Lady Smoke

by Laura Sebastian

  She shrugs her shoulders, though a dark cloud passes over her face. “I didn’t, but I managed to stow a lot of anger, and that makes up for rusty muscles, at least somewhat.”

  The boy looks like he wants to say something, but then his eyes find me and widen.

  “Y-Your Majesty,” he stammers, dipping into a hasty bow before I can tell him not to.

  Artemisia whirls around to face me, cheeks pink with exertion.

  “That was impressive,” I tell her.

  “It would be more fun with an opponent who’d lifted a sword in the last year,” she says, shooting a halfhearted glare at her partner.

  He rolls his eyes. “I’ll practice more,” he says. “And you’ll wish I hadn’t when I beat you.”

  She snorts. “As if you ever could,” she says. “Theo, this is Spiros.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I tell him. “Trust me, you did far better than I could have.”

  “I did offer to fix that,” Artemisia reminds me before she notices my tray. “Taking breakfast in your room?”

  “Not quite,” I say. “Do you have a few moments free?”

  She nods before turning back to Spiros. “I’ll see you at supper.”

  “If I can walk by then,” he says.

  Artemisia and I don’t speak until we are out of earshot. When I confess about my visit to Søren, she wastes no time telling me how foolish I was.

  “As soon as the guards’ shift is over, they’ll be tattling to my mother about your visit and she’ll find some way to use it against you,” she says.

  “I know,” I reply. “But I have an idea about that.”

  Artemisia arches a dark eyebrow and purses her lips, waiting for me to continue.

  “Your gift can change your appearance. Can it change mine?”

  She looks surprised for a half second before her mouth bows into a smile. “It can. But in return, I’m going to put a sword in your hand and teach you how to use it. Deal?”

  I start to protest again, but then I think about the way she fought a few minutes ago, unafraid and powerful and ready to take on any enemy. I still don’t know if I have that in me, but I would like to find out.

  “Deal,” I say.

  Artemisia gives a curt nod. “Well then, whose face would you like to try on?”

  * * *

  —

  It is a strange thing, to be wearing my mother’s face. Dragonsbane’s face, I remind myself, though it doesn’t feel like Dragonsbane’s. I try to mimic her posture as Artemisia and I walk toward the guards. Art managed to change the appearance of my clothes, but she couldn’t do anything about my boots—I hope my straight-backed stance will help to disguise the fact that I’m a couple of inches shorter than Dragonsbane.

  When the guards see us approach, they stand up a little straighter.

  “Captain,” they say in sync.

  “I’m here to see the prisoner,” I reply, clipping my words the same way Dragonsbane does.

  “Of course,” one of the guards says, fumbling to open the door as quickly as possible.

  “Is there anything you would like to report?” I ask, knowing that there is.

  The guards don’t disappoint. They trip over each other to tell me about my own visit, how long I stayed, what they overheard through the door. I make a note to myself to speak softer, even if they didn’t hear anything particularly damning this time. Only my concern, only me convincing him to eat.

  “You’ll speak of this to no one, am I understood?” I say, looking between the two of them with what I hope is the same intensity that Dragonsbane always has.

  They both nod frantically and step aside, letting Artemisia and me pass.

  * * *

  —

  I should have brought paper and a quill with me. I hadn’t expected much from Søren—the names of a handful of other countries similar to Astrea willing to join with us against the Kaiser—but he lists close to a dozen, and Artemisia has plenty more to add. It turns out that growing up on a ship crewed by people from all over the world has given her a unique insight into the elements of their cultures that Søren never picked up during his visits to their courts.

  Each country seems to have a different structure. None of them is a matriarchy, the way Astrea is, though plenty follow the same patriarchal structure as Kalovaxia, even if the names of the rulers change. There are kings and emperors and potentates, yet as far as I can tell they all mean the same thing, more or less.

  “I never understood the concept of the bloodline tracing through male heirs,” I admit after Søren tells me about Prince Talin of Etralia, whose legitimacy as an heir is questionable at best.

  “It’s how most of the world operates,” Søren says. Though Artemisia doesn’t have Heron’s healing powers, she’s managed to use her Water Gift to clean him up and rinse out his wounds to keep them from getting infected. Again, it’s only temporary. After we leave, it will only be a matter of hours before he’s roughed up again. The thought weighs heavily on my conscience, but I know Art is right: there’s nothing I can do about it. Not now, at least.

  “Patriarchies are awfully fallible, though,” I say. “It’s easy to cast doubt on the paternity of an heir, but almost impossible if you follow the maternal line. No one can say for certain who my father was, but my mother’s identity has never been called into question. No one would ever doubt my legitimacy as an heir to her throne.”

  Artemisia makes a noise in the back of her throat. “Unless there are twins, of course,” she says.

  When Søren and I both turn to look at her, she sighs and sits up from her spot slouched against the wall diagonally across from Søren. “There’s a story about when our mothers were born,” she says to me. “They say they tied a ribbon around the firstborn’s ankle. Flimsy a system as it was, there was no precedent, so they did their best. Of course, babies are squirmy things and the ribbon fell off after less than an hour. So the queen—our grandmother—picked one of them. It was a random choice, based on her intuition, she said. That was how the fate of our country was decided.”

  She says it plainly, a story she’s heard so many times it’s become its own kind of mythology, but it prickles at the back of my neck like a gnat. Søren catches my gaze and I see the pieces coming together for him as well. It’s almost a relief, for Dragonsbane to have some kind of goal aside from creating chaos and hoarding control, but if she wants my crown she’s going to have to pry it from my corpse’s fingers.

  “Tell me about the Bindorians again,” I say to Søren, changing the subject, though I stow that bit of knowledge in the back of my mind. “You said they were a…religious…?”

  “Oligarchy,” he finishes. “Ruled by five high priests, who are in turn elected by smaller delegations of regular priests, one for each sub-country. Though the common belief is that each high priest is chosen by God himself.”

  “God?” Artemisia asks.

  “They’re monotheistic, yes,” he says.

  She rolls her eyes. “Just say there’s only one. You aren’t in court, your fancy words don’t impress anyone.”

  His cheeks turn pink. “There’s only one,” he amends. “There are a few countries that are mono…that have only one god. In some religions he’s benevolent and kind, protecting his people. In others he’s vengeful, ready to reach down and punish them for any kind of indiscretion.”

  “So how would this work?” Artemisia asks. “If a religious oli…whatever it is shows up to try for Theo’s hand. Would one of them marry her?”

  A bonus of this briefing is that it’s an immersion lesson in keeping my expression placid while they throw around words like marriage and husband and wedding. It’s all hypothetical, I remind myself. I haven’t agreed to anything and I won’t, but it would be foolish to walk into the Sta’Criveran court blind.

  “I don’t ima
gine so,” he says. “They are all celibate. They would be interested solely in Astrea and ruling there.”

  “Partially ruling. Hypothetically,” I correct him, though even that is a horrifying thought. “Something tells me that they wouldn’t be too keen on respecting our beliefs.”

  Søren hesitates before shaking his head. “I visited Bindor once a few years ago and I didn’t have a single conversation with any of them that didn’t get forced back into them trying to convert me.”

  “Lovely,” I say with an exhale. “They’re out, then.”

  It’s the same thing I’ve said about most of the heirs Søren has mentioned, and even the ones I haven’t outright rejected haven’t sounded like valid options. But I could tell Søren and Art were getting frustrated with me, so I said I would at least consider them. The problem isn’t any of the prospective matches. I know that and they must as well. The problem is that I can’t stomach the thought of marrying anyone, let alone some stranger with ulterior motives. If there was another choice—any other choice—I wouldn’t even entertain the idea. But as awful as all these prospects seem, I can’t deny that we need more troops, and that won’t come without a high cost.

  “Let’s go back to King Etristo again,” I say, but Artemisia and Søren exchange a tired look. Even to them, King Etristo of Sta’Crivero is something of an enigma. Søren’s actually met the man before, but still couldn’t say much. I can count the things I know about him on only three fingers.

  First, he is either in his sixties or seventies—Søren and Artemisia disagree here.

  Second, he has several daughters but only one legitimate son, who himself has his own heir. The Sta’Criveran royal lineage is secure for at least another two generations.

  And third, since the Kalovaxians began their conquering nearly a century ago, Sta’Crivero has accepted refugees from the countries that were ravaged. They are one of the few countries too strong for the Kalovaxians to target.

  “There’s nothing else?” I press, but Søren and Artemisia both shake their heads.

  “What about him personally?” I ask. “Is he kind or cruel, wise or dim?”

  Søren shrugs but Artemisia purses her lips.

  “I don’t know any more about the King, but I do know that Sta’Crivero is a wealthy country. They haven’t fought a war in centuries. They don’t need to value useful things, so they value pretty things.”

  The implication is clear. “I’m not a thing,” I say.

  “I know that and you know that,” Artemisia says, rolling her eyes. “But they don’t. And they won’t care enough to make the distinction.”

  A RINGING SOUND PIERCES THROUGH THE haze of sleep surrounding my mind and drags me back to the world after what feels like only a few minutes, though the early dawn light filtering through the porthole window means it must have been hours. I blink the sleep from my eyes and sit up before realizing that something is wrong.

  It isn’t the sound that signals a crew change or meals or an announcement from Dragonsbane. Those are all a single gong, struck only once. Now it’s three different bells, clanging in tandem with no sign of stopping.

  It’s an alarm.

  I throw the blanket off and clamber to my feet, pulling my cloak over my nightgown and quickly shoving my feet in my too-big boots. My heart pounds against my rib cage as a thousand thoughts stream through my mind, heightened by the bells’ constant ringing.

  The Kaiser’s men have found me.

  They’ll drag me back in chains.

  It’s over.

  I’ve failed.

  I push those worries aside and head for the door, determined to find out what all the fuss is about, but when I open it I find Spiros on the other side, swords sheathed at his hips and his fist raised to knock.

  “Y-Your Majesty,” he stutters, eyes darting around and looking anywhere but at me as his hand falls to his side.

  “What’s happening?” I ask him. I have to shout to be heard over the bells.

  “We’ve caught wind of a Kalovaxian trade ship a few miles east, and the captain has decided to give chase. It’s all hands on deck now as we prepare for an attack.”

  My body sags with relief and I have to grip the doorframe to stay upright. We’re attacking them, not the other way around.

  “Captain says you’re to stay put in your cabin until it’s safe.”

  The order wraps around me like a too-tight corset, though I know it’s for the best. I’m of no use in an attack. The best thing I can do for anyone is stay out of the way.

  “And are you tasked with being my nanny?” I ask instead of arguing.

  He frowns. “I’m your guard, Your Majesty.”

  “Yes, I’ve had guards like you before,” I say, though I immediately regret it. This is hardly Spiros’s fault. “This happens often enough, doesn’t it?” I ask.

  He nods. “Every couple of weeks.”

  “Will there be casualties? Of ours?” I ask.

  Again he hesitates. “There is usually a cost,” he says carefully.

  Ampelio thought the cost was too high, I remember Blaise saying once, about Dragonsbane and her methods.

  I open the door wider. “You might as well come in. It’ll be a long morning.”

  Spiros nods, the dark cloud not leaving his face as he enters my cabin.

  “How long does it usually last?” I ask him.

  “A few hours. She’s pretty efficient about it by now—we could probably take the ship with blindfolds on. Approach their broadside and get as close as we can before turning our cannon side to them—you want to avoid turning too quickly, because then you give them a larger target,” he explains. “It’s much harder to do damage to the bow of a ship.”

  I nod and wait for him to continue.

  “Sometimes they’ll surrender before we even shoot. They know Dragonsbane’s reputation by now and there’s a rumor that she’s merciful to those who surrender, that she lets them sail off to Esstena or Timmoree or some small country and live so long as they swear to never return to Astrea. But the captain’s never shown mercy to any Kalovaxian.”

  “And if they don’t surrender?”

  Spiros shrugs. “We fire on them until they do, or until the ship sinks. If they do surrender, we loot them and then sink the ship and all the Spiritgems on board.”

  He pauses, but I can tell he isn’t done, so I don’t interrupt.

  “I used to think it was an insult to the gods, to let all of those gems litter the ocean floor, but I think it’s the kindest thing we can do. It isn’t as if we can put them back in the mines. At least this way, no one can abuse them.”

  For a beat, I don’t say anything, but I can hold my tongue only so long. “I’m more concerned about the slaves who go down with the ships that refuse to surrender.”

  He isn’t surprised by my retort. Instead, he only seems tired. It’s not a new argument.

  “It’s a high cost to pay,” he allows, though he sounds distant, lost in his own thoughts. “Sometimes it seems worth it, sometimes it doesn’t.”

  * * *

  —

  When the Smoke fires her first cannon, shaking the ship so strongly that my unlit candle falls off my desk, Spiros doesn’t jump in surprise like I do. He barely even seems to hear it, though it leaves my ears ringing. He leans against my door like he half expects me to bolt through it at any moment.

  “How many years have you been with Dragonsbane?” I ask him from my perch on the edge of my bed. I feel like I have to shout to hear myself. Once the cannon fire begins, it’s constant, though at least it all seems to be coming from our ship.

  He shrugs and slides down the door until he’s sitting, arms braced on either side of him to prepare for the next cannon blast.

  “Since before the siege,” he says. “I don’t really remember life before, honestly,
but I know my father joined her crew after my mother died. Before that, we were in Naphia,” he says, naming an Astrean town at the base of the Grulain mountain range.

  “Naphia is beautiful,” I say. “I only went there once with my mother before the siege, but the lavender fields had just bloomed and it was so lovely.”

  Spiros only shrugs again. “I suppose. We went back a few years ago—Dragonsbane had been hired by refugees hiding out in the mountains and we passed through Naphia on our way. It was…” He pauses. “There was nothing. The village had been leveled and burned. The lavender fields, too. It was just barren land, like no one had ever set foot there before us. Dozens of generations, obliterated.”

  My chest tightens. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I know what it is to lose your home.”

  He shakes his head. “The Smoke is my home.”

  Another cannon fires, making the ship shudder. I wince, clenching my hands at my sides until it stills. “I can’t imagine growing up like this. Always under attack.”

  He gives me a funny look and I realize what I said.

  “Well, not like this, at any rate,” I amend. “Those attacks were—” I break off for another cannon blast. “Quieter.”

  “They aren’t firing back,” he says after a few beats. “It’s only our fire. We must have taken them by surprise and now they’ll be scrambling. It’ll be an easy haul.”

  It’s difficult to imagine the Kalovaxians scrambling. In my experience, they have always been stoic and steely warriors always two steps ahead of their enemies, but there’s a reason Dragonsbane has managed to evade them for so long. In spite of everything, I respect her.

  “What’ll happen now?” I ask.

  He considers it for a moment, dark eyes growing thoughtful. “They’ll wave the white flag soon—that means surrender.”

  “I know what a white flag is,” I say. “The Kalovaxians use it as a metaphor, though I always heard that their ships aren’t equipped with them—death before surrender and all that.”

  He laughs. “Those are strong words, but they’re only words. Kalovaxians have a survival instinct, just like anyone. They’ll fly their undershirts if they need to.”