“Camilla would never hurt us,” Norris said resolutely.
“Camilla might not hurt you,” Huffington said gently, “but from her letter, she expects the demon’s will to overpower her soon. The longer she’s possessed, the more she’s Hydra and the less she’s Camilla, I think.”
Norris put his face in his hands. Tim knelt next to him and put an arm around his father’s shoulders. They both looked miserable. Norris looked up at him and heaved a ragged breath.
“The admiral has refused to provide a ship to rescue those captured by the cannibals, and I don’t see him changing his mind for three more people. But I can’t just abandon Camilla to a demon without trying something!”
The strain in the count’s voice was clear; the man was near the breaking point. Huffington wracked his brain for an idea, some kind of plan that might help.
“Milord,” Huffington said, “you must petition the admiral for a ship. I know he wouldn’t give one to the natives to save their kin, and refused you when you thought Camilla had been kidnapped by pirates, but you’re the emperor’s representative. And, well, the admiral now knows Miss Camilla and seems to think highly of her. If he says no, then we’ll have to consider another plan.”
Norris raised his head; it seemed that the suggestion had struck a chord. It was better to do something—anything—than to sit around feeling helpless. The count squared his shoulders, and Huffington could see him summoning the same deep resolve that had gotten him through other hard times.
“You’re right, Huffington; I will petition the admiral for a ship. He’s got to give us one!” Norris picked up Camilla’s letter and folded it small, then carefully secreted it in the pocket of his robe. “No one must know the contents of this letter. If Joslan finds it, instead of searching for Camilla, they’ll be hunting her down.”
“But they’ll think Paska and Tipos are murderers,” Tim reminded his father, “and they’re not.”
“And there’s nothing we can do to change that right now, Tim, but—”
A loud knock at the door silenced the count, and they all looked to one another. Huffington shrugged; there was no way to tell who stood on the other side of that door, or how much they had heard. Norris nodded to the door and Huffington opened it carefully, one hand resting on the blade beneath his waistcoat. A single marine stood there, breathing hard from his recent climb up the stairs.
“Sorry to disturb you, milord,” he said, with a half salute, “but Master Upton sent me.”
“What does Master Upton want of me?” Norris snapped, irritation plain in his voice.
“Your pardon, milord, but he didn’t call for you. He sent me up to fetch Mister Huffington down to the beach.”
“Milord?” Huffington said, turning to Norris with a covert look of caution.
“Oh, very well! But remind the good Master Upton that you are under my employ, not his.”
“Very good, milord.” Huffington nodded and joined the marine, silently concerned that the good Master Upton was far too inquisitive for anyone’s good.
≈
Gossamer-smoke wings beat the torrid air as Flicker swooped and swerved through Akrotia’s winding air ducts. She flew toward the chamber of light and fire where Edan and the crazy girl were caught in the little crystal house. For the first time in her memory, she was alone. And though sprites’ memories were significantly shorter than their very long lives, it was still a long time, and she was lonely. So once again she returned to this place, where her master stood like a statue of crystal—unmoving, unthinking, but not quite dead.
At least it was warm here.
She emerged from the vent tube into the Chamber of Life. Despite her master’s presence and the heat, she didn’t like this place, remembering the rising water and the panic all too clearly. However, she also remembered Mouse here, how he had saved her life. And later, when she had dampened her fire and kissed him.
She remembered that a lot. And when she did, she was even more lonely.
Flicker fluttered to Edan’s crystalline prison. She hovered there, peering through the mottled barrier. Inside, Edan stood frozen in place, a million tiny crystals bristling from his flesh. And beside him, actually clutching and kissing him, stood the crazy girl who had caused all Flicker’s pain.
Flicker glared at the girl. If not for her, it all would have worked out. Flicker would have had both her master and Mouse. Stupid crazy girl! The sprite clung to the crystalline wall and pounded her tiny fist against it to no avail. Neither of them ever moved; they never blinked, never even knew she was there. Flicker was alone.
If only Mouse was here, she thought, remembering their kiss again. If he was here, she would dampen her fire, and who knew what might happen…
Chapter 5
Deceptions
A cordon of marines stood in the dim pre-dawn light, glaring at anyone venturing near the shipyard. This included Huffington, as he followed his escort down the beach to answer Master Upton’s summons. A marine sergeant announced him, and the spymaster rose from where he knelt examining something in the sand at the head of the dock, lantern in hand.
“Ah, yes. Mister Huffington! Thank you for coming.” He brushed off his knees and beckoned. “Please come here, and be careful to avoid the stakes I’ve placed. I’ve managed to secure the area before all the evidence has been trodden on, but I require your assistance.”
“Evidence, sir?” Huffington joined him, carefully avoiding the stakes. “What sort of evidence?”
“Well, there are a number of reasonably clear footprints in the sand here at the head of the dock, and two or three sandy ones on the dock itself. Most are obviously from the marines who have patrolled the area. These here are fresh and unshod, and probably belong to the two natives who were reported missing, the ones who have been pestering the admiral for Flothrindel. This print over here,” he pointed to the one he had just been inspecting, “apparently belongs to the lady Camilla, who wore soft-soled slippers. If, as you surmised with the previous murder, the culprits are cannibals who remained on the island, we would expect to find their prints as well.” He looked around and frowned. “But, as yet, I have only found three prints other than those of the guards.” Upton stopped at the first sandy boards of the dock, and turned to him. “How is the count, by the way? I understand he took the abduction of Lady Camilla rather hard.”
“He’s completely beside himself, sir,” Huffington said, watching Upton make notes in a leather-bound journal. “And his son’s not much better. Poor lad’s in tears half the time, and the count’s not far from it.”
“Her abduction came as a surprise to everyone.” Upton stepped onto the dock to follow the prints, and pointed out the single sandy outline of a small slipper-clad foot. A light dew had settled on the sandy beach, and the fine black granules had apparently clung to Camilla’s shoes. The print was quite clear. “I was under the impression that she was quite friendly with the native population; she had argued their case to the admiral.”
“She was,” Huffington agreed, trying to think of a way to change the subject. “There’s no sign of the missing marines?” he asked, looking down the empty pier. “No blood this time?”
“No, and no bodies, either. And there is the question of how they broke away from the dock.” The spymaster sighed and stood. “And a miraculous fog sprang up from nowhere to obscure the smack as it sped past the anchored ships without aid of sails or oars. There are far more questions than answers here.” They walked slowly down the dock as the sky lightened overhead. Upton examined each board under lamplight.
“If cannibals were involved, it would explain the missing bodies, but the rest…” They arrived at the end of the dock. The planks were askew, their nails bent and sticking out like skeletal fingers. The corner piling was ripped free and lay over until its top was barely above the water. “The nativ
es have no mages or shamans among them.”
“You know that for a fact, Mister Huffington?” Upton seemed surprised.
“Not for a fact, sir, but if they had, the pirate attack would have gone quite differently, don’t you think?” He knelt to examine the pier, grateful that the crux of the discussion had changed. “The light, if you please, sir. Thank you.” He shone the lantern down into the crystalline water, but it revealed little.
“Illuminate the piling,” Upton ordered, leaning forward. Huffington complied. “Yes, as I suspected, there are no marks from the chain that bound the boat to the dock. The piling was pulled over, but not with the chain. Curious.”
“Why, sir?” Huffington stood, handing the lantern back to the spymaster.
“Because the evidence here, and the reports of the witnesses, suggest magical manipulation of the sea itself.” He looked at Huffington with a scowl on his weasely features. “Almost as if a seamage were the culprit.”
“You think Cynthia Flaxal did this?” Huffington gaped at him with unfeigned surprise. “But she’s—”
“She is supposed to be on some quest far to the south, yes.” Upton quirked an eyebrow. “But is she?”
“That would certainly explain how the dock was damaged and how the boat was stolen, but why would she kidnap Tipos, Paska, and Camilla?”
“Not kidnap, Mister Huffington, but rescue.”
“But why be so subtle, sir?” He shrugged, following Upton as the spymaster strolled back up the dock. “From what I’ve heard of her powers, she could have sunk every ship in the fleet last night.”
“True, but Count Norris has expounded on her regret for the previous loss of life when the Fire Drake and Clairissa were destroyed. Perhaps she sought to rescue her friends and vanish without confrontation.”
“Or there were cannibals on the island, and they had a shaman among them,” Huffington suggested. “That would explain both crimes.”
Upton stopped at the sandy footprints and turned to him. “The only thing the previous murder has in common with this occurrence is the location. All other details are dissimilar. I think the two may be completely unrelated.”
Huffington remained silent, refraining from looking down at Camilla’s clear footprint. If Upton thought the two instances were unrelated, maybe he wouldn’t make the connection between the previous bloody print and this sandy one. But if he did…
“And if Cynthia Flaxal has returned, Mister Huffington, you may want to consider your next move.”
“My next move?” He squinted at Upton, realizing suddenly what the spymaster was getting at. You manipulative bastard, he thought, keeping his face neutral. “Let me assure you, Master Upton; I am quite prepared to do what is necessary when the time comes.”
“I hope so, Mister Huffington. But keep in mind that if you do not, I will.” The spymaster looked away, scanning the beach first, then the brightening sky. “I believe there is enough light to examine the beach in detail now. If you attend to that, marking anything you find, I’ll make sketches of these prints.”
“Very well, sir.” Huffington stepped over the prints, resisting the urge to feign a stumble and smear Camilla’s with his shoe.
He began walking the cordoned area in careful transects, marking anything that looked interesting. He looked back at Upton often, and was finally dismayed when he saw the spymaster retrieve another bit of parchment from his bag and place it flat beside the print on the dock.
≈
“I implore you, Admiral,” Count Norris repeated yet again, struggling to maintain control of his emotions. “This is Lady Camilla, not anonymous natives. You know her! You must do something or you condemn her to a fate worse than death!”
“You’ll forgive me if I tire of this, Count Norris, but it seems that all you do is implore me to do one thing or another, each more urgent than the last.” The admiral gulped his blackbrew and slammed the tiny porcelain cup down into its saucer. His steward flinched, but the cup was intact, so he obediently refilled it. “I have lost three soldiers to those murdering natives! I want their necks in a noose more than I wanted my first commission, but first I intend to fulfill my duty to His Majesty. I suggest you do the same.”
“Your duty, Admiral?” Norris scoffed. “Your duty is to the empire of Tsing. Lady Camilla and every one of these natives are citizens of that empire, and as such, deserve your protection. You command fifteen ships here and seven thousand men. What difference if you meet the seamage with fourteen ships and six thousand eight hundred men?”
“The difference, Milord Count, is that my foremost duty to His Majesty at this moment is to bring the seamage to justice, not rescue a damsel in distress.” The admiral glared with a vengeance and ignored his brimming cup of blackbrew. “I will not relinquish a ship of any sort for your disposal, Count Norris, and that is final. Now, please leave me to the arduous duty of writing letters of condolence to the families of my slain soldiers, yet another duty that I take very seriously.”
“As you should, Admiral Joslan,” Norris said tightly, though he could not resist one last jibe, “but do not forget that those of His Majesty’s subjects who have no loved ones to mourn them, nor officers to send such letters, deserve no less respect.”
Before Joslan could say another word, Emil Norris spun on his heel and strode from the room, his heart heavy in his chest. He had tried and failed, and Camilla would suffer the consequences.
≈
“There’s yer marker, Capt’n!” Kori said, handing the spyglass back to Parek. “Right around the point there, just like I told ya.”
“Just like you told me.” Parek raised the glass and watched the small red marker buoy grow nearer. He didn’t like this; he was unfamiliar with these waters and had never heard of this mysterious hidden harbor that wasn’t on any of his charts. “What did you say this fellow’s name was, Kori?”
“Gillian, or some such. I don’t rightly remember.”
“And there’s no town here, just a shipyard.” Parek snapped the glass closed and shoved it into his pocket. He could see the marker with his naked eye now, but that didn’t make him any happier, it just meant that he was closer to this unknown harbor. “You’ll forgive me if I find this all a bit hard to swallow, Kori, but why in the Nine Hells would a shipwright build a shipyard out in the middle of nowhere? There aren’t even any roads along this coast; the mountains are too steep. The trade route’s twenty leagues inland.”
“Word is the feller don’t care much fer money, just likes to be left alone to build his ships. Thinks himself some kinda artist.”
“An artist? Hmph.” Parek scanned the steep rocks and dense woods of the unforgiving shoreline and frowned. “Very well, Kori, furl the main, fore-stays’l and fore-course, and reef tops’ls. I want topsails, jib and spanker only; the winds will be finicky under this high shore. Bring her two points to starboard and come inshore slow. Put a man in the forechains with a lead line, and bring up my charts and hand compass; I want to mark the soundings in case we need to beat a hasty retreat.”
“Aye, sir!”
The pirate crew knew their duties, and in short order the Cutthroat was creeping inshore at barely two knots. The man forward called out soundings at regular intervals, immediately followed by Kori with compass bearings to the headlands to their north and south.
“By the deep, nine fathoms! Bottom is broken shale.”
“Griffin Rock, twenty-six degrees. Bird Point, seventy-five degrees.” Kori called from his vantage amidships.
Parek scrawled notes onto a scrap of parchment and drew the bearing lines on the chart, then marked the depth where the lines crossed. The chart clearly showed an unbroken coastline here, but as they approached and rounded the headland, a gap and another channel marker became visible in the rocky shore.
“I’ll be damned,” Parek mutte
red. Just like at Plume Isle, the entrance was impossible to find if you didn’t know what to look for. When the outer marker was a stone’s throw off their starboard bow, Parek straightened up, rolling his shoulders to alleviate the kinks imposed by crouching over the chart, and stowed his navigation tools.
“Close enough! Bring her upwind and furl as she luffs. Drop anchor as she loses headway.” He turned to Kori. “We’ll take a launch in to talk with the locals, and mark soundings in the channel on the way back. I won’t risk the ship in such tight quarters until I know I’ve got enough room to bring her about and pay off to deep water if we have trouble.”
“Aye, sir!” Kori relayed the orders, and in no time a launch with six armed sailors lay alongside Cutthroat, ready to ferry Parek ashore.
“Keep an eye peeled, Kori,” he ordered as he stepped onto the boarding ladder. “Be ready in case we have to leave in a hurry.”
“Aye, sir. We’ll be ready.”
Parek took the tiller and ordered his crew to stretch out their oars. Soon they were plowing through the passage between the close-set rocky headlands. Here, in the lee of the high shore, the trade winds flagged, and only a lazy ocean swell disturbed the water. If things went well with the locals, and they stopped here to refit Cutthroat, they would have to haul the ship in with launches.
The channel emerged into a tiny harbor; two, maybe three small ships might anchor here. Presently, it was empty save for a couple of pretty little smacks tied to the quay wall. The shipyard itself, however, left Parek gaping in awe. Two stone piers, each long enough to dock a three-masted galleon, jutted out from the shore. Between them, the shore sloped into the water, and two ship-hauling cradles rested on massive iron wheels, the smaller of the two more than adequate to haul Cutthroat. Behind the cradles loomed a huge lofting shed, its doors open and a partially finished hull visible within.
Farther down the shore, away from the noise and mess inherent to a shipyard, a flat stone avenue was lined with six tidy buildings, each as large as an inn, with ground floors made of cut stone and wood, plaster façades above, gleaming windows, and gardens. A wooden dock projected from the shore here, and it was obvious by the gathering crowd that their approach had been noted.
Scimitar War Page 7