sunshine, and helping clean the wooden bowls after the serving of meals, he was really rather grateful to have such an exalted position as rudder monitor.
While there were officers, marines, pilots, oarsmen and so many other important positions on board, Ghassan’s most important duty to date appeared to have been sitting quietly out of the way and making sure that no lines or random flotsam became entangled with the rudder. A month ago, one of the militia’s ships had encountered just such a problem during an engagement with pirates and had been unable to manoeuvre. They had been lucky to escape with their lives, and now it was standard practice for one of the juniors to be set on permanent duty during any engagement watching for exactly that problem.
Ghassan clicked his tongue irritably as he glared malevolently at the rudder. The Wind of God, and he still had no satisfactory answer as to which God that was anyway, had so far, in his five months of service, tracked two pirate vessels and lost them in the open sea, apprehended a smuggler in a small trading ship, and driven off several unlicensed fishing vessels. And now that they finally were facing a Pelasian, he was at the back, in the dark, watching a plank of wood. Still, back here he was close enough to listen in on the conversation of the officers on the deck above.
“It’s a Pelasian, alright, and a military vessel to boot. We’re on a line for attack, captain, but you need to give the word.”
Ghassan, sitting in the shadows beneath, separated from the oarsmen further forward by wooden bulkheads, nodded vigorously to himself and willed the captain on.
“It’s a thorny problem, Sater” the captain replied.
In the silent darkness, Ghassan shook his head.
“These are contested waters. What we do here, Sater, will set a fairly important precedent. If we attack and the satrap of M’Dahz has his vessels in these waters with the full backing of his government, we could find that we’ve inadvertently started a war between Calphoris and Pelasia.”
Ghassan could almost hear the first officer nodding thoughtfully.
“But if he’s just testing the waters, captain, and we let him be, we’re more or less granting the Pelasians control of these waters. Can we afford not to act, sir?”
The captain made a grumbling sound and then shouted along the deck.
“What’s she doing?”
“Still coming on slowly, sir. She’s not picked up speed. I don’t think she’s in an attack position.”
“But she’s definitely a military vessel?” the captain replied.
“Yes sir. New, too. Didn’t think this satrap had such big, new ships.”
Ghassan frowned and listened on.
“Sater, I need your honest opinion”, the captain said flatly. “Our lives and careers might all ride on the next few minutes.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Ghassan glared angrily at the rudder as though it were trying to ruin his life. How could they not see? Did they not know the Pelasians?
Before he even realised what he was doing, Ghassan was on his feet, the perils of clogged and tangled rudders entirely forgotten. As he passed the doorway between the bulkheads, he entered the main rowing section of the ship.
Powered by both sail and oars depending on requirements, these ‘daram’ vessels as they were known in the south, were the standard military ship of the old Empire. Equipped with a ram, three banks of oars, three sails, a housing at the rear for all senior command functions and a tower amidships armed with ranged weapons, they were the perfect military vessel. The problem was that, over the centuries since their innovative appearance, the style had been copied and converted for their own use by the Pelasians and private fleets. Indeed, many pirates used daram they had captured.
The oarsmen turned to stare as this young man strode insolently past them, though they never once faltered from their professional rhythm. Along the length of the hull, below decks, the first two ranks of oarsmen sat, the inner row several feet higher than the outer and interspaced so that the oars had plenty of room.
Without acknowledging any of their looks, Ghassan stormed past them and to the stairs that led up on deck.
As he climbed towards the daylight, Ghassan swallowed nervously. He wasn’t absolutely sure what he was doing, but someone had to do something and nobody else seemed to want to act. Still, it was a dangerous choice. To leave his post was to invite a flogging alone for, though still underage for active service, he was still paid by the militia and had taken the oath. To approach the captain and speak out of turn? Well, if he was unlucky, he might find himself in an hour or so bobbing around in the middle of the wide sea with nothing but a plank to call friend.
As he reached the deck, he turned for a moment and glanced over his shoulder. The Pelasian ship was heading straight for them and he knew; couldn’t say why or how, but he knew with absolute certainty that if they didn’t act fast, the Pelasians would be on them.
“Captain!”
He now began to run along the deck. The top row of oarsmen in the open air stared at him in surprise. The upper deck rank would only join the beat and dip oar to water when full speed was called for.
Now, some of the junior officers were stepping to intercept him. He could see the marines standing in position. They were formed up but clearly not ready for action, their weapons sheathed. The captain and first officer turned to look at him as he ran toward them. He managed to get within almost ten feet before the crew grabbed him and pulled his arms round behind his back.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, boy?”
The speaker was a marine officer, the commander of a boarding party by the emblem on his upper arm; Ghassan had a good memory for insignia.
“With respect, sir, I must speak to the captain.”
The man grinned condescendingly.
“Oh you must, must you?”
“What is the meaning of this?” bellowed Sater, the first officer, as he approached the fracas.
“Urchin from below says he must speak to the captain, sir.”
Sater looked Ghassan up and down. The first officer had a good reputation among the men and Ghassan bowed his head respectfully.
“Talk to me, boy.”
Ghassan nodded. This was more than he could hope for.
“Sir, I don’t know how to explain this, but you’ve got to attack.”
The various men holding him laughed though, Ghassan noted with a small amount of relief, Sater did not.
“And why does a rudder monitor sitting in the dark, barely old enough to shave, believe he has reason and right to dictate command policy?”
The comment sounded condescending, and yet there was something about the way the first officer looked at him that suggested it was a truer question than the others knew. Moreover, Ghassan had presumed a boy like him was basically invisible to the senior crew, and yet Sater had known his job.
“Respectfully, sir, I’m from M’Dahz. I’ve met the satrap Ma’ahd, stood with our militia against him. I know how he thinks and what he’s capable of.”
“Go on…”
Imperceptibly, the officers’ grip on his arms loosened enough to prevent the discomfort he had been feeling.
“Sir, Ma’ahd didn’t have ships before the invasion and the only coastline he controls is M’Dahz. It’s common knowledge that M’Dahz has been abandoned; nobody raised an eyebrow when he invaded us, and there’s virtually no trade traffic at the port these days, so he has no real need to defend his territory. Besides, sir, these waters don’t even belong to M’Dahz.”
He swallowed.
“Also, Ma’ahd is not popular with the Pelasian God-King. He had to send offerings to mollify him after invading M’Dahz, so it’s very unlikely this incursion is supported by the Pelasian government. Then there’s the fact that this is a brand new ship. That means, since Ma’ahd has no other coastline, that he’s set up a military shipyard in
