The war that had swept from Albion to Rossiyskaya Imperiya as Cisleithania and the Lochrin-Albion Empire fought for possession of New Hesperia had been fought on every battlefield: land, sea, and air. It had ended almost a generation ago, and then there was peace, but men who had reveled in the freedom and danger of privateering and blockade-running were not inclined to give them up simply because ancient enemies had now become wary allies. They’d struck the colors of the nations that had commissioned them and raised the Red Ensign in their place. And so piracy was something any sea traveler had to be concerned with, much as those on land would guard against bandits and highwaymen. It was possible, she knew, to survive capture and even sail away with one’s ship intact, were ship and crew skilled or lucky.
Apparently Captain Sprunt was lucky.
“That is good to know,” Clarice answered honestly, for though she sought adventure, she didn’t feel she’d be likely to find it at the bottom of the ocean.
“I have been a sailor nearly half my life,” Dominick said, “and I have never, I am happy to say, sailed upon a ship that was taken. You are more likely to find yourself a victim of boredom than of buccaneers.”
They spoke for some time—about the conditions aboard ship and what she was likely to experience as a passenger. Dominick expressed no doubts that she would receive the private cabin she had specified, but warned her she must not expect it to be spacious: “There is not a great deal of room aboard a ship. Not as you landsfolk reckon it.”
Clarice found him easy to talk to, willing not only to answer her questions, but to anticipate them. She told him much the same tale of her history as she had given Sprunt, about journeying to the New World to seek adventure. She added something she had not confided to the captain, that she was eager to increase her reputation so that she could set up an exclusive swordsmanship sallé when her adventures were complete—provided she had not found her fortune in some other way.
“I should think Cibola will suit you admirably, Clarence,” Dominick said. “It is very much Iberia in miniature, and I have seen many duels there.”
“Perhaps I shall fight some and make my fortune.” She smiled, pleased with the success of her masquerade, for though they had spent more than two hours together, Dominick clearly had no clue as to her true gender.
At last he said, with some reluctance, that as they sailed at dawn, he must be off to his guildhouse to settle some necessary matters, and after a gentle wrangle over who was to pay the bill, he rose to go. As he did, Dominick offered one last piece of advice, which turned out to be the most useful of all.
“There is no reason you may not board as soon as you like. Better tonight than in the morning—it will give you time to get settled before we are on our way.”
“I thank you, Dominick. I believe I shall do so.”
She watched him as he walked from the Golden Wheel, a smile on her face. She liked Dominick Moryet, and a new friend would make the coming voyage even more pleasant.
* * *
It was early evening before Clarice returned to the docks. She rode in a carriage this time, for she had left her horse at the Borogynian embassy’s stables—the seventeen tiny Borogny Principalities shared, out of convenience and economy, a single ambassador to Queen Gloriana’s court—with instructions that it was to be returned to Swansgaarde when convenient. The next messenger to Swansgaarde would be glad to see such a sound beast waiting for him. Perhaps one day she and her faithful companion might meet again.
Her shopping had occupied much more of the afternoon than she had expected it to, but she had listened closely to Dominick’s tales of seafaring life and made purchases accordingly. He had said that boredom was a great enemy, so she had purchased a portable chess set, a cunning thing little larger than a book. Each square of the board had a small hole drilled in its center, and each of the pieces had a corresponding peg in its base, for Dominick had said that storms were not uncommon, and that the ship might grow “lively” if it ran into weather. She’d also purchased a small selection of medicinal items that should serve against anything she might reasonably be expected to encounter, since she couldn’t risk accepting the ministrations of the ship’s doctor.
But her most expensive purchase—and the hardest to find—had been a spellmatch.
The spellmatch was a golden tube about the size and thickness of her longest finger. It was threaded at the middle so that the two halves could be screwed together, and when opened, one half contained a spindle the size and shape of a nail: the match itself. When removed from its case, it would burst into flame, burning until it was closed away again. It would do so forever, if the case was not crushed.
They had been common enough in the castle, and only when she found herself without one had she mourned the lack of its convenience, but she had never had a compelling reason to replace it until now. Clarice possessed, and had often used, humble flint and steel to start a flame. But that not only took time and tinder, but light to see by, three things that were not likely to be easily available on shipboard.
To contain her possessions, she had purchased a sea chest with strong brass strappings and a stout lock. It was broader at the bottom than the top to prevent its toppling over, and its handles were ring shaped, the better to lash it into place against the wall of her cabin against the possibility of heavy seas. The stout leather saddlebags that had previously contained her possessions would hardly be useful at sea, she had discovered: leather tended to mildew.
Her shopping and packing done, she ate a last meal at the inn and settled her account, then, as thoroughly prepared as she could render herself, presented herself at the foot of the Asesino’s gangplank.
In the twilight, the ship seemed nearly insubstantial, its great bulk illuminated by nothing more than a few lanterns. No one was in sight, but after a few moments a sailor looked over the side and saw her, and a few minutes later—just as she was wondering if she should have asked the coachman to carry her trunk on board—a man in a hastily donned coat, his hat askew, hurried down the gangplank to greet her.
“Are you Mr. Swann? I am Simon Foster, quartermaster. We do not sail for some hours yet.”
“Indeed, I hope you do not, as your captain said you would leave on the morning tide. But Mr. Moryet told me I might board earlier, if I wished to.”
“Yes, of course.” Mr. Foster inspected her for a moment, clearly assessing her breeding and fortune. Clarice had become accustomed to this in her travels, and she was once again grateful that her dress proclaimed her to be a respectable gentleman of good family. She suspected that if it had not done so, Mr. Foster would have told her to carry her own luggage, but he nodded, as if to himself, then stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly.
“Mr. Foster!” the response came from the deck, from the same sailor who had seen her before.
“Here’s our passenger, Mr. Swann. Take the gentleman’s trunk to his cabin, Neddy, and see him squared away!” Mr. Foster called up.
As Neddy hurried down the gangplank, Clarice saw that he wore only a shirt and breeches unbuttoned at the knee, and his feet were bare. He hefted a corner of the trunk to gauge its weight, then heaved it onto his shoulder with an ease that spoke of long practice and formidable muscles. Clarice followed him up the gangplank and onto the deck. There, Neddy paused to collect another sailor, an Ifranian, garbed in much the same dress as Neddy. The newcomer took up a lantern, then, carrying the chest between them, the pair went through a door and down a narrow flight of steps.
“Mr. Foster called you Neddy,” Clarice said, hoping to start a conversation.
“That’s right, sir. Ned Hatcliff’s my name, and this here is John Tiptree. Best topsail man in the seven seas.”
“Mind the ladder, sir,” John said, and Clarice was glad of the warning, for the ship’s interior was decidedly dark. By the time they stepped out again, they had gone down two decks.
The passageway was narrow, the ceiling so low that the heads of both the seame
n nearly grazed it. At a door that seemed identical to all the ones they had already passed, the two men dropped the trunk to the deck. Ned opened the door. “Here you are, sir. Breakfast is at two bells forenoon.”
At Clarice’s look of incomprehension, both men smiled slightly. “Nine o’clock, as they say on the land. I’ll send young Jerrold down to show you to the captain’s mess. No fear you won’t be awake. We’ll be under sail by then.”
Ned and John carried the trunk into the cabin. After a bit of awkward shifting about—Clarice had to move up the passageway before they could exit—she was alone. She entered her new accommodations with curiosity.
The cabin was so small it would have been overcrowded with the three of them present. The only illumination came from the lantern John had hung on a hook jutting out from the beam that bisected the ceiling—low enough, Clarice was certain, that she would have to resign herself to banging her head upon it at frequent intervals—and she was once more pleased at her foresight in purchasing the spellmatch. The bunk filled the whole of the wall to her left; to the right, a small table, apparently meant to serve as both desk and table, was built into the bulkhead, its low-backed chair fitting neatly beneath it. Her trunk had been set against the wall opposite the door, and also upon that wall were several pegs, as much of a wardrobe as the cabin possessed. The door was louvered, for which she was grateful, as there was no other means of ventilation.
Clarice latched the door, unbelted her sword and hung it by its belt upon one of the pegs, and seated herself on the edge of her bunk. Ned had seemed to think she would remain here until morning, but until the moment she sat down, she had planned to make her way back up to the deck to see something of her temporary home. Now, she decided it had been a long enough day without finding herself lost in the maze of passages. She pulled off her boots, debated with herself for a moment, then undressed (hanging her hat beside her sword), put on her nightshirt, selected a book on the natural history of the New World from her trunk, and transferred the lantern to a hook at the head of the bed.
Though the ship lay at anchor and had not seemed to be moving when she had gazed at it from the dock, she now sensed a tiny rocking motion and saw that motion reflected in the slight sway of the lantern. It gave her the odd feeling that the ground beneath her had suddenly become strangely insubstantial, though of course there was no ground beneath her now at all. The motion, though new, was not unpleasant, and she read barely a chapter before the day’s excitement caught up to her. Blowing out the lantern, she was quickly asleep.
* * *
When she came awake in the dark, at first Clarice had no idea where she was. Everything was moving—apparently in several directions at once—and there were loud creaking noises.
She sat up and clutched dizzily at the side of the bed. Oh, she realized. I am on the Asesino. She must be under way.
The ship’s motion wasn’t extreme, but was enough to make her clutch at handholds as she groped her way to the table. She’d left her satchel there the night before. It took her a few moments to locate the spellmatch, but once she had, in moments the lantern was alight. She hung it back on the hook in the beam.
With the aid of the lantern, she made quick work of dressing. The special corset she wore to disguise her sex flattened her chest appropriately, and once she had laced it firmly into place and donned her shirt, vest, and coat, it was completely invisible.
Once she was dressed, she blew out the lamp and placed her hat firmly upon her head, ready to venture out into the ship.
Enough light came belowdecks for her to easily find her way back to the ladder and up. When she stepped out on the main deck, the sight she beheld caused her breath to catch in wonder for the first time since her last morning at home.
It was barely dawn. The Asesino glided down the river toward the sea. The air was filled with the brackish scent of the river and the sharp cleanliness of morning. The ship was not yet under full sail; the mainmast and foremast stood bare, their sails still furled. Wind filled the jibs at the bow. On either bank, Albion swept past, as quickly as if Clarice rode at a gallop. The deck was the highest point in the landscape; she could see for miles. She felt her heartbeat quickening; it was really happening, she was really going to sail to an entirely new world!
“A pretty sight, is it not?” Dominick had reached her side as she gazed entranced. “I love the sea, but I admit the land has its charms—when one is leaving it, anyway.”
She turned toward him, smiling. He wore no hat, and his sandy curls danced in the sharp morning breeze. His blue eyes sparkled with excitement that matched her own.
“Oughtn’t you be…?” She gestured vaguely toward the bow. The great ships had a language all their own, just as they were worlds all their own, and Clarice was not yet fluent in it.
“At the helm?” Dominick asked merrily. “Mr. Greenwell would have my ears for such presumption. He is our helmsman,” Dominick added, seeing her look of confusion. “I show him where to go, and he takes us there.”
“You are the navigator,” she said, remembering.
He nodded, pleased. “I won’t have anything to do until we are at sea, and we must go some distance until I am of any use. Past the Scilly Isles at least, and that will be a day or two. Once we are in the Channel, we shall sail down the coast and past Lizard Point. Once we pass the Scillies, we shall be in open sea. I can show you on a map later, if you wish?”
“I should like that.” Clarice was about to say more when a series of shrill blasts on a whistle interrupted her.
“We’d best get out of the way,” Dominick said, taking her arm. “Come. There’s a better view from the poop deck anyway.” He gestured toward another set of stairs to her right, and Clarice followed him.
From here, she could look across the whole of the main deck. Its surface seemed oddly cluttered—barrels, crates, coils of rope, a coop full of chickens, and even a pig.
“The chickens are kept for eggs and turned into soup or stew near the voyage’s end,” Dominick said. “Mr. Squeal is fattened upon offal and garbage until he, too, is ready for the table. It is common practice. The less garbage we toss overboard, the less likely the sharks will follow us.”
“I should like to avoid meeting any sharks.” Clarice looked out across the deck. It was like a great roofless chamber, and upon it at least two dozen men were engaged in various mysterious tasks. Some seemed merely to be idling, though she doubted they were. They seemed to be drawn from every race that inhabited the globe; among the pale skins of Eurus burnt bronze by tropical suns and ocean wind, she saw coffee-dark Ifranians, honey-brown Caribe, the paler honey of Khemetia.…
“The sea is its own nation,” Dominick said, accurately interpreting her gaze. “We sail with men born under the suns of a dozen nations, I’ll wager.”
“But no women?” Clarice asked boldly.
Dominick smiled. “I dare say a woman can be as bold a sailor as any man, but Asesino is Albionnaise. Only our naval ships carry female crew. But there. That is what you will be wishing to see,” he said, pointing along the length of the deck.
Another raised deck was at the bow, where she could see the great spoked wheel that controlled the ship’s rudder. It was at least five feet across, and its wood and brass gleamed in the strengthening light. A man stood before it, his hands upon two of the spokes, his back to them. Mr. Greenwell, she supposed.
“You will soon learn when and how to get out of the way, Clarence,” Dominick said encouragingly. “If you are ever in doubt, simply go to the rail. It is the deck itself which tends to be busy. As you may see for yourself.”
He gestured, and she watched as the crew did … something … with lines and sails. The ship seemed to lunge forward. The swanlike elegance of a schooner under full sail was an illusion that held only at a distance. Up close, one could see that mystery of elegance and grace was bought with backbreaking human effort.
“We shall raise the mainsail when we are in the Channel,” Dominick sa
id. “That is something to see, I promise you.”
“It must take a very long time to learn all one needs to know,” Clarice said slowly. The more she studied it, the more the Asesino seemed to her like some vast machine, as if she had somehow found herself within the workings of a great clock.
“All your life. I first went to sea when I was eight, as a cabin boy on my father’s ship. And I vow I am still as good a rigger as any soul aboard.” He pointed upward, where the great masts seemed to prod the belly of the sky. “There is where the best view of all is to be had, a hundred feet above the water,” he said fondly. “Perhaps you would like to go aloft with me in a week or so, once you have gotten your sea legs.”
Clarice glanced down and realized she was gripping the rail at the edge of the deck. She forced herself to release it. “Perhaps I shall. You will find I am no coward.”
“Why, Clarence, you sail with us on a voyage to the ends of the earth! I already consider you the boldest of fellows.”
Dominick seemed content to oversee the work on the deck as if Asesino’s crew were the subjects of his own private kingdom. By now the sun had risen above the housetops, and they were already near the edges of the city. What had been outlying villages only a century before were being engulfed in the city’s expansion, thatch and timber and ancient stone giving way to grand open squares and the palatial town houses of Lochrin’s wealthy.
“It is so very large,” she said, half to herself. “I think you could set all of Swansgaarde down within this city alone.”
Dominick chuckled, recalling her to herself. “It is the greatest city in the world,” he said proudly. “And I am delighted to leave it, for it is the most crowded as well.”
The House of the Four Winds: Book One of One Dozen Daughters Page 3