“We’ll take good care of her, Dura,” Cynthia promised.
“Aye, well, good enough then. I’ll git started on the Pride first thing, but right now I think I’m gonna git blind drunk, so if you’ll excuse me.” Dura turned on her heel and stalked off without another word.
Cynthia watched her go, and added Dura’s sorrow to the burden of guilt that weighed so heavy on her shoulders. A huge arm settled around her, and she leaned into Feldrin’s embrace, wondering if their newly fledged family would weather this storm.
≈
“There are two potential culprits, in my view, Admiral,” Upton said, handing over a carefully drafted report. “The use of magic to steal Flothrindel might mean that Cynthia Flaxal is back, and used her seamage skills to rescue her friends. The other possibility is that the same cannibals we suspected in the first murder have some kind of shaman among their number, and they chose to take the smack back to their home island, taking captives along for reasons of their own.”
“You really think the seamage would risk coming here?” Joslan glanced at the report, then back up at the spymaster when he did not reply immediately.
“No, sir, I do not. We had not imprisoned her friends, and if she took them, why not others?” He frowned. There were still too many unanswered questions. “Unfortunately we have a dearth of physical evidence, and no eyewitnesses to corroborate either supposition.”
“You are the emperor’s Master of Security,” Joslan said with a suppressed sneer. Upton longed to cut that smirk off and feed it to him, but suppressed the grim fantasy. “Surely you must have some suggestion as to how we resolve these crimes.”
“Not without deploying ships to find the smack, which you’ve already refused to do, Admiral.” He shrugged. “The culprit, whoever it is, is no longer on this island. I’ll stake my life on that.”
“Well, with a murderer on the loose, you’re doing that very thing, Master Upton, and you’re throwing in the lives of my men along with yours.” He dropped the report and pursed his lips in distaste. “I don’t care for this at all!”
“I can give you but one consolation, Admiral.”
“And what is that?”
“We’re all in this together, and misery loves company.” Upton executed a short bow, turned on his heel and left the room. He’d had more than enough of Admiral Joslan for one day, and he felt sure that the feeling was mutual.
≈
The setting sun stained the clouds above the cannibal village with a glow the color of blood. Camilla thought the color appropriate as she sat on the rough seat the cannibals had made for her, waiting for them to bring her sacrifice. The seat was not comfortable, but as with the color of the sky, it was appropriate, fashioned from lashed-together human bones. Throughout the day, she had overheard enough to grasp the impetus behind the earlier attack. Some had believed her blood-red gown to be the source of her power, and that she would be vulnerable without it. Now they knew better.
Two stout warriors approached, dragging their chosen sacrifice between them. Camilla looked upon it with dismay and disgust. The girl, perhaps ten years old, was thin and terrified, too young even to have had her teeth filed into points. Tears streaked her dark cheeks as she struggled vainly in their grasp.
“Please, no!” the girl cried in horror. “Do not feed on me, Blood Demon! Please!”
“Quiet!” snapped one of her captors, cuffing the girl hard. She sagged in their grasp, shaking in fear.
“Why this one?” Camilla asked as she stood and stepped down to them. She lifted the girl’s chin. Her lip was split from the blow, and bled freely. Camilla could hear the girl’s heart beating fast against her ribs, like the wings of a caged bird.
“Her people are dead,” one of the warriors said. “Killed by the flat-tooth people when we attacked the island that smokes. She has no one to protect her. She is nothing. Food.” He grinned, bearing his pointed teeth. There was no humor in it.
Camilla stepped closer. The girl tried to shrink away, but the two men held her fast, their strong fingers pressing hard into the tender flesh. Camilla brushed the girl’s wet cheek with her palm, felt her shudder with terror. The hunger rose in Camilla like a building storm. She smelled the girl’s blood, and her appetite surged. Slowly, she touched the bloody lip, then brought the wetted fingertip to her mouth, tasting the salty mixture of tears and blood.
“Please, no,” the sacrifice whispered, sniffing back more tears.
“Shhh.” Camilla smiled and leaned close, so close that her cheek brushed the girl’s, her lips near her ear. The girl’s pulse pounded not an inch from her teeth. “They are wrong,” she whispered just loud enough for the girl to hear. “You are not without protection. And I do not feed upon children.”
“Wha—”
Camilla lashed out before the word left the girl’s lips. Claws sprang from her fingertips as they reached the smiling warrior’s throat, piercing his soft flesh. She squeezed, stifling his strangled gasp, and stood straight, jerking the girl free of the other man’s shocked grip. She glared at him and he backed away, staring at her in horror.
“Do not bring me children!” she commanded, pitching her voice to carry. “I am not interested in the blood of the weak, but only the strong.” She grinned at the man struggling in her grasp, bared her teeth and let the hunger have its way.
Chapter 10
The Right Thing
“Father!” Tim burst into Norris’ suite without knocking, breathing hard, his face flushed. “Father, Flothrindel is coming back!”
Norris’ blackbrew cup clattered into its saucer, and Huffington saw the color drain from his master’s face. The count bolted to his feet, his breakfast forgotten.
“Flothrindel? Are you sure, Tim?”
Tim nodded. “Yes, sir. I asked Tawah to keep a lookout on the peak, and he saw her at first light, well to the south and heading straight here.”
“Was he able to see who was aboard? Is it Camilla?” the count asked, but before Tim could answer, Huffington put a hand on his master’s arm.
“Milord, it wouldn’t be possible to tell from the peak who was aboard,” he said, adding as the count’s face fell, “but this does give us an advantage.” He nodded respectfully to Tim; the boy was sharp to have foreseen the need of a lookout. “The lookout likely spotted the boat even before the patrol ships. Whoever is aboard her must have news of Lady Camilla. We must meet them at the pier to ensure that they don’t blurt out anything that contradicts our story.”
“Yes.” The count nodded and reached for his jacket, though his hand trembled. “If it comes out that we withheld information, there’ll be all Nine Hells to pay.”
“Exactly, milord,” Huffington said. “And even if they know nothing of the letter, we don’t want Lady Camilla’s…condition…to be known before we have time to devise a plan.”
“Right! If Joslan finds out the truth, he’ll find a way to destroy her.”
“If we could learn who is aboard Flothrindel before she lands, milord, we could fine-tune our approach.”
“I can do that!” Tim said, flashing a grin. “If I go out to the beach, I’ll see them make the corner into the channel. I can make it back before they even make the harbor.”
“Excellent! Milord, if we arrange to be near the great hall when the Admiral gets word of the boat’s arrival, we can naturally follow him to the pier.”
The count nodded and struggled into his coat. It struck Huffington once again that his master, so cool in the face of a diplomatic adversary, even facing emperors, kings and sultans, was so strongly affected by matters of the heart. He laid a calming hand on the man’s shoulder, and looked to Tim. “We must watch what we say, Tim. Don’t let on that we know more than we should.”
“I won’t!” Tim said in an insulted tone. “I better go.”
/> Huffington’s appraising gaze followed the boy as he dashed out of the room. “He’s a good lad, milord, quite capable for his age.”
“You have no idea, Huffington,” Norris said with a tight smile. “Sometimes it frightens me, the things that he knows. He could give you a run for your money in some regards.”
Huffington considered that. Norris knew his capabilities very well, and his son had undoubtedly learned much from his time among the pirates. He would have to start thinking of Tim as a potentially valuable asset. As this situation played out, they would need every asset they could get.
“Very good, milord. Shall we have a casual stroll and wait for the admiral to receive news of Flothrindel’s arrival?”
“Yes, Huffington. That’s a fine suggestion.” Count Norris straightened his jacket and headed for the door, his loyal man following faithfully behind.
≈
“Ahoy the smack! Identify yourselves!”
“Captain Feldrin Brelak and Cynthia Flaxal Brelak, Seamage of the Shattered Isles, come to meet with Admiral Joslan of His Majesty’s Imperial Navy!” Feldrin bellowed back. Cynthia saw the deck officer’s face blanch.
“Reduce sail,” the officer ordered, “and do not deviate from your course!”
“Ah, hells,” muttered Feldrin as a dozen ballistae nosed out of the warship’s ports, pointing right at them. He glanced at his peg leg, testimony to the accuracy and effectiveness of the Imperial Navy’s artillery, and slacked the jib and mainsail sheets, spilling wind and slowing their pace.
Cynthia laid a calming hand on his leg, though her own stomach was tied in nervous knots. She watched as signal flags fluttered like parade pennants, and far ahead a speedy sailing launch raced toward the island. A minute later, they had acquired an escort of heavier, slower sailing launches each bristling with marine archers.
“Don’t suppose we should tell ‘em that if they all fire at once, they’re more likely to shoot each other than us,” Feldrin joked grimly, putting the tiller hard over to turn into the channel.
“No, we shouldn’t,” Cynthia said as she adjusted the sails accordingly. “And I don’t think we should go in armed.” She nodded pointedly to the boarding axes at his belt. “We’re more likely to get hurt by a nervous soldier if we’re carrying weapons.”
“Fine.” He removed his weapons and stowed them in one of the cockpit lockers. “But I think yer the one who’s gonna be makin’ ‘em nervous, Cyn, not me.”
Feldrin reached out to scratch Flothrindel’s aft stay for good-luck, his other hand steady on the tiller as he guided the little smack along the channel between the towering mangroves.
The wind slacked, as it always did between the tall trees, and the launches doused their sails and switched to oars. The smack was sprightly enough to continue sailing, albeit slowly. The water barely rippled with their passage, and Cynthia fidgeted. This time it was Feldrin who laid a calming hand.
“Relax, lass,” he said softly. “Remember what we discussed. It’d likely make ‘em as nervous as long-tailed cats in a room full of rockin’ chairs if you use yer powers to push us along. We’ll get there soon enough.”
“Well, we’re together, anyway,” she said, then raised an eyebrow. “Which reminds me…” Cynthia went below to fetch Kloe from comfortable nook. With a couple of wraps and knots, she fashioned a cloth halter across one shoulder the way Paska had shown her, and tucked the baby inside, leaving both of her hands free. She ordered Mouse into the halter with the baby—the seasprite had picked up on their moods and was fidgety. He sulked but complied. She climbed back up into the cockpit and smiled. “There. Now we’re all together.”
Feldrin smiled back at her and pulled the tiller to starboard as they nosed out of the mangrove channel into Scimitar Bay. Then his face fell, and she looked up. Dismay gripped her heart in a vise as she gazed at all that remained of her home.
“Bloody hells,” Feldrin murmured, his eyes wide and jaw slack as they eased past the first of two warships anchored in the bay. More weapons were trained upon them, but neither of them noticed.
“Gods, Feldrin, look at the graves,” Cynthia whispered. A lengthy row of headstones stretched along the cliff face where only a month ago tidy huts had housed the natives. Cynthia didn’t count the stones, but there must have been scores of them, each one a knife in her gut. Her vision blurred, and she choked back tears.
“Steady, lass,” Feldrin said, his hand on her arm. “I know what yer thinkin’, and yer wrong. It’s not yer fault; you didn’t kill ‘em, those bloody-handed pirates did.”
His stolid firmness and determination helped her control her tears, but the crushing guilt of all the deaths did not ease. These were her people, her responsibility, and she had failed them. She tore her eyes from the condemning headstones and looked to the pier. Blue-uniformed soldiers stood in tight formation at the beach end, blocking a crowd of natives—Are those all the survivors?—from venturing closer. Farther along the dock stood a smaller contingent of soldiers, two with the golden braids of senior officers on their collars. While the younger paced and ordered the deployment of marines, the elder one, a sturdy man with a dour face and narrowed eyes, watched as Flothrindel approached; this, obviously, was the admiral. Count Norris and Tim stood nearby, as well as two other civilians.
“Dock at the pier, if you please, Captain Brelak,” an officer from one of the launches ordered.
“At least they’re polite,” Feldrin muttered. “Take the tiller, love, and I’ll get the sails.”
Cynthia steered the little smack toward the pier while Feldrin clomped around the foredeck, furling and lashing the jib, and securing two hemp bumpers over the port rail. As they came alongside the pier, she slacked the main sheet, and the boat slowed enough for Feldrin to catch and tie off dock lines thrown down by two sailors. On the pier, a troop of marine archers stood, their eyes grim and arrows nocked and pointed at Flothrindel. The launches held station a short distance away, their archers also at the ready. Cynthia remained seated while a marine lowered a ladder and stood by it at attention.
On the beach, the natives began to cheer and chant, “Shambata Daroo!” The admiral shot them a furious glance. Feldrin lowered the mainsail and started to lash it down in proper seamanlike fashion, but a curt shout from the pier brought him up short.
“Belay that nonsense!” The younger officer waved his troops forward. “Lieutenant, impound that vessel and secure the prisoners!”
“Prisoners?” Feldrin cocked one dark eyebrow, then looked to Cynthia. “Didn’t know we were prisoners quite yet, did you, Cyn? I thought we came here willingly.”
Cynthia would have laughed at his cocky comment if she hadn’t known it was a façade to hide his nervousness. In fact, the air was so thick with tension on both sides that it hung heavier than the cloying humidity. It only increased when a slim young lieutenant and a squad of marines boarded the smack. One of the marines stepped down into the cockpit and wrapped a meaty hand around her arm, pulling her to her feet. Cynthia’s ire rose and she saw Feldrin tense. She took a deep, calming breath; they didn’t want to do anything that would get them shot full of arrows before they could present their case.
“Admiral!” she said, though her eyes were fixed upon the marine who had her by the arm. “My husband and I are offering no resistance and are willing to cooperate fully with you, but I insist that your men treat us with proper respect.” She dropped her eyes to the hand on her arm, then looked up to the officer.
“You are both under arrest by order of Emperor Tynean Tsing,” the admiral declared with a glare. “Your cooperation is not necessary. Captain Donnely,” he said to the younger officer, “order your lieutenant to carry out his orders.”
The captain barked the command, and the lieutenant drew his cutlass and reached toward Cynthia. “Come along. We’ll take the child.”
> “You don’t wanna be—”
Before Feldrin could finish his warning, anger surged through Cynthia like a rogue wave, washing away her anxiety and replacing it with a mother’s sense of protectiveness so strong that she was scarcely aware of what she was doing. A sudden breeze swirled around the smack, ruffling everyone’s hair and clothing. The surface of the water trembled, as if the sea shivered in anticipation. The hull of the frigate docked on the other side of the pier groaned, and Flothrindel quivered under her feet like a plucked harp string. The soldiers glanced about nervously, and the grip of the marine holding her arm slacked a bit. The lieutenant froze with his hand poised to take her other arm.
“Touch my baby,” she said through gritted teeth as her heart pounded in her ears, “and it will be the last living thing you ever touch.”
“Admiral,” Feldrin said from the midst of three tense marines, all of whom he towered over by at least half a head, “we’ve just gone through nine shades of the hells to get our son back, and Cynthia’s still feelin’ a mite tense. She’s not likely to back down from a fight if you try to take him. We’re comin’ here peacefully, and we’re just askin’ that the three of us stay together and are treated well. We’re perfectly willin’ to go to Tsing and answer whatever charges the emperor has.” He resumed folding the mainsail, ignoring the glowering marines. “Yer choice Admiral; but if you push us, we’ll just leave, and you’ll have to explain how you lost three more ships and the seamage you were sent here to fetch.”
The admiral’s face flushed deep red, and Cynthia tensed. The admiral’s next words would mean either violence or peace. Feldrin had presented their case and offered an easy out. Their ploy hinged on whether Tipos had read this man correctly.
“Very well,” Joslan said finally, and Cynthia felt the tension among the marines ease. “I agree to those terms. You will stay together—in restraint, of course—but you have my assurance that you will be treated well. Will that suffice?”
Scimitar War Page 13