by Chloe Neill
Grant looked at her, and hard, for a long moment. “Agreed,” he said, then walked away.
For an entire minute, she stared at the ceiling, prayed for patience. “Gods save me from viscounts,” she muttered, then followed him out.
* * *
“Status?” she asked Jin, when they reached the deck again.
“Ready,” Jin said. “The door was closed, and I didn’t want to interrupt your—”
“It’s fine,” Kit said, cutting him off. “Call the crew for the instructions, please. Battle stations aren’t necessary.” She wanted them close by so she could speak without the wind carrying her voice—and their mission—across the quay. Word would travel soon enough. This was the time for discretion.
“All hands!” Jin yelled, then whistled so sharply August dug a finger into his ear as if to dislodge the sound. The order was carried down the deck and through the hatchways, until footsteps began to pound and officers and sailors and gathered. Those already on board moved toward the stern to hear their instructions, learn what this sudden mission was about.
Cook was, as always, the last one on deck. When they filled the ship’s waist, when hats were pulled off and crumpled into hands, she looked them over.
“Your leave was cut short,” she said. “It was your duty to respond to the Crown’s call, and here you are. It is believed a man loyal to the Crown, a man who has put himself in danger to protect her interests, has been taken by hostile forces. It is our job to find him, to rescue him, and to see him home safely. And that we will do.”
“What’s our destination, Captain?” August, as always, was the voice of the crew.
“We set sail for Finistère.”
Eyes widened, voices murmuring excitement and approval. They were experienced sailors and understood very well the risk of a viper pit like Finistère . . . and the appeal.
“It will be dangerous,” she said. “Our man is likely being held against his will, likely for the information he’s gathered. Those who have detained him will not let him go easily. We may incur injuries—and worse—in the process of this mission.”
She took a step forward, moving closer to her crew, and met each of their gazes in turn. Let them see the gravity of what they’d been asked to do, the importance of it. And the risk. She owed that to them, too.
“We will be quick,” she said. “Fleet as foxes. Silent as doves on the wing. We will not fail.”
“Hear, hear!” someone shouted, and the cheer spread across the deck.
“Weigh anchor!” Kit called out. And the work began.
Seven
When they were underway and streaming down the Saint James toward the sea, she gave Jin the helm, ensured he’d keep an eye on Grant, and went to her quarters.
She was obliged to document receipt of the ship’s provisions and confirm her crew had come aboard, so they could be paid. Paperwork was one of the less enviable tasks of captaincy and, if she was being honest, one she ought to have completed before they’d left port. But she hadn’t wanted to hold up the ship, and presumed the queen would forgive the delay.
It took two hours, and by then they’d reached the mouth of the Saint James—and the edge of the Narrow Sea. Kit put away the implements of this particular torture and climbed up to the deck. And felt a shudder of awareness as the ocean spread east before them.
Simon was at the wheel. Behind him, maps were spread atop the wooden cabinet that covered the mechanism connecting the wheel to the rudder below. A brass sextant kept them from blowing away in the wind.
Jin and Grant stood beside the cabinet. “How was the paperwork, Captain?” Jin asked.
Kit growled, glanced at Grant. “Colonel.”
“Captain.” His tone was as chilly as hers.
Probably irritated, Kit thought, that he wasn’t actually steering the ship. But he could learn to live with disappointment. She circled around to the maps.
“What have we got, Simon?”
When a waiting lieutenant took his place at the wheel, Simon moved to stand beside her. “Our present location,” he said, pointing to a spot just off the Isles’ coast, then swept his finger to freckles of brown that lay on the other end of the Narrow Sea to their southwest. “And the Rondel archipelago.”
The islands were spread along a diagonal that ran roughly northwest to southeast, arcing around the coast of Gallia. Dozens of cays and spots of land, five of which were large enough to be called islands, with Finistère the largest and most westerly.
Kit surveyed the map, the distance. She preferred open water to coastlines, as the current was faster there, the route straighter. And even after a year of peace, she was cautious around the Gallic coast. Privateers who held long-expired letters of marque still patrolled the waters, especially as the sea curved toward Finistère.
“South-southwest,” Kit said. “And into the channel, away from the coasts. We’ll adjust the heading, discuss our approach, as we near the island.”
“Aye,” Simon said, and began to mark a line approximating their route on the map.
“Prepare to make sail!” Jin called out. “Broad on the starboard bow.”
At the order and those that followed, sailors ran to their positions, began the systematic process of spreading the rest of the Diana’s canvas. The foremast was climbed first; sailors scrambled toward the sky, one at a time, where they’d shimmy onto the yards where the sail was folded and tied.
This was Kit’s favorite part of any journey, when they reached open water and the ship’s great volume of canvas could be unfurled, pulled taut, to stretch against the wind.
As the crew worked the sails, Kit closed her eyes, reached down. The ship turned toward the Pencester strait, the narrowest point of the Narrow Sea, where Gallia sat only twenty miles from the Isles. The water was shallower here, still bearing the chill of the Northern Sea, but the current strong. Kit always felt the current most keenly here, and she wondered if there’d been some unremembered experience—something that had fomented her connection when she was a child—that had shaped her Alignment. Whatever the reason, she’d been grateful for it during the war, when the sea was crowded with enemy ships, and speed was a necessity.
She touched the current, an invisible cloud that swayed through the water like seaweed in the tide. And within it, the white-hot core, the concentrated filament of magic. As powerful and dangerous as always, but . . . She felt something else now, something different. A frizzle of energy at the edges, as if the magic itself were uneasy.
But she’d have to ponder that later, because the Diana swung to starboard. Kit waited until the ship and current were perpendicular, the arrow strung and bowstring taut. “Ready,” she said quietly, and the ship seemed to stiffen, as if it could feel the tension of that waiting magic, the banked power.
“Aye,” Jin said, their practiced response.
“Now.” The word was barely a whisper, but the crew—who understood the way of things—was silent when she said it. She let go. The current caught the boat, thrust it forward, and the shouts of her crew—thrilled at the burst of speed—had her eyes opening again.
And she found Grant at her feet, staring up at her.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Were you so impressed with a bit of magic, Colonel?”
“What in bloody hell was that?” Grant asked, taking Jin’s offered hand and climbing back to his feet.
“An introduction to the Diana,” Jin said, clapping him on the back. “Welcome aboard.”
“Manipulating magic is banned,” Grant said, adjusting his coat, “by international treaty and Isles law.”
“That wasn’t manipulation,” Kit said. “It’s a touch. Gentler and kinder.” She extended her hand, palm up. “And I’m the only one who pays the price.”
Grant pushed hair from his eyes, stared down at her hand. “Those are . . . scars?”
“Bu
rns,” Kit said. “Minute and mostly painless. And there because I become a temporary channel for the magic.” But there weren’t many, Aligned or otherwise, who were willing to take that risk. After her stint on the Ardent, she’d been asked to teach other Aligned sailors how she’d done it. A few had volunteered to try; few of those had actually succeeded. And fewer still had captains willing to risk their ships by engaging with the current so . . . intimately.
Brow furrowed deeply, Grant looked up at her, seemed to search her face. “Hmm,” was all he said, then he walked to the gunwale, fingers clenched upon the rail as he looked out at the sea.
“I didn’t intend to knock him over,” she told Jin.
“But nor did you warn him. And while I’d normally be perfectly agreeable with putting a member of the Beau Monde on his knees, I suspect he has some scars of his own.”
“From the war, you mean,” Kit said, head cocked as she watched Grant, and felt something heavy settle in her gut. “Damnation. Am I bound to apologize now?”
“I suspect the good colonel will adjust,” Jin said, turning to look at her. “How goes the sea?”
“Swift and smooth. But there’s something around the edges. Something is . . . disturbed.”
“Disturbed?”
“Agitated,” Kit said. “Uncomfortable. Like . . . a child that won’t settle.”
“Like the wind,” Jin said. That had been Tamlin’s assessment.
Kit nodded. She’d felt difficult seas before. Seas that burned with energy, sending waves nearly as tall as the ship’s masts. This was different. And it bothered her that she didn’t know the reason for it.
“I suspect we’re feeling the same thing. But I’m not yet sure why.” She looked up, where white canvas spread against brilliantly blue sky. “For now, the weather’s clear and the wind is at our backs. Let’s use the current while we can.”
“Sea dragon!” came Tamlin’s shout from the top. “Port bow!”
So many members of the crew rushed to port it was a miracle the Diana didn’t simply roll over.
Hands on the rail, Kit stared at the water, trying to distinguish waves from fins.
Two silent minutes later, a serrated line of glittering crimson rose through the water a hundred yards away. It was the symbol of the Isles, the child, or so they said, of Arid and Kanos, born at the same time the Isles had been born, and from the same dark sea. Where the Isles received jagged peaks, sea dragons received those sharp and cutting fins.
A cheer erupted from the deck.
Grant, who stood beside her, glanced her way. “Why are they cheering?”
“Seeing the symbol of the Isles at the beginning of a voyage is a sign of good luck,” she said. “It means the gods are on our side.”
Hopefully, they’d stay there.
* * *
A few hours later, back in her cabin again, she was glad to smell savory things percolating. The deck bell rang, and she rose and stretched, then walked to the windows to look out at the sea. The sea was darker now, the water deeply blue, the waves low. They’d moved beyond the shores and into the deeper, colder ocean between the Isles and the Continent. Soon enough the water would lighten again, going turquoise as they neared the island and the danger they had no choice but to face. So there were plans to make. And should the worst occur, contingencies to consider.
She buttoned up her jacket, pushed her hair behind her ears, and opened her cabin door.
The scent of meat and herbs was welcome as a lover’s kiss.
She walked to the officers’ mess, the floor undulating rhythmically beneath her feet as the ship bobbed, and found the officers beginning to assemble around the table. Jin was already there, talking quietly with Tamlin, who’d tucked a golden feather behind her ear, a seabird’s offering.
They moved to stand, and she waved them off. The Diana was a lovely ship, but she wasn’t a man-of-war, and they’d all have bruised heads and shins if she required the ceremony.
“Good evening,” she said, and took a seat at the end of the table. Then looked up as Grant stepped into the doorway.
“Everyone, Colonel Rian Grant.”
“Grant will do,” he said, and nods were exchanged around the table.
“Please,” Kit said. “Have a seat. We try to keep the formality to a minimum.”
“As long as Watson keeps her elbows off the table,” Jin said, and the other officers laughed. Watson, one of her lieutenants, rolled her eyes.
Cook appeared at the table with a domed silver platter, and lifted the cover to reveal a roasted chicken surrounded by a rainbow of vegetables.
Kit nearly wept at the delectable smell and the sight of all that color. The vegetables wouldn’t last, so they’d eat their fill while they could. They piled plates with food from bowls they passed. Grant, she noticed, watched how everyone else served themselves before adding meat and vegetables to his plate. She appreciated his attentiveness, even if she wished he’d forgo the air of superiority.
As if he could feel her stare, Grant looked up, met her gaze. She managed not to look away—one didn’t become captain without becoming expert in the steely stare. Neither shifted until another officer spoke up.
“We’re really heading to Finistère, Captain?” The question was asked by Phillips, the youngest lieutenant on the ship. He was thin and pale, with a pointy nose and fluff of brown hair.
“We are,” Kit said.
“Rats and smelly sailors,” Tamlin murmured, nibbling on a crust of bread. “That’s what you find in a pirate fortress.”
“And this Marcus Dunwood is worth the trouble?” asked Lieutenant Hobbes. She was a capable sailor in her forties, with tan skin and dark hair streaked with silver. She’d continued sailing even after the war had ended, despite the merchant husband who awaited her at home.
“He’s worth the trouble,” Grant said, his voice, deep and grave, falling heavily over the room.
“I meant no offense,” Hobbes said. “Merely that it’s unusual to send an entire crew after a single man.”
“I take no offense,” Grant said. “I stated a fact. I know Dunwood, and he’s worth the trouble. He has served the Crown in innumerable ways. We were observing officers for Sutherland on the peninsula, spent two years traveling together. And we fought together at Zadorra.”
Silence fell over the room, the sailors struck by the weight of those words.
Hobbes cleared her throat. “I understand the fighting was hard there, at Zadorra.”
“It was,” Grant said. “We’d scouted the hills around the village, but rejoined Sutherland’s brigade before the fighting began. More than a hundred thousand soldiers waiting for battle. Our unit moved through the hills and around the city, intending to come around Gallic troops along a hairpin turn in the river.”
Grant drank from his glass of wine, then put it down again, ran a thumb along the grooves in the crystal. “We caught up to them. Outflanked them. And attacked.”
“It was . . . intense?” Phillips asked quietly.
“One of the bloodiest conflicts of the war,” Grant said. “We fired across the river, and hitting our targets was nearly easy. Easier than it ought to have been for soldiers to kill one another.” He ran a hand through his hair, sat back in his chair, as if resettling himself, adjusting to the discomfort of the retelling. “They turned soon enough, shot back. The fallen were all around us. Dunwood threw me into the mud, and I was furious he’d ruined my coat—which I’d finally gotten clean—until I realized he’d saved me from a sniper’s bullet.”
He looked up, stared at a high corner of the room, as if seeing a soldier on a hill again, rifle in hand, taking aim. The hand on the table fisted, knuckles white with tension and memory. And Kit felt worse about sending Grant to the deck this morning.
“He took the shot himself,” Grant continued. “It grazed his shoulder, and he didn
’t allow me to forget that until the war was over.” He smiled at that recollection. “Then we returned home. We’ve shared only a letter or two in that time, but I consider myself indebted to him.”
“He sounds like a good man,” Kit said. “And a good soldier.”
Nodding, Grant unclenched his fingers, took another sip of port. “He is.”
They lingered in the quiet, sipping their tea or port. And then Kit leaned forward, linked her hands on the table. “We have a fast ship and a capable crew,” she said. “And we’re all curious about Finistère. But let’s remember the danger. Let’s be wary. Be prepared, and do what’s necessary to help the man who’s helped the Crown.”
A figure appeared in the doorway. The Diana’s second mate and bosun, the highest-ranking nonofficer, offered an apologetic expression.
“Mr. Jones,” Jin said to him. “Is there a problem?”
“My apologies for the interruption, Captain,” he said, pulling off his cap. “But we felt the development was worth the trouble.” He cleared his throat nervously.
“What is it?” Kit asked.
“We’ve found a rat in the hold.”
“That’s hardly news,” Jin murmured, but went quiet when Mr. Jones pulled the quarry into view.
Before her, dirty collar pinched between Jones’s fingers, was the foundling Kit had paid outside the palace to send a message. She didn’t look any cleaner than she had the day before. But her little square chin was set, her eyes narrowed and determined.
Kit sighed, and made it count. “Hello, Louisa.”
* * *
They sat her down in the officers’ mess, where Cook offered her a bowl of stew and a small cup of milk.