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| Details |
| Author: | inkie |
| Summary: | Shine meets up with Admiral Fallon for a drink and some discussion of current events. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Shine was waiting for the boat, and when it ground on the sand he went down to help drag it up onto the beach as its occupants spilled over the sides. Fallon was in his shirtsleeves rather than uniform, and he nodded curtly at Shine without a word.
So that was going to be the mood, then.
Once the boat was secured, Keating and Markham stepped aside to shake his hand and have a genial word as the others filed up the hill for Paw’don. But Fallon sat himself down on the boat’s gunwale, his arms folded, and waited, so neither sailor lingered. Shine remembered the feeling of that black gaze between his shoulderblades — back when he’d called Fallon Captain himself — when the man was displeased, and didn’t grudge either seaman his hasty exit.
When they’d gone, Fallon got to his feet again and ambled over: deceptively casual, but Shine could read the storm in him.
“Atley’s been to see you, then?” he asked.
Fallon smiled sourly. “What makes ye think it?”
“I’d say ye look in a mood for murder, but that’s a sunnier mood than this.”
That earned a brief, sharp laugh. “Aye, the man came to see me.” Fallon started uphill toward the village and Shine went with him. “So it’s hold the harbor site or build the harbor, but I can’t do both at once and I can’t do the one without the other. And we’ve lost four marines when we can ill afford to lose one.” He glanced over. “Two we can do a sea memorial for. The other two were mainlanders. I might call on Miss Herald for them.”
Shine nodded equably and put his hands in his pockets. “You’ll be moving Blanche to Krasarang, I take it?”
“Aye,” said Fallon. “Foyle’s in a bad situation there on his own. Swift hasn’t got the guns or the manpower to secure that shore.”
“Have ye been to see the ship we found?” Shine asked. “South of the islands there?”
Fallon shook his head. “Not myself. Baird and Farleigh went out to take stock of the guns. I’ll be sending Skylarke to transport them. Can use ‘em to set up a battery in defense of the harbor cove. Then all I have to do is somehow conjure up people enough to keep it manned.”
“Ye don’t want the guns for the Blanche?”
Fallon snorted. “The Lady Blanche throws a broadside weight of 900 pounds and a pistol-range carronade broadside of 448. I’m not worried about her guns. Until we’ve got the battery in place, I can lie a mile offshore and keep the beach under fire as necessary. But then it’s a question of ammunition rather than manpower. Can’t keep lads rowing back and forth to scavenge shot. A shore battery would have an easier time wi’that.”
He reflected for a moment. “I should let Larke keep a few of those guns. Tidewitch has room for more. I can take a half-dozen long guns for the battery, plus all the carronades.”
“Pandaren can probably manufacture new shot to specification,” Shine observed. “Don’t know how that ghost iron of theirs fires, though.”
Fallon shrugged. “Won’t know until we know. Have to test it. Wi’ one of those pirate guns, first. Not chancing my own until we’re sure of the metal.”
When they’d entered the orchard from the beach there had been a sly rustle in the grass beneath the trees, and then a trailing ripple like a wake through the tall grass. As they came up into the village now, the grass parted and Bun slipped out onto the cobbles to waddle soundlessly at Shine’s heel.
Fallon glanced down. “Ye still have that thing?”
“Bun,” said Shine. “He’s called Bun. He’s a good lad.”
“Tides a’mighty, just get a child,” Fallon said irritably.
Shine turned his head. “How long are ye willing to spare your fleet warlock?”
“Never mind,” said Fallon. “Keep the thing. I like the thing. Bun? Good Bun.”
Keating and Markham and the others had gathered around the cook-stall at the edge of the market outside the inn. “Join them?” Shine asked.
Fallon shook his head. “I want a bloody drink. What’s that stuff they’ve got that I like?”
“Barley tea?” Shine suggested straight-faced.
That earned him another black-murder look.
“Rice wine,” he relented. “But ye’ll have something to eat with it.”
When they were settled in a twilit corner of the inn with a clay bottle of rice wine and a bowl of dumplings between them, Shine said, “When will ye sail? To Krasarang.”
“Day after tomorrow.” Fallon grimaced. “I think I’m going to have to send to Stormwind for more manpower. If we can sort out how to get them here with pandaren permission.”
“More Cobalts,” Shine suggested. “Cobalt’s welcome.”
“Maybe.” Fallon put his elbows on the table. “Maybe the 7th.”
Shine stared at him. “I don’t think ye can summon the 7th Legion at your beck and call, man.”
“Well not the whole of ‘em,” Fallon said dryly. “And it wouldn’t be my beck and call. I’ll ask Jes-Tereth. Maybe just an expeditionary unit. Your wife could summon ‘em, circumvent the portal altogether.”
“First of all,” Shine observed, “circumventing the portal is the kind of thing that strains diplomatic relations, and you’re meant to be mending those. Second of all, ye couldn’t be more transparent if ye were made of glass. I realize you’ve been apart from your lady wife for four months — an eternity, ye poor bastard — but ye cannot strategize your war or threaten Pandarian diplomacy with the sole aim of dragging Tyrrell out here.”
Fallon gave him the black-eyed look again. “What d’ye think of me, man?”
“Exactly what ye deserve,” Shine told him dryly.
Fallon snorted and sat back, but when he took another sip of his drink he was smiling into the cup. “Well we’ll need someone else out here. Situation’s deteriorating. The Prince looked well? At the Crane Temple?”
“Aye, well enough.”
“I’m minded to send some people to collect him,” Fallon said. “With Sunwalkers in that jungle and now Hellscream’s people moving on the coast, I can’t think the lad’s as safe as he believes. He can stay wi’the fleet if he won’t leave Pandaria, but he needs to be kept secure.”
“I wish ye joy in trying to catch him.”
Fallon tilted a brow. “Ye don’t mean to tell me ye think the navy no more competent than SI:7?”
“I think it would be imprudent of me to answer that question,” Shine said, and then laughed at Fallon’s expression. “I think certain factions of the navy are well more competent. That doesn’t make ye competent enough. The lad’s a gentle soul but he’s every bit as crafty as his father.”
“His father? His Majesty’s not crafty. He’s many admirable things but I’d not put crafty near the head of that list.”
“Well, then the lad’s craftier than his father.” Shine shrugged. “But unless ye propose to arrest His Highness and cart him aboard in irons, or you’re yearning to be mind-controlled, I expect it’s a losing proposition. Better off just assuring he’s got a congenial bodyguard.”
“I should check with Tennerow,” Fallon mused. “See what the status of his people is. Can’t speak for his whole team but I know Dinnsfield and Elle wouldn’t let an orc within a cable-length of His Highness.” He paused and a certain familiar look passed over him.
“Tides ha’mercy,” said Shine. “Ye just remembered Hartrim’s out here, didn’t ye?”
“I won’t sit here and listen to ye impugn my character,” Fallon said, and picked up the bottle to offer Shine another pour.