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military discipline, but his hands, clenched behind his back throughout the lengthy explanation, were white with the ferocity of his grip. Huffington empathized—the ire of superiors could be taxing—but approved of the man’s sharp and forthright explanation. The admiral, on the other hand, was finding it hard to control his impatience; he repeatedly tugged on the hem of his waistcoat, and his jaw muscles clenched until Huffington thought he might hear teeth crack.
    “Merfolk!” The admiral’s face darkened even more.
    “Yes, sir. They swarmed her sides, sir. When she cut her cable and tried to make sail, she broached. They must have hooked a kedge into her hull.” The captain’s dispassionate tone quavered for just a moment, and Huffington knew he was reliving the horror of the Fire Drake’s struggle.
    “Go on,” the admiral ordered.
    “Yes, sir. The Clairissa was beating close under sweeps and tris’ls, coming to the Fire Drake’s aid, when the schooner sailed right between the two.”
    “You just said that the schooner was miles to the south.”
    “Yes, sir. She came up very quickly, faster than I’ve ever seen any ship sail. She made five sea miles in the time it took Clairissa to make half a mile to windward.”
    “The seamage,” the admiral muttered as he narrowed his eyes dangerously.
    “Yes, sir,” Veralyn continued. “Just before the schooner arrived, the wind shifted and took the Clairissa off course, so she doused all sails and proceeded under sweeps alone. I can only assume that the seamage was aboard the schooner and manipulated the winds to do this, since we were also making sail and had no such difficulty.”
    “You were making sail? Under whose orders?”
    “Commodore Twig’s, sir. He was directing the armada by signal from the Clairissa’s quarterdeck. That was when something very curious happened, sir. Something made a sound under the water, like a great clap of thunder. It shook our keel timber, sir, and the attack on the Fire Drake broke off.”
    “The mer retreated?”
    “Yes, sir. Then the schooner tacked, came about in a single ship-length, and we saw her name; she was the Orin’s Pride , the one said to have been working as a privateer along the Sand Coast.” The captain swallowed and continued without prompting. “The schooner had tacked once more, drawing a line between the two warships as clear as day, sir, when the attack on the Fire Drake resumed. The mer were dragging her under, and she didn’t have the men to repel them. The Clairissa was coming in under sweeps, and that was when the Orin’s Pride jibed. As her bow swept toward the flagship, she fired a single catapult at her, sir.”
    “So the schooner fired first.” The admiral’s fist cracked into his palm, his lips set in a grim line.
    “Yes, sir, and though it fell well short—a warning shot—it was quite impressive.”
    “The incendiary weapon we were told of? Distilled naphtha or flaming tar, I imagine.”
    “No, sir. Neither,” Veralyn said with a firm shake of his head. “A single cask, probably five gallons in size, but it was not aflame when it was fired. It exploded in the air, and sent a cascade of burning white streamers in all directions. They left trails of smoke as they fell, and, Admiral, you may not believe this, but they kept burning even after they hit the water! The lookouts atop our masts confirm that they could see them sinking and still burning!”
    “Magic!” The admiral spat the word as if it were a curse.
    “We thought so, too, sir. Then Commodore Twig fired a broadside of ballistae, raking the schooner good.” He looked down, then back up, obviously uncomfortable with what he had to say next.
    “Go on, Captain! Continue!”
    “The Clairissa jibed under sweeps, sir, and she was going to rake the schooner with another broadside, when…she exploded in flames, sir.”
    “Exploded?” Joslan’s eyes widened in disbelief, his jaw muscles suddenly slack. “No shot from