The Seascape Tattoo (6 page)

She wasn't a human being. Peasants had it better, she thought. They could marry for love. Or at least lust.

Love …

Odd how, when she thought that word, her heart sped up, just a bit, and her skin felt the way she felt that time a picnic had been interrupted by a lightning storm, and she'd been much too close to an actual strike. The air hummed. And her skin did as well.

She remembered her cousin's face when she looked at the face of her paramour. That was not the face of the girl Tahlia had played dolls with in childhood; it was the face of a woman who knew more about her body than Tahlia did. A woman who knew what it was to be a
woman
.

Tahlia looked out across the ocean, dark but for slivers of moonlight dancing on the crescent waves. Restless, eternally in motion. Almost invisible. Like a woman's heart. Who did she want to take her to that distant land? In whose hands could she entrust her heart? Any of those rough or effete and pampered boys seeking fortune? Ah, some of them were pretty enough, but none of them bottled the lightning …

Draz had said something, quiet, but the softness itself had caught Tahlia's attention. “What? I didn't hear you.”

“I said that the mermaid's eyes are open.” The voice was cool, a little withdrawn. There was something in it.

Princess Tahlia looked over the side of the ship. The figurehead faced the sea ahead. How could Drasilljah see the eyes?

“I feel it,” she said, answering the unspoken query.

“I thought the eyes were always open. In fact, when we came aboard, I saw that the statue's eyes were open.”

Draz wagged her head. “Not the wooden eyes,” she said. “The royal ships have figureheads carved from driftwood and blessed with the souls of Merfolk. We bond their spirits into the figureheads, and they give us protection.”

“How do they do this wondrous thing?”

“Humans are not the only ones who work magic. We weird sisters have friends among the magical folk. When they age or sicken, if their lives cannot be saved, they sometimes benefit their clans by offering to bind their spirits into the carvings. Centaurs may become travel wagons. Weremice bond to household totems.”

Tahlia nodded. She was actually a bit surprised that she'd never asked the question. “So the eyes…” She looked along the side of the ship and could see the back of the mermaid's head and part of the tail, but nothing of the face. It was not surprising that Drasilljah could, however. Drasilljah could do many things.

And right now Draz's tension was becoming alarm. Princess Tahlia looked up at the sky. Dark, long hours from dawn, rain clouds threaded with lightning, the distant roll of thunder mere echoes … but no hint of danger. What of the ocean? When the clouds parted enough for the moonlight to splash upon the waves, she could see nothing, but hers was not a sailor's practiced gaze, able to detect the masts of a pirate vessel bobbing at the horizon.

But still …

There
 … a patch of ocean to the north was silvered with moonlight. Nothing. Was she expecting a kraken?

“Look,” Drasilljah pointed.

Tahlia tried to look along that finger, squinted, unsure if her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, or if she was merely imagining a hint of outline. There
did
seem to be something out there. At first she thought she was seeing a single wispy waterspout, then for a moment she wondered if she was seeing three such freaks of weather dancing on the waves.

No. Tiny streams, though. Like steam rising from a kettle's spout. And the crackling lightning revealed that the wisps seemed to issue from small black shapes upon the waves. The driving rain made it difficult to make out anything at all, but if she wasn't mistaken, between the first and second flashes, the objects had moved closer to the
Proud Abyss
.

That ruled out any kind of sailing vessels, she reckoned. The wind was blowing in the wrong direction.

Up in the crow's nest, First Mate Chastain whistled, pointing out “Starboard!” And the other sailors on late watch crowded to the right side of the ship, more curious than alarmed.

Tahlia clutched Drasilljah's hand. The woman she had known her entire life seemed … on point, like a hunting dog.

“What do you sense?” Tahlia asked. “Magic?”

“Not magic. No … yes, magic…” She shook her head. “I don't know. I've never felt anything quite like this before.”

“Captain!” the old woman called. “Captain! On your guard!” Drasilljah turned toward the cabins. “I know not what this is, but I fear that only ill wind blows against the clouds. Come.”

Tahlia caught one last glimpse before she followed her friend and protector. And that last glimpse revealed three small ships. It was difficult to establish size because of a lack of known objects with which to compare them. And they had no masts. She looked for oars in the water, but couldn't see them. They seemed to be on fire, although she could see no flame, and would have questioned its presence in this driving rain. But each roof emitted a thin, constant stream of smoke.

“Come!” Drasilljah tugged more urgently now. There was another puff of smoke from the closest vessel, which was now only two arrow flights away. Followed by a dull clap of thunder. Duller, perhaps. More localized, without that sense of everywhere-and-nowhere you had with the child of lightning, when fire was quenched in water.

Then the night exploded into flame.

Their trailing ship, the
Domino
, shuddered and lurched, as her amidships erupted like a volcano. Tahlia's eyes widened. Never had she seen such a thing. In the light of the spreading blaze (And
how
it spread! It was like a jellied layer of fire!) she glimpsed the smaller vessels riding the waves, now puffing burst after burst of fire into the night. The
Domino
erupted again and again, and the sailors crowded against the rails groaned in terror.

And then … the same thing happened just ahead of them. The
Triton
's side
burst
, wood arcing up into the sky, splinters and shards of singed wood rained down upon the deck of the
Proud Abyss
, still smoldering.

“Heaven preserve us! Demon fire!” the captain screamed. Then he called out: “Trim the sails! All passengers below deck!”

“What is happening?” Tahlia asked.

From the beginning of their voyage, Captain Dinos had been a fatherly figure. Now in this moment of trial he seemed to grow taller, even more protective. Tahlia was afraid for him, but also proud and reassured. “Whatever magic they use, they've not used it against us, Princess. I think they want you.”

I think they want you.

The words reverberated in her head. Their meaning sank in more deeply. As she was pulled to her cabin, the ship lurched up and plunged down again, and at the apex she glimpsed one of the small ships, close enough now to make out the human shapes swarming the deck.

The pirate craft continued to belch fire. Then one of them exploded, like a pinecone in a bonfire, amid screams of dismay from its crew.

“Come on!” Drasilljah said, and hauled her into the cabin. Her nurse barricaded the door, and they sank back into the shadows, arms around each other.

Terrible things were happening above-decks. She heard shouts and then the shrill call of steel on steel. The
Proud Abyss
was being boarded. Screams and shouted orders. Captain Dinos's voice above the howling wind.

Then another scream, low with agony and wet against the rain. The captain's voice was stilled.

A pause, and then a banging at her door. “Open the door, Princess.” The voice was like stone. “Open the door, and we swear you will come to no harm.”

Drasilljah held her tight.
No.

“Open the door. We know your nursemaid is with you. If you force us to break the door open, we'll kill her. If you open it yourself and offer no resistance, I promise no harm will come to her.”

She looked at Drasilljah for guidance, and her nurse shook her head.
No.

Tahlia thought frantically. This was nightmare. Whatever happened next, she knew those men could break down the door and take her. If there was any chance that Drasilljah could survive this, she would have to take it.

“I'll open the door,” she said. Drasilljah pulled at her, silently begging, but Tahlia held her at arm's distance, suddenly transformed into the older of the two. “Whatever happens next,” she said. “If I am to survive it, I will need you at my side.”

The tears streamed from the old woman's eyes. It was not concern for herself that caused them; it was fear for her charge. Shame that she could not protect the girl she loved. Gratitude that that girl would think of her nursemaid before herself.

Tahlia opened the door, then shrank back.

The man at the door was the largest human being the princess had ever seen, a full head taller than the captain of her mother's guard. Part troll, perhaps. She had heard of such obscenities.

It snorted, its flat broad nostrils blowing hot air and wet drops at her, but she didn't flinch. It seized the meat of her upper arm like a wrestler grabbing a baby, and pulled her out onto the deck.

The man waiting there was smaller but more dangerous. He was broad and thick but moved with an odd fluidity, like a palace dancer. A sense of coiled, leashed potential.
This
was the power. This man. He was the one to deal with.

There was something else. Captain Dinos sprawled dead, curled on his side like a child. He had died protecting them.

But Chastain, the first mate, the man whose eyes she had felt crawling upon her from the first day … Chastain was alive. More than alive, Chastain stood at the side of the man she now assumed was the leader.

So, a traitor. She felt Drasilljah tense, heard a whispered curse.

“Not now,” Tahlia whispered, and was relieved to feel Drasilljah relax away from the edge of the precipice.

“You are in charge here,” she said to the leader. Not a question, a statement.

“Yes, I am,” he said.

“Who are you?”

His smile was, considering the circumstances, rather kindly. “I hope you understand that the less you know of me, the more you can hope to eventually be returned to your mother safely.”

She weighed his words. This man was not discourteous; he spoke well, with the enunciation of one who spent a great deal of time at some court, layered over a rougher tone. A military man, totally confident in his skills. Someone who had lived hard and fought his way to power. A man who lived by his guts. And yet … something about the delicacy of his phrasing, the excellent bones of his face suggested nobility. Perhaps even royalty.

Who was this man? Could his word be trusted?

She threw the dice. “I have your word that if I come with you without resistance, you will protect my life and that of my attendant?”

“Yes, you do,” he said.

“There is one thing I must do before I leave this ship. Have I your permission?”

“We have not long, princess,” he said.

“This will only take a moment.”

He nodded agreement.

“Now,” Tahlia whispered.

No one could have moved fast enough to stop what happened next. Drasilljah's hair comb was fashioned as a carved shell, but actually of painted steel, its edge as hard as metal and as sharp as broken glass. She whipped it across Chastain's throat so fast he hadn't even a chance to blink. His eyes opened wide, and he fell, gagging and clutching at the wound.

Tahlia held her breath. The next moment would tell the tale.

The leader watched Chastain die on the deck, his heels drumming against the wet.

He turned to Drasilljah and plucked the comb from her hand. “Nicely done,” he said. “I loathe traitors.”

 

SIX

Bad News

Even before the guard arrived at his door, summoning him to the palace, Neoloth-Pteor knew that there was something terribly wrong. All night his sleep had been restless, filled with images of shadow creatures with bloody teeth.

His had been a shallow repose, a transparent state partway between ordinary sleep and wakefulness. “Wizard's Sleep” it was called, more efficient and effective than ordinary sleep, and one of the secrets of his power.

The knock at his door roused him in waves, thinning the line between sleep and wakefulness. “Sorcerer! You are needed!”

He rolled up, planted his feet on the floor, and stared at the wall. Neoloth could feel disaster looming, like a storm cloud crouching below the horizon, invisible but oppressive. It pressed against his head like a squeezing fist. The guards barely waited for him to dress himself, and they took him along the more direct corridor aboveground.

Climbing the hill gave them sufficient elevation to hear and see for miles. Lights twinkled down there. A dog barked sharply. Voices drifted on the wind. Something was wrong, and word of it was spreading.

The guards ushered him into the crown chamber. It seemed that the entire castle was awake. The queen sat rigidly upon her throne. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had already been crying for hours. The smaller throne to her right, her daughter's throne, had never looked so empty.

Neoloth bowed deeply. “My queen,” he said. “How may I serve you?”

“Conceal yourself in the private chamber,” she said, voice urgent and strained. “Watch what occurs in the next hour. Advise me.”

For the first time since he had been employed in Quillia, he reached out and took her hand. It was cool, and dry, and too thin, as if the substance between skin and bone were wasting away. She did not seem to consider his action a transgression and did not pull away from him.

“Go,” she said, indicating a heavy red curtain behind the throne. He stepped quickly to conceal himself behind it, and found himself in a chamber just large enough for a single chair. A section of the curtain at face level was thinned enough for a man who pressed his face against it to see the throne room while remaining unseen to supplicants approaching the queen.