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A once-shining cuirass lay discarded on the floor of the captain’s quarters, now stained with blood and pierced through by shrapnel. The Imperial insignia engraved upon it, only just visible in the room’s dim light, was the only sign that these quarters housed anything more than the ship’s commanding officer. The room’s appointments were limited to a cramped desk, a locker and chest along one wall, and the tousled bed on which Princess Aria Cantion lay, bathed in perspiration as she tried in vain to sleep.

Kodiak bucked at her berth, buffeted by the last vestiges of the heavy storm that had raked the area. Lashed with rain and pummeled by a ferocious gale, she and the other ships of the squadron had tested the limits of their mooring ropes for hours at the mercy of the typhoon. This was just one of the reasons Aria had never liked low altitude harbors. Not only did the pitching motion of the ship leave her stomach heaving, but she had to bear in mind the reality that any attack on the harbor would catch her squadron at a severe disadvantage.

Now, as the storm died down at last, she tried to push both concerns from her mind. She tugged at the cool, wet cloth on her forehead, pulling it down to cover her eyes as well so that she could nap. It was not to be.

“Yes?” she barked in answer to a knock at her door, but the response was too soft to hear. She sighed, pushing herself upright in bed. Doubting her ability to stand and dress without vomiting, she wiped her face and neck with the rag and covered her bare legs with the sheets. With a final glance at her side to see that no blood had seeped through the bandage to stain her undershirt, she ordered, “Enter.”

The door slid open and a petty officer stepped inside, a wireless dispatch clutched tight in his hand. He opened his mouth to deliver the message but then, catching sight of her, averted his eyes and turned away. Aria breathed a silent sigh out of sheer annoyance as his face turned red.

“What is it, Ensign Patrick?”

His clean-shaven jaw, wavy red hair, and the frightened look on his face were all unmistakable: this was the junior officer she’d appointed flag captain during the battle a week ago. That she had placed such an awesome responsibility on such an inexperienced officer had become something of a joke in the time since. Not that anyone dared to laugh.

“The Admiralty has asked you to meet with their representative here in port,” he said quickly, still staring steadfastly at the wall instead of looking at her. “An Ambassador Leery. He sent ahead to inform you that he would try to be here by three o’clock this afternoon.”

She closed her eyes, her head pounding now. What the hell do they want? No. She wouldn’t let him see the ship—or her—in this state. “Send him a reply,” she said, keeping her weariness out of her voice. “Tell him we won’t be meeting on board Kodiak.”

“Where, then, sir?” he asked, keeping carefully to Navy regulations regarding the proper address of an officer.

Aria reached for her watch on the chest beside her bed and grimaced as she saw the time. Then she smiled.

“On second thought, don’t send him a reply. Have him stopped at the gate of the pier and inform him there that we’ll be meeting at the Tarleton Hotel, in the city—at six o’clock.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Ensign Patrick immediately. Then he hesitated. Some of the fear had left his face as he turned to look on her at last, his embarrassment fading. “Why me?”

The admiral glared at him for a moment, her gaze darkening. But she relented. “If you weren’t certain you already knew the answer to that,” she said softly, “you would never have dared to ask.” Aria lay down once more, settling back against the pillow. “Now, I don’t care what that bastard tells you. Don’t let him anywhere near this ship. You’re dismissed.”

Some three hours later, Aria waited in a rented suite at the Tarleton. Her hair brushed and shining, braided and plaited with care, and a new dress—a sheath of brilliant black silk—shimmered, caressing her form as she moved. The room, brightly lit by chandeliers laden with flaring bulbs, was home to several masterpieces, unrivalled works of art collected over the course of the last two centuries, and she turned her appraising eye on these as she swayed to the soothing tones of a string quartet assembled in one corner. Softly, the bells of a clock tolled six times.

The musicians retreated hastily as the ambassador was led in. Aria paid no attention to his arrival; her eyes, instead, were on a painting of Glorious—one of the Imperial fleet’s great flagships—painted black across the sun as she emerged from a storm on a grassy plain. “Mr. Leery,” she greeted him with her back still turned. “I think the artist here was close, but there’s something missing. Can you see what it might be?”

Already insulted by her failure to take notice of him, Leery’s words stumbled out of his mouth as he tried not to show offense at her failure to refer to him by his proper title. “Lady Aria,” he said, starting over when he had got better control of his tongue. She raised one gloved finger to cut him off.

“It’s fear, Ambassador,” she said, turning away from the painting at last to look upon her visitor. “This painting inspires many feelings. Awe, hope, relief… But not fear. One who beheld such a sight could not help being filled with primal dread—the sort of thing that turns blood to ice and strong men to cowards. There is none of that in the painting.”

Leery looked doubtful, but hid that behind an offer: “Perhaps milady would care to sit down? I was informed that a meal had been prepared for us.”

At that moment, servants bearing the first courses entered and the ambassador rushed to pull out her chair and help her to be seated. She smiled politely, thanking him and noting with satisfaction the grimace he had to conceal at her smile. The two passed the meal in silence and at last, as a bottle of old wine was brought out, Aria spoke once more.

“How were you coached, Mr. Leery, when you were informed that you would have to meet with the Countess of Fire?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Lady Aria.”

She smiled and he blinked furiously for a moment. “Oh, but you do. You were told, first of all, to deny all my requests for proper repairs and for rearmament. You were told not to answer any questions nor reveal any of what you know. And you were told—at all costs—to somehow stay in my good graces.” She paused for effect, and to watch him sweat. “Most importantly, you were told to be on your guard if I smiled.”

The ambassador’s voice was unsteady as he made a reply at last. “I had held out some hope that you came to be called the Countess of Fire for your holdings in Iceland, but I see now that is not the case.”

“It is not. Aria Cantion—the Lady of Havoc, the Blood Maiden, Goddess of Thunder… The things you’ve heard at court and the names my opponents give me in whispers are all quite accurate.”

Leery let his eyes slip from hers to his wine glass. Aria guessed, because he did not take a drink, that he feared his hands were too unsteady. “How did you know,” he asked, “that you would be denied repairs?”

“To take my entire squadron in to be refitted after what should have been a minor battle would look terrible in the press,” she answered. “Besides, if the Admiralty were planning to have my ships properly repaired, I would have been en route already. Moreover, Kodiak’s guns are well beyond their useful lifespan. She should be en route to Columbia already, to have them replaced. She isn’t. Why not, Ambassador?”

He closed his eyes and scratched at his white mustache, a visible tremble in his hand. His tone was soft, almost pleading. “You understand, Lady Aria, that I can no more have your ships repaired than I can dry the sea. Having spoken with you, I am only certain that you know far more than I about the matter. I was instructed to ask you to return to Appalachia at your best speed and make contact with the Admiralty there. That is all I can offer, milady.”

Aria’s eyes flashed, partly in anger and, in part, because the ache in her side grew more intense as she wearied. At first, she had marveled at how deep the surgeon’s knife had cut without killing her; of late, she had begun to wonder if he may have killed her after all. “I believe you,” she muttered. “But I also believe you’ve been asked to lead me to my own betrayal.”

The ambassador’s face hardened at this accusation. He chose his next words carefully. “Why,” he asked suddenly, “was I warned to fear your smile, Lady?”

The Countess of Fire grinned at this. A soft laugh broke through—and with that, the feeling of a spike piercing her side bore her up on the euphoria of pain and she threw her head back and laughed, loud and long, her voice filling the room with its macabre dance. At last, eyes wet with tears of laughter, she asked, “Have you not heard of my father?”

The man looked visibly shaken. “There was one last thing. The Admiralty asks you to remember the Bulwark Fields. They would not say what that meant.”

Aria kept laughing as he beat his retreat, even as she felt blood wetting her side once more.