“With the Shambata Daroo gone, Plume Isle is defenseless.”
“Yes, but they don’t know she’s gone,” Tipos countered, looking back to the fleet of warships and squinting in thought. “They will not attack; not after what happened to their flagship. Fear will hold them back, maybe long enough for us to get word to the emperor and come back.”
“Maybe.” Keyloo’s tone clearly said that he didn’t agree with Tipos’ logic.
“Maybe,” Tipos reiterated. “But one thing for sure: I was told by the Shambata Daroo herself to take these letters to His Majesty the emperor, and none other. If they end up in the hands of some navy officer, the emperor might never know the truth.”
He gritted his teeth and made his decision.
“We sail on to Tsing, as fast as
Flothrindel
will go!” Tipos hopped down into the cockpit, snapped closed the viewing glass and pointed north. “Tack her, Keyloo, and mind your sheets! If we crack on, we might just get back before everyone we know is killed.”
≈
“Remember, Mister Huffington,” Master Upton said, “into His Majesty’s hand only. The only other person who may look in this satchel is His Majesty’s bodyguard.” The master of security placed a hand on Huffington’s shoulder in a seemingly nonchalant manner, but Huffington felt the weight of responsibility in the gesture. Count Norris had always exhibited great caution when dealing with this man, whom he called the emperor’s spymaster. Huffington tried not to shudder.
“So you told me, sir, and so I’ll do.” Huffington shouldered the heavy leather satchel. Not only did it contain dispatches to the emperor from both Upton and the admiral, but also two lead ingots; if necessary, he could toss the satchel overboard and its secrets would be safe forever.
“There is sensitive information in that satchel—extremely sensitive information—that could make or break men’s careers, and perhaps cost or save lives. Have a care that it does not fall into the wrong hands.” Upton patted his shoulder and removed his hand.
“Excuse me, sir,” Huffington said, finally dredging up the courage to ask the question that had been nagging him since the previous evening. “But why me? You have aides…”
Upton stared at him with cold eyes. “You are a witness to the loss of His Majesty’s flagship, and your observations are...untainted by opinion or prejudice. In politics, there are few who are entirely trustworthy; even my own aides may have been compromised. I have…researched your background, and believe that I can trust you. You have worked yourself into a comfortable position as Count Norris’ secretary, but I know that you have other useful skills, including discretion.”
Oh dear gods
, Huffington thought.
What does he know
?
Upton laughed shortly. “If you didn’t want to bring attention to yourself, you should have refrained from requesting an audience with His Majesty to discuss your views of the situation with the seamage. Do you not think we look into the backgrounds of those who will be near His person? It is my job to know everything about everyone, Mister Huffington. And I believe I can trust you.” He cast an appraising eye over Huffington, then handed him a letter sealed with wax and the imprint of a ring. “This letter will gain you an audience with the emperor. Do not fail me.”
“I’ll deliver the message and bring back His Majesty’s reply, Master Upton, whatever it may be.” He tucked the letter inside his waistcoat and nodded.
“Very good. Farewell, then.”
Huffington shook the spymaster’s outstretched hand. The grip was strong, almost painfully so, and he wondered if it was a warning. He turned and boarded the small craft that Upton had requisitioned for the trip, a trim little fishing smack from the local fleet. The smack would make the trip in half the time it would take an imperial launch, and had an enclosed cabin, even if it did stink of fish.
Four hearty imperial sailors had been assigned the task of taking him to Tsing with all haste, and as they cast off the lines and hoisted sail, it was easy to see that they knew their business. They would reach Tsing in a week if the trade winds held true, sooner if a single god smiled on their venture. Not that Huffington was a religious man. In his line of work, one could not afford to put one’s values over one’s duty.
He huddled in the small cabin and ignored the smack’s boisterous crew, tucking the satchel under his head and closing his eyes, not even wondering at what lay within the stout leather bag. Curiosity could also be deadly to one in his position. What he did wonder, however, as he tried to force himself to sleep, was exactly what his position had become.
≈
“The trade winds are flagging,” Cynthia said to Chula as she paced the afterdeck of
Peggy’s Dream
, her eyes drawn up to the sails. She could feel the winds course through the rigging—filling, pulling, urging the ships along, but not fast enough.
“Aye, Capt’n. We be flyin’ every stitch of canvas she’ll hoist, but we’ve lost t’ree knots since de end of de mid-watch.” He peered to windward and she followed his gaze; the swells had lost their white caps, and there were even patches of slick, airless sea interspersed among them. A bad sign. “Comin’ inta de doldrums, I’m t’inkin’.”
“Sooner than I thought,” she said as she peered back at
Orin’s Pride
, which was also flying all her canvas but losing headway. They were less than a full day’s sail south of the Fathomless Reaches, and though they had been making excellent time, that was changing quickly. Cynthia caught a glimpse of something flying between the ships; Mouse, with another message. She and Feldrin had been using the sprite to pass notes, as it was much quicker and easier than communicating by signal. Mouse landed on her shoulder with a chirp and handed her the rolled piece of paper.
“Thank you, Mouse,” she said absently. Cynthia read the note and frowned; Feldrin had reached the same conclusion. They needed more wind. “Pass the word for Edan, please, Chula. It’s time he started earning his keep.”
“Aye, Capt’n,” he said, flashing his pearly grin, then shouted for the boatswain. “Fetch Masta Edan, if you be pleased, Mista Gupa!”
“Aye, sir!” The new boatswain saluted and shouted below for Edan, and word passed through the ship. In moments the young man’s distinctive brush of red hair appeared from the fo’c’sle hatch, and he worked his way aft around the newly completed ballistae that crowded the deck.
“You called for me, Cynthia?”
“You’ll address her as Capt’n or Mistress, Masta Edan!” Chula snapped. He had been complaining to Cynthia about the boy’s attitude, and apparently had reached his limit of tolerance.
“But she’s not
my
captain, and she’s not my mistress, either, Chula,” Edan said with a shrug.
“As long as you on dis ship, she’s—”
“It’s all right, Chula. Let it be.” Cynthia waved a hand in dismissal, as if the point were moot—which, as far as she was concerned, it was. “I don’t expect Edan to address me with respect. I haven’t earned his respect, at least not lately.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I don’t care what you
meant
either, Edan. I called you up because there’s
work
to be done; it’s time for you to start helping us. The winds have slacked and we’re not making our best speed.” She gestured to the flagging sails. “We need to fill the sails. The same direction, just a bit more strength. It shouldn’t be much of a strain, but I thought we’d take shifts; two hours each to start, then maybe more when you get used to it.”
“How long do we have to do this?” he asked, eying the sails. Cynthia could feel his questing touch on the wind, and almost smiled.
“Until we reach Akrotia, which will be days, at least, maybe even weeks. We have no way to know until the scouts find the scent of my son.”
“Weeks?” he scoffed. “How can we keep the winds up for weeks? We’ll get exhausted, even taking shifts.”
“Yes, we will, so we’ll make what time we can while conditions are still good. Eventually the sea will become choked with weed, which will slow us further. At that point, I’ll clear the weeds while you provide the wind, which will be even more exhausting.” At his incredulous look, she gave him a thin, grim smile. “I never said helping us would be
easy
, Edan.”
Chula chuckled in a low, amused tone, and said, “You gonna be a pretty busy boy now, Edan.”
Cynthia saw Edan bristle as the first mate showed him the same lack of respect the young man had shown her. She found it troubling, how Edan expected others to automatically show him respect now that he had attained the powers of a pyromage. Well, he would have to learn that respect was earned by deeds, not by power.
“That’s enough, Chula,” she warned, though her tone was mild. The first mate strode off down the deck, chuckling quietly. She turned back to Edan. “I know you can do this. It’s like your fire; practice makes perfect.”
“Show me how much wind you need,” Edan said, squaring his thin shoulders in defiance. She knew his pride would make him push himself; in fact, she was counting on it.
≈
“Na! Na!” Sam shouted, jerking the slack sheet from the cannibal’s hand and lashing it fast. She plucked another line from the row of secured sheets and halyards and thrust it into the man’s grip. “Tada! Noosh! Noosh! Pull, you pointy-toothed pollock!” She grabbed the line and pulled, pointing to where the head of the jib sail twitched on the
First Venture’s
forestay.
“Ah!” He grinned at her and pulled. He rattled off a line of gibberish to his mates and three of them grasped the line and hauled away. The jib rose and they snugged it tight, then two others pulled on the line attached to the sail’s clew and sheeted it home. They even trimmed it sharply. They knew how to trim the sails, how to steer the ship, but that was a far cry from knowing what to do when. They were not competent sailors, not by a far shot, but they were learning.
“Jib!” she shouted, pointing at the sail. They nodded and repeated the word, not mangling the pronunciation too badly. She moved to the line they had just secured and grasped it. “Halyard!” Then she pointed to the sail again and grasped the line at the same time. “Jib halyard!”
Light dawned in the eyes of a few of her crew, but most just looked at her like she was an idiot. “You’re the idiots,” she mumbled in frustration. Finally, one large fellow she knew as Uag nodded and grinned, miming her perfectly, pointing first to the sail and saying, “Jib!” then to the line and repeating, “Halyard!”
“Epa! Epa!” she cried, clapping him on the shoulder. “Epa, Uag! Jib halyard!”
He grinned and repeated the phrase, then rattled off a stream of his own language. She smiled when she saw the light of understanding in the eyes of the rest of the crew. Uag had understood what she wanted and translated her orders to his fellows; an invaluable achievement. Then, to her astonishment, he moved to the row of cleated lines and picked out another. He tugged it and looked up to follow where it led, then grinned again.
“Halyard!” he cried, looking to her for confirmation.
“Epa! Ki! Halyard!” she said, grinning back. “Forestaysail halyard.”
He stumbled at that, unable to pronounce the complicated word, but she broke it down by pointing forward, grabbing the forestay, then patting the sail furled on the forestaysail boom. In an instant, he understood, repeated the phrase, and instructed the others.
“Fan-bloody-tastic!” she said, earning a few confused looks. She waved off their questions, and decided she had one more word to teach them this morning. She walked up to Uag and tapped him on the chest and said, “Bosun!” Then she followed it with two words of their own language that she had learned. “Pica” meant small, and “keffa” meant chief, which was a good definition of a boatswain’s job.
They all cheered and pounded Uag on the back, grinning and crying out their unintelligible congratulations, alternatively calling him “bosun” and “pica keffa.” Sam sighed and took a step back, letting them figure it out for themselves.
She looked around and checked their progress. It had taken her a full day to get everything sorted out on Middle Cay, but now they were approaching Fire Isle and had perhaps twelve hours of sailing to go before they reached the tribe’s home island.
Manta
sailed easily in
First Venture’s
lee under only a single jib and a reefed main.
Cutthroat
, she knew, was clawing her way to windward with only a skeleton crew, and would meet them as scheduled tomorrow night in the lee of Carbuncle Shoal, within easy striking distance of Plume Isle.
Her plan was coming together, her crew was learning, and she was in command. She had even found herself a boatswain. For now, she was content.
Chapter 6
Allies and Enemies
Cutter darted out of the blue distance and snapped to a halt before the school’s vanguard, signing excitedly, *I have found Akrotia! Come see!*
Without waiting to see if anyone followed, he flipped his tail and streaked away in a swirl of bubbles. Sunlight shifed through the thick rafts of floating weed rising and falling on the lazy swells, lending a chaotic pattern of bright and dark to the water. He flipped to a stop in the middle of a thick shaft of light and pointed up.
*You can see it from here!* He shot toward the surface and through it, arcing high and crashing back down in a cascade of bubbles. He flipped in a circle and pointed, signing, *That way, only about a thousand tail flips distant!*
In a more benign situation, Kelpie would have found his antics humorous; not now. The priestess lagged behind as the rest of the mer schooled around Cutter. Eelback immediately leapt up through the hole in the weeds. His eyes were wide when he splashed back down, and he swam in tight circles, his movements jerky with excitement. He urged the others to leap high for a better look and, one by one, they complied. When they came down, some looked excited, others anxious. Their goal was no longer an abstract legend. It was real, and it was in sight. Eelback made one final leap, then smiled broadly and slapped the scout on the shoulder.
*Well done, Cutter! You have found our goal, but you are mistaken. It is not only one thousand tail flips distant, but closer to three thousand!*
*Three thousand?* Cutter signed, his eyes widening until Kelpie thought they might pop out. *But…that would make Akrotia as large as an island!*
*Larger than some, but smaller than most, my friend,* Eelback signed. He motioned for the school to reform, then noticed Kelpie a short distance away. He swam quickly to her and waved toward the surface. *You do not go to see our goal, Kelpie? Here! I will hold the seamage’s finling while you see Akrotia.* He held out his hands to her. When she didn’t move, he knitted his eye ridges in consternation.
*I will see it soon enough, Eelback,* Kelpie signed somewhat impatiently, making no move to hand over the child. *And, as I told you before, Seamage Flaxal’s child is not a finling. He is finally sleeping, and I am loath to disturb his rest.* She turned away from Eelback and sought her position in the middle of the school, next to Tailwalker. The trident holder’s son had been left alone while the others had sought to see Akrotia, but he hadn’t tried to escape; he knew that, in his weakened and bound condition, the predators of the ocean would soon have him. Still, he had the strength to turn away from Kelpie as she approached.