Kelpie’s slim hand clamped onto his shoulder, and he turned to see her sign, *You have treated with monsters, Eelback. They are revolting creatures, and will devour us when we sleep!*
*Do not hate the myxine because they are different, Kelpie,* Eelback admonished. *They will not devour us. They have agreed to help us, and only ask that we allow them to reside here in the shadow of Akrotia for a time.*
*Different?* The priestess stared at him and signed, *Do you not hate the landwalkers because they are different, Eelback?*
*No, I do not,* he replied, twitching his fins in annoyance. *I hate the landwalkers because of what they
do
, not what they are. They betrayed us. I have read the scrolls, Kelpie. I read of the golden age of Akrotia when the mer multiplied like a bloom of algae. We were strong then, unrivaled among the creatures of the ocean. The landwalkers covet the oceans for themselves, even though they have all of the land to occupy. They spoil the sea with their filth, ply its waters with their ships, take our fish, and drag iron hooks into our homes. They are rapacious and wanton, and care for nothing but themselves! They had the power to make Akrotia live again, and they refused. They betrayed us, and tens of thousands of mer died. That is why I hate the landwalkers, Kelpie, and that is why, with Akrotia, I am going to reclaim the sea for the mer and all the other sea-dwelling races.*
He turned and gestured toward the approaching mass of undulating myxine. *Even for those of us who are
different
,* he finished, dismissing her with a wave and gesturing to rest of the school. *Come, meet our new allies, and then let us begin our work. We have to find the Chamber of Life before the landwalkers arrive.*
Chapter 7
Ships in the Night
Feldrin scratched a tiny X on the large-scale chart and wrote in the date and time of the fix. A complicated calculation of celestial sights, times, estimated speed and their last assumed position had gone into the fix, but without reference points or detailed charts, it really was guesswork. Multiple Xs traced a serpentine line—varying at the direction of their undine guides—from Plume Isle to their present location: the edge of the uncharted Sea of Lost Ships.
“Well, that’s as good as it’s gonna get,” he muttered, then grabbed onto the edge of the table when the ship suddenly righted from her customary heel. “What in the bloody hells…Horace!”
Grabbing his boarding axes, he labored his way up to the deck, cursing his peg leg with every wobbling step. By the time he stood at the hatch of the cuddy cabin, he was considering discarding the ridiculous contraption entirely. He could hardly do worse if he hopped around the deck.
“Captain!” Horace called from the starboard rail. “We’ve stopped. Or, the wind stopped, I mean.”
“I
did
notice that,” Feldrin said, leveling a suitable glare at his first mate. “Any signals from the
Dream
?”
“I haven’t seen any, but the lookout said he saw Mistress Flaxal, er, I mean Captain Fl—that is to say, yer wife, jump over the side just now.”
Horace scratched the backstay, an old sailor’s good luck ritual, and Feldrin noticed that he looked more than a little nervous. One look around told him why: the sea was dead calm, its slick surface dotted with patches of weed. There were stories of ships discovered floating at the edge of the Sea of Lost Ships, weed wound tightly around their rudders, the crews gone or dead or…worse. Cynthia and Edan had been providing all their wind for the past two days; its sudden loss reminded the sailors that they were completely dependent on magic to get them home again. If anything happened to the mages…
Feldrin held out his hand and Horace slapped the viewing glass into his open palm. He brought it to his eye and analyzed
Peggy’s Dream
; she floated placidly only a few ship-lengths ahead. The deck was canted slightly to port, which was not surprising, considering the crowd of people lining the rail. They stood looking down into the water where a few errant ripples marred the eerily still surface. Feldrin relaxed.
“She’s havin’ a confab with her fish friends, that’s all.” He snapped the viewing tube closed and handed it back to Horace. “She might have given us a bit of warning, though, to spare our nerves.”
“Bloody right there,” Horace mumbled before turning and barking at the crew. “Git off o’ yer lazy arses and clean up the deck! What do you think we are, a festerin’ pirate ship?”
Feldrin glanced at the precisely coiled lines, glistening wood, spotless deck and the smartly rigged awnings that give them some respite from the blazing sun. The only mess was an occasional drip of heat-softened tar from the rigging, but Rhaf already had the ship’s boy running around with a rag and a bottle of wood-alcohol, dabbing up the stains.
“Relax, Horace,” he said, clapping a huge hand on the man’s shoulder. “All’s well. I’m sure she’ll let us know if there’s—”
“Deck there!” the foremast lookout called, pointing. “Somethin’ in the water, comin’ this way!”
Uneasy mutters swept across the deck, but a glance confirmed that it was Cynthia on her way over. The wake of her underwater passage rippled the glassy surface in a wide V. On a less placid ocean, the wake would have been undetectable, but in this mirror-smooth sea, the ripples of a surfacing fish could be seen from half a mile away.
“Everyone relax! It’s just my better half comin’ over fer a little chat.” As Feldrin limped over to the port-side boarding hatch, Mouse arrived like a streak of silvery lightning. He landed on Feldrin’s broad shoulder without even a chirp of greeting, his tiny face scrinched with worry. The sprite’s demeanor told Feldrin that Cynthia was not doing well; stress and exhaustion had been mounting on her, and she was close to collapse. The water at the side of the ship roiled, then a column rose up and deposited Cynthia on the deck, safe and dry. Feldrin winced at the dark circles under her eyes and the pallor of her usually tanned face.
“What did the mer have to say?” he asked as he took her small hand in his own. She took a deep breath before answering.
“The undine have found a trace of the scent. We’re heading in the right direction, though the currents in this area are confused. The trail is muddled.”
“Well, they have the scent; that’s good news,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “We’ll find ‘em, lass.” He shrugged his shoulder, and was pleased that Mouse took the hint and flew to Cynthia’s, where he chittered hopeful nonsense in her ear. Cynthia smiled weakly at their efforts to cheer her.
“I know.” Her voice wavered with exhaustion and nerves. “We
have
to find them!”
She reached up and gave Feldrin a quick kiss on the cheek, then turned toward the rail. “I’ve got to get back and get us moving again,” she said. Feldrin saw her knuckles whiten on the polished wood with the simple effort of holding herself upright. He stepped to her side and wrapped his arm around her waist.
“When was the last time you slept, lass, or ate a proper meal? I’ve seen you, you know,” he said, gesturing to the slack sails, “makin’ our wind for hours at a time while the firebug plays with his flames. You should let Edan do a stint on the winds, and get some rest while you can. You’ll need yer strength later.”
“I know, Feldrin, but every time I close my eyes, I see our son. Even though I don’t know what he looks like, I see him! I can’t sleep and food tastes like nothing. Gods, you know we never even decided on his
name
? I feel like something’s been ripped out of me. I just want to—” Tears brimmed in her eyes, and he felt her tremble.
“Let me
help
you, Cyn,” he pleaded, holding her tight.
Dear Gods of Light
, he prayed silently,
I’ve lost my son, please don’t let me lose her as well
. “At least let me try.”
“I don’t know what you can do for me, Feldrin.” Her eyes darted around the deck as if she looked for a route to escape, but then she sagged in his arms.
“Signal
Peggy’s Dream
, if you please, Horace; Mistress Flaxal Brelak will be spending the evening with her husband, and Master Edan is to conjure the winds in her absence. And pass the word to Cook; dinner fer two in my cabin, and make it somethin’ special. Mouse,” he said to the sprite, who was clinging to Cynthia’s shoulder and planting kisses on her cheek, “I’m sorry, but you’ve got to keep an eye on Flicker while Cyn’s over here. Nobody else can watch her and keep her out of trouble while Edan is busy.”
Mouse frowned, then saluted and darted off even as Horace called out orders to the signal man.
“Come on, love,” he said gently. He turned them toward the cuddy cabin and the companionway to the lower deck. “The world won’t end if you take a decent meal and a bit of rest.”
By the time the couple worked their way to Feldrin’s cabin, one sailor was clearing away the charts and navigation tools, while another set out two delicately gilded plates, crystal goblets, and spotlessly shined silver—souvenirs of his time in Marathia. A third man, a nervous foremast jack named Jamis, was just drawing the cork from a bottle of wine as they entered. The cork left the bottle with a pop, and the man grinned in triumph.
“Wine, sir?” the fellow said, then nodded to Cynthia. “My lady?”
“Bloody fine idea!” Feldrin said. “Pour ‘em full, if you please, Jamis.” He released Cynthia long enough to draw two chairs over to the open transom windows, then led her to one and bade her sit. Jamis approached, balancing two goblets of blood-red wine on a silver salver.
“Here ye are, sir. If ye be wantin’ anytin’ else afore Cook has yer dinners ready, just give a holler.”
Very good! Thank you, Jamis. That’ll be all fer now.” Feldrin took the goblets and handed one to his wife. As the door closed, he took his seat and lifted his glass. “Here’s to bein’ one step closer to findin’ our son.”
“Oh yes, Feldrin, to that more than anything else,” she agreed, lifting her glass to his and smiling through the tears that brimmed in her eyes.
The wine went down smoothly—one of the few vintages that would keep well in the sweltering temperatures of the tropics—and washed away the tightness in his throat.
“Did you…want to decide on a name, Cyn?” he asked timidly. “I mean, we discussed it before, but now that we know it’s a boy, you mentioned naming him after your father.”
“I don’t…” She looked into her wine glass, as if she could see some dark future in the crimson depths. “I don’t think so. Not yet. I feel like it would be hoping for too much, tempting fate.” She looked at him then, and there were tears brimming in her eyes. “When I hold him in my arms, I’ll let myself believe he’s safe, and we can name him after father, or maybe after you.”
“Oh, not after me, lass, please. But I understand.” He did understand, and his thoughts mirrored hers; neither of them wanted to hope too much.
The ship lurched suddenly, and Cynthia coughed out a weary laugh. Feldrin lunged up to snatch the wine bottle before it could tumble off the chart table. “Edan?”
“Yes. He’s still got a bit to learn about fine control, but he’s coming along.” Cynthia sipped her wine again, then followed the sip with a gulp. “Damn, but that’s good.”
“Aye, it is.” He took a mouthful and let it sit on his tongue, savoring the heady flavors before swallowing. “And don’t be bashful; the bilge is full of the stuff.” He drained his glass and refilled both. “Ill-gotten booty, don’t ya know.”
“You got this in Marathia?”
“Off one of the war galleys we took back for the sultan. They’d been pirating for almost a year, and had some good stuff tucked away.”
“My husband, the pirate,” she said with a wry smile, raising her glass.
“Privateer, if you please.” He sipped and grinned.
“What was Marathia like?” she asked. “You never told me much about it.”
“Dangerous,” he said in a deep, cautionary tone as he propped his elbows on his knees and leaned close to her. “Beautiful, though, with all manner of fantastic people and beasts.” He returned her smile, grateful that she was willing to talk about something other than their current problems and relieved to see her relax into her seat.
They whiled away an hour in benign conversation, finishing the first bottle and opening a second, before Jamis knocked to announce dinner. Feldrin was pleased to see that Cook had truly outdone himself: curried lamb and potatoes, mango salad, and fresh-baked bread, then a round of sharp cheese, and finally a flaky pastry filled with red berry preserves.
Food, wine and conversation softened the lines around Cynthia’s eyes, and as the afternoon wore on to evening, she surprised him with an urgent plea. Their lovemaking was more than passion, more than love, and more than the simple comfort that two despairing people take in one another. There was a desperation in Cynthia that urged him—no, demanded him—to scour her pain away, to make her forget, if only for a moment, all the horrors that had invaded their lives
As the bell struck four times in the first watch, she slept soundly in his arms, the light of a million stars blazing down on them through the overhead hatch. Her breathing deep and steady, her features peaceful and flushed from wine and their lovemaking, Cynthia finally rested.
When Feldrin woke with the first bell of the mid watch, just two hours later, she was gone.
≈
“Four shorts and a long! That’s the
Cutthroat
, lads and lasses!” Sam cried, pointing to the flashing lantern light ahead. It didn’t matter that her crew didn’t understand a word she said; her own voice made her feel less alone amid the crowd of cannibals chatting away in their own guttural language. She snapped her spyglass closed and shouted orders in the few words that her new boatswain, Uag, knew. “Heave to. Helm to windward. Signal
Manta
to stand in our lee.”
She peered astern; even with the moonlight, she could barely see the low, black hull of
Manta
behind them. A shuttered lantern flashed from
First Venture’s
poop, and another answered from the smaller craft. She smiled; these flesh-eaters learned quickly.
Canvas cracked overhead and she looked up as the mainsail and main-topsail luffed. The jibs were still drawing, but the big square-rigged sails were useless when the bow was within sixty degrees of the point of wind.
“Slack sheets on the square rigs! Furl mains’ls and tops’ls!” she shouted, and Uag repeated the orders with an additional stream of gibberish. Dark shapes swarmed aloft and hauled on the furling lines, punching the canvas into wads and binding it tight. “Trim the tris’ls and cross-sheet the jibs!”
In a few minutes the ship was hove to; they could stay on station for hours with little effort while she went over to
Cutthroat
and met with Parek. Thankfully, here in the lee of Carbuncle Shoal, the seas were mild, which should keep the puking to a minimum. Her newly conscripted force—recruits for their attack on Plume Isle—had not done well with their first sea voyage, and the close-packed accommodations were not helping. The hold was a mass of bodies, overflowing buckets and chamber pots, but she’d be damned if she’d be the one to teach them how to keep it clean. Not that it mattered; all of the valuable cargo had long since been removed to
Cutthroat
, and
First Venture
was too big and slow to make a good corsair, so it was no loss to let the cannibals have her. After the attack on Plume Isle, they could let the ship rot from the inside out for all Sam cared.
“Prepare the launch!” she shouted, and Uag relayed her order. In moments Sam was sitting at the tiller of the longboat, shouting for her crew of six to row her over to the corsair. The trip was bumpy for the small boat in the confused chop behind the shoal, and there was some muttering among her crew after being doused by a wave, but they made it without anyone falling overboard.