“Hungry as usual,” he said with a grin, “and fussy, which is normal in babies, I’m guessin’.”
“I’ll feed him before supper, then.”
“Not before you’ve had some water and a nibble. You’ve been outside all day.” He diverted her to the galley and called for the cook. “Water and a biscuit fer the nursin’ mommy, if you please.”
“Straight away, Captain!” The man bustled around the galley and produced a large pewter mug and a plate with two ship’s biscuits and a wedge of white cheese. “I saved a bit o’ that last wheel o’ cheese for ya, Mistress. It won’t keep and there’s not enough to go around for the whole crew, so you go ahead and eat up. Yer still eatin’ fer two.”
“Thank you,” Cynthia said without argument. They were on short rations, since they had the combined crews of Orin’s Pride and Peggy’s Dream aboard. She’d supplemented their stores with fish, easily caught using her seamage skills, but they were still short. She sat on the hard wooden bench, took a bite of biscuit; it was dry and tasteless, and she had to take a sip of water to wash it down, but it filled the void in her stomach. The cheese was better, so soft and creamy that it melted on her tongue. How long had it been, she wondered, since she’d enjoyed—really enjoyed—a home-cooked meal? She washed the bite of cheese down with another sip of water. “How’s the water holding out?”
“Not good,” Feldrin admitted. “Not enough for the seven days it’ll take us to raise Plume Isle. Might have you whip up a downpour tomorrow.”
“Happy to.” She ate mechanically, knowing she needed it, but feeling ashamed that she received the extra rations while others went hungry. The least she could do was provide water, though coaxing up a shower took time away from propelling the ship. Well, if they were going to stop for a while, perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone. “I’ll do a bit of fishing while I’m at it.”
“Which brings up somethin’ I been meanin’ to ask you about; how’re yer fishy friends doin’?”
Cynthia glanced curiously at her husband. Only days ago he had been prepared to condemn the entire mer race; what was his concern with them now? Perhaps Kelpie’s aid in their escape from Akrotia had shown him that not all mer were intent on her destruction.
“They’re tired but well enough. Considering that Tailwalker and Chaser were the only two mer to survive that we know of, I think they’re just happy to be heading home.” She could see from the look on his face that he had more on his mind. “Why?”
“Just wonderin’ how you planned to handle them. With Eelback dead, and him bein’ behind the whole plot to make war on the emperor’s ships just to put you on the spot, there ain’t much left fer you to be mad about.”
“You think I should talk to Broadtail?”
“Maybe not right off, but maybe send word back with Tailwalker that you don’t plan on smashin’ their home to rubble anymore.” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Might smooth tensions a bit.”
“A truce?” She finished her snack and washed it down with the last of her water. “I’m not sure if the emperor would like that, after they sank his warship.”
“Well, that’s a whole ‘nother kettle of fish, love.” He rose with her and returned the empty mug and plate to the galley, nodding his thanks to the cook. “But dealin’ with His Majesty might be easier if you can use peace with the merfolk as a bargainin’ chip.”
“Not a bad idea,” she said, following him out of the galley and toward the aft cabin. “I never thought of you as a politico, Feldrin.”
“Just one of my many charms, lass,” he said with a smile as he ushered her into the cabin. They were greeted by a sleepy seasprite and the grunting protestations of a fussy baby, which to Cynthia’s ears was the most glorious sound in the world. “He’s all yers. If you can make him happy, an emperor should be easy!”
“Oh, Kloe,” she cooed, sitting beside the squirming infant and lifting him into her lap. Mouse perked up and fluttered to her shoulder, grinning down at the baby. “What? What is so upsetting? Are you hungry? Okay, then.” He squirmed while she fumbled open the buttons of her blouse, lifted her chemise and let him suckle. He immediately stopped fussing. Mouse made a face and flew out of the skylight hatch.
“That’s my boy; only got one thing on his mind,” Feldrin said with a huge grin. “Seriously, though, Cyn, we need to figure out how to deal with the next bunch of warships that come down to visit.”
“You mean besides surrendering and begging forgiveness?”
“Well, that might be a good start, but I was thinkin’ of what to say to keep our necks out of the guillotine.”
“That, dear, will indeed be the hard part,” she said, holding her son close. She wondered what would happen to him if his parents were executed for treason.
Chapter 2
Blood Trail
A stream of shouted gibberish woke Dura from a fitful sleep, and she groaned. Today, another of them would die. She opened her eyes to see several cannibals yelling and gesticulating beside her cage, their backs turned to her. They had found Pica.
The sting of tears pricked Dura’s eyes. Pica, who had shown so much promise as a carpenter’s mate in the shipyard, had slashed her wrists two days ago, overcome by despair. The stench and the flies were so thick in the offal beneath the cages that the death had gone undetected. Now, enraged by their discovery, the cannibals dragged the young woman’s stiff corpse from her cage and began hacking and bashing at it with their knives and clubs as they argued.
“Leave her alone, ya filthy, pig-buggerin’ bastards!” Dura bellowed. The sight of them despoiling the body of her friend set her blood boiling, and she gripped the bars of her cage and rattled it as she cursed them. “Slimy bunch of pox-ridden whores! Let her be!”
The shouting subsided, and curious eyes shifted her way. Ice chilled through Dura’s veins. This is it, she thought. My turn.
Several of the cannibals dragged Pica’s corpse away, while others inspected the now-vacant cage. It didn’t take them long to discover the thin sliver of obsidian that the girl had used to open the arteries of her wrists.
“Oh, there’s gonna be all Nine Hells to pay now,” Dura muttered as the cannibals argued again, pointing at their captives. They moved to the first cage at the far end of the line and made ready to open it.
If the cannibals had one skill, it was handling prisoners. They formed a cordon around the cage, which held a stout fellow by the name of Quada. One opened the cage, then two strong warriors reached in, grabbed Quada’s wrists, and hauled him out. Two others held long bamboo poles fitted with nooses of braided leather, which they slipped over Quada’s head and quickly tightened by pulling on the leather strung through the hollow poles. Quada struggled, but with the two nooses around his neck and two men holding his arms, he was completely immobilized. A woman approached him then, holding out a keen dagger.
“Hold fast, lad!” Dura shouted over the din as she realized the cannibals’ intentions. “They don’t mean to kill ya! Least ways, not yet!”
Just as she thought, the woman simply cut away Quada’s loincloth, his only clothing, and cast it aside. She looked him over, poking and prodding, then nodded, apparently assured that he secreted no hidden blades or tools. To Dura’s relief, they shoved Quada back into his cage, mother naked and panting with rage, but alive.
The next cage held a young woman named Silla. The cannibals repeated their search on her, then returned her to her cage. And so they went down the line. Knowing that it was not yet their turn to die, the captives remained passive, enduring the humiliation and hoping not to call attention to themselves, for this afternoon, someone would be chosen for the feast. The cannibals grew complacent, even seemed to be joking in their harsh language. They didn’t hold the captives as tightly now, and the nooses didn’t choke as they had when Quada fought back.
Du
ra watched as they worked their way toward her cage, and formulated her plan.
She offered her wrists easily, and didn’t struggle when the nooses were looped over her head. She rose from her permanent crouch in the small cage with unfeigned stiffness and a grimace as a muscle cramped in her back. Pitiless, her captors pulled her up and held her immobile.
Dura was shorter, stockier and more thoroughly clothed than any of her fellow prisoners, and the woman with the knife hesitated. One of the noose-holding men barked some unintelligible words at her, and she snapped a reply. She approached and cut the sleeves of Dura’s shirt from wrist to collar, then from neck to hem. The loose-fitting shirt fell away with a tug, and the woman with the knife hissed in surprise.
“They didn’t know you were a woman,” one of Dura’s fellow prisoners said.
“Figured as much,” she muttered.
Dura wore a thin linen undershirt, but even so, her feminine attributes were obvious. The man holding the noose urged the woman with the knife, and when Dura’s undershirt had been cut away, raucous laughter broke out among her captors. Dura shoved down the shame, replacing it with hot rage, but held her temper in check. She knew that her dwarven body—thicker and more muscular than most humans—must look peculiar to these savages. But peculiar or not, there was little fat on her, and she probably outweighed all but the stoutest of them.
“Just keep laughin’,” she muttered under her breath.
The woman cut Dura’s stout leather belt, slit her wool pants from waist to cuff, then her cotton underbritches. The woman pointed to the dwarf’s crotch, said something and laughed out loud, which elicited even more mirth from the four men. At the moment they were all laughing hardest, Dura struck.
There was a simple trick to breaking the grip of someone holding your wrist, and Dura knew it. She turned her thumbs down and jerked free. At the same time, she snapped a kick between the legs of the woman with the knife. The woman folded, the obsidian blade falling from her nerveless fingers. Then Dura used the only advantages she had: her shorter stature and her weight. Even as the leather nooses came tight around her neck, she flexed hard to keep them from choking her, and dropped to the ground, pulling both noose wielders off balance.
In a flash, she had the knife.
The nooses tightened and a foot glanced off her temple, but the next foot she caught. Lunging up with the blade, she slashed the inside of the man’s thigh. Blood gushed from the severed artery, and he fell. The other man who had held her wrist was reaching for the club at his waist. She was loath to lose her only weapon, but as the man raised his club to strike, she had no choice. She threw the obsidian dagger hard, burying it to the hilt in his gut. He dropped the club and folded up around the injury. Now there were just the two men holding the nooses, and they were prevented by the length of the noose-poles from getting close to her. But they could, and did, tighten the nooses even more.
The world faded to gray at the edges of Dura’s vision; she didn’t have much time. Shouts rang from the jungle, and she knew more cannibals were coming. She brought both hands down hard on one of the bamboo poles. It snapped, but its wielder did not let go. He pulled hard, and his companion did likewise. She tried to break the other pole, but it flexed. The man with the knife in his gut was rising, and she lunged for him, but they wrenched her back, jerking her off her feet. She tried to break the pole again, but her blows were getting weaker as the nooses cut off the blood to her brain.
Gray darkened to black as she clawed at the leather nooses around her throat, but she couldn’t wedge her fingers under them. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, and then she couldn’t do anything at all.
≈
“Not much left,” Camilla murmured as she surveyed her few remaining worldly possessions. This was only the second time she had been back to her rooms since her rescue from Hydra’s lair. The first time, dismay had overwhelmed her at the sight of the pillaged chamber, and she fled, weeping, into Emil’s arms.
Emil’s arms…
The thought sent a shiver of longing up her spine, and she wrapped her arms around herself. It had been four days since her rescue, four days of living in his rooms, sharing his bed, finding solace in his warmth. She felt whole again in his company. But lately, she had felt somehow wrong, like she was a stranger inside her own skin.
The murder might explain her unease, her visions of blood and death. Emil insisted that her feelings were the normal aftermath of her ordeal. He’s right, of course, she thought as she entered and shut the door behind her, I’m sure of it.
Her rooms were less of a shambles than most had been after the pirates pillaged the keep; the furniture was intact and, in the bedroom, the bed still had a mattress and coverlet. Even so, everything of value was gone. She had packed all of her finest clothing and toiletries in the trunk that had gone with Parek; her wardrobe stood empty save for one unfinished dress and a few old pettiskirts. Her dresses had always been her great indulgence, made by her own hands, her own designs. Now, she had exactly two. The deep-red dress she currently wore was clean but showing signs of wear, not surprising since she had worn it since the day she had secreted herself in the dungeon. The other, deep russet in color with a satiny sheen and a plunging neckline, hung in the wardrobe unfinished.
“Well, I can deal with that as long as my sewing kit is still here…” Camilla went to her dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer, smiling as she found the mahogany box that contained all her sewing supplies untouched. She put the box on the bed and took the russet gown from wardrobe, spreading it out and assessing what needed to be done. Hemming, lace or filigree for the neckline, some lacing and loops… About twenty hours of work and it would be fit to wear.
She sighed…twenty hours of respite, her mind and hands occupied in a soothing, meditative task.
“Perfect.”
She sat tailor fashion on the bed, placed her sewing box in front of her and lifted the lid. The top tray held her needles, threads, buttons and loops in neat cubbies. She selected a spool and a needle, stripped off a length of thread, knotted the end and threaded the needle with practiced ease. A faint scent tickled her nostrils, not unpleasant really, rather like overripe fruit or faint honeysuckle. Of course, there was an entire jungle outside her balcony, and something was always in bloom. She breathed deeply, the scent familiar but evasive.
Lifting out the tray to search for a piece of lace, she started in surprise. Instead of the lace, brocade and lining fabric that she kept stored here, the compartment was packed with white linen.
“What the…” She didn’t remember putting any linen in here. She put the tray aside and lifted the crumpled fabric, holding her hands high to see what it was.
Blood…
The sewing box crashed to the floor as Camilla flung the bloodstained garment away and skittered backward. She tumbled off the bed, landing hard, panic surging in her veins. She lurched up and backed into the farthest corner of her bedroom, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the heady scent of blood recognizable now, strong, tantalizing.
The bed lay between her and the fallen garment, blocking it from view, and slowly her panic subsided. Is this some cruel joke? she wondered. A vengeful local angry that she had survived the pirate attack, when others perished? Maybe, she thought as she heaved a deep, calming breath, it’s another hallucination.
She edged around the bed until she could see the fallen sewing box, its lid askew from the impact. Bits of lace, brocade, and gold and silver filigree were strewn about like fallen leaves. Beyond it all lay the white nightgown painted with dark crimson streaks of dried blood. Shaking, Camilla shuffled forward and knelt beside the noisome piece of clothing. She tugged at an unstained sleeve to straighten it, and recognized it as her own.
A vision: moonlight…a startled gasp…the taste of blood...
She shook her head, trying to rid herse
lf of the image, unsure if it was a hallucination, a remembered nightmare or a memory. Holding the garment in trembling hands, she examined it more closely. Bloodstains covered the front of the nightgown, thick and crusty at the top, dwindling down near the bottom. Near the hem there was a single, clear handprint. She spread the fabric flat on the floor and put her own hand over the dark red stain.
It matched perfectly.
“No!” Camilla lurched to her feet, holding the stained nightdress out as if it might burn her. Looking around, she spied the sewing box. Kneeling, she folded the bloodstained shift until the stains were hidden inside. Then she straightened the bent hinges on the sewing box, put the nightgown into the bottom, and shut the lid, closing the latch firmly. Camilla put the box back in the bottom drawer of her dresser, and shut it. She remained still for a long moment, her hand against the drawer, looking at the dresser but not really seeing it. Finally rousing, she collected the fallen bits of finery, piled them atop the tray of her sewing box, retrieved the needle and thread, flung the unfinished gown over her arm and fled the bedroom.
She closed the door and looked around the sparse sitting room, the place that for so long had been her refuge. But she couldn’t see the familiar table and chair, the comfortable settee. All she saw was the bloody handprint on the nightgown. Her handprint.
“No, it wasn’t mine!” she insisted as she headed for the door, thinking only to put distance between herself and the incriminating garment. Try as she might to block them, visions of blood and moonlight swam in her mind. “Someone’s playing a sick joke on me, and I won’t believe it! It’s a dream! A nightmare! It’s not real!”
Camilla fled down the stairs to Emil’s rooms and the safety of his embrace.
≈
Dura woke with the hard bamboo bars of her cage pressing into her. Bruised, sore, wheezing and sporting a throbbing headache, she coughed and risked opening her eyes. Still daylight, so she couldn’t have been unconscious too long. She coughed again, hawked and spat, then struggled to her customary cramped sitting position, made even less comfortable for the lack of clothing between her backside and the bars.
Scimitar War Page 3