In Which the Situation Becomes Serious

From the diary of Dulcie, Crown Princess of Bentlefay

We have had three more raids from Norhammer in the last week, and I have stopped sleeping again. The first one was just like … well, the first one: a patrol ship was attacked at dawn, though this time they were better prepared for it and there was no loss of life. The second was on a couple of fishing boats which managed to outrun them, although the fishermen came away with the firm impression that they were only “allowed” to do so rather than managing it on their own, and only then because their antagonists realized that they carried no weapons beyond a few gutting knives.

The third was the most potentially hair-raising, although it came with at least a touch of gratification: they hit our flagship, the Porteous, in broad daylight as it took the Admiral out to inspect the scene of the fishing boat attack. The Admiral writes that the Norhammers used the same fire-arrow trick as they had on the Vigilant, but since the Porteous was using special sails and retorted with fire arrows of their own, they were able to disable the sails of the enemy ship without suffering too much damage. They were not able to take it into custody, however, since it bristled out about twenty oars, if you please, and escaped out of range, so it hardly counts as a victory.

I ask you, what can one do with an enemy like that? They are forever one step ahead of us for all our preparedness, and seem to have an affinity for sea battles amounting to a magic power. It almost makes me believe that they were descended from mermaids after all, as their appalling legend holds.

Court life has become a ghastly simulacrum of reality since the whole thing began. All my study in military tactics has been for land battles, which renders me utterly useless in this situation, so I can’t even help. I try to sit in on all the councils, but my understanding grows only incrementally less dim, and since nobody has the time to stop and explain things to me, I am not much more than an unwieldy piece of furniture in the council room.

The receiving takes place in a bizarre state of siege, with half the courtiers having fled to their country houses and half the rest toting bodyguards about like lapdogs. More often than not I have been left to run it myself with Winnie and Lynde for support, since Father and Mother’s time is more efficiently spent on national defense. Suppers are glum and silent affairs, and the dancing would be better off cancelled for the duration, in my opinion, consisting as it does of one or two couples revolving valiantly in a sea of silent whisperers, accompanied by dirges from the musicians.

I am trying to keep up on my fighting lessons with Lynde, and would almost enjoy them if Lynde herself had not lately undergone a change in manner – constantly distracted, and going about her day without ever really being there at all. She oversees my lessons with the elaborate care of a children’s nurse, but from what Rafe has let drop I gather that her real practice with the men has not been so innocuous, and one or two men have been hurt.

I tried to confront her about it this afternoon, but I might as well have saved my breath for staying alive. I thought that coming back from my lesson would be a good time for it, since one is generally fairly relaxed in the aftermath of physical activity, and it would have the added benefit of astonishing her that I could talk at all, I hoped.

“You know, you may as well tell me what’s biting you,” I said as casually as I could. “Trouble shared is trouble halved, and who knows – I might even be able to help.”

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean, your majesty,” Lynde answered, and feigned sudden interest in the side of the path. “Look, is that the first crocus?”

“It’s a pebble, and you know it,” I said. “Come now, don’t try that trick with me. I can tell by now when there’s something wrong with you.”

She looked through me and out the other side, and then took what I consider to be a most unfair advantage.

“I think we can start running back to the castle instead of walking,” she went on. “It will help your conditioning.”

“But…” I began, and discovered I was talking to her back, which was receding rapidly into the distance.

So we ran, and as I was unable to formulate any more words for a considerable time afterwards, the discussion was closed.

Confronting people about things was all very well when I was younger and could exploit the perceived advantages of ingenuousness and charm, but I have noticed the technique working less well of late. I shall have to come up with another way to find out what is wrong with Lynde.