By temperament, Blade was a fighting man, a man of action. So he rapidly learned the underwater fighting techniques and the use of the breathing masks. Within two weeks his instructors were saying that he was handling his weapons and gear like a born Talgaran.

Unfortunately the delight in learning a new fighting skill didn't keep Blade completely occupied. He was painfully aware of the limits on what he could do.

For one thing, he couldn't lift a finger to get the Conciliators out of trouble. And they were still in trouble. Autocrat Krodrus himself made that perfectly clear in a brief talk with Blade.

«Passions run high in a city at war,» said the little man. «Even if the Conciliators had done nothing whatever and this was known to all, it would still be wise to keep them confined for a time. That way they will be safe until the attack is launched and people have other things to occupy their minds. And it will look as though they have been punished.»

«But they don't deserve any punishment, do they?»

The Autocrat shrugged. «It is not known. What is known is that some of our patrols were not where they should have been when the Fishmen launched their great attack. Stipors is certain that the Conciliators had something to do with this.»

«That's outrageous.»

«How can you be sure, Blade? Do you really know any of the Conciliators except Svera? She would not do such a thing, I admit. But I wish I could be sure about the others. And Stipors has much influence on the Council of Autocrats. Whatever I thought would make little difference. The Conciliators will be held and they will be questioned.»

«Torture?» Blade's mouth was dry.

Krodrus shrugged. «It is permitted by Laws of the Sea Cities laid down long before you or I were born, Blade. Do not spend useless effort trying to fight what cannot be fought. You will do more for yourself and for the Sea Cities by using all your skill and strength against the Fishmen.»

That was the other problem Blade faced. Everybody in Talgar seemed completely certain that the great attack was the best possible response to the Fishmen. Even such comparatively intelligent men as Krodrus seemed to take it for granted.

Blade's experience of war led him to doubt very much that the great attack would do much. Like the Spanish Armada, the fleet was too big, too clumsy, too slow, too large a target. It might very well meet the same fate as the Armada, leaving the Sea Cities defenseless.

But protesting would be useless. Worse, it might land him in fatal difficulties. He would do no good being thrown off the Conciliar Guard, still less good getting thrown in prison with the Conciliators. Perhaps he could find some other way of bringing these people to their senses.

But he still hadn't found one a month later, when the great fleet sailed to the attack.

Two hundred ships underway at once crammed the channel south of Talgar Island almost solid. A man could almost walk from the beach on the Island to the nearest reef on the other side of the channel across the decks of ships and boats.

This led to accidents. One large ship ran in too close to the reef and ripped out her bottom on the coral heads. But in the mild weather there was plenty of time to take off her crew and cargo. This accident bothered a few men, but most called it bad seamanship and some called it a luck sacrifice to the Silver Goddess.

Farther down the channel a fishing boat ran across the bows of the transport and was rammed and sunk. Again her crew managed to escape, but this time not all of them were picked up. Four men were missing, and none of the bodies was found. That made for some discontented muttering. Some men said that the Silver Goddess was getting greedy. A few openly called the second accident a bad omen. These men were flogged for spreading alarm, at Stipors' orders.

The whole fleet got clear of the channel without any further accidents and clapped on sail for the voyage to Fishman waters. These lay on the other side of four hundred miles of shallow seas. Although there were only a few well-charted patches of reefs in those four hundred miles, the water was nowhere more than five hundred feet deep. In fact, it was sometimes shallow enough that Blade could see the sand and coral on the bottom more than three hundred feet below. At those times it seemed that the whole enormous fleet was just a fleet of toy ships, pushed by a child across a glass tabletop.

Once in open water, the fleet moved into its cruising formation. The larger ships were massed in the center, with faster, lighter craft thrown out on either side and in a scouting line ten miles ahead. The scout ships each carried a contingent of the best divers of Talgar, ready to strike at any attractive Fishman targets they found. Nobody seemed concerned that the fleet itself made an incredibly juicy target for the Fishmen.

The first day and the first night passed without incident. The seas rolled blue-green under the fleet, giving no signs that any race such as the Fishmen even existed. Blade began to wonder if the optimists might not be right in saying that the fleet would strike the Fishmen with terror. The optimists themselves were loudly sure of it. The fleet sailed on, and the second night fell with tropical swiftness over the sea. From the deck of the Council flagship, nothing could be seen except hundreds of gently moving lights — green, red, gold, and blue-as the sailors lit the night lanterns aboard the other ships.

Suddenly a terrifying orange glare lit up the sea far out on the port wing of the fleet. It swelled, silhouetting a dozen other ships, showing the victim already gushing flame from bow to stern. Then an explosion rumbled across the waves. The ship's masts and deck planking shot rocketlike into the sky and came down in trails of fire. The ship's hull fell apart, and she vanished with a terrible hiss and a cloud of steam.

Once again the sailors of Talgar showed their discipline. The ships nearest the place where the victim had gone down started edging in toward the main body of the fleet.

Stern lamp signals from the flagship sent them hastily back into position. A dozen small boats dropped back to comb the area of the sinking. Blade saw one of them pass, her sweeps pounding out a fierce rhythm, her decks blazing with lanterns. Their light gleamed on the weapons of the soldiers lining her decks and the divers perched on her stern, ready to go over the side. Then she was out of sight astern.

The boats found nothing except floating charred timbers. The sunken ship-the Golden Worm-had gone down like a stone. So had the 120 men aboard her.

When word of that got around the fleet, there was open fear and doubt even on the faces of some of the optimists. For three hundred years the Fishmen and Talgarans had let each other alone at night. There were too many risks in fighting under the midnight sea. Now the Fishmen seemed willing and able to run those risks. And they had a weapon that could consume a large ship in minutes and send her down to the bottom before anyone aboard could escape. That also was new and frightening.

A Guard officer named Nezdorn frankly admitted to Blade that he was frightened. «I don't know how the Fishmen did this. I've seen our own firepots go off aboard a ship, by accident. If the Fishmen have something like that and can hit our ships with them-well, that might explain it.»

Blade nodded. «The firepots are made in Nurn, aren't they?»

«Yes. They're another of the things the wizards of Nurn can do and we can't. Why?»

«Just curious. The Fishmen might have-«Blade broke off with a good imitation of a coughing spell. It occurred to him that he had been close to expressing a particularly odd heresy. Fortunately Nezdorn didn't ask him to finish his sentence. But Blade couldn't get the thought out of his mind, even if he could keep it out of his mouth. Could the Empire of Nurn be playing a double game? It was a fascinating and horrible thought. Blade was also certain it would not be a very popular one, either among the Talgarans or among the Fishmen.