by Alex Lidell
I push myself up. The pain eases, but my lungs burn as if I’d run for miles. I feel the bile rise from my belly a moment before it exits, and I leap to the rail to vomit.
“No place for women at sea,” voices say to each other behind me.
“Lionitis’s fish bait. What did ya expect?”
“A disgrace. I told you. Hard enough without that aboard.”
The last is said in a woman’s voice. I know my display little helped the standing of the Aurora’s women’s berth. Heat fills my face.
“Don’t listen to them.” Ana takes my arm and whispers into my ear. “I’ve seen blood make many a seaman dizzy.”
“Lionitis.” Domenic’s voice makes Ana flinch and sends others scurrying from sight. “Find employment elsewhere for the next few minutes, if you please.”
I climb to my feet as Ana leaves, but keep a hand braced on the rail for balance. I want to be anywhere but facing Domenic right now. He tilts his head to the side, studying my face. The concerned look is unsettling.
“Nile, listen to me,” Domenic says quietly, almost gently, once our privacy is secure. “This is life at sea. Your stomach will settle if you stay on, but the work, the danger, and the discipline—those will stay constant forever. You’ve done far better than I had predicted, but there is little more to gain from continuing the experiment. Have you something you wish to tell the captain now?”
It takes a moment before the words register. When they do, my body tenses like a coiled spring. My pulse quickens, and the color in my face is no longer from shame. There is no way in the deepest hell that I will surrender before Domenic. The sudden steel behind my gaze as I lock eyes with him surprises even me. “You are a goat’s ass for flogging Rory.”
Satisfying surprise flickers over Domenic’s features before the mask of cold indifference snaps back into place. “Competence aloft takes years of learning,” he says with condescending chill. “If you’d mounted the rigging in that storm like you’d wanted, you’d have been dead before you got useful. I don’t expect you to understand.”
Our gazes stay on each other in silent battle until Domenic turns on his heel. “Be about your duties, Ash,” he calls over his shoulder. “And remember you are under the same discipline code here as your shipmate Rory.”
I stalk to my berth and slam the door hard enough to make Ana’s potpourri bags fall from the overhead beams and topple a lantern she’s left precariously atop her sea chest. Our berth is large by ship’s standards, meaning that with my hammock rolled up, there are two steps of space between her cot and the opposite bulkhead. Right now, it feels like an apple cinnamon coffin.
The anger boiling inside me is hot enough to burn the whole bloody ship to a crisp. The bastard threatened me. Worse, he accused me of knowing nothing of the sea. Of incompetence of all things.
“I don’t think Dana meant insult on that front,” Ana says carefully, and I realize I spoke my last thought aloud. She sits cross-legged on her cot, a book with diagrams of the human body spread on her lap. I originally thought her sea chest was filled with clothing, but it’s mostly books. Anatomy, botany, biology. Mathematics, navigation, and naval strategy texts are conspicuously absent from her collection. “You’ve been at sea less than a fortnight. Goddess, I don’t believe I just defended the Savage.” She shakes her head, her ponytail swinging like a pendulum. “About what happened and the crew… Listen, Dana is the one who ordered the lashes. And he’ll do it again next week, to someone else. And the week after that. No one should ever get used to brutality, but the crew has. Your feelings are sane, Nile. You are the one in the right.”
Ana means the words to balm my spirit, but they remind me of the fraud I am instead. A part of me just wants to tell Ana the truth—that I’ve seen dozens of floggings; that I’ve ordered some; that I’m concealing a disease that would get me put off the ship faster than Rory can drown his pain in grog. At the very least, the truth would make her despise me now and save the trouble later.
Instead, I force a weak smile, as if her attempts to raise my spirits have succeeded, and steer the discussion away from myself. “What brought you to sea, Ana?”
She chews her lip, considering the question. Or her answer. I wonder if I’ve given offense before she finally speaks. Her voice is thin and lovely. A bit like my mother’s, though without the self-assured confidence. “There was little choice in the matter, I’m afraid. My family’s of noble birth, but the war brought about hard times. We owed tax we could not pay. It was my brother’s duty to pay tribute by taking up arms, but he refused. So it was either me or shame.” She pauses and wrings her small hands. “Greater shame. Anyone from Felielle who sees me would know my family’s failures. But…but at least we will keep our birthright. My children will be of noble blood.”
“Children?” The word feels odd on my tongue. Pregnancy would force a woman from naval service as surely as a cannonball. I’d never heard a middie utter it with anything but fear. “Children?”
Ana’s face lights up into a rare smile, and she closes her book around a finger. “Oh yes, I shall have children as soon as I escape this floating bucket. You don’t think I will be too old in a year or two, do you?”
“No.” I press my palm into the bridge of my nose. For a moment, I had imagined Ana and I had a bit in common, but I was wrong. Perhaps Ana is what my mother wishes me to be. “Certainly, not too old.”
“I’d like to run a small apothecary too. There is a forest near my family’s estate where you can find fifty different medicinal plants within half a day’s walk. I used to sketch the leaves as a girl and compare them to texts back in our library.” She swallows. “What of you, Nile? When do you wish to have children?”
The absurdity makes me blink. My contribution to the world can only come from the deck of a ship. It’s all I have. “Never.”
“Oh! Are you… Do you fancy…” Ana’s eyes widen. She leans away from me, the tips of her ears as red as lip paint. “You don’t fancy men.”
Ah, yes. I had forgotten the cardinal sin of Felielle. Ashing cares for things more important than bed preferences. In Goddess-worshipping Felielle, people with too much time on their hands worry about others’ bedchambers. I am about to reassure her, but hesitate. There is that chance again. One nod, and I can castrate this budding friendship before it hurts us both. I am not the girl Ana thinks I am. She wouldn’t like me if she knew me. “I fancy men fine,” I hear myself say instead. “They do not fancy me.”
Ana’s shoulders relax as if I had informed her of the war’s end. “Of course they do. You are beautiful, especially if you forget to dress yourself as a boy. Truly, Nile. Seamen wear no uniform. It would take so little effort to add a bit of a feminine touch to your tunics.” She tilts her head, assessing me like one of the drawings in her texts. Ana is a smart girl, I’ve learned, but smart in an odd way I’m hard-pressed to understand. “Have you never caught men looking at you?”
I give her a frank look. I’ve muddied the water with enough fiction for us both without Ana adding spice to the mix. “Men don’t look at me, Ana.” At seventeen, not only have I never been kissed, but the only man to have ever considered doing so had been a Tirik agent trying to lure me into a trap. Then, he tried to kill me.
Ana arcs a trimmed eyebrow. “Dana does. When he thinks nobody is watching.”
Her words hit some target inside my chest. I flinch, my stomach clenching. “Dana is waiting for me to fall flat on my face.”
She smiles coyly, but then the mirth fades from her face. “You are right, Nile, he is.” Her voice lowers. “I know nothing of the sea, but men… I dare claim expertise on that front. The Savage is pleasant to look at, but there is a reason everyone on the ship stays away. You let your guard down with that one, and you’ll be in for a world of pain.”
“The Siren, Maiden, and Solace have made their signals, sir,” Domenic says, naming the three merchant ships in the Aurora’s wake. Having passed through the Bottleneck Juncture and sailed
east on the Siaman Sea to pick up the merchants, we will now escort them back west. This is our job here in the Siaman—protect merchant traffic. This means occasionally escorting convoys between trading ports and mostly patrolling the waters for threats to neutralize. Small privateers most likely, ones that will be poorly matched against the Aurora’s guns. Truth be told, just the sight of a League frigate doing its job will deter most problems. All we have to do is move around a lot. Safe. Repetitive. Boring.
There is simply nothing of great value out here. The islands’ vegetation, though lush, is the same as the mainland’s. And the Crystal Oasis—one island’s unique freshwater source with easy frigate access—is of little use for its remoteness.
Domenic touches his hat and leans respectfully toward Captain Rima. I hate to admit it, but Domenic is crisp in his duties and tightens much of the slack his fellow officers leave behind. “The merchant convoy is ready to set sail.”
The weather is with us. Like a horse fresh from the barn, the lively breeze is eager to pull us with the tide. In my mind, I call orders to the signals middie, setting the convoy into formation and letting loose the canvas. In reality, I am on my hands and knees, scrubbing the deck while the Aurora’s sailing master is deep in his cups.
Rima puts his hands behind his back and frowns. I can’t fathom what has our fearless leader concerned, but instead of setting sail, he sends Song for a spyglass.
The salty air caresses my cheek. I can taste it. The longing to call it becomes an ache, as if I’ve waited too long to relieve myself. Sooner or later, I will have to. The memory of choking sends echoes of panic through my body. Perhaps if I give release to the attraction before it overwhelms me as it had at Captain’s Mast, the effects will be more tolerable. I will have to try it soon. But not just now. Not yet.
I feel Domenic’s gaze touch me and become acutely aware of how pathetic I look now, after mere weeks of working with my hands. The abuse from sand and seawater have cut into my skin. My hands are awkward from swollen cracks as I grip the sanding stone.
Song returns with a glass, and Rima trains it on the sea. “Just as I expected. The merchies cannot differentiate their bow from stern. Mr. Dana, drill the convoy, if you please. I will not set sail until I’m satisfied the skippers can handle their ships safely.”
My brows pull together. The convoy can drill en route, so Rima’s words are a crock of excrement. After all the hurry to get here, why is he now dragging his heels?
Across the deck, Johina emerges with Rory in tow, the latter pale and cringing but walking on his own. Domenic walks off toward them. Rory steps back, but there is no escape.
“I am glad to see you return to duty,” Domenic says coolly and loudly enough for all to hear. “I imagine we’ve cleared up your misconceptions about who decides what said duty is?”
“Aye, s-sir,” the seaman stammers.
“Good.” Domenic puts his hands behind his back. “Just to keep Seaman Rory’s memory fresh, Johina, please ensure his wounds are cleansed with salt every day for a week.”
Rory’s knees buckle as Johina grins.
Domenic continues aft to check sails and thus leaves Ana in lone charge of the cleaning efforts. Within ten heartbeats, the pretense of work within the scrubbers’ ranks plunges like the weather glass before a storm.
Ana hugs her thin shoulders, working hard on not seeing the increasing loitering. It’s a mistake. The commotion increases until a man at the end of my row grunts in pain. A quick glance confirms Domenic’s return. He hands the rope’s end with which he’d struck the loiterer to a bosun’s mate and beckons to Ana. I can’t make out his words, but Ana’s eyes glisten. I want to punch Domenic in the nose just for that.
“Ten minutes,” the sailor beside me whispers. “I will wager you a day’s grog ration that I can make Lionitis cry all out within ten minutes.”
Ana wouldn’t last five, but that’s not the point. My face heats at the perversion of naval spirit. I think of little Vast inspecting the Faithful’s lifeboats, the able seamen gently helping her along. “How long have you been at sea?” I ask.
“Six years. What’s your care?”
I clamp my hand around his wrist. “Six years. You’ve been at sea six years, and your pleasure is destroying a middie who’s stepped on deck six months ago? Coward.”
He pulls his hand away. “This here is no charity ship, and I ain’t her mama.” He turns his face toward me. “And you ain’t mine.”
I snort and busy myself with my sanding stone. “What do you think Mr. Dana just whispered to her?”
“How in the bloody hell would I know? Probably told her to wear tighter trousers.” He chuckles to himself, but I see his mouth tense for a moment.
I lower my voice. “Probably told her that he just beat a man because she failed her duty. Except she doesn’t know how to bloody do it, because instead of guiding her, you’re busy making bets. So go win your grog ration. You’ll win today because she still cares.”
The sailor rolls his eyes in reply. But he doesn’t make the offer to the man on his right.
By dinnertime, we still have not moved. Captain Rima prowls the deck like a well-dressed hyena, snapping his jaws at weary seamen. Even Johina and Mic are stripped of grog rations for moving too slow. The wind is cool and healthy, and the Aurora fights her tether.
I wonder if Domenic knows what Rima is waiting for.
The Solace runs up a signal. Ready to sail. It’s the merchie’s third time signaling, and even Ana, doing a trick as a signals middie, knows what the flags say without needing to consult her code book. She looks from the Solace’s masthead to Captain Rima, presses her lips together, and keeps silent.
The flags scamper down, and new ones rise in their place. Ana opens her book, and her shoulders sag. She chews her lip, her eyes skid to me in rising panic.
“What is it, ma’am?” I ask, sliding up to her.
“The Solace is asking what we are waiting for,” she whispers when I step closer. “I do not believe the captain would welcome the question from me.”
No, I don’t think he would. My jaw tightens. This is no way to run a ship, with the crew fearful of reporting the facts. I touch Ana’s arm and march myself to the captain. I cannot do much nowadays, but at least I can bear the fire of Rima’s wrath better than a middie with six months at sea.
“Sir.” My voice is respectful but loud enough to carry to the crew. “The Solace requests reason for the departure delay.”
Rima wheels around on me, and I see the distaste in his eyes even before they flash with anger. “Delay?” He spits the word, as if it’s sour. “Is there some timetable to which only you are privy, Ash?”
I raise my chin and pretend he’s posed a reasonable inquiry. “No, sir.”
His brows narrow, the volume of his voice rising with each word. “And has a divine intervention poured naval expertise into your skull today?”
“No, sir. Not today.”
“Then pray tell me what gives you the gall to question the operation of this vessel?” Rima is yelling now, and his face is red. He turns to Domenic. “Mr. Dana, I understand that the middie girl dragged this rubbish aboard, but I expect you to manage the crew to some extent, sir!” Beads of sweat gather around the diamond shaved on Rima’s head. He looks back at me, his lips pulling back in disgust. “The League Articles mandate that I permit females to infest my ship, but there will be no dual standard or leeway or any other privilege you seem to believe yourself entitled to, Ash.”
Privilege? Entitlement? In what bloody ocean is his diamond-shaved skull sailing? My fingers curl into fists, and I hide them behind my back. Striking a ship’s captain is mutiny, and I’d be court-martialed and hung in a heart’s beat.
“Ash.” It’s Domenic. He shifts his weight, interposing himself between me and the captain. “Take a trick in the shrouds.”
A trick in the shrouds. A mild penalty handed out to wayward youngsters. My gaze cuts to him. I know he is just getting me off
the deck. Fine. I turn on my heel and hoist myself into the ratlines.
I climb quickly into the wind, channeling my fury into my muscles. My hands and feet find their holds while the rocking ropes push and sway me with the sea. The burn in my legs is fiercely familiar. And calming. Rima had twisted my words into absurdity, and there isn’t anything anyone can do about it. A captain is the god of his ship. But not all gods are created equal. And sometimes, even the best ones fall. Like Captain Fey.
It doesn’t matter. I remind myself. Rima does not matter. The convoy schedule, the shipboard communication, the education of the middies—none of it matters. You are here for neither command nor glory. You are here for freedom.
Right. Freedom. Freedom from Ashing politics and freedom to find the cure. The deck shrinks. The sailors, the captain, grow small as children’s toys. To the men on the deck, I’m little more than a dark shape silhouetted against the sun. They don’t matter, the breeze whispers to me. The breeze thinks I’m here for it. Maybe it’s right.
I climb higher, reach the first of three lookout platforms on the mainmast, and continue on quickly. The swaying shrouds make me feel real and alive. I hook my arms through the ropes as the ship sways, tipping me over the deep sea and back again. I breathe in the exhilaration and salt air of the sea.
On the second platform, I stop and hoist myself onto it. Swallowing my pride, I use the bit of rope I keep secured to my belt for small tasks to tie myself to the mast. Until I can predict my body better, it’s prudent to be safe when I can. Knot dressed, I lean back on my arms as my legs dangle over the abyss of ocean.
The breeze strokes my face, stirring the magic in my blood. Begging. Demanding. An ache brews behind my eyes, growing with each second I continue to deny myself the release.
I can’t hold out much longer. I am as alone as one gets on a hundred-foot ship swarming with over two hundred souls. Rima and his petty manipulations are far below. I close my eyes and breathe to the rhythmic whoosh of crashing waves until my nerves calm. It is time to let my magic off its leash.