by Alex Lidell
Forward, on the largest part of the deck, a detachment of black-coated marines goes through drill. The even columns move with the signature crispness of their profession but… My brows rise as I realize that none of the boys are old enough to shave.
“Where are the marine adults?” I ask Ana.
“Adults?” She follows my gaze. “Oh. The Aurora carries only a training unit of Spades, Spardic Kingdom’s elite marines.”
A young man in a black uniform shoves Ana from his path and keeps walking without a pause, much less an apology. A scarred black dog trots behind him. Arrogance trails in the pair’s wake, tangible as gunpowder. His polished boots, dirty-blond hair hanging loose to his shoulders, mint-green eyes, and the feline grace with which he moves are at odds with the ramshackle ship around us.
“And that is Mr. Catsper,” Ana whispers, biting her lip. “The Spades’ lieutenant. Twenty-two-year-old violence incarnate. I’ll wager my life there isn’t an inch of him that’s not pure muscle. And he knows it.”
A Spade officer. That explains it. Catsper, like his young Spades, are from Spardic Kingdom’s private stock. I watch the lieutenant a moment longer, wondering how he and his found their way to this ship, who he pissed off to get this assignment. My gut tells me the list would be too long to write out.
Ana tears her eyes away from Catsper and pulls her hair back into a bun. “I must deliver the mail to the captain. Speak to the bosun for your assignment.” She points to a bony man tapping a rattan cane against his palm. “Mr. Dana, that’s the first officer, will enter you into the books when he comes up.” She starts to walk away but hesitates. “Keep your head down and steer clear from the officers’ way,” she whispers. “Dana hasn’t flogged anyone in a week. He’s searching.”
I suppress a shiver. Does this ship run on lash and fear?
Ana slinks away, keeping as much distance between herself and the male crew members as the confines of the ship allow.
“Whatcha gawking at, girl?” a man beside me demands. He is stocky and muscular. His foul breath descends from his tattooed face, above which his hair is shaved into an Eflian crescent moon. “You think your little self a passenger?”
I turn to him. The dirt on his hands matches that on the great gun beside which he stands.
He crosses his arms.
“Dana on deck,” someone beside us whispers urgently.
My new friend’s posturing melts at once. “Make yourself busy if you know what’s good for ya.” He shoves a swabber into my hands and throws himself into an impromptu gun inspection. “You owe me.”
Heeding the warning, I position the great gun between myself and the officer who is taking the deck. Once sure of my footing, I carefully lift my face enough to see the happenings. The man I presume is First Officer Dana stands with his back to me, towering over the others. He moves stiffly, as if someone has sewn a metal rod into his uniform. The seamen bend from him as grass from wind, only their burning eyes betraying their hate. Dana turns in a tight circle, and the men shuffle themselves from his way and sight.
Eventually, his turning faces him toward me. And when it does, I know his stiff motions have more to do with a recent pounding than any uniform rod. My heart squeezes once, then beats like thunder over waves. It is too late for me to hide.
Domenic Dana has seen me.
Chapter 9
My mouth dries. One word from Domenic will destroy me.
He moves toward me, and my breath stills. I give my head a tiny shake.
His eyes narrow.
Say nothing, I beg with my thoughts. Please. Just say nothing. I can explain. I will explain.
Domenic’s gaze is locked on mine. Three steps away. Two.
No, I mouth to him, please.
He hesitates, then turns suddenly, stepping around me as if avoiding a piece of rigging. “Mr. Kazzik, let us prepare to weigh anchor!” Domenic calls. His deep voice carries clearly across the deck. “We will be making sail for the Siaman Sea to take a merchant fleet under escort.”
Relief floods me. Whatever happens next, it will happen at sea, beyond Ashing’s recall and Felielle’s reach. And, for the time being, beyond my father’s wrath. Princess Greysik of Ashing has disappeared, and Nile Ash is setting course as far south as one can get in Lyron and still be somewhere. A place that even the Tirik Republic cares little about, where the threat to the merchant traffic comes from pirates and similar opportunistic parasites.
“Captain on deck!” the bosun shouts, and I snap straight before remembering that this captain expects nothing officer-like from me. Common seamen like me don’t even wear a uniform. So I knuckle my forehead like the other deckhands.
As many of the Aurora’s crew, Captain Rima is Eflian. If his yellow eyes didn’t give his heritage away, the absurd amount of gold jewelry and the tribal tattoos climbing his cheekbones would. He strides onto the deck, smiling benevolently at the crew. Thin and slightly pigeon-toed, he looks more like a kindly uncle than a man who holds supreme reign over the Aurora.
“Johina,” Rima addresses a large bosun’s mate who knuckles his forehead in reply. Both men wear their hair diamond-shaved, a symbol of a shared clan. “I’d like you to dine with me this evening.”
I hide my surprise. The privilege of dining with the ship’s captain is typically confined to officers and middies. Not your ship, I remind myself. Not your customs. Not your concern.
Getting my name officially entered into the ship’s book, on the other hand, is. But that’s Domenic’s job. The thought of that conversation quickens my heart all over again. I try to shove down the worry by focusing on learning my way around the Aurora’s deck.
I make it all of two steps before the mountain that is Domenic plants itself before me. I’m tall for a girl, but next to him, I might as well be a housecat staring up at a lion. His sea-blue eyes are ice as he meets mine and says, very, very quietly, each word rumbling with constrained fury, “At. Your. Convenience.”
I knuckle my forehead and look at him blandly. We can’t exactly be having this conversation on deck, so unless he wants to drag me below this second, it will have to wait. For a heartbeat, I fear that is exactly what he’ll do and bring unneeded attention to us both. But Domenic turns on his heels and strides away to his duties. I release a breath and go about learning mine.
The Aurora is smaller than the Faithful was, but the basic layout is similar. The top open-to-air deck is divided into four parts: the poop, a raised part in the back where the marines are currently training; then the quarterdeck for the officers; the main deck with the ship’s boat strapped along the middle; and finally the forecastle at the very front. Great guns line the sides, their black barrels pointing to the sea. And, rising high toward the clouds, tower the Aurora’s three masts. I watch sails spread majestically before the wind, the patched canvas straining under the gust of a northerly wind.
My face is still raised to the blowing sea air when the headache returns, sudden as a rogue wave. Pressure builds behind my eyes and drills my ears. I’m aware of the crew’s movements, of Ana’s return, of Domenic bending down to speak with Rima, but the hurt twists down the canals of my ears like a corkscrew. My swabber clatters to the deck, and I sway, unsure if I’ll follow it down.
Whatever damage the Tirik musket ball had done to me, the problem is getting worse.
The deck tilts toward me.
“In Gods’ word!” Rima calls as Domenic grabs the back of my tunic, holding me like a child’s toy. “Who is this?”
I try to answer, but nausea crawls up my throat, and I dare not open my mouth for fear of vomiting.
“Ms. Lionitis’s volunteer, sir,” Domenic answers, still holding me up. His voice is nonchalant, a mix of boredom and indulgence that I know not what to make of. “Nile.”
Rima purses his lips.
Finding my footing, I swallow and touch my forehead. The headache is easing as quickly as it came, and heat is flowing to my cheeks. At least I fit the part of fish bait.
>
“If you are going to be sick, do so overboard, not on my deck,” Domenic barks, shoving me away. I land hard on my knees and stay down until the two move away.
“You know what they say about women sailors, Mr. Dana?” says Rima. “They are neither women nor sailors.” He chuckles, tapping his finger against Domenic’s chest to punctuate the joke.
A blaze of hot rage scours through me. Captain Rima knows nothing of me, but one of his own middies and almost a dozen of the crew are female. As are two of Ashing’s most prominent captains. Beside their ships, the Aurora would shame herself beyond redemption. What had Thad said of Eflians? Corrupt and dumb as rocks. The Eflians are only in the League because of their natural resources.
“When permitted to talk, dimwits say many things,” I murmur under my breath.
Not quietly enough. The captain’s face swivels toward me, and my stomach sinks with fear that he’d heard. But Rima only smiles. It isn’t the kind of smile that touches the eyes.
I look anywhere but at Domenic, but I’m aware of his every movement. The hands that had placed a warm coat around my shivering shoulders are now clasped tightly behind a stiff back. Sea-blue eyes that looked into mine as he listened and called me a dreamer are glacier cold. There is no laughter in Domenic’s face, no kindness. The very air around him ripples with harshness. The man I’d met on the beach so little fits with the cold-eyed officer on the Aurora’s deck that I feel the fool for believing the earlier game.
And… I had believed it, I realize. Had enjoyed it. The conversation, the coat, the thoughts exchanged in blissful ignorance of rank and standing. Domenic had made me feel as if being just me, just Nile, might be something special in itself. My having bought into such foolishness makes reality that much crueler.
Unlike me, the Aurora’s crew plainly knows what they are about with regards to their first officer. The few women on the ship give Domenic as wide a berth as the men do, his looks be damned. Not even a lingering glance at his back from a single soul aboard.
I force myself to push Domenic from my mind. I need to wait until he gets off deck before I can speak to him, so for now it’s best to focus on getting settled, hopefully without humiliating myself again. Spotting a cluster of female sailors, I find a blonde woman in her thirties who appears to be in charge and, judging from the snippets of conversation, is named Sandra.
“I am new to the ship’s company,” I say with a bow. “Might you show me to the women’s berth?”
Sandra ignores me.
My jaw tightens, and I force my way into their circle. “Good day,” I say again, this time firmly. “I am to share your berth. Shall I swing my hammock at a spot of my choosing, or do you wish to guide me in this?”
Sandra steps in front of me. We are of a height, but she is stronger, her muscles taut from working the canvas. “You are not in our berth. Scat, fish bait.”
A bloody lie. “There is but one women’s berth,” I say through my teeth.
“We’re full.” Her voice is hard. “Don’t you go thinking that pissing sitting down makes you one of us.”
The women turn their backs and leave. I can’t help feeling the sting, even as I tell myself to pay them no mind. I’d heard the lower decks as often abuse newcomers as welcome them, but an ocean of difference lies between knowing and living. Gathering the shards of my shattered dignity, I step away. I need their company as little as they want mine.
Ana intercepts me. “You can sling your hammock in my berth if you’d like.”
She’d heard the exchange, then. I tighten my jaw. “Thank you, ma’am, but I need no charity.”
Her eyes widen, making her look younger than her sixteen years. “No, it is no such thing. We are the only girls our age here… I would welcome the company.”
I hesitate, but the offer tempts me into a grateful nod. This isn’t proper, but nothing on this bloody ship is. “Thank you, ma’am,” I say, meaning it. “Might I also see the ship’s physician?” I don’t need the recent dizziness making a reappearance.
Ana shrugs an apology. “We have none. Our doctor left a month or so ago. Mr. Dana has the medicines locked in his cabin, however, and Mr. Catsper is handy with setting a bone. Will that do?”
I stare. What sort of captain leaves a large port with his ship’s sick berth unattended? Ana doesn’t appear to comprehend the problem. What does she expect to happen in battle? For the marine lieutenant to lay down his musket and rush into surgery? I choose my words carefully. “Has the Aurora seen combat since you came aboard, ma’am?”
“No, thank the Goddess!”
I force a smile and decide I need no medical aid after all.
I wait a full bell after Domenic leaves the deck before seeking him out. He’s played along with my ruse thus far, but the game hangs by a thread. I owe him an explanation sooner than later…and would not be altogether averse to getting one in response. He’d played me on that beach. Smiling and—and flirting—for stars’ sake. I might be the liar and fraud, but the man isn’t altogether innocent. My face heats as the insult of being made the fool sinks deeper with each step toward Aurora’s gunroom.
When the gunroom door looms before me, I will my heart to slow its race and rap my knuckles firmly against the wood.
“Enter,” a voice calls at once. Catsper’s, I think.
I slide inside to find the marine lieutenant sitting alone at the end of the wooden table stretching the length of the officers’ narrow common space. From the murderous look in his eyes and a stack of papers before him, I’m certain I’ve caught him in the midst of catching up on overdue reports. Sleeping cabin doors line one side of the room, the other side hosting several viewports and a nine-pounder gun. The familiar sight calms my nerves, and, despite myself, I run my hand over the gun. Cool black metal. Heavy and faithful and familiar.
“Do you two want to be alone?” Catsper asks, cocking a single brow. His dirty-blond hair is tied back with a leather thong now, underscoring the square angle of his jaw.
I yank my hand back from the nine pounder.
He chuckles, muscles in his left forearm shifting as he plays absently with a knife. Self-assured mint eyes weigh me from head to toe. The marine’s gaze dances with more life than I’ve yet seen aboard the Aurora, and Ana’s longing gaze clicks into place. She would not be the first middie to stare wide-eyed at a handsome young officer.
I straighten my back, touching my forehead in a formal greeting. “My apologies for the intrusion, sir. Might I impose on Mr. Dana for a moment if he is available?” Now that the words are out of my mouth, I can’t help hoping Domenic is somehow away.
The humor in Catsper’s eyes morphs to silent laughter. “If you really wish to.” He throws his knife, its blade sinking into the endmost cabin door. “In there.”
The knife trembles where it juts from the wood. That is that. My stomach churns, but I can hardly back out now. Sets of opening words run through my mind, each better than the next.
I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.
Thank you for not packing me off back to the palace, can we leave it at that and never speak again?
Or, my personal favorite thus far: It takes one liar to know another, doesn’t it?
I stop before the closed door. Coming here was a mistake. Domenic had done as my gaze had begged and kept my secret. As the Aurora’s first officer, if he wished to discuss the matter now, he’d have sent for me. Yes, he said we would talk on the matter, but perhaps waiting until he broaches the topic is the wiser course.
“Unlike wine, meetings with Dana seldom get better with the passage of time,” Catsper’s dry voice says behind me. “I also imagine that he is not so deaf as to have missed the dagger banging into his door. He knows someone is here for him.”
I wince. Right. Schooling my face, I rap my knuckles against the frame.
Like Catsper, Domenic is busy with paperwork when I enter. Watch rotations, supply reports, and sailing logbooks fill to capacity the small desk that hangs
from the bulkhead. A short pace away, Domenic’s bunk is tightly made, each corner tucked beneath the mattress. His sword and a pair of pistols hang beside the bunk. Quality weapons, but inexpensive. The few other items secured to shelves are League issued and, though well cared for, worn. Despite his being alone in his cabin, Domenic’s uniform is pristine, the high scratchy collar buttoned to the end.
I feel naked without rank of my own.
Domenic looks up at me, his stare hard and unwelcoming.
A trickle of fear slithers through me. One word from him and I’m finished, bundled off back to my mother and marriage bed.
“Shut the door,” he orders.
I do. As if on cue, my head starts to ache with the closing click of the door. Not now, I order my body, my fingers curling into a fist to ward off the coming migraine. Not now.
Chapter 10
Domenic dips his pen into an inkwell, the silence between us punctuated by the tap of the quill against the glass. “Who are you, precisely?”
“I am Nile.”
His eyes flash in anger, the pen clattering into the inkwell.
I cross my arms. “You know who I am, Domenic. You heard my brother correctly, I saw you put two and two together on the beach.”
Another pause, his face stone cold and unreadable. “Nile Greysik, Princess of Ashing,” he says finally. Flatly. “The prospective bride of Prince Tamiath of Felielle.”
So I’m already a bride. My shoulders tense. I say nothing.
Domenic’s lips press into a thin line.
The pressure behind my eyes builds, and I think I feel a breeze cutting into my skin, despite being belowdecks. Not now, I bid my head again while meeting Dominic’s eyes. The faster we can get this conversation over with, the better. “Do you wish to know why I’m here or not?”
“Oh, I trust I’ve put that together as well.” He shuts the sailing journal with a loud snap. “You are here because Your Royal Highness became upset with her parents and decided to run away from home.”