by Stina Leicht
“I was waiting on the dock. Weren’t you going to say goodbye?” Slate asked. He had a coat looped over one arm and was carrying a couple of bundles in the crook of the other.
Blackthorne blinked. “Do you have final instructions, sir?”
Slate said, “Actually, I wanted to give you something.” He unfolded the coat and held it out. “We can’t have you freezing to death before you get to Novus Salernum.”
Stunned, Blackthorne didn’t move. A gift?
“Go on. Take it,” Slate said. “Put it on. I need to know now if it fits. It’s a bit late for Emilius Arnason to make alterations, but he assured me that he could guess your measurements well enough.”
Blackthorne had put on every article of clothing he owned in preparation. Given the threadbare state of his overcoat, he’d even cut a hole in the middle of a horse blanket and had thrown it over the top as if it were a cloak. It functioned well enough, and it kept his hands free. In addition, it’d circumvented the need to pack.
His cheeks heated as it occurred to him what he must look like to the others. Is it a gift, or is it charity? He hadn’t given much thought to his appearance, because he wasn’t having to playact during their journey south. He was only to be himself—whatever that was, for the time being. Therefore, he’d been focused on practicality alone.
“Is something wrong?” Slate asked.
“No, sir.” Caught between his tattered pride and obvious necessity, Blackthorne still didn’t move.
“If you cannot accept the coat as a gift from a friend, consider it partial compensation for services rendered to the community,” Slate said.
“Yes, sir.” Blackthorne lifted the horse blanket over his head and removed his threadbare coat. He knocked his hand on the low ceiling in the process. The narrow passage wasn’t the best place to change. Still, he was grateful that Slate had chosen to present the gift to him in private.
He shrugged on the new coat and found its heavy warmth a near-perfect fit. Unlike its predecessor, it didn’t restrict his movement. He could reach his weapons without fear of tearing the seams. “Thank you, sir.”
Slate squinted. He wasn’t wearing his spectacles, and the cloudiness in his eyes was gone. “Feels all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Slate said, and nodded, pleased. “I want you to know how much I appreciate what you’ve done—what you’re doing now. I’m not sure I’ve expressed that enough. I should’ve done a better job of that.”
“It’s all right, sir.”
Slate said, “The truth is, I’ve grown rather fond of you, as has Moss. He sends this and apologizes for not saying goodbye himself.” He gave him the bundles. “Open them later.”
“Please give him my thanks.”
“I will.” Slate stole a glance up the stairs behind him. “One last thing. Would you—” He paused, seemingly embarrassed and distressed. “Would you look after Katrin for me? See to it she doesn’t get into trouble?”
There had been a great deal of consternation surrounding the inclusion of Katrin Brooke. Officially, Colonel Hännenen had made the original recommendation because, while what remained of the Royal Eledorean Army contained a large number of pickpockets, thieves, and rogues, none of them had the requisite skills to quietly break into an Acrasian building. That is, Brooke, a former street harvester, was the Hold’s only resident Acrasian lockpick.
Unofficially, Blackthorne had suggested her first. However, Queen Suvi had decided to tell Slate that it’d been Nels’s idea. Blackthorne wasn’t entirely sure the ruse had worked.
“I will do everything I can, sir.” Everything within my power, he thought.
“Good. Good,” Slate said, somewhat relieved. “Good luck, Severus. Come back alive.” He put out a hand.
Blackthorne blinked at the use of his real name. “She will too, sir. You’ve my word.” He took the man’s hand and shook.
“Thank you. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. I—I know she’ll be safe with you to look after her.” Slate released Blackthorne’s hand and went back up the stairs.
Blackthorne gathered his things and followed after. He took a moment to examine his new coat in better light. Styled in the Ytlainen fashion with big cuffs and a high collar, a great deal of thought had been put into its design. It was made of black wool, and tall as he was, it was long enough to cover the tops of his boots. A second layer of wool draped over his shoulders like a shawl and could be used to form a hood in foul weather. He straightened under its welcome weight and felt warm for what seemed the first time in months even though it was May.
The gardens had been planted, and fishing was now practical. Beef, however, was a distant memory. The cattle that Moller had stolen from the Acrasians were long gone, and the wild reindeer that normally supplemented the community’s stores had been scarce until recently. For his part, Blackthorne didn’t care if he saw another onion or turnip for the rest of his life.
It is good to be leaving this place.
Leaving his baggage on the deck, he went back to work. This time, his thoughts were lighter. He decided he liked the feel of the vessel beneath him more and more. He’d never traveled by ship before—even one as small as Clár Oibre Rúnda. That was, when he thought about it now, a little unusual for someone who had been raised Acrasian. However, the duke didn’t care much for boats and had generally left the overseas travel to underlings.
At last, the loading was finished and the passengers boarded. Colonel Hännenen and Ilta, his wife, went below at once. The queen, her bodyguard, Jami Rautio, and the Waterborne ambassador, Dylan Kask, went about their tasks, piloting the small ship away from the hidden dock and into the river. Lieutenant Viktor Reini was assisting Darius Teak high up in the rigging. This left Blackthorne, Katrin Brooke, and Natalia Annikki to fend for themselves. For his part, Blackthorne moved to the front of the small ship. He hoped to stay out of the way of those who had work to do. He left Annikki and Katrin talking together at the ship’s side.
Blackthorne took a slow, deep breath in an attempt to relax. Early spring was cold and hard inside his lungs, even painful if he weren’t careful. The days had steadily grown longer and warmer. His new coat was a bit heavy for Eledore in summer, even the start of summer, but he couldn’t bear to take it off. The overcoat would be just right for the evenings. After some consideration, he concluded it was definitely too warm for Acrasia. He didn’t care. He stood at the front of the ship, out of the way of the sails and ropes, and felt the wind push against his back. He savored the sunlight cast upon his face—the way it reddened the skin under his eyelids as he turned toward it. He spent most of the morning with the wind blowing his hair in his face, watching the river.
His senses had grown sharper during his stay in the Hold, particularly his hearing. That disturbed him. He didn’t understand how or why, but he’d even felt the change when spring and then summer had arrived—particularly spring. He had no need of an almanac. The energy in the air or the earth had been different. That difference sang under his skin and hummed in his bones, making him restless. By May, getting out of the Hold had become an imperative. If he’d remained behind, it would’ve only meant trouble. He had had to get out.
“First time on a ship?”
Blackthorne turned and saw it was the Waterborne named Darius.
His hair was done in braids that had grown longer since Blackthorne had first met him. They were now gathered in a short queue at the nape of Darius’s neck. Blackthorne had to tilt his head down a little in order to look him in the eye.
Blackthorne nodded.
“Do you want me to show you where you’re bunking?” Darius asked.
Blackthorne blinked. It wasn’t even noon yet.
“So you can store your things. It’s going to rain soon. Everything will get wet,” Darius said, and pointed to the coat. “And aren’t you hot?”
“Oh.” Blackthorne collected his rucksack from the deck.
“Come on,” Darius s
aid. “I’ll show you.”
Following Darius down the steps, they left what Darius referred to as the gun deck and made their way to the lower deck. Eventually, they arrived at a small room lined with bunks.
Darius pointed to the bunk on the bottom left. “That’s yours. You can store your baggage in the locker underneath.” He opened the small cabinet tucked under the bed. “See?”
“Thank you,” Blackthorne said. He stowed his bag inside, and with some small reluctance, he removed the overcoat, folded it, and put it away.
“Clár is a sloop. So, we’ll be a bit cozy. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. A couple of us could sleep on the deck, but that might not be wise.”
“The malorum,” Blackthorne said.
“Exactly,” Darius said. “Queen Suvi and Jami are taking the captain’s cabin. Dylan and I will be in the first mate’s. Nels and Ilta will have the bosun’s and, well … the rest of you are in here, the crew cabin. You going to be all right on the left with Viktor? Natalia and Kat will be on the other side. A canvas divide drops through the middle. See? That halves an already-small space, but the divider will provide some privacy. Although canvas walls don’t do much for the snoring or the late-night chatter.”
Blackthorne indicated it would be fine.
“It’s almost time for lunch,” Darius said. “I need to get everything ready. I could use some help. Would you mind?”
“Not at all,” Blackthorne said.
They went to the galley together, and Blackthorne set out the plates and tableware. While he’d no experience in doing so, years of instruction in table manners made the task of arranging the weighted cups and plates simple. The room was warm due to the oven, and it wasn’t long before Darius ventured from the stove to open the portholes to allow in some air. Blackthorne could smell bread baking. Stooping over yet another place setting, he sensed someone move close to him. In such a cramped space, it wasn’t difficult to catch the scent of winter roses, rosemary, and mint. It also told him who was near without turning.
Ilta. His heart was struck with a freezing bolt of something too close to terror. All at once, his skin felt tight, and his mind flooded with conflicting thoughts. Go away. You belong to him. You’ve made your choice. You’re going to get me killed.
Please stay.
She would only use you for a cocksman.
What does that matter? Has anyone done anything else? Almost against his will, he captured the smell of her in his lungs as if it were the only part of her he could hold. I couldn’t compete with Hännenen even if I wanted to. What could I have offered her? That fight is done. Speaking to her now is suicide.
A Retainer must consider themselves already dead—
I want to live, damn it.
Suddenly, the prospect of living in a confined space with her so close seemed infinitely stupid. Walk away—
“I like this ship. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” she asked. He could hear nervousness in her tone, threatening to knock her voice off balance.
What does she have to feel uneasy about? He didn’t look her in the eye. Why is she here?
She turned and asked Darius, “What’s for lunch?” through the narrow doorway.
Oh, Blackthorne thought. Heart drumming a forced march, he continued with his work. From the corner of his eye he saw she was wearing a blue day dress. Her cheeks and nose were a healthy pink.
“Cold meats,” Darius said. “Bread and cheese.”
“What kind of meat?” Ilta asked.
“Reindeer. Viktor and I hunted a fresh one yesterday,” Darius said. “Since it was partly my kill, I was able to convince James to let me have part of it for the trip.”
“Sounds good,” Ilta said.
“Will Nels be joining us?” Darius asked.
“I doubt it,” Ilta said. “He’s in his bunk.”
“Is he sick already?” Darius asked.
She shook her head. “I keep telling him he’ll be fine, but he doesn’t trust it.”
“The river is calm. He should eat something while he can,” Darius said. “He can’t starve himself the entire journey.”
“That’s what I told him,” Ilta said. “But he’s stubborn. I’ll bring him something after we eat.”
“So, that means there’ll be eight for lunch,” Darius said. “I’ll switch off with Dylan at the wheel.”
The noon meal was uneventful, as was dinner. Blackthorne managed to keep to himself by spending most of his time on the upper deck. He learned a few things about sailing from Dylan and Darius, both of whom were much easier to talk to than the others. Katrin had taken to trailing behind Jami and Natalia. Viktor, like him, tended to keep to himself for the most part.
This, Blackthorne thought, is going to be a very long journey.
DRAKE
ONE
NOVUS SALERNUM
THE REGNUM OF ACRASIA
18 MAY
THE TWENTY-SECOND YEAR IN THE SACRED REIGN OF EMPEROR HERMINIUS
“What are we here for?” Benbow grumbled. “Can’t the army handle a few nonhumans?”
“Shut it, Benbow,” Captain Drake said.
She laid a hand to the River Sector’s wet stone wall. Behind her, five Watch volunteers waited. Looking through the iron gates, Drake watched the nonhumans crowding into and out of shops. Nothing seemed different. Women and children waited in lines as with pinched, resentful faces, rushing to collect purchases before the curfew bells rang the end of the day. Still, she could sense something was wrong.
Suddenly, she understood what it was. Where are all the young men? She spied one or two, but nowhere near as many as she would’ve seen last spring.
Rain fell in sheets, and a cold breeze swept through the gates. The clock tower in the Commons rang four o’clock.
Drake said, “Army is paying extra. Expecting trouble, I suspect.”
“How much trouble?” Benbow asked.
Benbow is getting more inquisitive, Drake thought. “Enough. But not too much.”
“All the more reason to be at home in bed,” Benbow said. “You planning on sharing that extra pay, or are we to be happy in the honor of being volunteered?”
“You’ll get your cut,” Drake said. “Don’t you worry.”
A drum accompanied marching feet in rain-dampened echoes. Drake waved her ten Watchmen against the wall to let the army pass. Her orders were to hang back, and at the first sign of trouble, they were to shut and lock the gates.
She counted twenty soldiers as they marched past in orderly parade formation. That’s quite a few for a recruiting party, she thought. Ten of the men assumed positions under the clock tower at the center of the shabby Commons park while the others proceeded to herd nonhumans into the square. The lieutenant ripped a broadsheet from the side of the tower, wadding the paper in his fists with a frown. A private assembled a camp table and stool before the sergeant took his seat on the wooden stage. A ledger, paper, ink, and several quills were set on the table’s surface. The lieutenant rang the bell on the side of the tower three times, the signal for an official announcement. Then he unfolded a piece of paper and began reading in a loud voice as the residents reluctantly gathered.
“The Regnum of Acrasia calls upon her sons to serve and protect her from the northern threat.”
“I thought the war was over,” a nonhuman with greasy black hair said.
The lieutenant ignored the statement and read on. “When each name is announced, form a line to the right and report to the recruiting sergeant. The following honored beings are summoned to military service in the Glorious Army of Acrasia: John Alder, Hakon Balder—”
“Hakon died last fall,” someone said.
“—Eric Frigg, Kelder Mielikki, Mikael Pellervoinen …” The recruiting lieutenant’s voice pierced the air like a steady death knell.
Muted cries of despair mixed with grumbles of outrage as each name was read. Regardless, a line began to form in front of the sergeant, who handed the first recruit a quill and poi
nted where he was to put his mark on the ledger book. Nearby, Drake overheard an older woman as she grabbed a young man’s sleeve.
“Don’t go,” she said.
“I have to. You know the law,” he said. “It’s this or work. And I don’t have work to excuse me from service. Don’t worry. This way, I’ll come back a citizen.”
“If you come back,” she said.
He didn’t seem to hear her. “I’ll be qualified for guild membership.”
Surreptitious motions from those along the edges of the crowd were enough to tell Drake something unpleasant was definitely on the way. The lieutenant doggedly continued to the bottom of the list, unaffected by the sullen atmosphere. As he reached the end, a mud clod exploded on the clock tower three feet above his head.
Next to Drake, Gilmartyn suppressed a laugh. Somewhere in the crowd, someone didn’t.
In response, several soldiers drew their muskets, but the lieutenant signaled for them to stand down. Two additional mud clods rapidly slammed into the tower. The lieutenant ordered the sergeant to pack. However, before he could comply, the barrage intensified. Mud slapped the recruiting sergeant’s face. Incensed, the sergeant grabbed a musket from the private standing next to him and shot a nonhuman at the front of the crowd.
For a moment, no one moved. Then a cry of grief and outrage pierced the air. It was followed by chaos. Most of the crowd fled for safety, but another part of it surged forward in a rage, ripping at anyone and anything in its path. Drake saw and heard musket fire. Again, it brought the crowd up short for a few moments. Then they pushed forward. The soldiers didn’t have time to reload. Within moments, the lieutenant and twenty Acrasian soldiers vanished in the roiling mass.
Drake hesitated. Her orders were to wait to lock down until the troops were through the gates. However, she didn’t think the troops were going to make it out. If the mob could overtake twenty trained soldiers, then ten Watchmen didn’t stand a chance.
Fresh blood painted the cobblestones. Bloody uniform parts and weapons surfaced in the form of trophies waved in the air. The mob spread toward a guard tower, and Drake had the bad feeling they weren’t going to stop with the officer and his troops.