Ison of the Isles by Carolyn Ives Gilman Page B

occupied his share of captains’ quarters during his time in the Native Navy, but that had been in the Southern Squadron, a mean and stripped-down fighting force often thrown into the midst of battle. Nothing could have brought home to him how pampered the Northern Squadron had been in comparison like seeing how their captains lived.
    But it had not taken him long to detect the symbolism behind all the captain’s luxuries, and the indispensable role they played in enhancing authority among the Torna officers. And that was where his dilemma lay. He was trying to figure out what to wear for his triumphal return to Harbourdown. If he appeared in the spectacular Vice-Admiral’s uniform hanging before him, as he had every right to do, it would alienate the Adaina companions he had left behind less than a month before. All that official lace and plumery would say only one thing to them—Tiarch’s-man. It would look as if he had crossed over, become co-opted by the enemy.
    On the other hand, if he didn’t wear it, it would have an effect on the Torna officers of the three warships that comprised his little squadron. Despite his rock-solid Navy credentials, they regarded him with scepticism, still convinced he had been promoted over them solely for being Adaina. They followed him in obedience to Tiarch’s orders, but every second he was being appraised.
    So he left on the civilian trousers and white shirt he was wearing, and put on the uniform jacket over them, leaving off the waistcoat and stock, but keeping the crimson sash. He hesitated over the epaulettes, but kept them in the end to remind the Tornas of his rank. He pulled on the boots, but under his trousers. The hat was far too showy, out of the question, so he left it off. In the end he tipped the shaving mirror to try and survey whether he had produced the proper look of deliberate informality.
    There was a knock on the door, and Harg called, “Come in.” When he turned, Captain Jearl was standing there in full dress, every detail precisely according to regulation. When he saw Harg, he stepped in and closed the door.
    “Is that how you’re going to appear?” Jearl said, his voice noncommittal.
    Inwardly, Harg winced, but he said, “Trust me, Jearl, it’s necessary. You’ll understand when we get there.” He had to make it seem to Harbourdown like he was bringing in the three warships, not like they were bringing him in.
    Jearl said nothing, as usual. The thin, grey-haired officer had the useful gift of reticence. He thus avoided offending, but as a result Harg never knew quite where he stood. The man had been a commander under Tiarch for twelve years, and knew more of Inning naval tactics and training than anyone in the fleet. If he resented having an Adaina upstart put over him, he had never shown a flicker of it; but then, he had not shown much of anything but reserved courtesy.
    “Shall we go up on deck?” Harg said.
    “If you please, Admiral.” Jearl held the door open for him.
    The oddness of Harg’s position was the result of a week of hurried bargaining aboard Tiarch’s flagship, as her fleet had retreated from Tornabay. Considering that he had brought nothing to the table but the promise of Adaina alliance, he had come off surprisingly well. To give him the authority he wanted, she had appointed him one of two Vice-Admirals over her fleet, the other one being Joffrey. Harg’s promotion had supplanted dozens of Torna officers who had served her for decades, and she had given him the power to promote Adaina officers to any ships he was able to capture. Now all he had to do was persuade the Adaina that the deal was to their advantage as well as his.
    While they were bargaining, Tiarch had argued that, whatever his formal rank, his command ought to be limited to the ships already captured by the Adaina at Harbourdown. But then the news had come in about Holby Dorn.
    The messenger had arrived as he was sitting down to dine at Tiarch’s table along