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his reflection in
the mirror above his glassware. His face was fatter than when he
had left. It wasn’t age, but boredom. He turned away in disgust.
Crossing the room again moved toward his cabin’s window, which
looked out over the Novostos.
    These days drink was sating his depression,
but he found his anger required more and more to stay muted. He
raised his glass and drank deep, closing his eyes, he saw an even
red as the light reflecting off the water outside bathed over him.
The Spires had its knee on Rikonen’s throat but his superiors
wouldn’t allow him to put the city out of its misery. Slowly
choking Rikonen to death was draining him of his resolve.
    There was a knock on his door. Before he
could respond, Baxter, his valet, entered, “Sir, Commander Moxley
is here. He claims it’s urgent.” Lesur didn’t turn around or
respond. Baxter nodded and disappeared for a moment into the dark
the hall.
    There was a rattling as Moxley entered,
“Admiral.” He stood at attention but Lesur carried on ignoring him.
He finished his drink, and then held the glass out to his side.
Moxley was becoming uncomfortable, toying with the idea of speaking
when Lesur wiggled his glass. Moxley came forward gingerly taking
the glass and stepping back. He hesitated, wondering if he should
set the glass down or refill it. Lesur betrayed nothing as he gazed
out the window.
    “Sir, if I may…” Moxley stuttered. He held
the glass like it was a foreign object. “Shall I get you…?” He
muttered.
    “You’re not from Ardavass are you Moxley?”
Lesur said evenly.
    “Yes sir,” Moxley spoke slowly, “I mean, no,
I am not. My family seat is in Bandra. But I have lived in the
Spires since I was a boy.”
    “Bandra,” Lesur scoffed, “The only city more
zealous than Sulecin.”
    Moxley said nothing as Lesur turned
slightly, “Are you some religious nut? One of those Bandran
puritans with the gold fetish.” Contempt filled his voice, but it
was clear he was merely using Moxley to entertain himself.
    “Admiral, we have spotted something that
demands your attention.”
    Lesur flicked his wrist at Moxley, pointing
wildly at the bar cabinet. Moxley didn’t understand at first but
them realized. He poured a finger into the glass from the open
carafe and brought it to Lesur, who scrunched up his face in
disappointment when he saw how little was in the glass.
    “Go on then…”
    “Sir, we have discovered an approaching
fleet of ships.”
    “Is there any other kind of fleet,
Moxley?”
    “What? Well, no, but…” Moxley shook head.
“The point being Admiral that this fleet is not ours. It is not
Silvincian.”
    Lesur raised an eyebrow, “Merchants
then?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Essians?”
    “Absolutely not.” Moxley was adamant.
    “So then…” Lesur twirled his fingers at the
Commander.
    “We are unsure.”
    “Well, that’s helpful.” Lesur turned and
moved closer to the window. He peered through the glass, gazing
this time with purpose. On the horizon was a thick black blob. He
couldn’t focus his eyes well enough to make out the ships, “Now
that’s queer.”
    “Would you like to view it better, sir?”
Moxley stepped forward holding out a spyglass to him. Lesur
snatched it away from him, flicked it out, and raised it to his
eye.
    “A fleet of what? Warships? Transports? A
sea caravan?” Lesur asked as he focused the monocular. The fleet
filled the iris, huge black vessels next to which sailed
dreadnoughts, frigates, and galleons.
    “Yes, I believe so.” Moxley said flatly.
    “Lappala.”
    “Sorry, sir?”
    “There are Lappalan junks out there, the
pennants are of the cartel.”
    “How do you…”
    “I’m a damn admiral.” Lesur snapped, turning
on his heel, thrusting the spyglass into Moxley’s chest, brusquely
brushing him aside. He made his way through the narrow hall to a
stairway. What drunkenness he had been allowing himself to wallow
in was quickly dissipating. He flung open the doors at the