by Alex Lidell
“You are injured, Catsper.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His jaw clenches. “I’m a weapon. And I am functional. Don’t humiliate me again.”
“The order to remove you from deck.” I sigh and sink onto the cot beside him. “I’m not apologizing for that. But please”—I wave my hand—“feel free to bleed to death now. I’m certain I will find it most useful when the fighting starts up again. If it starts.”
“If?”
I run my hands over my face, wishing Domenic was here. “The Hope is carrying civilians. Diante Gifted who thought the Republic would cure their elemental attraction. There are little children there.” My stomach churns, and I must turn away for a heartbeat while bile rises in my throat. “If I take the Hope to the Bottleneck as we’ve planned, I will sentence them to death. Worse than death if the Republic takes prisoners.”
Catsper’s brows pull together. “Can they be put ashore?”
“I’d have to swing the Hope into the Diante West Corridor to make a safe landing at a hospitable location. The Diante port we’d called on with the Aurora is closer, but would take longer to approach given the currents and wind. Either way, I’d be moving away from the Bottleneck when I should be making full sail for it.”
“So it’s either protect the Bottleneck Juncture or the Gifted.”
I nod at the bitter injustice. I hadn’t caused this mess, but it was mine now. The confines of the sick berth are suddenly too restricting. “When I discovered my… issue, I forged on because I thought the Diante Empire had a cure. I was going to go there when I could. But they are as ignorant as we.” My hand tightens around the edge of the cot, and I lower my voice further. “I don’t owe the Diante Empire anything, Catsper. When we’d had some semblance of diplomatic relations, they treated Ashing delegations as if we were some backwater simpletons intellectually incapable of meeting them on equal footing. When we requested aid, they refused. And when the war between Lyron and Tirik grew hottest, they retreated altogether. They wouldn’t let the Aurora dock for drinking water.”
“And you are convincing me of all this because…?” The marine rubs his shoulder. “Have you decided to run this ship by democracy?”
“We are half a day from the Bottleneck Juncture, ma’am.” Kederic touches his hat. “No other ships in sight yet.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kederic,” I say, dismissing the middie and turning to Quinn, who stands at the rail beside me. “I intend to change course to enter the Diante West Corridor.”
Quinn looks haunted, as he has since his interview with Price. He pushes his thoughts aside now to give my words his full attention. “You are bringing the Gifted home.” He cocks his head in surprise. “Will your royal superiors approve?”
I stick my hands in my pockets. Except for the reference to royalty, it is the kind of question Domenic would ask, and there is an absurd humor in hearing it now from the lips of a Republic officer. “Absolutely not.” I stare over the water. “Will your superiors approve of the manner in which your People’s Commissioner met his end?”
“Absolutely not.”
I chuckle without humor. “Then it appears conscience is leading us both into trouble. Bloody inconvenient.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Quinn shakes his head before drawing himself up. “You will need to maneuver the ship. I will be out of your way.” He takes a step, then turns, finding my eyes. “You likely know this, but in case otherwise… The Diante have an unfortunate view of women.”
“Aye. And the Republic has an unfortunate view of nobles.” I smile to take the sting out of the words. “I’ll manage, Mr. Quinn.”
It feels good to say the words aloud.
Chapter 20
There are four men-of-war in our path. Or we’re in theirs.
“The squadron is flying Diante colors,” Kederic says, his voice tight.
I don’t answer. It is bad enough my little Hope came upon any naval vessels, and it is still possible that the four-ship squadron ahead is actually Tirik, despite their Diante flags. Quinn flew Lyron colors when it suited him. And I am no better with the merchant ensign on my mast. Even if the flags of the squadron before us speak true, we are squarely in Diante waters. Had we been a frigate, our hosts would be well within their right to sink us on sight for violating their territory. But the Hope does fly the colors of Lyron League merchantmen, and it’s bad form for neutral seventy-two-gun line of battle ships to destroy a civilian craft.
I have a lot of lives riding on faith in manners.
A muzzle flashes in the distance, and the report of a gun cracks in its wake. The warning shot balms my nerves ever so slightly. A Tirik force would unlikely make a fuss in Diante waters. They’d simply sink us on sight. I don’t dare let my relief show. It would unsettle the crew to know I’ve even harbored the doubts and fears. Sometimes command is a game of perception. I turn my shoulder slowly to Kederic and pitch my voice clearly over the deck. “Run up a white ensign, if you please.”
Though my glass, I find the seventy-two’s name painted on her hull. The Wave, if my translation is correct. And she’s readying a boat for inspection while her entire broadside is aimed squarely at the Hope. With that much firepower, the Diante could blow us out of the sea several times over, if I was stupid enough to resist. Which I am not. If luck is with us, perhaps we might manage to have the Gifted on the Wave within the hour and return to the Bottleneck Juncture in time to do something.
I clasp my hands behind my back as the Diante inspection detail rows to us and ties up beside the Hope. The sailors are competent, going about the task with not a movement wasted. Unlike my own people, all the Diante wear a uniform—even the six large men with cutlasses have loose burnt-orange trousers and matching sleeveless shirts. Their rust-red hair, all the same length and tied back with identical leather thongs, joins the similar slant of the eyes to give the impression of a single person duplicated many times over. The officers, one in his thirties and the other a boy the twins’ age, glow in maroon coats with golden braids. Their perfection sends a jealous pang thought my chest. I look little better than a beggar beside them.
Pulling back my shoulders, I step forward to greet the officer.
He looks through me. “Where is your captain?” the man demands of Kederic. His Lyron is strained but understandable enough.
“I’m Captain Greysik,” I say in Diante and hold out my hand. “Welcome to the Hope.”
He snorts, staring at my outstretched hand as if it is smeared with dirt. “Greatness Bassic, captain of the Wave, flagship of the Divine Squadron. Is this a jest?”
I pull back my hand and clasp it behind me. I imagined everything from a pistol in my face to a demand I turn the Hope around this instant, but the disrespect still unbalances me. “No. I assure you.” Instead of backhanding the arrogant bastard, I bow with cool courtesy. “An honor to meet you, Greatness Bassic. If I may present my first officer, Acting Lieutenant Kederic and the lieutenant of marines, Catsper.”
Catsper shifts his weight, his anger palpable.
Bassic’s gaze weighs the men and returns to me, the disgust now turned to suspicion. “Are you a ship of war, then?” he asks with a calm voice that fools no one. Bassic is an arrogant ass, but he isn’t daft. A Lyron warship has no business here.
I meet his eyes steadily. “Yes. Last night, my officers and I captured this vessel from the Republic of Tirik and discovered forty Diante citizens held prisoner aboard. We came to return them. My apologies for the misleading flag, but I believed it safest to enter thus.” I motion for a pair of Spades to bring Neera on deck and step back as the Diante Gifted falls sobbing at the captain’s feet, speaking too quickly for me to understand her.
“With your permission, sir,” I say over Neera’s desperate words, “I’ll have two boats take your people to whichever of the four Divine Squadron ships you’d prefer. I wish to have Hope free of your waters as soon as I might.”
Bassic puts his hand out to silence Neera and turns toward me with
a smile that does not touch his eyes. “Of course. But I do hope you would find it convenient to join me aboard the Wave first, Captain Greysik.”
Catsper vibrates with fury as I board Bassic’s cutter alone. I give the marine a steady look, and he turns on his heel. Catsper can be as angry as he wishes, but we both know I’ve no choice. There is very little the skipper of a six-gun merchant would find inconvenient when facing seventy-two guns.
The Diante crew rows us to the Wave with sure, rapid strokes. Despite my racing heart, I sit tall in the boat, ignoring the hull’s violent drops and the sting of salty spray as the bow cuts the waves. Bassic gives terse orders to his men, the same ones I’d issue. We all sail one sea, be we Diante or Lyron or Tirik.
The boy calls out the Diante equivalent of oars, and the crew stops rowing to accept a line thrown from the Wave’s hull. I rise in preparation to climb aboard, but Bassic holds out his hand to halt me and shouts up to the deck.
I stay put, waiting with mild curiosity, until the realization of what he’s doing dawns. This time, I can’t help myself. My nostrils flare, and blood heats my face like a furnace. The bloody man is having a bosun’s chair lowered for me, as one would for a landsman or invalid.
Go sink yourself, Bassic. Ignoring the disembarkation protocol—not that I even know whether the Diante have the senior or the junior unload first—I brush past my good captain. The waves bounce our little boat with a ferocity that drops my insides with each roll, but it’s hardly the worst I’ve seen, and my body adjusts to the motion with little thought.
I time the play of the two hulls as they pull apart and come together with a bone-breaking crash. Once. Twice. I step forward slightly and grip the metal rungs clamped into the frigate’s side. Moments later I climb over the rail, bowing to a confused side party who’d expected to pipe their captain aboard. They snap to attention within heartbeats as a crimson-faced Bassic climbs aboard after me, his eyes glowing with such satisfying fury that the corners of my mouth twitch up.
Before I can fully enjoy the repercussions of my little rebellion, the entire deck, Bassic included, stills as a man in his fifties ascends the companionway. The many gold braids and fancy embroidery of his tailored jacket speak of power and prestige as loudly as the rigid attention Captain Bassic holds. His graying hair is braided and wrapped into a bun at the base of his tanned head. Though his back is pole straight, the man limps slightly on his right foot and the skin of his right hand is mangled, as if from an old burn. He regards me with no sign of emotion, then speaks quietly to Bassic.
I keep my spine straight and my mouth shut.
Satisfied with whatever he learned from Bassic, the older man pivots toward me and inclines his head, angling it slightly. “I am Greatness Tul Addus IV, Admiral of the Divine Squadron. It is an honor to make your acquaintance… Captain.” His hazel eyes are questioning, and there is that pause again before my rank. It is as though the Diante all await the punch line at the end of a great jest that will reveal my true position and intention. And I suspect that being female, young, and out of uniform all fare poorly in building status with my new friends.
Which is their problem as much as mine.
Addus is waiting. I wonder if I should bow the way Bassic had, but the gesture feels so absurdly ceremonial and exaggerated that I doubt I could manage it with any sense of dignity. Instead, I offer the formal shallower bow with my hand over my heart, as I would in an Ashing court. A glance at the captain reveals that I gave offense, but Addus flicks his scarred fingers and Bassic says nothing.
“Sir, my ship carries Diante citizens the Tirik Republic captured against their will. If I might see them safely aboard your vessel and be permitted to depart, I would be most grateful.” I keep my voice even. The sooner the Diante confirm my claims, the sooner I can stop losing time I didn’t have to begin with.
The admiral cocks his head and regards me for several heartbeats. “I am certain you are fatigued from your travels, Captain. Let us share a meal.”
I grind my teeth. Of course I’m tired. But I’m not on a pleasure cruise. I bow again. “Thank you for the kind offer,” I say respectfully but firmly. “Time presses me, however. My ship is small, but my nation is at war, and my ship’s support may help my fleet.”
Another wrong answer, apparently. A vein pulses in Bassic’s temple.
Addus smiles at me kindly, like a grandfather. His voice is soft. “You misunderstand me, I fear. Your crew’s courage is no doubt unfaltering, but the Wave does carry seventy-two guns. Which point at your ship.”
It is all I can do to keep my anger in check. I did right by these bloody people. I brought their innocents home. And in gratitude, Admiral Addus has made me prisoner in all but shackles. He motions me to the companionway, telling someone on deck to inspect the Hope while we dine. Fine. They should verify my claims. I force my white-knuckled fists to relax and I follow Addus and Bassic to the admiral’s cabin, where a steward quickly sets the exquisite table.
For two.
Captain Bassic, it seems, has not been invited for eating. Instead, he remains stoically standing behind the admiral’s chair to offer translation when my Diante falls short. Addus leads a polite conversation that I follow with as much courtesy as caution.
My name is Nile. I am from Ashing. I’ve been at sea since age eight. I’ve always loved the sea. I have an older brother and a twin. Another brother had died at sea when I was young. I speak Diante and Tirik. I am a naval officer. I tense here, watching my words with care. The Diante may be a neutral nation, but I am not about to disclose what I know of Lyron fleets.
Addus smiles and pours me more wine as my heart pounds. “What does your father do?” he asks through Bassic.
I take a careful sip and weigh my options. My lineage may carry weight with the admiral, but it may also make me an attractive hostage for extortion. If there is anything left of Ashing to extort. “He helps the Ashing government,” I say with a smile. “My mother busies herself with worrying about her children.”
“At least someone knows her place,” Bassic murmurs.
My eyes flash. A point the admiral does not fail to miss.
A knock at the door forestalls further conversation. At Addus’s command, the door opens and the Diante midshipman scurries in to bow to the men and whisper something too soft for me to hear to his captain and admiral. Bassic nods to the boy, who returns to the door and opens it all the way.
The temperature in the berth plummets as two Diante seamen open the door wide enough to drag a man inside. His hands are bound behind his back and his head lolls as the guards deposit him onto his knees on the carpeted cabin deck. Blood pulses in my head as I watch him struggle to raise his face. Behind the swollen eye and bloody lip, I recognize Captain Quinn.
“I apologize for offending your appetite,” Addus says with that same kind tone he used to ask after my family, “but my young gentleman has returned from his visit to the Hope. Might I inquire whether this is the man responsible for transporting our Gods touched?”
Chapter 21
My attention is riveted to Quinn. I little care if this show is meant as a warning. Quinn is my prisoner. My responsibility. My nostrils flare.
“This is the Tirik officer who was in command of the Hope when I captured her.” I incline my head toward Quinn as if he isn’t tied up and abused. “Captain Quinn, permit me to introduce His Greatness Admiral Addus of the Divine Squadron.”
Quinn gives Addus a shallow bow, as I had done.
Bassic backhands him.
Without hands for support, Quinn teeters precariously for a moment before reclaiming his balance.
The wineglass shatters in my hand, the shards cutting my palm. I don’t realize what I’m doing until I am up, in front of the Tirik captain. “With due respect, Admiral Addus, Captain Quinn is my prisoner. You’ve no right to mistreat him.”
Addus’s brow rises. “Are you not our de facto prisoner as well?” he asks.
My heart is pounding.
I’m tired of these games. I meet Addus’s gaze straight on. “You tell me, sir. Are you taking my crew and me into your custody?”
“You did violate our waters.” Addus’s calm, almost deferential tone grates on me even with the translation.
“I did what I had to do,” I snarl at him. “For your people and my own sense of decency.”
The admiral studies me for a long time. I hold his gaze, vaguely aware of the bleeding cuts on my palm where the crushed glass cut me, my dry mouth, my shallow breathing. When the silence stretches so long I’m no longer sure what it is I’m waiting for, Addus breaks it with a sharp bark of orders.
Everyone clears the room. I fight to keep my surprise concealed as Bassic leaves us as well, closing the door behind him.
Addus points to the spot where Quinn had knelt. “He will not be harmed while I am dining with my guest,” he says in very good Lyron. The translation had been a game.
I keep my silence.
“You are… Princess Nile Greysik.” It isn’t a question.
My face heats as I recall my pointless evasions earlier in the conversation. Of course Addus knew the truth, if not from the Hope’s crew, then from Quinn. There had been little point in keeping my secret when the original plan involved pressing the Hope into the Ashing navy.
Addus knits his brows. “Why do you protect the Tirik man. Is he not your enemy?”
“His nation is at war with mine,” I answer. “Captain Quinn is my adversary, not my enemy.”
“And your intelligence people, they will be gentle like you?”
My mouth thins. “I don’t know.” That is a lie, and I know it. And so does Addus. I tighten my fist. “No. I do not believe they will. But while in my care, I will treat him with the dignity his uniform deserves. Captain Quinn was taking your people to a terrible fate, but he was not aware of it.”