Fray

by Rowenna Miller

  “Only for a while. You’ll be safe in Kvyset with Alba,” he added, reassuring himself, perhaps, but not me.

  A while—who knew how long? It was pointless to ask now. “I care less about being safe than about being useful,” I said.

  “You’ve done more than you know,” Theodor whispered into my hair. I closed my eyes, briefly, and took in the scent of his clove pomade and his finely milled soap, let my fingers close over his.

  Kristos joined us. “Readying the longboat now. I hope these Serafans can row.”

  “They can,” Sianh said with a grim smile, striding toward us. “I’ve a feeling half of these fellows were prison galley fodder before this.” A passing sailor gave him a wide berth.

  “Good luck, Sophie,” Kristos said, pushing Theodor aside and wrapping me in a hug that, once, would have felt familiar. “Good luck with the Fenians.”

  “I’ll need good luck getting there first,” I said.

  “I figured you had that in the bag,” he said with a grin. “Aren’t you wearing a charm?”

  “You know I don’t wear my own charms.”

  Kristos shook his head, admiration beaming in his cockeyed smile. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “It’s time,” Ballantine called. We passed a rocky outcropping, heavily forested, that would hide our maneuvers from the frigate, but only for a few minutes. If we were lucky, the Galatines pursuing us wouldn’t realize that we had dropped a longboat into the waters of the cove, and if we continued to be lucky—very lucky—the boat could be ashore and hidden before they passed the cove. The former was likely enough; the latter, I knew, would push even the best charms, and mine had been a sloppy one.

  I would blame myself, I knew, if they didn’t make it. I would blame the charm’s weak potency and messy casting, not the impossibility of the plan, not the superior manpower and strength of the ship behind us. My head swam, and I fought the feebleness that rapid casting had left in me.

  Kristos took his seat in the longboat first, followed by Sianh and a complement of sailors who were ordered to remain hidden in the forest until the frigate had passed and rendezvous in the nearest town with any Serafan vessel that would take them home. Ballantine doled out pay equal to three times what they had been promised. Their mood lifted tangibly.

  Theodor pulled me toward him in one final embrace, hurried and painful. I bit back sobs and saw that tears sprang into his eyes, too. “I love you,” he whispered.

  “And I love you. Albatross,” I added with a laugh.

  “Now, Princeling,” Kristos called.

  “Please,” I called back, “don’t you two kill each other.”

  Kristos forced a grin, Theodor took a seat and an oar, and the sailors lowered the boat over the side. We were well hidden by the outcropping, but the process was too slow for my liking. I gripped the rail, wishing I had either Galatine faith in the Sacred Natures or Pellian faith in my ancestors to cling to, to beg for succor, to believe would aid me. Instead, I had to rely on the strong arms of the Serafan sailors and the luck I had cast myself.

  The moment the boat was lowered, Ballantine began shouting orders to move us quickly toward the open water. As they rowed away, I forced myself to watch, to show both Theodor and Kristos that I was there for them, that I wouldn’t turn my back on them. They grew smaller, closer to the shore as we moved farther from it. I couldn’t yet see the frigate; she couldn’t yet see us. Just a few more minutes, I wished silently.

  “They’ll be fine,” Alba said. I hadn’t seen her approach. She had given us the dignity of our farewells with what small amount of privacy her absence offered. “Regardless of when the Galatines realize they’ve landed, they’ll have a head start. And with only three of them, they’ll move quickly through the forest. It isn’t easy to track men through wild country like that.”

  “And have little chance in a fight,” I said.

  “It won’t come to that.” She placed a hand gently over mine. I let her. “Come now, a woman who bids luck and controls fortune is a pessimist at a moment like this?”

  The white sails of the frigate emerged from behind the trees, their thick green foliage dark like spilled ink where the ship passed behind them. “No,” I said, straightening my slumped shoulders. “For whatever good it might do.”

  58

  AS THE FRIGATE ROUNDED THE ROCKS BLOCKING THE COVE, I essayed one final look at the longboat. It was beached, and the sailors had disappeared into the forest along with Kristos, Sianh, and Theodor.

  “I told them, if they couldn’t hide the boat before the frigate rounded the curve, to just leave it on the shore until the frigate was well away.” Ballantine stood beside me. “It might—with a grain of luck—look abandoned.”

  “It has some luck,” I replied. “She looks closer.”

  “I think we may have sent the last of our luck with the longboat,” Ballantine agreed. “She’s not lowering her own boats. She’s following us, which means, thank the Divine Sea, she isn’t investigating the boat on the beach.” He lowered the glass. His hand shook slightly. “But she’s gaining on us, finally.”

  I turned away. I knew what being intercepted by the frigate might mean for Ballantine, if his father wasn’t willing to grant him clemency, and so did he, though his stoic posture didn’t belie the fears that must have been coursing through him.

  And to me?

  “Ladies,” Ballantine said quietly. “I would suggest we begin discussing strategy.”

  Alba nodded crisply. “Indeed. Sophie, with me.”

  “With you, where?” Ballantine said.

  Alba cut him off with a flick of her wrist. “She can’t stand here looking like a Galatine lady any longer, for one. They’ll be close enough to see her soon, and then all’s lost.”

  “All is lost?” I asked. “Cheerful.”

  “Lost, if we’re to pass you off as anything but Sophie Balstrade, consort of the crown prince and charm caster extraordinaire.”

  “You want me to disguise myself.”

  Alba bowed slightly. “You’ve figured me out.”

  “But won’t they know her—simply as herself? Whatever she is wearing?” Ballantine asked.

  “Hardly. Most Galatines wouldn’t know her on sight, not like the crown prince who has portraits all over and is known by every Galatine naval officer from here to the Fenian frontier.” She pulled me toward her cabin. “And I will assure you. Most people do not look overlong at a nun.”

  Once inside the cabin, she pulled a second gray wool gown from her pack, nearly identical to the one she was wearing, and a length of fine linen. A veil.

  “Be quick, arranging the wimple is a bit tricky,” she said, politely turning her back to let me change.

  “I haven’t agreed to this,” I protested. “I’m not sure I even know how to pretend to be a nun.”

  “You have a better idea?” she asked, her gentle tone taking an edge.

  “I could dress as a sailor,” I suggested, hesitantly unpinning the front of my gown and then unlacing the panel behind it.

  “If I had good binding bands, maybe. But not with that ample endowment,” she said with a nod toward my chest. “Leave your underthings on. The stays—sweet Creator, those are nicely made.” She sniffed. “I hope no one has cause to see them, or we’re sunk. Our underwear in the house is never nearly so nice.”

  I stripped my cotton gown and donned the gray wool, the lightweight fabric settling over my shift and petticoats as I shook out the skirts. It was a bit too long and a bit too narrow in the shoulders; Alba was built like a birch tree.

  “At least your hair isn’t dolled up into one of those ridiculous towers,” she said, swiftly brushing it out, braiding it, and binding it. She then arranged the stiff, sheer linen veil and pinned it in place. I hardly recognized the woman staring back at me from the warped mirror hanging from Alba’s wall.

  “The shoes—well, leave them off. Plenty of us go barefoot.” I kicked my fine silk slippers under her bed. “No, th
at won’t do. They might look there.” She bundled my clothes up and ferried them to my trunk in my cabin. Then, despite my protests, hailed a sailor.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I wish I could have them dumped overboard, but that would attract attention. I’ll have them taken to cargo. I do hope they don’t search too thoroughly.”

  I sank against the wall, still light-headed from too much charm casting, and overwhelmed.

  A deafening report shook the ship.

  I looked up as chain shot hurtled through the outermost rigging, ripping several ropes asunder.

  “Their aim is off,” Alba said with a sly look at me. “Or might the rigging have had some help?”

  “It won’t hold them off forever. It’s a luck charm, not some all-powerful warding.”

  Ballantine joined us. “Well, were I looking for a runaway Galatine consort, I would not recognize you, Sophie.”

  “Stop calling her that,” Alba said. “Sastra—Sastra what? Quick, pick a name.”

  “Pick a name?” Another cannon shot rippled through the air. It missed us entirely. “What, a Pellian name? A Galatine name? Kvys?” I gripped the gown so tightly I thought it might tear. “Who’s going to buy a Pellian-Kvys nun anyway?”

  “We have many of many nations in my house,” Alba said with forced calm. “But it’s best if we don’t introduce ourselves as ‘Sister Sophie the former consort of the crown prince,’ I would think.”

  “Lieta,” I said quickly. For my friend in Galitha City, for the gentle wisdom I hoped I could embody.

  “Good, Sastra Lieta.”

  “Sophie,” Ballantine said.

  “It’s Sastra Lieta now,” I said.

  He assessed me, unconvinced. “Very well. We can’t hold them. We can’t outrun them any farther. I’m going to run up the pennants to surrender.”

  “Ballantine,” I began, but he stopped me.

  “I know what it means.”

  “I will intercede as I am able,” Alba promised.

  The surrender moved swiftly. The signal flags run up, the sailors, standing at attention and unarmed, banked against the wind so our progress slowed, and the frigate approached us. I stood beside Alba, sweat dripping down my back and dampening my hair under the veil. Ballantine stood ready, ever so slightly canted in front of us, as though protecting us with his presence alone. I couldn’t even begin to count the rows of cannons leering at us through gunports. There was no protection against that black iron.

  The boarding party arrived quickly, a captain in the Galatine naval uniform.

  “Lieutenant Westland,” he said with faint surprise. “We had suspected, of course.”

  He inclined his head. “Captain Forsithe.”

  “What cargo is this?”

  Alba stepped forward, perfectly poised with folded hands and impassive face. “I am Sastra-set Alba of the Order of the Golden Sphere. I am returning home.”

  “Home,” the captain replied. “In a ship commanded by a deserter officer of the Galatine Crown? And with—a Serafan crew?”

  Alba nodded. “We were unable to secure our own vessel to return home after the summit. Given the uncertainties in these waters of late.”

  “Ah.” Captain Forsithe looked us over, barely glancing at me. It was true, what Alba said—most people didn’t look long on a nun. “Kvys nun hires Serafan ship to take her back to her convent. That’s almost understandable.” He turned back to Ballantine. “Why are you commanding this ship? What business have you here?”

  “I was hired. This woman paid well.” I detected the lie in the stiff shoulders, the way his hand clenched into a fist. But these looked like fear, too, and of course Ballantine had much to fear.

  “You’re not, then, attached to the Reformist army?”

  Ballantine saw the opportunity to cement his lie by mixing in one small truth, a truth that could condemn him but continue to provide a cover for the rest of us. “I intended to rejoin the Reformists in Galitha, yes. I needed a way to come back; my father wasn’t going to pay passage for one wayward son to join the other in fighting a war against him. Captaining a ship for hire gave me a way to return.”

  Captain Forsithe sighed. “I had hoped you’d simply gone missing, made some stupid, rash mistake, Westland. I might have found some way to be lenient.”

  “I’ve made no mistakes, sir.”

  “Very well.” Forsithe nodded, and a pair of marines in sea green stepped forward to escort him back to the frigate. “I shall have to take you under arrest. Given the… circumstance, and your parentage, we will delay court martial until we come into port and word can be sent to your father.”

  Ballantine didn’t respond, and I wasn’t sure if it was relief at a short reprieve or grief at Forsithe speaking of his father.

  “If it please you, sir.” Alba stepped forward next to me, and I started.

  “Yes?”

  “You would leave this ship without a captain, sir. And leave us stranded at sea.”

  He glanced at the three of us, and at the sailors on board. “I would gladly escort you to the nearest port.”

  Alba blanched. “I appreciate your consideration. Will we, do you believe, be able to find passage back to Kvyset from such a port?”

  He sighed. “I can guarantee no such thing. Not now, not this far south.”

  Alba didn’t speak. She simply looked at him, large eyes searching him under that starched white veil. Forsithe squirmed. Alba stayed quiet.

  “I could grant him parole.” Forsithe shook his head. “I mean that it would be legal, under my jurisdiction, to do so, for pressing circumstances.”

  He was on the verge of refusing. I expected Alba to argue.

  She just watched, lifting her chin in graceful, dutiful resignation, ever so slightly sighing.

  “You could find alternative arrangements in Galitha City, I am sure. The port is still open. Lieutenant Westland, I grant you parole to escort the high sister and her retinue as far as Galitha City. Our vessels will remain in sight of one another until arrival in port. If you attempt any escape, I will be forced to apprehend you by any means necessary, regardless of your parentage.”

  “I thank you for your compassion, sir,” Alba said as Ballantine’s face drained of color and he looked, for a moment, as though he might be sick.

  “One final question,” Forsithe said. I stared at my bare toes, avoiding Forsithe’s eyes. “There was a woman with the Galatine delegation in Isildi. A Sophie Balstrade. With the prince.”

  “Yes,” Alba said. My stomach lurched. “I made her acquaintance. A bit of a—what is the term in Galatine? A country relation, you would call her.”

  “A commoner, yes. Aligned with the Reformists. And quite likely a witch.”

  “Now that sounds like a fairy story,” Alba said, properly aghast. I kept my eyes on my feet, even as they began to waver in my vision as I tried to betray no emotion, no reaction to Forsithe’s question.

  “Be that as it may. Do you have any indication where she might have gone? We believe she may harbor some power within the Reformist cause.” He looked straight at me. I stared back as though I didn’t understand his language, as though the terror I was sure painted in broad strokes across my face was merely the response to the confusion around me.

  “No, sir,” Ballantine said.

  Forsithe waited for a reply that didn’t come from Alba. “Very well. I leave you to your parole, Westland.”

  I breathed with relief, but only for a moment. “I’ll leave a complement of marines on board with you,” Forsithe added. “To ensure your compliance and to protect these women.”

  My breath hitched in my throat. The uniformed marines stepped forward, sunlight glinting on their fixed bayonets. I was Sastra Lieta of the Order of the Golden Sphere until we made port.

  And after that, who knew?

  59

  ALBA ADJUSTED MY VEIL AS THE FRIGATE SAILED ONWARD. “PROBABLY ought to have considered a bit of costuming subterfuge from the outse
t,” she whispered in my ear. “Just stay quiet. I’ll tell them you’ve taken a vow of penitent silence.”

  I pulled away, shaking and watching the marines as though I could do anything to avoid them on this small ship. Ballantine held the rail, still sporting all the pallor of a corpse. He directed his mate to take charge of the vessel and keep her at a more leisurely pace, allowing the frigate to move ahead of us. I had seen her name and the brightly painted lady at her prow—the Hopeful Wayfarer. Hopeful, indeed.

  I leaned against the rough sides of the ship, snagging the plain gray wool and not caring. If it had been my own good silk or expensive printed cotton, I would have cared. Sastra Lieta wouldn’t care about clothing. She had dedicated her life to the worshipful contemplation of the Creator.

  How long was I Sastra Lieta? My head thrummed with confusion—how to playact something I didn’t understand? I shook my sleeve free and a wave of dizziness swept over me. Too much casting. I knew the feeling well, the bone-deep exhaustion reminding me that I was not Sastra Lieta, but Sophie Balstrade.

  I nearly slipped as I tried to step away from the wall. Ballantine shot away from the rail and caught my arm.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I stared balefully back at him, remembering myself and refusing to speak.

  “Overtired,” Alba said. She studied me carefully—did she guess that my weakness was from casting? She couldn’t say in either case; the marines still stood watch not ten yards away. “She has a delicate sensibility for shocks, you see,” Alba said, taking my hand. “I’ll have food brought to you.”

  I didn’t stay awake long enough for it. Sustained charm casting pulling directly from the ether, attempting to protect both the ship and the longboat, had exhausted me. Despite my best efforts to keep myself awake fretting over Theodor and Kristos, sleep washed over me within minutes of lying down.