by Sarah Remy
“Captain’s expecting you, I said,” she snapped. “Problem?”
“Nay,” Avani replied. The ghoul had startled her: he was the first she’d seen in many weeks. She’d grown used to the quiet, and after spring’s parade of lost, flame-eyed children and then Mal’s return, she’d almost dared hope she wouldn’t have to look upon the dead again.
The redhead’s smirk was crooked as her nose. As she bent close Avani caught the flash of metal almost hidden beneath the collar of her tunic: a slaver’s torque locked around the elegant column of her throat.
“I thought so. Like as two nuts in a bowl, aren’t you, you and Doyle?” the sailor proclaimed, loud in her disgust. “Seeing things where no sane person rightly should. Meddling in the natural way of life and death.” She gritted her teeth, scowling past Avani and Russel into the garden. “I don’t care how many new ships Captain’s brokered—I’m not having another necromancer near my engine. You tell him that, before he wastes good tea in your bloody cup.”
Russel bristled but Avani, recognizing honest fear beneath the sailor’s angry posturing, shook her head.
“I’ve no interest in your ship,” she promised. “Nor in meddling. Life and death is the Goddess’s realm, not mine own.” Amongst the dangle of rope and sash the ghost stopped his pacing, turned, then strode purposefully away through the interior wall and vanished. Avani sighed her relief aloud. She felt foolish when the redhead smirked knowingly.
Scowling, Russel popped the lever on the glass door. The pane swung outward, letting in the afternoon. Avani followed Russel out onto a patch of manicured grass and immediately began to sweat. Even beneath the copious shade of two old sycamores the air felt hot and wet as the steam of a kettle. The glass door closed behind them with a solid snick. The redheaded sailor watched them through the pane.
It was a humble garden, more grass than flower, made private by an ancient overgrown hedge and spreading, gnarled tree branches. Rosemary and thyme overran neglected beds and weathered paving stones. The herbs made Avani think of Kate Shean who had so loved plant husbandry and all the green, growing things.
Someone had been pulling choking rosemary away from the base of a white-painted trellis, freeing the thorny old rose that still grew in the soil below. Uprooted herbs lay in a neat pile on the grass next to a pair of oiled sheers.
“The heart of the place is still here,” Baldebert mused. “I think it was a lovely little oasis, once. That rose—that’s a wild variety, but someone once managed to domesticate it, train it to the arbor. It’ll bloom pink and fragrant next spring, and climb again.”
“A Selkirk rose.” Russel looked from the plant to Baldebert. “That variety doesn’t do well away from the sea.”
The admiral shrugged. His curls were damp, plastered to his skull. He’d shed his shirt. Old scars and new scratches marked his brown chest. His arms were corded with lean muscle, equally scarred. Shipboard life, Avani knew, tended to leave its stamp on a body.
The ivory manacles Mal had worn into the city hung on a loop from his belt.
“Come and sup,” Baldebert said. “I’d say it’s cooler under the trees, but I’d be lying. Still, we’ll have a measure of privacy. Often that’s more costly than comfort, don’t you agree?”
There was a rug spread on the grass beneath the tallest tree. Avani took a moment to admire the craftsman’s choice of color and composition while Russel took up position at the edge of the shade, alert. Baldebert dropped cross-legged onto the rug. He watched Avani with yellow eyes as he carefully excavated tea from the depths of a woven hamper.
“Are you honestly expecting a threat to come over the hedge?” he chided Russel without looking around. “It’s tall as a house.”
Russel didn’t reply. Baldebert’s tea set was silver, engraved all over with exquisite flowering vine. The milk pot had delicate clawed feet while the kettle’s long spout was fashioned to resemble a crowing pheasant. There were miniature scorpions carved amongst the vines on the two cups, and a hunting hound—half hidden behind foliage—wreathed the perimeter of the sugar bowl.
“Island work,” Baldebert said gently as Avani at last took her seat. “I see from your face you recognize the style.”
“My uncle had a set very like.” Unable to help herself, Avani reached out to touch one of the cups. “Only with fish and porpoise. But the vining is the same.” She felt her heart clench painfully behind her ribs. To her surprise she sensed Mal’s distant concern, a knot in her skull. She pushed him away.
“The world lost too many accomplished artisans when the sea took your islands.” One by one Baldebert opened each of seven lidded silver jars. A familiar and beloved perfume filled the air: ginger, cardamom, anise, fennel, nutmeg, caraway, and cloves. Avani closed her eyes as she breathed the fragrance in. Baldebert laughed quietly in shared appreciation, then sobered. “I was only a boy when it happened. The ground shook even in Roue.”
Avani heard the grate of pestle on mortar and the gentle crack of the herbs Baldebert ground between. A burst of cinnamon filled her nose. She sneezed. When she opened her eyes the admiral smiled wistfully over his work.
“I remember clearly the refugees—so many!—who managed to achieve our shore. They came in small boats, on makeshift rafts, even floating atop pieces of broken buildings. They sat on our beach in groups, clinging to each other, saying little, staring back into the waves as if seeking answers.”
Baldebert set the pestle aside. As Avani watched he picked five dark leaves from a silken bag. He plucked the lid off the kettle and tipped his palm over the opening, scattering the leaves across still water. He added the herbs from his mortar, reset the lid, then picked up the kettle and offered it to Avani.
“Milord magus would use the heat in his hands to set it boiling,” he explained, “when we sat and took council with the Rani late into the night, chewing over war and the problems of succession. Quicker than the hearth, he said. Certainly convenient if one is desirous of chai on the grass in the garden. Do you know the trick of it?”
He set the heavy kettle in Avani’s hands before she could refuse. She could feel the gentle slosh of water in the vessel’s belly. She thought of Mal and how his body had burned fever-hot in the depths of water-madness, of the sparks shed from his fingers as he raved. She’d been afraid he would set his bedding alight; she’d stamped out the embers of his wild magic even as she’d fought to bring his fever down.
Russel shifted uneasily. Baldebert quirked a brow in the soldier’s direction.
“Apologies,” he said, yellow eyes bright. “If I’m mistaken. But I was led to understand you and Malachi had certain rare qualities in common. In fact, I’m told you filled the space he left behind, quite competently.”
“You want a demonstration.” In spite of everything, Avani was amused. “To see if I’m worth stealing back across the water. That’s why you asked me to tea.”
Baldebert’s grin vanished. “Not if Roue depended on it, again. No,” he said, flat, “I’m not so foolish as to test fate once more on that account. Deep water breaks a magus. I didn’t believe it until I saw it, and then it was too late. We barely made it across the sea intact. I dreaded the return trip, believe you me, even with all the protection we could muster.” He brushed knuckles across the manacles on his belt.
“But you brought him back anyway.”
“I’ve a reputation as an honorable man,” the admiral agreed. “I’d given my word. It wouldn’t do to break it, no matter the risk.” He added, “There was also the matter of proposed matrimony. The horizon grows dark again to Roue’s east, just as it does to your north; a storm gathers. The desert is vast, the desert lordlings fractious, but if they can be convinced to unite under a single sword—well. I know the way of the desert and water both intimately, and I fear the sand as I never have the sea.”
Beneath the unruly fall of blond curls Baldebert’s expression was grave. Years on shipboard beneath the sun had given him lines at the corners of his eyes and at
the edges of his mouth. Lines graven by worry, and joy, love and loss and wisdom and regret. For a moment she could read his history on his face. When he caught her looking the lines smoothed away, but not before she’d decided to believe him.
“Ai, it’s not a difficult trick,” she said, tilting her chin, drawing his attention back to the kettle in his hands. “A simple cant, not so different from one used to kindle flames on the hearth or cook fire. The theists have a glyph for heat, but a magus needs only flex a thought and murmur a word.”
In truth, it had taken her hours of practice to bring flame to her hearth, but with the Red Worm running rampant tinder within the city had been scarce, spring nights had been chill, and Avani had been determined. She’d been triumphant when the cant had at last gone right, glad of one more skill learned even as she promised herself she’d use the spell only when needs must.
She knew that same lick of triumph now as she uncurled a focused tendril of power and warmed the kettle with a word—from her palms and up through water and silver. She could feel the lift of magic from the tips of her fingers. More delicate work than sending a blast of intention at the hearth, as carefully crafted as the silver.
Andrew’s yellow ring on the chain around her neck flashed in the shade. Within two heartbeats the water boiled. Avani’s palms buzzed but felt no hotter than the sultry summer air. She beamed.
“Amazing,” Baldebert breathed, leaning close. His lips parted in quiet delight.
“Cups,” Avani suggested. The admiral hastened to obey.
They poured out in companionable silence, adding milk to the masala and tea, content to let thoughts rest as they waited for the liquid to cool enough to drink. Avani heard bees bumbling through the tall grass. Russel’s breathing was a soft meditation of inhales and exhales. Past the glass panes she could see figures moving in the orangery. The heat slowed time to a lazy trickle.
Baldebert sipped from his cup. He sighed in appreciation. Avani followed suit. The tea ran over her tongue and down her throat. It tasted of childhood and broken promises. She bowed her head over her lap.
“My father,” the admiral said after a moment, “was a decidedly cruel man. When the refugees on our shore at last stirred themselves to beg Roue for surcease—food, water, even medicine—Khorit Dard took those he believed sound enough to work his poppy fields. The others he ordered killed for fear they’d drain our resources. The old, the very young, the infirm. His soldiers cut them down on the beach. They had nowhere to go but back into the water, nowhere to run but into the waves. Entire families, lost. There was so much blood, more blood than a little boy knew existed in all the world.
“And that’s why I invited you to share tea, Avani. As I asked Deval, though he refused. I cannot blame him for it. Because I’m sorry, so deeply sorry.”
They sat without speaking and drank tea to the dregs and nibbled flaky fish pastries from the hamper. Avani appreciated Baldebert’s ability to be still in the presence of heartache. He didn’t apologize again, nor did he pretend not to see the tears she wiped on the sleeve of her salwar. He simply waited, rooted as the old trees in the shady copse, until the tea in Avani’s cup tasted less like bitterness and more like sweet balm. He kept her plate filled, smiling when she realized she’d eaten every last crumb.
When he began to pack silver and spices back into the hamper Avani woke from reminiscence. Blinking past branches at the sky she realized hours had passed. Baldebert chuckled at her surprise.
“I daresay it’s the heat,” he said. “Difficult not to drowse beneath an indolent sun.” He secured the hamper then stood and stretched. Avani heard his joints pop as she joined him upright. A stylized porpoise, inked across his left shoulder, writhed over flexing muscle when he offered her the basket.
“For you,” he said. “With the Rani’s regard.”
“Thank you,” Avani replied, returning his bow. The basket was heavy in her hand, weightier than even the silver might account for. She kept surprise from her face. When Russel stepped forward Avani waved the soldier away. “Stay. I recall the way. You’re wanted here.”
“Not by me,” Baldebert returned with a dry smile. “I assure you, I’m capable of turning aside any threat on my person, though King Renault seems to think otherwise.”
“King Renault worries you’ll steal away his spoons, his ships, or mayhap another of his beloved subjects,” Russel retorted. “I’m to make sure you keep your thieving hands to yourself—my lord.”
Baldebert laughed.
Back in her chambers Avani unpacked the hamper. She spread its contents across her mattress for further examination. Beneath the tea set and tins of spices she discovered a bundle wrapped in raw silk. The silk was the color of the sky at midnight, shot through with silver thread, and astonishingly light. She’d never seen the like and spent longer than necessary fingering the delicate weave. Unwound, there was enough of the fabric to make into a sheer salwar or a light coat. It was a lovely, rich gift, worth more than a king’s ransom to the right tradesman, but nothing in comparison to the small vial hidden within its centermost folds.
She recognized the perfume from the faceted glass’s characteristic cobalt shade.
“Oud,” she said, amazed. She worked the cork stopper free, tipping a single drop of oil onto her thumb. The sweet, woodsy fragrance of island ritual filled the air: home.
She’d not thought to smell the distinctive oil again. If Roue’s queen had indeed selected the tea and spices, the fabric and perfume, with Avani in mind, then of a certainty the Rani had a kind and compelling nature, one capable of winning Wilhaiim to her cause.
Chapter 5
Arthur’s new enthusiasm for yard practice quickly reduced Old Pumpkinhead to naught but mashed straw and pulped squash. Armswoman Lane accepted the mannequin’s fate with the aplomb of one well used to barrack life. She shepherded Liam into the spare, square room she kept for accounting-work and drew a money chest from beneath a collection of dusty horse tack, unlocking it with a key from her belt.
“His Majesty provides for replacement and repair,” she said, selecting a coin from within the chest. “I’ll admit it is time and past time for a new regiment of straw men. I’d hoped to manage them until fall, when craftsman Holder is like to be freer with his straw mannequins, but needs must.” She brightened as she dropped the coin into Liam’s hand. “Almost worth it, to see a fire lit at last under Arthur’s arse. I’ve had less handy lads, but not many. The mace is a good choice; I would have thought of it myself, before long, if not for the chaos of late.”
Liam closed his fingers protectively around the coin she’d given him. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask if she’d lost anyone to the Worm. Lane was a solitary sort, wed to the sword and her service to the king. He’d never heard her mention family, never thought to wonder who she might have been before she’d become armswoman.
“We’re all of us mourning,” she said, catching the look on his face. “One way or another. It will take work to set things right.” She squeezed his elbow with strong fingers. “Take the lads and Parsnip with you to Holder’s place. They could use a day outside the walls, and god knows Holder’s an entertaining sort. Put Parsnip on the little bay; she’ll ask you for the black with the snip, but her seat’s not strong enough yet. It’s a long, hot walk back from Holder’s place if she’s dumped.”
“I don’t know Holder’s place,” Liam confessed. Before Roue he’d spent his days stuck close to Mal as a shadow, and the most powerful man in the kingdom had no time to spend on tenant farmers unless they were a crime in need of solving.
He’d been proud to serve his lordship, once. Now he felt shame creep up the back of his neck.
“Holder lives east,” Lane said briskly. “His family was given deed to a great deal of good farmland for service to the king. The Aug took most of it away again, of course, when Holder’s uncle threw in his lot with the magi. Still, the family was lucky not to be put to the sword alongside their masters.” Lane shrugged. “Fo
llow Flossy Creek up and over the bridge. You’ll see his precious black oxen first, like as not, and then the man himself pulling cornflower amongst the rye. Whistle to let him know you’re friendly, or he’ll set those bloody great hounds of his on you. And, Liam—” she stopped him as he turned to go “—don’t let him fleece you. He’ll expect a haggle; he thrives on it. Don’t let him see you’re flush.”
Liam, who’d never been flush in his life, secured Lane’s coin carefully in the pouch he wore beneath his shirt. He stood a little taller for the responsibility.
Parsnip had a better seat than the armswoman had led Liam to believe. She protested the bay pony so ferociously the stable rang with her cussing but Liam knew better than to bend on the black mare so together they settled on a leggy chestnut gelding. Morgan had his own mount, kept in the king’s stable for Wythe’s use. He ignored Arthur’s ribbing, checking the horse’s hooves for stones before throwing himself into the saddle with an ease that suggested he’d been trained early to the tack.
Arthur took the bay pony. Liam chose a solid-looking rawboned gray with too much nose and kind brown eyes. He had an affinity for horses, as he did most animals, but he wasn’t an earl with a lifetime of practice under his belt. He knew better than to overreach even as the black mare whickered at him over her stall door.
“She likes you,” Parsnip said. “Isn’t she gorgeous? You should take her out.”
“Not today,” Liam replied. “Hot-blooded horse like her, she’d be lathered before we were through the gates. She’s meant for cooler weather and steady hands.”
The back bailey was quiet, the blacksmith’s forge cold in deference to the weather. The smith dozed on an upended cask in the scant shade against the walls of his home while his wife hung washing from the second-story window. The blacksmith started at the sound of hooves, jerking awake. He watched them ride past with dull curiosity. His sharp-eyed wife wished the young earl a good ride and earned Morgan’s casual salute for her attention.