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before the battle had even begun.
    The crown prince waved nonchalantly. “Bah. I’ve seen designs that will make that fellow obsolete in two years’ time. The Paladins will do the same for your Bluecoats—and my royal guard, even.”
    One of the guards flanking Gwydion stared at him in dismay.
    “The Paladin was merely reacting to perceived hostility,” continued the prince. “They are meant to be soldiers, after all. These are simply early days yet for them.” He turned and gestured to the airship docked beside the Colossus . “The future is coming, my good admiral. These silly sky pirates have had one thing right all these years. Look you there. The Glory of Perinault , first of her kind. She’s an amazing craft, Admiral. Simply amazing. Don’t you agree?”
    “It is certainly impressive,” agreed Wintermourn with a hesitant nod—this talk of replacing men with machines did not sit well with him. “And the tactical advantages are immediately apparent—advanced intelligence for fleet engagements, increased courier speed. I’m sure that there are some civilian applications to which it could be applied as well.”
    Crown Prince Gwydion turned back to stare at him. Then he elbowed Captain Broadlow in the ribs and laughed aloud. “My dear admiral, would you have the Glory be no more than some overinflated crow’s nest? No, no, no. She’s a warship . Why slug things out on the open seas when you can rain destruction down from above? Thanks to our new guest back at the palace, we’ll soon have a whole fleet of such vessels, some even with their own weaponry aboard, though that’s a bit of a problem at the moment. Think of it, though—the whole of the Perinese Royal Navy replaced in only five years’ time!”
    Admiral Wintermourn stared. Realms Below, he cannot be serious...can he? A dozen rebuttals crashed together on his tongue.
    “Poppycock,” he replied finally, puffing up in spite of himself. “The Royal Navy has guarded the shores of the Kingdom for three hundred years. We’ve proven ourselves better and more able than any other branch, and our traditions have stood against all adversity. Victory is wrought with the blood of sailors, many sailors, and a broadside of a hundred guns. Not clockwork. These new toys may prove useful, but they will not change how things are and have always been.”
    He froze as he realized his unforgiveable breach in protocol. But the crown prince only laughed. “Well said! But oh, my dear admiral, just wait until you see her in action.” Gwydion turned again to face him, his eyes serious. “Now. Let us turn our talk to matters of more import.”
    “Of course, Your Highness,” Wintermourn replied, feeling relieved. The change in topic provided a timely escape from his gaffe. “Every active-duty ship to be spared is here at anchor, primed and ready to crush the pirates. We’d expected the action to begin today, but apparently, the curs have somehow missed our presence. Thus, the action will begin on the morrow, and when they come to meet us, we will be ready.”
    “Yes, yes. So you said. I do have ears, you know.” The prince shook his head. “But really, that hundred-gun salute you gave. Cease such foolishness in the future.”
    Wintermourn paused, uncertain. “I beg your pardon?”
    Gwydion clapped his hands together and gestured out at the deck. “Well, it’s loud, isn’t it? Anyone paying any attention at all ought to have heard it. Certainly, a fleet of warships at anchor isn’t exactly inconspicuous, but by some miracle we’ve gone unnoticed until now. We really should take whatever measures we can to keep that advantage.”
    Wintermourn blinked in confusion. “Your Royal Highness. The salute is a tradition going back more than a hundred years. You are our liege lord—of the blood royal. Who cares if a bunch of damned rogues finally notice their impending doom? We’ll smash them all the same and honor your house, as is only right and