by Alex Lidell
I reach for my work reflexively, tripping over a nearby coiled rope.
Domenic grabs my elbow to steady me before I fall. Plainly, there are no problems with concentration on his end. “Are you drunk, Ash?” he asks, the corners of his mouth twitching.
I swallow, longing for some part of the deck Domenic is not at. Coward. That’s what I am.
“I’ve seen rope get in a seaman’s way before,” he continues lightly, his hand still on my elbow. “But I believe this is the first time I’ve witnessed one chase and attack a sailor from behind.”
“Yes, well, it’s a very…resourceful rope, sir.”
Domenic presses his lips together. Composure recovered, he releases me and straightens once more. “I see. Very well, be about your duties.”
I swallow a sigh of relief and scurry off like a deranged weevil, leaving the canvas to be someone else’s problem. Domenic’s, if there is any justice in the world.
Taking measure of the sea, I find it calm today. The shore visible on our larboard side is a bit of a mess, but not as bad as I feared, and much of the forestry is intact. The open water on starboard sparkles under the clear skies. A now-familiar merchant ship, the Hope, had joined us during the night and currently holds position in our wake. The Lyron League Merchant flag on its mast flaps in the breeze.
“Ms. Lionitis,” Captain Rima calls, emerging from the companionway ladder. He wears enough gold chains, bracelets, and rings to keep several families fed for a year. The jewelry’s shine matches the Eflian’s yellow irises and jingles as he walks, his gait no less confident for being slightly pigeon-toed. “Signal our intended course for the Crystal Oasis to our charge.”
Ana moves through the motions with vacant eyes. “The Hope acknowledges course, sir,” Ana says after a few minutes of hoisted flags.
Rima nods, unsurprised, and rubs the tribal tattoos etched over his cheekbone. Wherever the merchant ultimately needs to go, it’s in her best interest to await our readiness instead of weathering the waters alone. I don’t even blame Hope’s skipper for paying Rima extra to escort his ship out of turn. I do blame Rima for accepting the bribe.
“Mr. Dana,” Rima calls, his voice carrying over the deck like a rooster’s call. “Have you found the culprit behind Mr. Kederic’s misadventure?”
“No, sir,” says Domenic. “Not yet.”
“Hmph. I’ve a name or two of hooligans I suspect. If you remain empty-handed much longer, I shall be glad to assist in your investigation.”
My mouth dries. Innocents. Rima will find convenient, innocent scapegoats and order Domenic to punish them. The threat, or perhaps promise, hangs in the air above the deck, poisoning my blood.
“Aye, thank you, sir,” Domenic says with no trace of emotion.
Rima smiles and twists his mustache between his thumb and forefinger. “One other matter I hope you will assist me with, Mr. Dana.” Striding back to the companionway, the captain snaps his fingers. Moments later, twelve-year-old midshipmen Song and Sand climb onto the deck. The boys’ heads… the boys’ heads are shaved smooth, the diamond pattern that marked them as members of Rima’s clan gone to reveal smooth, pale skin. “Mr. Song,” Rima barks, and the shyer, quieter of the two boys steps forward, his head bowed.
“Mr. Song, here,” Rima says to Domenic and the watching crew, “has had trouble keeping up with cleanliness. He has lice, Mr. Dana. Lice. Aboard a ship. Let’s have a pump rigged and soap located.” The captain turns to the wide-eyed boy, who is shaking his head in denial that comes off as a plea. “Strip, boy.”
Song stands frozen, his arms limply at his side.
“Now, Mr. Song,” Rima croons. “Unless you wish to be bent over a gun first?”
Domenic motions a pair of sailors to bring a pump from below and quietly finds work for several of the female crew off deck, but there are too many women working this shift to make us all disappear without bringing attention to it. Around Song, seamen grin self-righteously at each other. Middies go to sea at a young age, learning the basics of ship handling and command while their enlisted counterparts learn the physical aspects of the trade. The custom inevitably translates into grown seamen taking orders from youngsters, and thus they are quite glad to observe those same youngsters humbled. A poetic justice. If only justice had anything to do with it.
Within a few minutes, a pump is rigged to pour cold ocean water over the now-naked boy standing miserably before the entire crew. A few paces away, his twin brother’s fists are clenched tight at his sides. Just the thought of my twin Clay being tormented makes blood boil inside me, but for Sand to watch his brother’s suffering must be torture in itself.
“Today, Mr. Song. Have you not seen soap before?” Domenic barks at the boy, trying, I realize, to pin both Song’s and the crew’s attention on himself. Let them talk about the monster in the officer’s uniform, perhaps even side with the boy against the better target.
It almost works, until the water starts and Song yelps in surprise at the chill and pressure. The whole damn ship erupts in laughter. And then not even Domenic’s attempts to anger or frighten the boy succeed in hurrying Song through his ordeal. Sitting his naked body on the deck, twelve-year-old Song cries out his heart.
Chapter 5
QUINN
“What is the holdup now, Mr. Quinn?” Commissioner Jaquis demanded, puffing out his chest like an adolescent rooster.
“The Aurora intends to refill her water stores, sir,” Quinn answered, tapping two fingers against his thigh. Freshwater sources were few in the Siaman Sea, and Quinn considered whether there might be a way of topping off his own water barrels without showing their hand to the frigate. Unlikely, but worth the consideration. The delay for resupply would also allow him a better view of the islands and the damage the recent quake had wreaked here. He had been nothing short of fortunate that the Hope had been in deep enough water when it happened to have ridden out the disaster without injury. Had he been close to land…
Quinn shook the thought away. What was important now was not what could have happened, but what did happen. How far did the earthquake’s damage extend? All the way north through Lyron? Up to the Tirik continent in the west? Were ports lost? Ships? Cities? The wood needed to build and repair ships grew near the coastlines on both the Tirik and Lyron continents. If those forests were damaged, they were in grave trouble. Quinn had no way of knowing any of it, though. He could not even say whether the quake in the Siaman was the worst of the event, or a minor side effect of a greater disaster elsewhere.
“Are you not paying her enough to keep to schedule?” Jaquis demanded, jerking his chin at the Lyron frigate. He opened his mouth to say something more, but at that moment, a flushed middie raced up the companionway and made haste toward Quinn.
Quinn hoped the boy would remember to pay respects to the commissioner first, but it seemed unlikely. Even more so when the ship suddenly swayed.
“Captain Quinn!” the middie panted. “There’s an episode in the hold!”
Quinn turned and hurried after the boy, leaving Jaquis to make his own way down. Nodding to the marine sentry outside the door, Quinn pushed his way inside. The wind hit Quinn’s face at once, and he put his forearm up to protect his eyes.
Dozens of Gifted within pressed themselves against the bulkhead. In the small, cleared space in the middle, two men held down an adolescent boy. The boy’s body arched horribly, thrashing and straining against the men’s grips while he stared into nothingness. A dark stain spread on the front of the boy’s breeches, the stench of urine mixing with the other odors of many bodies confined in too small a space.
“What is this?” Jaquis demanded behind the captain.
“One of the air callers is having a fit,” Quinn answered without turning around. He pointed at the men holding down the child. “Let go of him at once.”
“He can’t control it, sir,” one of the men said, his own face full of fear. “He’ll hurt himself bad.”
The boy’s body contrac
ted again, and a sickening snap sounded as the arm being pinned to the deck broke under the torque.
“Let go,” Quinn snarled.
This time, the men obeyed without question.
Quinn ran his hand over his face. In the year Quinn has spent transporting Gifted to the Institute, he’d learned all he could about the poor sods’ ailments. Holding down a convulsing air caller did little good and much harm. There was nothing for it but to let the spasms ride out their course and hope the victim was still alive at the end. The boy was already blue around his lips, whether from choking on his own tongue or the air current destroying his lungs.
The wind circulating in the hold picked up and rocked the ship.
Quinn swore.
It was a bad sign when the convulsions and the wind came together. He pulled his gaze away from the boy and scanned the others. The three water callers had tucked themselves into a corner. Their blood was too thin to clot—they’d be as good as dead if anything struck them. They’d lost one poor soul on this trip already.
“Listen up.” Jaquis’s voice suddenly filled the hold. “I am the People’s Commissioner Jaquis, of the Patriots Bureau. Whichever one of you is responsible for this wind, raise your hand now.”
The Gifted stared blankly at Jaquis, then murmured among themselves.
The ship shuddered violently.
The commissioner’s face darkened. “The Tirik Republic is doing you a great service,” Jaquis bellowed. “At great cost to ourselves, we are taking you to the Institute to cure you of your ills. Now, which one of you is putting this ship and all its passengers in danger?”
Quinn saw the wave of fear rush over his charges. The poor souls had enough trouble without this. With a sure step, Quinn planted himself before the commissioner. The ship bucked again. Quinn grabbed hold of the overhead beam with one hand and used the other to steady the politician on his feet. “Sir,” Quinn told Jaquis quietly. “It isn’t any of them. The magic in the lad’s body is calling air to itself. That is how the disease works.”
Sweat beaded on Jaquis’s temple. He stared at the convulsing Gifted, the wind whipping around them. “He cannot end it?” Jaquis’s voice rose.
“No.” Quinn forced the commissioner’s gaze to meet his own and spoke softly. “The boy is in the midst of a convulsion, but he is still conscious. The windstorm will end when the boy regains control of his body, loses consciousness, or passes from this world. There is nothing we can do just now but care for the others. I will have one of the men escort you to your cabin to rest, sir, and inform you when this is over.”
Jaquis pulled away from Quinn’s hold. “This Gifted is endangering the ship!”
Quinn tightened his jaw. “With due respect, sir, I will care for my ship.”
The commissioner’s eyes flashed. His hand reached into his waistband, and he spun away from Quinn. The captain had a moment to register the flash of metal before the report of a pistol pierced the hold.
The wind died at once, together with the air caller.
“The Hope is not your ship, sir,” Commissioner Jaquis told Quinn in the bloody silence. “It belongs to the people of the Tirik Republic. And it will act in the greater good of all people, not just one boy.”
Chapter 6
“Nile.” Domenic’s voice spins me around, my heart jumping at the sound. We are in one of the Aurora’s narrow passageways, me heading toward the boys’ berth, and Domenic—I don’t quite know what Domenic is doing here. Passing by or… Was he waiting for me?
I don’t allow myself to consider that beyond a heartbeat and knuckle my forehead instead. “Sir.”
Domenic reaches out and straightens my shirt collar, which has slipped out from beneath my jacket. Domenic’s own shirt and jacket are as perfect as always, the tight muscles beneath unyielding and coiled.
I can’t move, like a rabbit caught in a snake’s stare. Domenic’s hand lingers on my lapel a moment longer than necessary, and the thump of my heart vibrates through me. It is such an illegal and dangerous game we are playing. The admiralty would put Domenic and me ashore if we were caught. But even that is a small sting compared to what Domenic could do to my soul, which is stripping bare before him.
Domenic frowns as he pulls away, and jerks his chin toward the hatch leading to the lower hold, where we could find privacy.
My body almost answers before my mind, but reason catches up at last, and I shake my head, though the effort to move my muscles is nearly insurmountable. “I need to see the middies,” I say quietly. “What happened to Song on deck—”
“I know. I was there.” There is an edge to Domenic’s voice. Not anger, exactly, more like tightness. As if he is struggling to keep his heart from his voice. “Are you afraid?”
“Of what?”
“Of being next,” he says bluntly.
My shoulders pull back. “No.”
“You should be.” Domenic grips my arm hard enough to get my attention. “There is bravery and there is ignorance. You need to be careful.”
I lower my voice so even Domenic, standing inches away, must strain to hear. “I don’t have time to fear a petty, ignorant tyrant in a captain’s coat, whose mere existence is an affront to the navy.”
His jaw tightens. “Make time. Because I fear for you. And Nile…” He pauses to ensure he has my full attention. “The words you say about the captain border on mutinous. Keep them to yourself.”
“Always the dutiful first officer, aren’t you?” I shake off Domenic’s grip. “Do you like it? Strutting around this floating disaster in the name of discipline?” It’s a low blow, but Domenic doesn’t flinch.
“I like not having to flog seamen, I like having a functional ship, and I like protecting those who serve under me from greater danger. If keeping the crew in fear of my discipline will keep me from having to dole it out, I will keep both the fear and my reputation of being a savage, blood-thirsty bastard burning as brightly as I must.” He steps close to me until but a hair’s breadth remains between our bodies and looks down at me from his greater height. “And if I’m ever faced with a choice between you being safe and you liking me, make no mistake about which way I will sway.”
I stare back at him on principle, but I know there is a cost Domenic pays for the game, and I wonder if he’ll ever tell me what it is.
The deck creaks, footsteps nearing from the deck above. Before either of us can say anything more, I pull away and hurry into the middies’ berth without turning back.
The three boys are there, Song and Sand huddling under blankets and Thatch Lawrence sitting beside them. As I enter, Thatch Lawrence comes to his feet. The boy’s freckles are stark against his pale face, and his body quivers with rage.
“I’m not sorry,” he tells me by way of greeting, his shoulders pulling back defiantly. “I hate Captain Rima, and I’m scared of the bastard, but I’m not sorry for taking charge of the ship. None of us are. None of us who are here, I mean.”
Ana is not.
My throat tightens as the middies’ heads nod one by one. The bastard calling himself captain doesn’t deserve these youngsters. Not by a long shot. I check my tone to an officer’s slow, confident drawl. “Very good. Because we still have a ship to run. All of us. And if the Tirik attack again, it’s you who will keep the Aurora afloat and fighting.” My voice drops, my eyes meeting each of the boys’ in turn. “And meanwhile, no one goes anywhere alone, all right?”
The following morning, I take one look at Catsper’s cocky swagger and know, just know, that the marine has something up his sleeve. The morning routine of cleaning the deck and setting the crew about breakfast is finished, and the hands now go about trimming sails to Domenic’s satisfaction. My still-sore ankle keeps me rooted to deck, though it’s healing faster than is convenient, since it’s the unpredictable convulsions and not the tweaked tendons that are really keeping me from the shrouds. I can’t risk going up until I have a handle on the jerking spells. I make a point of limping.
Do
menic frowns.
My jaw tightens. I’m overdoing it, and he’s noticed.
“Mr. Dana,” Catsper hollers across the deck, turning a hundred eyes and stilling conversations. Outside the privacy of the Cove—the Spades’ nickname for their berth—Domenic and the marine talk as little as duty allows, and when they do, their voices are quiet and businesslike.
Domenic’s attention snaps to the marine lieutenant, who stands on the high poop deck, his blond hair whipping in the wind, his hands tucked arrogantly in his pant pockets. Behind Catsper, a squad of young Spades stands at attention. At least that’s still normal. Domenic squares his shoulders and looks up. “Lieutenant,” he says, managing to make his voice carry all the way to the poop without the appearance of shouting.
“I just heard we have a lice problem aboard, Mr. Dana,” Catsper calls. “And I’m most distressed.”
Song pales, stepping closer to his brother as the hands on deck grin. My stomach clenches. Ana, who has spoken not a word to me since our confrontation, grips the rail.
“The situation is handled,” Domenic says with a deathly calm that would have anyone sane shutting his mouth at once.
Catsper rocks back on his heels and grins. “Still, I think one can’t be too careful on a small ship like this. Might I beg for a pair of seamen to work the pump for me, seeing as it’s still on deck?” He pulls a square brick from his pocket. “I’ve even brought my own soap.”
The ship is silent as Catsper jumps over the rail of the poop deck, landing on the quarterdeck below with feline grace. Anyone else would have broken a leg in that jump, but Catsper barely blinks at the impact. The pump is indeed still here, Rima having contradicted Domenic’s order to have the damn thing removed. A reminder of Song’s humiliation that Catsper…
Waves and hail.
I choke on nothing as the marine grins and begins to unbutton his clothes. The black jacket is off first, folded neatly and handed to one of the marine boys who Catsper summons with a single glance. The shirt comes off next. Catsper’s lithe, hard torso is covered in tattoos and scars. And the marine owns every honed inch of it.