“And you’re
sure
the seamage is gone.”
“I watched her sailin’ straight south with my own eyes, Captain.”
“Straight south?” That didn’t make any sense at all; there was nothing straight south but the Fathomless Reaches, then a windless gyre of seaweed. Any other direction was feasible: north to Tsing, northeast to Southhaven or Scarport, southeast to Marathia or Fornice on the Sand Coast, or straight west with the trade winds at their backs to reach the far western continent. But south? “Where’s she going on that course?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care!” Sam stood, placed her fists on the table, and stared right at him, her eyes hard with determination.
Parek looked down at the wounds on her forearms; only three or four days old, they were dark, as if they’d been rubbed with some evil salve. He remembered the scars on the cannibals, and repressed a shudder. The dagger tucked under her belt was obsidian, a gift from her new friends, no doubt, and showed signs of recent use; the hide-wrapped handle was stained, and it repulsed him to consider the origin of the leather. Her voice brought his gaze back to her eyes.
“This is our only chance! This is exactly what we hoped would happen, what I waded through hell and damnation to
make
happen; the sea witch is off Plume Isle! If we don’t jump on it now, the emperor’s fleet will beat us to it, and as sure as seagulls squawk, they’ll leave a garrison there and we’ll never get another chance!”
“I realize that, Sam, and I’m with you, all right? Just calm down.” It was distracting to watch her sharpened teeth flash as she spoke. He pushed the bottle over to her. “Have another tot. We have plans to make, and we’re not likely to get this all straightened out until morning.”
Maybe she’s been through too much
, he thought, sipping his rum and watching Sam as she sat back down. She was changed, there was no doubt, and not for the better. She sounded half mad, but she was also right: this was their only chance to take Plume Isle. But if he agreed to let her run a shipload of cannibals into Blood Bay and set them loose, would there be anything left for him when they were done? There was no way to know the answer, but he was sure of one thing: if he refused her, he and the skeleton crew of the
Cutthroat
would be simmering in a pot by morning.
Chapter 4
A Light in the Darkness
“Burn!” Edan whispered as he tossed a handful of sulfur dust into the air.
The powder burst into a shower of tiny flames. With a flick of his wrist he pulled in a breeze that gathered the burning motes and spun them into a small cyclone of yellow fire. Edan felt the blaze, was drawn into its light and heat until he was part of it, spinning and burning for the sheer joy of it. Flicker crouched on his shoulder, mesmerized by his creation, chittering her gibberish into his ear as she stroked his hair with her tiny hand.
A wave slapped the hull of
Peggy’s Dream
and splashed up to the taffrail where Edan stood, spattering him with seawater. Flicker yelped in his ear, breaking his concentration and shattering the cyclone. Each of the motes of fire fell into the sea and died with a tiny
sst
.
Edan’s anger flared; he hated being on this ship, and he hated being on the ocean. He looked over the side into the shimmering blue, shafts of sunlight stabbing into the depths; the sight of the seemingly depthless water always made him think of sinking…cold and smothering…drowning… He hated his fear, most of all.
Tearing his eyes away from the waves, he looked to the east. There loomed the pyre of Fire Island, and even at this distance, he could feel its power. It had continued to erupt since the day of his ascension, and above the summit rose a pillar of ash that scattered the light of the setting sun, tinting the sky with a reddish haze. He breathed deep and caught a faint odor of brimstone. How he wished he could be on Fire Island; what grand fires he could he create from the pools of magma! He glanced down at what Cynthia had called his “arsenal”—kerosene, tar, distilled naphtha, creosote, alcohol, lamp oil…everything flammable that they could find in the keep and Dura’s lofting shed—and frowned. Poor substitutes, but at least he was able to practice his skills, actually
encouraged
to practice. And though the sailors were still wary of him, he could hear their “Oohs” and “Ahhs” when he produced a particularly good display.
He glanced toward the bow where Cynthia stood, and his anger returned. He appreciated that she was as far from him as she could get—the mere presence of the seamage seemed to dampen his abilities—but he resented her coercion, making him an unwilling partner in this rescue. At least he wasn’t still locked in the hold.
Edan lifted a brown glass bottle of wood alcohol from the deck and poured some over the rail. The liquid misted on the wind and burst into flames at his command, a swirl of brilliant blue against the darkening sky as the sun dipped below the horizon.
“Ho, the deck!” a lookout called from above. “School of mer off the windward beam! They’re comin’ this way!”
Edan ignored the call. He might be forced to participate in this fiasco, but he didn’t have anything to do with planning it or dealing with the seamage’s fish friends. Still smiling, he tossed the bottle of alcohol into the air.
“Burn,” he muttered, and the bottle exploded in a shower of fire and glass shards. He called the wind and coalesced the fiery droplets to create a single brilliant blaze, and lost himself in the flames.
≈
Cynthia stood on the foredeck of
Peggy’s Dream
, eyes closed, relishing the sensations of sailing. Her hand on the inner forestay felt the hum of the breeze-blown rigging above, even as her feet felt the rumble of the sea through the deck, sweeping under the arched bow. The wind played across her like the fingers of a lover, and salty mists blown from the wave tops kissed her face. The sea…it had given her so much, fulfilled so many of her dreams, but now, it seemed determined to wash everything away. She heard the lookout but ignored his call, trying to hold onto this shred of solace for just a moment longer.
“Capt’n?” Chula’s tentative call pulled her from her reverie. The mer were here to take her to their allies, the undine, who professed to have information on the whereabouts of Eelback…and her son. She was not looking forward to the meeting.
“Hold course and speed,” she said as she worked her way aft. The deck was crowded with the half-constructed frames of four ballistae, armament she regretted but felt a necessary precaution. “Edan! Please put out your fire and hold off for a few minutes. We don’t want to scare the mer away.”
“Okay,” he said sullenly. His lack of proper respect for their captain drew a few glares from the crew, but Cynthia dismissed the slight; she had more important things to worry about.
“Chula, I’m going to meet with the mer, then spend the night on the
Pride
.”
“Aye, Capt’n! We won’t be past de Fathomless Reaches ‘til tomorrow midmornin’, I t’ink.” He walked with her to the cuddy cabin, waiting while she retrieved a small parcel from the cabinet there. “You be careful wit’ dem fish folk, Capt’n. I don’t trust dem one whit!”
“I don’t trust them anymore either, Chula, but we need their help to find my son.” She tucked the small packet under her belt and nodded. “Signal the
Pride
if you need anything. And thank you, Chula…for everything.”
“’Tis my plesha, Capt’n Shambata Daroo.” He followed her to the rail and waved as she climbed up and stepped off into the arms of the sea.
The sea at night was a wholly different place than during the day; it was still beautiful, but with an eerie feel. Floating jellies flashed blue when disturbed by waves and water currents, and the passing ships trailed luminescent rivers of green in their wakes. These sources of light were few and fleeting, but as a seamage, Cynthia could sense her surroundings—the reefs and their inhabitants, the waves, the currents and thermal layers of the water—even if she could not see them. These senses would serve her well tonight, for she would be venturing down to where light didn’t penetrate even on the brightest day, down to where the undine lived in their rock grottos.
Bright flashes of phosphorescence heralded the arrival of the mer, though Cynthia had felt their approach long before she saw them. Only Chaser swam close enough for her to recognize; the rest stopped a short distance away. Phosphor glow glinted off of their weapons, but that didn’t disturb her; the mer always carried weapons, and she wouldn’t hesitate to defend herself. Besides, they might need weapons when they caught up with Eelback and his school.
Chaser swept his arms in a quick greeting, then signed, *Are you ready to treat with the undine, Seamage Flaxal?*
*I am,* she signed, *but you must address me by my full name, Chaser. I am Seamage Flaxal Brelak. I have taken my consort as husband.*
Chaser’s eyes widened in surprise. *But Seamage, that means you cannot—*
*I cannot wed the trident holder’s son,* she interrupted. *I no longer serve the mer. I serve myself, and I have taken my consort as husband. If the mer truly want peace with the landwalkers, we will find another way.*
*But why, Seamage Flaxal…Brelak?* he asked, making signs of confusion.
*Because I love him, Chaser,* she signed, her motions choppy and final. *I love him more than I love the mer, and if I am forced to choose between having him as my husband, and having the mer as my friends, I will choose the former. You may tell all the mer this; I do not care. Let them know that I am not their creature to wield, to coerce and to bend to their own desires. I am my
own
person!*
Chaser’s stare was both astonished and pained. Cynthia regretted having to hurt one of the few mer who had been a true friend to her, but until she got her son back, she would trust none of them.
*Now, will you take me to the undine, or must I go alone into the deep?*
*We will go together,* he signed, then he led her to the school. Only four would accompany them to the depths. The others—along with his two dolphin scouts, who currently circled the group—he sent to follow the schooners. He turned to Cynthia. *Please follow, Seamage Flaxal Brelak,* he signed before flipping his tail and starting down at a steep angle.
Cynthia descended alongside Chaser. All ambient light faded as they proceeded deeper, with only a faint flicker of phosphor glow left to tease her eyes. She felt her chest sag under the pressure of the water as the air in her lungs compressed. She had only dove to such depths once before, and knew from the notes in her father’s journal that, while the descent was uncomfortable, the ascent could be deadly if rushed. When she returned to the surface, she would have to do so slowly, lest the expanding air in her lungs injure or even kill her.
After a descent of hundreds of feet, Cynthia felt the sea bed looming ahead of them, and the mer slowed. Chaser touched her arm in signal, and she fell in behind him for the final approach to the shelf of craggy rocks at the edge of the abyssal deep, the home of the undine.
Tailwalker had once described to her, with scathing signs, the lairs of the undine. Nothing like the beautiful city the mer created out of a living lattice of coral and sponge, the undine caves were ugly, squat structures roughly gouged out of the rock, and embellished with embrasures of cut stone. Cynthia could feel the caves now, voids in the otherwise solid wall of rock to her right. Within the caves, she felt large creatures stirring the water, and imaged the undine peering hungrily out at her. She was glad she wore more substantial clothing than her usual sarong; it made her feel a bit less vulnerable, though she knew it was a false sense of security. The undine were clever and voracious; mere clothing would not impede them should they decide to prey on her. But Cynthia vowed to herself that they would choke to death if they tried to take her as a meal.
Cynthia felt a faint current of water from the direction of the caves, and Chaser angled toward it. She nearly ran into his tail when he stopped abruptly. The current was stronger here, and she realized that it ran out of a tunnel that was surprisingly visible, even to her eyes. Glowing stones—whether the radiance was natural or magical, she couldn’t tell—lined the mouth of the tunnel, faintly illuminating the eight large undine that guarded the entry. She felt Chaser sign to them, though she could not read his words, either with her sea-sense or in the faint light, and the undine ushered them into the tunnel. As she entered the confined space, Cynthia felt as if the cave were a creature swallowing her whole.
More glowing stones lined the tunnel, and pale, spindly deep-dwelling crabs and shrimp scurried across the rough rock face. Cynthia could now better discern their undine escorts: broad, flat toadfish-like heads fringed with frilly protuberances, bulbous bodies with muscular arms protected by flaring fins, and huge bulging eyes that helped them see in this world of darkness. Each undine carried a pair of short stabbing spears with wickedly barbed tips. Although the mer were armed, she could tell from their splayed fins and jerky, guarded motions that they were on edge. It was cold comfort to know that she was not the only nervous one.
She felt the space open up before her, and it grew darker as they emerged from the tunnel into a large cavern, the council chamber of the undine schoolmaster.
Tricky
, she thought. Any visitor passing through the tunnel would adjust their eyes to its light, then be blinded when they entered the chamber, a good safety precaution. She would have to be sure that she didn’t underestimate these undine; though they might look rather comical or even dim-witted, they were devious predators. But Cynthia had her own trick up her sleeve, or rather, tucked into her belt.
As the undine escort guided Cynthia and the mer across the huge chamber, she tried to recall what she had read about the undine in the mer scrolls. Though the mer had no term for “slave” and therefore none for “slave-master,” those descriptions seemed apt terms to describe the structure of undine society: the schoolmaster’s rule was absolute, and all the other undine submitted to its wishes. Rebellions were uncommon, always violent, and rarely successful. Cynthia realized why as they approached the far side of the council chamber, where several grottos had been excavated in the rock wall.