forging the paths is the only part that's a royal gift. That's one of the things the Klybesians are interested in." He takes a few moments to consider the next bit. "I think they think we're hoarding some secret knowledge that they can find out about how to gain the gifts that we have. The answer is that we don't know why it's this way, though we have some clues, and that on top of the heritage you do have to pass a--call it a ritual test--and it kills people who aren't properly prepared even if they are of the right heritage. So it's not casual.

"Also, honestly, most of the time we don't worry much about the metaphysics, just about practical matters like money and trade and making sure our families are safe, just like everybody else." Martin shrugs.

Somewhat to Harsh's surprise, his first response is a small bark of laughter. He flushes and looks away, willing himself to get under control.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he says. "I mean no disrespect -- it's only that -- well, the idea of 'practical matters' crossed with that of traveling from one world to the next. The irony struck me as ... humourous. Again, I apologise."

He sighs. "You can understand, I'm sure, that in these last several days my entire world has been blown wide open, to where I can no longer see the borders of it. And now I am beginning to wonder what it is I'm to do with this knowledge. Of course I want to see my own men safely home, those who wish it, which is several of them -- but I'd be lying if I pretended I was ready to turn my back on this brave new world -- this multiplicity of worlds -- having just gotten a glimpse of it all."

"I cannot guarantee we'll get you back to your home--it would be easier if I'd been there, but unfortunately I don't know it. Though I'm willing to try, especially since there's a nearby gate," Martin says. "I can offer your men service on this vessel. I don't think we have a need for an officer of your caliber, but I do have another position I think suitable for a man of rank that might further your goals until we can find you a berth, if you're interested.

"I have two cousins, who, much like you, have found themselves stepping into a larger world. One of them, Rowen, was aware of Amber through her half-sister, who has now unfortunately died. Her mother is also dead and the brother we think is her father died in the war. I'm taking her back to meet the rest of the family. The other cousin, Alex, has no idea who his father is, comes from a somewhat different kind of world to this one, and is ready to explore. This is the first ocean voyage on a ship of this kind for either of them. They could use a tutor or companion or whatever you want to call it to teach them how to get along on a ship. You'll probably also end up with Lark, because she's in the middle of everything these days. Also she thinks Rowen is the most beautiful woman in the world right now." Martin quirks a smile at Harsh.

The cannot guarantee makes Harsh's spirits sink a little, but his interest is piqued by the rest of what Martin has to say.

"I'd very much like to meet these cousins of yours, and I would be honoured to assist them in any way necessary," Harsh replies. "It would be the very least I could do for the consideration you show to my men and to me. Not to mention that it gives me an additional reason to get to know your ship better -- a very fair vessel indeed. She's different to the baghlahs that my men know best, but they are quick learners and I've no doubt they will adapt swiftly."

"My uncle Gerard oversaw the design and building of this vessel," Martin says. "He was one of our Admirals before injury forced his retirement from sailing. I'm sure he will appreciate your kind words.

"I'm also sure you've had a hard few days since you were swept out of your home shadow. I'll arrange for a berth for you to refresh yourself and have a bath, and a change of clothes, and if you like you can rest until dinner. And you can speak to your crew while I'm arranging that for you and let them know what we've proposed. We're here for at least another day for supply, but after that I can try for your homeland."

"For all these things, Your Highness, my gratitude knows no bounds." He rises and bows deeply. "I'll speak to the men, and I shall look forward to meeting your cousins."

After the formalities of closing out the meeting, Harsh immediately goes to his men. They're sticking close together, though those more comfortable with Albic have begun cautiously chatting with the Amber sailors.

Harsh relates the entirety of his meeting with Martin. He doesn't soften Martin's caution that it might not be easy to navigate to Golconda, which is met with a mix of hope and trepidation. But all are willing to throw in their efforts to work on the Vialle until such time as home becomes a reality; already most of them are more comfortable there than they were on Tortuga. Harsh leaves everyone in much better spirits.

And then, finally: a chance to wash up, change clothes, and rest. After he's refreshed himself, Harsh lies down and thinks he'll just rest his eyes for a moment.

When someone comes to fetch him for dinner, they will find him snoring.