He made as if to reach for it.
“I am sure coin would be more useful to you than the talisman of a seafaring man,” Clarice answered implacably. She dropped the pendant into the pocket of her coat. “And there must be some in Sprunt’s effects. When they have been examined, I am sure the crew will look favorably upon your claim—should you choose to present it.”
Dobbs sneered. “You do not know what you face, Mr. Swann!”
“Do you?” Clarice turned and walked away.
* * *
“Will you join me in a small libation, Mr. Swann? I’m sure you’ll agree—the last several hours have been trying ones.”
The dead had been committed to the sea, and Clarice had urged Dr. Chapman to rest a little and accompanied him to the surgery. She thought she had never seen any man look so exhausted. The pain of his injury and the long hours without sleep had made his face white and drawn.
Clarice smiled faintly. “When I took ship for the Hispalides, I was in search of adventure, I admit. But perhaps not this much adventure?”
Dr. Lionel Chapman returned her smile as he reached, one-handed, for the bottle. “God grant you never see true adventure,” he said with a sigh, pouring himself a cup of whiskey.
“I think I have little choice about it now.”
It did not seem likely she would reach her original destination. She had written to Papa and Mama before she sailed. Her fate would be set before her letter reached them, and months more would pass before they truly began to worry. But whatever fate may be mine, I shall not simply say yes to whatever it sends! she vowed stubbornly. If it is not to my liking … then it is not my fate.
“But these poor sailors! What is to happen to them? Dobbs says they will all be hanged should they fall into the hands of the authorities.”
“I’m afraid he is right.” Chapman sank heavily into a chair. “The law of the sea is harsh and unforgiving. I have been at sea these twenty years, and I have seen men bear up under harsher treatment than what Sprunt meted out here,” he said slowly. “I believe I am telling the truth when I say that these men could have borne it all—save poor Appleby, God rest his stainless soul!—if not for the fact that they were goaded toward mutiny day and night. But now it does not matter into whose hands we fall—our own navy, that of the Iberians, or even of the Waulois—we have become outlaws of the sea. You alone might escape.”
“I?” Clarice said, startled. “How?”
Chapman gestured with the cup he held. “You did not swear to obey Sprunt’s orders, and so you cannot mutiny against them. Once we have made port, wherever we make port, you must go immediately to the governor-general and tell him your story. If a pardon is needed for those actions you committed here, surely he can write you one.”
So long as I do not include in my story the fact that Captain Sprunt died by my hand, Clarice thought. Though perhaps I might confess even to that without penalty, for certainly the enchanted brooch I carry would be sufficient to establish my true identity. And Princess Clarice of Swansgaarde is unlikely to face the same penalty as plain Clarence Swann.
“But what of you? It must—” She paused and cleared her throat, remembering to keep her voice pitched low. “It must have cost you a great deal to throw in your lot with the mutineers.”
“It would have cost me a great deal more if I had not,” the doctor answered with the ghost of a smile. “Some voyage would have been my last. This is as good as any to go out on. There is much work for a medical man in the Hispalides, and few questions asked. I shall say I am from Scotia, or Hibernia, or some other place, and soon enough Dr. Lionel Chapman will vanish, to be replaced by I know not whom. Leonard, perhaps. Leonard DeForrest. I have always liked the name Leonard.”
“Then that is two of us who are safe, out of nearly three score souls,” Clarice said wryly. “What of the others? What will be their fate?”
Chapman sighed again. “The rope and the gibbet. Save of course for the good reverend,” he added with a sour smile. “He shall be covered in glory.”
“Dobbs!” Clarice exclaimed. Suddenly she was reminded of the talisman she carried. She dug in her coat pocket and drew it out. “He was trying to get this from Sprunt’s body, but I stopped him. He swore he had won it from Sprunt at cards—but I doubt that very much.”
This was the first opportunity she’d had to get a good look at it since she’d taken it from Dobbs. The disk was about a hand span across and perhaps a finger’s width thick. At a distance, it had seemed to be made of green stone—perhaps nephrite, or jade—but now she thought it might be glass, for tiny threads of gold went all through it and seemed to have been placed with some conscious purpose. The green disk was held in a flat gold bezel that covered its sides and extended a little way across the front.
She turned it over. The back was completely covered in gold, with a thin groove near the edge, so that a round, golden disk was set in the center of the bezel. The disk’s entire surface was engraved with delicate lines, and its edge was covered with a forest of odd broken markings. Her inspection revealed that the bezel around the rim was meant to rotate. She held the disk between thumb and forefinger and twisted the rim experimentally. On this side it, too, was covered in odd markings.
Though she could make out neither top nor bottom, a ring was set in its edge, through which ran a substantial golden chain, long enough to pass easily over the head. She set the object down upon the table.
“It’s bespelled, isn’t it?” Dr. Chapman asked, regarding it dubiously.
“Yes. I have no idea what it does. All I know is that our good Reverend Dobbs very much did not wish anyone to know he was after it. He might have removed it from the body openly before the body was prepared for burial, then made his claim.”
“Clearly he did not wish anyone else to get a close look at it.” Chapman picked up the medallion and studied the back intently. “For any sailor worth his grog would recognize a map,” he finished, sounding pleased.
“A map?” Clarice asked, bewildered. “But there is no—”
“Land?” Dr. Chapman asked with a smile. “No there is not. Navigational charts, you know, rarely include land,” he added dryly, and Clarice grimaced. “Nor could I tell you where it leads. It is a mystery.”
“Perhaps. But if it is in some way a sailing chart, surely we should consult Dominick?”
* * *
When she returned to the deck, Dominick was nowhere to be seen. Ned Hatcliff told her he was in Sprunt’s cabin, taking possession of the charts, and called Geordie Lamb over to show her how to find it.
“Just down the corridor to the left, sir,” Geordie said. “Last door.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lamb. But there is no need to be formal. We are shipmates now. Please call me Clarence.”
Geordie blushed red to the tips of his ears. “Oh, no, sir! My mother wouldn’t like that at all! Taking liberties, she’d call it. But I’ll call you Mr. Swann—if that’s all right? And you can call me Geordie, same as everyone.”
“Thank you, Geordie,” Clarice said gravely. “I shall be honored.”
Geordie turned even redder—if that was possible—and turned to leave so quickly he walked into the hatch instead of through it. Clarice most carefully did not laugh as she stepped down the hallway. The door was ajar when she approached, so she pushed it open and entered, thinking it unoccupied.
Then she stopped, blinking in surprise. She had become used to the idea that all the spaces aboard ship were small and cramped. This space was not. It was at least twice the size of the common room and had surely been built for a captain who was also owner and master. The ceiling sloped upward from the doorway, and the back wall was an immense bank of windows that looked down upon a bed whose mattress was nearly twice the width of Clarice’s narrow bunk. The sides and base of the bed were fitted out with drawers. Above, instead of a peg for a lantern, she saw an entire chandelier waiting to be lit; along the walls were mirrored brackets that held unlit lanterns. In one cor
ner stood a desk, and in another, a pair of comfortable chairs that wouldn’t have looked out of place in any library in Swansgaarde. The center of the room was dominated by a great square table of standing height.
The initial impression was one of luxury, but that was an illusion. The furnishings were worn and shabby, the wood dull and dry. A light rectangle of decking indicated where a carpet had once covered the floor, but no longer. The windows had fixtures for curtains, but no curtains, and even the wooden shutters, folded back to admit light, were splintered and broken. All this could be nothing more than hard use and long neglect, but over it lay, like a noisome cloak, the evidence of Samuel Sprunt’s tenancy. Even the sea air couldn’t wholly banish the fetid reek of an unwashed body. The sheets upon the bunk were greasy and stained, and the corners of the room were filled with litter. She could not decide whether this was the fault of the former occupant or evidence of a truly thorough search.
“Kayin, if you would be so kind, you may tell Mr. Greenwell that the navigational materials and sailing charts are all here and in good order,” Dominick’s disembodied voice said. A moment later, he rose from behind the standing table.
In the middle of all this disorder, Dominick appeared like a creature from another world. He was freshly shaved and had changed his soiled shirt for a fresh one. Dark smudges of weariness beneath his eyes and a bruise upon his cheek were the only visible signs of what had transpired the night before. He stood at the table, studying the items that covered its surface: several thick, leatherbound books; a personal journal; a telescope in an open case; and a number of navigational instruments that must have belonged to Sprunt lay atop several enormous charts.
“Clarence!” he exclaimed. “Forgive me. I thought you were Kayin coming to see if I had been lost—or perished of poison.” He grinned at her crookedly.
“I would hardly be surprised if you had, now that I have seen this place. But I am pleased to hear that we are not lost.”
It was a strange and refreshing thing, Clarice reflected idly. If she were here in her own person, being alone in a room with a handsome young man would inevitably lead her to wonder (or worry) if he meant to make romantic advances at her. But as Clarence Swann, she had no such concerns at all.
“Oh, we wouldn’t be lost in any event,” Dominick said offhandedly, “for the ship’s compass and chronometer are in good order, and while I couldn’t undertake to reach our destination without instruments—did I not have my own, and kept far better than these, for that matter—we could certainly reach Hesperia itself. An entire continent is a difficult thing to miss.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Clarice said wryly.
“And I am glad to have this moment alone with you, for in all the confusion, I don’t think I have properly thanked you for saving my life.”
“I … I did only what needed to be done,” Clarice answered awkwardly, trying to control her flush of embarrassment. “You seem to me to be quite an expert sailor, Dominick, but I do not think you are any sort of swordsman.”
That made him laugh. “Perhaps you will be willing to give me lessons, since I can see it is a useful skill indeed. Though I do not know if there is another rapier to be found aboard ship. A sailor’s weapon is the cutlass—” He broke off suddenly, and Clarice knew he was remembering, as she was, the blood-slick cutlass in Sprunt’s hands.
“Why, then, we will begin as I began, with wooden swords,” Clarice answered. “You will soon get the hang of it. But will you have time for your lessons?”
“Plenty of it. We do not make port for another month—should we continue on our charted course. And yet…” Dominick peered at the topmost chart again and then took up a book from the stack upon the table.
Clarice moved around to his side of the table. The other books were printed—navigational tables and ephemerides—but this one was handwritten. The ship’s log. She couldn’t read Sprunt’s crabbed writing, but most of the penciled entries seemed to consist of columns of numbers and dates.
“I shouldn’t trouble you with this, Clarence,” Dominick said, favoring her with a weary smile.
“How not? You are my friend,” Clarice said honestly. “And I have been getting quite the education in naval matters from Dr. Chapman. If I understand him aright, I am the only person aboard ship you can speak frankly to.”
“It would be true if I were captain,” Dominick answered modestly, “for the captain, whatever his doubts—or hers—must not share them with the crew. But at the moment we have no captain, though we are to hold elections as soon as I have checked our heading and made sure we need make no corrections for a while. Though where we are to go, and what will become of us…”
“Must we turn pirate? Is there no other option?” It seemed to Clarice that she had been asking that same question since the moment Sprunt had fallen dead on the deck.
“Only one,” Dominick answered grimly. “We must find a port where the Asesino is not known, put the crew ashore, and sink her in the tide. Only then can any of us hope to end our lives as free men. And that is more easily said than done. We are sailors. We have no other trade or livelihood.” He sighed again. “I still cannot imagine how we came to this situation. Samuel Sprunt was an experienced captain. He could not have so misjudged the temper of the crew. Not easily.”
“I do not think it was a misjudgment. Dr. Chapman believes the crew was driven to mutiny. Led to it. Intentionally.”
“Why?” Dominick demanded. “What could he possibly have gained by it?”
“Would this tell us?” For the second time that day Clarice drew out the medallion and laid it upon the chart table.
If she had placed a scorpion there, it could not have caused a greater sensation. Dominick flinched back instantly, then reached out a cautious hand to pick it up. “Dear Lord,” he whispered, inspecting it carefully. “Was this Sprunt’s great secret? Who knows you are in possession of it now?”
His abrupt change in manner disoriented her. “Reverend Dobbs. And Doctor Chapman. And you. Dobbs was trying to take it from the body without being seen.”
“Then Dobbs will not speak of it—though he will certainly try to take it from you—and Dr. Chapman is trustworthy. As am I,” he added with a faint smile.
“But what is it?” Clarice demanded in frustration. “Why should I conceal it?”
“It is a map,” Dominick said simply. He held it over the chart, gold side facing up. “And to sailors, there is only one sort of map—a treasure map. Treasure fever has destroyed more good ships than pirates or mutineers.”
“If I have a choice between being a treasure hunter or a pirate, I know which one I’d pick,” Clarice muttered, yet she felt her breath and heart quickening. “But how can you say it is a treasure map when you do not know even what it is a map of?”
“I do not say it is a treasure map, Clarence,” Dominick answered pedantically. “I say that anyone who discovers a secret, hidden, and enchanted talisman with a map engraved upon it will instantly assume it is the key to a great treasure.”
“I assumed no such thing,” Clarice said stiffly.
“Ah, but you are a landsman, not a sailor.” Dominick was still holding the pendant, absently turning the moving rim with his thumb.
For a moment she felt a wave of irritation flare up within her and held her tongue with an effort. Everyone aboard this ship seemed to feel that a ship was not merely a convenient mode of transportation, but some sort of floating kingdom in which they were all princes.
“Perhaps so, but I am smart enough to see that a map one cannot read is a useless map,” she said tartly.
“Of cour—” Whatever Dominick had meant to say died unuttered. He had been about to hand the object back to her when he had glanced down at it a final time. “But if one has latitude and longitude, one has little need for a map,” he said in a stricken voice.
He held the talisman out to Clarice. The decorative curves and loops around the border were no longer merely decorative. When the ring an
d the disk were properly aligned, they became a series of numbers.
“Is it a— Do you know where it goes?”
“Give me a moment,” Dominick answered, reaching for his tools.
* * *
In fact, it was closer to half an hour before he had turned the ring of numbers into a location on one of the charts, and when he had done so, it was nothing more than a faint penciled X in the middle of a vast expanse of blue.
“But there is nothing there!” Clarice exclaimed in disappointment.
“We would have to go there to be certain of that,” Dominick answered. “Whatever is there, it is about four days away from Cibola. The Hispalides are a chain. There could be an island that had been overlooked. Or a reef.”
“Cibola is where we are—we were—going, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Dominick’s voice was thoughtful and grave once more. “But … look.” He took her arm and drew her closer to the table. “This is what I was puzzling over before you arrived. Each evening, I took a sighting to determine the number of miles we sailed that day. I gave my reckoning to Dickon, and Dickon gave it to Sprunt, and Sprunt marked it upon the chart. See? It is here.” He pointed, and Clarice could see a faint penciled line upon the chart, and along it, a series of Xs and dates. “And then each morning, he would check the heading and make any corrections he deemed needful. And so I have never seen our whole course laid out upon the chart until now. And it is … not the course I would have plotted myself.”
He laid out the charts until they covered the whole surface of the table, then reached into a small carved-bone box she had not noticed before and picked up a handful of tiny metal objects. “See? There are the Hispalides at the edge of this chart—and see? There is Cibola. But … look. Were I choosing our course, it would be … so.” He set the small pyramids upon the charts in a long arc stretching from Cibola all the way across the map.
“This is hardly a reason for you to look so worried when you are inspecting a chart you have said is perfectly fine,” she said.
The House of the Four Winds: Book One of One Dozen Daughters Page 9