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Colossus , bending and bowing the boarding ramp until it looked like the thing would crack into flinders. Wintermourn’s officers fell back at their approach, but the machines ignored them, splitting off to stand two to a side, forming two columns leading away from the airship. In all, Admiral Wintermourn counted twenty of the mechanical, inhuman things.
    A man appeared atop the ramp, hands folded behind him. He was young and handsome in a richly cut uniform of red, black, and gold. The boots he wore were so well polished that they gleamed in the light of the shipboard lanterns. A blade was sheathed at his hip, a longsword in the old style. Admiral Wintermourn had never met the youth but recognized him immediately: Crown Prince Gwydion, whose image was pressed into every silver sovereign minted in the Kingdom.
    The prince descended to the deck, followed by three others. Two were servants, who split away to join the guards, while the third was a bearded fellow in something almost like proper naval uniform. He followed the Crown Prince Gwydion as the prince strode down between the mechanical knights, his cold grey eyes focused intently upon Wintermourn’s own. He stopped before the admiral, just far away enough for propriety’s sake.
    Admiral Wintermourn felt suddenly wary. Wolf’s eyes, cold and grey. Such a thing was rare in the Kingdom. He bent down to one knee. All about the deck came the rustle of uniforms as his officers and crew followed suit. “My liege,” he said.
    The prince abruptly laughed. His voice was rich and mellifluous, clearly used to easy jesting. “A hundred-gun salute? That’s a bit obvious, isn’t it? Though the pirates are apparently deaf and blind both not to notice us so far.” He reached down and grabbed Wintermourn’s hand, yanking him up. The admiral spluttered; such contact was entirely improper.
    “On your feet, on your feet. Enough groveling like some damned peasant who thinks the sun shines out my arse. So! You must be Wintermourn. Lord High Admiral of the Sea, commanding this fine fleet of my royal father’s, yes?”
    Wintermourn stood, feeling moderately affronted at the contact. The youth lacked a sense of propriety, that was readily apparent. Who does this young pup— he checked himself. This young pup would be his king one day. “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” he said. “The assembled entirety of the navy is here, every ship capable of fighting and not needed at Arquam Bay. Force enough to smash whatever defense the pirates can muster and burn them out of these islands entire. We’ve been ready and waiting for battle all day.”
    “Excellent!” said Gwydion. He clapped his hands together. “My royal father will be pleased. And this will be a perfect test for the Glory, commanded by Captain Broadlow here, the first officer in our new aerial corps.”
    Gwydion gestured to the man behind him, who gave a polite nod. “Admiral,” said Broadlow.
    Wintermourn only narrowed his eyes at the man. He felt the instant disdain all navy personnel possessed for other branches of service.
    “And,” continued the crown prince, “this will be an excellent opportunity to try out these Brass Paladins.”
    The admiral paused. His dispatches had mentioned the prince’s arrival in an experimental airship. But nothing had been said of the armored machines. “Pray you, sir, what are these...devices?”
    The crown prince turned to face the nearest one. “The Paladins? Why, I’m glad you asked! These are the stout and redoubtable wave of the future. I’ve a small platoon of marines back aboard the Glory, but these are Perinault’s newest soldiers. My father may have his Order Gallant, but here I have my Brass Paladins, redesigned from the horses of Triskelion and improved by our guest back at the palace. With my own modest input, of course.”
    Crown Prince Gwydion reached out and slapped the nearest automaton on the back. At that moment a wave shifted the deck of the Colossus. The