Beneath a Burning Sky (The Dawnhawk Trilogy Book 3) by Jonathon Burgess

answer that he wanted, that had to be given.
    “Oh, miserably,” said Gwydion, spearing another slice of braised rabbit. “The fools took all damned evening to slip into the lagoon of that pirate town. Then they climbed the cliffs and snuck into the airship docks via the jungles. That all went well enough, I suppose, as not a single alarm was tripped, but they’d barely gotten any fires started before they were noticed and promptly slaughtered to a man.” The crown prince paused to shrug. “Was entertaining enough, in its own way.”
    I knew it would fail. Damned cowardly way of doing things. Wintermourn adjusted his neckerchief and cleared his throat. “Well, the cost was low enough,” he said. “Though it must be said that such skulking about has never advanced the cause of Kingdom. Victory is won by glorious battle, at a great cost of sweat and blood.”
    “Yes, yes,” replied the Crown Prince distractedly, raising up an oyster. “You told me so, and whatnot. Worry not, my good admiral. The pirates are certainly stirred into a tizzy over our opening poke. They’ll come looking for a fight tomorrow—if we let them.”
    Vindication mixed with the brandy to leave Wintermourn feeling heady. “Excellent. We will be ready for a proper fight, full of thunder and triumph—the sea at our back, our guns roaring. Our fleet is a hammer, and we shall crush those curs against the anvil of these isles. Let the pirates assemble and meet our lines. Nothing will save them then.”
    The assembled captains shouted their agreement and pounded at the table, setting silver tableware clattering against fine porcelain. That everyone was so quick to agree proved heartening. Not only did it show a fine sense of purpose, it was clear that they knew which side their bread was buttered on.
    His face froze, though, upon seeing the crown prince. Gwydion stared at him, frozen in midchew. Swallowing, he set down an oyster shell.
    Then he laughed—great shuddering belly laughs that shook his slight frame and resounded throughout the cabin. The crown prince laughed until tears came from his eyes.
    “Are you...are you all jesting?” he asked. “I swear, you’re all fossils, the lot of you. Though not quite so bad as my father’s Order Gallant.”
    Wintermourn flushed. As Lord High Admiral of the Sea, he was a member of the Order Gallant. “I do not jest,” he replied after a calming breath. In his lap, his hands were folded tightly into fists.
    “Then I shall be charitable and blame the lack of thought on the hour.” He leaned forward towards Wintermourn, hands steepled together. “Tell me, my good admiral. Do you think that a bunch of flying pirates are going to just line up for you to shoot them? No. They’ll drop from the skies and bombard us with all sorts of incendiaries and suchlike. Most of their airships are unarmed, though I’ve seen designs for things that I know their Mechanists to possess. Once they’re ready for us, they’ll fall on our fleet like a pack of starving wolves upon a lamb.”
    “We’ve the new guns,” snapped Wintermourn, “and ours is the pride of Perinault. I remain confident that we will trounce the pirates.”
    The crown prince sighed. “Your dedication is admirable. But no. Once they’re fully prepared, cleansing these isles is going to be significantly more difficult. Even if we drove the pirates back, what then? A slow, follow-through advance with overwhelming force, the usual tactic, is insufficient. Those damnable waterways thread through everything. Calling this place the Copper Isles is appropriate—it’s a collection of a hundred little islets. Sending any kind of overland force is going to be nigh impossible. And the path we found? It’s the only real way to Haventown, proceeding through a natural series of bottlenecks which are deathtraps, should any properly prepared defenders hold the high ground.”
    “I assume Your Royal Highness is going somewhere with this,” said