Flisk expected a gabble of fear, questions, demands; an onslaught he did not know how to answer. But the crowd was silent. People stared at him, trusting him to know how to defend the bay now. Relying on him to tell them.

The first voice he heard was Magister Brighten’s. She stood apart from the crowd, peering down at the damaged terraces and swearing with soft fury. “You pile of droppings. You coward.” After a moment, the Captain realized that she was cursing Magister Lambent. “Did you have to die? Were you too afraid to go on living? That is the most abject, pitiful, arrogant—”

She herself had tried to keep fighting. Her guards had forced her away. Perhaps Lambent’s example had shamed her.

Flisk tried to swallow the residue of gunpowder, blood, and lightning that scorched his throat. When he found his voice, he croaked to the riflemen, “Who can give me a tally?”

One of the under-officers stepped forward. “It is not as bad as we feared, Captain. Still, it is bad. We have lost two Magisters. Five guns are gone, and five gun-crews.” Hells, twenty men. Twenty trained, irreplaceable cannoneers. “And five of our comrades.

“If Commander Forguile is not too badly hurt—” The man’s voice trailed away. He may have meant, The Commander will know what to do.

While Flisk fumbled for a reply, a hoarse call from the road snatched the attention of the crowd away.

Supported by two soldiers, with three more behind him, Ennis Forguile emerged from the bay.

In the east, the moon was rising, adding its pale silver to the argent ravaging the waters. It made the Commander’s face and movements visible against the background of the enemy’s barrage.

He had a bleeding gash over one ear, clots of snow and ash like contusions on his legs. He shifted his feet like a man who had endured a severe beating. With his right arm, he clutched his left side.

“That was exciting,” he panted. Pain twisted his grin. “We did well, I think. But I may be hurt.”

Roughly, Heren Flisk pushed his way through the crowd to meet the Commander. In his relief, he came close to flinging his arms around his friend. But Forguile’s gaze warned him away.

“What is it?” he demanded unsteadily. “Hurt how?”

Forguile grimaced. “My ribs. They must be broken. I can feel bone.” In a hoarse croak, he added, “Give me an hour. Then I will take teams to the medium cannon.”

Heren Flisk shook his head. “No.” His friend’s presence made him stronger. Even Forguile’s wounds had that effect. “Give me an hour. Then I will man those guns. You will go to the infirmary. You are bleeding, Ennis. Your ribs must be bound.”

As if he outranked the Commander, Flisk told the soldiers nearby, “Take him. Watch him. Do not let him leave until the physicians release him.”